(For more information on exactly what this is or how to join, jump on over to the OOC thread. This is for the actual playing. Now, that being out of the way...)
THE LAST BASTION
Day 2, 00:01
When you look up, you can still see meteors streaking across the night sky. One of them might be a fragment of the ship you arrived on. Whatever they were, they’re now molten cinders tumbling through the atmosphere.
You’re a survivor of a great catastrophe in space. You came to the once-Imperial planet WTFISTHISPLACECALLEDANYWAY (Withplaca, for short) to save it from the orks, and now you’re focused on saving yourselves in the wake of an emergency landing. The orks dominate the planet and, amidst a sea of green, you can only confirm the survival of one Imperial stronghold.
Alpha-Deco-Breaker was a PDF fort. Now, it’s going to be your home. It’s best to think of the base as a wheel, with a central hub and four quadrants around the core, the entire base surrounded by razor-wire and mines. It’s all located at the base of a range of steep hills, inside of a divot that cuts north into the rock and soil.
Inside the hub is dry, packed dirt. On the west and east sides of the hub are a pair of Imperial Bastions, slab-sided fortifications topped with quad-guns, bristling with heavy bolter emplacements. Padre Mendoza, a Reclusiarch-Chaplain of the Crimson Fists chapter, has taken command and runs the camp from the west tower. The clearing between the towers is chock-full of tents and scurrying tech-priests, guardsmen, and the occasional Space Marine. Ammo, rations, and other supplies are locked in trunks under those tents not given over to the medicae.
The northern quadrant, brushing up against the hill and partly cast in shadow, houses the remainder of the survivors’ vehicles, and has been transformed into a makeshift repair station and garage. Currently, it contains one Iron Hands Rhino, two Cadian Chimeras, a squadron of Tallarn Scout Sentinels, an inert Blood Ravens Drop Pod, a Crimson Fists Stormtalon gunship, a pair of battered-to-hell Valkyries, and the remnants of numerous escape-pods. Aside from the Scout Sentinels and one of the Chimeras, none of them are working properly. Volunteers from the Novamarines and the PDF are stationed atop the hill, away from the main battle, but nonetheless poised to stop or delay a sneak-attack from what amounts to be the back of the base.
The western quadrant, the closest to the ork horde, is a rallying field. When the troopers aren’t sleeping or getting their wounds treated, most of the surviving Cadians and Tallarn troops are stationed there. It’s chaotic, but it’s a directed chaos, and the commissars are ready to get things moving in a hurry. The main approach to ADB is this way, and is heavily guarded by autocannon and heavy bolter emplacements, and hundreds of troopers have taken up position in fox-holes, trenches, and pillboxes.
The southern quadrant has mostly been given over to the Space Marines. Though few in number, nobody wants to be near them when they start working. Factionalism being what it is, those space marines generally don’t intermingle, either. The approach to the southern quadrant is guarded by an assortment of sentry guns and the prowling of the space marines, whose flamers and boltguns light up the night.
The eastern quadrant is primarily the purview of the PDF troops, and backed by the zealous Sisters of Battle. Located farthest from the main ork horde, the Imperial Guard and Space Marine authority figures put these shell-shocked and amateur troopers where they’re least-likely to come under assault and endanger the base, and set up the Sisters of Battle behind them in order to remind them that there are scarier things than orks on the planet. If nothing else, the paranoid “SHOOT AT ANYTHING THAT MOVES!” knee-jerk reaction of the Whiteshields, the flames of the Battle-Sisters, and the explosions of thousands of mines have made such a noise that even the orks have thought twice about sending a major assault at the relatively soft flank.
The ork horde is out there, innumerable and bellowing. The main bulk of it is to the west, and it’s never quiet even when the base isn’t under assault. That makes it hard to sleep or concentrate, and rumors have begun spreading through the ranks that the infernal beasts are constructing titans to storm the bastion, or are turning weirdboyz loose to wash psychic destruction over the defenders, or Kommandos are... well, there are a lot of rumors, and the commissariat is ruthlessly suppressing them. Through the fear and fatigue, everyone is doing their level best to get the defenses prepped and ready for the morning. They mostly attack when it’s light out: the orks want to see the things they shoot blowing up, and the light of burning buildings isn’t good-enough for the little touches that make war so fun for them. The impression given is of one colossal, green fist drawing back and back, ready to deliver the knock-out punch, just waiting for the signal to start clobbering.
