Intro
greendoor
(Verified Door)
- Location
- Arizona
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Rorscha Mundi is not a beautiful world.
Few Hiveworlds are, for the process of Mega-urbanization and total industrialization more often than not brings ruin to anything resembling a natural environment. Worse, so often the Hives are built more for efficiency than aesthetic. Impossibly tall spires housing government and the wealthy, reaching up towards the uncaring void, tapering out into titanic mountains of steel and rockcrete where countless billions live out their small lives in even smaller living spaces. A architectural expression of Mankind's ambition, of the unfathomable might and inertia of the Imperium, of the ideals of Imperial hierarchy. A Hive World is not usually beautiful, but it's appearance conveys a message nonetheless.
The message that Rorscha Mundi conveys by it's appearance is something rather different.
Camp Righteous Endurance, just one of several Firebases set up by Taskforce Endless Struggle, is set up among a cluster of ancient buildings whose purpose is likely known only to the Emperor. High walled and made of stout rockcrete, their ruined environs at least provide ready made cover and fortifications for the cluster of Imperial regiments staged there. The rubble of past wars and the broken scraps of ancient machinery, at first an irritant, when swept up by armored bulldozers, servitors, and by the arms of Penal Legionaries made into excellent barricades and scratch built defenses for the dozens of artillery pieces being towed in from the dropships every fitful hour.
Beyond the walls of firebase, the features of this battlefield of a world are clearly visible. stretching for dozens of kilometer, is what on any other Hive World would've been outhive habs, manufacturems, and other infrastructure. The overflow and spill of a city with the population of a world, everything that could not fit within the hive itself. Here, the case was instead mere all the ruin that could not fit inside. Just rubble, broken buildings, and ancient, abandoned infrastructure as far as the eye could see. Here and there figures can be seen in the rubble, were one to be stationed on sentry duty. The occasional intact building could be seen in the distance, where Manufacturems among the rubble still grind out some production, or else a fortified hab complex stands all alone in the ruin. A Church stands defiant among a cluster of shattered buildings, the battered gold of a statue of the great conqueror Saint Savine standing defiant amid the ruin of a world she brought back to the Emperor's light. There are roads, kept clean of the rubble by the locals, whom the Imperial Guard and the local defense forces have taken command of with great enthusiasm, trucking supplies and troops from Spaceports and mustering stations farther back towards the forward bases.
Camp Righteous Endurance, for it's part, looks out over a large lake, if it can be called that. The liquid (it is certainly not water) that comprises the body is no doubt the run off of centuries of production and pollution. A thing many Hive Worlds have, but most don't have what looks like the corroded, ancient spire of some forgotten building sticking out of the middle of the lake. Beyond the lake, lies a Dam, one that the camp is already aware is held by the enemy despite no official briefing on the subject being distributed, nor anyone even having any knowledge of who or what the enemy is. The fact that the artillery batteries have been shelling it nonstop all night, and into the morning is a bit of a giveaway.
And finally, towering over even the Dam, dominating the skyline of anyone who even turns south, is Hive Lozepath.
It looms over the entire battlefield like an ancient monster that has survived the devastation of this world over the ages, and will survive long after the Emperor's armies and perhaps even the Emperor's rule has left Rorschah Mundi. A city the size of a mountain, with the population of a small world, a fortress whose scars and toppled spires speak of having repelled numerous conquerors before. A fortress defended by an enemy yet unknown to any of the soldiers huddled in it's shadow.
And a fortress whose assault begins in just under an hour.
The "Cafeteria" is a high walled room whose ceiling has been hastily patched by Imperial Guard engineers with tarps and flakboard sheets, and the ground cleared of rubble and debris. Portable field kitchens manned by expressionless servitors and somehow even more dour Munitorum service personnel line one wall, and each soldier of the Penal Legion is provided a tray of food, a plastic glass, and a blank stare. Portable benches and tables dominate the center of the room, arranged in neat rows.
The food is somewhat more palatable than the usual rations on the prison blocks and the bilge decks that have been all of your last few weeks (and months, and years). Course crusts of black bread, a hash of grox and a few other thankfully unidentifiable ingredients, and a glass of Ploin juice to make sure you don't get scurvy before you catch a bullet for someone whose life matters.
While you sit, you have a moment to appraise eachother, as a squad. You only have been a squad since barely a day ago, when the homogeneous mass of Penals were assigned to seemingly random collections of eight soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal appointed seemingly at random, and then all given the same work detail for the rest of the day. You hadn't even been graced with a name for your squad, you are just Squad 123-B. You haven't really had a chance to talk to each other as Squadmates, given the circumstances. Now at least, seemed a decent chance for introductions, given you're likely going to die together very soon.
Any such chance is rushed, or perhaps enhanced, as another squad of Penals approach your table, their own food precariously balanced as they walk over the uneven, cracked floor of the 'Cafeteria.' Unlike the motley collection that is your squad, these men and women look fairly uniform, like they're all from the same place and walk in life. Pale skins, powerful builds, and arms, legs, and other parts replaced by bulky cybernetic limbs seemingly at random. They sit across from you, but given how crowded the cafeteria is, probably one of the few places they could find to sit.
