Fort Daimiel, on the outskirts of Hive Olegarius
A valkyrie skims across iridiscent skies darting past monoliths of impossible stature, a testament to the architectural might of the imperium, a living breathing world that bellowed the emperor's praises in defiance of the grim darkness of the 42nd millenium, the hive pulsating with production and beaming light seemed blissfully unaware of the dangers of the void and beyond, therein the countless millions toiled away to feed the strife of mankind. Eerily at peace against the sprawl, this world bore the brunt of yet a single settlement, recently settled so it seemed... if it caught the eye of the imperium so too did it tempt the myriad beasts and traitors whom would see it undone.
Even a traitor fought with some cause and the xenos to cling to survival, whether through base instinct or clinging to remnant visages of power which lended them to some predictability, some interpretation of their vileness that served to draft worthwhile stratagem... yet none were as inscrutable and despicable as the primordial foe of mankind... the Ork, a plague upon any system wherein they manifested without reason or cause, compelled only by bloodshed and ruin... no cause other than mayhem.
Upon the ground, fresh regiments of the astra militarum had begun to gather in operating bases and upon parade ground, the slow grinding of wheels as tracks slid across rockcrete roadways, sanctioned at checkpoints, atop high points, autocannon batteries slowly rotated scanning the skies. Vast sums of ammunition, arms and supplies being lowered into underground holds, to be transported by subterranean maglevs to distant frontlines. Immense hangars hosted squadrons of the aeronautica imperialis. The commotion made it obvious that reinforcements had arrived, unfashionably early by imperial standards perhaps with not a burning hive spire in sight.
Earlier that day, Officio Logis Strategos, Hive Olegarius
" Investiture, by the High Lords of Terra no less, quite the honor Commissar... or shall I say Lord General "
A warm exchange between two colleagues who had doubtless braved a few battles together, subtle smiles were exchanged before a return to more formal mannerisms.
" Commendation and title means little, though I am infinitely better equipped to serve my duties to the Emperor, with great ordinance comes great responsibility. "
Aleksandr responded ruminating on the change of rank and position, though he seemed to somewhat lament relinquishing his role on the frontlines.
" The guardsmen certainly share your... celebratory... notion, Lord General. "
Aleksandr smirked, so it seemed, though the lack of summary executions and capital punishment was sure to put a dent in discipline.
" While I appreciate your hospitality and the exceptional quality of the Amasec provisioned to me, you surely did not send a dispatch to me two systems over to discuss my investiture. So then, by the emperor's guiding light, what compelled this auspicious meeting of ours, General Roque ? "
Roque seemed to issue a sigh of concern, looking back at Aleksandr.
" A lapse in our duty, Aleksandr, with my hands being tied up, contending with renegades on the outskirts of the system and fighting off threats at multiple fronts, one threat has advanced far further than I would have liked. Conventional doctrine has seemed to falter and this has rendered suboptimal productivity for Olegarius, the PDF and resident regiments are stretched thin, when I learned that the Rybel Gorth was making transit through the sector I had to reach out "
Aleksandr issued a sigh,
" And you would trust a fledgling general and his regiments to do what an entire planet meticulously equipped and armed could not? Why not requisiton more resources and arms ? "
Roque stood still
" I tried Aleksandr, and you are no fledgling, our concerns were met with dismissal, I could not rouse a sufficient sense of urgency and any protest further would have been met with threats of insubordination and incompetence... we have a chance of stopping this before it escalates, the hive needn't burn for the call to be hailed... you know what this is really about, the play of governors and tithes. And what does that leave for us other than an Inquisitorial retinue coming in and getting rid of all the most seasoned officers and soldiers. Olegarius needn't burn for it to receive aid... and that aid should not come with the yoke of a tithe this world clearly cannot muster"
" Be cautioned as to your choice of words Roque, lest it draw the ire of the faithful "
Aleksandr added, sharing a tense gaze with General Roque as she lowered her glance
" I'll help. "
" Good, Emperor knows we need it. "
Aleksandr's Theme - 1:03
Aleksandr departed if only momentarily, a squad of officers ruminated upon the results of the meeting between the two commanders and what was to come of it but the entire room held silent upon the advent of the Lord General, part trepidation and part awe. Aleksandr threw off his coat in a symbolic gesture, straightening his uniform as any good Mordian would, a sign to the others that it was time to get to work.
" Gentlemen, The Emperor blesses us with Duty and by his might, we shall see it done "
The Valkyrie would make landfall upon a pad within Fort Daimiel, Aleksandr and his retinue departing from therein, staff officers rushing to the side to meet them and bring them up to speed with tactical briefs and strategic reports gathered from the front, dataslates relaying active battlefield formation and the most recent vox-communications, all quiet on the front, too quiet, the first lines of defense had faltered and the second held in tedium, morale was subpar and so was the plan.
" A static defense man? are you offering up your men to the greenskins or do you intend to fight them, those battle lines you showed me are archaic, an underhive gang with two ridgerunners and a krak grenade could take it over let alone a horde of orks... the first mistake is to embolden them and that is often the last. " Aleksandr added dismissing redundant battle plans " I want basilisk cannons placed twenty clicks of this position.. and this position... asymmetric bombardment... and pincer your assets, if incase a flank falls you're not caught out in the open and you still have support ready " Aleksandr added marching toward the building, constantly barking orders at the staff.
" Thin out that position, no, the ridge makes it all but indefensible, leave a few men in... yes... to bait them into the mines we're going to lay out... what about the equipment? well strap explosives to it... if it can't be moved, it's not going to the orks... infact, tell your men to make themselves useful and practice some area denial... you heard that area denial... oh ****ing hell... this is all handbook... has your PDF never had to so much as put down a riot ? " He added sternly " Hydra batteries, atleast four of them, I want 360 degree coverage... yes... yes, they can fly... I have seen them interdict a position many times... if they send a rocket over we shoot it down... unless you'd rather orks spring up behind you "
" Two heavy bolters for one lascannon, even mix, anticipate an armored push... not enough lascannons ? well bloody hell, what are you waiting for... get those lascannons to the front... go... GO ! " The lord general would palm his face in frustration moving into the confines of his office, as dataslates were presented they were handed off to doctrine officers in his own regiment, he marched into the adeptus munitorum office nestled into the confines of the Fort's main sanctum.
" What is the meaning of this !?... those supplies were requisitioned to be stored for defensive purposes only, we have a quota to meet... under whose auspices or authority do you deem to operate ! " protested the Officio Tactica praefectus " Praefectus, you've abided by your duty to the Emperor and you are hereby relieved of it " the even more astonished official looked back " By what authority !? hrn... this matter shall go up to the governor militant, I'll bring the inquisition down upon your damned-" a silence descended as the cool metal end of a las-pistol made contact with his forehead.
" You have been relieved, by order of a Lord General of the Imperium... is that understood or is your lack of comprehension suspect to treasonous behavior ?.... Good... now get out of my chair. "
Aleksandr eased himself into his chair, two of his officers taking their place as well, wearing combat gear in anticipation of deployment to the front.
" By the Emperor, what a shit show... " Aleksandr added lighting his smoking pipe and taking a long drag " Roque had every reason to call for help, that second line is due to be massacred come daybreak tomorrow, from what i've seen of the orkish movements, they already took the first line... equipment and all... probably armed to the teeth coming into this one... they're making their way for the hive city... our advantage will lie in using superior tactics and strategy... massed lines don't work against the green tide, it'll be a pyrrhic defense if successful but it should hold them for a while... the only way to curb their advances is to cut off the head of the serpent... but that in itself is a dangerous proposition... I may yet be discussing the end of your service as we stand... but I have faith... in the Emperor's deliverance... and in the doctrines that we have honed and perfected for use against the foe... we shall not present ourselves as prey to the green menace... we shall meet them head on... let the hunter become the hunted "
Aleksandr puffed out a slow cloud of smoke
" I want you to drive a spear into their side, crash into the flank, you'll be supported by phosphor shells to deny them changing their position, we secure a forward position, and create a funnel... critically, I want the guardsmen in the trenches to charge when we have secured the flank, the tide will inevitably sway toward us, hold the line long enough for the chimeras to arrive and evacuate the position... the aim is for them to flow through the funnel, then we use precise strikes from the basilisks to hit those compacted ork positions, that'll be enough to break their momentum, we break the wave before it crashes and let the main defensive lines dole out the firepower and finish the job "
Aleksandr paused.
" As for resolving the issue... I may need to call upon a few old acquaintances... may the Emperor protect Olegarius "
The engines of the arvus lighter hummed in the background as the cabin vibrated ever so slightly. The cargo deck was of similar volume to that of the valkyries employed by the Astra Militarum and the Navis Imperialis, though it had a single seat cockpit and the cargo deck only had a rear ramp and no side doors. The wingspan was significantly small than that of the valkyrie and the arvus also lacked the firepower. What the arvus lacked in offensive capabilities, it more than made up for in speed and especially in range. The underside of the hull and wings were lightly scorched, a result of repeated atmospheric entries over the course of the craft's career. A tried and true design, the arvus had been in continuous service for more than ten millennia going as far back as the day of the Horus Heresy. Like the Imperium, it had endured the ravages of time.
Sister Athene sat quietly in her seat in the cramped cargo deck. Sister Caroline, her second, sat across from her. The rather stern looking woman had remained silent since departing the rogue trader vessel. Like Athene, Caroline was a daughter of Cadia. They both were raised in the Schola Progenium and had been together since their days as novitiates. Athene leaned to her right against the bulkhead behind the cockpit. Sister Rena, their hospitaler sat right next to Athene, their elbows constantly bumping into each other despite Rena's relatively slight frame. With their powered armor, the entire squad was packed like fish in a tin. Athene and her squad had booked passage on the rogue trader to the re-established outpost of Sanctuary 101. However, an astropathic transmission from Inquisitor Mathias Chang had diverted her squad. The outpost of Sanctuary 101 was not under siege. At least, not anymore. Hive Olegarius was. What a single squad of sororitas could possibly accomplish in a wider campaign was beyond her, but Athene had faith that the Emperor would guide them. Furthermore, Athene had learned to not question the Inquisitor's judgement. While she was among the few people whom he granted special privilege and trust to do so, Mathias had more than proven to be quite the strategist.
Suddenly there was a low thud and the entire craft shook violently as the cabin was filled with the sound of what seemed to be metal fragments bouncing off the hull. "We're under fire," came the voice of the pilot through the vox. "Ork jets inbound."
Athene cooly keyed up on the vox. "We are in your hands, pilot. Throne be wit you," she replied.
"The Emperor protects," replied the pilot before clearing the channel.
"Never a dull moment," Sister Caroline muttered as she put on her helmet.
"It would seem the universe intends to test our faith before we even arrive," Athene replied.
Rena glanced at the screen on the bulkhead showing the auspex readout that displayed the Ork aircraft on intercept. "Do you think the pilot can evade them?" the hospitaler asked.
Athene's expression remained neutral. "No doubt the pilot will by trying to outmaneuver them while pushing as best as he can toward Fort Daimiel and the coverage of the fort's anti-aircraft batteries."
Sister Athene sat quietly in her seat in the cramped cargo deck. Sister Caroline, her second, sat across from her. The rather stern looking woman had remained silent since departing the rogue trader vessel. Like Athene, Caroline was a daughter of Cadia. They both were raised in the Schola Progenium and had been together since their days as novitiates. Athene leaned to her right against the bulkhead behind the cockpit. Sister Rena, their hospitaler sat right next to Athene, their elbows constantly bumping into each other despite Rena's relatively slight frame. With their powered armor, the entire squad was packed like fish in a tin. Athene and her squad had booked passage on the rogue trader to the re-established outpost of Sanctuary 101. However, an astropathic transmission from Inquisitor Mathias Chang had diverted her squad. The outpost of Sanctuary 101 was not under siege. At least, not anymore. Hive Olegarius was. What a single squad of sororitas could possibly accomplish in a wider campaign was beyond her, but Athene had faith that the Emperor would guide them. Furthermore, Athene had learned to not question the Inquisitor's judgement. While she was among the few people whom he granted special privilege and trust to do so, Mathias had more than proven to be quite the strategist.
Suddenly there was a low thud and the entire craft shook violently as the cabin was filled with the sound of what seemed to be metal fragments bouncing off the hull. "We're under fire," came the voice of the pilot through the vox. "Ork jets inbound."
Athene cooly keyed up on the vox. "We are in your hands, pilot. Throne be wit you," she replied.
"The Emperor protects," replied the pilot before clearing the channel.
"Never a dull moment," Sister Caroline muttered as she put on her helmet.
"It would seem the universe intends to test our faith before we even arrive," Athene replied.
Rena glanced at the screen on the bulkhead showing the auspex readout that displayed the Ork aircraft on intercept. "Do you think the pilot can evade them?" the hospitaler asked.
