"Alright, Ladies and Gentle-lads!" Gerard slammed a mug of rotgut against a group of other drinks in a drunken parody of a toast. Foam sloshed over in generous amounts to spill on the bar's alcohol-soaked tables and floor. Laughter, angry shouts over card games lost, drunken sailors singing all permeated the bar's dingy space. But it was the multitude of voices, where Visern and Bolwercs alongside some Fusiliers gathered that had interested Gerard when the night began. Their voices were a multitude of accents and native languages, but all had one subject in common. Lycia.
Gerard squeezes between two soldiers, the stink of sweat and body odor sharp in the Heavy's nostrils, and he slams his claw on the tabletop. "Hear hear! I've never met a Lycian before in my life but I can already tell they'll be like blind pilgrims at a Saint's masoleum on feastday. Grabbing, grabbing, always grabbing until nothing's left but the burial rags if you're lucky."
He gulped down his drink and smacked his lips. "Trumped up Lieutenant-General this. Security Service that. Off-world merchants messing the place up for gold. Just let us shoot the Blueskin traitors in peace if you want but don't drag us into your pissing match!"
[OOC: Inquiry (+30) to get some more gossip about Lycia]
"Yeah", one of the few Ferreans whose joined the celebration says. "They're certainly greedy for arms. Before the Guard, I worked as a scribe for the shipping guild." It's hard to imagine the stocky, hairy man in his uniform greys, coiled like a violent spring, worked a scribe's job...but then, one could say the same about you.
"Most of our arms go to fortress worlds. Bolwere, Victory, some to Hezean even. Then to frontline worlds on the Prudentian Front and the Shieldwall." He pauses a moment to take a long drink from his tankard. "But one of our busiest receivers? Wealthy, prosperous,
peaceful Lycia."
He laughs. "Wealthy maybe. They could pay for those guns. But they sure as a Lictor's Eye aren't peaceful."
"They're swarming with Blueclads." One of the Bolwercs says, a sergeant from 10th platoon. "Colonel's right about the place being trouble....you all recall the Valais insurrection?"
Valais Canton. Anyone in the Federal Guard had heard of Valais, one of the few fortresses of the Blueclad cult on Bolwere, where it was said that the blue painted faithful of the Xenos loving cult lived under every home and every building, plotting the next uprising after the Federals crushed the previous one.
"Some of the ringleaders they shot? Weren't Bolwerc." The Sergeant says. "Lycians, came in on one of the trade ships. The regulars claimed the Lycians provided half of the Pulse Rifles and a lot of the 'Ideological' training."
"Sounds like more than a few diehards in a jungle to me." Jeanne, from Gamma, complains.
"Doesn't mean they were actually from Lycia." Someone else says. "Could've been some spies from behind Blueskin lines. Lycian descendants from when the planet was occupied."
"If so, they spoke surprisingly good Gothic." The Sergeant says.
"Meng say not just Blueclads." Someone says. A few heads crane over. The bartender. "Arms-meng speak about it earlier. Issues of Smuggling and Recidivists. Contacts in Tumeng Government. Judges deal harshly with it. There be problems."
Then he shrugs and goes back to the next set of drink orders.
"That's a problem for their oversized Ordinates." Kron grumbles. "We're here for the Blueclads."
"No, we're here for R&R. Munitorum said so." Jeanne says. "Means it has to be true."
"Yeah, and that's all they'll hear from us." Kron says, half joking, half serious.
A few moments pass. Other rumors are bandied about, most too fanciful to be true. Lycia was secretly a war world, embroiled in trench warfare between loyalists and Blueclads. The Blueclads had actually been defeated long ago, but now the problem was extremist cults of a different nature-blood worshiping heretics who were rising to reclaim the world for an older order. The Blueclads had added Daemon worship to their sins, and they would be met in battle by the horrors of the Warp.
Finally, the topic turns to the Lord General. The typical rumors. He was an empty suit. A political general posted to an easy planet at the behest of powerful backers. A young lord new to his power, kept to a 'safe' posting to keep him away from real matters of war. A strutting felinid, resplendent in fine mesh-silks and freshly pressed uniforms, a Bolwerc who claims to have seen a recording of the man says. A disciplinarian, more concerned with shooting men for bad parade drill than fighting his unit.
