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 Posted: Mon Nov 10, 2014 11:20 am
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The devastator stopped as the machines grew cold. He knew this feeling and the trouble it could bring. He shifted his stance, legs settled strongly against the earth, his gun lowered slightly and ready. While some, perhaps most, would begin firing as soon as reality decided that it needed a break for a moment, he paused to watch the spillage of orks onto the field, identifying the threats.
Two Mega-Armored Nobs. Three Flash-Gitz. The other seven were nothing special. Wait, make that six. He aimed at the Flash-Git with the particularly big weapon, and began unloading his heavy bolter towards it, bolt rounds tearing through air with murderous intent.
++Enemy confirmed. Terminator Solus, handle the two Megas. Their armor is difficult for my heavy bolter to penetrate. I will thin the rest of this scum.++*
*Habit of playing the 40k TTRPGs, I use ++ to indicate vox or microbead transmissions.
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Posted: Tue Nov 11, 2014 11:37 am
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Posted: Thu Nov 13, 2014 5:51 am
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Posted: Wed Nov 19, 2014 1:41 pm
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Posted: Sun Nov 23, 2014 4:44 pm
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GALMECH
Day 2, 00:13
The ork heaving the monstrosity that, in some bizarre mind, might pass for a gun was big and tough. It was strong. It was, however, hefting about a ton of metal, wood, and, for reasons nobody (not even the ork itself) could explain, hamster. This slowed it down a bit. Both to the draw, and on the forward march. Its allies were by and large surging forth around it, and it wasn’t the most nimble creature in the world. It presented a large and almost stationary target for Galmech to brutalize. In the words of the orks...
DAKKADAKKADAKKA!!
It thought, Ah, der most byuteeful sound in der wurld! Then it realized that the sound was incoming. That reduced the appeal a bit, if for no other reason than the continued weight of fire would limit the enjoyment of the sound due to a sudden and explosive infection with that unfortunate disease known as Death.
The bolts detonated against its thick breastplate and the business end of the weapon. This spun it around nearly sideways and pitched it back onto its knee, and only its inhuman resilience kept it from toppling over. Its armor could take the shots for a little while, but eventually it would count for only so much pudding.
It grunted as it fought to get back to its feet. Its bionic implants flashed warning-runes across its retinas. The weapon was taking damage and might not get to unleash Der Most Byuteeful Site in der Wurld if this kept up. It would be a real pity if that happened. Fortunately, there were ‘Ard Boyz storming the tanks with little regard for their surroundings or imminent death. One made the mistake of running past the beleaguered ork.
With a bellowing shriek that translated into Gothic as, “You mean, ‘Look out, boss!’, right?!” it grabbed one of the advancing boyz and held it up between itself and the heavy bolter rounds as an Arbite might heft a riot shield.
The ork’s protests died under the ballistic onslaught that ravaged its form. Limbs popped and burst and the body started dissolving into ludicrous gibbs of green and gristle, but it didn’t have to last too much longer. The big ork was charging the gun, charging the gun, and charging the gun. A whirly bit at the end of it started whirling and metallic bulbs along its length started to light up. It just needed a few more seconds, and...
SOLUS
Day 2, 00:13
Orks were never the most tactically-sound fighters in the galaxy. This led to a long-running belief in the Inquisition and its allies that if an ork ever comes at you with a plan beyond “run at the enemy”, something else is driving them. Usually the Eldar. Manipulative pointy-eared bastards...
But one of the most well-known ork tendencies is called “Dibs”. You call Dibs on something you want. For instance, I call Dibs on that slugga, it’s bleeding ‘ard, it is. I call Dibs on that really wazza bike wif all der spikey bitz. Et cetera, et orkeum.
Then the orks saw Solus.
What a byutee.
He was big, he was shiny, and he had those most fabulous weapons and armor on him... immediately, every ork with line of sight to him silently or uproariously called Dibs on him. But the orks do have a hierarchy, and what the biggest, meanest, and strongest says, goes. And there ain’t no ork in that scruff bigger, meaner, or stronger than the two mega-nobs. You don’t get that armor without kicking a few arses along the way.
