Smoop barely gave the carnage a glance as she crept out of her hidey-hole, having directed a few desultory laspistol blasts at the enemy rather than taking part in the bayonet charge. Bit hard to do so without a rifle or bayonet, in any case.
Her courage and duty lay elsewhere than blood and thunder. She called on it now, when others were resting and scavenging and preparing for the next round of violence. Unseen, unheard - especially to the enemy, she prayed - she picked her way forward, beyond the platoon's lines, to give her Auspex a clearer field of vision.
It might not be as glorious as taking out a tank with a satchel charge, but every last little edge of information and preparedness she could provide her fellows might make a difference.
She hoped the Emperor would see it that way, and convince His agents about it too.
From beneath the Scarab, one arm and then another reach out, weakly scrabbling at the ground. Celine needs to get back to friendly lines. The grenade blast has left her so concussed she's not certain which way friendly lines is, nor if she can gt back to them on her own. The ringing in her ears is unbearable, drowning out all previous pains with a feeling like her head is about to split open. She cannot even tell if she herself breathes in this moment, so winded does she feel from the blastwave crashing against flakweave, so wracked with dry heaving from nausea.
She just needs to get back out from beneath the Scarab. The rest can come when the world has stopped warping around her senses.
Cautiously, the ex-heathen poked his head out over the sandbags, glancing around for any more heretics looking to incorrectly achieve martyrdom. He let out a breath, rubbing his tired eyes, then bit back a sigh as that mostly just succeeded in rubbing concrete grit all over his face.
Kings' blood, he was tired of the fighting. Not just the dying and the killing and the screaming...but just the filth of it. None of that had been in the stories.
But he supposed on the bright side, nobody had died for once. Well. Almost nobody. He supposed Celine's luck had to run out sometime. Apparently substantially later than almost anyone elses', but when one wants to die stupidly, there was only so much that fate could do. At least the madwoman had gone out how she presumably wished to: exploding violently.
"Give me some help, yes?" he called out, motioning toward the burning scarab. "We have a fo-hero to retrieve."
From beneath the Scarab, one arm and then another reach out, weakly scrabbling at the ground. Celine needs to get back to friendly lines. The grenade blast has left her so concussed she's not certain which way friendly lines is, nor if she can gt back to them on her own. The ringing in her ears is unbearable, drowning out all previous pains with a feeling like her head is about to split open. She cannot even tell if she herself breathes in this moment, so winded does she feel from the blastwave crashing against flakweave, so wracked with dry heaving from nausea.
She just needs to get back out from beneath the Scarab. The rest can come when the world has stopped warping around her senses.
Thrust an Aquila necklace at it to see if it'd recoil.
Finally, the words managed to make their way to his lips. "...Are you alive?" He asked, dumbly, looking at the woman who very much should not be moving who was currently moving against all logic and reason. His first instinct was that some dark spirit had manifested in her carcass, but no, they didn't really do the whole 'squirming on the ground like a worm' routine, from what he'd heard second-hand and blessedly never had to encounter.
The 2nd question wormed from his lips. "...How in all the outer hells be you not dead?" He managed, with not inconsiderable worry. He swallowed, looking away and then back again, still wondering if he'd gone mad. When Celine failed to stop moving, with no small trepidation, he continued. "The Emperor...Must truly not want you to die. He must love you."
The admittance stung. After all, didn't the Emperor love him most? But it was getting difficult to ignore the growing evidence in front of his eyes. The Emperor really didn't want this madwoman to die. He prayed the Emperor simply had a soft heart for the lunatic, and not that He adored frothing zealots as much as the barbarian Imperium seemed to.
"Let me aid you to the medic," he sighed. After that...After that he was going to see if he could talk anyone into sharing moonshine at this point. Throne.
Albert hissed quietly, well as silent as his artificial lungs and rebreather would allow, as he worked over the heavy stubber. Mummering benedictions and praise for the machine spirit within and for the shot that took out the gunner. Alongside prayers for the God-Emperor on the other fortuitous events of the event like Celine's attack and the lucky mine placements. As he did so a well-used and oiled rag was swept over the dusty stubber barrel to clean it off and check for warping, luckily the imperium builds for endurance and the barrel is showing that with it's dirty but otherwise perfect condition. Once done inspecting the weapon he pulled out another box of ammo from his bag and moved to switch it out with a partially empty one without stopping his prayers.
With that stubber reloaded he continued his prayers, focusing on the God-Emperor and seeking guidance or aid in doing the holy duty of their mission, that Albert may serve some minute part in His glorious plan for this planet. That the holy fury of the legion will strike down the heretics when they come, that they may push them back the traitors further into the Hive.
Not once did his prayers ever touch on his own survival.
You fumble over your words, trying to find them amid the now calm battlefield.
Your eyes shift to one of the Heretic Militia, dying or dead. As you try to remember the words to your prayer, you can't help but think-if she'd been in the same position as you were now, would she be saying the same prayer? Would she believe it? The enemy were heretics, but their pretense of faith....
It doesn't bear thinking about. You return to your reload, the words of the prayer slipping from your mind.
Smoop barely gave the carnage a glance as she crept out of her hidey-hole, having directed a few desultory laspistol blasts at the enemy rather than taking part in the bayonet charge. Bit hard to do so without a rifle or bayonet, in any case.
Her courage and duty lay elsewhere than blood and thunder. She called on it now, when others were resting and scavenging and preparing for the next round of violence. Unseen, unheard - especially to the enemy, she prayed - she picked her way forward, beyond the platoon's lines, to give her Auspex a clearer field of vision.
It might not be as glorious as taking out a tank with a satchel charge, but every last little edge of information and preparedness she could provide her fellows might make a difference.
She hoped the Emperor would see it that way, and convince His agents about it too.
You creep forward, past the burning remains of the Armored Car, towards the ruins. You step past a Militiawoman, breathing shallowly into her gashood, one arm shattered at the shoulder. You take shelter amid a bastion of bricks, and you scan.
You find a wealth of information.
There is a vast horde of lifeforms approaching the perimeter, hundreds of bodies, tightly packed, none of them carrying much in the way of active machine spirits or sources of emissions. No cordite or dense energy sources that might indicate lasguns, except on a very few of the incoming bodies.
It doesn't take a genius to understand what's coming. From your position you can see the first feelers of the horde-the horde of refugees barring down upon the fortified position. Dozens, of all classes and walks of life, no doubt hundreds all along the line, pushing their way forward. They're cautious, listening for signs of gunfire or militia, keeping their eyes open, reluctant but approaching.
