The Horrifying Life Of A Death Korps Guardsman
Автор: Warp Whispers
Загружено: 2025-10-29
Просмотров: 11
I wake to the taste of soil in my lungs.
Not dirt. Not mud. Soil. The kind that remembers what was buried in it. It coats the tongue like incense burned too long in the censer, like oil left too long on rusted hands. It fills the mask, seeps into the breath. Every inhale drags a ghost through my throat. Every exhale buries it again.
The bombardment has stopped, though my ears still hum with its rhythm. Even silence here carries percussion — a phantom thunder rolling beneath the trenches, as if the earth itself cannot forget how to scream.
I do not open my eyes right away. I listen first. The soil speaks softly when it settles after a shelling. It sighs, a low exhale through shattered roots and bone fragments. It sounds almost like prayer.
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