Athene's expression remained neutral. "No doubt the pilot will by trying to outmaneuver them while pushing as best as he can toward Fort Daimiel and the coverage of the fort's anti-aircraft batteries."
Upon the transport, the Son of Russ was grinning. Not just because the Fenrisian libations has warmed his senses, but because the newly promoted Astartes Lieutenant knew he would see action, and the junior Wolves who hadn't seen combat would finally get their fangs into flesh and metal.
"FOR RUSS, AND FOR THE ALLFATHER!"
That seemed to command the attention of the junior Astartes who were rough housing and horseplaying in order and they stood facing Ubba.
"Where we are going, the Astra Militarium is located. It is suggested that there is a possibility the outpost will be engaged. Fear not, Sons of Russ. The Allfather smiles upon us."
The ship streaked through the void of space on its way to Fort Daimiel full of a group of Space Wolves.
"FOR RUSS, AND FOR THE ALLFATHER!"
That seemed to command the attention of the junior Astartes who were rough housing and horseplaying in order and they stood facing Ubba.
"Where we are going, the Astra Militarium is located. It is suggested that there is a possibility the outpost will be engaged. Fear not, Sons of Russ. The Allfather smiles upon us."
The ship streaked through the void of space on its way to Fort Daimiel full of a group of Space Wolves.
Red lights flashed in the confines of an antechamber within one of Olegarius's sanctums, the Lord General made haste, chainsword and bolt revolver in tow, his expression rightfully furious as a retinue of officers surrounded him, one of them held a dataslate up rapidly relaying the changing tactical situation upon the battlefield, the news was grim but then it always was. The only thing that was going through Aleksandr's mind was how the orks infuriated him, no tactical discretion nor strategic doctrine had foretold of this seemingly haphazard misstep which bore no purpose other than the spurn the firefight sooner than it should have been, weeks of defensive planning and laying lines seemingly being obliterated as the situation went on, if this continued Daimiel would fall by planetary sunset, they were being spurned on by initial slaughter gathering together with rapid pace.
" Lord General, the first line has fallen, no situational reports or vox chatter reported, predictive cogitators are readjusting the battlelines... they... are moving forward. "
Aleksandr could only scowl as he turned.
" I know the first line has fallen damn you... those thrice-cursed green skins... hrn... such an incorrigible, stupid and unpredictable lot, this is all a game to the greenskin... sound a retreat on the first line, I doubt there are any survivors but if there are, we need intel and.... patch a vox to Roque, tell him not to urinate himself, I'm on my way to see the situation resolved... and for the Emperor's sake, somebody hand me a proper weapon. You there, is the Aquila Lander positioned ? "
The junior officer saluted
" Ready and awaiting departure, Lordship "
Aleksandr nodded, then issued a scowl
" If it's a fight they want, by the Emperor, it's a fight they'll get "
✠✠✠
" Hreughhrehhreh... The Puny 'Umiez are runnin' away... send da murda-boyz after 'em, I de're spinez. "
The guttural mockery of human speech issued by the warboss as he looked at the carnage upon the horizon, boot over a half alive guardsman, stiil reaching for his lasgun much to the amusement of the green-skinned, tusked beasts that surrounded him, with the curiousity of hyaena's disemboweling a gazelle. The muffled death throes came to a resounding stop as the armored boot fell, driving the corpse into a muddy oblivion naught but entertainment for these unfeeling wretched beings.
" De'ez onez 'av got da fight' in 'em an' after I krump 'em, I'm gonna take over da 'ive, derez no warboss wid'in da galaxy, wot'll 'av a 'ive like mine and you grots will call me Da Guv'nah "
He muttered, the vocabulary left much to be desired but the foul intellect the preceded them was certainly present, ramshackle monstrosities dieseled away upon the horizon, chugging fumes of blacksmoke with what to announce their arrival, the first line of defense miles from Daimiel proper had all been reduced to ash, burning corpses, derelicted bunkers, and chunks of human and ork strewn around every single inch of land, another explosion saw a laughing gretchin flung into the air.
" Blarguz' ye'r me bestest Nob, and 'I expect ya to go out there and take da 'umiez 'out, da weird boyz keep tellin' me da 'umiez 'cried for 'elp and they sent da big 'unz... I want dat 'ive an' no one' is gettin in our way... Now' get out d'ere and bring me some 'umie spinez ya git ! "
The ork added, addressing one of his behemoth subordinates likely a lower commander to take command of a renewed offensive, with barely any strategy or forethought however, the main mass of the horde bumbled away, charging at the 2nd line of defense around daimiel, ork dakkajetz announcing themselves by strafing over the lines as hydra batteries returned fire in spectacular volleys that only spurned on the Orkish ranks... gigantic mechanic monstrosities and ramshackle battle wagons loosed rockets and firepower in no particular order as the projectiles battered against trench and bunker, calculated volleys of imperial las-fire mowing down the seemingly endless horde.
" WAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH !! "
Upon flying rockets, axe-wielding ork boyz ripped into the front lines, while Kommandoz detonated carefully placed explosives behind the lines, panic settling into human ranks, as other held the line desperately. Bolter fire erupting from a bunker as the guardsmen within breathed heavily, loosing stupendous amounts of firepower into the ranks. The last moments of a guardsman as his pupils dilated seeing a flash of flame from a burna boy flamethrower as the entire bunker channeled wailing screams from guardsmen being scorched alive by pyromaniac fiends. Each ork shrugging off multiple hits as the nigh-unstoppable tyrants collided and charged into lines jumping into trench after trench, reminding the guards of their true origins as naught but living weapons... one could only imagine how this dereliction and disorganized slaughter enraged the Lord General who had spent months planning these defences to see them crumble as so.
✠✠✠
" This 3O-41, repeat 3O-41 requesting fire support, we are pinned down out here ! "
The desperate commands of a guard captain barely audible over the vox as artillery crews beheld the carnage from a far distance, the artillery commanders directing them with commands of such fury that it threatened his vocal cords, moving in rapid succession across well-entrenched positions playing host to basilisk cannons.
" Roger, 3O-41 this is Artillery Command O-8-D, we cannot comply with your request, you have designated an imperial position for strike, repeat, you have designated an imperial position for strike "
There was then a tense pause over the vox as the artillery commander crouched down,
" THEY'RE ALL DEAD DAMN YOU... DO IT... FOR... THE... EMPEROR !! "
It then turned to noisy static as the artillery commander contemplated his options, sweat upon his brow, looking to his subordinate and offering a nod
" But... Sir.. "
The commander issued a stern reprimanding look, it had to be done.
" Emperor... Forgive Us... READY QUADRANT XVV-A-32.47.20... SALVO READY !!... FIRE !!! "
The flashing arc of imperial artillery shells would have been visible from the sky as they struck the eastern flank of the 2nd defensive line, detonating a vast sum of munitions that would have otherwise fallen into Ork hands, invariably guardsmen still locked into battle in the trenches would have seen their fates sealed... the explosive shockwaves sent dust clouds and blinding flashes for miles out, a thick smog rising into the air, before long red flashes and gunfire once more became visible across the 2nd line, the battle never stopped... rusted and burned out hulls orkish and imperial vehicles alike strewn amongst the wire.
" Dat'z wot I like to see... giv 'em no quartah... they'll only slow us down boyz but they ain't nevah gonna win "
✠✠✠
" Emperor deliver us... my battle lines...
Thought Aleksandr as he surveyed the carnage, a keen mind taking in the depth of the strategic undermining, the volume with which the green tide had slammed into the imperial cliff was unanticipated, he had only read about the carnage at armageddon and golgotha but to witness the orks now in such a combined and unified assault was something that truthfully caught Aleksandr off guard, the Tempestus Scion retinue behind him didn't offer it much regard, they were soldiers, you'd have to have a general's eye to see what was at stake.
" Sir. We await command. "
" Our orders are to move forward Tempestor... as they have always been... I will not see my lads die in vain, we will issue a strategic fallback, regroup with the Daimiel 4th, 8th and 12th and drive the Emperor's spear into the Orkish gullet... that is my edict. "
✠✠✠
Heavy breathing and coughing
" To any Imperial forces responding, this is Sergeant Stradt of the 3rd Olegarius, we report, there are still survivors in the aftermath of the artillery strike, we are making our last stand in the ruin of the bunker complex Caelyst... repeat... *crackle*... ork.... *crackle*... at large... *crackle* support... *crackle*... Emperor... *crackle*... Protects "
The vox transmission would have invariably carried over to Athene's contingent and Ubba's battlegroup, there was an auspex marker on the location as well, they were already well embroiled in their own missives, the green tide was endless, and the fact that they could not salvage what had been promised to them infuriated the orks evermore, they became ever more feral and enraged, like rabid beasts set upon the trenches, any semblance of orderliness amongst them had broken down, but it was obvious that this wave was just the cannon fodder sent to soften the masses before the veteran orks could steamroll through another battleline, mixed in with this group were a number of elite orks named Nobz who were leading more experienced cohorts, these orks were larger and far more deadly, some of them clad in armor bristling with weapons akin to terminators, sent forwards to take out key strategic objectives that would cripple the imperial defense, the rest of the greenskins were merely piranhas that had joined the feeding frenzy at the scent of blood... without coordinated leadership however they would falter and their morale wasn't all too dependable.
Caelyst could not fall, it would send a grievous message to the Orks that the Imperial defenses were not bolstered enough to hold and by far the worst thing about an ork was, if it was made to believe something was possible, was to happen, then there were few forces that could prevent it from being so, strategically, Caelyst was little more than a wreck now, an edifice whose walls had held the impact of the blast and the torrent of fire, but there was nothing therein, another fortification amidst the many, however, to those who knew the orks, Caelyst suddenly became the most important objective, if Caelyst fell, the orks would believe they had achieved victory and that was a belief that could be ill-afforded in such dire times... it would be a brutal, old fashioned battle against elites.
And it would take all of our heroes to make a miraculous breakthrough.
✠✠✠
" Hrn... Da Sistaz ! Lonch da grot-rockitz "
The ork dakka jetz loosed immense bumbling rockets barely held together that exploded at the side of the lighter, sending light flak and shrapnel but what was even more disturbing was, that those things were loaded full of gretchin, small green orkoids equipped with hooks and knives, that clung and stabbed at the lighter, snickering to themselves... while most were simply swatted or dropped off by the speed of the craft, a few clung on... and they were headed straight to the engines, invariably to jump inside. It was a completely non-sensical tactic but one that dawned on as having a very real threat.
" Dey'z call me Da Baron an' dis 'ere is da boss'z skyz... so i'll shoot ya runty gitz straight down... hrahah ! rev' da rockitz "
He commanded to the dimunitive grot who was laboring to make the device work, a massive spray of bullets from machineguns mounted at the front of the ork aircraft peppered the arvus lighter as the greenskin tailed them, intent on shooting them down, but not too quickly, it was obvious the ork wanted to derive some joy from this aerial duel and put on a show for his compatriots below, because he waz da bestest pilot. The orkish battlewagons that became apparent on the ground below didn't bother shooting at the lighter, it became apparent this was all spectacle but also that assistance could not be dispatched, it was too difficult for the aeronautica regiments to get in close enough while the orks still fielded mobile air defenses, but even they seemed to be turning to move towards Caelyst, denying any hope of Imperial support, the situation grew tedious... It was between the Sisters and the Ork now, The Emperor protects.
✠✠✠
The hiss of the Space Wolves pod erupting open, was met by an impossibly large horde of orks, a tense stand off, they had been waiting it seemed, killer can meks and battlewagons at the ready. It appears even the drop pod landing had squashed a fair few of them, intel had suggested this was an imperial guard position, though not any more... perhaps a brain boy had tampered with the coordinates
" Oi ! Beakie ! Me Name'z Brain Muncha ! 'I 'eard you dog boyz hav da sharpest teef and da strongest spinez, da boss want'z 'em boff... how'z about 'I take 'em off of ya... hrahah... WAAAAGGHH... we'z love fightin' da beakiez ! "
This was the main force that had overrun the first battle line, it seems that Ubba had intercepted a large group en-route to Caelyst, but truly he had picked the most brutal of positions to land in, the battle would be a punishing grind and even he would have to acknowledge an eventual fallback into Caelyst, but not before showing these orkish scum the all fathers might, he would leave a mountain of bodies before it.. Ork nobz charged into the space marines, swinging chain axes at them, a battle wagon loosed a shell that all but destroyed the drop pod and as for the weird boy Brain' Muncha... he settled into a large electrified ork mek, twice the size of a dreadnought... eager to rip Ubba's head off !
The entire craft jolted violently once again.
"That was close," said Sister Lydia.