But something itches at the back of your mind. You adjust the settings on your auspex. Behind the initial front of refugees approaching now, hundreds of meters back, farther. More lifeforms, more refugees. Coming endlessly, in their thousands..and something about the back ranks. Something about how they move makes you concerned.
They're moving fast.
Panicked.
(OOC: 2 DoS on Awareness. Ask me two questions in the OOC).
From beneath the Scarab, one arm and then another reach out, weakly scrabbling at the ground. Celine needs to get back to friendly lines. The grenade blast has left her so concussed she's not certain which way friendly lines is, nor if she can gt back to them on her own. The ringing in her ears is unbearable, drowning out all previous pains with a feeling like her head is about to split open. She cannot even tell if she herself breathes in this moment, so winded does she feel from the blastwave crashing against flakweave, so wracked with dry heaving from nausea.
She just needs to get back out from beneath the Scarab. The rest can come when the world has stopped warping around her senses.
The next hour is a blur, helped along with a copious helping of Morphia and a shockingly comfortable cot on some rocks. You catch snippets of medicaes working on you, clinical talk about your injuries, preparations for further waves of casualties, and other things that vanish like the tide of the Sump as your mind comes in and out of consciousness.
Then, you feel a sharp pain in your leg. You jerk awake, hand going for a sword that isn't there.
"Look alive, Lanate! The Captain wants to speak to you!" Doughty, the new Platoon CO, shouts. As soon as you've opened your eyes, the Platoon Sergeant salutes, turns around, and turns back to the platoon.
Lieutenant-no, he was Captain now-Captain Ansalm, stands beside your cot. "I am told you charged that armored car with a Hunting Lance? Making up for your failure to kill the last one?"
Whatever your response, he keeps talking. "The sergeant tells me you have died many times. That the Legionaires are beginning to speak as if you are blessed by the God Emperor."
"I sympathize." He says, sincerely. "i know it is not a blessing, but a curse! The Emperor puts challenges before us, and refuses to allow us the sweet release of martyrdom!"
"Regardless, you are an inspiration for the troops." He kneels down next to your cot, and then offers a hand. You have to blink-both in surprise, and to clear the exhaustion from your eyes. "Never cease trying, Lanate. The cowardly masses of my command might well learn a thing from you, once you are properly martyred."
He helps you up, and you come unsteadily to your feet-still exhausted. "Now get back out there, legionnaire!"
(OOC: You'll be around for the second half of this update-though see Squad Status for your status).
"Let me aid you to the medic," he sighed. After that...After that he was going to see if he could talk anyone into sharing moonshine at this point. Throne.
"Must be the first Nob I've ever seen who came asking for the Juice." Dormer says, as you pass the bottle to her.
"Better than nothing." Steed says. He puts a hand on your back. "Good job back there, Sophon. With the 'fugees?"
"Hansan would've opened fire, and they'd be dead." Colm says. He passes you the bottle, and you take another long pull. "Did the humanitarian thing there...."
"Might need to do it some more." Dormer suddenly says. She glances over the trenches, and points. Out amid the burning armored car and the front of the defenses, more people are appearing, tentatively approaching the defensive lives.
You swear and hand the bottle over to Colm, scrabbling back for your own trench. Colm is already shouting what's left of his squad into line.
The remains of the company watches tensely as more and more Refugees approach their line. A small group here, another there. One crouches in the ruins opposite of their position. They are from all walks of life, as the previous group had been, gangers and mid-hive scribes, hardscrabble workers and the lowest strata of what can be called Spire Nobility, but they have no conceptions of class now-just the conception of the twin danger and safety of your defenses. All look as if they are starving, as if they have been under siege for months, rather than a few paltry days.
For the first time in hours, the Squad again notices the distant Churchbells, a distant thrumming that'd become so routine as to be unremarkable over the last few hours. It seems unnatural to even the least devout Imperials that they would be ringing, and people would be fleeing them.
Already, the first groups are moving forward to your line. Colm, kind, pius Colm, is shouting a group forward, guiding them through the mines and not waiting for orders. Others, down the line, are keep the refugees at gunpoint, demanding they turn back, or head to a different part of the line, or turn out their pockets. Just as last time, there is no order, no organization. Sergeant Doughty, from his position near the center of the formation, is trying to find Captain Ansalm, or another officer, while regular sergeants are left to form their own discretion on what to do. Lines are backing up-someone needs to do something, now, or your entire position is going to be clogged with dozens of bodies.
Celine, along with another replacement sent forward (@alastorspal , time to introduce yourself), stumble into the squad's trench amid this crisis. Celine knows well that Ansalm was back at the Medical tents, occupied with duties behind the lines-he wouldnt' be here for crucial time.
Behind the current dozens of refugees, down the road, more and more are coming, in small groups, attracted towards Imperial Lines, the sound of bells echoing as they stream down the round.
Something needed to be done.
(OOC: Time for more refugees. You need to sort this situation out-doesn't neccessarily have to be by letting them through your lines, but you need to do something about them.
Map will be updated soon. Next post should be this next monday.
-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 200/200 rounds in belt
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), +10 Bonus to next Willpower test
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue
Albert grimaced as he watched the wave of refugees heading their way, already he can tell that this will be a mess. No matter what at least a few of them were likely to be trouble, even if it's due to arrogance, incompetence, or simple bad lack rather then being heretics. But unfortunately there wasn't much he could from here, as before getting up would be asking to get shot and he certainly wouldn't be leaving this turret with that many potential enemies out there.
Instead he did as he had with the previous refugees, he kept a finger near the stubber trigger and scanned the masses for threats. He wouldn't want to, and would try to call out a warning if he could, but if anyone tried to pull a fast one he would mow them down before they got far.
The work never ends, neither for the faithful nor the penitent. It seems as though Celine has scarcely had time enough to be pieced back together before again, a new test awaits her faith. Still unsteady in her steps, she makes her way to the corner outside of the ruined chapel, facing the oncoming refugees at the intersection. So many of them, now. Should it taken as heartening news, that so many yet remained true to the Imperium amid all the death and treachery, or with dismay, that the Hive had turned to such a mire of heresy amidst so many who would still proclaim themselves faithful?
Something for Confessors to contemplate, certainly. How long until another came here, to take Serastra's place?