There's a moment as the other squad gets seated, before one of them speaks up. The stripe hastily sown onto her flak jacket identifies her as their sergeant. Her dark hair is shaved along one side to expose a pair of cerebral plug ports. "Sergeant O'Garan, Squad 123-F." She identifies herself, addressing the whole of your squad. She seems proud of the rank. "The Leashes are saying we're attacking soon." A fact known to everyone with ears. "Seeing as we're about to be pushing into a scrap together..." Them being 123-F would make you the same platoon, both part of Platoon 123. "I thought I'd just ask, why you all signed up."
There's a momentary silence. A bold question to ask, though also an obvious one.
Another one of the soldiers from 123-F speaks up, a young man with a shaved head and a bulky cybernetic arm. "123-A and E are a collection of murderers and Gangers who are sticking together. 123-C are 'Penitent', their Sergeant, Colm, refuses to let them tell us what they did, only that they're redeeming themselves."
"And D is where they stacked all the lunatics." Another one of them opines, a bearded man with a pair of augmetic legs.
Their Sergeant nods at her troops assessment. "I was hoping that we'd have someone reliable to back us up." She seems to realize the absurdity of such a wish. "Someone who won't run like cowards, or prioritize dying gloriously over winning the fight, yeah?"
Much more reasonable, perhaps still too much to hope for.
"I'll share first." O'Garan offers. "We, 123-F I mean, are from Ritzold Alpha, a station orbiting Ritzold." A few of you have heard of the planet, mostly as a place things are shipped through rather than anywhere important on it's own merits. It seems miserably unfair that they'd all be assigned to the same squad, but then, few of you know anyone else in this nightmare of a 'Legion.'
"Our Choir group was distributing excess rations. To the workers who couldn't afford it, either because of punishment pay or injuries putting them out of work. Doing our part to help out our fellow man, ensure they can do the Emperor's work." She continues. "Only, the Honorable Merchant Company of Ritzold doesn't like that. Distributing rations that don't come from the company's distributors is against Charter Law, as is running non company approved recreation like a unauthorized Choir Group. Charter Security doesn't believe in forgiveness like the Emperor, so here we are."
She pauses a moment. "Nobody can fight like a good Voidclan work gang, but even we can't kill all of the...whatever is out there in that Hive. So how's about you lads and lasses? How'd you end up here?"
OOC: This is an opportunity to introduce your character and speak to the other PCs. Next update will be Friday Night (Mountain Time), please post before then.
OOC Link
Few Hiveworlds are, for the process of Mega-urbanization and total industrialization more often than not brings ruin to anything resembling a natural environment. Worse, so often the Hives are built more for efficiency than aesthetic. Impossibly tall spires housing government and the wealthy, reaching up towards the uncaring void, tapering out into titanic mountains of steel and rockcrete where countless billions live out their small lives in even smaller living spaces. A architectural expression of Mankind's ambition, of the unfathomable might and inertia of the Imperium, of the ideals of Imperial hierarchy. A Hive World is not usually beautiful, but it's appearance conveys a message nonetheless.
The message that Rorscha Mundi conveys by it's appearance is something rather different.
Camp Righteous Endurance, just one of several Firebases set up by Taskforce Endless Struggle, is set up among a cluster of ancient buildings whose purpose is likely known only to the Emperor. High walled and made of stout rockcrete, their ruined environs at least provide ready made cover and fortifications for the cluster of Imperial regiments staged there. The rubble of past wars and the broken scraps of ancient machinery, at first an irritant, when swept up by armored bulldozers, servitors, and by the arms of Penal Legionaries made into excellent barricades and scratch built defenses for the dozens of artillery pieces being towed in from the dropships every fitful hour.
Beyond the walls of firebase, the features of this battlefield of a world are clearly visible. stretching for dozens of kilometer, is what on any other Hive World would've been outhive habs, manufacturems, and other infrastructure. The overflow and spill of a city with the population of a world, everything that could not fit within the hive itself. Here, the case was instead mere all the ruin that could not fit inside. Just rubble, broken buildings, and ancient, abandoned infrastructure as far as the eye could see. Here and there figures can be seen in the rubble, were one to be stationed on sentry duty. The occasional intact building could be seen in the distance, where Manufacturems among the rubble still grind out some production, or else a fortified hab complex stands all alone in the ruin. A Church stands defiant among a cluster of shattered buildings, the battered gold of a statue of the great conqueror Saint Savine standing defiant amid the ruin of a world she brought back to the Emperor's light. There are roads, kept clean of the rubble by the locals, whom the Imperial Guard and the local defense forces have taken command of with great enthusiasm, trucking supplies and troops from Spaceports and mustering stations farther back towards the forward bases.
Camp Righteous Endurance, for it's part, looks out over a large lake, if it can be called that. The liquid (it is certainly not water) that comprises the body is no doubt the run off of centuries of production and pollution. A thing many Hive Worlds have, but most don't have what looks like the corroded, ancient spire of some forgotten building sticking out of the middle of the lake. Beyond the lake, lies a Dam, one that the camp is already aware is held by the enemy despite no official briefing on the subject being distributed, nor anyone even having any knowledge of who or what the enemy is. The fact that the artillery batteries have been shelling it nonstop all night, and into the morning is a bit of a giveaway.
