The Freethinkers
01-02-2005, 01:14
OOC: This is a historical reference thread only. I’m using the second Fargoni insurrection to show the rise of one of my main characters. As such, the events depicted have already been played out and so IC interaction would be limited at best (unless you can do a really good job of representing the shrinking, doomed garrison). Helpful OOC comments are always welcomed and I intend this to be a development thread for both my Pathfinders and the character of Clodius Maxilimus.
It is only then, in the deepest, darkest, most desperate moments when you finally, truly, see what a man is made of…
Ten years ago.
The roar of the huge atmospheric ramjet engines of the dropship permeated through the steel lining of the craft’s thin walls, causing the worn seat of Clodius Maxilimus to vibrate in the most irritating fashion. The demon shifted his huge bulk slowly, easily half a ton of armour and flesh twisted and turned to restore circulation, even as his eyes remained closed, running mentally through the mission plan as his shovel-sized claws traced clumsily over his weapon. Black armoured gauntlets made of composites tougher than warship battle plate clunked in resistance as his arms suddenly stretched out, extracting looks of quiet observation from his comrades in arms.
The armoured suit weighed approximately three hundred kilograms. It would have crushed even the most gene-tweaked human and even taxed the half-breeds that formed the fighting bulk of Freethinker infantry. To a demon, a trained Pathfinder however, it felt little more than a heavy second skin. Already used to hauling around six hundred pounds of flesh and bone the suit seemed almost too light. However, anything heavier or bulkier would have seriously impeded the speed and reflexes of the individual soldier. For all the armour in the world can’t save you if you cannot react to your enemy in time. That had been learnt the hard way.
Strength, speed, courage and guile was the unoriginal descriptive of the strengths of the Pathfinders. The demons were the elite of the Freethinker military. Centuries of experience matched with, in ‘beast form’ as it was politely known, the sheer ferocity of ten foot or more of honed musculature and bones and claws of iron made some of the most terrifying warriors ever witnessed. Sharp, penetrating fangs and red, cat-like eyes complete as well with a flexible tail and wings with the span of a small aeroplane completed the image of the beast from hell. A famous bloodlust on the battlefield, a physical desire to taste the blood and flesh of the enemy in their throats made them terrifying opponents. They never took prisoners, unless ordered, and their deployments, though rare, were always successful in completely obliterating whatever poor bunch of souls got sent to face them.
But they weren’t invincible. They were not immortal, not matter what the ‘vampire’ tag might make you believe. Death stalked the ranks of the damned, and it was the death of their kin that had caused Clodius and his fellow Pathfinders to be in the back of a slightly dilapidated orbital dropship tearing its way through the lower atmosphere with determined but measured speed towards an isolated rocky outcrop on the very end of the Fargon Archipelago.
Fargon. Fargon was the thorn in the side of the Commonwealth. One of those annoying little provinces that can never quite be satisfied with being part of a better whole and seemed to make trouble every few decades or so and needed to be corrected with a little show of authority.
Fargon was the dumping ground for Freethinker endeavours. Having put up with being denied a regional parliament despite the Fargoni’s opposition to the movements of the more liberal and capitalistic Mainland government and having the indignity of becoming the dumping ground for Freethinker nuclear waste and outdated military equipment. Voiced concern was politely but firmly ignored and basically circumvented in the ‘conferences’ that were hosted to provide an irrelevant talking shop for Fargoni worries. Someone high up hoped that the problem would go away, that the memory of the failure of the first insurrection thirty years ago would keep the natives in line.
They were wrong. And lessons had been learned.
The main usurper was a man named Michael Johansen, Fargon resident and campaigner for equal treatment. Turned protester. Turned Guerrilla. Turned into a real thorn in the side of the administration. He had worked things out. Infiltrated many organisations, including the relevant parts of the military, and over the course of a decade slowly moved the pieces into place until the time was right. It was a plan, people would say, quite brilliant in its scope and undertaking. Friendly officers and men in the Navy and Marines were placed in strategic units and locations. Ship routes were changed, timings of exercises positioned just right. Armaments and Stores were stockpiled, civilians readied and trained. With military precision a plan came together to liberate Fargon.
The basics of the plan were to take enough military units under control so that the Freethinker government could not launch a direct counter-attack. Situated thousands of miles away from Mainland, it would take months for a counterattacking force to be assembled, and by then Fargon would have been converted into a floating fortress. It would simply become too costly in terms of collateral to take back the place for the Freethinker Government. Negotiation would follow, Fargon would be free.