==/==
You, however, aren’t there for it. Not right now, anyway. For one reason or another, you’ve been stationed on the hill to the north. The orks aren’t expected to attack that way, but Padre Mendoza had a feeling and sent you, along with three Cadian platoons and one Tallarn platoon, out to reinforce the Novamarine scouts and PDF troopers stationed there. Most of them are hidden away in recently-dug fox-holes out along the hilltops.
And so the game begins, by a small camp-fire a short way back from the northern perimeter established by the patrols. It’s lit in a little clearing under some yet-unscorched pine trees, and also houses a small tent containing the vox-relay. One of the PDF troopers mans it, waiting for signals either from the patrols or ADB. Otherwise, there’s a dozen troopers around from the PDF and Tallarn, playing cards or making a show of guarding the tent. All of them doing their best not to be intimidated by the presence of the hulking Space Wolf, burly Tallarn Lieutenant, and resplendent Crusader...
Survivor Count (excluding players)
Human survivors: 2,531 >>>>>1,978th Cadian Shock Troops: 804 guardsmen, led by Lt. Colonel Benjer >>>>>22,502st Cadian Shock Troops: 477 guardsmen, led by Major “Dizzy” Astros >>>>>210nd Tallarn Raiders: 243 guardsmen, led by (REPLACEMENT PENDING) >>>>>39th Tallarn Sabres: 103 guardsmen. >>>>>92nd Withplacan PDF: 601 Whiteshields, 225 regulars, led by Scratch-Captain Adams >>>>>Order of the Resplendent Braining of the Vile Heretic and Filthy Alien: 48 battle-sisters, led by Celestian Neevil. >>>>>Mechanicum: 20 techpriests. >>>>>Ministorum: 8 priests. >>>>>Administratum: 1 Very Loud Beaurocrat Of Uncertain Profession and Gender With An Embarrassing Surname
Sitting in the camp itself, Jace was laughing as he sat around a fire, his helmet removed as he laughed openly, his beer mug in his hand as he spoke with the guardsmen who sat with him. He looked to each man with a smile, recounting stories from his pack, hoping that these tales would help inspire the men and help raise some of the moral in the camp. Pretty much on all the Imperial Lines, moral was low, and most of the defenders were too afraid to admit that they were afraid of the horde that could attack at any moment. For Jace himself, he was bored of this waiting, and he was more than ready to fight. Even for a Space Wolf, his constant drinking was getting boring...
"So... my Wolf Lord was staring down this hulking Hive Tyrant... the one that, mind you had already tore asunder a whole Leman Russ tank by itself", Jace continued as he took another swig from his mug, purposefully stopping at the mention of his primarch's name, "As he smiles at the foul beast. The Tyrant roars and the Wolf Lord merely roars back, showing that he would face it with no fear. The two leapt at one another, determined to end the fight here, and both armies almost stopped to look at their commanders fight... the sheer fate of the battle rested on their shoulders... Before any of us could tell, my Wolf Lord brought his mighty hammer to bear, and smashed a hole clear through the heretic beast, showing up effortlessly on the other side... though he was covered in the vile remains of the once large creature... With that, the Tyranids fled, and we charged after them, cutting them down before their filth spread to any other holy place." Jace was still smile as he looked to the handful of Guardsmen who sat there, and shrugged, "You need not fear what is waiting for us... somewhere on this planet. These Orks may be foul, but you can not allow them to govern your way of thinking, or to tarnish your Faith. Our Glorious All-Father... excuse me, God Emperor, we Wolves refer to him by another name... watches over us all. In the end, Death finds us all, it is just a matter of how we face it. Do not show fear or cower before it... Stand up, smile and roar back. Let the foul beast that fights you know who is superior, and no matter what happens, you will be victorious... either by slaying your foe, or staring at it defiantly, as you take it with you..."
The Wolf Guard waved the Guardsmen off, as he was sure that they had other duties, but he could at least see that a few of his words had taken hold. He just hoped that it would last. While he seemed calm and cool on the outside, he worried about his pack-mates. When the ship exploded, he had be separated by them... with no word yet, he feared they would be lost. He wanted desperately to search for them, but the Chaplain in charge refused to spare him... and due to the words of his Alpha, he obeyed the man, which killed him on the inside.
Standing up now, Jace stretched, saving the last of his beer ration, as he was sure he'd need it later. He would have offered it to the guardsmen, but it would probably have killed them, as it makes most other marines very drunk... though it barely affects the Wolves. For now, he would slowly pace the line, and await orders. His patience was wearing thin, and he wanted action, and bloodshed. Placing his helmet back on, he was greeted by his display, and slowly made his way down to check on the other defenders.
