Forums » Sci-Fi Roleplay » ✠ The Daimiel Campaign ✠ [WH40K/OPEN]

The acrid scent of ozone and burnt promethium clung to the air, a thick, choking veil that seemed to press down on the shattered landscape. In the bullet hole strewn chassis of a fallen Arvus Lighter within the jagged, rust-colored crater, the Lord General knelt by the mangled remains of the vox-array. His fingers, danced over the exposed circuitry with a desperate, practiced agility. The Adepta Sororitas covering the position stood as a bastion of immovable, furious piety. Even wounded and caked in the grey-red mud of the planet, they checked their bolters with a terrifying, rhythmic serenity, their white power armor scorched charcoal-black by the Orkish suppressive fire. The Lord-General spoke as the lights of the vox-array flickered alive, the copper filaments he had wired directly to a stack of two lasgun batteries sparking dangerously near his face. "

"This is Lord General Aleksandr Von Drakenfell, distress code Crimson-Omega. We are pinned at coordinates 44-90. The damnable green bastards are closing. Requesting immediate extraction. Do you copy?"

The only response was a wall of malicious, rhythmic static, the electronic laughter of a world that wanted them dead. To the General, it was the sound of a death sentence. He had no way of knowing the signal had breached the interference; he only knew that he was a man standing in a hole, surrounded by the damned.

"Static, my Lord," the Tempestor Prime murmured, his hellgun humming as he adjusted the fit of his reinforced carapace armor. "They’re tightening the loop."

Aleksandr dropped the vox-mic. It hit the metal with a defeated clang. He rose to his full height, an audible chime of medals bouncing spurning the glory of days past, but his posture remained as rigid as the Cadian pylons.

"Then we shall provide them with the only courtesy they deserve, The Emperor Protects. Muster formation! Rank fire! I intend to meet the Emperor upon a mountain of green you dogs! " The general declared drawing chainsword, letting it spin to life with a menacing mechanical growl as he emerged from the confines of the crashed lighter, his frigid gaze met Athene, no words were needed, she knew what that look meant, the General nodded.

The Speed Freeks were a cacophony made manifest. Scores of warbikes skidded along the crater’s rim, kicking up plumes of oily filth, while a massive, rusted War Trukk festooned with jagged spikes and the trophies of fallen men bellowed black smoke into the leaden sky. They circled like sharks in a darkening sea, their guttural roars and the high-pitched whine of overcharged engines creating a psychic weight that threatened to crush the spirit.

"First rank, kneeling! Second rank, standing!"

The Tempestus Scions moved like clockwork, their crimson-lensed helmets turning in unison. Aleksandr's regulars followed, drilled with Mordian perfectionism they moved with a tactical precision with full intent to see themselves through the day, finding their courage in the shadow of their General. The Orks were getting bolder, their warbikes veering inward, twin-linked shootas chewing up the mud inches from the Imperial boots.

To the General's left, a younger guardsman, sweat settling upon his brow, yanked a frag grenade from his webbing. "For the Throne!" he cried, but his footing slipped in the mire. Instead of a lethal lob, he accidentally popped the pin and tossed the canister upward in a panicked, vertical arc a blunder that threatened to wipe out their own line. Time seemed to slow for Aleksandr. He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the slurry. He didn't draw his pistol. Instead, he gripped his prized chainsword, its engine idling in a low, hungry growl with both hands. As the grenade fell back toward the formation, Aleksandr swung the weapon in a horizontal arc of exquisite precision, using the flat of the buzzing blade.

CRACK.



The flat body of the blade connected with the canister. The grenade didn't explode; it soared, propelled by a lifetime of muscle memory. It whistled through the air and vanished directly into the open, screaming maw of an Ork biker who had just crested the ridge. An eyeblink later, the biker’s head vanished in a wet, red bloom, and his machine swerved, T-boning two other bikes in a glorious fireball. Aleksandr spat into the mud and looked back at his wide-eyed troops

. "I’ll have you know, I was Captain of the void cricket team at the Schola Progenium ! now... FIRE YOU FOOLS !"

The tension snapped, replaced with defiant laughter. A wall of las-fire and hot-shot rounds lashed out from whatever little cover there was, lines of burning light through the smoke, picking off Ork riders in systematic extermination, the General stood as if though conducting an orchestra, the las-barrels of his men following every subtle motion of his chainsword. The Sisters of Battle joined the chorus, their bolters providing a heavy, rhythmic bass to the high-pitched hum of the lasguns, suppressing orkish movement and denying them lines of movement, a crescendo of exploding vehicles, the percussion of flying burnt limbs and corpses hitting the slop. It was the Symphony of The Emperor's Wrath.



Aleksandr himself was a whirlwind of motion, standing afore the formation proper to deny orkish jousters and lancing maneuvers. He parried a crude choppa with his chainsword, the teeth biting deep into the xenos metal before grinding into the Ork’s neck. Blood erupted, spraying his already grimy uniform. He emptied his bolt pistol into the chest of a massive Ork Nob, each round detonating internally and tearing through the creature's thick hide, sending their warbikes skidding across the mud, preventing a charge from breaking the guard formation. The fighting was savage. A guardsman to Aleksandr’s left screamed as an Ork power claw tore through his flak armor. Aleksandr didn't hesitate, his chainsword dismembering the xenos arm in a single, brutal swing, but the man was already gone. Another fell, utterly swiss'd from a speeding warbike finding its mark. Yet, the line held.



✠✠✠

Suddenly, a new sound cut through the din a high-pitched, predatory scream of twin-vector thrusters. Two Valkyries plummeted from the clouds, their multi-lasers painting the rim of the crater in strokes of lethal light. Behind them, the two Vendetta gunships, the Banshee and the Talon, unleashed a storm of fire. Eight heavy bolters opened up in a continuous, deafening drone, a "danger-close" strafing run that turned the circling Orks into a fine green mist.

Then came the music. A blaring, vox-amplified gothic anthem thundered from the aircraft speakers, drowning out the Orkish war-cries. Smoke grenades rained down, blooming into a thick shroud that turned the crater into a ghost-world. Through the haze, the Banshee performed a dangerously sharp turn and slammed down into the mud. Even the General was astounded by the maneuver, the tactical brilliance of using the music as psychic disruption tactic preventing orcish cohesion included.