A strange tapping or clattering sound could be heard from the outside. It almost resembled the sound of the skittering of legs like roaches. At first, the women wrote it off as the sound of shrapnel hitting the hull, but it was too constant and rhythmic. Suddenly, the sound was interrupted by the crackling of the vox.
"We're...We've been boarded, sister!" the pilot shouted more out of astonishment than fear or panic.
Athene and Caroline exchanged glances.
"It looks like the little green buggers are trying to get into the engine intakes!" the pilot said. "Best hangon!"
There was little if anything the sisters could do. Without any exterior access, they had no way of trying to clear off the gretchins. Athene remained strapped in her seat and watched the auspex repeater as the pilot tried to maneuver to throw off the wretched xenos. However, the ork fighter was providing the pilot with another problem. Athene looked over at the eyebolts on the walls of the cargo deck. She looked over at Caroline and then pointed at the eyebolts. "Clip in, sister," Athene commanded as she reached over to a metalic drum.
Caroline watched Athene and nodded in concurrence. The tall battle sister stood up from her seat and walked towards the back of the cargo deck and clipped in just as the arvus banked hard. As soon as the craft leveled out, Athene came up behind Caroline and clipped the drum to the backpack of her armor. Caroline took a wide low stance as she hefted up her heavy bolter.
Athene quickly fed the belt into the weapon and keyed up. "Open the cargo ramp," she said.
There was a brief pause. "For Throne's sake, why would you..."
"Do as I command, NOW!" Athene bellowed. "OPEN THE RAMP!"
Suddenly there was a hum of hydraulics and the air in the cargo bay suddenly became turbulent like they were in a storm. Athene and her sisters closed the visors of their helmets. No sooner had the door opened, then they heard the roar of a jet engine and looked to see the ork jet coming in from behind. Caroline didn't waste time. She planted her feet firmly on the deck and let loose a string of heavy bolts flying toward their attacker. If they couldn't address the gretchins for the pilot, they could at least take some heat off of him by fighting off the ork fighter.
"That was close," said Sister Lydia.
A strange tapping or clattering sound could be heard from the outside. It almost resembled the sound of the skittering of legs like roaches. At first, the women wrote it off as the sound of shrapnel hitting the hull, but it was too constant and rhythmic. Suddenly, the sound was interrupted by the crackling of the vox.
"We're...We've been boarded, sister!" the pilot shouted more out of astonishment than fear or panic.
Athene and Caroline exchanged glances.
"It looks like the little green buggers are trying to get into the engine intakes!" the pilot said. "Best hangon!"
There was little if anything the sisters could do. Without any exterior access, they had no way of trying to clear off the gretchins. Athene remained strapped in her seat and watched the auspex repeater as the pilot tried to maneuver to throw off the wretched xenos. However, the ork fighter was providing the pilot with another problem. Athene looked over at the eyebolts on the walls of the cargo deck. She looked over at Caroline and then pointed at the eyebolts. "Clip in, sister," Athene commanded as she reached over to a metalic drum.
Caroline watched Athene and nodded in concurrence. The tall battle sister stood up from her seat and walked towards the back of the cargo deck and clipped in just as the arvus banked hard. As soon as the craft leveled out, Athene came up behind Caroline and clipped the drum to the backpack of her armor. Caroline took a wide low stance as she hefted up her heavy bolter.
Athene quickly fed the belt into the weapon and keyed up. "Open the cargo ramp," she said.
There was a brief pause. "For Throne's sake, why would you..."
"Do as I command, NOW!" Athene bellowed. "OPEN THE RAMP!"
Suddenly there was a hum of hydraulics and the air in the cargo bay suddenly became turbulent like they were in a storm. Athene and her sisters closed the visors of their helmets. No sooner had the door opened, then they heard the roar of a jet engine and looked to see the ork jet coming in from behind. Caroline didn't waste time. She planted her feet firmly on the deck and let loose a string of heavy bolts flying toward their attacker. If they couldn't address the gretchins for the pilot, they could at least take some heat off of him by fighting off the ork fighter.
No words. Only violence. A howl-like shriek came from the Space Wolf Lieutenant as his poweraxe came down and cleaved the head of the Ork that spoke to him in half shortly before a Salvo of cannon fire erupted from the Terminators that landed with him followed by the thunder of bolter fire which tore into more Ork flesh.
A concentration of fire rained down on the mek as Ubba ran at it. "FOR THE ALLFATHER!" His axe swung and chopped into the men's arm followed by several shots from his Bolter into the face of Brain Muncha. The poweraxe made a sickening crunch of impact splattering blood onto Ubba's face.
It didn't take long for a deployment of Imperial Dreadnaughts to be deployed. The pods were deployed approaching the ground rapidly as the group of Space Wolves engaged creating a landing zone.
A concentration of fire rained down on the mek as Ubba ran at it. "FOR THE ALLFATHER!" His axe swung and chopped into the men's arm followed by several shots from his Bolter into the face of Brain Muncha. The poweraxe made a sickening crunch of impact splattering blood onto Ubba's face.
It didn't take long for a deployment of Imperial Dreadnaughts to be deployed. The pods were deployed approaching the ground rapidly as the group of Space Wolves engaged creating a landing zone.
As ever the case was, tactics and strategy tended to shift at a moment's notice when facing off against the greenskin menace, it was Sister Athene's quick thinking that had perhaps brought the sisters more time to move in towards the LZ. As was the devastating case with these beasts it was often a matter of mutually assured destruction in the very least. Doubtless the survivors saw the Arvus lighter as an omen of hope in the skies as they crawled out from the smoulder of what had once been trenches and bunkers, torn asunder and cratered from the impact of a truly monumental artillery barrage, a desperate attempt to stagger the ork advance on part of the guard.
" I'z got da six " a tusked grin was issued as the ork jet, a ramshackle rocket what was a disgusting caricature of the imperium's own aircraft kept afloat by the perverse will of the orks alone. A primitive reticle honing on lighter, now riddled with holes as it picked up speed that the ork jet struggled to keep up with, " Boss ! Da Engine ! " shouted the gretchin tasked with keeping the machine going, warning that this technology was not designed to match the imperium's own " Shut it ya grot ! full blast ! I'z almost got 'em " the explosive streaks of orkish shells zipping past the windows as the beast honed in for a final burst to bring the lighter down.
Just then the cargo doors swung open, the creak from the aerodynamic stress as the craft likely shook in the wind current.
" Wot !? "
Deified vindication spilt forth from bolter barrel in a sanctified sermon of death, the visage of the Battle Sister immortalized in the ork's last moments, every hallowed shell unleashed with hallowed fury. It was Judgement. the ork could only issue a frustrated death cry as the bolter shells tore chunks off it's aircraft like scrap being processed through a chipper, a explosive burst as a fuel tank ruptured causing brilliant blue flame from thieved promethium, another blowing a gory chunk off the creature's hardened skull, by the time she had fired the hundredth shell, the entire jet, en-route towards the ground exploded in spectacular flame, doubtless a wound upon the orks morale.
Far off, the infuriated warboss, Slargaz Spineshatter, growled.
" Dey' got da Baron, 'ee woz a good flyboy... deyz gonna pay for dat one "
Though the immediate threat was surely dealt with, inevitably one of the boarding gretchins, jumped into one of the onboard engines with gory and explosive consequence, the stress on the craft from having the cargo door open and now one of the engine's being destroyed did not bode well for the sisters, a grounding was inevitable, they were close to the LZ, all looked to Athene to guide them...
It would take a miracle... but this would not be her first.
✠✠✠
" Not so fast, DogBoy, hrehehreh "
On the front of Brother Graystorm and his spacewolves, the fight had evolved into a brutal and vicious melee, but where the orks were a discoordinated and unpredictable mob, the spacewolves were a well honed and coordinated killing machine. It was almost opportune that their chapter was present, excelling in the brutal melee that most would have avoided with the orks, their power weapons making short work of ork hordes, it was something truly menacing to see, every swing of a power axe turning hordes of orks into gory confetti, there were few things that could cause an ork to reconsider and step back, fewer still that could force them to prefer ranged combat over going in for the kill, the battle circle got wider... and wider... and wider... a mountain of green stacked upon itself, eventually the orks resorted to sending in their strongest and most venerable troopers, the odds pushed and pulled, they had relied on the cannon fodder to soften the space wolves, inexperienced or newer battle brothers consumed by a lust for battle might have found themselves consumed by an opportunistic ork horde, a herd of bomb-squigs or the sudden maul of a killer can mek.
The momentum had favored the spacewolves, but Ubba would have realized this would have been a drawn out and brutal fight, memories of direwolves facing off against a mammoth upon the icen plains of Fenris, yes... it was tusk versus fang, the wolves would need to use the careful and coordinated tactics of a wolfpack rather than trusting in axe alone, for what differentiated them from the ork was precisely this, their lethality bore an intellect, their viciousness had tact, the swing of each axe meaningful... they were facing off against big game, large prey... tire it, wound it, then bring it down... inevitably battle rooted out the weak and the unworthy and the space wolves had landed in the thick of it, they were chosen to bear the greatest burden, to do the greatest battle... but was this not the greatest glory that the Allfather afforded to his Sons ?
Under ideal circumstances, the well-coordinated strike on Brain Muncha, the biggest baddest ork would have dispersed the others, but clad in a towering mek bristling with weapons this was a challenging task, indeed the flurry of bolt rounds had barely missed the creature's head, snapping off a tusk in the process, before the power-axe swung forth, the blood clear, it was not brain muncha that Ubba had hit but one of his ork boyz that the behemoth had used as a sort of shield, a claw clutched at the space marine, as a powerful shock was unleashed.
" Y'ore not gonna get rid of me dat eazy, dogboy "
The brain boy laughed, tossing Ubba back, having a few tricks up his sleeve, suddenly a wave of psychic energy surrounded him, as he teleported back several yards, a horde of orkish armor standing between Ubba and his prize.
The Battle had Only Just Begun
The orks reasoned horde tactics were not working, battle wagons now unleashed immense amounts of firepower, ballistic and explosive onto the space wolves ranks, Ubba had to command his tactics and utilize his elites to carve a path forward.
Athene and Caroline watched in silent satisfaction as the ork jet veered out of control and spiraled down to the earth below. As low as the arvus was, they lost sight of the jet behind a rock ridge. The only indication of the fate of the xenos was a loud crash followed by a column of thick black smoke rising from behind the ridge.
There was no time for any celebration for as soon quickly as the ork jet fell from view, there was a loud thud and clanging along with the sound of metal tearing itself apart. A puff of black smoke could be seen falling behind the arvus along with falling debris. The cabin was filled with the sound of what sounded like a turbine spinning down and sputtering.
"We've lost our port engine!" came a shout over the vox as the arvus began to roll. "Looks like the debris from the turbine took out my port hydraulics!"
Athene was no engineseer, but she knew enough to understand that the pilot had little to no control of the craft. "Brace yourselves!" Athene commanded to her sisters. She and Caroline fought to get back into their seats. It was a further struggle against the g-forces to get their seat harnesses back on as the arvus went into a death spiral.
The pilot fought, trying to keep the arvus as level as possible. With the loss of his port controls, he relied completely on his starboard controls. It was a balancing. Each time he leveled out, the arvus began to lose airspeed which made his controls less effective forcing him to take on a more severe dive to regain. The earth below grew larger and larger with each passing second as he tried to get the arvus to trend closer and closer to the fort. With only a a hundred feet left, the arvus gave out as a remaining gretchin severed the powerlines to the hydraulics in a massive rain of sparks as the wretched creature was electrocuted. The arvus began to pitch down and plowed into a massive shell crater in the middle of "no man's land."
There was no time for any celebration for as soon quickly as the ork jet fell from view, there was a loud thud and clanging along with the sound of metal tearing itself apart. A puff of black smoke could be seen falling behind the arvus along with falling debris. The cabin was filled with the sound of what sounded like a turbine spinning down and sputtering.
"We've lost our port engine!" came a shout over the vox as the arvus began to roll. "Looks like the debris from the turbine took out my port hydraulics!"
Athene was no engineseer, but she knew enough to understand that the pilot had little to no control of the craft. "Brace yourselves!" Athene commanded to her sisters. She and Caroline fought to get back into their seats. It was a further struggle against the g-forces to get their seat harnesses back on as the arvus went into a death spiral.
The pilot fought, trying to keep the arvus as level as possible. With the loss of his port controls, he relied completely on his starboard controls. It was a balancing. Each time he leveled out, the arvus began to lose airspeed which made his controls less effective forcing him to take on a more severe dive to regain. The earth below grew larger and larger with each passing second as he tried to get the arvus to trend closer and closer to the fort. With only a a hundred feet left, the arvus gave out as a remaining gretchin severed the powerlines to the hydraulics in a massive rain of sparks as the wretched creature was electrocuted. The arvus began to pitch down and plowed into a massive shell crater in the middle of "no man's land."