Byron smiled broadly at the Space Wolf's story, but his eyes were mostly on the guardsmen assigned to this security picket. The officer in him was uncomfortable with the Astartes' presence in a predominantly defensive warzone -the best place for the Emperor's finest was always quick insertions and offensive action- but was also secretly appreciative of the bravado and the sense of confidence he could see it instilling into the other men on the hill. It's easy for a trooper to get the impression that assignment away from the front reflected a poor opinion of his abilities, but decades as a line and file officer had taught Byron that sometimes having a watchful eye on the flanks of a battlefield can make all the difference.
The position seemed relatively defensible at least. The hilltop clearing offered a reasonably good view of their area of responsibility, or at least would have in the daylight. He wasn't as sure however that they had the means to stave off a significant Ork assault; lacking any heavy weapons or vehicle support, guts and bravado would only last so long against a green tide.
When the Space Wolf strode away from the campfire, Byron moved to follow, keeping pace with a little effort. The Astartes was a giant, but the Tallarn officer was no small man himself; by walking a few feet on the uphill side of the Astartes, he could converse from an even height without craning his neck, though he opted not to speak until out of earshot with the troops.
"And what of Orks then? From the look of you, I wager you like a good brawl as much as the next greenskin," he quipped with a friendly wink. Most guardsmen would likely balk at the casual nature of his remark to the Astartes considering their near-nobility status to the average human. Byron had been in the service long enough to decide for himself that there was no disrespect in such a jibe; quite the opposite.
Posted: Sun Oct 19, 2014 11:58 am
As he sat by the camp with a small cup of tea on hand, watching the proud Space Wolf march off along with the rest of the guard, he started meditating on the events that had taken place upon their arrival. So great was the calamity that had taken place upon their arrival to the planet's orbit, that many lives under the Emperor’s service were lost. This event also brought upon the separation of his Inquisitor master and the rest of her retinue, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. He didn't allow the nature of the situation to cloud his mind, and faith did not waver.
Letting out a small pent of breath, he lifted up his cup and slowly drank what was left in inside, putting the empty cup on the ground. Ashcrow started looking around the camp, and saw how most of the troops were still awaiting orders. Indicating the probability that there have been no new reports or orders coming in from either the stronghold or dispatched patrols. He took this time to intone a prayer to the God Emperor before heading over to check up on the vox operator on what was the current status. So he picked up his helmet and fixed it back on his head, knelt down embedding his sword to the ground and started murmuring a prayer under his breath.
Emperor… Your enemies are abundant. Guide us through the blackest night Guide us through the darkest of times And may we rest upon your light. Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of Man. For yours is the galaxy, the power and the glory, forever and ever.
Afterwards, he got up and pulled out his entrenched Power Sword from the ground and mounted his shield back on his left arm, and made his way to the tent.
Master Sergeant Haysa was relaxing on top of the hill, having build a makeshift hidey-hole for him to remain stealth from prying Ork eyes while he kept an eye on the battlefield ahead of him, "Hunter" at the ready to strike any foolish enought to venture too close.
So far he has only spotted few local faunas that had survived from the invasions by hiding, much like how Haysa has along his military career. He could barely hear chatter from the encampment, reconised his fellow soldiers playing card games and the bellowing laughter from the wolf-man from a Space Marine chapter.
He kept on being vigilant in his hiding spot, even when he could hear the foot steps of approaching troopers and the Space Wolf.
Posted: Tue Oct 21, 2014 7:45 pm
Day 2, 00:05
ASHCROW
Shortly before entering the tent, the crusader heard the vox-operator’s voice filtering out through the tent-flaps. Something about Fireteam B and a mouth. The words resolved into clarity once he pushed the flaps open and himself inside.
“...say again, Fireteam D,” he said as he scribbled something down on a data-slate. His other hand was pressing an earpad against his head to coax more than a whisper out of it. “Say again, Fireteam D! What do you mean they’re not there? What is there? Oh, real nice, corporal. Well, they can’t have just up and disappeared. Vox back as soon as you’ve found something.”
The vox-operator flicked a switch on the radio and began strafing through the channels. For the moment, he doesn’t notice Ashcrow, so preoccupied was he with his task.
BLACKMANE & BYRON
As the two walked along, conversing as they went, they heard a sharp crack! ahead, north and to the west. It wasn’t far away, and it was easy to identify: a lasbolt. Then something like a tree-branch hitting the ground was heard. Three more shots, snapped off in burst-mode. A snarl. A scream.
”aaaaaAAAAAAAAAggrhgfrhfkbl~...!”