And finally, towering over even the Dam, dominating the skyline of anyone who even turns south, is Hive Lozepath.
It looms over the entire battlefield like an ancient monster that has survived the devastation of this world over the ages, and will survive long after the Emperor's armies and perhaps even the Emperor's rule has left Rorschah Mundi. A city the size of a mountain, with the population of a small world, a fortress whose scars and toppled spires speak of having repelled numerous conquerors before. A fortress defended by an enemy yet unknown to any of the soldiers huddled in it's shadow.
And a fortress whose assault begins in just under an hour.
+++++++++++++++++++++
Within Camp Righteous Endurance, you are sitting down for what might well be your last meal.
The "Cafeteria" is a high walled room whose ceiling has been hastily patched by Imperial Guard engineers with tarps and flakboard sheets, and the ground cleared of rubble and debris. Portable field kitchens manned by expressionless servitors and somehow even more dour Munitorum service personnel line one wall, and each soldier of the Penal Legion is provided a tray of food, a plastic glass, and a blank stare. Portable benches and tables dominate the center of the room, arranged in neat rows.
The food is somewhat more palatable than the usual rations on the prison blocks and the bilge decks that have been all of your last few weeks (and months, and years). Course crusts of black bread, a hash of grox and a few other thankfully unidentifiable ingredients, and a glass of Ploin juice to make sure you don't get scurvy before you catch a bullet for someone whose life matters.
While you sit, you have a moment to appraise eachother, as a squad. You only have been a squad since barely a day ago, when the homogeneous mass of Penals were assigned to seemingly random collections of eight soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal appointed seemingly at random, and then all given the same work detail for the rest of the day. You hadn't even been graced with a name for your squad, you are just Squad 123-B. You haven't really had a chance to talk to each other as Squadmates, given the circumstances. Now at least, seemed a decent chance for introductions, given you're likely going to die together very soon.
Any such chance is rushed, or perhaps enhanced, as another squad of Penals approach your table, their own food precariously balanced as they walk over the uneven, cracked floor of the 'Cafeteria.' Unlike the motley collection that is your squad, these men and women look fairly uniform, like they're all from the same place and walk in life. Pale skins, powerful builds, and arms, legs, and other parts replaced by bulky cybernetic limbs seemingly at random. They sit across from you, but given how crowded the cafeteria is, probably one of the few places they could find to sit.
There's a moment as the other squad gets seated, before one of them speaks up. The stripe hastily sown onto her flak jacket identifies her as their sergeant. Her dark hair is shaved along one side to expose a pair of cerebral plug ports. "Sergeant O'Garan, Squad 123-F." She identifies herself, addressing the whole of your squad. She seems proud of the rank. "The Leashes are saying we're attacking soon." A fact known to everyone with ears. "Seeing as we're about to be pushing into a scrap together..." Them being 123-F would make you the same platoon, both part of Platoon 123. "I thought I'd just ask, why you all signed up."
There's a momentary silence. A bold question to ask, though also an obvious one.
Another one of the soldiers from 123-F speaks up, a young man with a shaved head and a bulky cybernetic arm. "123-A and E are a collection of murderers and Gangers who are sticking together. 123-C are 'Penitent', their Sergeant, Colm, refuses to let them tell us what they did, only that they're redeeming themselves."
"And D is where they stacked all the lunatics." Another one of them opines, a bearded man with a pair of augmetic legs.
Their Sergeant nods at her troops assessment. "I was hoping that we'd have someone reliable to back us up." She seems to realize the absurdity of such a wish. "Someone who won't run like cowards, or prioritize dying gloriously over winning the fight, yeah?"
Much more reasonable, perhaps still too much to hope for.
"I'll share first." O'Garan offers. "We, 123-F I mean, are from Ritzold Alpha, a station orbiting Ritzold." A few of you have heard of the planet, mostly as a place things are shipped through rather than anywhere important on it's own merits. It seems miserably unfair that they'd all be assigned to the same squad, but then, few of you know anyone else in this nightmare of a 'Legion.'
"Our Choir group was distributing excess rations. To the workers who couldn't afford it, either because of punishment pay or injuries putting them out of work. Doing our part to help out our fellow man, ensure they can do the Emperor's work." She continues. "Only, the Honorable Merchant Company of Ritzold doesn't like that. Distributing rations that don't come from the company's distributors is against Charter Law, as is running non company approved recreation like a unauthorized Choir Group. Charter Security doesn't believe in forgiveness like the Emperor, so here we are."
She pauses a moment. "Nobody can fight like a good Voidclan work gang, but even we can't kill all of the...whatever is out there in that Hive. So how's about you lads and lasses? How'd you end up here?"
OOC: This is an opportunity to introduce your character and speak to the other PCs. Next update will be Friday Night (Mountain Time), please post before then.
OOC Link
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