The cockpit canopy hissed open, and the pilot, Lycia, saluted from within. Her yell barely audible before the Valkyrie's engines, her voice cutting through the roar of the music and the circling gunships.The boarding ramp lowered, the general noting the hardpoints and available weaponry within, he intended to get back into the fight as soon as possible. This was an immaculate build, no doubt custom tooled for warfare by an experienced pilot.

"Move! Sisters first! Guards, form a perimeter!"

The extraction was a blur of frantic motion. Aleksandr stood at the base of the ramp, his chainsword idling, his empty pistol used as a club to beat back any greenskin that dared crawl through the smoke. He watched as the Sisters and any of his men, including the wounded were hauled aboard,He was the last one on the mud. As the Banshee lifted off, the G-force slamming him against the interior bulkhead, Aleksandr looked at the pilot's seat.

"You're late, Wing-Sergeant nevertheless, I shall have to commend you for this valiant effort, I didn't think anyone heard that vox call, a medal is in the works for you... if we get through this damnable conflict, Emperor willing."

he wheezed with a grin upon his features wiping a streak of Ork blood from his cheek leaned his head back against the vibrating hull. The music was still playing, a triumphant roar that echoed the fire in his chest. They were bloodied and diminished, but the Lord General allowed himself some respite. He secretly prided himself over having retained the integrity of his swinging arm, to think those void-cricket skills came in handy, they didn't call him Double-Century Drakenfell for nothing.

" Sir... Trouble... we're being tailed... "

It seemed the speed freeks were not so easily willing to part from their quarry, while they raced on the ground firing upwards at the sky, the air was not safe either, the augur array would pick up hostile signature, approaching at blinding speed, interceptors no doubt, foregoing weaponry the speed freeks had crafted a menacing caricature of a dreaded ork weapon called a drilla killa, this made their ramshackle aircraft incredibly fast, it seemed the large pointed head of an industrial drill was mounted at the front of these aircraft which made their utility menacingly evident, one of them whirred past a squadron craft, in what appeared to have been a deliberate kamikaze maneuver circling back in a wide arc. Though these craft were extremely fast they lagged behind Lycia's squadron in terms of maneuverability, having a much wider turning radius and being slow to maneuver, they depending on lining up a vertical or horizontal arc, attempting to ram her squadron's aircraft from above, below, the side or behind... it was evident those things were meant to take an aircraft out if they contacted.

" Wait, I know those defensive lines below, they're attempt to corral and herd us towards where there was supposed to be a flak battery, no doubt they've taken over that equipment... Wing Sergeant ! It is imperative, we stay on course, sustained evasion may not be an option. My men will assist with the onboard weaponry, they already brought down the Sister's lighter, I suspect they are possessed of a malicious intellect, I place my trust in you Wing Sergeant, The Emperor Protects, maintain course for Caelyst, they will not pursue us past our defensive line... I advise flying low, we may have to take some fire from the pursuants but the air is a far more credible threat given the speed of their interceptors... I leave it to your judgement. "

The air in the trenches didn't just smell of decay; it felt heavy, a physical weight of stagnant moisture and the metallic tang of old blood that had long since soaked into the slurried mud and earth. Sergeant Kilearn held a stern, imposing presence as he surveyed the situation before him, all around them was carnage, a hazy no man's land that had been stripped barren through an unimaginable volume of bombardment, all to stop but one wave of the menacing green tide, now however, was not the time to deliberate on such notions. He could hear the familiar, rhythmic clack-hiss of the Vox-Corporal’s gear and the slushing bootfalls of men under his command as they fanned out into the ruins of the forward observation post.

"Engine off," Kilearn commanded, his voice a low growl filtered through a vox-grille. "I don’t want the heat signature lighting us up like a flare. Driver, get the Taurox hull-down in that crater. Use some netting. I want the Autocannon turret with a clear line of sight to the 270-degree arc covering grid sec-prime, your orders are to observe only pending further command; that ordnance is best reserved for armored targets and volume attrition."

The Taurox groaned, its four sets of rugged wheels churning the muck as it slowly forwarded into a collapse crater where a dugout had been evidenced by derelict. The vehicle’s autocannon traversed slowly, the barrel coated in a matte-grey lubricant that caught the dim, filtered light from the flicker of light that cast itself through the thickened clouds. The gunner ran preliminary checks on the ammo feed system, cycling it once, making the appropriate selection, turning dials and flicking switches, the onboard targeting cogitator slaved to his visor array slowly spurned to life essentially linking the target acquisition system to the guardsman's natural sight, he shifted his head around to ensure optimal sensitivity for azimuth and elevation, letting his hand settle comfortably against the trigger. Slipping a Lho-stick out of a standard issue pack and biding the time. The clunk of boots against the grill as his more unfortunate comrades had the task of slugging out the heavy equipment in the cargo hold to respective defensive positions, perimeter set up was underway.

"Vox-Corporal, to me," Kilearn snapped.

The specialist hurried over, the heavy vox-caster on his back humming with the low-frequency static of a battlefield-grade encryption. "Sergeant. I’ve got nothing but ghost signals on the long-range. This... this is ominous, ork scrap jammers do not possess the range or capacity for such potent long distance jamming and even then we are able to push our signals through unless they're directly on top of us... it's perturbing "

"For now the focus is short range emission, so long as you can get the signal to the Kriegers, that's all we need. Watchmaster Kreel’s unit should be moving through the sub-trench network to our east. Look for the Krieg signature, it’ll be a tight, pulsed burst, no chatter. They don’t waste breath on the airwaves... still no sign of them... hrn... I'll keep on the lookout. " Kilearn said, his eyes scanning the horizon through his magnoculars.

The trench complex was a jagged wound in the earth, a zig-zagging labyrinth of rotting timber revetments and rusted plasteel plating. It had been abandoned for weeks, a tactical withdrawal that Kilearn intended to reverse. This was dead ground, the space between the main Imperial lines and what was presumed lost to the encroaching orks. By occupying it, they weren't just taking a ditch; they were seizing a dagger aimed at the Orks' throat, a multipronged envelopment was intended, splitting the orks into smaller groups, puncturing them like a fork, a brutal and bloody tactic but a sure way to seize an advance.



