The Squad forms back up on Squad 123-F's position, to account for ammo and wounded, and to prepare to press on again.
Shrake is already awaiting, and speaking with Sergeant O'Garan and Corporal Hansan.
"Sir, with all due respect to yourself and reverence to Him on Terra, our Squad's down two bodies, one gone to the Emperor's rest, and the other soon enough. We'd be better off redeployed to—" Hansan is saying.
He's interrupted by the crack of leather gloves and the metallic noise of a Bolt Pistol being removed from it's holster.
"I am sure what I just heard was not insubordination, but a brave soldier detailing their preparations for charging boldly into battle in the Emperor's name. This would, of course, improve the chances of any soldier being released from this grand Penal Legion, and severely reduce the chances of me exercising my Emperor-given right to execute any craven fool that would dare defy their orders. Isn't that right, soldiers?" Shrake says.
O'Garan, looking even paler than her natural Voidborn paper-white, nods. "What my Corporal means to say is that we have need of uh, Medical Evacuation for Trooper Enos. We are otherwise all happy to continue to push forward..."
She glances out over the battlefield and the smoking corpses of the enemies of the Emperor. Shrake's two Enforcers are corralling the surviving Doomed Youth into a line of prisoners.
"Your compatriots in Squad 123-B were much more dedicated to the Emperor's work." Shrake says, gesturing towards the squad where they'd filed in. "You'd best learn from them, and quickly." He pauses a moment. "Medicae is needed for these prisoners. I will ensure your man is evacuated with them."
The unspoken catch of 'If you get moving' is backscored by the thunderous blast of a shotgun, as one of the potential prisoners, too wounded to move, is disposed of.
"You shall have but a moment's rest, more than you deserve, then you will finish your sweep of the assigned area. We are almost through this accursed tangle of outhive." The Commissar gestures with his pistol forward, at the looming shape of Hive Lozepath, taking up the skyline. "The Gates await us, soldiers. Do not shy away from your duty in clearing the way to them."
And on that worrying note, the squad is left to patch up it's wounded. This is the last area that needs to swept for mines, then they could head back, hopefully to a rest and a meal.
Hopefully.
(OOC: Make First aid and any other misc choices. The last area you need to sweep for mines is around here, and Shrake expects you to get on with finding them, so no rest for the wicked quite yet.
-Jerad: 2/15 wounds, 2/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), 1/2 grenades, Frenzon Expended, 18/60 Shots in current power cell, Slaught* (5 minutes remaining), Bayonet Fixed
-Mikael: 11/16 wounds, 0/7 Fatigue, Bayonet Fixed (-10 to shooting)
-Nyla: 5/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Stimm Expended, 24/30 Shots in current power cell
-Celine: 3/13 Wounds, 4/6 fatigue (-15 to all tests), 26/60 shots in current power cell, 3 Stimms left in Medicae Pack, Stimmed (12 turns left)
-Filly: 9/13 Wounds, 0/7 fatigue, Stimm expended, 36 shots left in current power cell.
-Cheri: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 fatigue, 22/30 shots in current power cell
-Albert: 3/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 90/200 Rounds in current Belt
*Slaught gives the Light Reflexes talent (+10 to Dodge/Parry, allows rolling for iniative twice and taking the better), gives +20 to your Perception, and increases your Agility bonus for the purpose of Initiative and movement by 3.
Jeradresh swaggered back to the line, smiling broadly. Three more foemen fallen before his fury. At this rate it was surely inevitable that the Imperium of Man would recognize that the Emperor shined upon him. And also that nobility such as himself deserved better than to share his lot with the dreg soldiers...Or at least that he deserved better rations, he prayed.
He slowed down as he neared the conversation between O'Garan and the Commissar. And then, after a moment's hesitation, he quick-stepped forward. Rubble crunched beneath his boots as he gave Shrake a low, formal bow.
"Most honorable Commissar," he said, smiling to hide his fear. "I beg you forgive the temerity of my intrusion, but I must defend Squad 123-F's dedication. I am certain they would have been most willing to join us in that bracing spate of hand to hand, but we begged they grant us the honor of the charge whilst they provided covering fire. I must apologize for stealing their share of the glory. I just have so much to prove as a convert to the Creed, your lordship."
It was, after a fashion, true after all. They had asked for Squad 123-F to provide covering fire. And it certainly had won them the most glory. Still, one could construe it as a lie, and that was dangerous with the Commissariat. Perhaps it was just the Slaught thrumming through his veins that gave him his confidence.
"Though, if you would not mind me stealing a little bit more from you, Sergeant O'Garan, I seem to be scarce on combat chems and grenades, no? Could I mayhaps lighten your wounded man's load? I've only felled nine today so far, and I'd like to be to the double-digits before the day is done, yes?"
"Perhaps in exchange I could lend you a hand in finding any mines about here, sergeant? Whilst my own squad recovers, of course."
"Most honorable Commissar," he said, smiling to hide his fear. "I beg you forgive the temerity of my intrusion, but I must defend Squad 123-F's dedication. I am certain they would have been most willing to join us in that bracing spate of hand to hand, but we begged they grant us the honor of the charge whilst they provided covering fire. I must apologize for stealing their share of the glory. I just have so much to prove as a convert to the Creed, your lordship."
The Commissar's gaze turns toward you with a creak of Leather, and for a moment you feel as if you might've just made a mistake.
"Be that as it may, and as important as covering fire may be, we must make haste." The Commissar says. "There is no time for such measured tactics. The Emperor's work awaits."
"I should hope neither you or Sergeant O'Garan forget that dedication." The Commissar concludes, then turns to deal with the prisoners.
You hold in your sigh of relief until he's well out of earshot.
(OOC: 5 DoS on Deceive to 1 DoS on Scrutiny. Congrats, you got away with lying to a Commissar)
"Though, if you would not mind me stealing a little bit more from you, Sergeant O'Garan, I seem to be scarce on combat chems and grenades, no? Could I mayhaps lighten your wounded man's load? I've only felled nine today so far, and I'd like to be to the double-digits before the day is done, yes?"
"Perhaps in exchange I could lend you a hand in finding any mines about here, sergeant? Whilst my own squad recovers, of course."
O'Garan nods. "Of course, of course." She gestures over to where Obed is stripping the critically wounded man for his equipment. Obed nods, and tosses you two injectors, and then a frag grenade.
You grab both, glance them over. Stimm, and Frenzon. With a nod of gratitude, you place them into empty pouches on your web belts, along with the grenade.
Then it is to looking for mines. You don't have much luck-to be sure the Slaught enhances your senses, and you have more than just your two eyes, but you weren't trained for looking for mines. Your sharper sight and hearing mostly goes towards looking for more snipers, which fortunately, don't seem to materialize.
(OOC: +1 Frag Grenade, +1 Dose of Stimm, +1 Dose of Frenzon. 4 DoF on finding Mines)
Albert winces lightly as he gently pries his helmet off and gets to work on doing what he can for it with his medkit. Though it hurts and caring for himself takes much of his focus, He makes sure to say a prayer to the Omnissiah and Emperor in thanks for the luck to survive such a shot as he works on his head.After doing what he could for his wound he reloaded his stubber with a new box of rounds.
Once the mostly spent magazine was stowed away he used little time he likely had left to rest to begin cleaning his helmet. Albert knew that it shouldn't be his priority right now, but the idea of the inside of his helmet being covered in blood disgusted him in a way he couldn't put into words. So he scrubbed at it, again and again with the time he had left during this break.
(Basically heal up, reload, and then trying to clean his helmet)
You borrow the Medkit and get to work on your wounds.
It isn't much of a wound, at least on the surface. The bullet hadn't penetrated your helmet, but it had struck with significant force. The skin of your forehead is split, and a trickle of blood runs down your face, rapidly drying. You wipe the blood away, struggle to disenfect the wound and cover it with a bandage. Then you do the same to your helmet, wiping away the small amount of blood staining the interior.
Then that done, you get to reloading your weapon. You pull out the half empty belt, sling it onto one of the two cartridge boxes on your hips. Then you carefully feed the next belt into the action, pull back the charging handle, and balance the weapon so that the belt can feed from it's cartridge box on your right hip.
Mikael was left with a worrying question, what to do in the meantime while some of his squadmates healed? There was alway of patching himself but truth be told he wasn't as injuries as some of them, so he wasn't sure what to do.
Checking his equipment he came to a realization, ammo, they all have been expending some since the start and some like Albert were probablu low on it.
Nodding to himself he decided to look around for any kind of ammo, perhaps he would get lucky and find something specially good.
You search through the corpses for ammunition. No hope for the Lasguns: These miscreants were much too poor for such a thing to be found. There's plenty of discarded ammunition for civilian stub rifles and autoguns, and a fair few power cells for Laslocks (Which certainly wouldn't fit your lasguns either).
However, you do find some shotgun ammunition. Loose shells, of the same ubiquitous 10 Gauge size that the Imperial Guard (And Penal Legion) uses for it's own shotguns. You scoop them up and put them on the belt loops of your web belts, slotting them in and praying using them will not insult your shotgun.
Better still, one of the Corpses has a belt pouch, which, after sorting through local currency and a few scrap metal tokens, you find the oblong shape of a Frag Grenade. Not the same pattern as the ones you've been using, but recognizable enough as a frag grenade. Even better, on the dead woman next to that corpse, there is another grenade clutched in a death grip, the pin on the right next to the woman's dead hand. It is not a frag grenade, but instead you suspect a smoke grenade, at least judging by the cylindrical shape at the markings on the exterior.
Gingerly, you replace the pin and place the grenade on your Web Belt as well. Who knows when that'd come in handy.
(OOC: 1 DoS. Gain +8 Shotgun rounds, 1 Smoke Grenade, and 1 Frag Grenade.)
As keenly as ever before, Celine feels Sylvia's absence from the squad as she takes the Medikit to attend to her own flesh. Mindful of the Commissar's presence, and wishing for anything to occupy the sullen silence that has fallen over the street at the conclusion of battle, the ever socially acceptable staple for such emerges anew from her throat. Prayer.
"I offer my strength to the Emperor, I pray that He redresses it."
"I offer my blood to the Emperor, I pray that it quenches His thirst."