Her weapons are stowed away, for the moment, as she faces the desperate crowd. With a deep breath, her hands draw up to the sign of the Aquila, and her voice gives way to the sound of a hymnal. With her gaze, she beckons the crowd to follow her example, to show themselves yet faithful, and to go to the faithful without fear in their hearts.
(Piety test to get the refugees through the lines in a calm and orderly manner. And hopefully filtering out any hidden heretics.)
"Must be the first Nob I've ever seen who came asking for the Juice." Dormer says, as you pass the bottle to her.
"Better than nothing." Steed says. He puts a hand on your back. "Good job back there, Sophon. With the 'fugees?"
"Hansan would've opened fire, and they'd be dead." Colm says. He passes you the bottle, and you take another long pull. "Did the humanitarian thing there...."
"Might need to do it some more." Dormer suddenly says. She glances over the trenches, and points. Out amid the burning armored car and the front of the defenses, more people are appearing, tentatively approaching the defensive lives.
You swear and hand the bottle over to Colm, scrabbling back for your own trench. Colm is already shouting what's left of his squad into line.
It tasted like chemical waste and went down like lit swallowed promethium. Jeradresh had taken lasgun shots that burned less.
He kept it down, somehow. He didn't know what was worse: The horrors of the fighting they'd been through so far, or the fact he was starting to find such things tolerable.
"It has...been a tiring day," He told Dormer, handing the bottle over. He paused a moment at the compliment, his eyes flicking to the mob of wastrels. Humanitarian. "I...Suppose I did, yes."
He'd just been following the others' direction. Not that he'd ever admit that.
"Yet more ruffians," Jeradresh sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "Good fortune to you lot."
The remains of the company watches tensely as more and more Refugees approach their line. A small group here, another there. One crouches in the ruins opposite of their position. They are from all walks of life, as the previous group had been, gangers and mid-hive scribes, hardscrabble workers and the lowest strata of what can be called Spire Nobility, but they have no conceptions of class now-just the conception of the twin danger and safety of your defenses. All look as if they are starving, as if they have been under siege for months, rather than a few paltry days.
For the first time in hours, the Squad again notices the distant Churchbells, a distant thrumming that'd become so routine as to be unremarkable over the last few hours. It seems unnatural to even the least devout Imperials that they would be ringing, and people would be fleeing them.
Already, the first groups are moving forward to your line. Colm, kind, pius Colm, is shouting a group forward, guiding them through the mines and not waiting for orders. Others, down the line, are keep the refugees at gunpoint, demanding they turn back, or head to a different part of the line, or turn out their pockets. Just as last time, there is no order, no organization. Sergeant Doughty, from his position near the center of the formation, is trying to find Captain Ansalm, or another officer, while regular sergeants are left to form their own discretion on what to do. Lines are backing up-someone needs to do something, now, or your entire position is going to be clogged with dozens of bodies.
Celine, along with another replacement sent forward (@alastorspal , time to introduce yourself), stumble into the squad's trench amid this crisis. Celine knows well that Ansalm was back at the Medical tents, occupied with duties behind the lines-he wouldnt' be here for crucial time.
Behind the current dozens of refugees, down the road, more and more are coming, in small groups, attracted towards Imperial Lines, the sound of bells echoing as they stream down the round.
Something needed to be done.
(OOC: Time for more refugees. You need to sort this situation out-doesn't neccessarily have to be by letting them through your lines, but you need to do something about them.
Map will be updated soon. Next post should be this next monday.
-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 200/200 rounds in belt
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), +10 Bonus to next Willpower test
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue
That...was rather more refugees than he knew what to do with. Jeradresh spared a look around for anyone with sufficiently big pauldrons or hat to take over this mess and was entirely unsurprised there weren't any around. The Imperium had not impressed upon them their efficiency before, but frankly, he suspected there was a more important aspect at play: Blame-shifting. He'd known it well in the courts and museum spaces alike. It was always safer to put yourself at a remove from potentially controversial decisions. Servants existed to take the blame and give the credit. If their immediate superiors didn't know whether the civilians should be spared, or shot, or Emperor knew what else, well, let the expendable Penal Legionnaires make the choice for you.
Jeradresh was not enjoying playing the servant.
He took in a breath. Still, the nobleman wasn't without some takko-sticks up his sleeves to play. Pinning the blame on others and stealing their credit wasn't the only thing he'd learned at his former position. He'd handled lines and playing host before.
He stepped forward, with no small discomfort, to help Celine organize a filtration line. For a moment he considered putting on his best smile, playing the polite guest but looking at the frightened masses, he realized a different timbre was necessary.
As Celine did her best to mimic a priest, Jeradresh put on his best 'I don't care who you're the third son too, you're drunk and we're closing in five minutes' tone and barked at the lot of them to form an orderly line. Emperor willing, after that would come the sorting the heretics from the pseudo-innocent, and then...Stalling, maybe?
Jeradresh didn't know. For the first time all day, he was glad he wasn't sergeant.
Gorm looks out across the refugees
Any one of them could be a saboteur in disguise, misusing the creed of the Holy Emperor to strike at his soldiers, however misbegotten they may be.
The sliver of doubt that has jumped in his heart recently rears its ugly head yet again before it is silenced by Prayer. There can be no doubt. Not now.
Gorm moves over to Celine, pats her lightly on the back with a slight smile, and forms the symbol of the Aquila, guiding the faithful forward
(Gorm will assist Celine on her Piety check. Defrocked Priest and all!)
The remains of the company watches tensely as more and more Refugees approach their line. A small group here, another there. One crouches in the ruins opposite of their position. They are from all walks of life, as the previous group had been, gangers and mid-hive scribes, hardscrabble workers and the lowest strata of what can be called Spire Nobility, but they have no conceptions of class now-just the conception of the twin danger and safety of your defenses. All look as if they are starving, as if they have been under siege for months, rather than a few paltry days.
For the first time in hours, the Squad again notices the distant Churchbells, a distant thrumming that'd become so routine as to be unremarkable over the last few hours. It seems unnatural to even the least devout Imperials that they would be ringing, and people would be fleeing them.
Already, the first groups are moving forward to your line. Colm, kind, pius Colm, is shouting a group forward, guiding them through the mines and not waiting for orders. Others, down the line, are keep the refugees at gunpoint, demanding they turn back, or head to a different part of the line, or turn out their pockets. Just as last time, there is no order, no organization. Sergeant Doughty, from his position near the center of the formation, is trying to find Captain Ansalm, or another officer, while regular sergeants are left to form their own discretion on what to do. Lines are backing up-someone needs to do something, now, or your entire position is going to be clogged with dozens of bodies.