It ended very suddenly. Something, or somethings, struck the ground like a sack of gapples: wetly and heavily. There was a rustling sound, and slurping sounds, and slobbering sounds. It was followed, a moment later, by disorganized lasfire and the desperate shouts of troopers with Cadian accents.
HAYSA
Of all the grox-loving...
Up until the scream, it had been dead-silent, and there was hardly a sign of movement beyond what the sniper had already noted. But then, too close for comfort, he heard the sounds of combat, and a flash of lasbolts visually guided his attention directly toward it. Something had gotten through the patrols and defensive lines and walked right up to a fox-hole.
Through Hunter’s scope, Haysa saw the aftermath of the attack and the beginning of a firefight. Something green and full of teeth was eating Private Kennedy. It looked like a mouth and a pair of eyes, lacking anything more substantive for a body, given locomotion by a pair of stumpy, taloned legs. The boar-sized thing would’ve been comical-looking if its jaws weren’t full of Kennedy’s blood and ragged trachea. The hapless trooper was still twitching when the thing, a squig, drove its head down toward the body to rip away more flesh.
The area around the foxhole was a riot of activity and flashes. Kennedy’s squad-mates were responding to the sudden attack, loosing disorganized volleys at the bloody squig and the treeline. Half a dozen of the beasties were breaking out from the cover of the foliage, teeth glistening in the moonlight. There were more rustles of activity in the high grass and low bush. However they’d gotten close without Haysa noticing, they’d just dispensed with the subtlety and were making a rush for it now.
Byron's hand went to his neck instantly, raising the signal whistle that hung there to his lips and letting loose three keening blasts from it before bellowing out in plain language: "TO ARMS!!!" No matter the threat, the greatest danger was that word of an attack would not reach the Bastion; he knew they were a picket, the commander's eyes and ears from a flank vulnerable to ambush. If the vox-operator knew the first thing about his job, he would be on the horn with Alpha-Deco-Breaker before the echoes had faded from the first lasgun crack.
Secondary to relaying that information would be holding that flank; Byron's hands were working quickly to secure the leather straps and metal buckles of his power fist which until a moment ago had been hanging from his waist-sash. It was no Astartes weapon, and would take several moments to boot and become charged, but if engagement was this close this soon, he would have to start now. Once strapped on, the weight of it dragged his right arm down towards the earth while he unholstered his hotshot laspistol leveled it at the lookout emplacement just ahead.
This took the span of several seconds, during which Byron's eyes never wavered from the source of the sickly sounds, though his ears were pricked for the sound of aggressors from other directions.
Posted: Wed Oct 22, 2014 11:39 pm
Haysa cursed underneath his breathing, taking a quick survey of the area to get an rought estimate of the squig hordes number. First shot he took was aimed at the poor private, sparing him from the horrible fate that was still ahead of him before the Emperor would claim his soul. 1...
Taking down the squigs was challenging due to their unusual anatomy, which Haysa was very aware of it, taking then all down would take some effort and timing, time which was running short at this point. Luckily, there is a way-around to this problem due to 2 natural squig types; one which charges to attack, one armed with explosives. Curiosly, there we´re no signs of the type he was looking, leaving him to improvise instead.
He takes a short, but careful aim at the target alittle further from the defense-line, the dot pointed at the squids right knee, pulling the trigger that lets the shot hit it´s mark, loud squeal escaping from the creatures large jaws while it stumbles after it´s knee being shot off. 2....
He continued this routine with another target. 3.... 4.... 5....
Day 2, 00:05 The vox-operator was minding his own business. Which, in retrospect, was everybody’s business, but the point was that he wasn’t doing anything nefarious or offending anybody any more than being a human annoys the average alien or daemon. Very suddenly, things figuratively went to hell in a handbasket.
Reports that not only was a fireteam gone, but gone without a trace. Reports of hostile contact. Reports that dear God-Emperor IT ATE HIS FACE
Within all of them, he heard the snap-crack and staccato bangs of gunfire filtering in. Even without his headset, he’d have been able to hear it: the troopers by the campfire were already reacting to the sounds before the frightened vox-calls of their comrades gave them warning.
But Ashcrow was in the unique position of being at the information hub when things went ploin-shaped. When the others moved, directionless, Ashcrow got the information straight from the vox-op, who was momentarily surprised to look behind and see a giant, black-armored knight right there, resplendent in Inquisitorial regalia and armored for bear.