"I offer my body on the altar of the battlefield, I pray He grants me a noble death."
"I pray for His protection, as I offer all that I am."
The Emperor's Protection might be something, but it unfortunately, is not quite succor in the real world.
The best you can do for your wounds is checking yourself for fresh wounds. Nothing new, just the same as before. You check the bandages again, make sure they're secure, and readjust your armor to better reduce the effect of your bruises and impact injuries.
Then, with that done, you return to your prayer.
(OOC: Medicae 2 DoS. +3 Wounds.)
Unfortunately, the Commissar is not the only one whose in the room.
There is a rattling of metal, and the sound of plastic hand ties being tested. "Your Faith is strong." A voice says.
You glance over, seeing one of the Doomed Youth Prisoners, a brawny specimen dressed in a shirt of hive made mail. His Veil has been removed, revealing his scarred face.
You try to ignore him. "It is good that you pray." The man continues. "The Emperor is Risen, and you will go to him soon." The scarred face smiles.
"You approach the Gates." He says. "And the Gates are guarded by Cravax the Claw."
Cravax the Claw? You recall the name. A pit-fighter of some skill and numerous cybernetic augmentations, local to Hive Lozepath. Bloodthirsty, as befit a man of his profession, but at least if the grainy pic-casts of pit-gladiator fights and his own reputation didn't lie, a faithful man. Like any cybernetically augmented gladiator, probably worth a half dozen of you in a fight-in one of the two Pic-Casts you'd seen, he'd killed a dozen gangers in the space of two minutes. They'd been criminals against Spire-Law, but didn't mean they weren't hardened fighters who'd give even a professional a workout. All that you knew about the man said that getting in a fight with him was a bad idea.
Good then, that a single man would never be able to defend the gate of a hive on his own, not unless his name was Sanguinius.
(OOC: 3 DoS on Lore (Rorschah Mundi))
"He's been blessed by the Risen Emperor, as have his faithful Swords." The Ganger says, smiling again. "He can't be touched by shot nor las, and anyone who crosses blades with him will soon see that is all the Claw needs."
One of the Enforcers moves over by now. "Better to pray now, then die a-" The man doesn't get out the rest of his sentence before the Enforcer slams his shotgun butt into his face. Then, with the man stunned, begins to apply a gag. Then, a good kicking to ensure he doesn't try anything.
The Enforcer's armored helmet turns your way, as if determining if you have been tainted by the Heretic's ramblings. You just go back to your prayer.
Finally, the medicaes arrive for the wounded, enemy and ally. The medicaes are not Penal Legion, and they don't bother to interact with any of the Legionaries as they load the wounded up on stretchers, using plastic ties to secure hands and feet. Commissar Shrake watches this entire process vigilantly.
Then, as the medicaes retreat, his gaze turns to the Squad. The message, nonverbal as it is, is clear enough. Get moving.
The squad files out in a loose marching file, Smoop's Auger sweeping for any signs of mines within the designated zone. After fifteen minutes of searching, it seems the squad's luck is better than it had been before, for Smoop picks up metallic signals on the main service road leading to the gate, and fanning out to search, eventually Filly, working diligently with the point of her bayonet, manages to strike metal underneath the dusty soil.
Metal of course, not being rare here, but after carefully sweeping aside the dirt with her boot, they come up on the familiar gunmetal casing of the local Anti-Tank Mine pattern that had been the squad's nemesis for the past hours.
Now, it was up to Mikael again, and then they could finally head back and hopefully get a few hours out of not being shot at.
(OOC: Mine found, 1 DoS. Anyone going to try and assist Mikael with defusing it?
Sorry for this update being rather late. Life caught up to me a bit, as did other obligations.)
Albert moves over to help with the mine's disposal after a second of thought. As it looked like nobody else may be interested in helping this time, an understandable hesitation in his opinion, he decided he would need to finally help with one of these himself. Slinging his heavy stubber over his shoulder as he walked over. Crouching down next to the other penal trooper as he prepares to help in any way he can.
Twice, now, there has been an ambush awaiting alongside a mine. Should it be made thrice here, all Celine and her squad could blame would be not catching on. She stands on the periphery of the squad, scanning the surroundings with her eyes, ready to sprint forth at the sound of a bullet, lasbeam, or a shout of alarm from Smoop at a signal on her Auspex.
The Commissar's gaze turns toward you with a creak of Leather, and for a moment you feel as if you might've just made a mistake.
"Be that as it may, and as important as covering fire may be, we must make haste." The Commissar says. "There is no time for such measured tactics. The Emperor's work awaits."
"I should hope neither you or Sergeant O'Garan forget that dedication." The Commissar concludes, then turns to deal with the prisoners.
You hold in your sigh of relief until he's well out of earshot.
(OOC: 5 DoS on Deceive to 1 DoS on Scrutiny. Congrats, you got away with lying to a Commissar)
O'Garan nods. "Of course, of course." She gestures over to where Obed is stripping the critically wounded man for his equipment. Obed nods, and tosses you two injectors, and then a frag grenade.
You grab both, glance them over. Stimm, and Frenzon. With a nod of gratitude, you place them into empty pouches on your web belts, along with the grenade.
Then it is to looking for mines. You don't have much luck-to be sure the Slaught enhances your senses, and you have more than just your two eyes, but you weren't trained for looking for mines. Your sharper sight and hearing mostly goes towards looking for more snipers, which fortunately, don't seem to materialize.
(OOC: +1 Frag Grenade, +1 Dose of Stimm, +1 Dose of Frenzon. 4 DoF on finding Mines)
Yes, Jeradresh decided. When he had his citizenship, he might look into becoming a Commissar. The coat and hat were nice, but more than that, they knew how to present themselves. Not since his mother had he encountered someone with such an intimidating aura or ability to radiate power. One day that power would be his, life and death in his exquisite leather glove. Until then, faith, and a jeweled tongue would carry him forward.
Commissar Jerad Sophon, oh yes. It had a ring to it. Though he supposed that as a martial order they likely had some odious entry requirement. Maybe he could donate a sizeable enough sum to become an honorary Commissar? It was the way of kings, but the Imperium had no kings.
He shook his head, dismissing the fantasies flickering through his mind. For now, it was wise to focus on the more immediate fantasy of surviving this sumphole. Donations to the Commissariat were distant indeed when his current fortune consisted of a handful of combat drugs and grenades.
"Deeply obliged, O'Garan. If you have need of me in the future, do not hesitate to ask. The best way to absolution is to work together, no?"
Finally, the medicaes arrive for the wounded, enemy and ally. The medicaes are not Penal Legion, and they don't bother to interact with any of the Legionaries as they load the wounded up on stretchers, using plastic ties to secure hands and feet. Commissar Shrake watches this entire process vigilantly.
Then, as the medicaes retreat, his gaze turns to the Squad. The message, nonverbal as it is, is clear enough. Get moving.
The squad files out in a loose marching file, Smoop's Auger sweeping for any signs of mines within the designated zone. After fifteen minutes of searching, it seems the squad's luck is better than it had been before, for Smoop picks up metallic signals on the main service road leading to the gate, and fanning out to search, eventually Filly, working diligently with the point of her bayonet, manages to strike metal underneath the dusty soil.
Metal of course, not being rare here, but after carefully sweeping aside the dirt with her boot, they come up on the familiar gunmetal casing of the local Anti-Tank Mine pattern that had been the squad's nemesis for the past hours.
Now, it was up to Mikael again, and then they could finally head back and hopefully get a few hours out of not being shot at.
(OOC: Mine found, 1 DoS. Anyone going to try and assist Mikael with defusing it?
Sorry for this update being rather late. Life caught up to me a bit, as did other obligations.)
Jeradresh regarded the mine for a moment. Not for the first time, he was glad that the capricious nature of tech-djinn and machine-sprites was beyond his ken.
@Sir_Travelsalot
Jeradresh strolled over to Celine, still feeling the thrum of the slaught in his veins. Smiling giddily, he nodded at her.
"Would you mind if I joined you on perimeter watch?" He asked. "I swear that my senses are sharper. That Slaught is something else," he commented. "I even noticed that prisoner speaking to you, whilst you prayed. I don't suppose it was anything pertinent? Or just heretical ravings?"
"Would you mind if I joined you on perimeter watch?" He asked. "I swear that my senses are sharper. That Slaught is something else," he commented. "I even noticed that prisoner speaking to you, whilst you prayed. I don't suppose it was anything pertinent? Or just heretical ravings?"
"Much of it likely was raving, or perhaps trying to dishearten me, sir. That said, he let slip that the one leading the defense of Lozepath's gate is Cravax the Claw, who was a pit fighter of no small amount of fame. Supposedly, he's been 'blessed' to be invincible against any amount of bullets and lasbolts that could be sent downrange at him, and even before all this mess he was good enough to take on a dozen foes by himself and be the only one standing before two minutes had passed. Just gangers, mind, but impressive all the same."
Celine's face twists in thought for a moment, pondering what could serve as an explanation for such 'powers'. (Celine attempts a Lore/Tech-Use test to try to recall if there were any mundane explanation for an immunity to bullets.)
"I'm not sure I trust that, though. Odds are it was nonsense, and he'll die like any man when a shot lands where flak can't save his life, sir."
Jeradresh strolled over to Celine, still feeling the thrum of the slaught in his veins. Smiling giddily, he nodded at her.
"Would you mind if I joined you on perimeter watch?" He asked. "I swear that my senses are sharper. That Slaught is something else," he commented. "I even noticed that prisoner speaking to you, whilst you prayed. I don't suppose it was anything pertinent? Or just heretical ravings?"
"Much of it likely was raving, or perhaps trying to dishearten me, sir. That said, he let slip that the one leading the defense of Lozepath's gate is Cravax the Claw, who was a pit fighter of no small amount of fame. Supposedly, he's been 'blessed' to be invincible against any amount of bullets and lasbolts that could be sent downrange at him, and even before all this mess he was good enough to take on a dozen foes by himself and be the only one standing before two minutes had passed. Just gangers, mind, but impressive all the same."
Celine's face twists in thought for a moment, pondering what could serve as an explanation for such 'powers'. (Celine attempts a Lore/Tech-Use test to try to recall if there were any mundane explanation for an immunity to bullets.)