Celine, along with another replacement sent forward (@alastorspal , time to introduce yourself), stumble into the squad's trench amid this crisis. Celine knows well that Ansalm was back at the Medical tents, occupied with duties behind the lines-he wouldnt' be here for crucial time.
Behind the current dozens of refugees, down the road, more and more are coming, in small groups, attracted towards Imperial Lines, the sound of bells echoing as they stream down the round.
Cheri swore under her breath as she saw the horde of refugees coming their way, shaking her head and grimacing in displeasure as she began giving orders, helping the line move along agreeably, agreeing with the decision of her squadmates to accept refugees. Noticing the other squad's disorganization, she sighs and grimaces, getting up to a vantage point to get a better view of the other squads as she flipped through the Vox networks until she found the local channel on which the squad leaders should be listening in on, clearing her throat as she spoke.
"Squad leaders, may I have your attention, please? This is Seargent Cheri of 123-F; it appears we are down a commanding officer at the moment, and it's unbecoming of us to devolve into chaos just because of that. As it seems that I'm the only one present on the scene with a functional Voxcaster to deliver orders, I shall assume temporary command until a superior officer can be contacted to take charge."
She pauses to let the message sink in for a moment before continuing, "Now, if there aren't any objections to me being in command, please start organizing lines of egress for the refugees and guiding them through the defensive positions with the help of your squad; refugees sticking around right now would be catastrophic for the defensive efforts as I'm sure the fanatical heretics will have no qualms using human shields, so getting them behind the defensive lines and away from our camps is important, we don't want them interfering with any of the battles to come" She chuckles to herself before continuing "Please do not steal from the refugees while ordering them down the line, I can see you doing it and don't like it, and remember that if a commissar were to see you, theft and battlefield looting are both executable offences."
She continued to give out orders across the front, helping to organize the effort to move the refugees away from the frontlines and into relative safety so that the defensive efforts could continue properly.
(using Command (Or Charm, I guess) to try and take charge of the scene to restore order. While it's not battlefield support, I hope my Voxcaster's bonus will at least help.)
Her weapons are stowed away, for the moment, as she faces the desperate crowd. With a deep breath, her hands draw up to the sign of the Aquila, and her voice gives way to the sound of a hymnal. With her gaze, she beckons the crowd to follow her example, to show themselves yet faithful, and to go to the faithful without fear in their hearts.
As Celine did her best to mimic a priest, Jeradresh put on his best 'I don't care who you're the third son too, you're drunk and we're closing in five minutes' tone and barked at the lot of them to form an orderly line. Emperor willing, after that would come the sorting the heretics from the pseudo-innocent, and then...Stalling, maybe?
(using Command (Or Charm, I guess) to try and take charge of the scene to restore order. While it's not battlefield support, I hope my Voxcaster's bonus will at least help.)
The Squad's efforts are valiant, they are well coordinated, they are made with earnest intention.
They are not good enough.
For every refugee that Jerad coaxes into a line, a half dozen more stubbornly resist, demanding to be let past immediately, because they are a noble, because you are a mere Commoner, because their life is in danger, because they're loyal Imperial Citizens, because they didn't hear him, because they can't hear him over the damned, ever be cursed bells!
And once those that fall in line, or whom manage to jostle and shove their way to the front near the squad's position are in position, as many as half simply start pushing into the defenses or down the street. Celine finds herself trying to corral dozens of people while exhausted, and with only the backup of half her squad-Albert too busy keeping watch, Nyla off scouting, and the rest simply lost in the chaos. She has to keep her voice level as she recites prayer from an exhausted, smoke burned throat, force leaden limbs to physically direct people past the minefields and razor wire. She has to force herself by pure effort of will to keep the lines moving, keep praying, keep reassuring people it'd be alright, keep one hand in the sign of the aquilla, keep everything moving.
A woman gets caught in the razor wire, screaming, and Gorn has to stop what he's doing and extract her. Other stumble forward and someone is forced to point a rifle, force them away from the fragmines and other defenses, trying to restore some sort of order. It's pushing people through the channels, but it's slow work, and so far only in their section of the front.
Colm's Squad has joined in the process, but down the line others are having their doubts. Hansen is arguing into the comm, as he men try to keep the civilians back. "I'm waiting for the Platoon Sergeant, or Captain-Get-Killed, or the karking Leash-Sorry, but I'm not putting my people at risk, Cheri."
Others put it in more stark terms. "Fuck no, I ain't letting these scavs through!" Another sergeant shouts. A Corporal, standing in for a wounded Sergeant, just grunts her affirmation, but it's half hearted at best. Others take more arguing, more convincing, and it's taking too damn long, as every second the flow of civilians is increasing.
At least the Bells are starting stop, the echoes of their last rings screaming into the air.
This place was going to be logjammed for hours, and everyone could feel it now. As the Bells begin to echo their last, everyone knows-something is coming.
(OOC: Celine Failed by 1, for a 0 DoF fail. Not that bad, but not good either. Cheri failed by 1 DoF, so you get the result here. Area is still choked with civilian refugees obscuring firing lines and generally getting in the way, but it's not quite as bad as before))
That let you concentrate on your Auspex screen better-the results of which don't make any sense to you. The trail end of the Refugee collumn is within sight from your position, and that means whatever is behind them must be within the range of your Auspex's electromagnetic and more esoteric senses. You should have a good idea of what it is. You fiddle with the knobs and dials, whispering entreaties and trying to remember your training.
Nothing.
As far as your Auspex is concerned, there is nothing at all beyond the Refugees. No heat sources of heavy engines, no dense energy sources indicating las-packs or energy fields, no dense metallic sources indicating heavy armor or vehicles. No signs of life at all.
As far as you can tell, these people are running from nothing.
Now the question remained-did you retreat and try to inform Cheri and the rest of the rather useless fact that the Civilians are running from nothing in particular...or do you stay, and attempt visually ascertain what was coming?
No good choices today.
(OOC: Next update, Friday. Make your choices.
-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 200/200 rounds in belt
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), +10 Bonus to next Willpower test
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue
The thought stuck in Smoop's head. Every possible course of action could be a mistake. Probably would be. She was sure - dead sure - that something big was coming, but she couldn't figure out what. The Auspex wasn't saying... which might mean (think it, don't say it, don't even whisper it) that it was malfunctioning, or - which was worse - it was something an Auspex couldn't detect.