"The Lieutenant General is...ill favored." A voice says, from somewhere in a corner. You turn your head in that direction. A figure in a white uniform sits alone on their own stool, separated from the fighting Guardsmen.
You can immediately tell why. The man's white uniform, and his olive skin immediately sells him for a Saban. But more than that, the patch with a crossed wrench and spade tells you the man is not a Guardsman, or at least not one as a Bolwerc understands it. A Mil-Serve (Military Servant)-a member of the servantry taken to war by his noble lords. He did the scut work that no aristocrat could be suffered to do-digging trenches, grunt repairs on vehicles, and handling the baggage of his masters. Sworn not to take up arms, you've heard, though you suspect that's more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. Not quite a Guardsman....but not quite a civilian either.
Something about the surety of the man's voice tells you to listen though, and you wave a hand to a few others who are starting to talk over him.
"He is ill liked upon Sabast, where he taught at our Collegia Militaria." The Mil-Serv says. He pauses a moment ,then quickly clarifies "Not because he is not Saban. The military arts know no one home, and there are many foreigners who teach there in matters outside of the Royal Army's prime expertise."
"Then why is ill liked?" Kron asks, curiosity overwhelming dislike. "Did he insult your King?"
"Lieutenant General Al Anouk is nothing but a leal friend of the Royal Wisdom." The Servant says. "But the Wisdom does not have the final word. Lord Al Anouk is...something of a reformer. He advocates unusual strategies and holds opinions that are heterodox to those of the Royal Army's staff...and more importantly I have heard, those of Astra Militarum Theater Command for the Lentun Principality."
"How do you even know all of this?" The Sergeant who'd spoken up earlier.
"I am the Scribe of Lady Captain Al'Aboumah, commander of the fifth Armored Lance." The man says, as if it were a humble job title. "My Lady's opinions on the Lord Lieutenant are not a secret, therefore there is nothing improper in me relating them to you, unenlightened as you all are."
"Right, so the Lord General's...what, on an exile posting away from Lentun Principality?" Kron asks.
The Mil-Serve nods. "Indeed. Where his unorthodox ideas will cause no harm, nor corrupt any more officer classes coming out of the Collegia Militaria, or the Schola Progenium."
"Great, we're under someone with 'Ideas'." Jeanne complains. "I think I liked the idea of a brainless cape better."
(OOC: 4 DoS on rumor seeking.)
+++++++++++++++++
Valentin threw himself into preparations. Place of honor in the regiment with a Lieutenant General in the proceedings? Oh no, Valentin would sooner die than risk embarrassing himself before the company. Looking like chab on parade would be like not taking care of his beard: Some things just weren't ought. He'd brought out the best flak cap he could find, preening the feather crowning it with more care than the bird that'd originally earned the bloody thing. He'd wafted for days over whether it should be a feather from the homeworld, or Tellios in honor of victory (At his wife's insistence, he'd decided on the latter). If it had just been himself, maybe a soldier or two in need of advice, Valentin wouldn't have worried.
But it wasn't just him or a lad or two. It was a squad. A full squad. He could give orders, sure, but did he have what it took to lead a squad? Some lads said that being corporal was the worst job in the Guard, having command responsibilities but none of the pay or benefits. But he'd never minded it too much. He'd never cared for the benefits, and he'd always viewed it more as mentoring than leading. He ensured the sergeant's orders were carried out and advised, that wasn't the same thing as commanding. When he did have sole command responsibility, back with the Calaceans, how had things gone? Lienhard and Klem both incapacitated, the latter so near to death it'd had Gerard on the verge of mutiny. Nevermind that chainblades were a young man's game. He still couldn't decide between lasgun and halberd, and the thought affronted him.
For the third time in the last half hour, Valentin knelt down and began polishing his boots. Throne help him if that at least wasn't something he knew how to do.
OOC Note: Last minute training ho.
"Platoon, about face, march!"
You echo the command down the line, even though it was quite obvious that everyone had heard Sergeant Thorsan's shouted command. It was just you, Henrik, Kristen, and Kurt, but the point was the formality of it.
