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From the personal diaries of Private R.C. Mongler, 4th Brotherhood Regiment.
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My regiment had landed on a barren little ball of rock called Chansluts. The Brotherhood had ordered us to the site on suspicion of heretical corruption. Surely enough, we ran into a group of furries within minutes of landing. The fools. Turning their backs on the Sky Queen for whatever sick rewards they received from the deceiving pedofags. The battle started the second refresh. Their attack was especially fierce, and my brothers and I had great trouble keeping them at bay. It seemed that for every one of them we trolled, three more showed up. Our own losses were of no small concern. In a rare moment of calm, Brother Schwill confided in me that if we were not killed by these infidels, we would almost certainly be banned by the King of the Holy Lands for failure. As our numbers dwindled, I grew concerned: surely we would all be banned, and Cracky's work would not be carried out. We prepared for a final assault, one which had been coming for near an hour of the most anticlimactic bitch fighting I had ever seen. We surrounded a small thread, atop which stood our last fortification, manned by brother anon. We saw their force coming from below. We knew this was our end. But suddenly, a shadow passed over us. Some admin come to finish us off? No. It was a transport. Out of it stepped a small company of our brethren. They wore Black armor with red highlights, a bizarre crest upon their backs, unlike any chapter I had yet heard of. A circle, with two large black triangles pointing up and tree red slashes in the middle -- almost as if to suggest a cat face. They formed a line between us and the now charging chansluts.
The Chanslut's dingy pink armor seemed to devour the light of th late afternoon sun, the stretch marks upon their tits menacing. The new arrivals stood fast. As the distance between the two forces began to close, there arose from these black warriors the loudest scream I had ever heard. It shook the ground. Even through my helmet, it made my ears ring and my skull ache. And it simply kept getting louder as their Captain's fist slowly rose into the air. As it rose to a nearly supersonic volume, I finally made out the words contained in the scream:
"SAGE!!!"
In a chorus louder even than the Captain's scream, the soldiers returned:
"GET FAGGED, FAGS!!!"
Then it began.
...
Without a word, these faithful returned to their drop pod and were soon whisked away from the battlefield. There had been no more than a dozen of them, not a single word exchanged between our two chapters. To this day, I have never seen any of the brethern fight with such rage and hatred. The mass of enemy whores was reduced to mere chunks, legs, arms, heads, craters full of blood. Bits of red armor lay strew about the field. We had not even had the chance to advance by the time the screaming -- both theirs and the enemy's -- was through. I turned to my Captain and asked, "Who were they?"
"I had thought it was rumor. But no. Cracky bless us all, those were the Militia Crackyla."