Smoop, like any good Imperial Citizen, had little idea of the kinds of entities that might be undetectable by Auspex. She did, however, have a creeping feeling that, whatever this was, it would not be considered orthodox to the Imperial Creed.
But feelings weren't facts, unless you were a Preacher. Or a Saint.
Smoop wasn't either, nor would she ever want to be. All she was Smoop. A penal legion trooper. A speck on a mote of dust to the all-seeing eye of the Emperor.
She had to have something to report. She needed to know.
Ignoring the oncoming crowd, she set aside the Auspex (gently, reverently, not to offend its Machine Spirit) and poked her head out of her hide.
Albert winced at the situation, things weren't looking so hot. Enemies were approaching and the civilians would surely panic once they came into line of sight, and that's if there weren't any traitors amongst the crowd who were waiting for their chance to take someone out while everyone is distracted with the approaching heretics. Either way the situation was going to get ugly, and soon.
But what could he do, yelling from here would accomplish nothing. He couldn't leave the nest in fear of a traitor either killing him or jumping onto the stubber if they got through the screen. He couldn't even focus just on the crowd anymore, as enemies could pop up and start firing at any time, after all it wouldn't surprise him if they sent skirmishers ahead this time. No, instead he's stuck watching both the crowd and the approach incase there's someone trying to be sneaky and take a chance to hit them before they can realize there's a threat.
He just hoped that he would catch them if they do try, at least before they do any damage.
(As usual keep overwatch and be ready to gun down anything that pops up.)
She needs to keep trying. Needs to push through the pain, the fatigue. They are looking to her, in this mire of blood and ruin, for deliverance from the blasphemous foe behind them. They are joining her in song. They are getting through the line to safety and clearing the field.
Not nearly fast enough.
Still, through all the fear and faltering strength, Celine keeps up her chant, fueling the pace of the hymnal the refugees lend their voices to. There is naught else she can think to do that will save even one more of these benighted souls from the darkness beyond His light.
Jeradresh didn't like that there was significance in that. All it should logically mean was the end of a call to worship, the telling of time, or a hundred other conventional explanations. He should have been pleased their raucousness had come to an end. But their ending had his humors awry, a sourness at the pit of his stomach.
This meant something. Jeradresh was well familiar with the symbolic import of bells, if not totally the Imperial love for them, and he didn't like that the silence had a meaning. The signal for an attack? Something else?
This wasn't working. If something happened now, they'd have plentiful cover from the refugees, or even drive them into the Imperial lines. Something had to be done. His finger tensed on the trigger of his lasgun for a brief moment, but then he suppressed the thought. These people were still the Emperor's chattel, and violence would only worsen the situation with panic. But even if they did turn the crowd around, then what? They couldn't just let these people through these lines, so what...?
His eyes narrowed on the surrounding buildings. Those could work.
He strode forward, up to the other squad sergeants arguing with Cheri, muscles tense. "The Tactica Imperialis," he said, with all the confidence of someone who'd only read the book through the glass of a display case. "Has advice on handling civilians. We must move them out of these firing positions into detainment facilities outside of yonder firing arcs. Would Solar Macharius accept us standing around, like lazing canids? No? Then let us not try the Leash's patience either!"
He pointed. "There, there, and there, yes? Those buildings are large enough for large crowds, and we do not have anything too important there, no? Start sorting the civilians and moving them to detainment positions in there, tell whomsoever is already within to play watchman. Spread the word, our lords granted you working voxes for a reason, no?"
Then Jeradresh turned his attention thereafter to the other leaders of import: Nobles, guildmasters, gang lords, anyone who looked important among the crowds. They had an authority he (alas) currently lacked. A promise of reward, an earnest appeal, whatever it took to make them stop being part of the problem, part of the solution and start rallying people.
Would it be enough? Probably not. But still Jeradresh made the attempt.
And he prayed the bells didn't mean any of what he feared.
The Panic comes gradually, but with great momentum, like a great killing wave cresting above a doomed coastal community.
Suddenly the back ranks of the Refugees are shoving forward, demanding people get out of their way, demanding the crowd move faster, shoving, kicking, pushing, shouting, and screaming. Panic transfers through the whole group like a wave, and even as a select few are transferred through the hasty checkpoints or pushed and pulled through by Gorm and Celine, the forward ranks simply grow more panicked as the slow rate of escape becomes apparent.
"Let us through! Emperor's Teeth, have mercy!" Cries a Guildsman, as someone tries to force him back into line at bayonet's point.
"Please! I have children! I don't want to die!" Cries a father, shoved back into the crowd and out of the way by another man, who pushes forward with a fist full of Throne Gelt Coins shining.
"There's no time, please, let me through! There's no tim-"
Jerad steps forward amid the chaos, shouting, screaming, lying. By sheer force of charisma and lies, he manages to convince the first ranks, the most freshly panicked peoples, to listen. He shouts for Guildmasters and Ganglords and Nobles to listen, to organize, to get their people, their clients, the pliant masses that they command in peacetime organized and moving.
Moving where? Anywhere but the Penal's firing lines. Into the nearby ruined buildings. Slowly, other squads begin listening, prodding and shouting and repeating Jerad's orders down the line, if only because they make sense, and they keep the potentially dangerous refugees away from their position.
(OOC: Jerad succeeds on Decieve to clear out some of the civilians. Celine and Gorm fail)
And yet, it is only partially successful, for two factors.
The first comes from the refugees themselves. Though the front ranks are happy to listen, happy to be given something, a plan. Some shelter, within lasgun's reach of loyal Imperials, some idea that they will soon be processed and allowed by Imperial lines for safety and a hot meal, those behind them seem to not even listen. THey surge past, only a few carried along with the flow into the buildings or past Celine and Gorm. Most are so panicked they rush forward for the center of the defenses, and damn the consequences. A panicing sergeant fires warning shots above the crowd, and it does little to deter them.
Only the second disaster prevents an outright massacre-and this is a cold comfort indeed.
As suddenly as a prayer and the flick of the switch, all of the lights go out. The great hive electric lighting embedded in the ceiling above, giving dim, but workable lighting flicker and die. Great lights mounted in nearby buildings and statues suddenly go dark.
The entire line is suddenly plunged into utter darkness.
The wave hits, and panic spreads like wildfire amid the Imperial ranks.
Flickers of gun and lasfire in the dark, men shooting at nothing. Soldiers screaming for orders, begging for lights, shouting at the civilians, shouting at eachother, shouting at a still yet hypothetical enemy.
