Years ago, Logan had gone by another name - another station in another setting. The reunification of Cradle had been a long and bloody business that, to most, had taken but a decade. In truth, the pre-proceedings and the aftermath-to-come had a time-frame of well over a hundred years.
From Citadel, the Orders of the Governor’s decree of Unification had pushed outwards - burning creep and obliterating the Devilspawn from the Passage and to the sea. In the history of Cradle, it was unprecedented to kill even a single one of the Behemoths raging outside the tall walls, the long mires, the long, barren planes and the caves.
But all had changed as a single man stood atop Citadel’s Golden Pyramid and proclaimed that the dawning of a new Era was to be rung in - that Humanity was to retake its place as the rightful ruler, not only of Cradle, but of the world itself.
And to achieve this great task - this impossible mission, he created the Order of the Ghast.
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General Jarek hung over his table and stared down at the map with wide, dry eyes. The densely forested area topographically displayed in white, blue and black had many names, but none as fitting as the one the Orderlies had called it - ‘Cradle’s asshole’.
It fit, not only due to the central depression in their field of operations, with its surrounding hills and thick forestation, but also due to the fact that he had been served a nice portion of shit nearly every hour since their arrival two days prior.
The swinging lamp hung on the central support of the field-tent, casting its yellow light on the General’s bright-polished, decorative silver armor. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he muttered a prayer and plucked another red flag from the map - the fallen artillery station atop the eastern hill.
He had been tasked with the impossible - to hold out for backup while defending canyon under the misunderstanding that the topographical geography would somehow work to his benefit. But after forty-eight hours of continuous artillery-fire, distant screams and a ground that hadn’t stopped shaking since their arrival, he was beginning to doubt the Council’s judgment.
Along with his four advisors of the Orders, he was beginning to doubt the sanity of their mission and he could see it in their eyes as he glanced over his closest men and women - they were simply waiting for him to broach it. Alas, seeing the determined glint in his eye, the robe-clad woman to the right stepped forwards to say:
“S-Sir… I hate to say it, but I think it may be time to retr-” The chaptermaster of the Order of Holy Bravelle’s Priests began, her lips quivering with the lingering afterimages of the slaughter, but Jarek would not hear it - could not hear it.
“Absolutely not. The Governor has tasked us with this defense - I’d rather die and take you with me than fail Him.” For two days he had spoken rallying speeches of Humanity turning the tide of this war. He imagined that was why they had chosen him out of all the chaptermasters to lead this station - his stalwart belief in the cause and his wretched hatred for the putrid Spawn. But the time for motivational speeches was over - what they needed were supplies and men.
“S-Sir, you can’t go in th-” A muffled voice sounded from outside the tent, but the visitor paid the soldier no heed. With a whoosh of oiled cloth, a gust of embers brought a breath of burning flesh into the cramped tent. A black-coated form appeared in the opening; tall, silent and with a hood drawn low over its face.
None of the Council spoke a word as he stepped inside. They all knew what he was and there were as many horror-stories about his kin as there were stories of great heroism; a duplicity that made his appearance both dreaded and expected.
But as every warrior knew, that the Governor’s Ghosts would only ever appear in the darkest of nights - summoned by the blood of thousands of fallen men.
As the form stepped into the tent, his coat swung to reveal the two silver blades at his left hip, the canteen of legend and the white mask of bared teeth - immortalizing the thousands of years of human anguish in the oppression of the Spawn in the form of porcelain.
The warm, clammy interior of the tent turned icy cold as the legendary shape silently stepped over the bloodied dirt floor and silently looked to the map.
General Jarek was the first to salute him - followed shortly by the rest of his Council.
“C-Commander…” Was the only word he could form as he lay his eyes on the legendary figure. Commander Behemoth-Bane was known to all - missives, newsletters and whispers all spoke of the tally on his thoroughly scratched canteen and his mastery with the swords. But they also spoke of a ruthless man - just as capable of killing his own as the monstrosities; truly, someone the Governor only sent to the fields of blood when he needed to.
Behemoth-Bane looked to the Council in turn before landing his eyes on the blonde woman in the white robe to ask: “You’re the priest? I need communications. Come.” She was frozen in place - too terrified of the shape to move a muscle.
“Sir, we’re a mixed unit. I, too, can give you access to communications - General Jarek.” To the present company, it felt odd for their General to technically outrank the Ghast, but none said a word. None ever truly outranked His Hands.
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Jarek slammed his large fist into his silver armor and nodded a salute, one the Ghast did not return other than with a slight bob of his mask.
“Then consider yourself Conscripted. I’ll take command from the field - come.” Jarek wandered past his silent colleagues and followed after the Ghast into the night to a horrific sight.
Where there had once been a base forty-eight hours previous, he now looked at an encampment more befitting of an improvised slaughterhouse. The bags of sands, the cloth covering and every surface of fallen leaves that reflected the lanterns’ lights were stained with blood and gore - monstrum and human, alike. Kilometers away from the Hole, they still heard the continuous fire of artillery and smelled the unmistakable stench of white-hot burning flesh.
Countless ranking officers lay dead on the ground, their heads covered in whatever the Priesthood had gotten their hands on, past running out of white cloth.
Jarek struggled to keep up with the swift-walking Ghast without jogging, but at the sound of a loud whistle, the reinforcement made it clear that they would not be walking much further.
“Zeke!” The Ghast shouted. Jarek froze as the largest red field-setter he had ever laid his eyes on leapt from the dry shrubbery to take his place in the middle of the camp - snarling at a distant, unseen enemy.