"Heavy Weapons Team, front and center," Kilearn called out. Three men, burdened by the heavy tripod and the bulk of a heavy bolter, slogged through the knee-deep sludge. "Set up at the dog-leg traverse, point 4-alpha. I want that gunshield locked and braced. Cover the main approach, that open 'kill zone' where the wire is thin and there are no mines. If anything larger than a Ratling moves in that mud, I want it turned into slop."

The Heavy Bolter gunner nodded, his face a mask of sweat and grime. "Understood, Sergeant. Covering bunker flank "

Kilearn gestured down the line, his hand trailing along the jagged edge of the trench wall. He stopped at a dark opening, a bunker entrance that led deeper into the subterranean level of the complex.

"First Squad, with me. We’re clearing the bolt-hole. I want every shadow accounted for. If there’s a stray Squig or a groveling Grot in there, I want it dead before it can squeal."

The five guardsmen of First Squad followed him into the gloom, their lasgun capacitors humming as they switched off their safety catches. The interior of the bunker was a tomb. Shattered crates of low-grade rations lay scattered, and the walls were scorched by old las-burns. Kilearn kicked aside a rusted helmet, Standard Issue, Cadian pattern, with a jagged hole punched through the brow. He didn't linger on it. Sentiment was a luxury the Imperial Guard couldn't afford.

"Check the ventilation shafts," Kilearn ordered. "And search for any remaining vox-stubs or data-slates. If the previous occupants left in a hurry, they might have left the tactical maps of the sub-layers."



As the men worked, Kilearn stood at the bunker’s firing slit, looking out over the desolate expanse. The silence out there was unnatural. No wind, just the distant, rhythmic thump-thump of heavy artillery far to the south. It was the calm that preceded the storm, the agonizing tension of the Great Wait.

"Sergeant," the Vox-Corporal’s voice crackled over the squad-link. "I’ve got a ping. It’s faint, but the encryption matches the Death Korps' 23rd Battle Coffin Battalion. It’s the Watchmaster. They’re a few hundred meters out, moving through the trench networks. They’ll be at our rear within the hour."

"Acknowledge the signal. Tell them the fire base is operational and the perimeter is being hardened. Send the clearance codes so they don't get mistaken when they emerge, the trigger-finger of guardsmen is notoriously fickle, I'll be out in the moment, see if I can get visual. " Kilearn replied.

Returning to the surface, Kilearn watched as the Second Squad worked with frantic, disciplined energy. They were lashing together bundles of rusted razor wire and dragging them into the "no-man's land" immediately in front of their position. Others were deepening the firing steps, shoveling out the thick, cloying mud to give the men a stable platform to shoot from. The heavy bolter was now in place, its massive gunshield providing a narrow but sturdy arc of protection for the two-man crew. The loader was meticulously checking the belt-feed, ensuring each massive shell was seated perfectly. Next to them, a tripod-mounted autocannon had been scavenged from the bunker remains and set up to cover the opposite end of the bunker, establishing interlocking fire with the Taurox's autocannon effectively making for a killzone with narrow controlled corridors that left the enemy very few options to advance.

"Sectors overlapping, Sergeant," the Heavy Weapons leader reported, wiping oil from his hands onto his khaki fatigues. "We’ve got a kill zone of clear fire upto a click. If the Orks come in a wave, we’ll stack the bodies high enough to make our own ramparts."

Kilearn climbed onto the fire-step, resting his elbows on a sandbag that felt more like wet cardboard. He adjusted his blue helmet, the matte finish scratched and battle-worn. Underneath his blue flak armor, his khaki uniform was damp with cold sweat, but his heart rate was steady. He was a veteran of a dozen campaigns; he knew the signs. The air was getting colder, and the smell of ozone from the vox-unit was being replaced by something else a musky, animalistic stench that the wind carried from the north.

Orks.

The filthy things were out there, gathering in the darkness of the ruined trenches,, their crude minds focused on the singular joy of the charge. They would be checking their "shootas" and sharpening their "choppas," waiting for the signal to pour across the mud in a green tide. The raspy clatter of their ramshackle engines was tell tale.

"Check your power packs, men!" Kilearn shouted, his voice carrying down the length of the firing line. "Standard load-out. Single shots for accuracy until they hit the wire, then overcharge and vaporize them. I want every las-bolt to find a throat or an eye. We hold this ground, and then we push. For the God-Emperor, for the Regiment, and for the ground we stand on!"

The men didn't cheer they were too tired for that but there was a collective sound of snapping bayonets being fixed to rifle lugs. The click-clack of blades locking into place was a grim melody. Kilearn checked his own lasgun, the weapon a familiar weight in his hands. He looked at the Taurox, its engine idling so low it was almost silent, its guns tracking the horizon like the eyes of a predator. The sun dipped lower, casting long, skeletal shadows across the trenches. The calm was almost over. Kilearn settled his weight, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the grey mist. Somewhere out there, the first "Waaagh!" was brewing, and he would be the first thing it hit. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Vox-Corporal, give me a direction, the Krieger's are taking longer than I expected" Kilearn muttered over the vox-link before raising his magnoculars "Should be... a bearing of 82 degrees from where you are positioned Sir, they're taking the far flank, smart, avoiding the firing line altogether... must have found a route through... or made one" The vox-corporal added.

" Yes... yes I see them... they've got a straggler... hrm... i'm surprised the pilot made the crash... they could've asked for an evac... hrahah... those Kriegers don't make exceptions, poor lad... 20 thrones says he soils himself when the fighting starts."



The silence didn't break, it shattered.

One moment, the only sound was the wet thwack of a trench shovel hitting mud; the next, the shadows inside the primary bunker entrance seemed to liquefy.



A guardsman, his blue helmet lopsided and his face a mask of frantic, wide-eyed terror, stumbled backward out of the darkness. "SIR! SIR!!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wail that echoed off the damp plasteel walls. "ORKS!!... BLAAAARRGGHHARGGHH... MY LEG!!" His khaki uniform was instantly shredded at the thigh, a jagged ruin of meat and bone below the knee His screams extinguished before he hit the ground. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud erupted from the gloom behind him the unmistakable, guttural bark of an Ork weapon. Large-caliber slugs tore into the guardsman’s back, propelling him forward into the mud. Before Kilearn could even bark a command, a muffled roar shook the ground beneath their boots. A crude explosive, an Ork "stikkbomb" detonated inside the bunker’s communications hub, guardsmen stumbling out of the smoke and smoulder collapsing to the sides, crawling off in all directions.