Ubba would quickly double back. He ordered his Brothers to begin slowing down and giving harassing fire as he gathered a few Marines and Terminators to flank the Orks. Other Space Wolves had positioned themselves with three Dreadnaughts to create a cross-section of fire.
Once Ubba made it to the flank, they would have boxed the Orks in. Ubba switched to his bolter rifle as they began making their way to flank this band of Orks to the right.
"Brothers, by the Allfather, no other Son of Leman Russ shall fall today!"
He ordered Dreadnaughts to concentrate fire on the Mek. His lips curled back exposing his sharpened teeth and the braided black Mohawk felt tighter on his head now. Orks that were crazy or stupid enough to rush close were now hence down by great claws and axes as volleys of bolter fire would keep them pinned down.
Ubba gave the order for all plasma weapons to now fire on the Mek along with the rockets from the Terminators.
Once Ubba made it to the flank, they would have boxed the Orks in. Ubba switched to his bolter rifle as they began making their way to flank this band of Orks to the right.
"Brothers, by the Allfather, no other Son of Leman Russ shall fall today!"
He ordered Dreadnaughts to concentrate fire on the Mek. His lips curled back exposing his sharpened teeth and the braided black Mohawk felt tighter on his head now. Orks that were crazy or stupid enough to rush close were now hence down by great claws and axes as volleys of bolter fire would keep them pinned down.
Ubba gave the order for all plasma weapons to now fire on the Mek along with the rockets from the Terminators.
" Hrehreh... lookz lyk da Baron did his job... Al'roight, listen up Gitz and Grotz ! Y'er all 'ere to take da 'Ive ! A buncha 'umiez and 'beakiez is tryna stop uz... but nothing... stops da Warboss !!
The green tide seemed endless and without relent, howling and cheering like the undisciplined rabble they were, eventually settling to a single chant SPINESHATTER... SPINESHATTER... SPINESHATTER !! they gathered around their leader in a hungering horde as he dug into a large bag of teeth, human, xeno, daemon, tossing them into the air as the orks squabbled for what was clearly treasure and currency to them, the ork warboss only laughed in a hefty tone as he saw the rabid greenskins fight over every last denticle. He commanded them with absolute cunning and brutality, it was obvious that the Imperial efforts had thus far not dented the greenskins morale, they still continued to make slow progress across the lines.
" I got billionsa teef, and datz a lot for any one of ya nobz dat'll bring me 'dere spinez, da big 'unz, da shiny 'unz, da runty 'unz dat talk too much, I'z got a 'ive to take, and someone needz ta keep da grotz in check otherwise I'd do it meself... hrn.
A burnt little gretchin scampered through the ranks clambering up the arm of the humongous ork warboss, and seeming to whisper in his ear, the boss rewarded his effort by tossing him in the air and catching the gretchin in his jaws with an audible chomp.
" Da Sistaz deserve a propah scrap... RELEASE DA SPEED FREEKZ "
A gate open to orkish cheers, revealing a huge mad-maxesque horde of orkish warmachines at the forefront of this parade was a massive host of warbikes, bristling to the brim with orkish shootaz, massive, stupidly non-sensical ballistic weapons, they tore up the earth and unleashed a dust storm, they rode by the warboss, some of them even riding through their own ranks, eager gretchins jumping on the bikes and war trukks, some of which had machine gun and rocket turrets on top.
" Urzak, you'z da sickest, da baddest, da meanest speed freek, in all da Arpat Secta !... I promised ya all da screamy 'umiez (women) ya wanted if we got in to da 'ive, but I got something better for ya... Sistaz... I know'z you luv sistaz hrahah.... kill 'em or take 'em... but I don't wont to 'ear of no sistaz ruinin ou'r konquest. "
It was obvious that the orkish biker in question mounted on a massive warbike was a champion amongst their species, his bike hosted immense spire which were sickeningly decorated with heads and one pattern seemed to emerge, it was mostly women. Orks tended to develop a sickening fascination with one type of foe, revelling in their suffering and this one had a personal vendetta against the sororitas, likely viewing them as the most entertaining foe, the top of the spire had unmistakable helmets... Sabbat Pattern Helmets
✠✠✠
" Lord General... Urgent News From The Front "
A bedraggled guardsman added lifting a dataslate, with a glint of hope in his eyes, at 1435 we registered a distress signal, the auspex does not detect a signature local or registered to Olegarius, a preliminary vox report off of surviving guardsmen retreating to Caelyst suggests there was an Arvus Lighter sighted in the sky tailed by an ork aircraft, fate unknown, we have been able to stir the machine spirits and the augur arrays picked up a faint signal, based on preliminary projections it appears to be 5 clicks off what would have been the route being taken through what the lighter must have presumed was guarded airspace.
" The worst timing... coensiding with the artillery strike... but a transport vessel... hrn... guardsman, your first and foremost duty is to man your posts, do you know why so many of you die when the theatre opens... it's because you panic... hesitation... impulse, fear... fear guardsman... is what the ork smells and gives no quarter too... I daresay the 2nd line signed their death warrants before a single shell was fired... a catastrophic misfortune... it matters not that the artillery crew faced summary execution by their regimental commissar for the action... our morale is predicated on being able to follow orders and hold the line... it is why commissars are a grim necessity... your orders were to hold the 2nd line... thank the Emperor that he has granted you a chance to redeem yourself at Caelyst..... don't give me that look man... your comrades orchestrated your undoing not me... now grab your lasgun and get back to your post ! "
It was evident a modicum of stress had settled over the Lord General, not over the prospect of victory or battle... but his immaculate reputation, he packed another lho-patch into his smoking pipe taking one final long drag and downing the glass of Amasec he poured for himself.. a bitter expression settled over the Lord General's face...
" I am Aleksandr Von Drakenfell... and I will not be mocked "
He stood up walking outside the trench, the grounds around Caelyst derelict, guardsmen, survivors and fresh troops alike hastily constructing defenses, valkyries dropping off mobile bunkers and supplies, heavy bolter and lascannon positions being prepared, the slow grinding hum of tank tracks and wheels chewing up the dirt as it navigated the crater marks ground, a plasteel and rockcrete edifice stood firm, its walls smouldered black in some places but it held firm, like a beacon of the Emperor's indomitable might against the maelstrom. Aleksandr issued a final glance to the towering walls and then to the statue... a defaced statue that only showed a commissar leading guardsmen forward.
" I will not be mocked "
Aleksandr repeated, as he marched, with due furor and determination.. towards his personal retinue and guardsmen relegated to his direct commands, Drakenfell's Dogs.
" Tempestor, ready the Chimera, we are embarking "
" But your grace, the defenses... the orks are nearly upon us... you can't leave us ! "
" SILENCE GUARDSMAN !... I AM NOT ABANDONING YOU, I AM SAVING YOUR HIDES... cast the notion of abandonment upon me again and i'll execute you on the spot man. "
Aleksandr delivered two hard smacks to the Guardsman's face before grasping him by the shoulders, gazing into the man's eyes intently, sharing the grim visage of their fates if they failed.
" You are an Imperial Guardsman damn you, damn your cowardice, damn your fear.... you... are a warrior, they...
Aleksandr pointed to the briefest flicker of light in the far distance, that of the hive and then to the cosmos above
" They are counting on you... wear your courage man... hold your las... to your feet... GUARDSMAN... WHAT IS YOUR DUTY ?
" My Duty Is Death "
" I CAN'T HEAR YOU !"
" MY DUTY IS DEATH SIR ! "
" That's my lad, my lads... by the Emperor, I won't let you die for nothing... you'll hold the line ? "
"Aye Sir, We'll Hold The Line"
Aleksandr saluted and the guardsman saluted back, other guardsmen looking in the distance saluted as well.
" Right, You Heard The Lord General Lads, Put Your Back Into It ! Astra... Militarum... Imperia... Victrix... Astra... Militarum... Imperia... Victrix"
✠✠✠
" Approaching crashsite... 10 clicks away... conducting auspex scan of perimeter... hostile signatures... 10... no 20... reducing approaching speed, engaging targeting cogitators, munitions selected... autocannon feed system cycling... acquiring targets... assessing threat level... squad of six over the ridge, navigating on the side... looks like the main force is trading fire... but it would appear to be a distraction... third squad suppressed by heavy oncoming fire... likely survivors in the wreckage... reducing auspex signature... those tankbusta's on the ridge will attempt to flush the survivors out with explosives, visual array shows several deceased enemies... the defenders have held their own for a while... I question the integrity of their munitions... "
Every ork scavenger for miles was attracted to the Sisters crash site, a mound of green had fallen around as wave after wave of Ork menace was mowed down by the sisters indomitable battle formation forming a ridges of bodies where they would have been sandbags, it was a horrible stalemate, the ground was too open for the sisters to make an advance, they'd be easy pickings there and the derelict lighter was hardly suitable cover, time and time again the orks had tried to raid towards it to harvest any treasure... but the crater provided a strong and defensible position.
" Guard Squad, depart vehicle and execute rescue mission with extreme prejudice and haste... we're a sore thumb in open ground like this, Chimera gunner... you have my sanction... unleash fire... move 4 clicks out towards the left and depart, the hull gunner will lay suppressive fire in an arc, we will evacuate the sisters from the wreck, load them in the Chimera and depart for Caelyst... The Emperor Protects... Go... GO ! "
TCHUNK.. TCHUNK... TCHUNK...
Autocannon fire, it had an unmistakable hefty sound to it, like the Emperor's chimes, shells flew through the haze and smoke and slammed into the side of the ramshackle orkish formation, where it hit cover sparks flew, where it hit ork, green and red confetti remained, the explosive fragmentation of the rounds shredded multiple orks, including a rocket armed squad equipping themselves to launch a rocket attack at an angle to undermine the Sisters position. The orks were caught off guard by the flanking maneuver, the guardsmen rushed in, charging in with overcharged lascarbine that shot out in perfect succession, searing and burning through the ork boyz. It was a methodically conducted, well drilled assault the disorientation of autocannon shells, then grenades and hails of bolter fire from the Chimera, the surgical precision Aleksandr was known for, the shock and awe seemed to rout the orks whom were used to fighting humans on their own terms...
" FORWARD ! "
Then like a madman, Aleksandr rushed ahead of the ranks, through splintered return fire from the orks, the rev of a chainsaw as an Orkish head was rended clean off the neck, bolt-pistol rounds decimating the skull of another, the other orks seemed to make a break for it, Aleksandr giving chase, his chainsword revving, his stature a pinnacle of imperial glory, gritting his teeth with utmost hatred. Jumping upon an Ork as he drove his chainsword into it's gullet.
" Forward you dogs ! Do you want the Emperor to witness you ? VINDICATION !
His men backed him up with a coordinated war cry charging forward, taking position, loosing another volley, charging forward, taking cover, loosing another accurate volley, splitting orc limbs clean off with combined fire power and turning others to swiss cheese, hails of bolter shells from below and the side causing the orkish morale to break and for them to flee.
" That's right you green bastards ! The Emperor gives no quarter ! "
Aleksandr added with vicious triumph, reaching out a hand as one of the tempestors handed him a cloth to wipe his chainsword clean. The rescue team clambered down the slope of the crater, Aleksandr meeting Athene's gaze, formalities exchanged, but it was obvious the Lord General was very... very glad to see her.
" Ah, Sister, Welcome to Olegarius, I wish I could offer more favorable terms but as you can see, we find ourselves in a bit of a predicament... I shall still gladly wish to give you a personally guided tour of the battle lines... it seems you've already taken the liberty of orienting yourself to the menace... and I was worried you'd leave none for us... by the Emperor... is that a killer can?... how in terra did you manage to... nevermind... too many questions I take it... I will-
An immense explosion sounded towards the flank, Aleksandr's expression immediately soured
" By the Emperor... what is it now "
The rumbling sound of loud music and revving engines grew louder and louder, there wasn't much time to waste, Aleksandr immediately began rushing back to the Chimera.
" LORD GENERAL !!!.... LORD GENERAL !!! "
A somewhat scorched looking vehicle driver ran at the top of his lungs towards the group, he would have appeared to be a small little blip on the horizon, but his loud, lung bursting shouts were just about audible.
GLLRTCH!
"Ork Battle Theme"
A massive harpoon attached to a chain tore through the man's chest, his screams sound as he was thrust back into the cloud of smoke and dust, the engines became all but deafening as did the music, Ork warbikes erupted from the clouds, laughing as they did tossing molotovs and loosing gunfire, the guards at Aleksandr's side, fell and collapsed.
" FALLBACK... FALLBACK AND TAKE COVER ! "
He commanded stepping back, an ork bike whirring past impaling another guardsmen, another caught by the boot with chains before essentially being drawn and quartered behind a bike..