Quickly recovering, the vox-op said, “We’ve got a breach. Twenty squigs or so, striking at Perimeter B, at nine-o’-clock. It’s being... dealt with... but I’ve got calls from Perimeter A calling for reinforcements. Sir, I don’t have the authority to ask this of you, but can you take a squad out to the breach-point at Perimeter A, at 9:30, and plug the gap? Sergeant Palooka thinks something else might be coming that way, and he’s requesting backup.”
HAYSA
Haysa was one of the troopers dealing with it. Unusual as the squigs’ anatomy may have been, it still obeyed certain vertebral standards. That is to say, when you hack off the leg of a biped, the beastie usually goes down.
BANG! “SCHREEEEEEEEE!” Thud! thrash
Tech’ing off the ones in the back, he gave the troopers in the trenches a short reprieve, which was about what they needed in order to at least begin turning the tide. A few of the squigs went down to the receivers’ fire. Those who failed to find a mark at least had time to draw knives and clubs or fix bayonets.
They lost some, they won some. Between shots, Haysa caught the occasional glimpse of the trench-fighting. Here, a trooper sticks a squig with his combat-knife and then sticks the corpse again until it stops going squiggly. There, a squig bites the thrusting hand and starts eating its way up the arm. It was a desperate, bloody business and, as more troopers turned away from shooting and toward melee, Haysa found himself acting as an angel from on high, the only one stopping squigs from actually reaching the emplacements.
He estimated that he had at least 20 more squigs inbound, from the rustling in the bushes and the glinting of the moonlight and gunfire on their sharp fangs and talons. He’d get maybe half of them. Unfortunately, the other ten were displaying an unusually strong survival instinct and tactical acumen (the dumber ones having already gone to Gork, or maybe Mork, or whoever the non-ork beasts go to in the afterlife...) and not charging across open ground. They swept around, through the cover of fallen branches and tumbled stones, to hit the line from the side. Haysa was unable to draw a bead on them. This, sadly, made them someone else’s problem.
Or two very specific people’s, anyway...
BYRON & BLACKMANE
Day 2, 00:06
Fate, Tzeentch, the Emperor, the Deceiver, or Eldrad recounted an old saying that began, “The Right Man in the Right Place at the Right Time... ”.
Byron and Blackmane had enough weapons to outfit a small army, and were exemplary at the task of killing things up close and personal. This made them the right men. The squigs were coming around the flank, which is, coincidentally, the path that the Space Marine and Guardsman were running toward in order to relieve their embattled colleagues. This put them in the right place. Finally, their arrival at that spot coincided with the arrival of the squigs at that same place, and the two men (or one man, one posthuman) broke into view of the squigs roughly two seconds before the lot of them registered their appearance. This was, you understand, the right time
Surprised, the two squigs closest to the men faltered in their steps and turned their rotund bodies around to face them. You must understand, they were momentarily confused by what they saw, and were suddenly filled with a very mortal doubt and that same survival instinct mentioned earlier. If their thoughts utilized words, which squig thoughts usually don’t, they would have run along the lines of, “Well, I do declare, this is a most unsettling and unforeseen development. Bullocks, my good fellows! They may be about to affix us to another item by an inclined plane wrapped helically around a central axis!”
These two squigs were about five meters away from Byron, and eight away from Blackmane, Their legs began to move in what might be described as a backpedaling motion as, registering the threat, they tried to move away from it. The two men having momentum and the initiative, the squigs likely did not have the opportunity to succeed at this. The other squigs weren’t that much further away.
Thus began the Tallarn/Fenrisian Festivities.
GALMECH & SOLUS
Day 2, 00:11 This far away from the mountain, and with a military base between them and it, not even the posthuman senses of the two astartes could pick up the sounds of battle. The tanks didn’t help much.
The Iron Hand and the Grey Knight, black and white in many regards, were given a task by the venerable chaplain that, at first, had seemed like a waste of their time. Escorting guardsmen. The weak flesh, the impious rabble. A company had survived their bulk-lander’s crash-landing (the impact of which had been felt all the way back at the base) and were heading for the comm-signal from the east. Galmech and Solus had been sent out to make sure that they got there intact.
But, upon linking up, it turned out that it wasn’t quite so worthless after all. It wasn’t just a company that had survived, but an armored company. Well, insofar as anything can survive an orbital freefall. Thirty technicians and crewmen and two field-repaired Leman Russes had limped out of the wreckage and did their best to salute the silver and black warriors. Say what you want about the guardsmen, two battle-tanks can make even a Space Marine smile.
Now three kilometers out from the base and escorting a pair of damaged, nigh-out-of-ammo tanks through the wilderness, the Devastator and Justicar were the column’s first, last, and only line of defense against an ambush. Orks may not have been that good at ambushes, or so the conventional thinking went, but the tanks were valuable-enough that the two Marines might just find it worth their while after all...