"Ambush! Internal breach!" Kilearn’s voice roared over the ringing in his ears. He didn't hesitate. He vaulted over a stack of sandbags, his lasgun already coming up to his shoulder. "First Squad, on me! Second Squad, stay on the lip! Don't you dare turn your backs on the no-man's land! Heavy Weapons, traverse left cover the bunker exit!"



The chaos was instantaneous, but Kilearn’s men were drilled to the point of instinct. The five men of First Squad abandoned their deepening of the trenches, mud flying from their boots as they sprinted toward the smoking maw of the bunker. From within the dark, a massive, hunched silhouette emerged through the smoke. It was twice the height of a man, draped in tattered, gore-stained camouflage netting and carrying a jagged "choppa". A hail of crude, solid-slug fire erupted from the bunker’s interior, stitching a line of craters across the trench floor, guardsmen, hitting the sides of the trenches, ducking and diving to any cover.

"Kommandos, Emperor damn them!" Kilearn spat, ducking behind a reinforced timber pillar as a slug the size of a fist whistled past his ear. "No wonder the signals were scrambled! They’ve been in the sub-levels the whole time, running scrap-jammers right under our boots!"

"Keep together, men!" Kilearn yelled, his voice a pillar amidst the fire. "Don't let them scatter you! Into the breach! Remember your drills, Volley Fire on my mark!" He stepped out from the pillar, the weight of his blue flak armor feeling like a second skin. He saw the first Ork, a Kommando with a face covered in crude white paint, its red eyes glowing with a predatory intelligence rare for its kind. It leveled a snub-nosed shoota at Kilearn, its finger tightening on the oversized trigger.

"FIRE!"



Five lasguns snapped up in perfect unison. The guardsmen of First Squad formed a tight semi-circle around the bunker entrance, their boots locked into the muck, creating a wall of blue and khaki. A coordinated snap of high-intensity light illuminated the dim trench. Five ruby-red beams slammed into the lead Ork’s chest. The air hissed as the las-bolts vaporized the xenos' crude armor, cooking and cavitating the green flesh beneath. The Ork stumbled, a guttural roar of pain escaping its throat, but it didn't fall. Its fungal physiology was designed to ignore wounds that would have killed a human thrice over.

"FIRE, DAMN YOU !"



The second volley was even tighter. This time, the beams focused on the Ork’s head and throat. The massive body slumped forward, sliding into the mud with a wet, heavy thud. The guardsmen capitalized, rushing over to the fallen beasts and unleashing the full fury of their lasguns in unison, ensuring the ork was thoroughly liquefied, directing their rage at it, the adrenaline raging in their blood. More shadows were moving. The sound of hobnailed boots in the slurry.

"Second Squad, suppress the entrance! I want this corridor turned into a las-furnace" Kilearn commanded, gesturing to the men on the trench lip. "Forward! Move, move, move!" Kilearn charged. He bypassed the twitching corpse of the guardsman who had warned them, his focus entirely on punishing the enemy He entered the smoke, his lasgun lead-lining the way.

"Watch the corners and vents, keep steady, watch for any signs of movement and whatever you do, don't let them close the distance "

The trenches ignited. The constant crack-crack-crack of lasguns became a continuous roar. The Guardsmen fired in a rhythmic pattern, front rank kneeling, rear rank standing, by the end of it the last straggler made a run, but the guardsmen full with fury charged him down, shooting the ork at near point blank with overcharge, overwhelming the last kommando with numbers as they shoved and stabbed with their sharpened stick bayonets, in primal fury like cavemen taking down a bear, the sickening squelch of every thrust and stab as the men didn't stop till their fury was dealt.

By the end of it, Kilearn slumped against one of the walls, igniting a lho-stick and taking a long drag as his hands tremored with adrenaline, the vox corporal finding his way to him.

" ****, it's not even started yet and we're a man down... the Krieger was trying to tell us about them, unfortunately I wasn't taught to read signs... they probably sent out a vox too but we were too scrambled to pick up... hrnph... one guard to three orks... i'd say that's a good start though... put a tarp over him and lean him against a wall..."

A few tedious minutes passed as the men recollected themselves and got into positions, the vox corporal making his way to the Sergeant, issuing a nod, the Kriegers were here. Kilearn put out his Lho stick against the wall, rising slowly, kicking an ork corpse on his way to the Watchmaster.

" Watchmaster, Sergeant Kilearn, an honor. I wish we could have met under more auspicious circumstances, i'd have offered you and your men a round of Amasec, but the conditions we find ourselves in is dire, please, follow me... prior to your arrival we had just dealt with some infiltrators, no doubt they were here to gather intel, perhaps they didn't anticipate a forward advance... these orks have been responding with an increasing boldness...

" Perhaps it is... a bit forward of me, however, it would not be just to withhold this information from you either... this situation has been evolving long before battle-group Arpat made its presence known, within Olegarius I met the acquaintance of an Arbitrator that had noted with some fervor that proceedings of the lex had been... interrupted... jailed hive-scum mysteriously acquitted by local courts answering to the governor. It is believed fledgling rogue traders negotiated some sort of a pact with orks using them as an asset in suppressing and extorting frontier worker communes, ofcourse in due time these orks got bolder... the governor seemed to have been paying them off... but somewhere in between the deal fell sour and the orks, they're like grox... the scent of weakness emboldens them and the first sign of fear on part of a handler is the last... however, navigating the extent of the corruption in Olegarius is a matter left to the Adeptus Ministorum, it's no wonder they wanted us here to contain the situation before word reached the inquisition... unfortunately for us... the orks traded the governor's thrones for the rogue traders arms... and this is the result "

Inside the bunker complex, Kilearn gestured to a seat for Kreel, settling down, the grim look upon the man's features was obvious, he was ashamed in giving such a report to a member of such a distinguished regiment, it was obvious from his eyes, this was a plea for help more than anything.

