Solar Auxilia Officer Quest. A 30k Early Great Crusade quest.

[wabbitking]

You will start out commanding a Sub-Tercio. But even as you rise through the ranks, you'll keep a force of troops at your direct command, be it as bodyguards, retinue, or an elite reserve.

If people want to write in a Void-Sergeant for the Rifle Sections, or a member of your command squad, (vox operator, vexilla bearer, and augury operator.) I'd be delighted.

Click to shrink...

Are all the fighting sub units in our Terico the same as ours?

And since you asked here's a Vexilla Bearer.

Jean Claude: Before being drafted Jean Claude was a laborer at one of your families many factories. And despite the mans rather dull expression and short stature you have been assured repeatedly that he meets the minimum standards required for his duty. The man is eager to please in a almost puppy like way and treats the Vexilla like one would a national relic. Possibly because the thing is worth more then his family made in a decade. While not fulfilling his other duties or rushing around aiding someone on some errand you'll inevitably find him fussing over the thing and religiously cleaning and maintaining it.

 

[Sir_Travelsalot]

If people want to write in a Void-Sergeant for the Rifle Sections, or a member of your command squad, (vox operator, vexilla bearer, and augury operator.) I'd be delighted.

Click to shrink...

Sure, I can take a stab at a vox operator:

Primevére Cartier was born and raised in the mid-levels of Hive Pars itself, to parents who ran a modest production line of components for dataslates and cogitator terminals as a sub-contractor for a computative manufacturing concern that, itself, was under a perpetual contract for the civil administration. Such a well-to-do upbringing afforded the young Primevére no end of opportunities for a comfortable life, chief among them an education at a technical trade institute. There, she was a capable yet unexceptional alumnus, and would likely have simply been another chapter of her life that passed without much remark, had she not met Mael and his friends.

The two met initially over discussions of classroom notes, and found in each other agreeable company, and perhaps more crucially for the tale, a mutual alignment in growing distrust towards public reporting of domestic matters. At the end of the discussion, Mael invited her to come along for a meeting of his social circle who had, in their disillusionment, begun to plan out a clandestine broadcast operation, one that would in their estimation seek to reveal to all willing to listen a much truer telling of the state of the nation.

The work was exhilarating, cathartic and above all, dangerous. As the highborn fumed at the Republican Legislature, the nameless coterie held interviews of servants with tales of abuse at their masters' estates, of lower officials witness accounts of their superiors' corruption, graft and nepotism. As the Imperium's forces painfully, bloodily, pressed into Franc's territory, the stories carried over the datawaves included frank testimony from veterans rotated away from the front lines, of the endless barrages of horrendous tools of death, of the equally merciless advances of the Imperials, of some officers' all-but-seditious conduct in undermining officers not hailing from their social cliques.

In time, the vocal-masking subroutines, false-blind relays and shifts in location could no more delay exposure, and the students found themselves facing arrest at the end of information security laws. Primevére chose military service over imprisonment; regardless of what was alluded in regards to her motivations by the prosecution, she was a Franc patriot. Now if only she could understand why her parents had been so concerned in asking about the crucifix pendant she'd worn all her life, and whether she was going to bring it with her to war...

How's this, @Mayto?

 

[Mayto]

As Soldiers of Franc, the Verdyn Chemical Engineers are very demanding in their cuisine, much to the chagrin of everyone who has to work with them. They insist that fresh produce be transported from Terra in frozen storage, and that the ships that will transports them during the Great Crusade, make special arrangements to transport the Cohort's specialized growth vats of domestic design that include, and are not limited to: Cybernetic cloned cow udders producing copious quantities of milk, Egg Replication machines able to create a steady stream of eggs, wheat-synthesizer, a synth-wine replication machine, and growth vats that grow full animals for butchery so they can be butchered into traditional cuts. With this comes a comprehensive field kitchen that is run by the Cohort members.

The Legate Marshals of the Franc Cohorts have ensured these changes go through by making their demands collectively, to the concern of some on the Imperial War Council, but according to hearsay, great amusement from Malcador the Sigilite.

To the particular disdain of the Jovians, the Franc officers corps regularly insist on bringing real cows and orchards with them on their interstellar expeditions, turning in-ship training areas into orchards and pasture, aquaponics, and requisitioning hydroponics bays for the growing of wheat and barley, and their own ration-repackaging systems. There is also the matter of the space taken up by the stations and staff whom process these foods, producing milk, butter, ice cream, and fresh baked bread.

To the chagrin of the Mechanicus, although the Franc have the technology to provide their troops with a simple but efficient nutrient paste, the Franc insist on instead creating inefficient ingredients they then use for inefficient cooking, and to add insult to injury, the Franc refuse to allow any servitors involved with the food preparation process, not even for serving the troops.