One of them crunched in the head of the first ork to open fire on Solus with a casual slap of its klaw, driving its corpse into the dirt with a loud CKRAKKT! of electromagnetic discharge. Then it drove the point home by screaming in its native tongue. In Gothic, it amounted to, “OYE! YOU LOT! YOUZ STAND BACK! I’Z GOT DIS ONE! WAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
It and its companion charged into melee with Solus, blasting away with their double-barreled shootas in preamble to their furious charge, flexing lightning-enveloped talons. Some of the ‘ard boyz loped around to form a ring and cheer on their bosses, unwilling to enter the melee until one or both of the nobs went down. The others surged on toward the tanks, sometimes pressing on and sometimes blowing up under the impact of bolter and stubber rounds.
But in the tunnel-vision of close-quarters combat, none of that really mattered to Solus. What mattered was that, while tough and nigh-impregnable to most forms of conventional weaponry, the mega-armor had a couple chinks, figurative and literal. The first was that most of the cabling for its klaws was external, and Solus gauged that he could disable them. Furthermore, armored joints weren’t exactly a strong-suit of ork battle-plate, and the nobz’ rippling, green shoulders were exposed. As were their pig-like eyes and grotesque faces. The risk of bullets or stabs to the face was an acceptable one if the trade-off was an unobstructed view of an enemy’s demise.
HAYSA
Day 2, 00:07
The gretchin jabbered amongst themselves, the Emperor only knows what they were actually saying. Amongst other reasons, this is why we must pity the God-Emperor upon the Golden Throne, because not even the Almighty wanted to know what the gots were planning with that quart of lube and a spanner.
More or less, the most of the gretchin passed over Haysa’s position. The terrain underfoot was rough and uneven – the kind of place you don’t typically camp out, which is part of the reason why snipers pick them. Haysa blended in perfectly, in that regard, and the diminutive greenskins marched over him (or, at least, what passes for marching amongst their disorganized kind) oblivious to the danger and opportunity right under their feet.
But...
Orks have very small noses. Grots have noses so big that they nearly enter the realm of parody and ridicule. They got them and their big eyes by living in the shadow of their bigger kin, and the most perceptive runt is the one that lives long-enough to reach spore-spreading age. They don’t live long beyond that, but at least future generations of gretchin get to benefit from it.
The last grot in the group, the one bringing up the rear, stopped short of clearing Haysa’s little hidey-hole. It bent down and started staring at something amongst the fallen foliage. Then it fiddled around, rummaged, and then picked it up.
Ration pack.
The good news was that, for the moment, Haysa was still hidden, and the lone grot was increasingly alone as its companions kept moving toward the fray, oblivious to their comrade’s hesitation. The bad news was that Haysa had a gretchin looking through his pack and, if the sounds it was making were any indication, about to eat people-food. Which, in the end, may be a good thing for Haysa, because nobody looks upon their first mouthful of Soylens Veridians with any amount of fondness. It usually involves retching for about fifteen minutes.
BYRON
Day 2, 00:07
The orks didn’t have a word in their native language that completely contained the concept of “serendipity”. Their version of “luck” was serviceable under certain circumstances, and therefore blue also pulled double-duty as a stand-in. But whatever the linguistic convention, serendipity saved Byron’s target from immediate dismemberment.
The nob started to turn. Its limbs moved, by instinct, into battle-readiness. By habit, it turns weapon-first toward the perceived threat, and-
CRAKK!
-Byron struck the klaw just south of the mark, closer to the wrist than the elbow. The klaw’s own power-field saved the limb from injury at the end of Byron’s fist. Still, Byron hit the green monstrosity with a force usually resolved for anti-tank rockets, and that’s nothing if not a considerable blow.
The ork whirled back the other way like a grotesque top, and was knocked flat on its back with a loud grunt and alien curse. The klaw shorted and crackled and spattered with disturbed electricity fizzling into the night air. Energy that would have gone toward striking whatever git caught its eyes was wasted saving the arm, and it would take a short while for the device to charge back up again.
And that, you must understand, pissed off the ork. More than usual.
It started pushing itself to its feet and stared death and malice at the upstart ‘umie responsible for the attack. Then, snarling like a wild animal, the beast drew a monster of a pistol from a holster at its hip. It was double-barreled, all kinds of mean-looking with skull-icons and grim fetishes bolted or welded onto the furniture. And, in a strange touch, the beast had for some reason soldered a bayonet to the underside of the one-handed weapon.
“WAAAAAGH!” the beast bellowed, opening fire on Byron with a baffling lack of accuracy but unbelievable number of thumb-sized lead slugs. |
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Posted: Sun Nov 23, 2014 11:20 pm
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At the sight of the ork lifting a smaller one for cover, Galmech had to commend him for that. After all, if he ever had the chance to grab an ork to use as a living shield, he would. Still, this presented an annoying problem, which he had three ideas on how to deal with.
