Commissar Muskeg reporting. Trooper moral is low, though I have seen lower. We have been under assault for the last dozen days or more. Night and day, without rest, our foe has been throwing their bodies onto our bayonets and into the path of our las bolts. We have suffered casualties, most particular of note was Sergeant Craig, one of the companies more devote troopers.
The foe we face is not without cunning, for all of their mindless attacks. Some greater force guides these leather clad fools, pushing them to frenzied heights of bloodletting. Their leather suits are festooned in buckles and straps, weird glyphs and piercings. They cry in ecstasy when injured, and moan in joy when they are sprayed with the life blood of my loyal soldiers.
We have been pushed from the outer walls, and are resorting to street fighting, not giving the enemy a block without spilling their guts and blood. We cannot surrender to this filth. In the name of our God, we shall not fall.
Someday soon, I hope to march from this city at the head of my unit, over the bodies of these fanatical freaks. But a darker part of me, one that I dare not admit to, fears that this fight shall be longer and more bloody then I would wish.
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