When confronted on his insistence on feeding his troops such complex meals, the Legate Marshal of the 1st Pars Cohort responded by saying that his troops would kill him if he gave them cloned Grox meat or nutrient paste. When asked then if this meant he could not control his men, and should subject them to decimation, he laughed before viciously scolding the Tech-Magos who suggested this. "I will shoot the first man who tries to feed my men grox or slop, you wretched bag of oil and sad failure!"

Attempts to appeal to the Franc Legislature to rein in their Legate Marshals led to a unanimous denouncement across the aisle, resulting in a letter signed by 118 of the 150 representatives of the Franc government, declaring that the nutritional needs of their troops were 'of paramount importance'. All but ten of the representatives who did not sign the petition to the Imperial Palace would lose their next election, of whom two were absent for the vote.

 

[SpicyAussie]

Stygian Warriors

The Battle of the Red Frost was armageddon writ small.

Clashing Demi-gods, the skies weeping blood and other, unknowable fluids between flashes of the Boreal glow, the immense power of The Emperor of Mankind against the Priest-King. One would be forgiven for thinking that Terra was beginning to crack with the immense force wielded by the combatants. The Gene-Abominations clashing against the Legio Cataegis, grim mirrors of each other, that truly showed the transhuman might that could be unleashed by those who would claim the cradle of man. The silent reapers of the Custodian Guard, whose simple armour, crowned by peaked helms of auramite, could barely contain the utterly superb frames they contained, their every movement marking death to the precognitive Witches of the Maulland Sen.

To view it from above, the blurs of these augmented, ultra-powerful combatants could barely be seen. Each clash of that golden sword sending blinding peals of thunder. Weapon discharges so loud that the peasantry of the Ritual-Hive of Sval thought that the Four Gods had come from the heavens. In an ancient time, it might have even been called Ragnarok.

But the overwhelming ferocity, the timeless legends, the archives filled with the records of this battle of Unification, always fail to account for something far more, yet far less, critical to the outcome of the Northern War.

When the Emperor went North, the First of His Ten Thousand beside Him, accompanied by the Thunder Legion, armies of mortal men marched alongside him.

The Cold Warfare specialists of the Terrawatt Clan, one of the first to raise the banner of the Aquila, had been raised amongst the mountains of the Rals, honed in the defensive wars that they had waged with the Sibr Tribes of Ursh. Though they were the serfs and warriors of the theologiteks, they did not suffer from the technological scavenging that many of Terra's tribes and nations were forced to contend with, the forge-spires of Mount Narodnaya providing their arms and armour. In the burgeoning Imperium, they were some of the most uniform, veteran forces that could be brought to bear, vac-sealed carapace being a common sign among the mortal forces of the Emperor of the importance of the campaigns they were present for. In their thousands, these Voguls had helped claim regions of high altitude and at latitudes that would kill many of even the most hardened gene-warriors crafted outside of the Emperor's own hand.

As such, when the forces of the Emperor marched north, twenty two regiments of the Voguls marched with them, the hovering personnel carriers that in a previous era were used for ferrying ore to the orbital refineries now transporting nearly a million soldiers, transhuman warriors striding through the packed snow like it was air beside them.



A stray bolt of light, one cast forth from the dying remains of the Witch who had assaulted their Contingent, the horrifically mutated woman looking more like an animated corpse than a living person, impacted the boulder that the vanguard squad was hiding behind and instantly caused a baleful wail to fill the air. By the time the world stopped spinning and the bile had gone down for Kapitan Dragovich, what remained of the twelve man unit had been reduced to frozen meat and blood, the icy slush formed underneath twisting unnaturally as it formed a symbol that seemed to draw his eye, turning and turning and turning-

He cut his gaze away, the former border guard raising the plasma pistol and firing it at the charging Berzerker, the fanatic's torso exploding as his left arm, shoulder and chest was vaporised by the ultra-heated hydrogen. That the axe-wielding maniac continued despite the fact his heart and the majority of his internal organs were currently a red haze settling on the snow was a sign of the biological prowess of the Nordyc Hives, the combat drugs inside the fanatic not letting the beast realise he was dead. One would expect that the extreme temperatures would've killed the mountainous man well before he had reached the Ralman, the auspex of his helmet informing him that the air was twenty degrees below the freezing point and dropping with every murderous word said by the Witches. But the walking corpse in front of him, despite being clad only in his combat scars and armoured loincloth, seemingly didn't care, raising up the wickedly carved axe as he pushed past one of his Voguls, sending his tribesman flying with a single muscle-bound arm.

The Kapitan needn't worry though, for seconds later a blur intercepted the gene-enhanced man.