It was Urzak
He paused just shy of the wreck of the Arvus lighter,
" Alright ya git ! I already done in 'ya tin can so nowz you got nowhere ta go...me and my boyz'll make it simple... give up da sistaz and we'll let ya live... otherwise... we'll take da lot o' ya "
Aleksandr issued a glance towards Athene, several thoughts going through his head, before he turned back to the wreck of the Arvus lighter and then to one of his subordinates
" Hand me one of your powerpacks guardsman and a combat knight "
Aleksandr added, frantically cutting loose wires hanging from the top of the arvus lighter and looking at the bashed up vox array within
" This might just work, if I can reroute power to the onboard systems, I might be able to stir the machine spirit from slumber, I can then patch a vox to aeronautica command at Daimiel to dispatch a Thunderbolt sortie... "
Aleksandr sighed, looking back at Athene, almost reprimanding himself for the notion.
" You're going to have to buy us time Sister... my men's lives are yours... If we die, we die in the Emperor's name alongside you... a shame that I could not exercise further tactical discretion to give you a better welcome unto this hellscape... The Emperor protects "
The tempestor looked at Aleksandr and nodded and then back to Athene,
" Yours to command, Ma'am "
The orks began circling around with their bikes,
" I WANT DA SISTAZ "
Athene wrote:
(Jason Issacs as Zhukov is such a perfect basis for the imagery.)
"OOC"
A great actor in a great movie - literally how I wanted this character to be, this scene gets me everytime.
He's that mixed with Montrose from Rob Roy
BBCode error: Problem displaying youtube video. Please read the manual for help.
He's that mixed with Montrose from Rob Roy
BBCode error: Problem displaying youtube video. Please read the manual for help.
Only by the Fires of Vindication and the Virtues of Judgement can the Forces of Ruination be kept in Abeyance, By the Ancient Rite of The Purge.
We Are His Wrath Manifest
A crackling meteor arced in the skies far above Arpat Primaris, an obsidian comet which cast a dread in the crimson eyes of those greenskins whom beheld it from afar, its presence meant only one thing to them, an assurance of annihilation the inkling of primal fear that even they could not forego no longer privy to the illusion of dominance afforded to them through those of weak faith and poor resolve. Nothing made Arpat Primaris remarkable in that sense, it was a world that should have been condemned to its fate, to destruction, as many other imperial worlds, moreso frontiers of this nature had been here, the light of the astronomican was bleak, a dim island illuminated by the subtlest glow of a lighthouse in the celestial sea.
One could only imagine that somewhere in that hive, families praying for their own, the communion of guards and the myriad invocations that now doubtless rung in every ministorum hovel in the hive had cast a beam of faith so radiant that the damning sins which were a lack of vigilance and due courage when Olegarius was but a hive were forgiven, the carnage a stark reminder of what happened when pride-borne underestimations and ignorance suffered the xeno to live its miserable life, unbeknownst that a savage and primitive vermin horde would erupt to feed upon humans, as time immemorial had suggested, the grim darkness of this future did not so easily forgive a lack of caution.
Glory then, to The Emperor, for he protecteth his own and sent forth unto them those who would exercise Righteous Deliverance.
The jet black palanquin slammed into the earth with a monumental velocity, the orks still consumed by the momentary momentum gained by their onslaught on the spacewolves were momentarily dumbfounded, at first the object refused to shift, yet they gathered around it, instinctively, herding as they did, the primitive tactic of safety in numbers, considering the prospect of shooting first and asking questions later but something unnerved them... something else... in the sky...
Lo, The Black Horse and Its Rider Wielded The Scale
Revelation 6:5
The two Thunderhawks broke cloud at attack altitude, their machine-spirits growling as auspex arrays snapped into full clarity. Brother-Captain Rhelion’s display bloomed with threat glyphs, heat plumes from burna wagons, crude reactor spikes from a looted Gargant arm, the dense bio-signature mass of an ork spearhead surging toward the bastion below.
“Priority target acquired,” Rhelion voxed. “Mega-armour cluster, center-left. Marking.”
A targeting rune flared amber, data slaved instantly to Brother-Sergeant Kordell's gunship. Kordell rolled his Thunderhawk into a banking turn, flaring retros to bleed speed while maintaining overlapping fire arcs. Ork flak stitched the air, inelegant, voluminous, lethal only by chance. Void shields shimmered as shells detonated harmlessly against ceramite and faith.
“Commencing attack run,” Kordell intoned.
Rhelion pushed the yoke forward, diving hard. The Thunderhawk’s nose-mounted twin-linked lascannons spat coherent fury, punching incandescent holes through trukks and detonating their fuel reserves in rolling fireballs. Below, ork formations shattered, momentum collapsing into chaos. Heavy bolter sponsons roared next, mass-reactive shells walking methodically through mobs, reducing bodies to mist and fragments.
Kordell loosed the payload from afar.
Hellstrike missiles screamed from their racks, tracking the marked mega-armour cluster. Impact came a heartbeat later, vengeful fire, shockwave, then a crater where a nob retinue had been. Survivors burned, armour slagged to useless ruin. Instantly carving through a third of the orkish ranks.
Rhelion pulled up sharply, engaging vectored thrusters to pivot into a high-G turn that would have pulped a mortal crew. The Thunderhawk answered obediently, rolling into a second pass. Lasfire chattered, saturating the breach line as drop-pod coordinates flashed green.
“Landing zone secured,” Rhelion voxed. “Ground forces may deploy.”
Below, the Waaagh showed signs of faltering, the spine-shatterers had their spine shattered, its war engines aflame. Above it all, the Astral Fists’ gunships circled like patient executioners, wrath measured, unrelenting.
“For the Emperor,” Kordell said quietly.
“Unyielding" Rhelion replied, lining up to deploy the onboard marines
✠✠✠
Ceramite petals detonated outward with a hiss of venting seals, flooding the impact crater with cold, misting vapor. Warning klaxons died mid-note as the chamber depressurized, and for a heartbeat there was only the sound of settling dust and the distant bellow of orks desperately gathering courage.
A single hefty bootfall announced him, a spectre of the emperor's fury given form, pallid eyes attuned to target signatures, the half-skull warmask glinting in dust-choked light and his skin a harrowing ashen white. Midnight-blue plate drank the light, its edges scarred and sanctified by countless campaigns. On his pauldron, stark and unmistakable, the clenched fist of the Astral Fists glared back at the enemy. A red loincloth hung motionless despite the heat, a relic of honor rather than ornament. He did not rush. He did not roar. He simply stood, framed by hissing vapor and fractured ground, a figure of absolute finality.
Within his helm, cogitators awakened in cascading sequence. Auspex returns bloomed across his vision range, mass, threat hierarchy each ork tagged, measured, and quietly sentenced. Motion-predictive subroutines whispered probabilities. Target lines ghosted across green flesh. His reflexes, already transhuman, were sharpened further by buried augmetics and hallowed techno-craft. The world slowed, obediently. In his right hand, an advanced-pattern bolter, mag-locked, sanctified, its machine-spirit purring as ammunition feeds aligned. In his left, a chainsword hung low, teeth still, patient.
The orks hesitated. They felt it then not fear as men knew it, but perturbation, a pressure in the gut and behind the eyes. Something was wrong. This thing did not charge. It watched. It waited. Smoke curled around him like incense around an altar, and the silence stretched thin enough to break.The chainsword came alive. Its engine growled, then rose into a screaming rev that cut through the battlefield’s din, a predator’s promise given sound. The nearest boy flinched. Another took a step back. Somewhere, a nob barked an order that lacked conviction.
Xander tilted his helm, cogitators finalizing firing solutions, chainsword climbing toward full fury.
He spoke one word as the bolter's safety rune winked out.
“Run.”
"Battle Theme"
✠✠✠
Their fate was sealed at first bolt.
Mass-reactive shells detonated inside the horde. Orks ceased to exist as coherent shapes torsos ruptured, limbs hurled aside, crude armor torn open like tin. Xander Vornn advanced with mechanical inevitability, each step synchronized to recoil compensation and target cycling. His bolter barked in disciplined bursts, then full-auto, the machine-spirit howling as the magazine ran dry amid a carpet of broken bodies. He did not pause. The empty mag dropped free.
A drum magazine slammed home with a servo-assisted snap, locking in place as the weapon’s pitch deepened. The assault bolter roared, sustained, merciless. Entire mobs folded under the barrage, ork flesh atomized into a pulped slurry of green muscle and red ruin. Every bootfall crushed wet remains, the ground reduced to a slick paste churned by ceramite tread. Orks tried to surge forward and were simply erased, their momentum collapsing into detonations and smoke.
Then the jetpack ignited.
Xander launched skyward in a burst of white-hot thrust, clearing the horde in a single predatory arc. Mid-flight, he drew a second bolter, one in each hand, firing downward as targeting arrays recalculated in real time. Shells rained into clustered bodies, explosions overlapping, shockwaves rippling through ranks already breaking apart. Heads vanished. Chests bloomed outward. Orks died looking up, too slow to comprehend what was killing them. Landing amongst them the jetpack cut. The chainsword came up. The revving blade bit deep, chewing through flesh, bone, and crude metal alike. Each swing was economical, brutal, cleave, rip, retract. The bolter thundered between strikes, point-blank detonations turning charging bodies into clouds of debris. Blood slicked his armor, sprayed across midnight-blue plate, but he neither slowed nor adjusted. He moved like a machine designed solely for slaughter. When the immediate press broke, he kept going stepping into it, cutting, firing, crushing until the space around him was a ring of mangled corpses and churned ruin. The horde was no longer advancing. It was dissolving.
The extermination was absolute.
✠✠✠
The press bodies thinned ahead of Xander Vornn, not from retreat but from sustained slaughter, and through the smoke and flying debris he identified the perpetrators of this massacre of orks.
Space Wolves.
They were embedded deep, fighting in a dense knot of motion and steel, their storm-grey armor streaked dark with blood and ash. Chainblades and frost weapons rose and fell in brutal arcs, each strike decisive, each step taken over the fallen. Orks died hard around them, dragged down, split open, crushed under armored boots. The Wolves gave ground only where it served the kill.
Xander altered course by three degrees and entered the brutal stalemate Bolter fire stitched laterally across the ork flank, detonations tearing pressure off the Wolves’ left. He moved through the gap he created, precise and implacable, until he stood amid them midnight blue among storm-grey. Orks died between them, caught in overlapping arcs of violence. Xander beheld Ubba Graystorm, massive even by Astartes standards, his armor adorned with wolf pelts stiffened by blood and ash. His power axe dripped green ichor. For a moment, the two warriors simply regarded one another, engines snarling, weapons hot.
Identification runes flashed. Astartes confirmed.
Xander inclined his helm briefly, it was acknowledgment, not ceremony and transmitted clean, clipped vox-bursts. The Astral Fists were inbound in force. The ork numbers ahead would be culled. “We will thin their numbers, a corridor will be cut. A clear run to the trophy that the Emperor has rightfully granted unto you, Brother Graystorm... we will ensure there is no interference ”
No further exchange was required. Xander pivoted away from the Wolves and advanced alone, already accelerating his rate of fire. His cogitators redrew the battlefield in layered vectors and probabilities, highlighting choke points and dense concentrations. He began cutting the corridor immediately bolter roaring, targets collapsing in sequence, the horde peeling back under sustained annihilation. The Space Wolves consolidated, it was time for them to give chase to their prey. The massive mek-bound ork seemed to step back, meeting Ubba's eyes briefly in the distance. He would not escape their charge
The Astral Fists came on like a moving wall. Boarding shields locked edge to edge, their midnight-blue ranks advanced in disciplined unison, pistons hissing, servos grinding under the accumulated weight of war. Impact detonations blossomed harmlessly across the shields as crude ork fire struck and failed. Behind the ceramite barrier, assault bolters rose and fell in synchronized cadence, drum magazines cycling as torrents of mass-reactive fire scythed forward.
The green sea broke against them and was cleft in twain.
Bolter shells tore lanes through flesh and scrap-armor alike, detonating within packed bodies, reducing momentum to ruin. Orks surged, only to be crushed under overlapping fields of fire, their corpses piling into a churned berm of meat and metal. The formation never stopped. Step. Fire. Advance. Shields absorbed the fury; bolters delivered judgment. At the flanks, the Space Wolves moved like predators unleashed. Where mobs attempted to flow around the formation, they were met with sudden violence, packs crashing into the ork sides, axes and chainblades tearing gaps before withdrawing again, leaving only dismembered bodies and confusion behind. Any attempt to undermine, encircle, or stall the advance was answered with savage counterassault, the Wolves bleeding pressure away before it could build.