You turn on your heel, and begin to march in step with the others down the length of the cargo bay. It's quite unlike any parade ground you've ever seen. It was much more restricted, for one thing. The area of 'Open Ground' was barely big enough for a Bolwerc company to muster, much less do marching practice. The ground (Deck, you supposed) was uneven and not parade ground smooth. There was people in here. Up above on a gantry a group of Voidsmen studiously ignore you as they search for a specific cargo pod, and you already nearly walked into a cargo servitor who hadn't cared there was Guardsmen practicing in here.
Still, it's better practice that way. You were ready for things to go wrong, at the very least.
"Platoon! Present Arms!" The Sergeant shouts again. Her, instead of Savatier, because the LT. was involved in ever more briefings and Thorsan knew the most about parade drill out of the platoon's NCOs. More than you and Fierro, and certainly more than Vecario, who seemed likely to have his squad trip over it's own bootlaces before he'd begun to be whipped into shape.
Your pistol (an unloaded autopistol, borrowed from an Armsman) and sword (a cutlass, the same) thud into opposite sides of your breast and you stand stock still. Kurt and Kristen manage the same, and well...you can't see Henrik, but the colors were flying at least (or 'Flying', given the lack of a breeze).
Things were improving, steadily...at least for the four here. You had less hope for the others. Lienhard, too busy with his penance. Carnelia, apparently in a crash course about tropical disease and triage of heat casualties alongside Specialist Yanis. The Stockers...doing what the Stockers do. And the new girl, wherever she was.
Thorsan keeps the lot of you standing there for a time, which feels like an hour, but probably just a few minutes. You're aware that the heating in the compartment has been turned up to the global mean on Lycia, but there was already talk about humidity. This was already painful, standing in full parade kit-you couldn't imagine what the parade field would be like.
"Platoon! You are relieved!" The Platoon Sergeant says. "Doing better. I wouldn't be emberassed to see you at Lenburn Fortress." A moment of relief. "But my family are only Grafs! We are to see a Lieutenant General-we must be better!"
You wait a long moment, then retrieve your canteen, and find a seat on a crate. A loading servitor moves by, and you're forced to duck your head. Sweat pours down your face, and your feet, back, and throat all ache at once.
No pain, no gain.
(OOC: +20 bonus gained for Valentin and Henrik)
++++++++++++++
Though, since there was still too much time between the drills, Henrik forced himself to hobble out of Habitate Module 56a when he could muster the time and the energy to do so. His destination? The Hab Module he, Lefvere and Holtz took shelter in with the Ferreans during the first hour of the boarding action.
It didn't feel right, not paying proper respects to Sergeant Rustelke. Henrik owed the former Ferrean NCO that much for saving his life.
You find the Ferreans in what you would describe as more of party, than a funeral.
The table the soldiers have in their barracks is crowded with food (mostly rations, but some you assume, brought up from a cafeteria) and drinks, some that smell like strong alcohol. The ashen men and women of the platoon are talking amid themselves, drinking, toasting. You note in the center of the room is a pair of Cognomen tags, and sat on a table beneath them is the Sergeant's handcannon and her short fighting sword.
You stand at the doorway for a moment and watch. The second indication you get that this might be some gathering for the dead happens when the man you know as Corporal Mal suddenly raises his glass and says "Until we meet again."
The entire Platoon echoes the words, reverently, then the festive atmosphere resumes.
Then, finally, you are noticed. Mag, another of the Ferreans you had fought with, her lost arm replaced with a fresh Cybernetic, steps over.
"Ser Lundberg, was it?" She says. You nod. "I assume you're here to pay your respects?"
You nod again.
She beckons you into the crowd of Ferreans. A few stare at the foreigner in their midst, but Corporal Mal moves over. "Bolwerc. Glad to see you here. You were there when the Sergeant died. Fitting you'd be here for the remembering."
The Remembering...you assume that must be one of their death rituals.
"We tell stories of the deceased. Where they came from, how they lived." The Corporal explains. "So that we will remember them when we meet again by the Emperor's side. The rest of our dead were earlier. Today is Rustelke's."
Then, without a moment, he launches into one of said stories. "Helma Rustelke was one of the bravest people I ever knew." He starts.
"We were in the Emergency Defense Force together, after we finished our apprenticeships." Mal says. "She was a Atmo-tek's daughter, but she didn't want to take up her mother's trade-she tested better for regular Defense Force service, and so it was. I was a born soldier-my mother had been Defense Force to the bone, and though my father a lay-tech machinist, he only had taken so because a Stealer took his legs. Rustelke still was better, promoted first."