1: Aim low and go for the knees. Try to make it fall and the shield would be less useful. He did, however, only have so many bolt shells.
2: Attempt to apply a similar tactic to the ork's. Barrel into one of the passing greenskins, grab it, and throw it at the larger ork.
3: Similar to solution 2, but less variables and more risk to himself. That was to charge and hurl himself into the ork.
All in all, within a short few seconds, he took off, his guns fire rate slowly slightly to compensate for it now being on the move. Still he directed the bolts upwards, hoping to blind the larger ork by making it raise the 'shield' it had. His feet pumped with superhuman might, pushing him forward towards the ork. The plan was simple. Get in close and put all his momentum into his a slam with his left side. If all went well, the larger ork would be more easily executed.
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Posted: Tue Nov 25, 2014 11:35 am
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Posted: Tue Dec 02, 2014 11:18 pm
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 12:47 am
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GALMECH
Day 2, 00:13
Galmech’s action was smart. Not for the reason he thought, though it was that as well. But... well... it rushed things. Aim, science, the will of the cosmos...
The mek was big, but it wasn’t that big. Certainly, it wasn’t as big as a fully-armored space marine. Certainly, it wasn’t as big as a fully-armored space marine hefting a weapon hefty-enough that, if affixed to a crane and chain, would show up most wrecking balls. Its own weapon might have made up for the difference, but things were blowing up all around the ork and its cover was just a ragged hunk of discolored pulp by that point. And the marine was advancing
It thought, Well frag it, then!
The gun wasn’t finishing charging, and there wasn’t time to do the orkish version of careful aiming. Half-powered, gun pointed vaguely in Galmech’s direction, it squeezed the trigger.
Everything went green for a second.
That second stretched out for another five.
Somewhere in those seconds, it turned brilliant white and stabbing.
In those seconds where the world was just that little bit less right, more wrong, and greener, Galmech’s weapon found its mark. The recoil from the ork weapon threw the mek off-balance, and three heavy bolter rounds impacted the now-exposed breastplate. The first deformed the metal. The second broke it open. The third punched a decimeter into its chest and detonated inside, ripping the ork apart, rendering it as green rain and chunks all over the countryside.
But still, it got the shot off.
It went wide of Galmech. Even through his armor, he felt the bolt of energy whizzing past him. It was like a pull on his armor, weapon, and the body beneath. For a moment, it felt like his augmetic eyes would be wrenched from their sockets and his teeth from his gums. But then it passed. It kept going. But it didn’t go on forever.
There was something behind him.
SOLUS
Day 2, 00:13
The only thing that an ork loves to fight more than a space marines is another ork. Well, and Commissar Yarrick, but he hasn’t been born yet. Usually, that’s why Waaagh!s break apart: once the love of fighting gets more powerful than the will of the warlord, nothing can hold the boyz in check.
But hey, if the Space Marine’s right there, might as well have the appetizer before the civil war, yeah? They’d just have to save the argument over which one of them was the strongest for the after-massacre.
“I’z krump ‘im!” the one on the left bellowed. “Or you’z can, and save me the lot o’ der trouble! Harharrr!”
“’n yer dreams, Skulslap,” the one on the right laughed. “I’z the bestest, I’z the lourdest!”
The two orks surged forward, bellowing and shooting and coming at the Grey Knight from both angles, trying to flank him in the orkish equivalent of “advanced tactics”. For a few, brief moments, Solus had the mega-armored beasties pressing him hard and giving him no respite.
An unlikely event took the pressure off and gave him an opening.
THE TANK COLUMN
Day 2, 00:13
Nearly depleted of ammunition as they were, the two tanks had to pick their targets rather than indulge in the standard Imperial Guard tactic of “fire a whole lot of shots at everything and hope something falls down.” As the orks surged forward, firing their sluggas and shootas and snazzguns at the tanks, chucking grenades here or there, or bashing their choppas against the hulls, the crews killed what they could. They got four of the greenskins, but there were so many more that got past the repelling fire.
But, when it came down to it, the thing that determined who they fired at the most was, ‘What’re the space marines attacking? Okay, not that.’. Solus going after the big nobs and Galmech the one with the scary gun, they went after the other orks. This cost them the first tank.