Posted: Sun Nov 02, 2014 9:52 am
Black as night, the Ironhand Devastator made his way east, blue eyes of his helmet glowing as he scanned the path forward for signs of movement and ambush. Galmech held his heavy bolter at the ready, letting it idly sway back and forth slightly in his hands. "Current pace, with no interruptions, should arrive in the morning. Still think that setting the generators of the wreckage to overload would have been the right choice. Orks have a higher chance to arrive to it sooner than a proper reclaimation team. Reduction of items for ork looters to go over would have been useful."
He did not look towards the other marine during the march, aside from times when he fell back to watch their back path. For the Grey Knights were a secret chapter, enough so that they normally removed all trace of themselves. Before finding this one, he had only rumor of their existence. Now he wondered who would be purged to keep the sighting of even one of them quiet.
Ashcrow, an Inquisitorial Crusader, was above taking orders from anyone other than his Inquisitor master to whom he serves. But the Orks were already laying attempts against them, and time was not on their side, to say the least. Ashcrow took on the task to reinforce Perimeter A against the savage greenskins, and test out his mettle once more against them with his improved skills in the melee arts. A better alternative than brewing tea out of foraged leaves while awaiting orders to come by.
"Let them know reinforcements are on their way. The Greenskins want to soften up our defenses and have a little fun by throwing at us their hounds. I will not allow them the benefit." Responded Ashcrow to the, somewhat, agitated vox-operator in a soft modulated voice emitted from his helmet.
To this, Ashcrow quickly sets off to gather a squad and brief them for the assignment at hand."Carry on, trooper" , said the crusader as he made his way out of the tent, into the darkness of the night.
Posted: Wed Nov 05, 2014 2:14 am
Solus looked over at the ironhand devastator "To an ork the promise of battle is more appealing than the promise of loot as they call it so an explosion would be ill advised as it would attract them all the more and in greater numbers" solus said as he continued walking storm shield in hand.
Solus was not oblivious to his fellow marines curiosity about him, rare is it that any marine would encounter a grey knight so as to encounter one on a world free of demonic taint is an odd sight indeed
Remembering back to his missions set by the inqusition he was to hunt down an ork warboss by the name of Kaptin 'Ard Sotta who is suspected of warp taint and possible demonic possession due to the unnatural way he acts and leads the other orks under his command
Scant paces away from the backpedaling beasts, Byron fought back the urge to pursue them back into the woods, knowing it would be a foolhardy course of action and leave their defensive position at risk. Instead, he carefully sighted the nearest ones with his hotshot laspistol and fired two precise shots into the center of mass of each creature before holstering his pistol and side-stepping into the center of the scattered guardsmen in their individual foxholes.
The sharp crack of a long-las eviscerated another nearby squig, and in the echo of the shot, Byron could hear the high-pitched whine of his power fist charging its capacitors, but as he flexed that arm he knew it wasn't yet of any use in melee; distance was still his friend.
He made a point of not stooping or crouching in the face of the assault; as of yet, the Orks had not presented any ranged threats, and the encouragement to the near-broken guardsman was more valuable than a bit of cover at this point. Byron found himself standing next to the foxhole of the late Private Kennedy; he toes the dead soldier's lasgun and jerked his foot upward, catching the rifle in his left hand and wrapping the strap around his thick forearm; the recoilless weapon was far lighter than the grenade launcher across his back, and Byron knew the latter was an asset better saved for more dangerous foes than these. Raising the weapon one-handed, he let loose several short, controlled bursts peppering the feral animals that dared attempt forward motion, not bothering with those on the retreat.
"You see?!" he bellowed at the despirited guardsmen, They die like sheep! Slaughter them, but save your choler for a foe worthy of it! Every shot counts!"
Posted: Sun Nov 09, 2014 4:43 am
6..... 7.....
Hearing gun shots growing in the battlefield, Haysa turned his attencion towards the forest line from which the horde had emerged to assault, hoping to see a glimpse of a familiar greenskin hiding among the bushes.
Spotting nothing, he opted another strategy to hopefully get the orks tell theyr position in the forest, utilizing his rifles silencer to make the orks jump to the sound of something hitting a tree next to them. Haysa lined his shot towards on he might suspect the ork hiding and fired.
The worthy enemy came... though not exactly in the expected manner or direction.
The guardsmen started to rally. Several had fallen, but the attack was petering out. The squigs were, the defenders revealed through their retaliatory fire, few in number. Most of them were already dead.