Of course, things never go exactly to plan. The ship crews divided far too evenly, by the time the shooting stopped the ships were left bullet ridden and horrendously undermanned. The Marine garrison didn’t turn as a whole. Pockets of resistance formed and coordinated to provide continued résistance to eat up manpower and arms. And there was one other flaw. A twenty strong platoon of Pathfinders was conducting Arctic warfare exercises, and when it became cut off the platoon became a very big threat.
In a desperate bid to ensure a quick victory, an ambush was set up by the rebels on the personal command of Johansen. On a tactical level it was a brilliant success. All twenty Pathfinders died almost before they knew what hit them. Cannon fire, RPGs and an assortment of other heavy weapons tore through their limited number and brought the great beasts down. On a strategic level, it spelled out the doom of the liberation.
Pathfinders do not forgive or forget. The cold blooded slaughter of their kin was enough to see tempers rise and revenge demanded. The Freethinker Government was loathe deploying them, but understanding the consequences of holding them back, the Freethinker military hierarchy decided to unleash this fury in cold, calculated application.
Fargon city, the seat of resistance for both sides, was descended upon by the Pathfinders. Without remorse or mercy they slaughtered all they could, the ‘no prisoners’ rule being stretched to anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Tens, nay, hundreds of thousands were ripped apart and devoured by the beasts of hell, officially all ‘Rebels’ but few in reality believing the carnage and slaughter to be that specific. Blood ran the streets; Pathfinders crazy with the bloodlust began even attacking each other. The night was painted red with the blood of far too many innocents. No greater image of the Pathfinder’s power has ever been fully rendered onto the minds of Freethinker citizens.
When the morn came, any serious hope of liberating Fargon had vanished. The Pathfinders had won the first battle, and in the early hours of the morning deployed in the bay to retake the small, damaged fleet in rebel control. Their thoroughness remained, the only job the follow up crews had was to scrape whatever wasn’t considered good enough to gorge upon up into small plastic bin liners.
What was left of the rebel forces cleared off to the isolated islands in the Southern end of the chain. One by one they were cleared out with familiar brutality. No prisoners. No survivors. Revenge was a Pathfinder speciality, and they got it in the coming weeks as one by one the last rebel strongholds were stormed and cleared. Until, at last, there was one, last, hiding place on the last island in the chain. Now, however, with the arrival of the North Atlantic fleet and the belated imposition of the chain of command meant new orders had been received. Johansen was here. He would be made an example of, but he was needed alive for that.
And that particular job, had fallen by cosmic fate, on the shoulders of Clodius Maxilimus, squad leader and a member of the Pathfinder Blood Guard.
It is only then, in the deepest, darkest, most desperate moments when you finally, truly, see what a man is made of…
Ten years ago.
The roar of the huge atmospheric ramjet engines of the dropship permeated through the steel lining of the craft’s thin walls, causing the worn seat of Clodius Maxilimus to vibrate in the most irritating fashion. The demon shifted his huge bulk slowly, easily half a ton of armour and flesh twisted and turned to restore circulation, even as his eyes remained closed, running mentally through the mission plan as his shovel-sized claws traced clumsily over his weapon. Black armoured gauntlets made of composites tougher than warship battle plate clunked in resistance as his arms suddenly stretched out, extracting looks of quiet observation from his comrades in arms.
The armoured suit weighed approximately three hundred kilograms. It would have crushed even the most gene-tweaked human and even taxed the half-breeds that formed the fighting bulk of Freethinker infantry. To a demon, a trained Pathfinder however, it felt little more than a heavy second skin. Already used to hauling around six hundred pounds of flesh and bone the suit seemed almost too light. However, anything heavier or bulkier would have seriously impeded the speed and reflexes of the individual soldier. For all the armour in the world can’t save you if you cannot react to your enemy in time. That had been learnt the hard way.
Strength, speed, courage and guile was the unoriginal descriptive of the strengths of the Pathfinders. The demons were the elite of the Freethinker military. Centuries of experience matched with, in ‘beast form’ as it was politely known, the sheer ferocity of ten foot or more of honed musculature and bones and claws of iron made some of the most terrifying warriors ever witnessed. Sharp, penetrating fangs and red, cat-like eyes complete as well with a flexible tail and wings with the span of a small aeroplane completed the image of the beast from hell. A famous bloodlust on the battlefield, a physical desire to taste the blood and flesh of the enemy in their throats made them terrifying opponents. They never took prisoners, unless ordered, and their deployments, though rare, were always successful in completely obliterating whatever poor bunch of souls got sent to face them.