" The local PDF attempted to suppress the matter in its earlier stages but were annihilated, they were expecting to find ferals but revealed something much worse, this move was not well received by the ork warboss whom viewed it as defiance on part of the planetary governor, breaking his end of the deal so to speak and so... they unleashed their full fury, it was the volume of their firepower not the numbers that caught us off guard... Olegarius would have fallen in a week if not for the forward defense Battle-Group Arpat mustered, a pyrrhic one at the first line, for which we now find ourselves pushed back... Caelyst is all that remains of the second... a month into the campaign.

but truthfully the planet is so recently settled that it cannot bear the demands of a regiment let alone a battlegroup... nevertheless, the Lord General ordered a firm defensive, we were able to establish Daimiel, which we hoped would act as a deterrent however, we were wrong... while we retain specialist units and regiments within our ranks, most our numbers are quite green, we've only just recently deployed and the Lord General wisely reserved himself from launching a full scale offensive... you know well enough without ample logistics, a battle is nothing more than a suicide march...

The good news, I suppose if you can call it that... is that the reinforcements have been mustered, they are just slow to coordinate and advance, that has been the case as of late, the orks are utilizing blinding speed, terror tactics and the brunt of their force to shatter the walls one by one, we assumed they would continue advancing after the first line fell, but they stopped, it was almost like a raid... they stripped the trenches bare... by the time our leman russ platoons reached the front, they were already gone... its been like that for weeks, harassing, demoralizing and taking out chunks... a fenrisian wolf biting at a mammoth's ankles till it can no longer move and collapses under it's own weight.

Our orders are to hold Caelyst as a critical rally point, our intelligence suggests the Orks will be making an offensive push, another raid so to speak... to put it bluntly, Caelyst is bait. We need to hold and pin them here, spurn their appetite long enough for our reinforcements to reach, then we encircle and crush them... but with these squads... hrnph... Emperor forgive me for my doubts... most these recruits hail from Balion, they're local to the Arpat sector, their combat experience was controlled neutralization of heretic and rebel cells around the outskirts of Fort Balion on Arpat Secundus, they're well drilled... but as you know... there's no true substitute for combat experience, The Lord General's forces are an offense focused arm, our directive has always been the combined arms push... you can't expect a spear to do the job of a shield... but that is the position we find ourselves in... our pivot ofcourse, is you Watchmaster

I know Kriegers, I've fought alongside them, Nobody can slug out a drawn conflict like you mean, I saw those death korps stay still at their position till they sank into the mud and then they came back to life when the fighting started, my men are used to clearing hive sectors and buildings, they're no novices but they're out of their element... you asked for tasking Watchmaster... forgive me... I... I do not know where to begin... we've already set up our defensive perimeter in accordance with doctrine, but we're outnumbered and outgunned by a ratio of 50 to 1 for each man here... I can direct you to a position... but I need your wisdom to see this through... we both lead command, my men are yours to see fit, I am sure they will benefit from the guidance of their comrades... transferring tactical overlay to your auspex. "

The sky over the crater was a tapestry of smoke and char, choked by the soot of no man's land. From his vantage point atop the jagged promontory of the crash site, The Lord General watched the silhouette of a Valkyrie transport bank steeply, its engines screaming against the thick, ash-laden atmosphere. The aircraft’s attack run across the dusty horizon, momentarily stalling the advance of a surging green tide.

"Wing Sergeant Lycia, this is Command Primus," The Lord General spoke into his vox-bead, his voice a gravelly baritone that cut through the thunder of nearby ordnance. He watched as the Valkyrie attempted to hover over the designated extraction zone, only to be forced upward by a volley of crude Ork shells. "Abort the touchdown. The LZ is compromised, saturated with high-velocity kinetic threats. The extraction is secondary, we require a second run of fire-support to maintain the structural integrity of this perimeter. Circle back, Sergeant. Give them the Emperor’s fury from the clouds, suppress and compromise mobile elements"

The Lord General turned back to the tactical reality on the ground. His regal uniform, once pristine, was now stained with the grey dust of the Aquila Strongpoint and the dark ichor of Xenos blood. In his right hand, his chainsword hummed with a low, hungry vibration; in his left, a master-crafted bolt pistol sat ready, its machine spirit poised for the kill. They held against the first charge but now it was time to execute the offensive, the shape of a perimeter line was taking place despite the ork's disruptive charges but the true firepower lay with Sister Superior Athene whom the Lord General witnessed reforming and organizing her squad to deliver kill-team protocols, it was a potent synergy as scions and guardsmen formed firing lines organized as a cone around the sisters which were the primary offensive asset, while a volley of lasguns could disrupt a charge, it was those heavy bolters that could chew through an ork warbike in seconds, The Lord General acknowledged the vulnerability of his lines, but the guardsmen's duty was to die if that was the need, nevertheless he held Battlegroup Arpat to an elite standard, these Orks were not used to facing 'Umiez with this level of training. His infamous command to his men as he raised his chainsword watching the sisters march into position and raise their heavy bolters was this:

" See to it that I am not mocked, especially before the Sister Superior "

For Aleksandr hated being mocked and no mockery was as severe as incompetence in battle. The situation however was a tactical nightmare, a textbook definition of an asymmetrical envelopment. The Orks were not merely charging; they were Speed Freeks, cultists of velocity who thrived on the roar of the engine. A dust cloud a kilometer wide was closing in, and from within that haze emerged the staccato thump-thump-thump of dakkaguns that had already turned but a few guardsmen to slurry, nevertheless the heroism was undying, Athene would watch as one guardsmen whose charge pack had all but ran out tossed aside his weapon, grabbing his entrenching shovel and pulling the pins off the krak grenades that hung upon his belt, noticing a warbike approaching in a lancing maneuver from the sister's flank, he charged forth, the explosion was close enough for Athene to feel the heat upon her cheek.

"Sister Superior!" The Lord General called out to Athene as he reached the sisters. He saw the Hospitaller Rena finishing her ministrations on the Sister Superior, whose face was a mask of grim resolve and dried blood. "Tactical directive is to establish interlocking fire-lanes at the crater’s rim. We shall be the anvil against which their blows falter sister, but it is your due to be The Emperor's hammer this day." Suddenly, the dust cloud fractured. Out surged a cacophonous swarm of warbikes and ramshackle buggies, led by a massive, triple-exhausted trike that belched oily black smoke. This was the warband of Urzark, a self-proclaimed 'Speed-Boss' whose reputation for high-speed slaughter preceded him. The Orks did not hit the Imperial line head-on. Instead, they performed a maneuver that spoke of a low, predatory cunning, a Cantabrian Circle of iron and exhaust. The dust they kicked up obscuring visual targeting from the sky and putting the targeting cogitators in disarray, corralling the imperial position into a vulnerable circle formation as they looked for any sign of weakness or fault.