Surprise had been their greatest asset: they fought like beasts, with no real thought for tactics beyond that of the animal. Group tactics? Coordination? There’s the prey, go eat it!
KRAKKCRK!
The upper half of an ork boy landed on Sgt. Berst. Its spike-helm slammed into his torso, punched through, and the both of them fell into the foxhole.
Unfortunately, despite what the Primer would have you believe, orks were a lot more resilient than humans. His vitals perforated, Berst expired quickly, gurgling blood and hitting the ground with a wet, crunching sound. The ork, missing its legs and spurting green fluids from the wound, was more enraged than hurt about the whole thing. As if to prove its point, it started laying into the sergeant’s squadmates in the hole with furious punches and the occasional headbutt.
CRAKAAAJT!
Three more squigs crackled into view, but that’s not what drew the eye. The ork’s legs popped up! One moment, there was an empty spot in the clearing. In the next, a flash of unlight, and then the lower body was there. Impossibly, as if in response to the sounds of gunfire, the legs started running toward the source. Guardsmen started firing on it and fought hard to bring it down.
BzzrtREEEEEEE!
A nob! Right in front of Byron! A full head taller than him, flexing a power klaw! It looked right intent to use it, it did... if it weren’t looking in the wrong direction. Were anybody looking at its face, they would have noticed the confused look upon it.
Oye! Most disconcertin’ dis is, yeh!
JRREELLZZRT!
A burna boy sat a meter off the ground for a second, jerry can in one hand and its weapon in the other. Then gravity reasserted itself and the greenskin fell, dropping its tools, the promethium, the weapon, its workbench, its dinner, and itself all over the place.
KRRLLKA! RRESAAAKZZRR! UWARRGGGHQ!
The area was filling up with orks, and they looked just about as confused about the whole thing as the Guardsmen did.
ASHCROW
Day 2, 00:09
Ashcrow got a demisquad. He would have gotten a full squad, but the vox-op needed a few troopers to protect him as he relayed the increasingly-frantic messages of the Imperial patrols. It was, in a word, chaotic.
No pun heresy intended.
A half-dozen Tallarn troopers fell in at the Crusader’s heels, weapons at the ready and with every visible sign of using it. They were in for a fight now, and that was alright with them. The last few days had nearly driven them crazy. It had driven many of the others crazy, too.
The enemy’s out there, and we’re not doing anything about it! I can’t take the stress, commissar! No, I’ll fight! I’ll fight! Put the gun awBLAM!
In a way, the call to arms was almost cathartic. The orks wouldn’t occupy their minds anymore: they could be expelled from the brain and put in their sights, to be slain by lasbolt and grenade. They stole toward the perimeter as fast as they could while remaining in formation. Then, figuratively speaking, all hell broke loose.
The left half of a grot fell at Ashcrow’s feet, stopping him in his tracks. Now if that wasn’t the damndes-
-onna get it now, youz silva git!”
Then came the flash of light, the KJRRRTKLL!, and then the ork itself sliding sideways out of the air, pointing at a tree. A moment later, it realized that it wasn’t supposed to be pointing at a tree. Now that was Mork-darned peculiar. Wasn’t there a Space Marine there a moment ago? Did Kalorknikov finish the Tree Gun already? Last it heard, the mek was still working on the Squigun!
Then the rustling of the leaves and cracking of twigs underfoot caught the ork’s attention, as did the gasps and shouts of the ‘umies. The ork turned around, all eight feet of him, and looked at the Crusader and the Tallarn troopers with gimlet eye and furrowed brow. It wore armor uncharacteristically well-made for its kind, the kind that might actually stop a bolter round. In one hand, it held a slugga. In the other, it held a chain-axe whose blade crackled a dangerous green in the wan light.
Time seemed to freeze.
For a little, anyway.
The guardsmen opened fire, lighting up the darkness with the snap-cracking red lasbolts. Whooping and hollering, the ork charged furiously into their midst, laying about itself with joyous sweeps of its roaring blade.
”WAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGH!”
HAYSA
Day 2, 00:07
Well. That happened.
Orks and squigs were appearing by the handful. Granted, the hands were very big. Some of the orks looked ready to immediately start chopping. Others looked like they were in the middle of doing other things when, apropos of nothing, they appeared on the battlefield. Pity that one trooper that the sniper saw standing directly under an ork that had apparently been in the midst of using the ork equivalent of a lavatory*. Some came in pieces.