"I'm not sure I trust that, though. Odds are it was nonsense, and he'll die like any man when a shot lands where flak can't save his life, sir."
There's any number of explanations that could fit Cravax's unnatural resilience.
The most obvious is that he just wears a lot of armor. Heavy Carapace perhaps, which could stand off any amount of Stub or Las, and even a boltgun shell, according to rumor. This, however, you doubt. A Pit Fighter is dependent on acrobatic, agile style of combat. A heavy suit of carapace plates would be incompatible with Cravax's fighting style.
Then, perhaps, a Forcefield. A Technomiracle to be sure, but it is said that the Spire Lords have access to such, and there are enough stories of Mother Kare simply having bullets wash off her in a splash of golden light. Such are a Spire matter though-you have no idea where a Pit Fighter like Cravax could've possibly gotten one.
Third, well...you doubt he's a Saint Blessed by the Emperor.
You turn back to watching the perimeter. Fortunately for you and Jerad, it seems the enemy has withdrawn from the area, or at least isn't interested in taking additional pot shots at you. You keep your weapons close at hand.
(OOC: Success on Lore (Tactica) with 0 additional DoS)
Albert moves over to help with the mine's disposal after a second of thought. As it looked like nobody else may be interested in helping this time, an understandable hesitation in his opinion, he decided he would need to finally help with one of these himself. Slinging his heavy stubber over his shoulder as he walked over. Crouching down next to the other penal trooper as he prepares to help in any way he can.
This mine defusal goes a lot smoother than the previous ones.
You help pull the tools out the toolkit, and locate the seam that allows access the mine's internals. Then, you hold the stablight while Mikael gingerly locates the fuse line and snips it with a set of wirecutters. Then, setting a flag in the dirt to indicate the mine is defused.
With the mine marked off, the squad has reached the end of the area they were asked to sweep for mines. Still, there was always the possibility they had missed one, and the even worse possibility that they had done so and some blessed Armored Vehicle would come to harm (And the squad punished for such a failure).
Regardless, it was time to start back. But the decision remains whether to move quickly to avoid the possibility of ambush, or slowly and keep on the look out for any additional mines or points of interest to their superiors. The choice was up to Cheri.
(OOC: As usual, whose on Point? And are you moving slowly (And risking ambush) or Fast (And missing the chance to look again for more mines)?
-Jerad: 2/15 wounds, 2/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), 1/2 grenades, Frenzon Expended, 18/60 Shots in current power cell, Slaught* (3 minutes remaining), Bayonet Fixed
-Mikael: 11/16 wounds, 0/7 Fatigue, Bayonet Fixed (-10 to shooting)
-Nyla: 5/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Stimm Expended, 24/30 Shots in current power cell
-Celine: 3/13 Wounds, 4/6 fatigue (Penalties blocked by Stimm), 26/60 shots in current power cell, 3 Stimms left in Medicae Pack, Stimmed (8 Turns/2 Minutes remaining)
-Filly: 9/13 Wounds, 0/7 fatigue, Stimm expended, 36 shots left in current power cell.
-Cheri: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 fatigue, 22/30 shots in current power cell
-Albert: 3/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 90/200 Rounds in current Belt
*Slaught gives the Lightning Reflexes talent (+10 to Dodge/Parry, allows rolling for initiative twice and taking the better), gives +20 to your Perception, and increases your Agility bonus for the purpose of Initiative and movement by 3.
"Much of it likely was raving, or perhaps trying to dishearten me, sir. That said, he let slip that the one leading the defense of Lozepath's gate is Cravax the Claw, who was a pit fighter of no small amount of fame. Supposedly, he's been 'blessed' to be invincible against any amount of bullets and lasbolts that could be sent downrange at him, and even before all this mess he was good enough to take on a dozen foes by himself and be the only one standing before two minutes had passed. Just gangers, mind, but impressive all the same."
Celine's face twists in thought for a moment, pondering what could serve as an explanation for such 'powers'. (Celine attempts a Lore/Tech-Use test to try to recall if there were any mundane explanation for an immunity to bullets.)
"I'm not sure I trust that, though. Odds are it was nonsense, and he'll die like any man when a shot lands where flak can't save his life, sir."
Jeradresh smiled a moment at being called 'sir', but that swiftly turned into a frown as the woman continued. "A...Pit fighter, you say? Is that a sort of military rank, or-No, it is someone who fights for entertainment, yes? A gladiator is the right term, no?" He asks aloud. "Some common entertainer is leading the defense of the hive? Not the Spire nobility or some military general, but an entertainer? Is this common among the Imperium? Should I expect to run into enemy officers recruited from a particularly martial dancing troupe? It is not like those fights are real."
Jeradresh shook his head. Curious and curiouser, this war. "Cravax the Claw, then. I am sure you are correct. It is likely just propaganda and he will die like any other normal man, yes? But perhaps there is some truth. Witchcraft, maybe?"
Jeradresh frowned, remembering the sorceries of his own homeworld and those blessed by the gods. He would rather not encounter such unwarded as he was.
"An unworthy foe for our officers to face. It will be our work, I am sure. Prayerfully some other squad can handle some infamous entertainer. Scarce honor in such a foe."
(OOC: Jeradresh attempts a lore check of his own).
This mine defusal goes a lot smoother than the previous ones.
You help pull the tools out the toolkit, and locate the seam that allows access the mine's internals. Then, you hold the stablight while Mikael gingerly locates the fuse line and snips it with a set of wirecutters. Then, setting a flag in the dirt to indicate the mine is defused.
"Another mine disarmed, my comrades?" Jeradresh called out. "Fine work! Perhaps we will not scratch the holy armor after all. I think the Machine Spirits hate you two less than most."
Frankly, he was just pleased the other man hadn't blown himself up.
With the mine marked off, the squad has reached the end of the area they were asked to sweep for mines. Still, there was always the possibility they had missed one, and the even worse possibility that they had done so and some blessed Armored Vehicle would come to harm (And the squad punished for such a failure).
Regardless, it was time to start back. But the decision remains whether to move quickly to avoid the possibility of ambush, or slowly and keep on the look out for any additional mines or points of interest to their superiors. The choice was up to Cheri.
(OOC: As usual, whose on Point? And are you moving slowly (And risking ambush) or Fast (And missing the chance to look again for more mines)?
@xjax1
Jeradresh kept close to the front, but not so close he'd be the first to step on a mine or fall into an enemy's sights. Even with the Slaught pouring through his veins, he was in no hurry to go to martyrdom. There were other people with lesser ranks for that. Praise the Emperor he'd been given some status.
"My sergeant I would humbly recommend we take our time. Better another firefight then to risk the tanks, yes? As enjoyable as I am sure we are all finding our experience in the glorious Penal Legion, I think it best to not prolong our stay that much longer."
Cheri grumbles and nods as she rubs her chin agreeing with Jaradresh's sentiment, glancing over at Albert as slowly patrols around the area, to at least look busy. "Aye, better to do something right, than to leave a job half done. Plus... I don't particularly want to be executed or tried for letting an imperial tank run over a mine" She chuckles a bit and rolls her shoulder, its not like avoiding execution would save her in this hellish place.
Jeradresh smiled a moment at being called 'sir', but that swiftly turned into a frown as the woman continued. "A...Pit fighter, you say? Is that a sort of military rank, or-No, it is someone who fights for entertainment, yes? A gladiator is the right term, no?" He asks aloud. "Some common entertainer is leading the defense of the hive? Not the Spire nobility or some military general, but an entertainer? Is this common among the Imperium? Should I expect to run into enemy officers recruited from a particularly martial dancing troupe? It is not like those fights are real."
Jeradresh shook his head. Curious and curiouser, this war. "Cravax the Claw, then. I am sure you are correct. It is likely just propaganda and he will die like any other normal man, yes? But perhaps there is some truth. Witchcraft, maybe?"
Jeradresh frowned, remembering the sorceries of his own homeworld and those blessed by the gods. He would rather not encounter such unwarded as he was.
"An unworthy foe for our officers to face. It will be our work, I am sure. Prayerfully some other squad can handle some infamous entertainer. Scarce honor in such a foe."
(OOC: Jeradresh attempts a lore check of his own).
Or, perhaps there may be more danger here than you let on.
Gladiator fights were not uncommon at Rakatir's court. One needed to pay proper tribute to Kharnath, the sanguine king. Though many of these fights had not been lethal, the ones regarded as the best by those of the court who cared for such things were spectacularly so. Criminals, deceivers, ritual sacrifices, and prisoners of the King's sworn legions, put up against gladiators clad in flowing, crimson mesh and armed with long fighting blades that turned men to meat and sprays of crimson.
All for show of course, and to seek the favor of the Gods.
But battle for show does have some utility in battle for real-you recall, as you tread along the metallic soil of this world, that not a few of those crimson clad gladiators had found places in the forefront of Rakatir's army. Certainly, it was said by the other courtiers, after additional training and equipping for real battle. But they were still picked men and women, of an incredibly dangerous skill.
You hadn't seen them fall, but some of the Guardsmen who'd dragged from your home had spoken of them, in hushed tones of fear. Sure, they might not have the natural countenance and leadership ability of the nobility, but such a man would be a terror in the steel thunder of close quarters combat...and what was a hive but that.
Unsettling. But then, that was why you had Officers and Commissars. Who would send fodder to deal with a storied champion?
The squad advanced slowly, between cover, and sweeping each of the most obvious routes for signs of mines. Roads, crossroads, areas were tanks might be forced to go offroad, and anywhere else that looks faintly suspicious. Celine leads, Jerad just behind.
About halfway back to the rallying point, at a point where two piles of rubble that had once been buildings, there is a slight disturbance in the crushed metallic soil of the road. Jerad, just behind Celine, points it out. Nyla raises her auspex and scans the area. Traces of metal as usual everywhere, but by now she's learned well enough to tune those out, and she concentrate's the auspex's detection on that small patch of roadside.
Paydirt. There's a mass of metal, roughly cylindrical shape.
Mikael and Albert move forward gingerly, while the rest of the squad takes up overwatch positions in a rough semicircle around the two. The two established demolitions go to their knees in the soil and start at the case of the mine, searching for the trademark seam that'd let them disable the last two mines safely.
Then they immediately run into a problem.
There is no seam. In fact, the mine is a different model than the previous ones, this one slightly larger, with a different shaped pressure trigger. There is an access gate to get into the internals of the mine which Albert gingerly accesses, but it's bolted shut, and not even a screwdriver can budge the bolts, nor is it possible to wedge a combat knife or bayonet into a seam and force it open. A minute passes, suggestions going back and forth like the wind.
Nothing comes to mind that'd be able to disable it safely.
Another minute, hoping for a better solution. Nothing.
Then, a flag in the soil besides the roadside, marking the position. It was better than nothing, though the flag flapping in the slight, chemstrewn breeze of this world seems almost ominous. An omen of future failure.
But there's no time to dwell on that. No snipers or enemy patrols or ambushes have appeared from the haze and the ruins to attack, but that seems to not be a reality that'll last. Best to accept one's lot and get moving before the Emperor's patience runs out.
(OOC: Failed to defuse (2 DoF), but you got lucky on the random encounter roll at least, so it's wash)
The squad makes it back to the mustering point to find a forest of steel awaiting them.
Dozens of armored vehicles lay idling just beyond the foot of the capacitor wall that had been the objective of the penal legion's push. Most of them are the dark, urban camouflage of the Hezeans the Penals are already acquainted with, but what looks like a company in the proud gold and white paint of a Saban Armored Cavalry regiment, alongside an equal force of burnt orange painted Panlakean mechanized infantry, and at the back, what looks like a maniple of boxy, red and black painted Skitarius Hover Transports.
Most of the Chimeras, it is easy to note, are lacking paint on their bottom halves, which easily tells how they got here. Over the lake after the sweat and blood of Penal infantry had taken out the defensive artillery. The tanks lack such a badge of honor, but one supposes they would've used heavy barges for them.
And of course the Cogboys could just float over the lake, because the simple option wasn't good enough for the scions of Mars.
To complement the assembling armor, there is of course, people. Soldiers, from as diverse and more a collection as the tanks, assembling at the foot of the hive for the push to the gates. Penals, returning squads and those who weren't sent out to look for mines. Lay-techs and Enginseers, checking at damaged vehicles and setting up fortified depots and repair facilities well back from what is soon to be the front lines.
Good to see someone else would be picking up the slack for now....is a thought anyone would've had if it weren't for the sight of Lieutenant Ansalm directing what looks like Squad 123-C and D into the maze of steel.
The squad moves towards the Officer. Maybe he had light duties for them?
"123-B!" Ansalm roars, partially to be heard over the din of preparation for battle. "Time to put your mine sweeping job to the test!" He turns toward Cheri. "Head that way, and look for the Hezean Leman Russ Main Battle Tank 'Last Rites!"
Oh right. The Mission briefing had said something about leading a tank. Joy.
Fortunately, the Hezeans are in the front row of armor, and the 'Last Rites' isn't hard to find. A scarred beast, with evidence of damage having been repaired in it's past. A stubby battle cannon barrel, a pair of sponson Heavy Bolters, and the barrel of a heavy flamer on it's hullgun position. It's urban camo is marked by kill markers running across the front of the hull, five crudely drawn armored vehicles, four bunkers, and dozens of small individual marks one could take to indicate confirmed infantry kills.
Finally, painted across the side of the turret and along the barrel in red is "Last Rites"
Currently, a pair of laytechs are fueling the vehicle up, and whom one can assume to be it's commander, a heavy set, bearded man in a light flak jacket and padded helmet over his mottled grey urban camoflague uniform is conversing with a familiar face. Sergeant Mira, the commander of the Chimera Rosalee.
"Penals? They couldn't get us some real infantry? Some Bolwerc shock, or a squad of Ferrean Rifles?" The Tank Commander is saying. He gestures vaguely towards where a platoon of heavily armored Bolwerc soldiers are fastening their bayonets and listening to a sermon from a company chaplain.
"They know what they're doing well enough." Mira says."Besides, they're just for the extra eyes who aren't buttoned up. Rosalee will be right behind you with our Dismounts."
The tank commander sighs, but he nods in acceptance.
"Good to see you folks made it." Mira says, nodding towards the squad. The 'Most of you' part going unsaid, one can suppose, because Hezeans are fortress worlders well used to such a caveat. With that, she turns to check on her own vehicle, and the small cloud of urban camouflaged dismounts clustered around it's back hatch.
The Tank Commander turns towards the squad, eyes scanning for sergeant's bars. Once he sees Cheri, he holds out a hand to her to shake. "Sergeant Vaulk." He says, perfunctory and not a bit apologetic for his overheard remarks. "This is the Last Rites. You'll be guiding us through that urban mess to the gates and watching out for ambush and mines."
"We have your Vox frequency, but you can also use the Vox phones here-" He thumps a vox set which hangs off the side of the Last Rites' armored hull. "-To contact us if we need to coordinate. Keep us appraised of any anti-armor threats, and we'll cover you with the HBs and Main gun."
He pauses a moment. "We're relying on you here, so don't fuck it up. Any questions?"
Best to ask them now, because trying to do so through an infantry Vox-phone sounds like a pain.
(OOC: Need someone to guide the Tank. This character is going to be standing in front of the tank and so can't use it for cover against ambushes, and will be making an Awareness or Lore (Tactica) test. You may have up to two other character's assist this character, but this means they must expose themselves as well. The modifier to this test is hidden and depends on how many Mines you found.)
Albert blushes under the praise of the squad's nominal leader as he ducks his head with a grin on his face before saying, "Twas nothin' much, once you know what the tech spirits want they can be very cooperative!"
The squad advanced slowly, between cover, and sweeping each of the most obvious routes for signs of mines. Roads, crossroads, areas were tanks might be forced to go offroad, and anywhere else that looks faintly suspicious. Celine leads, Jerad just behind.
About halfway back to the rallying point, at a point where two piles of rubble that had once been buildings, there is a slight disturbance in the crushed metallic soil of the road. Jerad, just behind Celine, points it out. Nyla raises her auspex and scans the area. Traces of metal as usual everywhere, but by now she's learned well enough to tune those out, and she concentrate's the auspex's detection on that small patch of roadside.
Paydirt. There's a mass of metal, roughly cylindrical shape.
Mikael and Albert move forward gingerly, while the rest of the squad takes up overwatch positions in a rough semicircle around the two. The two established demolitions go to their knees in the soil and start at the case of the mine, searching for the trademark seam that'd let them disable the last two mines safely.
Then they immediately run into a problem.
There is no seam. In fact, the mine is a different model than the previous ones, this one slightly larger, with a different shaped pressure trigger. There is an access gate to get into the internals of the mine which Albert gingerly accesses, but it's bolted shut, and not even a screwdriver can budge the bolts, nor is it possible to wedge a combat knife or bayonet into a seam and force it open. A minute passes, suggestions going back and forth like the wind.
Nothing comes to mind that'd be able to disable it safely.
Another minute, hoping for a better solution. Nothing.
Then, a flag in the soil besides the roadside, marking the position. It was better than nothing, though the flag flapping in the slight, chemstrewn breeze of this world seems almost ominous. An omen of future failure.
But there's no time to dwell on that. No snipers or enemy patrols or ambushes have appeared from the haze and the ruins to attack, but that seems to not be a reality that'll last. Best to accept one's lot and get moving before the Emperor's patience runs out.
(OOC: Failed to defuse (2 DoF), but you got lucky on the random encounter roll at least, so it's wash)
The squad makes it back to the mustering point to find a forest of steel awaiting them.
Dozens of armored vehicles lay idling just beyond the foot of the capacitor wall that had been the objective of the penal legion's push. Most of them are the dark, urban camouflage of the Hezeans the Penals are already acquainted with, but what looks like a company in the proud gold and white paint of a Saban Armored Cavalry regiment, alongside an equal force of burnt orange painted Panlakean mechanized infantry, and at the back, what looks like a maniple of boxy, red and black painted Skitarius Hover Transports.
Most of the Chimeras, it is easy to note, are lacking paint on their bottom halves, which easily tells how they got here. Over the lake after the sweat and blood of Penal infantry had taken out the defensive artillery. The tanks lack such a badge of honor, but one supposes they would've used heavy barges for them.
And of course the Cogboys could just float over the lake, because the simple option wasn't good enough for the scions of Mars.
To complement the assembling armor, there is of course, people. Soldiers, from as diverse and more a collection as the tanks, assembling at the foot of the hive for the push to the gates. Penals, returning squads and those who weren't sent out to look for mines. Lay-techs and Enginseers, checking at damaged vehicles and setting up fortified depots and repair facilities well back from what is soon to be the front lines.
Good to see someone else would be picking up the slack for now....is a thought anyone would've had if it weren't for the sight of Lieutenant Ansalm directing what looks like Squad 123-C and D into the maze of steel.
The squad moves towards the Officer. Maybe he had light duties for them?
"123-B!" Ansalm roars, partially to be heard over the din of preparation for battle. "Time to put your mine sweeping job to the test!" He turns toward Cheri. "Head that way, and look for the Hezean Leman Russ Main Battle Tank 'Last Rites!"
Oh right. The Mission briefing had said something about leading a tank. Joy.
Fortunately, the Hezeans are in the front row of armor, and the 'Last Rites' isn't hard to find. A scarred beast, with evidence of damage having been repaired in it's past. A stubby battle cannon barrel, a pair of sponson Heavy Bolters, and the barrel of a heavy flamer on it's hullgun position. It's urban camo is marked by kill markers running across the front of the hull, five crudely drawn armored vehicles, four bunkers, and dozens of small individual marks one could take to indicate confirmed infantry kills.
Finally, painted across the side of the turret and along the barrel in red is "Last Rites"
Currently, a pair of laytechs are fueling the vehicle up, and whom one can assume to be it's commander, a heavy set, bearded man in a light flak jacket and padded helmet over his mottled grey urban camoflague uniform is conversing with a familiar face. Sergeant Mira, the commander of the Chimera Rosalee.
"Penals? They couldn't get us some real infantry? Some Bolwerc shock, or a squad of Ferrean Rifles?" The Tank Commander is saying. He gestures vaguely towards where a platoon of heavily armored Bolwerc soldiers are fastening their bayonets and listening to a sermon from a company chaplain.
"They know what they're doing well enough." Mira says."Besides, they're just for the extra eyes who aren't buttoned up. Rosalee will be right behind you with our Dismounts."
The tank commander sighs, but he nods in acceptance.
"Good to see you folks made it." Mira says, nodding towards the squad. The 'Most of you' part going unsaid, one can suppose, because Hezeans are fortress worlders well used to such a caveat. With that, she turns to check on her own vehicle, and the small cloud of urban camouflaged dismounts clustered around it's back hatch.
The Tank Commander turns towards the squad, eyes scanning for sergeant's bars. Once he sees Cheri, he holds out a hand to her to shake. "Sergeant Vaulk." He says, perfunctory and not a bit apologetic for his overheard remarks. "This is the Last Rites. You'll be guiding us through that urban mess to the gates and watching out for ambush and mines."
"We have your Vox frequency, but you can also use the Vox phones here-" He thumps a vox set which hangs off the side of the Last Rites' armored hull. "-To contact us if we need to coordinate. Keep us appraised of any anti-armor threats, and we'll cover you with the HBs and Main gun."
He pauses a moment. "We're relying on you here, so don't fuck it up. Any questions?"
Best to ask them now, because trying to do so through an infantry Vox-phone sounds like a pain.
(OOC: Need someone to guide the Tank. This character is going to be standing in front of the tank and so can't use it for cover against ambushes, and will be making an Awareness or Lore (Tactica) test. You may have up to two other character's assist this character, but this means they must expose themselves as well. The modifier to this test is hidden and depends on how many Mines you found.)
With a grimace Albert stared at the mine for a few seconds longer than he should before moving back into formation, there was little to be done even if didn't like it. Maybe he'll get a chance to understand these mines and their spirits at a later point in the campaign if he survives that long. But he shoved those thoughts away, now was the time to return back to command to report back.
++++++++++
Albert wanted to volunteer for the mission, he truly did. But he felt he was not skilled enough to lead such machines of the Emperor through these fields. For now, he simply waited, if someone else volunteered. Good, it's in someone else's hands and he needn't worry about failure. If nobody choose to take the role then he would take it upon himself, it would be unfortunate if an even worse-off trooper was chosen for the role and got the tanks destroyed. But for now, he waited and watched with his hands idly fiddling with the ammunition belt wrapped around his rigging and torso.
The squad makes it back to the mustering point to find a forest of steel awaiting them.
Dozens of armored vehicles lay idling just beyond the foot of the capacitor wall that had been the objective of the penal legion's push. Most of them are the dark, urban camouflage of the Hezeans the Penals are already acquainted with, but what looks like a company in the proud gold and white paint of a Saban Armored Cavalry regiment, alongside an equal force of burnt orange painted Panlakean mechanized infantry, and at the back, what looks like a maniple of boxy, red and black painted Skitarius Hover Transports.
Most of the Chimeras, it is easy to note, are lacking paint on their bottom halves, which easily tells how they got here. Over the lake after the sweat and blood of Penal infantry had taken out the defensive artillery. The tanks lack such a badge of honor, but one supposes they would've used heavy barges for them.
And of course the Cogboys could just float over the lake, because the simple option wasn't good enough for the scions of Mars.
Jeradresh hastily made the symbol of the Aquila, eying the Mechanicus transport. He'd never trusted the absolute madmen who tended machines at the best of times, and right now he was uncomfortably close to the sort of criminals the Machine Priests bled to feed the hunger of the Spirits. Admittedly, he hadn't seen so much from these Machine Priests, but that didn't mean they weren't just performing their rites in private.
Though he'd never admit it, the theological matter of the Emperor and Omnissiah also confused him, so there was that. He'd had enough brushes with the pyre as it was. Best to keep a close eye on the maybe heretics.
To complement the assembling armor, there is of course, people. Soldiers, from as diverse and more a collection as the tanks, assembling at the foot of the hive for the push to the gates. Penals, returning squads and those who weren't sent out to look for mines. Lay-techs and Enginseers, checking at damaged vehicles and setting up fortified depots and repair facilities well back from what is soon to be the front lines.
Good to see someone else would be picking up the slack for now....is a thought anyone would've had if it weren't for the sight of Lieutenant Ansalm directing what looks like Squad 123-C and D into the maze of steel.
The squad moves towards the Officer. Maybe he had light duties for them?
"123-B!" Ansalm roars, partially to be heard over the din of preparation for battle. "Time to put your mine sweeping job to the test!" He turns toward Cheri. "Head that way, and look for the Hezean Leman Russ Main Battle Tank 'Last Rites!"
Oh right. The Mission briefing had said something about leading a tank. Joy.
Fortunately, the Hezeans are in the front row of armor, and the 'Last Rites' isn't hard to find. A scarred beast, with evidence of damage having been repaired in it's past. A stubby battle cannon barrel, a pair of sponson Heavy Bolters, and the barrel of a heavy flamer on it's hullgun position. It's urban camo is marked by kill markers running across the front of the hull, five crudely drawn armored vehicles, four bunkers, and dozens of small individual marks one could take to indicate confirmed infantry kills.
Finally, painted across the side of the turret and along the barrel in red is "Last Rites"
Currently, a pair of laytechs are fueling the vehicle up, and whom one can assume to be it's commander, a heavy set, bearded man in a light flak jacket and padded helmet over his mottled grey urban camoflague uniform is conversing with a familiar face. Sergeant Mira, the commander of the Chimera Rosalee.
"Penals? They couldn't get us some real infantry? Some Bolwerc shock, or a squad of Ferrean Rifles?" The Tank Commander is saying. He gestures vaguely towards where a platoon of heavily armored Bolwerc soldiers are fastening their bayonets and listening to a sermon from a company chaplain.
"They know what they're doing well enough." Mira says."Besides, they're just for the extra eyes who aren't buttoned up. Rosalee will be right behind you with our Dismounts."
The tank commander sighs, but he nods in acceptance.
"Good to see you folks made it." Mira says, nodding towards the squad. The 'Most of you' part going unsaid, one can suppose, because Hezeans are fortress worlders well used to such a caveat. With that, she turns to check on her own vehicle, and the small cloud of urban camouflaged dismounts clustered around it's back hatch.
The Tank Commander turns towards the squad, eyes scanning for sergeant's bars. Once he sees Cheri, he holds out a hand to her to shake. "Sergeant Vaulk." He says, perfunctory and not a bit apologetic for his overheard remarks. "This is the Last Rites. You'll be guiding us through that urban mess to the gates and watching out for ambush and mines."
"We have your Vox frequency, but you can also use the Vox phones here-" He thumps a vox set which hangs off the side of the Last Rites' armored hull. "-To contact us if we need to coordinate. Keep us appraised of any anti-armor threats, and we'll cover you with the HBs and Main gun."
He pauses a moment. "We're relying on you here, so don't fuck it up. Any questions?"
Best to ask them now, because trying to do so through an infantry Vox-phone sounds like a pain.
(OOC: Need someone to guide the Tank. This character is going to be standing in front of the tank and so can't use it for cover against ambushes, and will be making an Awareness or Lore (Tactica) test. You may have up to two other character's assist this character, but this means they must expose themselves as well. The modifier to this test is hidden and depends on how many Mines you found.)
Jeradresh smiled warmly spying the Chimera driver, and was surprised to realize for once he really meant it. If not for Sergeant Mira, he suspected they'd have joined so many others melting alive beneath the acid waters they'd crossed. And it was nice to see a friendly face that wasn't liable to get shortly removed by a lasgun shot.
"Glad to have made it, sergeant," Jeradresh commented, returning her nod as Mira walked away. He snapped his attention to Sergeant Vaulk. "Corporal Sophon, second in command. We have only encountered some ragged vagabonds thus far. Anything new on the vox we need be wary of?"
He watched the rest of the squad warily. He would rather not be the one risking his neck out at the front of the line, and certainly he wouldn't be pointman but...The Emperor protected, and he'd rather not risk the Last Rites being damaged.
"Good to see you folks made it." Mira says, nodding towards the squad. The 'Most of you' part going unsaid, one can suppose, because Hezeans are fortress worlders well used to such a caveat. With that, she turns to check on her own vehicle, and the small cloud of urban camouflaged dismounts clustered around it's back hatch.
The Tank Commander turns towards the squad, eyes scanning for sergeant's bars. Once he sees Cheri, he holds out a hand to her to shake. "Sergeant Vaulk." He says, perfunctory and not a bit apologetic for his overheard remarks. "This is the Last Rites. You'll be guiding us through that urban mess to the gates and watching out for ambush and mines."
"We have your Vox frequency, but you can also use the Vox phones here-" He thumps a vox set which hangs off the side of the Last Rites' armored hull. "-To contact us if we need to coordinate. Keep us appraised of any anti-armor threats, and we'll cover you with the HBs and Main gun."
Cheri took his hand and gave it a firm shake, nodding a bit at his words "Well, it is good to be here, at any rate, more of us made it than I expected in all honesty" she chuckles a bit as she looks over the tank, giving an approving nod, glad to have its support if nothing else, would hopefully make their odds of survival go up slightly, though the fact that it's a big important target made them go down, so she supposed that it was all evened out.
As the mention of the mission of being the spotter, she rubbed the back of her neck considering it carefully "Well... I know a couple in the squad who would be a good fit, but I don't want to post them up without cover like that on my order, I'll take the job if no one else is willing, but since I have the only vox, it might be best I don't" She really, really didn't want to sit where she was a prime target to be shot, and she really wasn't even that perceptive, however, she didn't feel right just ordering her men up without putting up a valid excuse.
Cheri took his hand and gave it a firm shake, nodding a bit at his words "Well, it is good to be here, at any rate, more of us made it than I expected in all honesty" she chuckles a bit as she looks over the tank, giving an approving nod, glad to have its support if nothing else, would hopefully make their odds of survival go up slightly, though the fact that it's a big important target made them go down, so she supposed that it was all evened out.
As the mention of the mission of being the spotter, she rubbed the back of her neck considering it carefully "Well... I know a couple in the squad who would be a good fit, but I don't want to post them up without cover like that on my order, I'll take the job if no one else is willing, but since I have the only vox, it might be best I don't" She really, really didn't want to sit where she was a prime target to be shot, and she really wasn't even that perceptive, however, she didn't feel right just ordering her men up without putting up a valid excuse.
Exhaustion wars with sense in Celine's mind. It must, for she can think of no reason for why she steps forward to her sergeant, offering the medikit: "Here, ma'am. Better that someone else carry this now, if I'm to go in front, and it should be the sergeant to decide who's our new 'medicae'."
Even as she moves to take up position ahead of Last Rites, half of her mind is screaming in terror, while the other half just feels... tired. Is this a resignation to her doom? Or has she conquered her fears? It is too late to ponder now, and far too much so to back down. The Emperor protects, the Emperor protects, the Emperor protects...
"Glad to have made it, sergeant," Jeradresh commented, returning her nod as Mira walked away. He snapped his attention to Sergeant Vaulk. "Corporal Sophon, second in command. We have only encountered some ragged vagabonds thus far. Anything new on the vox we need be wary of?"
Sergeant Vaulk doesn't nod at your greeting, simply launching into a warning. "Talk of heretic fanatics." The Tank commander says. "Madmen with swords and demolition charges, using the terrain to get into close quarters."
He shakes his head. "I'd be more worried by a Missile team, but watch for both. The savvier types like to use the idiots and fanatics for a distraction or cover. Don't underestimate either, because they can both kill either of us easily if someone fucks up."
You don't know what you were expecting out of an Imperial Tank Commander, but you expected more chivalric disdain for the enemy and armored courage, less caution about mere common infantry and fanatics.
As the mention of the mission of being the spotter, she rubbed the back of her neck considering it carefully "Well... I know a couple in the squad who would be a good fit, but I don't want to post them up without cover like that on my order, I'll take the job if no one else is willing, but since I have the only vox, it might be best I don't" She really, really didn't want to sit where she was a prime target to be shot, and she really wasn't even that perceptive, however, she didn't feel right just ordering her men up without putting up a valid excuse.
Exhaustion wars with sense in Celine's mind. It must, for she can think of no reason for why she steps forward to her sergeant, offering the medikit: "Here, ma'am. Better that someone else carry this now, if I'm to go in front, and it should be the sergeant to decide who's our new 'medicae'."
Seeing someone take up the duty, the Tank Commander nods at you. "Keep us from getting a track blown off, we keep you alive. Got it?"
He doesn't wait for you affirm that simple trade before he is climbing into the hatch of his tank. Unlike the heroic tank commanders one sees in the propaganda pics, Vaulk does not stand in the turret ring, manning the Pintle stubber, but closes and secures the top hatch, leaving the Last Rites a faceless mass of metal, smoke, and grinding treads.
A moment passes.
With nothing better to do, you start to walk forward, and the tank slowly follows behind you, slowly out of the armor park and into the outhive. You have to rely on arm gestures and simple movements to direct the vehicle, and anything more complicated has to go through Cheri or the infantry vox, but you make steady progress as you guide the Last Rites forward into the tangled morass of urban terrain.
One foot in front of another, eyes forward. The rest will be watching the sides. You can feel the edge of the stimm wearing off, fatigue and exhaustion beginning to leak into your movements, but you keep at it. You could rest when this was over, or you were dead. The Emperor still had use for you right now.
The path forward gets more difficult by the step. The treads of the Last Rites can get through the rubble and the rough roads of your homeworld, with a ruggedness that befit it's namesake, but it is still slow going, and you have to struggle to remember the terrain as you move through it. It's not made easier by all the smoke in the air, the legacy of artillery exchange, and the general environment of the outhive. It's bad enough on foot, you can't imagine how bad it must be inside a tank, with only a few vision blocks to see.
Still, you manage to keep at it. One blue flag of a spotted mined bypassed, then another, then a third.
Then, nearing the end, you finally run into opposition.
If you weren't so bone-deep exhausted, it'd almost be laughable. As you step forward, half stumbling through the rubble, eyes forward forward scanning for more mines, either marked or not, someone comes around the corner of a building ahead, then multiple someones. Forms swaddled in familiar robes, rebreathers, and flak vests, clutching rifles in inexperienced hands, sticking close to the buildings. Two men near the back carry what look like cheap Rocket tubes, which might be able to hurt the Last Rites, if they hit it somewhere important. Leading them is a much more experienced figure in full, imposing flak, metal charms jangling from her Urban camo and rebreather, a laspistol and sword held in experienced hands.
Rounding out the group is a single figure in stained ecclesiastical robes, not bothering with a rebreather, her skin scarred and in places bleeding from multiple recent self inflicted wounds, others oozing out fluids that aren't quite blood. Trailing just behind her is another of the Hive Militia, carrying of all things, a banner, this with a crude likeness of the Emperor dead and rotting on the Golden Throne, ringed with black robed mourners. The very image is stunning in it's heresy, so stunning that you freeze up.
Fortunately, if you were stunned, the enemy was in equal degree caught off guard.
"Keep an eye out for-CONTACT!" The RMCSDF Soldier leading the enemy patrol screams, panic evident even through the rasp of her gas mask and stolid proffessionalism, as her squad runs directly into you, and more importantly the Leman Russ Main Battle Tank directly behind you. "GET TO COVER!"
Adrenaline spikes through your veins, and you thank the God Emperor for small mercies, as once again battle is joined.
(OOC: Celine's Lore Tactica success, 0 DoS (Stimm wore off after this test, so you're back to Fatigueville). You managed to avoid the tank hitting any mines, but still got a random encounter. Fortunately, that Random encounter is an enemy patrol stumbling onto you, not anyone prepared for an ambush.
Also, who is carrying the Medicae pack now?
-Jerad: 2/15 wounds, 2/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), 1/2 grenades, Frenzon Expended, 18/60 Shots in current power cell, Bayonet Fixed
-Mikael: 11/16 wounds, 0/7 Fatigue, Bayonet Fixed (-10 to shooting)
-Nyla: 5/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Stimm Expended, 24/30 Shots in current power cell
-Celine: 3/13 Wounds, 4/6 fatigue (-15 to all tests), 26/60 shots in current power cell
-Filly: 9/13 Wounds, 0/7 fatigue, Stimm expended, 36 shots left in current power cell.
-Cheri: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 fatigue, 22/30 shots in current power cell
-Albert: 3/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 90/200 Rounds in current Belt
It is a terrifying array of foes that stand before Celine. Far too many to take on with blade, even considering her surprising fortune with such thus far. Even if they were so clustered as to be a suitable target for Last Rites, that would still leave her standing in front of a tank with a hull-mounted Flamer.
On the left side of the street, the buildings are tightly clustered together, but on the right there is a gap left by rubble with plenty of room and a mostly undamaged wall for cover, and Celine knows the path to satisfy duty and her desire to live both.
(@xjax1) "SERGEANT! CALL DOWN SMOKE IN FRONT!" The cry rings out from her throat as she wills her body to move, pain and fatigue disregarded to gain every scrap of swiftness her form can muster, making for the gap in buildings. There are far too many to attempt to suppress with her lasgun, so she draws forth her grenades as she runs, in anticipation of reaching close enough to throw. That they should slay the heretics ahead would be ideal, but all they need do is make them scramble for cover, and thus keep them from assailing Last Rites with their rocket tubes.
Then, once that's done, hopefully the smoke shells will have flooded the street, and leave the rustieks blind to anything besides the light of the Heavy Flamer that shall end them, while she'll circle around the building, and try to cut off any retreat. That blasphemous banner had seared away any lingering doubt, any hesitance.
Avert not your gaze from the blasphemous, for the righteous eye looks on in only contempt.
Still not your pulse and breath from fear, for the righteous heart beats with hatred redoubled at the horror.
Slacken not your blade, for the righteous hand trembles with naught but fury at the abomination.
God-Emperor, grant me leave to be righteous here.
With a jerk from Albert whipped from the western street that he had been keeping an eye on as he peered around the tank's edge to take stock of the situation . Seeing the heresy laid out before his eyes his normal smile turns thin-lipped as righteous anger clouds his mind. Albert moved quickly to take cover on the southern corner of the building complex to the west, giving him some cover to deploy his stubber and lay down waves of punishing rounds upon the heathens, especially that banner bearer and priest. As he moves he calls out to his allies "I'm movin' it'll take a sec for me to get this set up, but they'll be needing to take cover pretty soon!"
Jeradresh stumbled to a stop, wondering why the Last Rites had suddenly slowed to a halt. Had Celine spotted another mine? In hindsight perhaps it would have been better to march alongside the tank rather than behind it. But he was more important than the rest of the dregs,
"What is that commotion?" He muttered, hearing shout from up front. He peeked curiously past the tank, noticing the banner. Corpse-Emperor on His Throne, must be friendlies then? Well, 'Emperor in Service' or what have you, Imperials didn't really like it when you called their god a corpse. Personally he thought it was impressive, but-
Jeradresh flinched as the first shots rang out. Oh, he realized. It was another doctrinal dispute, then. Let the God-Emperor sort this mess out, he supposed. Given that the Master of Mankind loved him, he supposed he was most likely on the right side anyway. Probably.
"Contact! Hostiles!" He shouted, snapping up his lasgun as he tried to get a better look at the enemy. Then the color drained from his face. Five years. If the Last Rites got so much as scratched, Lieutenant Ansalm had promised him five more years in the Legions. And they had rocket tubes.
"Rocket troopers! Kill them! Kill them now!" Jeradresh realized he was screaming, even as he fell to the dirt, lasgun firing. "Don't let them touch the tank for God's sake!"
God's? Had he said that or Gods'? Imperials normally said Emperor, didn't they? He didn't know, he didn't care. All he knew in that moment is that he had five more years in the miserable legion on the line, and that he would kill to stop that. Kill them all, and let the Emperor sort them out.
OOC: Go prone next to the tank and suppress the enemy rocket trooper on the right. Be wary of the Leman Russ backing up-Don't get run over.
"Flank! Flank!" The RMCSDF Sergeant shouts, and rushes for the alleyway just next to her fireteam. As she does, her laspistol flashes, and Celine, diving for cover herself, grunts in pain as a shot glances across her arm plates and leaves a melted, burning crater in the flak.
Jerad throws himself prone behind the Last Rites, and without even waiting to properly sight the targets, sprays down the entrance to the alleyway the right side enemy fireteam had disappeared behind until his lasgun clicks dry. He's quickly joined by Filly and Nyla, who pour on fire themselves, hopefully keeping the rocket tube there penned in.
The other enemy fireteam about faces and runs behind the building they'd just came from, leaving only the curiously robed priestess standing in the middle of the street.
"Watch out for those flankers, Penals!" the Squad's helmet receivers hiss out in static as from Sergeant Vaulk. Then, without bothering to consult Cheri, the heavy flamer on the front of the tank's hull flashes out a brilliant sheet of liquid fire onto the Priestess. The woman tries to duck prone into a crater, but only manages to stumble forward, the edge of the wall of flame catching her briefly.
What comes out the other side of that glancing hit is a blackened, charred figure. Her robes have been burnt away and fused to her flesh in many places, leaving blackened and charred flesh visible in places. Some of the flesh of her face is burnt away, leaving her gums and teeth and parts of her skull visible along the sides of her face. There is no hair remaining on her skull, and her scalp in a mess of red, burnt flesh.
"Pain is righteousness entering the body!" The sorely wounded priestess shouts, then sprints forward, stumbling through the rubble.
Albert, prone and racking back the slide on his Heavy Stubber, barely has time to gasp in astonishment and leap to his feet before the priestess is on him and Nyla, a long sacrificial blade held in one hand. "The Emperor is Dead. The Emperor is Risen." She manages, breathing raggedly through the horror that is her face.
One of the Last Rite's sponson guns turns and fires, the distinctive Double Boom of a Bolt Weapon assaulting the ears of the Penals, before the streaks of it's shells slam into the wall much of the enemy infantry shelter behind. Rockcrete shatters and collapses under the onslought, and shapnel flies liberally in all directions. Behind the wall, someone screams in pain, and walls of brickdust and debris expand from where the streams of bolt shells hammer at the enemy's cover. None of them dare to show themselves before such a hammering storm, even as their cover diminishes with every shell that detonates against it.
They do, however try to flank as their Sergeant had advised. A Militiaman appears around the flank of the building, on the eastern side, raising to clear the area with his Autogun. He doesn't make it two steps before Mikael appears from around the southern corner, his shotgun booming. The traitor drops, a stinging hail of buckshot cutting into his unarmored limbs and leaving him a bleeding mess on the ground.
"Contact!" Someone shouts from behind the corner. "Push forward! Don't let that tank-"
Whatever else they might've said is interrupted as Mikael pulls a frag grenade from his webbing, pulls the pin, and lobs it around the corner.
Celine, having prepared similar as she'd ran for cover, grits her teeth, then dares forward behind a pile of rockcrete and steel rebars, close enough to hurl her grenade around the corner the enemy shelters behind. Then, with exhausted arms barely propelled by adrenaline, she hurls the grenade around the corner, and ducks back into her cover.
"Grenade!" Someone shouts. A rumbling detonation, and a death rattle.
"Tasha's dead! What do we do-" Someone wails, as Celine prays.
"Get her RPG! Hit the damn tank before it kills us all!" The enemy Sergeant shouts to her panicked men.
Not very likely-the enemy was pinned down, and the squad had plenty of ammunition and grenades, not to mention the Last Rite's bolters.
"Need eyes on that other Rocket Tube!" Sergeant Vaulk's voice over the Vox however, reminds the squad that their job isn't quite done yet...
(OOC: This is the last warning for @Carol@Kensai , and @Teyao to post, since it's been months since any you have posted, I will be forced to find new Players to fill your slots after the conclusion of this fight.
-Jerad: 2/15 wounds, 2/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), 1/2 grenades, Frenzon Expended, 60/60 Shots in current power cell, One Power Cell expended.
-Mikael: 11/16 wounds, 0/7 Fatigue, Bayonet Fixed (-10 to shooting), 6/8 Shots left in magazine,
-Nyla: 5/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Stimm Expended, 20/30 Shots in current power cell, Currently in melee
-Celine: 1/13 Wounds, 4/6 fatigue (-15 to all tests), 26/60 shots in current power cell, 1 Grenade Left
-Filly: 9/13 Wounds, 0/7 fatigue, Stimm expended, 33 shots left in current power cell.
-Cheri: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 fatigue, 22/30 shots in current power cell
-Albert: 3/13 wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 90/200 shots in current belt, currently in melee.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is doomed to flag and fail here. Every full breath gasping in her lungs is its own small triumph for Celine. That she has not collapsed from her fatigue and wounds is a marvel fit for being the subject of a treatise by the Officio Medicae. And still, stopping here would be inconceivable. The lone raving preacher from before could yet have been excused as a broken man, left off-balance in mind by the devastation around him.
The banner and the priestess in befouled vestments have erased that distant possibility. There is true heresy upon her homeworld, foul and pervasive. With every breath they take, they have condemned Celine to this hellish maelstrom of blood and noise and terror, drawn her here from the cell that was drafty, bare and dull that she might have remained in otherwise for the rest of her sentence, safe but for the ill intents of her fellow prisoners. It is unforgivable.
She fingers the injector of Frenzon on her, traces out a vein upon the chorus of the midday Sanguinala hymn that is inscribed along her arm in marvelously detailed scrollwork, and pierces.
The spirit is willing, and damn the complaints of flesh. As the combat drugs rush through her, she takes in hand her last grenade. When she rounds the corner, it should be sufficient for silencing the heretics fumbling for the rocket tube. The blasphemous standard, she will set upon with her blade until not one frayed thread of it still joins another, nor a sinew of its bearer.
There is no more time for fear. It is a ragged breath she draws, and as the full haze of the impending bloodletting settles upon her thoughts, it returns to the world as a scream that neither she or anyone she had known in life would ever have recognized as her own:
Smoop shouldered Albert aside even as he got to his feet, yelling at the trooper, "Keep firing! Pour it on!"
For her part, she held her laspistol in both hands, the precious Auspex forgotten in the rush of battle as she squeezed the trigger on her laspistol as quickly as it would go. Her fingers cramped, and the heat from the fast-overheating pistol begin to sear her skin. But she pumped blast after blast into the priestess.
The machinegunner flinches at the pain even as his face twists into a disgusted griminace both at the priestesses burned flesh and her heretical presence. Albert began to pull his combat knife out until he is shouldered aside, nearly stabbing the fellow penal before realizing that they weren't an enemy. With a quick nod and grunt Albert moved to grab his stubber and rush to a better position further up the street and pass the priest where he could pump shots down range through the route the traitors had run down. Though making sure to apply his stimm before setting up his bipod, he would be no use if he bled out all over his position.
"Kings' blood and Daemonspit," Jeradresh hissed as he fumbled for a fresh power cell. What were those thrice-cursed prayers again? "Accept mine gift, spit out light? Nice Machine Spirit?"
He rolled back over onto his front, reasonably assured that the lasgun wouldn't consume his soul. He squinted down the weapon sight, trying to get an eye on where the heretics were. He'd seen some of them shift right, but were there more of the motherless canids? He heard shouting to his left, lots of "Emperor!" and cursing. Were their more doctrinal splitters on their left flank?
"What's going on? Anyone have eyes on that missile trooper?" He called out, pushing himself to his feet. Not that anyone would hear them over the ridiculous roar of the Last Rite's hungry engine. Jeradresh supposed it was for the best they didn't try quieting that down with a few sacrifices: he'd be on that list after all.
Jeradresh began to shift left behind the tank, then spared a glance at the treads and thought better of it. The tank didn't exactly have a rear-view mirror, he didn't think. He stepped forward, grabbing the vox phone off the side of the tank and cupping it to his ear.
"Cannot see tank-killers! Reverse, reverse!" He shouted, mentally apologizing to all his ancestors for his lack of eloquence. Treachery was one thing, poor speech quite another. Still, he wasn't getting that tank scratched, and they needed it back behind cover and out of the crossroads. He slammed the vox phone back into place, ducking back onto the rockcrete beside the tank.
Jerad grabs the Vox phone and shouts his warning into it. There is no direct reply, but just a moment later, the treads of the tank grind against the metallic soil and retreat, placing a demolished building safe between the tank and any attackers. Then, the pintle hatch at the top, barely above the ruined building, opens. Sergeant Vaulk appears, gripping onto the pintle mounted stubber and glancing around for any sign of the attackers from his high view.
"Contact!" He shouts "Infantry moving through rubble, 9 O'clock!" He shouts, pointing, which is quite good because Jerad has never heard this 'Clock' terminology before. Boiling out of the ruins are a half dozen more of the militia, sticking low and moving to flank the Tank's former position. One of them goes to one knee and brings up a heavy, tubular launcher to her shoulder.
Sergeant Vaulk is faster on the draw, and the Heavy Stubber swings over and sprays down the enemy fireteam. The RPG carrier goes down in a spray of blood as one slug intercepts her shoulder, and a fellow pulls her into cover as the hail of bullets, and adjoining storm of beams from Jerad's lasgun and Filly's Lascarbine, punch at their cover.
Meanwhile, the badly wounded enemy fanatic smiles through burned, melted gums at Nyla and Albert. "The Emperor Protects!" She intones once more, and her blade slams into the side of Albert's helmet. THe heavy gunner collapses, the heavy blow sending his head spinning. Nyla's laspistol snaps up, and puts two shots into the woman's center mass. The heavy, unfortunately armored, robes take the shots, leaving patches of material smouldering from the latest fury of the laspistol.
Then Cheri is there, the Sergeant shaking off the surprise of the ambush and rushing in, firing shots at the heretic assaulting her squadmates. Albert, wounded, manages to crawl away, dragging his stubber towards Jerad and Filly. Cheri turns to try and gun the heretic down, and she ducks past a pair of shots, into the sergeant's reach, and her heavy knife flashes out. The mono-sharpened blade pistons into Cheri's helmet, cutting deep into the flak, then tearing down, taking a large chunk of the material with it and leaving a long cut along the Sergeant's face. She stumbles back, agony spiking through her head from the cut and the concussion of the blow.
Nearby, Celine pulls her last grenade out of her pouches, pulls the pin, and then throws it around the corner of the building. In the same moment, the RMCSDF Sergeant snaps up her laspistol and fires a pair of shots, one that glances across Celine's visor. The trooper is left with blinding pain across her face, but it doesn't prevent her hand from snapping down over the Frenzon injector rune on her collar. The pain and the fatigue burns away, the rage at the trespass, the abomination, the heresy that was that banner burning through her veins.
She launches herself from cover, sword seeking the throat of it's bearer.
"Don't let her!" The Traitor Sergeant is yelling, then, suddenly she has problems of her own as Mikael comes around the opposite corner, his bayoneted shotgun seeking blood. One of the remaining militiaman barely manages to duck away from a blow that would've opened his throat.
The rest is a blur of red and rage from Celine's point of view. The Flagbearer, the damnable heretic, tries to flee, but her sword lashes out and slashes his arm, causing him to nearly drop the banner. Another dance of blows, screams, then suddenly the man is dead, her blade opening him from his collar down to the hips. One of her boots lashes out to kick the flailing corpse off her sword, then the other to smash the staff of the dropped flag. Her blade licks out again, to tear the hated thing to shreds, to tear it's guts out and to rip it apart and-
Pain reemerges into the world.
Celine looks up from the tattered remnants of the flag to find six inches of steel buried in her flak jacket. One of the Hive Militia had run her through, and sudden agony spikes through her torso even through the red fog of the Frenzon. She snarls and tries to pull the bayonet out, to tear this man open too, to lash out with her blade to slash his throat even as it pushes the bayonet in deeper, but she finds no strength remaining, slides off the bayonet, and hits the ground.
She is unconscious before her head hits the back of her helmet.
Over on the other side of the street, the fire of Jerad, Filly, the Stubber Pintle, and Albert's hastily set up Stubber proves decisive. Pinned down by the hails of bullets and lasbolts, and unable to effectively reply with their Rocket tube down and their heads buried into the dirt, the enemy loses heart. First two men abandon their rifles and run, and the rest seem to share a look, before they too are skulking off into the ruins, leaving the fight behind.
The Fanatic shakes her head at this display. "Such lack of commitment. The Emperor demands better." Her blade arcs down to execute the wounded Cheri. Nyla fires again and again trying to stop her, even as she back from the grinning, burnt monster. Her first two shots find no purchase, the armored robes absorbing them. But her third shot strikes at one of the traitor's legs, burning a huge hole through her robes, and then through her leg. Flesh vaporizes, muscle burns, and bone shatters. The traitor goes down, her leg held to her body only by a thin thread of flesh. She doesn't get up, though, astonishingly despite such a gruesome injury she still breathes shallowly on the ground.
Then, without any enemies left alive, the squad turns towards Celine and Mikael's position. They find the demolitionist standing over Celine's unconscious body, propped up against the wall of a burnt out husk of a building. His bayonet is bloody and his weapon half empty, and from the way he warily watches the ruins, it seems he must've driven the enemy off from the wounded Celine.
Of the blasphemous banner there is no sign, only the broken flagstaff, and the eviscerated remains of it's bearer. "Heretics grabbed the scraps and ran." Mikael clarifies, when the question comes up of what had happened to it.
It takes several minutes more and first aid to wake the wounded Celine. Fortunately, on close examination, it seems the Bayonet did not actually pierce her flak-but it did punch deep into the plate and do severe injuries to the bone and flesh behind it. The flesh beneath the plate is bruised, weeping blood in parts, and Celine can feel the bones shifting around wrong inside her chest. A severe injury that will require a hive doc-or a proper Medicae, one supposes.
Finally, as the Penals assemble back into position around the tank. Behind the vehicle, the Chimera carrying Hezean troops has let out it's dismounts, and the dark camoed men and women begrudgingly help secure the ruins as the Last Rites pushes forward through it. Fortunately, faced with a full squad of Imperial Guard and half a squad of effective Penals, the enemy does not dig themselves out of their holes once more, content to hide and wait.
Finally, ten more agonizing minutes of sweeping for missed mines or waiting ambushes, the squad has finally reached it's destination. An open space, the last stretch of ground between the long ring of outhive settlements and the Hive itself. The Hive itself looms down, taking up the entire horizon, massive beyond comprehension for all but a few, but parts of it are identifiable.
And the most important part that can be identified from this distance is the massive set of gates. The metal has long since turned red with Rust, giving them the appearance of a bloody wound in the side of the black metal and plasteel of the hive's outer surface. It is flanked by a pair of statues, both saints, both decapitated and their heads laid at the foot of the gates as if in bloody tribute. One is obviously of Saint Savine, the Conqueror, one arm holding a great rockcrete sword, the other a long scroll that grants the Civitas Imperialis restored to the Verantis sector (An ironic proclamation, considering the state of rebellion present). The other is robed and her stone limbs are stylized to represent cybernetics. A local Tech Saint, who only Celine recognizes as Saint Bora the industrious, a local saint revered for repairing much of the vital industries of the hives after they'd broken down from centuries of neglect.
Other tanks can be see on the stretch of mostly flat ground, most Hezean, a few in other liveries. It's not hard, from the turning of the turrets, and the beginning fusillade of fire from some tanks down the way, to tell what they're intending.
Vaulk pops out of his hatch. "We'll have this gate down for you in no time." He grunts. "Recommend you get behind us. Enemy will be shooting back soon."
And indeed without another word, Last Rite's battlecannon turns towards the gates, and joins it's firepower to the task of knocking it down. For their part, the squad can only file behind the tank, sit down, and wait for resupply.
PART 2: 1000 METERS COMPLETE
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Downtime:
Resupply indeed comes, along with much of the penal regiment, and more besides. Mines cleared, enemy artillery suppressed, and so much of the task force has moved up to encamp and entrench in the shadows of the Bloody Gates, and wait for the Armor to batter down the gates over the rest of the afternoon and evening.
That leaves Squad 123-B to attend to what business they can, with a backdrop of firepower.
A few problems are apparent. Cheri, as soon as she has a moment to rest after the violence of the last fight, has noticed her helmet is severely damaged. Much of the front is torn off, the rest of it's structure looks compromised. It doesn't seem like it'd help to seek out a quartermaster, if she even knew where to find one.
(OOC: Cheri's helmet was Damaged (2) in that last fight. It needs either to be repaired, or replaced somehow, or else you're looking at halved armor on your head from now on).
Second, Celine's injury is not getting any better. She can barely move her chest, and breathing is very hard. She needs to find a real medicae, or else she's out of the fighting.
(OOC: Celine's got Crippled Torso (Extensive Medical care): This means she halves her agility, takes a -10 to Toughness, Strentgh, and Weapon Skill, and cannot run or charge until she can find surgical aid).
Finally, a messenger approaches with a Dataslate for Filly and Mikael. Apparently Demolitionist skills and some local knowledge are needed elsewhere, but this leaves the squad awaiting replacements for three people now.
(OOC: Replacements will show up next update).
Still, with nobody to order them do anything, and no enemies around shooting at them, that leaves the rest of the squad to take a rest for now.
(OOC: Everyone clears 4 Fatigue and 1 wound, and recovers one used Grenade and Ammo (Already accounted for in Squad Status):
Select one action from the following list, or a similar write in that can take an hour or two.
-Clean Weapons: Make a +30 Tech Use test (+20 int if you don't have Tech Use). On success, your guns are cleaned, and ignore the first Jam they would take in the course of combat and the next 'Equipment Failure' result that'd affect you. Each 3 additional DoS let's you reroll a single ranged attack with them in the next mission.
-Get Medical Aid: Seek out the Platoon Medic, who will attempt Medical Care on you.
-Pray: Make a +10 Piety (Fel) roll. On success, you may reroll a single test of your choice in the next mission, or gain +10 and +1 DoS if you already had a reroll. You gain +1 Reroll per 3 additional DoS.
-Scrounge up food: You go and look for something better than Corpse Starch. You'll make a Survival (+30) or Scrutiny (+20) test. On success, you manage to scrounge up something, enough for the rest of your squad. Each character may recover an additional 2 fatigue, and 1d5-2 (min 1) wounds. If you get 4+ DoS, you might find something especially prized, such as Alcohol or Chocolate rations.
Note you can still attempt this if you don't have the relevant Skill, you just roll Perception (+20)
-Scrounge up Gear: You go and look for equipment. You'll get a Survival (+10) or Scrutiny (+0) test. On success, you may scavenge up gear based on your DoS: You may make particular requests for what kind of gear you're looking for.
Note you can still attempt this if you don't have the relevant skill, you just roll Perception (+0)
-Assist: Assist up two other character's tests. You must have a skill that is applicable to the tests. If you do so, make the same test at +30, the assisted character's gain +10 and +1 DoS on their test on success.
Additionally, you can pick up some Advancement options:
For surviving Part 2, select one from this list:
-Pick a Talent from Column 2, or have one suggested by the GM.
-Gain Rank 1 (+0) in a skill, or increase a rank 1 Skill to Rank 2 (+10). Max once per skill.
-Increase a Stat by +5 (Once per stat)
For surviving two sequential parts (This applies to Jerad, Celine, Cheri, and Nyla)
-Increase a Rank 2 (+10) Skill to Rank 3 (+20)
-Pick a Talent from Column 1, or have one suggested by the GM.
-Pick all options from the first table, instead of just one.
Smoop didn't care to leave the Fanatic breathing. She came up closer to her crippled enemy, sighted her laspistol carefully, and put another couple of shots into the Fanatic's head, making sure that there was nothing left but the smoking stump of her neck.
Something had snapped inside Smoop, and then put itself back together, different. When she looked up, it was almost as if a cloud had moved and the sun had come out. Everything looked brighter, sharper.
Maybe the Emperor did protect.
@xjax1
Smoop approached Cheri with a small, sly smile. "Hey Sarge," she said. "I think you owe me one for blowing that cunt off you. Let's go scrounge up some grub while we can, and maybe we'll find a new helmet for you while we're at it. Seems to me that one's a bit past use by."