"She was a Corporal when we first met, and I a mere rifleman." Mal continues. "It was our first Patrol together when I realized she deserved that rank. We were patrolling outside the walls of Safe-Zone Macharius, checking on vox-wires heading to a commsplex that kept many of our patrol, salvage, and pumping stations in the Iron Graveyard in contact and the safe zone warned of any dangers."
"We found the Commsplex silent, the crew gone. Dead, certainly. We couldn't stay there, I argued-there was no telling if the Stealers or Ferals or Emperor knows what else that did it would show back up, and our personal comms were too weak to reach Command about the incident. Better to report back and ensure word gets back."
"Rustelke told me that the equipment at the Commsplex was worth more than ten generations of our lives, and that we would be abandoning those prize Machine spirits to a grim fate if the cultists came back. She would be staying at the station-both to try and contact command, and also to ensure the equipment was kept intact...or kept out of the hands of the enemy, if it came to that. The rest of us would be heading back on foot."
"I was sure that would've been the last I saw of her. But a week and a Cult attack on the southern walls later, we came back to find Helma Rustelke, still holed up in the station where she'd sent warning ahead. She made Sergeant, and I made Corporal to take her slot. Her achievement, not mine."
He pauses, a long moment, then he raises a glass. "You were brave to the end, Rustelke. Until we meet again."
"Until we Meet Again."
The rest of the evening proceeds like that. Lt. Archtech knew Rustelke during her childhood-apparently their families were close-his a line of tech-salvagers, hers, a line of Atmospheric systems Technomats. Mag knew her only after she'd become Guard, but had fond memories of the woman's leadership on Tellios, where they'd faced off against Blueskin Pathfinders and Republic soldiers both. The other have their own tales. Drinking partner. Sergeant. Friend. Lover, in one case, which the Ferreans apparently do not regard as a matter to private to speak of at a wake.
Finally, things come around to you.
"So, Bolwerc." One of the Ferreans whose name you didn't catch, asks. "Why are you here? How did you know Sergeant Rustelke?"
The question you assume, must be ritual. They all knew the circumstances of the woman's death. It fell on you now to tell the last story, of how Rustelke had ended up a mere memory and a soul at the Emperor's side, and why a Bolwerc was here to pay her respect. An honor, you suspect, among this culture, or perhaps simply a measure of solidarity in respect for the dead.
(OOC: So, how does Henrik tell the story?)
The time has come.
2nd Company is one of the first assembled to enter the huge landing barges that will take them down to Lycia. The company is dresssed to the nines, and the Voidborn, after a ritual that ended the Bolwerc's status as passengers (and passed out a dataslate for 'Passenger Feedback', as was apparently custom), allowed the company to carry their arms aboard the lander. They'd need them for the parade, which was to occur only after a short rest planetside after the descent into the gravity well.
From orbit, Lycia is a vibrant world of greens of it's massive continents, edged by the brown of vast plantation fields, warring with the unnatural red-hued ultramarine of it's oceans (upon being asked, one of the Voidsmen has claimed something about Xeno-fungal blooms that are harvested for Corpse Starch production). Then...at first, as the Righteous Horizon moves across the planet's horizon, and a great collumn of steel grey becomes visible, as if painted across the landscape of green jungle, brown fields, and the red-blue of the ocean. At first it seems like it must be a mountain range, but as void bay window gives a better view, it can be seen that even from space, the steel grey pillar has visible height, climbing to the heavens like an iron needle seeking the eye of the stars. It grows visibly thicker at the bottom, taking up more space than some of the actual mountains that are just barely visible from orbit, a vast agglomeration of steel, plasteel, and human life.
The Helezon, the great steel citadel around which a subsector turns (at least legally). An expression of human might and technology and pride that was visible even from the cold black of the near void.
Your destination for the foreseeable future.
(OOC: To make sure we don't fall into another three week Hiatus, next update will be next week, same day (Wednesday night). That will be the start of the Lycian campaign proper.
However, anyone who didn't post this time can still retroactively take a last action aboard the Righteous Horizon-Research, preparing for the Parade, or something else.
I also seem to have misplaced giving actual XP for the Righteous Horizon defense, as such,
take 800 XP.)