Haysa would have to give them this: they were giving him all the warning signs he could ask for. The appearance of the greenskins was invariably accompanied by a flash of bizarre light and a loud noise like the world ripping open. These things weren’t necessarily in that order, sometimes the orks just appearing there before the shock of light and noise announced them, but they invariably all occurred within a few seconds of each other.
There were too many popping in for Haysa to pick off on his own, too many and too fast. But he could make an appreciable dent in their numbers if he put his mind to it, and Haysa was very good at putting his mind to it, if his record was anything to go by. The body-count climbed, and-
KAAARKRWLLLT!
Behind him, a sound like the world ending.
Four and a half gretchin (the right half, specifically) tumbled in the bushes, cursing and muttering in their profane tongue. A short while later, they realized that not everything was right in the world. They started getting their bearings when, all of a sudden, one of them caught sight of the fray. He sounded the cry, and the others started going for their blastas. Haysa very quickly realized that he was directly between the gretchin and his colleagues and that, if they were to join the fight, they’d stumble right into him.
Well, most of them, anyway. The half-gretchin just fell over dead.
GALMECH & SOLUS
Day 2, 00:13
The discussion went on for a little while longer, but... well, duty called. Loudly, actually.
In the distance, the pair of astartes saw flashes of light rising up over a rise in the road. Battle-sounds, those of explosions and the reports of many guns, were carried over the wind, toward them.
The techpriests and mechanics and tank-crews didn’t hear the sounds. They were still too far out, and many of them had lost their sense of hearing during the crash and the skirmishes that followed. But there were things coming over the vox that not even they could miss.
Then, there was static on the airwaves.
First, there was silence. The kind of absolute silence that you can hear.
After that, the inside of the tank began frosting over as bellowing voices echoed out of the static.
Wait, hadn’t the static come before the silence? Why was it after...?
Solus’s psychic senses began to act up. Warning-runes flashed on his helm display. Something was pushing against the walls of reality, punching against it, fighting to get in from the other side. But the unsounds in his mind’s ear weren’t the slavering, hostile thoughts of daemons. These were more undirected, accidental. The things coming through weren’t directing themselves: something was pushing them.
Galmech was in tune with the machine-spirits, and he caught the unnatural signs around him. The machines acting up, the world going cold even under his pressure-sealed armor, the air crackling with pregnant energy... he felt it before. Both of them had experience with teleport pads, though in different capacities. As a terminator, Solus was more used to being the one teleported. Galmech, mechanically-inclined as he was, was more used to standing beside the pad as warriors were retrieved from the battle and warp-dropped onto the pad. That was, more or less, what it felt like to him for three very disconcerting seconds. The two space marines knew what that meant.
The air ripped open in a series of octarine-yellow and red-blurnal flashes, pops of displaced air, and the almighty thundercracks of titanic energies unleashed. As if disgorged from the Empyrean by a great explosion, the orks skidded out sideways and head-over-heels and, in some cases, inverted. Both physically and anatomically. The latter of which then exploded.
All around, green shapes started righting themselves. Here a nob, there a nob, everywhere a nob! At least a dozen of them. Two wore the thick, unbelievably heavy mega-armor. Three were blinged out in rings and nice hats and flashy clothes, carrying snazzy-looking guns. One hefted a machine gun that even a Centurion would hesitate to bring to battle, and not because it looked about as likely to kill the wielder as it did whoever it was pointed at. The rest, big and hulky, wore armor that was unusually well-made for a greenskin, though nowhere near the match of the meganobz.
The mortal soldiers of the Imperium struggled to get their vehicles’ weaponry at the ready to confront this new threat. They hadn’t expected the orks to get that close, and the sights on their heavy bolters were configured to fire too far out. They started firing blindly into the fray, spraying and praying to hit something green.
Right before the charge, one nob pointed directly at the terminator and said, “Oye! Letz go, then! Youz g-
KJRRRTKLL!
And then it was gone.
The other eleven-plus orks, though, were raring to go, and charged into the fray.
----------
*This, of course, is otherwise known as “anywhere”.
Sitting in the camp itself, Jace was laughing as he sat around a fire, his helmet removed as he laughed openly, his beer mug in his hand as he spoke with the guardsmen who sat with him. He looked to each man with a smile, recounting stories from his pack, hoping that these tales would help inspire the men and help raise some of the moral in the camp. Pretty much on all the Imperial Lines, moral was low, and most of the defenders were too afraid to admit that they were afraid of the horde that could attack at any moment. For Jace himself, he was bored of this waiting, and he was more than ready to fight. Even for a Space Wolf, his constant drinking was getting boring...