Albert, looking out over the defenss, can suddenly see nothing at all. His hands go to a white knuckle grip around the butterfly trigger of his stubber. What did he do? What should he do?
Jerad, caught out amid the front, is suddenly isolated among the screams of the refugees, with only the occaisonal ruby streak of a lasgun for light. He can feel his noble bearing beginning to fail him. If the Emperor was testing him, he was proving a harsh master indeed.
For Celine, it was simply too much. Exhaustion, failure, and now likely mass death. Faith could only go so far. One needed direction, and without sight, that was a bit much to ask.
Ramona wanders away from her current position, axe in hand. She is distracted, as if waiting for an inevitable fight, fidgeting with axe in hand.
Still others however, find it in themselves to hold it together. Gorm keeps his panic subsided, and looks around, making sure the rest of them where here. Everyone but Albert, Nyla, and Jerad, and he could hear Jerad shouting a few seconds ago. Cheri takes a headcount at the same time.
They were all still alive still. That was something. They could reorganize, get lights, try to figure out what hell was going on.
It was something, but not much. The remaining Civilians are screaming, making communication difficult. Between the flickers of lasfire and muzzle flashes they can see them rushing the forward positions, trying to push through, fellow soldiers wrestling with them in the dark, others fleeing their position and letting them through, others screaming desperately for lights or orders. There was no organization, no information, and the vox channels were full of a similar cacophony. Colm praying with eery calm from his position clogging up the same bands where Hansen and a half dozen others were asking for orders, where Sergeant Doughty was trying to reach higher command, where someone was shouting about trying to find a vehicle.
Abject chaos, and all of them thrown into the middle of it. And yet beyond those voices and the screaming, out in the darkness beyond, the sounds were growing dimmer.
A spreading silence, growing nearer.
(OOC: You have three Glow Globes from your trading with the RMCSDF. You need to decide who has those. Remember they are unreliable, and require one hand to use. Right now, Albert, Jerad, and Celine are panicked, meaning they take a -10 to all non Toughness rolls, and will react slower (less Initiative). You can think of how to try to remove that-finding a lightsource, taking stock of the situation, or similar are good ideas-but remember you have limited time.)
OOC Note: The following section is spoilered only for the dramatic tension of those who want to wait for the reveal themselves. I trust you all well enough to avoid metagaming, so go ahead and give it a read if you don't mind the spoilers of what's coming for you.
Nyla steels herself, then pushing herself forward and up, out of her small hiding space, she takes in what comes with her own eyes.
For the first few seconds, she doubts. Both her own eyes, and the loyal spirit of her Auspex, as she sees what she sees. A great mass of bodies, moving forward, seperated from the forward mass by only a few meters, intertwined in places. Towards the back of the great stream of refugees, there are simply more human forms, a great mass extending out the back of where the Auspex had said the lifeforms had stopped.
Then she sees one of the Refugees in the forward collumn trip, fall. The following Refugees are upon the unfortunate nearly instantly, and they vanish into the mass. A Leg held by one form, an arm by another, a screaming head vanishing into the horde.
She blinks, and then she sees more clearly.
The forms that come on were only human in the past sense. Each is either bloated with rot, or else cadaverous, flesh eaten away by maggots, leaches, and bacterium. Some are mutated, great bulges of tumerous flesh forming oversized and mishapen arms, bloated legs, armor made of rotted flesh and splintered bone. Some few carry weapons, the occaisonal autorifle or pistol, more commonly blunt weapons and rusted blades.
As if contrast to what had become of their bodies, each of the oncoming mass is dressed in their best. Midhivers in formal clothing one might wear to mass or a fine restaurant, stained with blood and unidentifiable body fluids. Robes and gas masks on the poorer of this undead communion, which provided no protection in life and were surely just as useless in death. SDF troopers in full armor and uniform, marching proudly forward beyond death.
And then, in the last split second that Nyla dares before she ducks down back into her position, she sees each of the once human creatures faces.
Every single one, down to the last child and the last soldier carries an unnatural, rotten toothed Grin upon their faces, as if they couldn't be happier.
She waits like that for a long moment, hands shaking in terror, trying to think what to do, what she could possibly do.
Then the moans come, the moans of a million mouths, straight from their throats, straight from the depths of the Warp, straight from something and somewhere that she knows not the name of, but welcomes her despair, come.
Wouldn't it be easier? Just give up. Embrace eternity, and understand how small she really was in the end. Either join the horde, or take out her pistol and consign her soul to his embrace with a single squeeze of the trigger. It would be easy, and she wouldn't have to worry anymore.
No
Perhaps it is faith, that speaks that word. Perhaps it is the voice of hope, that says that she could still make it out of here, out of this situation, out of the Legion, out. Perhaps it was just spite, at yet another boot trying to crush all that was Nyla Smoop into the mote of dust she was, to grind her away into the infismasely fine human gristle that was all this galaxy produced.
Whatever it was, she isn't done yet. She still has a chance to make it out alive, and warn the rest.
Perhaps, as the undead pour foward, and past her position, not much of one-but when has that ever stopped her or the rest of her squad before?
(OOC: Failed Fear test, but passed test against Corruption with flying colors-given how desperate your situation now is, I decided that let you break your fear as well. Good luck getting out of here-you're going to need it.
-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 200/200 rounds in belt, Disoriented (-10 to All non Toughness Tests)
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), +10 Bonus to next Willpower test, Disoriented (-10 to All non Toughness Tests)
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue, Disoriented (-10 to All non Toughness Tests)
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue), Disoriented (-10 to All non Toughness Tests)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue
Albert's eyes twitch around, trying to penetrate the darkness or even spot a hint of light throughout the defenses that he was sure had to still be there. But no matter how hard he glared he couldn't see anything and while he could hear plenty the sheer amount of yelling and screaming from the civilians made it impossible for it to be useful, he was essentially both deaf and blind here. Luckily he had been in a situation like this before, back when he was a child, and the lights the local hab church had gone out during a sermon, but there he had his brother to guide him through the chaos and get them out without being trampled. He tried to remember what his brother had told him to do in a situation like this. It came to his mind surprisingly quickly, maybe the panic was latching onto anything that might help, and what his brother had said ran through his mind.
"Focus on one thing Al, don't try to notice everything. Think about what's in your hands, focus on it. Take in the details of it and let everything else wash away until you're not panicking anymore. Once you're calm then you can start taking everything else in again."