If Jarek hadn’t been so frightened of the battlefield raging beyond the trees, he might’ve taken the time to admire the swiftness of the beast as they darted through the fallen leaves - an impressive beast ill-expected, but befitting of an equally impressive warrior.
Zeke turned a sharp right, leaping up a tall hill, darting between the shell-shocked trees and sliding on the leaves, betraying how well-wandered the beast was in bloody fields of battle. Finally, when they reached the top of the mons, another volley of proximal artillery-fire spoke that they had rendezvoused with Unit A7 - the station overlooking the Hole itself.
Zeke returned to the peripheries of the battlefield while Logan and Jarek approached the encampment. Big bags of sand surrounded the three guns and a bustling, frantic panic of helmeted warriors were already quick to reload the green-painted cannons with high-caliber shells.
Upon seeing the dark form and the General appear through the shrubbery, the men all stood to attention - their faces covered in protective cloth and lenses that revealed their wide eyes. The Commander waved them off, signaling them to return to their work - a duty they made sure to continue in all haste.
Jarek felt like a child walking in the footsteps of a giant as the tall, thin man took a step atop the sand-bags to overlook the raging fields of blood below.
Opposite to their position, another hill showed a similar station - elevated far above the enemy’s capabilities of launching projectiles.
Jarek had never seen so much mayhem - to the south, his own men fired rifles and threw miraculous bolts of lightning, ice and fire through the narrow passage at an unstoppable hoard of flesh to the north.
He had seen the monstrosities before - their various shapes, types and morphologies, but never this many - never so tightly packed that he could not see the forest floor beneath them. Gargants, Skitterers, Lurkers - all sizes and ranks of Logo’s Spawn had crawled from the pits of Hell to assault their stalwart defense. Had it not been for the burning mounds of flesh and leaves, none would’ve seen a thing past the hole, but with every volley of artillery fire raining down on the monstrosities, he saw the unending army of Monstrum approaching their position.
Countless dead lay in the leaves below - torn open, decayed, melted, burnt; all modes of slaughter had been wrought upon the General’s men, a grim reminder that Death was so much more than numbers on a paper. A vicious gust of wind blew a fiery trail of embers through the Ghast - strong enough to rattle the bloody leaves down in the hole.
“General. When was the last rain?” Again, Jarek was stricken by the calm, icy cut of his voice - freezing him to the bone.
“S-Sir?” Jarek said to the unmoving form staring out across the battlefield. After a moment’s consideration, he quickly shouted: “N-no rain since our arrival, Sir. Just this wind.” It had been a curious time to ask for a weather forecast, but the Ghast seemed more than pleased with the answer - as pleased as one of their kind could be.
“Communications.” The Ghast commanded. Jarek quickly stepped over the grass as Logan ordered the Artillerymen to hold their fire.
“S-speak now, Sir. I’ll cast it to every soldier here - I’m low on energy, but I can do it.” Jarek promised. He had to do it - no matter the cost. His men died in the hundreds by the hour, the Governor’s plans would fail should the defensive fail - there was simply no option but to.
Jarek yelped as the Ghast raised his mask and leaned close to speak directly into the General’s mouth.
“Warriors! This is Commander Behemoth-Bane. The defensive is failing and the enemy is at the Governor’s doorstep.” Logan raised a finger to Jarek to let the message sink in. Every second of the open channel burned the General’s insides - casting his message to every one of his loyal soldiers was already beginning to take its toll on his chest, aching from the sternum and down his left arm. After a moment’s pause in which the gunfire died ever-so-slightly, the Commander continued speaking into Jarek’s mouth: “We will be pushed back behind walls, hiding like rats under the floorboards until the day we die - at their mercy.” Another pause - Jarek’s mind was beginning to spin with the exhaustion.
“That will be the fate of every man, woman and child in Cradle unless you follow my orders to the letter. Many of you will die. Some of you will get torn to shreds - your comrades will be eaten in front of your eyes. But all of us will die as free Men - defending Man’s right to inherit the world.”
Logan motioned for Jarek to break the link and the aging General quickly fell to his knees to heave for air, having delivered the Ghast’s orders. They had sounded like nothing but the purest insanity, but he quickly imagined he’d been alone in judging it so, as his men were quickly reorganizing themselves all around the battlefield.
Only the artillerymen hesitated, but eventually obeyed the order without fault - moving their aim from the unending fields of flesh to target the thicket in the distance; the thicket where the Hive’s location had been implied.
“Fire!” The Commander roared. On his order, the volleys began - sending white-hot, massive-caliber shells over the battlefield, soaring high above the Hellspawn before crashing into the thickening of the forest.
“General. The first Spawn came from the ground according to your report. Have you surveyed the cave network?” Jarek turned around to see the Ghast’s cold stare eyeing him from across the fence of sand bags. He shook his head: “N-No, Sir… We were pushed back immediately. Behemoth-Bane’s head jerked in acknowledgment. “We will have to wait until the fires die down to survey them, then. Have the logistic runners empty all other stations of fuel and bring it here. Coal, accelerant, lamp-fluids - everything.” Jarek’s eyes darted back to the approaching army. Now that his own men were following the madman’s orders, none were firing to keep the Spawn at bay - leaving the enemy free reign over the field of battle.
In the seconds since his men had left the entrenchment overlooking the hole, the beasts had gained considerable ground and Jarek felt a stab of pain with every meter lost to the Horde.
“C-Commander… what’s this about? T-this order…”
“We’re making a fire, General Jarek.”