The Astral Fists did not deviate. They cleaved forward, a perfect axis of destruction, splitting the horde into two collapsing halves. The corridor lengthened with every synchronized step, bordered by smoking corpses and shattered wargear. The ground became impassable to the dead and dying, a trench of crushed green and red sludge marking their path.
The way ahead was stripped clean by fire and shield.
Behind the moving wall, the path stood open, waiting for the charge that would follow.
Brutal and Undeniable
(Waiting on Athene's post)
“Watchmaster Kreel and Grenadier Squad 3-17 are hereby detached for special operations. Proceed to new coordinates. Accept operational command from Imperial authority until further notice. Expend lives as required.”
“In His name, compliance is absolute.”
“In His name, compliance is absolute.”
The sky was lit ablaze, akin to a torrential firestorm that grew chaotic by the second. Only when the Thunderhawks punched into frame with concise attack vectors, dropping ordnance across the plains, could a shift be felt in the Imperium’s favor. The retaliatory anti-air fire from the Orks were as expected; crude and erratic as green tracers and flak bursts went off prematurely, or way off target.
Mostly.
Riding in the wake of this aerial storm came something smaller. A Valkyrie assault lander deviated from the Thunderhawk’s attack formation, its hull pummeled with shrapnel as the exposed plating trembled violently from a detonated flak on port side. Inside, Watchmaster Mortan Kreel stood behind the pilot to observe what he could through the canopy. He gripped a restraint bar with his gauntleted hand, mag-boots locked, as his rebreather hissed with a steady rhythm amongst the cacophony of explosions, screaming metal, and dying engines.
Behind him were ten Krieger Grenadiers matching in appearance, masked with painted skulls on their face plates. In the dimly lit bay, their optical lenses beamed a crimson red, making them look like monsters awaiting to be summoned.
The pilot’s vox roared onto the speakers:
“Port stabilizer is…compromised. Vector can’t be maintained. Emergency landing in three minutes–”
The Valkyrie jerked from a flak explosion, but Kreel did not move. He activated his auspex the moment the pilot confirmed their status. The rune display flickered from the interference, showing their current heading, but his eyes shifted back to the fortress wall looming ahead. It was badly damaged, but still intact, and at the base of the smoky rubble were fast moving Orks. Not just some random war mob either. It was a breaching group. Kreel keyed into the squad vox.
“Contact. Ork assault element. Nine to twelve. Heavy equipment.”
The Valkyrie screamed as something struck its underside.
“Brace!” the pilot shouted.
The impact ripped the landing struts clean off. The Valkyrie skimmed across churned rubble, shattering a trenchline before slamming into a ferrocrete support lattice.The bay door blew open with a pressurized force, ejecting a wash of smoke, dust, and sparks. The grenadiers emerged with instant calculation, trailing their Watchmaster in a loose formation, weapons fixed at the base of the wall as they found proper cover. One grenadier stayed behind to drag the pilot clear of the cockpit before rejoining the squad.
“Objective updated,” Kreel voxed. “Prevent breach. Invoke wrath.”
The crash had diverted the breach party’s attention. The greenskins roared with laughter at this newfound turn of events. The Nob of the pack raised a fist and bellowed something obscene as it commanded a volley of rockets at the downed Valkyrie.
Before their dilapidated weapons could be raised and centered, Krieger hellguns opened fire. Each volley punched with intention, ripping through slapstick armor and brutish flesh alike. Fragmentation bursts quickly followed, tearing limbs from bodies and scattering the Ork advance in mere seconds. The Nob, however, persisted. There were no jokes to be had now. Only rage. This was when an Ork was most dangerous. Where anger would dampen efficiency in a human, it merely gives purpose to a greenskin. Focus. Determination. Enthusiasm. Some Orks rose injured, but with renewed vigor, they regrouped around the Nob in a battle frenzy.
Kreel advanced to meet them head on.
“Fix bayonets.” The Watchmaster voxed, jumping through the fire that lingered from his squad’s grenade volley, power sword cackling.
The Nob arced its wrench-axe down with a powerful quickness, blowing away some of the flames in the process. Kreel would’ve been split in two had he not rolled towards the Ork’s center mass. A quick flick from his power sword rendered one of the Nob’s legs useless, arteries rupturing from a surgical cut, but that didn’t stop the Ork from swinging. Kreel wasn’t fast enough this time. The wrench end of the greenskin’s weapon thudded against Kreel’s arm, dislocating his shoulder, as he was sent flying to the ground. In that instant the grenadiers appeared, colliding with the Orks in a close-range brawl that interrupted their duel, but The Nob still set its sights on the Watchmaster.
It limped towards Kreel’s downed body as dark ooze gushed from its own wounded leg. It used the wrench-axe as a crutch, thrashing whoever stood in its way with its free hand. Shotguns barked. Blades stabbed with gruesome noises and sounds. Kreel quickly came to, rolling onto his back with the Nob just a few feet away.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Before the giant brute could sense what was happening, a grenadier advanced with a melta-charge, sticking it on the Ork’s chestplate, then stabbed the spade of his shovel into its neck for good measure. The Nob fiercely snatched the grenadier with its free hand. It squeezed until Krieger bones shattered in its palm, then roared with satisfaction as it threw the limp body over its shoulder.
Kreel jolted into action. He let go of his power sword and reached for the laspistol on his side holster, hip firing at the melta-charge. Two bolts ricocheted off the Nob’s chestplate before the last one hit its mark. The explosion rattled Kreel’s body, but he rose immediately. When the smoke cleared, and nothing green was left standing, he was joined by the rest of his men. The Watchmaster counted nine. Only one grenadier died, and it was an efficient death at that.
This was a satisfactory outcome.
“Grenadier Alkner-17, of the 23rd BCs. The Emperor has received you.” Watchmaster Kreel spoke aloud, the tinny reverberation from his face mask harmonizing with a gruff, low register. The grenadiers responded in unison:
“By His will, you stood. By His will, you fell.”
A moment of silence was given, but it was cut short as Kreel ordered the Senior Grenadier to help with his dislocated shoulder. He glanced over at where the Nob once was, fascinated at how the Wrench-Axe was all that remained of the brute, before assessing Caelyst’s wall.
“This is Watchmaster Kreel of Grenadier Squad 3-17 from the 23rd BCs,” He said on vox, conveying little to no reaction as his squadmate popped his shoulder back into place. “Breach attempt has been intercepted. Enemy neutralized. Requesting vector to primary defensive line.”
Watchmaster Kreel's theme song
(Kreel, you go after me next time in order)
(Apologies for skipping the line! Think I got a little too excited. Happy to be in this fight with you all. The sitrep is much appreciated!)
The officer lowered his binoculars a fraction, knuckles white around the leather-wrapped grips. Even at distance, the plain was a slaughterhouse fire rolling in sheets, smoke climbing in oily pillars. Thunderhawks had already passed, leaving only falling debris and burning wreckage in their wake. A brief cheer arose from the trenches, but the officer did not shift his gaze, his lenses tracked the smaller silhouette as it broke formation, spiraling down hard. A Valkyrie.
" Vox-Corporal! I want you to mark the position of this crash site, see if you can rouse the machine spirit to divine any prior frequencies coming from an astra militarum signature... those are guard symbols on the valkyrie, different though... I wonder whether the Lord General had sanctioned the mobilization of drop troops. "
" At once, sergeant ! "
The platoon vox crackled as coordinates were relayed down the trench. Around the sergeant, men of the 2nd and 3rd Daimiel battalions lay pressed into mud and shell-scraped earth, lasguns braced, waiting for the next green wave to crest. The atmosphere was tense, augur picking up a distant presence as mere crackles on the radio, slowly getting more pronounced, an ork static of sorts, little more than beastly jargon and hubris that got louder, the slow appearance of blips on an auspex screen, sweat upon brows, nothing visible in the thick smoke.
The binoculars rose again
He saw them then, figures in long coats and grim masks spilling from the wreck, moving with terrifying precision despite the flames. Krieg grenadiers. The officer exhaled through his teeth.
“ Sir, they're our own,” the vox-corporal said from within the trench, “they’re right in no man's land.”
“I know,”
The officer replied. His thumb hovered over the vox bead at his collar. For a moment, he considered it. A push forward. A relief maneuver. Something. Afterall, what guardsman could turn a blind eye to his comrades in earnest?
The fury of the Lord General’s last transmission ended the thought.
Hold the line.
No advances. No deviations.
“Negative on rescue, we stay put. If we break, the wall breaks. The Emperor Protects.”
he said, voice flat as he issued his command, not a single man left the trenches. Acknowledgements resounded. No arguments. Just acceptance.
Through the binoculars, Sergeant Kilearn watched in awe, the fight resolved itself in brutal clarity. Hellgun fire flashed like needles of light. Orks fell apart in pieces, surged again, then vanished in detonations that kicked dust and limbs skyward. He watched a massive brute stagger, refuse to die, then disappear in a concussive bloom that left nothing standing where it had been.
" Such masterful carnage "
The grenadiers regrouped. Counted their own. One fewer.
The officer lowered the binoculars slowly, the men around him waiting for a response, the vox-corporal all but aware as threat runes slowly disappeared from the auspex rune, the machine spirits anxiety quelled.
The officer finally spoke, awe cutting through the discipline he’d worn all day.
“By the Emperor,”
“They killed them all.”
" Sir, there's something ! "
The Sergeant rushed over leaning as the Vox-Corporal pinned down the signal
" Watchmaster Kreel, we bid you welcome to the Caelyst defense, I am Sergeant Kilearn, we are remnants of the Daimiel 2nd and 3rd battalions ordered to hold at Caelyst, your reinforcement is commended with praise. We will send a small squad to rendezvous with you at a derelict bunker, 5 clicks southwest, as per my intelligence, this emplacement was just outside of the artillery bombardment zone and should have its defensive infrastructure intact, I believe you will find it suitable for resupply... as per our auspex, enemy forces will soon be inbound, you will have just enough time to resupply and set up position. "
The vox-corporal seemed a bit resistant to the Sergeant's commands,
" But Sergeant, that will put them at the brunt of the next assault, they're still a good few clicks ahead of the main line. You're practically throwing them to the orks "
The sergeant issued a reprimanding gaze
" They're not throw-away conscripts like we're used to corporal, those are Krieger's, I'd wager on them versus every single man in this trench and the others, if they hold that bunker, it'll be the first time we've captured ground in weeks... do you realize what sort of message that will send to the others, atleast that way I can be sure they won't flee the trenches when the orks inevitably take one out... what the guardsmen saw was other guardsmen take out orks in near melee, with flawless execution... morale Vox-Corporal, the best thing on a battlefield like this... the Kriegers don't need it, but we do... I've sent a forward element to support them... truth be told they don't need it... but I don't want them dead when they repel the attack... they will get the job done either way... I'm sending men to make sure they're alive at the end of it "
The vox-corporal silenced his protest but in truth, everyone in that trench praised the heroism of Kreel and his men, Kreel probably realized he was being ordered away from the main defensive line, slightly ahead of it, perhaps he could relate to how the decision was tactically sound, they weren't trusted right away... in truth maybe even the Sergeant cast his doubts on whether something truly human could face the orks much as they just did, nevertheless they were offered a favorable position, and as per Aleksandr, the only purpose reinforcements served was to capture ground, not to defend it.
A bunker hill would be the next destination.
The sergeant had relegated 10 of his men and a supply complement in a Taurox transport to rendezvous with them, it was evident fuel, armor and supplies had dwindled, if the Krieger's could secure the position, a large stash of resources would be acquired doubtless these forward positions were abandoned in haste to keep the orks preoccupied with looting and delay the inevitable assault.
Clad in blue helmets and armor, the daimiel guardsmen from Aleksandr's personal battalions awaited their Krieger comrades, at their forefront, Sergeant Kilearn himself, eager to meet Watchmaster Kreel.
An hour ago, Upper Landing Platform 12 Alpha, Hive Olegarius
A woman sat on the edge of the landing platform, her left leg dangling over the edge as her gaze falls upon the Hive City before her. Her right leg tugged tightly against her chest, and hugged by her arms as her chin rested on her knee. The wind blew gently, as a few flashes could be seen on the horizon between the spires and towering buildings ahead.
The gentle tapping sound of boots approached behind the woman, as a man's voice spoke "Wing-Sergeant?".
Lycia replied softly, her gaze fixed out towards the distance where battle had commenced "Varus. I am not sure it makes sense for you to keep calling me by rank". Varus steps closer, barely the length of an arm away from Lycia "I like formalities" he says, then continues "News from the Officio Logis Strategos and I suppose Fort Daimiel". Varus paused and waited for a reply from Lycia. "Wing-Sergeant?" he pressed.