Albert tried to follow those old instructions, taking a few moments to block out the sight and sounds around him. Focusing on the stubber in his hands, the cold metal and rugged rubber that he gripped. The weight of the weapon even as it was held up by it's bipid, how it felt as he maneuvered it slightly to adjust the weight. Taking all of this in as he tried to center himself again and regain his calm.
(Albert is currently trying to regain his calm by calming his mind down enough to start thinking logically again, I figure since he's a hiver it could make sense for him to have run into something like this before.)
@xjax1
Pulling the stablight from her webbing, Celine hands it over to Sergeant Cheri before reaching for a glow-globe to replace it. "Here, sergeant. With the beam, you might be able to keep leading these people to the buildings to hide in. If Sergeant Doughty or Commissar Shrake asks," she continues with a slight waver to her voice, replacing her chain-grinder with her issued monosword, "I'm going out there to see if I can find a junction box or emergency generator; there usually is at least one in every block, in case power lines get cut by a hive-quake."
Finally, blessed illumination, as the glow-globe's shine casts away the darkness about her. Now, to see if this gift can be shared to all on the penal line, and the refugees crying out for salvation. To see if it can calm her own heart from this oncoming wave of dread anticipation.
Clutching her light source, Celine plunges into the darkness of the shadowed hive.
Jeradresh, like all sane men, was afraid of the dark. Often, the monsters lurking within them were a mere figment of the mind. Other times, they were a hired assassin with preysense goggles out to trim the family tree a little.
Jeradresh didn't want to take a chance that there was nothing to fear in the yawning darkness that swallowed him, lit only by the occasional flicker of a lasgun that lit the dark for only a fraction of a heartbeat. He was in front of the line. People were shouting and screaming. If he misstepped he could be shot, stumble onto a mine (that may or may be remotely activated), or stumble into barbed wire. The idiots hadn't assigned them preysense goggles, or nightsights, or so much as a candle! He couldn't panic. He couldn't panic!
He had to think calmly, rationally.
He had a lasgun. It made light. He'd heard a guardsman call it a 'flashlight'. Perhaps it could illuminate his way and get him out of this pitch black hell! Salvation! Fiat lux!
...
Jeradresh took a breath, releasing tension on the trigger before he fired his lasgun blindly and probably shot up some random peasant. Perhaps he could shoot the floor instead. The sparks and molten rockcrete might last a little longer for light, right? Then he would just...Improvise a torch from the lasgun heat, and illuminate his way through the dark. Right. He just...Had to wonder where he was supposed to find a wooden stick in the middle of a hive?
Bayonet? Wrap it in cloth. Did he have cloth? He had some surgical dressings and his uniform, but-Well, he couldn't even see his bayonet, the material was tough enough he wasn't sure if we could cut it easily, and he couldn't see what he was cutting anyway. He'd probably saw his own leg off.
"Kings blood...kings blood...Oh Emperor save me." He was hyperventilating, trying to blot out the screaming and the panicking and the shooting.
He reached out, trying to grab at a screaming silouhette. "Give me your shirt!" He shouted. Wrap it around the end of his gun, fire it at the ground, let the flaming cloth catch fire. Failing that, he dropped low and started crawling in the rough direction of the shooting, praying every step of the way to the God-Emperor.
OOC: Intimidate someone into giving me cloth for an improvised torch, or crawl roughly toward Imperial lines while praying to the Throne.
How many times had Smoop heard that word, denying her something? All her wants and wishes, all her needs and desires. Crushed by the grind of life, by the iron laws of the Imperial economy, the overarching need to suck every last iota of production into the machine - and yet, somehow, she had found herself carving roasts for overfed men - roasts that would have fed her family for a month - and then, when her rage and resentment had finally caused her to snap, they'd sent her here to die, amidst the heedless expenditure of men and metal, a single artillery shell worth more than the lives of everyone she loved, a barrage costing more than the entire population of her hab-block could earn in a year.
No
And here it was supposed to end, torn apart by abominations, or by her own hand?
No
The tears streamed from Smoop's eyes, and distantly she heard a demented scream that she finally realised was her own.
No
The waste, the sheer damned waste. She could not let it be for nothing.
No
Her arms thrust her from the ground, camo-cloak rippling around her. Her legs began pumping, faster than they ever had. She had to get back to the lines, had to warn her comrades about what was coming. Get all the guns they could, firing, damn the cost. Anything, to stop this.
Pulling the stablight from her webbing, Celine hands it over to Sergeant Cheri before reaching for a glow-globe to replace it. "Here, sergeant. With the beam, you might be able to keep leading these people to the buildings to hide in. If Sergeant Doughty or Commissar Shrake asks," she continues with a slight waver to her voice, replacing her chain-grinder with her issued monosword, "I'm going out there to see if I can find a junction box or emergency generator; there usually is at least one in every block, in case power lines get cut by a hive-quake."
Finally, blessed illumination, as the glow-globe's shine casts away the darkness about her. Now, to see if this gift can be shared to all on the penal line, and the refugees crying out for salvation. To see if it can calm her own heart from this oncoming wave of dread anticipation.
Cheri was caught by darkness, a wave of panic washing over her for a moment before her instincts kicked into gear, nodding as she exchanges the glow-globe for a stablight, flicking the switch and letting the light bathe the area, quickly assessing the area for a recognizable landmark and putting the vox-caster to her lips as she flicked through the channels, shuttering her connection to the ones higher up on the net, just leaving her squad's frequency in one ear, and fire support's in the other as she spoke into the transmitter.
"Squad form up at the statue, ill keep a stablight on it, we have a light source, its just the dark and you will all do fine, so get your guns up and keep your head in the game, we need to be ready for whatever the disorganization will bring, follow my light."
She said as she started to shout over the top of the chaos, keeping her light pointed firmly at the statue so the others could find her as she tried to calm and otherwise get the crowd of people out of a panic, wanting to at least restore order among the penal legions if nothing else, so they could respond if a surprise attack came.
Ramona, as usual, stayed silent as she drew her knife, licking the edge of it as she thought about getting a few stabs in, before the Sargent's voice snapped her out of the idea, grumbling softly under her breath about ruining her fun as she stalked her way towards Cheri, giving a growl and hard glare, with an axe brandished in one hand, to anyone who thought about attacking the Sargent while she was restoring order.