But they weren’t invincible. They were not immortal, not matter what the ‘vampire’ tag might make you believe. Death stalked the ranks of the damned, and it was the death of their kin that had caused Clodius and his fellow Pathfinders to be in the back of a slightly dilapidated orbital dropship tearing its way through the lower atmosphere with determined but measured speed towards an isolated rocky outcrop on the very end of the Fargon Archipelago.
Fargon. Fargon was the thorn in the side of the Commonwealth. One of those annoying little provinces that can never quite be satisfied with being part of a better whole and seemed to make trouble every few decades or so and needed to be corrected with a little show of authority.
Fargon was the dumping ground for Freethinker endeavours. Having put up with being denied a regional parliament despite the Fargoni’s opposition to the movements of the more liberal and capitalistic Mainland government and having the indignity of becoming the dumping ground for Freethinker nuclear waste and outdated military equipment. Voiced concern was politely but firmly ignored and basically circumvented in the ‘conferences’ that were hosted to provide an irrelevant talking shop for Fargoni worries. Someone high up hoped that the problem would go away, that the memory of the failure of the first insurrection thirty years ago would keep the natives in line.
They were wrong. And lessons had been learned.
The main usurper was a man named Michael Johansen, Fargon resident and campaigner for equal treatment. Turned protester. Turned Guerrilla. Turned into a real thorn in the side of the administration. He had worked things out. Infiltrated many organisations, including the relevant parts of the military, and over the course of a decade slowly moved the pieces into place until the time was right. It was a plan, people would say, quite brilliant in its scope and undertaking. Friendly officers and men in the Navy and Marines were placed in strategic units and locations. Ship routes were changed, timings of exercises positioned just right. Armaments and Stores were stockpiled, civilians readied and trained. With military precision a plan came together to liberate Fargon.
The basics of the plan were to take enough military units under control so that the Freethinker government could not launch a direct counter-attack. Situated thousands of miles away from Mainland, it would take months for a counterattacking force to be assembled, and by then Fargon would have been converted into a floating fortress. It would simply become too costly in terms of collateral to take back the place for the Freethinker Government. Negotiation would follow, Fargon would be free.
Of course, things never go exactly to plan. The ship crews divided far too evenly, by the time the shooting stopped the ships were left bullet ridden and horrendously undermanned. The Marine garrison didn’t turn as a whole. Pockets of resistance formed and coordinated to provide continued résistance to eat up manpower and arms. And there was one other flaw. A twenty strong platoon of Pathfinders was conducting Arctic warfare exercises, and when it became cut off the platoon became a very big threat.
In a desperate bid to ensure a quick victory, an ambush was set up by the rebels on the personal command of Johansen. On a tactical level it was a brilliant success. All twenty Pathfinders died almost before they knew what hit them. Cannon fire, RPGs and an assortment of other heavy weapons tore through their limited number and brought the great beasts down. On a strategic level, it spelled out the doom of the liberation.
Pathfinders do not forgive or forget. The cold blooded slaughter of their kin was enough to see tempers rise and revenge demanded. The Freethinker Government was loathe deploying them, but understanding the consequences of holding them back, the Freethinker military hierarchy decided to unleash this fury in cold, calculated application.
Fargon city, the seat of resistance for both sides, was descended upon by the Pathfinders. Without remorse or mercy they slaughtered all they could, the ‘no prisoners’ rule being stretched to anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Tens, nay, hundreds of thousands were ripped apart and devoured by the beasts of hell, officially all ‘Rebels’ but few in reality believing the carnage and slaughter to be that specific. Blood ran the streets; Pathfinders crazy with the bloodlust began even attacking each other. The night was painted red with the blood of far too many innocents. No greater image of the Pathfinder’s power has ever been fully rendered onto the minds of Freethinker citizens.
When the morn came, any serious hope of liberating Fargon had vanished. The Pathfinders had won the first battle, and in the early hours of the morning deployed in the bay to retake the small, damaged fleet in rebel control. Their thoroughness remained, the only job the follow up crews had was to scrape whatever wasn’t considered good enough to gorge upon up into small plastic bin liners.
What was left of the rebel forces cleared off to the isolated islands in the Southern end of the chain. One by one they were cleared out with familiar brutality. No prisoners. No survivors. Revenge was a Pathfinder speciality, and they got it in the coming weeks as one by one the last rebel strongholds were stormed and cleared. Until, at last, there was one, last, hiding place on the last island in the chain. Now, however, with the arrival of the North Atlantic fleet and the belated imposition of the chain of command meant new orders had been received. Johansen was here. He would be made an example of, but he was needed alive for that.
And that particular job, had fallen by cosmic fate, on the shoulders of Clodius Maxilimus, squad leader and a member of the Pathfinder Blood Guard.