Things went green with energy.
Things went white with pain.
Things went black with death.
The leading tank flew apart. Every single nut and bolt and weld holding the vehicle together simultaneously came undone, and the strange energies of the mek’s gun blew them out from the center of mass. For three seconds, all who watched were privy to an exploded view of the tank. They just... hanged there in the air. Still, unmoving, eerily quiet, frozen in time and space.
The crew of the tank were also hung in the air, pushed from their initial positions within the tank as though the space between them expanded, but they remained untouched. For the first two seconds, anyway. In the third, the optionally-real power of the gun stretched their bodies apart too, leaving nothing but so much fine red mist and pink filaments.
Then, in a quarter-second, all of it collapsed in on itself like a black hole, smashed into a ball of distorted and super-dense, red-hot metal where the tank had once been, no larger than a watermelon.
GALMECH & SOLUS
Day 2, 00:13
The forces rippled out. First, they struck everyone like a shockwave blasting out from the epicenter, knocking the lighter-armored orks and human crewmen from their feet and hurling them away. The devastator, terminator and mega-armored nobs were staggered. The ground itself bowled outward under the pressure.
In the next moment, as the tank collapsed in on itself, a force like a great and almighty chain pulled them back as though they were dogs on a leash. Those closest to the unfortunate tank were added to the conglomeration, crushed utterly by the titanic forces unleashed. Those further away were knocked about like bath-toys in a tub after some idiot dropped a bowling ball into it, drawn into the vacuum left by its passage.
As reality tried to figure out how to react to the sound whopping to the head that the orks had dealt it, Galmech and Solus had an assembly of similarly-befuddled orks all around them. Their posthuman biologies and inhuman training left them in a somewhat-better and more-prepared state than their foes.
Pity the crew of the second Leman Russ, though. They would spend the next few minutes puking over their instrument panels.
HAYSA
Day 2, 00:08
Speaking of puking...
“BLLARGGFGH!”
The gretchin emptied out the contents of its stomach all over Haysa’s gear. This wouldn’t have been so bad if the creature wasn’t recovering from teleportation-sickness, and it threw up a little extra. That is to say, with the touch of the Warp leaving everything passing through it even for a moment somewhat plastic and malleable, and some laws of physics still waiting in line to apply to the victims, some things that should have stayed down came up.
slupp!
It looked down at the slimy, red thing on the ground and pack in confusion and nausea. For the life of it, it couldn’t place it. It couldn’t identify what that little hunk of meat was. Thankfully, its life being on the verge of ending, it didn’t have to wait long to find out. In the instant before it passed out of the world, it recognized the thing as its right bladder.
Don’t I only have one of those? Why did I throw up the ri-
THPP
Annnnd down it went, delivered straight to Gork and Mork to be spat out into a new body, courtesy of the Hunter Express.
As the body hit the dirt, another grot went down to Haysa’s next shot. The gretchin next to it turned around just as the shot took down the second grot, responding to the sound of the falling body. It pulled out a grenade and primed it, drew its arm back, and-
THPP
-dropped it. A hair later, it also dropped, thanks to the hole in its sternum, blowing apart its pectorals and disrupting anything resembling motor control. The fourth grot looked down, saw the ticking grenade at its feet, screeched, and ran for cover by the most expeditious route.
Then, frag.
BOOM |
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Posted: Sat Dec 06, 2014 5:06 pm
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Posted: Mon Dec 08, 2014 7:58 pm
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Posted: Tue Dec 16, 2014 2:04 am
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Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2014 2:07 am
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SOLUS
Day 2, 00:13
schrkkk!
The first stab deflected off the nob’s elbow-guard, ripping through metal but shearing away just short of piercing flesh. The joint groaned in protest as something gave under the psionic, mechanical, and electrical assault. The limb grew slow to respond. Perhaps recognizing this, the ork rolled away as best it could, shielding the hampered limb.
skripptpttttt!
The thing about rolling is that you have to turn your backside to the enemy, and that ankle looked pretty damned vulnerable from behind. No reason not to take the shot, right? The sword drove through, hard, making a smoking ruin of orkish metal and engineering. Deep, deep, deep down, into the flesh, and into the veins below.
(insert invalid onomatopoeia here)
A ripple of psionic force ran against the flow of blood, pushing back through the arteries and veins and flowing through the ork’s body like an unreal poison. In no more than a handful of seconds, the beast’s body, soul and mind were wracked by the Nemesis Force Sword’s power. All were, to appropriate the nearest suitable word, snuffed out.
As the blade came free, the ork’s body began to crack and crumble, and a pale green dust blew out from the corpse as it collapsed in on itself. Nothing but an unspeakable and dry husk remained within the armor, perturbing-enough that its fellow nob was almost stunned by the sight.
“Welp,” the nob said, rising to its feet. “Guess der argument’s over. I’z the biggest and tuffest of us now! Har har hawaaAAAAAAGH!”
And with that, the greenskin charged at the Grey Knight, shoota blasting and power klaw crackling.
GALMECH
Day 2, 00:14
One tank was down. The other was silent. The orks were discombobulated. Solus and the last Mega-Nob were mostly fighting with sword and claw. There really wasn’t much shooting going on. So, with that being said, Galmech held the distinction of being the loudest person on the battlefield for a few incredibly gory seconds.
DAKKADAKKADAKKA!
Orks burst apart one after the other, spraying their green innards all over the path and wayside in a grisly shower of organic matter. For ten seconds, Galmech was unopposed. Most of his targets died in one hit. The others were protected by armor or cover for a bolt or two, but the mass-reactive bolts took care of them before they could think to take further advantage of them.
By the time any of them could mount something resembling a credible retaliation, only three of the orks were left. Two of them with choppas, one of the flashy-looking gitz with a snazzy gun.
The nob ducked behind a chipped and blood-spattered boulder, leveled its gun, and snapped off a burst of slugs at the devastator. Two of the shots missed, hurtling wide of Galmech. The third disintegrated in-transit. The fourth impacted his pauldron, but failed to penetrate. But boyz, what a hit.
KRANNGNN!
A spider-web crack radiated out from the impact site and knocked Galmech onto the backfoot. His aim fell afoul of the mark and, for a moment, he was firing at the sky rather than any truly lethal threat. And then, while his attention was off of them, the two orks with the choppas closed in for the hurly-burly.
HAYSA
Day 2, 00:08
As things shaped up for him, things... well, they shaped up.
Orks were never much for organized attacks, and they hadn’t even gone into this fray with any intention of causing harm. At least, any premeditated harm: they’d dish out a skull-bashing where they could find it. The salient point, though, is that the orks needed to build up momentum and work themselves up into a full-on assault, and they’d been denied the opportunity.
All that the greenskins had going for them was the element of surprise and an innate toughness. Between Haysa’s careful sniping, Byron’s snapping and punching, Blackmane’s berserker fury, and the salvos of the guardsmen all around them, that advantage was broken. Orks, gretchin, and squigs were falling faster than the rallying Imperials, and the kill-ratio was rising fast.
A Cadian noticed Haysa, shaken but intact, running through the fray in search of the Space Wolf. Of course, the trooper didn’t know that’s what Haysa was going for, but he saw the disoriented trooper clearly running around disoriented. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
The trooper sprang up, grabbed Haysa by the sleeve, and pulled him back and down into a fox-hole, out of the line of fire. With things getting quieter up above, the trooper tried to bring Haysa’s attention toward him, saying, “Easy, soldier! Are you hurt? Don’t go higgledy-piggledy on me, now!” |
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Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2014 7:55 am
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He almost felt something akin to pride as he watched greenskins turn into a very pasty substance... oh who was he kidding, he was feeling very proud of his work. The only downside was that he didn't have a flamer to incinerate the remains so whoever returned had less to deal with. Galmech turned his gun towards the remaining nob, beginning to blast away chunks of the boulder it was hiding behind, waiting.
Unfortunately, the thing about being a one man heavy weapons platform of death and destruction, was that you didn't move fast. Or much at all. Lucky him, orks didn't exactly get well known for that one tiny little thing called aiming, so despite the salvo returning his way, only one hit. Unfortunately, this ork had a very big gun, which cracked his ceramite armor in the shoulder, causing his aim to turn skyward. Well, that wasn't good.
Not having time to redirect the large weapon, he released his grip on the firing handle and trigger, hoping the servos in the damaged arm could hold as the hand snapped down to his waist and grabbed his bolt pistol. Elbow bent, he'd fire under his raised arm to the choppas, looking to put holes into them before lowering the arm and bracing his other arm on top of it to empty the clip towards the nob, trying to aim at the enemy's ammo supply.
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Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2014 2:58 pm
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