Dozens of warbikes began a wide, high-speed orbit of scrap metal and screeching tires. They fired inward as they rode, creating a continuous, revolving curtain of lead and fire that suppressed the Imperial defenders from all angles. "WAAAAAGH! LOOKIT 'EM, BOYZ!" a voice bellowed over a crude loudspeaker, the guttural roar of Urzark himself. "DA 'UMIES IS TRAPPED IN A 'OLE! OI, YOU !" He pointed a massive, bionic claw toward the ridge where Athene stood. "I’S GONNA TAKE YA TIN!" He was cunning.... yet brutal.

"Damn your taunts, wretched beast!" The Lord General thundered, his voice acting as a anchor for the men who were beginning to falter under the relentless circling fire. "Tempestor! Arcs of fire at forty-five degrees! Target the lead elements of the rotation if the circle breaks, the momentum dies! Guardsmen, concentrate fire in accordance with scion contemporaries. I want two guards to each scion" The Lord General suddenly paused, his hand outstretching to his side beside the holstered bolt pistol as a warbike skipped over a jagged rock, its rider aiming a twin-linked dakkagun directly at Sister Caroline. The Lord General’s fired off three shots from the hips, in a manner akin to the western movies, three explosive detonations. Two caught the Ork in the chest, blowing him off the saddle; the third struck the bike’s fuel tank. The vehicle disintegrated in a bloom of orange fire, sending scrap metal scything through the air. Their own losses began to mount. A Scion to the Lord General’s left was caught in a crossfire of heavy tracers, his carapace armor shredded like parchment as he was thrown backward into the Arvus wreckage. Another fell as an Ork buggy, impaled him with crude metal spikes.



"HOLD THE LINE! THE POWER OF THE EMPEROR COMPELS YOU!" The Lord General roared, his chainsword roaring to life as a warbike attempted to jump the crater’s lip. He stepped into the path of the flying vehicle, raising his blade as an ark of sparks and metal cleaved the warbike in half midair. The ork yelled out flying through the air over the crater as he was SWISS'd mid-air by the high flyers above, before the corpse was impaled on a jagged spine of metal jutting out from the wreckage. While every charge was repelled it whittled down the strength and resolve of the defenders, they were being pushed back towards the lip of the crater. The damnable greenskins, rather than suffer a loss of morale were only emboldened as if sure of their numbers, like wolves nipping at a bison knowing it would tire and fall eventually.

Urzark’s circle tightened, the dust making it nearly impossible to lead targets. "DAT’S IT, SHRED 'EM!" Urzark exclaimed, his trike skidding through the dirt as he directed his boyz. "HIT DA SISTAS! DA ONES WIF DA BIG GUNS! DEY MAKE DA BEST KRUMPING SOUNDS!" The Lord General saw the danger. Urzark was directing the weight of the circle toward Sister Athene’s position, hoping to collapse the Sisters of Battle and silence their heavy bolters.

" FALL IN LINE ! READY VOLLEY ! FIRE AT WILL ! " against his better judgement Aleksandr ordered his men into a wall before the horde, the volume of fire dissipated the brunt of the charge put Urzark's trike tore through the ranks, dealing a severe blow to the defenders, the Lord General had calculated it though, the obscuring human wall had lended him enough time to charge the chainsword for a desperate blow that cleaved against the Ork's war-trike, making him tumble across the dust. For a moment it seemed the relentless ork offensive paused, their boss was down, and now they were more an audience than a threat. If it were not for the Sisters heavy fire, the day would've been lost but against overwhelming odds, the Imperials held their own.

Every last ounce of ammunition had been exhausted, around the Sisters and the remaining scions, the battlefield resembled a scrapyard, the fallen bikes almost resembling an arena, the orks knew that it would culminate into a melee, they stepped off bearing their weapons. A low rhythmic grunt emerged from the crowd... " Fight ! FIGHT ! FIGHT ! FIGHT ! " playing at their own primitive psyche, Aleksandr wielded chainsword as he stepped forth against the clearing smoke, Urzark dragged himself from the wreckage, a mountainous mass of emerald muscle and scarred hide that seemed to absorb the dim light of the battlefield. He shook his head, sloughing off the grey ash like a beast emerging from a hibernal den. One of his tusks was shattered, leaving a jagged, bloody gap in his lower jaw, and his leather harness was smoldering, his small, red eyes narrowing as they found the figure of the Lord General. The Speed-Boss let out a low, vibrating growl.

"Wing Sergeant Lycia, status!" The Lord General commanded, his voice a steady anchor over the vox-link. "They've gathered at a static position, line up for a final strike and send them to oblivion, I shall stall the beasts"

"You’z da one," Urzark hissed, the words bubbling through the blood in his throat. "Da Shiny 'Umie Boss, You tink you’z fast? Urzark is da fastest! Urzark is da meanest!" He began to stomp forward, " I'z gunna take 'yer shiny'z" The ork added referencing The Lord General's impressive display of medals "You are detestable vermin unworthy of the rite of combat, creature," The Lord General replied. "You have no foundation. You have no discipline. You are merely a miscreance that I intend to expunge. FOR THE EMPEROR!"

The two charged into each other, The Lord General’s first strike was a horizontal slash intended to disembowel, but Urzark moved with a surprising, twitchy velocity, catching the whirring teeth of the blade in the crook of his bionic claw. The screech of metal on metal was deafening, a cascade of white-hot sparks. He didn't struggle against the Ork’s strength; he used the momentum of the bind to pivot, driving his boot into Urzark’s wounded midsection. Breaking from the deadlock, the Ork merely laughed it off, for moments after blow after blow was traded in flashes of metal against metal, Aleksandr duck as the massive bionic claw swung overhead, whilst the ork jumped and deflected strikes of the chainsword, The Lord General drawing heavy breaths as the duel continued in the backdrop of yelling orks.

The ork, with a fist the size of a thunderhammer, landed a massive blow to the Lord General's stomach, throwing him back, The Lord General got back to his knees, tremors in his arms as his body registered the kinetic force of the blow, a loud barking cough as he spit blood to the side, gritting his teeth as rage consumed him. He charged, drawing the chainsword and delivering a rapid succession of strikes, a flurry of steel that carved deep, smoking furrows into Urzark’s chest and forearms. Blood sprayed across the Lord General’s face, but he did not blink.

But Urzark was a creature of the Waaagh!, and his strength was not bound by the laws of physics or the limits of his wounds. As the Lord General brought his sword down, the Ork didn't try to parry. He stepped into the blow, allowing the chainsword to bury itself deep into his own collarbone, and used his other hand to seize the Lord General’s throat. The grip was like an iron vice, the fingers digging into the reinforced gorget of the General's armor. "GOTCHA!" Urzark screamed, his face inches from the General’s face, the stench of gasoline filling the air. "Now you’z gonna fly!" With a grunt of primal, explosive power, Urzark didn't just push the General, he tossed him. He threw the Imperial commander.The Lord General was airborne for a harrowing second, his vision swimming as he was hurled across the churned earth, falling with a sickening thud.

The Lord General's powered chainsword flew through the air and landed at the side of Athene, she saw him look up towards her, a visage of undeterred resolve.. " F-for... The... Emperor... " before consciousness left him due to the severity of the wounds. Urzark's predatory, obsessive intensity shifted toward where the Sisters of Battle stood. The Speed-Boss’s hatred for the Sisters was a visible thing, a dark aura that seemed to radiate from his scarred hide. "I told ya, Sista!" Urzark bellowed, his voice echoing across the crater as he began to stomp toward Athene. "I'z gonna scrap ya tin and turn youz into my pet hrahahah... WAAAAAGHH !!"

With that Urzark barelled directly towards Athene.

The battlegrounds of Arpat Primaris groaned beneath the weight of so much destruction. The ground itself had been churned to blackened mud by the violence, craters overlapping like the scars of a tortured world. The Orks had never expected a drop assault behind their lines. The impact was catastrophic. A third of the horde lay flattened or burned, their crude war engines toppled and gutted, their bodies scattered like broken toys.

The Astral Fists advanced in steady lines, initial lines wielding shield and powermauls now replaced with extermination squads armed with bolters raised to finish what their descent had begun. The Space Wolves moved more chaotically, howling and laughing as they cut down the survivors that staggered out of the smoke. Even now, isolated bursts of bolterfire crackled across the ruined plain, accompanied by the occasional detonation as a supercharged reactor core in a wrecked Ork vehicle breached.

Vorn strode through the aftermath with the bearing of a titan, his midnight blue armor reflecting firelight like polished ceramite obsidian. The crimson cloth that hung at his waist, reinforced with adamantine fibers, fluttered in the heated winds rising from burning wrecks. He carried himself with a restrained precision that contrasted sharply with the feral revelry of their Space Wolf allies. Where they roared, Xander was silent. Where they exalted in the kill, Xander evaluated angles, trajectories, and tactical vectors with machine-like clarity.

The din of melee drew his attention. Ubba Greystorm wrestled with an Ork Mek several dozen meters off, both surrounded by a ring of bellowing Wolves. The clash sent showers of sparks flying as power armor crashed against mechanical claws. The Mek’s bellowing challenges carried even over the cacophony. Xander watched, not just with admiration but cold analysis, cataloguing the movement patterns, the strain of corrupted machinery, the position of the Mek’s cranial interface. Information, always information. Truly the sight resembled fenrisian wolves tearing apart a mammoth, they had the Mek surrounded, Ubba was merely taking his time... humiliating the beast.

He moved past the spectacle without slowing. Nearby, Sergeant Logan Tyrsson was wiping blood from his carapace. His boots sank slightly in the churned muck and crushed scraps of Orkish plating. His armor was dented, smeared with gore, and littered with bits of green flesh that still steamed in the cold air. A trail of severed limbs marked his path through the carnage. Xander approached him deliberately, stopping at a precise distance, exactly two meters, no more, no less. He inclined his helm, acknowledging the sergeant but not bowing. He did not remove his helmet; he found it unnecessary.



“My arrival here serves a purpose other than reinforcement,” Xander began, his voice amplifiers giving his tone a cold metallic echo that cut through the battlefield noise. “I deployed under command authority granted by Chapter Master Argolis. My directive is not to bolster the defense of Caelyst nor to shepherd the broken remnants of Hive Olegarius.” He raised his arm and activated a hololithic projector embedded in his vambrace. A field of golden runes shimmered into existence, forming the image of a brass-and-iron sphere-bound device surrounded by rotating metallic rings inscribed with ancient symbols. “This is the Baphemic Divinator,” he continued. “A tactical engine wrought by our Primarch Ferrus Manus for Rogal Dorn, a device capable of parsing innumerable variables to generate predictive matrices and optimal stratagems with machine clarity, a premise of tactical clarity free from the imperfections of human error.”

He let the image rotate in silence a moment, its reflections wavering in the smoke-choked air. “It was believed lost,” he said. “The Aegis of Reparation fell to a tyranid fleet during our actions in the Cicatrix Maledictum. We assumed total destruction. But scans intercepted by our Librarius indicate otherwise. The hulk's vaults survived and were plundered. Rogue traders, looters, perhaps even renegade Imperial elements extracted the Divinator and trafficked it between their foul hands.”

He stood unmoving as an Ork corpse, still twitching as he raised his bolter and issued a squeeze of the trigger making the annihilation decisive. “Greed is a flaw which undoes us from within, it is an imperfection which must be excised” Xander said, voice steady. “This imperfection has delivered the Divinator to these greenskin rabble. Crude as they sciences are, they have a talent for corruptive mimicry, an empyric farce delivered to a machine spirit that had never accounted for such failure. They have bound their stolen prize into their war effort. The device now governs their advance. It predicted the defensive measures at Daimiel. It accounted for angles of fire and redeployment patterns. It grants them a cohesiveness that should be impossible for their kind.”

He deactivated the projection with a snap of his gauntleted fingers. “I am here only to reclaim what belongs to the Astral Fists and to restore the honor of my Chapter ” Xander declared. “This strike” he gestured to the ruin around them “Was but a prelude. A disruption. A severing of one foul strand of the greenskin menace. The empyric energy of the one brother greystorm battles now drew me here, to no avail. My true objective lies deeper within their territory. Buried in the heart of their ramshackle. My squad and I will redeploy by forced orbital insertion to retrieve the Divinator, the beast will duel us for it and by as Ferrus's hammer we shall shatter it from betwixt it's undeserving claws"

He placed a hand on the hilt of his energized chainsword, the weapon humming faintly under his touch. “Once the relic is removed, their horde will fracture. They will cease to become a coherent threat. This will not change the course of the errors that have been allowed to settle, the defenders of this place will have to answer for the sins of their own and their faith in the Emperor shall decide whether this lesson shall be their last. ”

He turned slightly, observing a distant column of smoke rising from what had once been a fortified Ork battlewagon “Hive Olegarius doomed itself long before these xenos rose to such power" Xander said. “Corruption, Infighting, Infiltration. They bartered away resilience for comfort, and vigilance for indulgence. That weakness echoed through the sector. The Imperium is not obligated to save those who have abandoned their own duty. Within the next three solar cycles upon this world, an Inquisitorial retinue is due to arrive bearing the Emperor's judgement... that is the time alloted to them to prove if they are worthy to remain amongst us and if not, then we will not suffer either xenos or the treacherous to claim another world.”

Xander’s helm shifted toward the distant horizon, its lenses narrowing as they tracked shifting battlefield heat signatures. “I will not remain here,” he concluded. “There is no honor in delaying my purpose. The relic calls. Its signal resonates with machine-spirits still loyal to our lineage. I will follow that signal wherever it leads.”

He stepped back, preparing to return to his Thunderhawk. His honor guard closed around him, their armor reflecting the inferno of the battlefield like mirrored cobalt. Without turning, he spoke one final time, voice low, controlled, absolute “See to the wounded if you must. Hunt the stragglers. Revel in your kills. My path lies in the storm’s heart, where the Divinator rests. When next we meet, Emperor willing, I shall concern myself only with the retrieval of the relic… and the Orks shall lament as the only sliver of a higher intelligence afforded to them by virtue of this transgression is taken... but that alone is not enough to make them crumble when the moment has grown so dire"

With that, Xander Vorn departed the killing fields of Arpat Primaris The ground trembled beneath the approach of his waiting drop-craft. The sky above already burned with the promise of the next descent. There would be a reckoning.

---

As the first volley of bolter shells hammered into his chest, Brainmuncha did not recoil. Instead, he leaned into the storm. The explosive rounds cracked against his breastplate, blossoming into miniature suns that charred his looted iconography and sent jagged shards of iron singing through the air. To a human, it would have been a death sentence; to Brainmuncha, it was a stimulant. He threw back his head, his jaw replaced by a massive, steam-powered piston-grill, and let out a braying laugh that was amplified by a cracked vox-caster. Every hit seemed to fuel the emerald fire behind his eyes. He watched the impacts with a manic glee, his massive, hunched shoulders twitching as the kinetic energy of the bolts was absorbed by the thick, grease-slicked padding within his iron cage. The armor groaned, a deep, metallic lament of stressed joints and overworked gyros, as Brainmuncha stomped forward. Each step buried his massive, spiked boots six inches into the gore-soaked earth, shaking the ground with the weight of several tons of crude machinery.

Then came Ubba's axe.

The frost-rimed blade bit deep into the armor’s right pauldron, a blow delivered with the strength of a demi-god. The sound was not a simple metal-on-metal clang, but a tectonic shriek. The blue-white rime of the weapon’s power field instantly sought to flash-freeze the hydraulic lines snaking across Brainmuncha’s shoulder. The Ork’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. He didn't pull away; he twisted his torso, using the weight of the suit to trap the axe-head in the deepening furrow of his own armor. He snarled, a thick rope of bloodied saliva whipping from his iron jaw. The cold of the axe began to numb his shoulder, the frost spreading across his green skin in fractal patterns, but the Weirdboy simply funneled the mounting psychic pressure in his skull down into his arm. The heat of the Waaagh! fought the frost in a hissing cloud of steam that obscured the two combatants in a ghost-white veil.

Brainmuncha’s right arm, a massive, three-fingered power claw scavenged from a construction walker snapped shut with the sound of a guillotine. He swung the claw in a low, murderous arc, the internal motors screaming as they fought the resistance of the frozen joints. The claw didn't just swing; it hungered. The pincer-blades, etched with crude glyphs of Gork and Mork, sparked as they dragged through the mud, seeking to catch a limb or a torso and pinch it into a spray of crimson mist.

As the pressure in his mind reached a breaking point, the copper coils wrapped around his left arm began to glow with a blinding, sickly radiance. This was the "Zzap-Staff" integrated into his suit, a weapon that bridged the gap between Orkish technology and the raw madness of the Warp. Brainmuncha’s eyes began to leak thick, glowing green ichor, his entire body spasming as he prepared to release the build-up. With a grunt that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting, he unleashed the electric beam onto Ubba.

It was not a directed bolt of lightning, but a screaming, jagged lash of psychic energy that tore through the atmospheric smog. The beam was erratic, whipping back and forth like a dying serpent, scorching the earth and vaporizing the remains of Orks and humans alike who were unfortunate enough to be near. The discharge was so powerful that it kicked Brainmuncha backward, his heavy boots skidding through the mud and leaving two smoldering trenches. The feedback from the weapon caused the lights on his "Terminator" suit to flicker and pop, and the Ork himself suffered his hair-squigs were incinerated instantly, and the smell of burnt greenskin flesh filled his helmet.

Yet, through the pain and the smoke, Brainmuncha only grew more frenzied. He saw the world not as it was, but as a swirling vortex of green potential. He watched the movements of his opponent through a haze of psychic static, his brain-matter literally sizzling against the inside of his skull. He shifted his weight, the massive exhaust pipes on his back belching a thick, oily cloud of black smoke that acted as a screen.

He lunged again, the sheer momentum of his armor making him an unstoppable force of scrap and fury. He used the flat of his claw-arm to parry, the metal ringing like a funeral bell, and leaned his massive, iron-cased head forward. He intended to headbutt his foe with the force of a falling meteor, the reinforced steel of his helmet-plate glowing dull red from the friction and the psychic heat radiating from his own overcharged mind. Brainmuncha didn't just want a kill; he wanted to feel the crunch of bone through the feedback sensors of his suit. He was a creature of the Waaagh!, and as long as there was a fight to be had, his armor would hold, his heart would beat, and his mind would scream its defiance into the void.