With a deep breath, Lycia stood up and rests her feet just with the tip of her boots sticking out over the edge "Are we still grounded?" she asked, then turned and caught Varus's gaze. He shook his head a little "A general - The general, is pushing forward I believe. We won't be forced to wait here to evacuate nobility, important officers and whatnot.". Lycia smirked at Varus, then stepped forwards him as if about to go straight through his body. He stepped aside quickly, and walked byLycia's side as they walk across the platform. Before long, they push through a few doors and entered the adjacent hangar. Lycia walked with purpose past the civilian pilots, the Astra Militarum pilots and the few other Aeronautica Imperialis like herself.
She turned a few corners and then stood before ten people sitting around in a room, visibly bored out of their minds. One of them, Corporal Kithrilien, spotted her and immediately raisesd her voice "Wing-Sergeant Lycia" as more of a warning, than a greeting. Everyone from her squadron got up and looked at Lycia expectantly "Grab your gear, we're heading to Fort Daimiel. Ten minutes" Lycia said in a clear voice, and they immediately grabbed their bags and walked out the door that Lycia had come from. Varus remained standing by her side, until everyone else had left the room "Think they're going to let us through?" he asked calmly. Lycia then glanced down at her uniform, at the medal resting on her chest. Polished, new and crisp like her uniform. A formality, insignia, commendations, her Wing-Sergeant stripes and even a hat on her head signifying her as Squadron Commander. On her chest, a silvery insignia, proof of her duty in the Aeronautica Imperialis. "They might not let me through, but a medal might do. While I appreciate their service to the Emperor, Varus, these guards often see great glory in metal pinned to a chest, more so than the person wearing it" Lycia said, then turned on her heel and follows her squadron. Varus sighed and follows suit, his uniform quite similar to hers but one patch was different on his chest 'Navigator'.
... Half an hour later ...
Fort Daimiel, Landing 1 Alpha, Outskirts of Hive Olegarius
Fort Daimiel, Landing 1 Alpha, Outskirts of Hive Olegarius
The squadron stepped out of the transport shuttle and walked with haste through Fort Daimiel, directly over to Hangar 4. A guard stepped in front of Lycia and raised a hand "Halt. This area is off li-.., before he finished his sentence, Lycia stepped forward and gazed at the guard. After a few seconds, his jaw was raised to meet with the rest of his skull as his mouth closed and he stepped aside "Apologies, Wing-Sergeant" he said. Lycia stepped past him and unbeknownst to her, a few from her squadron shoulders the guard and pushed him aside on their way in.
From the group behind her "Wing-Sergeant?", Varus intercepted "Callsigns. Use callsigns in the hangar and during flight." and the woman corrected herself "Spectre. What do we know about the enemy? Are we heading into battle?". Lycia kept walking, as they came to a hangar door and a few rush ahead of her to push it open to reveal four aircrafts in a great hall that lit up with heavy thunking sounds, as rows of lamps illuminated the hangar. "Orks. Prepare all ships. Full checklist. Report to me when you're done. Weapon systems check as well. Understood?"
Lycia and her squadron moved over to lockers lined up along the wall, large crates placed on the ground all around the hangar, and long belts of ammunition lined up. The locker before her heads 'Spectre', her callsign. She unlocks it and with an energetic eagerness removed her hat and threw it into the locker, and carefully removed her uniform piece by piece and placed it safely inside. While she secretly resented wearing it, she had always kept it pristine and now with her recent medal adding to it, it is sure to draw more attention. As her uniform was hung up, she glanced down the row of eleven crew members to her right all looking to her. She smiled a little to herself, looking at them all waiting for the cue. Lycia then reached into her locker and immediately her motion is copied throughout the line. All of them rushed to put on their uniforms correctly and lining up the second they are done. Two-by-two checking each others gear before calling out in groups "Ready!". As per usual, Lycia and Varus finish first.
"Prepare your aircrafts!" she yelled, as the squadron rushes to prepare. Lycia walked calmly past the aircrafts, one by one.. Four aircrafts total in her squadron. Hers at the very end - A Vendetta, callsign 'Banshee' written in letters on either side of the cockpit. A symbol painted on all four crafts, a crimson coloured eagle talon gripping and crushing the skull of an ork. The ships a matte black colour, with a crimson undertone. On the floor before each ship, the words 'Crimson Talon 4' or CT4.
... A moment later ...
Lycia slid into her cockpit and ran a systems check. She strapped in tightly, pulled her helmet on and connected it with the console before her. A visor slid down and lit up, streams of data running before her eyes while her hands moved like a pianist, touching every key, adjusting everything to her needs as the 'Banshee' purred, then growled and clicked as it is readied. She then reached over and flicked on the vox-coms.
Command: "Krrrrkkkkkkzz.. CT-4, CT-4 do you read me, over? Krrrrkkkzz.. "
CT-4: "CT-4 here, Spectre. You've got static, but I hear you. Over."
Command: "CT-4, CT-4, Spectre. Requesting immediate air support, I repeat, immediate air support. Evacuation of key personnel. Over."
CT-4: "Acknowledged, command. Nav taking coms Spectre. Over"
Lycia adjusted the vox-com and yelled back to Varus "Varus, central coms are yours. Switching to squad coms.".
With hands moving quickly, Lycia flipped switches and grabbed the controls as the Vendetta roared to life and lights began to spin in the hangar, the doors being pulled open eagerly by a group of Astra militarum. Lycia glanced to her left at the other Vendetta and two Valkyries and saw raised hands from the pilots and navigators. She then pushed forward, her aircraft just touching off the ground and gliding forward out below clear skies, as she listened in on the radio communication between Varus and command, picking up important details. Orks. Motorbikes. Music. Crater. General. Sororitas... Then coordinates. She pulled hard at her controls and kicked a leg down as her aircraft roars upwards and almost with a blast pushing forward. Her body weight forced back into her seat as she breathed hard, squeezing her thighs and tightening her muscles to absorb the G-force from the custom thrusters on her ship.
Don't worry, brothers and sisters. We're coming.
Roaring across the battlefield, the two Vendettas flanked by two valkyries approached the Lord-General and the Sisters. Gliding over terrain with roaring speed. As Lycia held onto the controls, she could not help but to smirk, smile and then laugh. Adrenaline filling her body as she saw the crater up ahead - On vox-coms "Hey Talon and Banshee navigator. I hear these orks like music. Let us give them some! Dagger, Ripper - Strafing runs along either side of the orks, create a corridor! Talon and Banshee hang back by two seconds, full bolter run, hammer them down!".
Above the Lord-General and the sister, two Valkyries thunder overhead, bolters roaring as they perform a brief dive - Followed by the two heavy gunships Banshee and Talon, eight heavy bolters in rapid fire in a danger-close height just above the crater.
The valkyries immediately circled away, as the Banshee and Talon elevated their flight pattern, as their grenade launchers opened fire - Thump, thump, thump! As a rain of smoke grenades blasted into the ground amongst the bikers, exploding in large clouds that cover the battlefield in a thick smoke. The bikers blinded as they raced forward, unable to see rocks, dangerous terrain and even allies. With the explosion of the smoke, ear-deafening music blasts from speakers from all four aircrafts in unison.
Lycia's tactic - Surprise them. Blind them. Deafen them.
Through speakers, Lycia yelled across the battlefield: "FOR THE EMPEROR!!" followed by loud music.
Suddenly by the crater, the Banshee flew over, performed a dangerously sharp turn and landed on the ground. Lycia saluted from inside the cockpit as it opened and she yelled "NEED A RIDE?! HOP IN!" as the ramp on the back of the aircraft popped open and hit the ground. The music booming, valkyries and other vendetta circling above, weapons roaring.
Lycia awaited, ready to close the cockpit and take off wherever they might need - At your orders!
For the first time in his complicated career, Flight Lieutenant Darius Kellan was having a panic attack. He was sure of it. The pilot tried slowing his breath, but the waves of anxiety quickly broke through his mental levees, sweeping him back into a state of disarray.
Get a hold of yourself, Private Gutless!
The unpleasant memory of flight instructor, Wingmaster Edren Voss, was too vivid for his liking. Darius sunk back into that vulnerable cadet of his past self, hand rubbing his strained eyelids from shame, never daring to so much as glance up at his superior. That feeling of wanting to curl up into a ball and disappear into the flight pod chair felt too real.
I don’t want to be here.
“Do you even know what a Valkyrie is, trainee?” The venom in Edren’s quip bounced around the sim walls, making his head spin. “You’re so busy with your head up your own gauges that you’ve completely lost sight of the battlefield!” Kellan winced, trying not to focus on the cadets snickering outside of the flight pod.
“B-but sir, I reduced lift at that vector and stabilized long enough to avoid fuselage torsion–”
Voss slapped Darius across the face three times to punctuate three words. As he did, past trauma tore into his mind like wicked bolts, flash transitioning through unwanted memories at the crack of each slap: “The. Big. Picture!”
“Affirmative.” A gloved hand touched his shoulder, shaking the pilot from near-psychosis. Lieutenant Darius sucked in the promethium-riddled air, coughing from the smoke and ash that tinged his lungs. His eyes focused onto the shadowy figure hovering over him, noting the painted skull on his shielded face. Darius gathered himself, scrambling to piece together the events that led up to this point.
He remembered the canopy punching inward, the mounds of dirt and debris that pierced his skin, metal lurching all around him. Then the emergency air bags swallowed him whole. A Krieger’s hand snatched at him, just like the one that grabbed his shoulder just now, pulling him out of the cockpit. There was pain, and it burned all throughout his body, but it was tolerable now. He recalled the last thing the Krieger said to him before he disappeared.
Unlike the Valkyrie, you are not incapacitated. Praise be! Maintain cover and do not engage with hostiles. Fly another day… –Darius then recalls the grenadier glancing over at the crumpled ship before returning the pilot’s gaze to say: If the Emperor wills it.
Was that meant to be a joke? Since when did Kriegers take to humor? Lieutenant Darius couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. I must have a concussion. Then the Orks’ breach on Caelyst’s wall had finally hit him, fear setting in. Lieutenant Darius looked up at the Krieger still standing over him, noting the power sword sheathed at his hip. It was hard to tell any of them apart, but Kellan knew only the watchmaster carried something like that.
“R-report, sir?!” Darius forced some semblance of control in his tone.
“The threat has been neutralized. We will proceed on foot to our new objective, a bunker southwest of here.”
Lieutenant Kellan frowned. He rose from the muddied slab of rock, staring off into the hazy distance. There wasn’t much to see, but the direction the watchmaster mentioned clearly wasn’t behind the protective walls of Caelyst.
“Sir, uh, I submit an operational concern regarding asset deployment.”
The watchmaster’s orbital lenses were dark, but Darius could feel his eyes on him. “Proceed.”
“I am an imperial navy officer. My training has no utility in bunker defense. I am better suited at Caelyst, where a craft is likely stationed, and can best utilize my skillset to... better serve the Emperor.”
“That is a logistically sound concern,” The watchmaster nodded and for a moment Darius felt a sigh of relief, until the watchmaster continued. “However, we cannot deviate from our current objective. Optimal preparation at the forward position requires expediency. Even now we are burning precious minutes.”
“Permission to request an extraction then, sir?!”
“Not advisable. This is still an active hot zone. The threat is eliminated, but our actions have likely attracted stragglers. Therefore, jeopardizing limited assets is not a viable use of resources at present time. The best course of action will be for you to proceed with us to the rendezvous site. There, you can request transport back to Caelyst.”
“But–”
“Emperor guide you.” The krieger marched away, ending their conversation abruptly. Darius considered heading towards Caelyst on his own, but the terrain looked difficult to navigate. And the watchmaster was right. If there were any orks out there, they’ll likely be zeroing in on this location. As heartless as these kriegers were, he’d rather be in their company than to press his luck by going it alone. After surviving a plane crash and an Ork encounter, he didn’t feel pushing his luck any further.
Darius had some trouble keeping up with the grenadiers’ pace. Most of the terrain was already carved out in a labyrinth of trenches, something the krieg were specialists at. He watched with keen fascination, confirming some long held rumors heard about them over the years. For one, they rarely talked. Most communication was received through hand signals, and in some instances a simple look or nod would suffice. Everything they did had purpose behind it. If they stopped, it was only to make sure the Lieutenant didn’t step on the land mines they decided not to take apart and carry with them. They kept a tight formation up front; two men at the watchmaster’s flank, keeping Lieutenant Darius wedged in the middle of the last four grenadiers tailing behind. The interface from the auspex integrated into his pilot helm was damaged, but he could see through the glitches that they were zeroing in on their destination.
“Wait.” Kreel raised a hand, freezing his men in place. Lieutenant Darius lowered his head, looking around the trenchway. The kriegers were locked in combat ready stances. Not one could be seen visibly shaking. The pilot reached for his laspistol, but someone from the rear snatched his forearm, preventing him from unholstering it.