"Any of you lot steps out of line, or tries to lay a hand on her, the dark wont be the only thing to worry about" She says with a look that rather infers she would quite like them to try, the stablight providing extremely dim light for the rest of them to see by when it wasnt pointed at them, but it was more than enough to see the murderous glint in Ramona's eyes.
(Cheri will use Charm(+20, 1 RR) to (attempt to) break our allies out of the panic, then Command(+10) to try and restore order to her general vicinity, Remona will try to support Cheri's Command roll with intimidate(+10) (I expect this to go poorly unless I can sub in strength, but eh), mostly because I cant think of much else for the girl whos only strength trait is she punches good)
Cheri's calm voice going over the vox, as well as the light from her Stablight, serves to cut through the panic overcoming the squad like a Knife.
Jerad, squinting in the sudden, blinding light of the Stablight, pauses for a moment-was that one of the fabled Lascannons he had heard about or-no, he can hear the Sergeant's voice, see her silluehetted against the end of the beam. She'd secured a source of light-all he had to do was get to her. Crawling carefully along the ground, keeping his head down, he fumbles through the rubble until he's reached her position, and drops down in cover next to her, where he can see Ramona, Gorm, and the new guy whose name he never caught.
Albert, at his own position, can see the sudden blossom of light from Cheri's position, along with the flickering light of what looks like Ramona nearby, and even Celine, heading away. Forcing himself to think rationally, he draws in a breath, steadies himself, and then lays his gun to fire over their heads, ready for whatever threat might come.
Ramona, shouting, keeps drawing them onto Cheri's position, and keeps them there, threatening violence against anyone who dares run. Before long the squad is fully gathered-absent Celine, Smoop, and Albert-but a glance backwards with the light can reveal him, sitting in his position and covering them, good.
That just left the chaos up and down the line. Other squads are still confused and panicing, all of them bereft of lights, lacking their own means of illumination. Others are noticing the squad's relative wealth of lumens-already Sergeant Doughty is shouting "Get that Stablight up front! We're bloody blind!"
Others are shouting, begging for any kind of light. Hansen shouts "We could use one of those Glowglobes! Can't see anything!"
"Cheri, we got more people coming in!" Sergeant Colm shouts. "We should get them inside! Give my people one of those Glowglobes, and we'll get them in!"
Indeed, though the squad has done an admirable job adjusting the flow of refugees, and many are inside the perimeter, some are still not, clawing at the entrance, enduring shouts to stay back, and the occaisonal ruby flash of a warning shot. They were shouting something, hard to make out in the storm of cries and panic, and confusion.
Still, Cheri picks out some of it-some of it.
"God Emperor, let us through! They're right behind us! Please, mercy of-"
Cheri checks the rest of her squad are still around, then flicks the Light towards the road the refugees had come down. More forms in the darkness, more refugees she thinks. The forwardmost are streaming forward, screaming, pushing, shoving. But behind them, the furthermost forms are simply striding forward, much more calmly, as if they weren't in the dark, as if their compatriots ahead weren't screaming in terror.
(OOC: Awareness test success, 0 DoS, on a -20, TN 12 test-the first very Lucky roll of this update).
She flicks her light back to give light for her squad. They were organized as they were going to be-now what to do with that organization?
(OOC: Between Cheri, Ramona, and your own rolls, everyone broke their Panic. Now what? Reminder you have one Glow Globe that hasnt' been given (Cheri has the Stablight, Celine has a Glow Globe, and Ramona has another))
You stumble through the rubble, scared Penal Legion soldiers, confused support personnel, and terrified refugees, trying to find the nearest junction box. There should be one nearby-you could probably even easily find it-if you had more than few meters of light. If people weren't shouting "Give that Glow-Globe over!" as you pass, if you weren't exhausted from days of accumulated injury, bloodloss, and an extended adrenaline crash. If you hearing wasn't shot from the sound of screaming and stubbers and ruby thunder of lasguns.
You step out from the defenses, crossing a street, nearly stumbling in the gloom, and step past a dead Hive Miltiiaman, past a burnt out vehicle. You know the box should be in this general area-but you got turned around at some point, the darkness is all consuming, and worst of all, you're in danger of losing track of the squad's postion, or where you are at all-only Cheri's Stablight gives you some hope of making your way back.
You are lost-but that doesn't mean you have to give up.
(OOC: Fail by 3 DoF. You can try again, but that means being seperated from the squad for another few combat turns while whatever is going on goes on-or you can make your way back to the squad and not risk getting completely isolated. Up to you)
Run.
There is an elegant simplicity in it. For all their horrors, these creatures were not very fast. They seemed to only move at a marching pace, hence civilian refugees being able to keep just barely ahead of them. Who knows what esoteric senses they might have? Who knows if you tried stealth if you'd even get back in time?
Besides, you have plenty of adrenaline powering through your veins to get you moving.
You spring out of your position and start sprinting through the rubble, avoiding the main roads, clogged with desperate refugees. It's slower than you'd like still, and some of the creatures are drifting out of the horde, as if noticing you. You simply sprint past them, rushing through flat areas of rubble, scrabbling up small hills of masonary, evading through intact doors, and diving through windows, taking the shortest path you can get. Even without light, you seem to know which way to go-a combination of desperate, adrenale fueled nightsight, remembering the way you came, and sheer luck.
And, because you can see the light.
It's distant, a pinprick behind buildings and vehicles and statues, but it gets brighter as you get closer, and you rush towards it. It might be some trick-of the mind or the enemy, but what did you have but to take every gamble you could take, and hope to the God Emperor you rolled well?
It turns out luck is on your side.
As you duck through another building, a trio of creatures stumbling after you, you reach within sight of the trenchline-if only because of the light illuminating a section of it. A stablight, a divine spear of illumination in this infernal abyss, stands out, flanked by flickering lights that can only be those scrap quality Glowglobes Celine had insisted on aquiring.
In this situation, worth more than all the lasguns in the whole world.
Given the screaming was mostly the refugees, and the only gunfire was the flicker of panic and warning fire, you aren't too late. Just one final sprint, and you could reach the lines, warn them.
Except-you can see another dull glow amid the abyss, a glow globe carried by a lone figure, stumbling in the dark, clearly lost. Even at this distance, you can tell who it is.
Celine-caught in yet another suicide mission. Sure to die if she is caught alone out here-and only you in position to warn her.
(OOC: 4 DoS on Athletics (Agility) test to just run for your life-you escape without injury or complications-the second very lucky test of this update)
-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 200/200 rounds in belt
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), +10 Bonus to next Willpower test
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue
