To Pay The Tithe - A Warhammer 40k Quest

Welp, broke that vote count. Still getting used to those settings. REGARDLESS, in a more competent declaration: our winner is Only A Moment Of Weakness.

EDIT: Fixed the vote tally.

[X] Only A Moment Of Weakness

---

Callused fingers clench tighter on the sheath of her Dulkavas, the great sword practically strapped against her to ensure it wouldn't be a risk during orbital entry according to this metal contraption's Riders. Her eyes scan the cramped chamber, her brain vaguely registering someone calling it a cargo hold when they'd been boarding, to check over those under her charge.

Golden eyes first seek out the plate clad figures of her subordinate Knights. Gideon is a comforting sight, the slightly battered armor covering their figure a sign of a brawl with some of the younger Vale Wardens merely days prior, and as their eyes meet he returns a small smile and a knowing wink. Kaymor snorts and turns her focus to the next under her charge only to be greeted with the sight of them sound asleep. Sure, their face can't be seen through a closed helm...

'It's impressive you can snore loud enough for me to hear.'

A smile plays across Kaymor's face at the thought as she then turns to look upon the Blooded that form the remainder of her wedge. Ten of them, clad in chainmail and leather. Wearing the fur cloaks of their Proving. Some clutch desperately to their kavas seeking comfort. Others bow their head in what she can only assume is prayer. However, one among them peaks her interest. A young girl barely into her teens clutching a kavas bearing six strips of red cloth. Her unflinching gaze is locked on the far wall seemingly unaffected by the violent shuddering and near deafening roar around them.

'A good blade to survive six. Strange. I thought only the Seventh had brought one of the Named wi-'

Further thought is brought to a screeching halt. Kaymor's entire weight is thrown to the side. The world spins as the straps holding her into the seat save her from a certain death. The screech of metal and deafening crumpling of something are ringing out from every direction. A noise unknown to her, the sounds of explosions, join the madness.

Her eyes go wide as the world spins yet again and a flare of red and orange and grey and black rips open metal contraption she thought herself safe in. Fingers twitch. Thoughts form. She acts too slow as Gideon is literally ripped out of the cargo bay. Perhaps a worse end than the Squire who turned to a fine coat of red paint across his armor. Static crackles in her ear as she sees the world beyond the metal shell. Dozens of dropships pouring down from on high towards the web of dreary grey fortifications below.

Balls of fire and death tear through the sky as dots of light scream up from below. Lances of pure red cause tears to well up in her eyes. One after another she watches them go. Tens of ships... Hundreds of lives gone in seconds. Then the static turns into a shouting voice, "I'm taking us for an emergency landing. Brace for impact! I repeat, BRACE FOR IMPACT!"

---

A swift downward swing sees a man split from shoulder to waist. Her mind barely registers the cleanness of the cut as she twists her body to the right, fingers tightening on the grip as she brings the Dulkavas tearing towards its next target. Clad in clean, dark green armor the figure screams defiance in the face of death. Face twisted in a snarl as they try and fail to bring their weapon to bear.

'A lasgun.'

Her brain recalls the lessons aboard the First Stand where a clustered group of naval armsmen, those strange red robed figures, and the Valesmiths had worked to teach them of their new tools. She could feel hers even now bouncing against her back as her blade slices through her foe's leg with an ease known only to Bloodforged tools. Kaymor smiles as the lances of light which might have hit her before now harmlessly score the plascrete walls of the bunker around them.

Stomping with all the force she can muster, she turns her eyes to the half open door ahead through which the constant ratatatatatat noise of some gun she can't identify still calls out. Her mind questions how many lives it claims even now as she fruitlessly moves to wipe the blood from her right eye. She growls at the wasted motion and waves her sword to shed the worst of the blood and gore.

"Silence that Emperor forsaken gun."

At her order Bear charges his way in with three of the Squires. Kaymor watches as half a dozen beams of light scour across her fellow Knight's armor only to prove too little to stop him. Two hands move independently as the twin kavas in his hands start to scythe through the traitors. Kaymor's eyes narrow as one among the Squires hefts a lasgun and sends a burst of light deeper into the room.

"The Blooded adapting faster than a Knight. How shameful..." She mutters before charging in to join the others.

---

One thing about it never goes away no matter how many times you experience it. It is the way the stomach roils as the anti-grav engine sputters to life.

'Like half your stomach is going up and the other half down... Not that I'd mind getting those compressed ration bars out of me.'

A stray thought allowed in an attempt to tone down the tension running through his body. Novak smiles as he starts to make minor adjustments to his path. Around him fifteen other soldiers just like him have joined the madness that is a HAD. He takes a deep breath and revels in the high oxygen mix that the rebreather dispatches with a near silent hiss. He can hear his heart pounding and his mind settling into just the right mix of anxiety and adrenaline fueled ecstasy that would allow him to perform at his peak.

The air begins to feel like knives cutting against his few patches of exposed skin and a hint of joy hits him as he speaks to his squadmates, "Terminal velocity is slightly higher here. Don't know if its a lower atmo or higher gravity, but our numbers are wrong. Adjust arrival time by nineteen seconds."

Comms crackle with static as a wave of "Yes sir"s come through. Novak's hand grips around the weapon secured to his chest by a quick release rig.

'Just a slight push on the release lever and I can have it out, scoped, and firing in three seconds. Adjusted arrival time is one minute forty three and counting. Slowed descent will net us twenty seconds of air time if we really squeeze it. Take out the lighter ones first-'

Novak's brain churns as he walks through every step of the upcoming engagement. Below the clouds begin to break as the sprawling fortress complex below comes into sight. Three concentric rings of grey walls stretch out from a central web of towers jutting out from what one could be forgiven for thinking was a flattened mountain top. Perhaps it once was.

But now?

Now the all too familiar shape of an orbital defense work has taken its place. Even through the adaptive tinting of the First's helmets the non-stop flash of yellow and red striking out towards the fleet above leaves spots of light floating in Novak's eyes. Staring at the fearsome destructive force trying to tear their orbital support apart, his heart jumps for joy as the smell of burning ozone squirms its way past the air filters. Experience warns him of the show to come.

And then the world turns white for a moment and Novak's visor goes dark to shield him from what the Sergeant could only describe as the Wrath of the God-Emperor Himself. Even blind to the world beyond he knew what was happening. Hot dropping into a site under active counter barrage from a fleet in orbit should fill any normal person with abject terror at the death awaiting them but...

"Looks like this just turned into a party boys. Thirty seconds to the Suspension Zone. I want each and every one of you to kill ten of these treasonous fuckers, am I understood!?"

A chorus of HOORAH!!! is the answer. Novak's thumb flicks the safety off on his hotshot as color begins to return to the world, a sign that the first wave of orbital bombardment has come to an end. What awaits is not the sight of a distant fortress below but instead visibly manned fortifications with figures as small as ants rapidly growing closer. A slight flex of back muscles joined with a mental command stir the jets on his back to life, "Adjust to quadrant three. Silence those damned AA guns!"

In the next moment the traitors below are no longer ants but the size of his palm. Still, Novak simply adjusts his direction as the roar of gunfire from below grows louder by the second. First he can make out the defaced banners raised high upon the battlements below. Hasty work by surprisingly skilled artists leaving the aquila decapitated alongside slogans like 'Death to the False God' and 'For the Despoiler'.

Another slight twist of the hand. Another mental command as the all too familiar sensation of his stomach flipping rips through him. Freed from its rig his weapon opens up into the unexpecting defenders below joined seconds later by the rest of his squad. In the moment between anti-grav activating and their feet touching down on the platform below some three dozen are cut down.

Novak frees up a hand to signal forward as he orders over the comms, "I want those explosives planted in forty seconds. Jax, Tip, Brandon. You three secure the stairwell."

His eyes glance over to a freight elevator nearby. He smirks.

"Heide. See that elevator? Now, look at those AA shells suddenly liberated of a purpose. Send our friends down below a gift to let them know the elevators out of service would you?"

---

"Port lance batteries recharging. Confirmation reports are in, Complex Seven's void shields still holding. Requesting permission to maneuver the fleet to bring starboard batteries around for a second barrage!"

Metallic fingers tap against the cold metal of the command throne as Reznek runs through preliminary reports being fed directly into his mind-vaults by the connections binding him to his throne. Even now sparks arc from a few of them as the heavy load of information being passed between the Captain and his ship places them under dangerous strain. Fifteen fortress complexes dot the planet below. Each capable of three weeks of continuous fire against its designated defense zone.

'Trying to pull the fleet out of Complex Seven's fire zone... We'd need at least six hours.'

His mind instinctively pulls on data-packets brewing in the depths of the ship under the watchful eye of the First Light's most skilled Logisticians. Nano-seconds later his face begins to twist into a scowl at the opening projections, "Bring the fleet around. Tell the fleet to prioritize effect over fire volume. I want the anti-orbital batteries melted to scrap not the Complex, the 122nd, or the Fir-"

His voice cuts off. His scowl deepens.

"Captain, we just received a telepathic transmission signed off by-"

His comms officer withers under the icy glare Reznek returns, "I know. Send out the order, all ships are to cease counterfire and begin breaking orbit along the given escape vectors."

His augmented hand digs trenches in the metal of the command throne.

"Furthermore, the remainder of the 122nd and the First down with orders to recapture the Complex," His voice trails off for a moment and he sighs before finishing, "They are to ensure the batteries are left undamaged at any cost."

---

Eyes meet from across the intersection. Kali didn't know the Knight on the other side. Somewhere in the last six fights as the fragments of the 122nd began to drive themselves into the fortress like nails they had begun to split up. Entering into the maze of hallways and rooms built not simply as living space or storage rooms but as interlocking layers of defense...

'Just like home.'

Footsteps echo through the corridor signifying the closing enemies. Even a Squire could decipher the number with how poorly they disguised their approach. Seven distinct sets of footsteps. Body weight. Height. Length of limbs. Injuries or disabilities. While not even the most skilled Knight she knew can decipher everything from footsteps it was a basic skill for a Caledonian set on Errantry to learn. Even here on this foreign planet far from home it pays in dividends as it always has.

Kali moves almost in perfect sync with the Knight. Charging from her cover at the corner, she catches the first entirely off guard and her blade soon sends the traitor's head flying with a single strike. A second readies their lasgun but doesn't retreat. Kali is certain they expected her kavas to get stuck upon bone.

'A lesser one might have,' She steps to the side, moving with the momentum of the blade to dodge the first shot. They don't get a second as a hasty upward swing removes the weapon... Hands and all. Recent experience drives her free hand to her waist. An unfamiliar weight is brought to waist height as the man before her drops to the ground in pain. A pair of soldiers expecting a continued melee charge are instead met with a storm of lasfire filling the air with the scent of burning flesh.

"Ha, incredible work Squire. Achieving what most would need months to complete in not even a minute. I look forward to you joining the ranks when this is over."

Kali merely nods. Her kavas feels even heavier than before. Perhaps some of it is exhaustion setting in sure, but... Her eyes dart to the six Remembrances still hanging from the hilt though now torn and bloodstained. Sure enough, the Knight's gaze follows and their tone turns solemn, "Ah... I see. Then we have even more reason to press on it would seem."

She nods and joins the Knight in heading ever deeper into the fortress complex.

---

In the wasteland surrounding Complex Seven dozens of smoking wrecks can be seen. Each and everyone an impromptu tomb for those unaware of what had truly awaited them here. And yet, caught unaware and outgunned neither the 122nd nor Ulric's First have been found wanting. On the ground below the survivors of the 122nd Caledonian have emerged from crashed dropships and emergency landings to reap a price of blood against defenders who once thought themselves prepared.

Trenches and pillboxes fell in minutes under the charge of brave Caledonian warriors while in the skies above the First organized in what most would call an absolutely mad plan. Ten surviving squads engaging in HADs, High Atmosphere Dives, as they threw themselves from their dropships for stratosphere and mesosphere height assault drops. Caught off guard by the ferocity of the Caledonian counter attack, hammered by a brief orbital barrage, and unaware of the First's drop capability the traitors find themselves on the back foot as the majority of their AA guns go silent.

Already dozens more dropships are carrying the remainder of the 122nd and the First on an entry burn, all of them unaware of how much safer their operation has just become. It is in the midst of this battlefield that eddies of invisible wind swirl as fate draws near...

We have encountered our second main mechanic of the game. Twists of Fate. These happen when the Caledonians roll a 1, a 99, or a 100. They are pivotal events that shape a Crisis either in favor of the Caledonians (for a 99 or 100) or against them (on a 1). Essentially the reward for critical successes and the downside for critical failures. Only through Twists of Fate can you directly intervene in a Crisis as they would otherwise play out until their climax.


So, what event changes the Battle for Fortress Complex Seven?
[] The First's Beachhead - Not only do the HAD squads manage to take out the majority of Complex Seven's anti-air batteries, but under the command of Sergeant Novak they manage to secure several of the landing pads both regiments were originally meant to arrive at. Using them as the center, Novak proceeded to guide a combined force of the First and 122nd in creating a secure defensive position. Turning the AA guns on the enemy, these locations will allow the remaining regimental forces to be deployed directly into the Complex.

[] The Nightmare of the Vales - While relatively small in number, a core of the 122nd's cavalry were among the initial dropships that survived and today they have begun to show a new world why the Vale Wardens are so feared and respected. The chittering. The chittering, its in the walls and the floor and the ceiling and OH GOD THEY FOU-

[] Ohhh, that looks shiny! Better keep it. - Slowly but surely the surviving forces of the 122nd Caledonian have reformed... And somehow in the process managed to do so around the central reactors of Complex Seven with High Enginseer Oleg and a small portion of his Mechanicus assets behind them. Now, the High Enginseer has begun manipulating the flow of power and slowly begun seizing control of the Complex back from the traitor forces. While this has drawn a heavy counter attack from enemy forces it has also greatly weakened their outward forces... If only they can hold.