“No need for that, glory-hound.” The krieger whispered. Darius frowned. He could’ve sworn he heard one of them growl like a dog. Just then, the men at Kreel’s flank collapsed backward to keep the formation a tight square, Darius, still in the center. He shook his head, realizing that the watchmaster wasn’t among them.
“What’s going on?” Darius asked. “Another land mine?”
“No, sir.” A grenadier finally answered, but he had no idea who. Minutes went by, and then they all heard from their squad-vox frequency:
“Clear.”
Like cogs whirling in unison inside of a mechanicus arm, the grenadiers functioned as one, making the pilot nearly stumble onto his back from their sheer abruptness. Darius had no choice but to pace forward. He tried looking over their shoulders, but little could be seen given the narrow trenchway. It eventually forked into two pathways. Darius picked the same route as the grenadier before him, who went down the left, but it didn't matter as the paths eventually reconverged. Darius was thrust back into the center of their formation as they exited out into an open trench bay. The ground beneath him turned wet and muddy, but it wasn’t raining. Darius’ eyes widened as three bodies lay around him, drenched in dark, oily blood. Upon closer inspection he could see their mangled teeth and orkish features more clearly– and they all shared fatal lacerations around their necks. The grenadiers all fanned out, vanishing into the three trenchways up ahead. The watchmaster remained at the center of the bay, cleaning his combat knife.
“We're less than a klick away.” Kreel simply said. Darius didn’t keep his eyes off of the bodies. You could hear an ork sniffling a mile away, yet the pilot never heard a sound from any of these three, just the cadence of artillery guns and warfare booming in the distance.
“Kommandos make less noise.” The watchmaster said, as if reading his mind.
“Best among their kind as far as stealth reconnaissance goes, but very amateur by Astra Militarum standards. If there are any left, my men will handle it.” The watchmaster appeared in no rush as he withdrew a small tincture of oil and began applying it to his knife.
Lieutenant Darius took the hint and set his pack down. He grabbed his canteen from the side pocket and chugged with reckless abandon, splashing a little around his tanned face to soothe his nerves a bit.
“Who rescued me?” The pilot asked after he had his fill of water, wiping his face and mouth with a sleeve from his flight suit. The watchmaster looked up quizzically, hands still continued to work as he applied the finishing touches on his knife.
“He dragged me from the cockpit to safety.” Darius recalled.
“Mhmm.” Kreel nodded. “Alkner-17 of the 23rd BCs.”
Darius smiled. “Alkner. Lovely. If you don’t mind pointing him out, that would be great. I never got a chance to properly thank the lad.”
“And you never will. Alkner died securing our victory against the breach party.”
“Oh,” The pilot’s shoulders sank. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“What? Why?”
“Alkner-17 fulfilled his duty. That is all that can be asked of him.”
“He deserves a proper burial, a medal for excellence. His family should know he died a hero!” Darius was getting angry now, off put by the krieger's lack of empathy, but the watchmaster remained indifferent.
“The Emperor does not require our lives. He is owed them.” Kreel flicked his knife as it glimmered in the cloudy sun, then vanished in its sheath behind his waist. As he did, four grenadiers reappeared.
“Clean sweep.” One of them said. “No hostiles.”
“Let’s go, Flight Lieutenant Kellan. We are almost there.” And with that, the watchmaster paced forward, as if returning from break to continue on with some menial task at a manufactorum.
The Flight Lieutenant and the grenadiers all made it in one piece, well under half an hour’s time. Darius stumbled over, nearly dropping to his knees with exhilaration.
“Hey!” He grabbed one of the guardsmen in blue, demanding if a transport was ready for his exit.
Kreel approached the commanding officer, snapping his right fist to his chest. “Watchmaster Kreel, reporting. Death Korp of Krieg. 23rd Battle Coffin Battalion. Grenadier 3-17 detachment. Standing by for tasking.”
Get a hold of yourself, Private Gutless!
The unpleasant memory of flight instructor, Wingmaster Edren Voss, was too vivid for his liking. Darius sunk back into that vulnerable cadet of his past self, hand rubbing his strained eyelids from shame, never daring to so much as glance up at his superior. That feeling of wanting to curl up into a ball and disappear into the flight pod chair felt too real.
I don’t want to be here.
“Do you even know what a Valkyrie is, trainee?” The venom in Edren’s quip bounced around the sim walls, making his head spin. “You’re so busy with your head up your own gauges that you’ve completely lost sight of the battlefield!” Kellan winced, trying not to focus on the cadets snickering outside of the flight pod.
“B-but sir, I reduced lift at that vector and stabilized long enough to avoid fuselage torsion–”
Voss slapped Darius across the face three times to punctuate three words. As he did, past trauma tore into his mind like wicked bolts, flash transitioning through unwanted memories at the crack of each slap: “The. Big. Picture!”
"I did nothing wrong, damn it."
“Affirmative.” A gloved hand touched his shoulder, shaking the pilot from near-psychosis. Lieutenant Darius sucked in the promethium-riddled air, coughing from the smoke and ash that tinged his lungs. His eyes focused onto the shadowy figure hovering over him, noting the painted skull on his shielded face. Darius gathered himself, scrambling to piece together the events that led up to this point.
He remembered the canopy punching inward, the mounds of dirt and debris that pierced his skin, metal lurching all around him. Then the emergency air bags swallowed him whole. A Krieger’s hand snatched at him, just like the one that grabbed his shoulder just now, pulling him out of the cockpit. There was pain, and it burned all throughout his body, but it was tolerable now. He recalled the last thing the Krieger said to him before he disappeared.
Unlike the Valkyrie, you are not incapacitated. Praise be! Maintain cover and do not engage with hostiles. Fly another day… –Darius then recalls the grenadier glancing over at the crumpled ship before returning the pilot’s gaze to say: If the Emperor wills it.
Was that meant to be a joke? Since when did Kriegers take to humor? Lieutenant Darius couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. I must have a concussion. Then the Orks’ breach on Caelyst’s wall had finally hit him, fear setting in. Lieutenant Darius looked up at the Krieger still standing over him, noting the power sword sheathed at his hip. It was hard to tell any of them apart, but Kellan knew only the watchmaster carried something like that.
“R-report, sir?!” Darius forced some semblance of control in his tone.
“The threat has been neutralized. We will proceed on foot to our new objective, a bunker southwest of here.”
Lieutenant Kellan frowned. He rose from the muddied slab of rock, staring off into the hazy distance. There wasn’t much to see, but the direction the watchmaster mentioned clearly wasn’t behind the protective walls of Caelyst.
“Sir, uh, I submit an operational concern regarding asset deployment.”
The watchmaster’s orbital lenses were dark, but Darius could feel his eyes on him. “Proceed.”
“I am an imperial navy officer. My training has no utility in bunker defense. I am better suited at Caelyst, where a craft is likely stationed, and can best utilize my skillset to... better serve the Emperor.”
“That is a logistically sound concern,” The watchmaster nodded and for a moment Darius felt a sigh of relief, until the watchmaster continued. “However, we cannot deviate from our current objective. Optimal preparation at the forward position requires expediency. Even now we are burning precious minutes.”
“Permission to request an extraction then, sir?!”
“Not advisable. This is still an active hot zone. The threat is eliminated, but our actions have likely attracted stragglers. Therefore, jeopardizing limited assets is not a viable use of resources at present time. The best course of action will be for you to proceed with us to the rendezvous site. There, you can request transport back to Caelyst.”
“But–”
“Emperor guide you.” The krieger marched away, ending their conversation abruptly. Darius considered heading towards Caelyst on his own, but the terrain looked difficult to navigate. And the watchmaster was right. If there were any orks out there, they’ll likely be zeroing in on this location. As heartless as these kriegers were, he’d rather be in their company than to press his luck by going it alone. After surviving a plane crash and an Ork encounter, he didn’t feel pushing his luck any further.
Darius had some trouble keeping up with the grenadiers’ pace. Most of the terrain was already carved out in a labyrinth of trenches, something the krieg were specialists at. He watched with keen fascination, confirming some long held rumors heard about them over the years. For one, they rarely talked. Most communication was received through hand signals, and in some instances a simple look or nod would suffice. Everything they did had purpose behind it. If they stopped, it was only to make sure the Lieutenant didn’t step on the land mines they decided not to take apart and carry with them. They kept a tight formation up front; two men at the watchmaster’s flank, keeping Lieutenant Darius wedged in the middle of the last four grenadiers tailing behind. The interface from the auspex integrated into his pilot helm was damaged, but he could see through the glitches that they were zeroing in on their destination.
“Wait.” Kreel raised a hand, freezing his men in place. Lieutenant Darius lowered his head, looking around the trenchway. The kriegers were locked in combat ready stances. Not one could be seen visibly shaking. The pilot reached for his laspistol, but someone from the rear snatched his forearm, preventing him from unholstering it.
“No need for that, glory-hound.” The krieger whispered. Darius frowned. He could’ve sworn he heard one of them growl like a dog. Just then, the men at Kreel’s flank collapsed backward to keep the formation a tight square, Darius, still in the center. He shook his head, realizing that the watchmaster wasn’t among them.
“What’s going on?” Darius asked. “Another land mine?”
“No, sir.” A grenadier finally answered, but he had no idea who. Minutes went by, and then they all heard from their squad-vox frequency:
“Clear.”
Like cogs whirling in unison inside of a mechanicus arm, the grenadiers functioned as one, making the pilot nearly stumble onto his back from their sheer abruptness. Darius had no choice but to pace forward. He tried looking over their shoulders, but little could be seen given the narrow trenchway. It eventually forked into two pathways. Darius picked the same route as the grenadier before him, who went down the left, but it didn't matter as the paths eventually reconverged. Darius was thrust back into the center of their formation as they exited out into an open trench bay. The ground beneath him turned wet and muddy, but it wasn’t raining. Darius’ eyes widened as three bodies lay around him, drenched in dark, oily blood. Upon closer inspection he could see their mangled teeth and orkish features more clearly– and they all shared fatal lacerations around their necks. The grenadiers all fanned out, vanishing into the three trenchways up ahead. The watchmaster remained at the center of the bay, cleaning his combat knife.
“We're less than a klick away.” Kreel simply said. Darius didn’t keep his eyes off of the bodies. You could hear an ork sniffling a mile away, yet the pilot never heard a sound from any of these three, just the cadence of artillery guns and warfare booming in the distance.
“Kommandos make less noise.” The watchmaster said, as if reading his mind.
“Best among their kind as far as stealth reconnaissance goes, but very amateur by Astra Militarum standards. If there are any left, my men will handle it.” The watchmaster appeared in no rush as he withdrew a small tincture of oil and began applying it to his knife.
Lieutenant Darius took the hint and set his pack down. He grabbed his canteen from the side pocket and chugged with reckless abandon, splashing a little around his tanned face to soothe his nerves a bit.
“Who rescued me?” The pilot asked after he had his fill of water, wiping his face and mouth with a sleeve from his flight suit. The watchmaster looked up quizzically, hands still continued to work as he applied the finishing touches on his knife.
“He dragged me from the cockpit to safety.” Darius recalled.
“Mhmm.” Kreel nodded. “Alkner-17 of the 23rd BCs.”
Darius smiled. “Alkner. Lovely. If you don’t mind pointing him out, that would be great. I never got a chance to properly thank the lad.”
“And you never will. Alkner died securing our victory against the breach party.”
“Oh,” The pilot’s shoulders sank. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“What? Why?”
“Alkner-17 fulfilled his duty. That is all that can be asked of him.”
“He deserves a proper burial, a medal for excellence. His family should know he died a hero!” Darius was getting angry now, off put by the krieger's lack of empathy, but the watchmaster remained indifferent.
“The Emperor does not require our lives. He is owed them.” Kreel flicked his knife as it glimmered in the cloudy sun, then vanished in its sheath behind his waist. As he did, four grenadiers reappeared.
“Clean sweep.” One of them said. “No hostiles.”
“Let’s go, Flight Lieutenant Kellan. We are almost there.” And with that, the watchmaster paced forward, as if returning from break to continue on with some menial task at a manufactorum.
The Flight Lieutenant and the grenadiers all made it in one piece, well under half an hour’s time. Darius stumbled over, nearly dropping to his knees with exhilaration.
“Hey!” He grabbed one of the guardsmen in blue, demanding if a transport was ready for his exit.
Kreel approached the commanding officer, snapping his right fist to his chest. “Watchmaster Kreel, reporting. Death Korp of Krieg. 23rd Battle Coffin Battalion. Grenadier 3-17 detachment. Standing by for tasking.”
You are on: Forums » Sci-Fi Roleplay » ✠ The Daimiel Campaign ✠ [WH40K/OPEN]