By Daniel Fellows
The ambush was executed beautifully he thought, he would at least give the wretched Orcnar that credit. Apprentice Puppeteer Wyliams hurried through the trees with an unusually heightened sense of importance. It was the third time in as many weeks the Division had fallen foul of that trick and always the same order arrived. If he were in charge he would have sent the 7th, 8th and 9th Grenadiers to clear the woodlands instead of condemning his beloved 16th to their inevitable doom, he pondered that thought as he wriggled himself through a gap in the bushes.
Who was he to think such blasphemy? Nothing more than just another, lowly grunt in the platoon, a cog in a machine that never sleeps. The machine would work just fine without him and he knew it, he chastised himself for doubting the good Captain and he made a mental note there and then to unstitch his brass button when he got back to camp, if he managed to survive the journey back to camp! He had proven himself unworthy of the tawdry token and he felt compelled to tear it from himself immediately but survival was his highest priority right now and he put the thought to the back of his mind as he scanned the clearing for the safest escape route.
The howls and barks of the ravenous Docga echoed in the near distance and startled Wyliams, panic set in rapidly as he threw himself through the dense forestry. He had lost a salvaged rifle earlier when he had pierced the hide of an Eotan who was attempting to desecrate the remains of the Captain. The massive creature howled angrily but seemed largely unhindered by the attack. Fortunately, it brought Wyliams enough time to recover the remains of a handful of Troopers in the hope of having them re-stitched back at camp. Knowing they would be returned to the frontlines justified the loss of his weaponry, he was defenceless now though and he yearned for the feel of a gun as he felt his luck and limited majical prowess rapidly dripping away.
He made a daring leap through a hedgerow but misjudged the distance, he fell short and a loud crack snapped through the air, he landed face down in the mud still clutching the tatty remains of his fallen platoon. He struggled to his feet and realised that the crack he had just heard was actually the breaking of a trooper’s peg leg, he examined the break carefully. The perfect splintering of the wood had left him a dagger like stick with which to make a valiant last stand with and he grasped at it desperately, he knew it was futile but he was determined to die fighting like a true Britanan.
It didn’t take the pack long to locate him as he hobbled along and they descended on him ravenously, he plunged his stick into the neck of the nearest and laughed hysterically at the wounded beast. There was a guttural yelp but it was not enough to dismay the pack, Wyliams held the Troopers close and admired the quality of their cloth, the same cloth his own garish facemask comes from. He gave them a silent salute as the Docga sunk their fangs into him, then took one last glance at the wounded beast and hoped that its death would be slow and painful, he held on to that hope as the rest of the pack slowly ripped him apart, ravenously devouring his flesh.
