For Generations the august Nuna-Ball Arena had stood Host of innumerable celebrated Games, League Rivalries that had stood the test of time, battles that encumbered thousands of pages of Sports Literature. For an epoch it had been heralded; unblemished by the blasphemous actions and protests of the Biological Athletes Union, or the ugly Civil and Social Affairs of the Committee Against Non-Sentient Abuse that had seen the Sport villainized and left limping in these more Cultured areas of the Galaxy.
Numberless Plays had extended down that Gridiron to the delight of roaring Commenori fans. So much joy and glee for every soul that had furnished those Stadium Seats, or those in rabid trance huddled around the cerulean glow of Living Room Holos. So much euphoria and jubilation as the beloved spectacle advanced up and down the Field.
All of it erased in an instant.
Denatured.
Relegated to memory.
A slow cavalcade, by order of [member="Darth Carnifex"] and lead by his man, Captain Cano; descended within hulking beasts of metal that roared ferociously across the midnight skies. As the Ajunta-class StarFortresses languidly cut through dark nighttime clouds, above the City of Anteluma. From the gaping jaws of yawning Bay Hatches, feral Bombs sang cruelly through the blackness.
Clear across the City, Civilians truckled beneath the raucous wailing of Air Raid Alarms. Grief and sorrow hung thickly through every home, across every street, and inside of every Bunker. The illusion that, maybe, just maybe, the woes of Chasin City would never extend to them - shattering their minds like glass as it broke. It wasn't a lack of Patriotism for Commenor, not a sign of yellow cowardice; it was simply fear, animalistic and savage fear.
The Arena vanished first, purified and cleansed by the Unholy caress of Broadcap Bombs. The sacred ground on which it had stood, left to spasm with agitation as it sank low on it's knees in terror, before quite suddenly flaring upwards with hysterical rage. The blast extended nearly three kilometers in to the air; frenzied slabs of Duracrete and Steel abandoning the partitions that once divided the structure.
No sacred structure would stand untouched.
Entire City Blocks were dematerialized, left mangled and ruptured; bleeding dust and soot and ash across Anteluma. Glittering shards of glass radiantly gleaming as it billowed and expanded through the flush glare of seething fires. Each blast evaporated more. Each detonation ablating with no mind for bigotry. School, Hospital, Home or Business. No target was taboo as the Bombs dropped.
Grim melancholy shared in equal portion across all of Commenor.
But such misfortune was not exclusive, as the men and women of the Imperial 275th Marines back at the Western Trenchline outside of Chasin City, could attest. Forced to cling tough, under the abject wretchedness, of the endless salvos discharged by the 123d Artillery. Weathered and bruised, they staggered around in agony; attempting to endure and repel the hot-tempered Raid of the Commenori One-Nine Infantry Division.
Under the glare of a Jade-hued series of Artillery Illumination Rounds, the conflict unraveled. Heavy Weapons from both sides bellowed on endlessly, stroboscopic light inundating the Battlefield through a fog of acrid steam that rose out of blast craters and hung thick upon the disfigured landscape. Mortars, fired with lazy curves, arced through the haze; bursting in to swells of white, irradiant flames athirst for flesh.
Frenetic chaos crept ruthlessly across the terrain, with the fury of back-alley cutthroats, bloody violence gripped the Western Trenches by the throat - threatening to choke the life out of any that stood in the way.
"Situation Critical. . " wild shouts flooded the Southern Trenches Command Posts, Blaster fire and the howling anguish of dying men littering the transmission. "Strong. . Contact! Need. . . Support! ASAP!! " The choppy relay beseeched.
"Get that gun firing, Trooper! " A Commanding Officer of the Two-Seven-Five demanded, walloping the helmet of an idle Soldier before forcefully usurping him from his position and shoving the man down towards a Repeater Canon.
Zymus Velimir, a man of imposing stature, broad across the chest, with sturdy shoulders; watched on with undaunted, soft blue eyes. Wreathed in boiled black leathers and gambeson with a tightly-wrought hauberk, he remained silent as the pandemonium unfolded.
"Have faith in Supreme General Mallear, men! " The Officer yelled, looking for a moment towards Zymus before he gazed back out at the encroaching terror that was beginning to overrun their position. "Mallear protects! " He knew the Supreme General well enough, he understood the tactical genius of the man, he respected the duties he expected from each and every one of his Soldiers.
By blade and by blaster, by bayonet and bomb. Men were dying everywhere.
"ROTWORMS! " The Officer howled with tremendous vigor, "Your heart may belong to the Empire, " He said, pulling the pistol from his hip holster as the drum of the Heavy Repeater chewed through ammunition. "But your Lives belong to the Legion! Now you repel this scum! Repel them for the Emperor! Repel them for MALLEAR!! "
Finally, thought Zymus, roused more by the bloodletting he was about to partake in; as he pressed muddy leather fingers in to his mouth, removing a Partial-Denture crafted of pristine Xellwood, before carefully stowing it away in a protective pouch on his belt. This was the fight he had been promised.