Great plated bronze, the teeth-rattling whine of powered servos and above the plume of horse-hair that marked the Legion Cataegis, the Thunder Warrior cleaved the brute in half with one swing of his roaring chainsword. The gene-warrior paused for but a single moment, his maddened, bloodshot eyes casting across the men of the Terrawatt frontiers, the veins of his neck pulsing with garish black fluids. The animalistic growl, coming from a man that stood so much larger than him, sent the Kapitan's mind back to when he was a child, the Chief of his tribe being mauled by a Sibr Wolf before his father's Mag-lock pierced its brain. For a moment, he was about to order his men to open fire against the battle-mad giant, but the beast turned away, loping off back towards the front, great stride devouring the distance with ease.

Shaking himself, his armour uncompromised and his unit still retaining 90% combat effectiveness, Dragovich called his orders into the vox, the auspex reading out a new wave of incoming Nordyc irregulars..

"Reorientate! Okhotnik to aim northwards! Those Fanatics are making another push! For the Czar and the Rals!"

"URA!"

As the Volkite Culverin was aimed towards the human skin-clad rabble making their way towards them, sending out deadly heat-lances that flash-boiled the snow and flesh that it passed through, the men of the frontier clans began sending lasfire of neutron blue to support.

The battle had been going for nearly twelve hours at this point, with the Kapitan's Voguls having been pushed up after the loss of one of the regiments to a gene-abomination attack. The deadly hybrid, a singular beast that combined vicious reptilian might with the ferocious charge of a Mega-Elk, had some form of magiya about it, flames burning with purple light wiping away entire segments of the regiment, its copper scales impervious to the blows of lesser men. One of the Emperor's Raptors had personally put it down, pulling forth a blade that had caused headaches amongst his men, despite being leagues from the battle itself, the glowing green of it visible over the horizon.

The ice had turned into nothing more than a field of red, the constant death and carnage was playing tricks on the Kapitan's eyes, he could swear he was seeing hooved men striding through beams of light, long, slavering tongues drooling as they stared at him with eyes the colour of brimstone, calling his name, calling him to charge, to battle, to die-

A second sun bloomed on the horizon.

Golden rays of sheer power, the wind rushing outwards as Dragovich was sure that an atomic detonation had come from the middle of the Nordyc lines.

The warmth of the explosion was not burning though, the thick plates of his war-carapace should've made any sort of heat or cold impossible to reach his skin. It instead felt like the few summer days he'd experienced, when his tribe went south to trade with several of Ursh's more mercantile hives. A warmth that promised peace, prosperity, but also could be turned to scorching destruction in the blink of an eye.

Across from their lines, the few Witches began to screech, their features catching alight, their eyes melting out of their sockets as they collapsed.

Voices in the vox, proclaiming victory even as the last of the fanatics charged towards the Voguls.

Dragovich would remember the Battle of the Red Frost, though future scholars would dub it the Battle of Maullend Sen instead, for the rest of his life, as one of cold, light and endless, flowing blood.

Years later, as the first of the ships ascended to the stars, Colonel Dragovich of the 144th Terrawatt Mountaineers wondered if he would see similar sights in the wars to come.

He would be wrong. What he would see in Sol and the worlds to come over the Great Crusade would be far worse.


Notes: Inspired by a single, throw away line from the Battle of Malland Sen wiki page, just an interesting idea for a type of regiment we could run into in the future.

Mostly written because the Unification Wars are such a cool setting.

 

[Karlov]

Destruction of Irori Principiality

The Mercury Expedition was one of the early Imperium's campaigns with a Priority Maxima due to the integrity of the planet's Mercurian core mineral deposits, which were relatively easily accessible and well-stocked. Several Saturnian Auxilia cohorts were sent to support this campaign to ensure the safety of orbital antimatter production.

Simultaneously, limited forces from the XIII and VII Legions participated in the planetary assault alongside Terran Solar Auxilia units to secure the planet's surface and depths.

Early on, the main threats to this campaign were identified by Imperial Palace analysts, as well as the Sigillite Council that led them. Referring to the annals of the early Mechanicum campaigns and their attempts to invade the planet, they identified the void principality of Irori as the primary threat to the orbital phase of the operation. While this faction retained the sacred standards of human biology, they refused to bend the knee to the rightful Master of Mankind.

The VII Saturnine Rams took part in the assault on the continental platform in geostationary orbit of Mercury, housing the forces of the void principality and the main orbital lift to the planet's surface. Despite attempts to suppress the defences with artillery, there was no way to destroy them without risking damage to the structural integrity of the orbital platform, and so the VII Saturnine took part in a landing operation on the outer side of the continental platform, engaging the serfs of the princely family.

Volkite weaponry was the primary equipment for both sides, and both groups were clad in Saturnine void armour. However, the superior numbers of the Saturnine Auxilia ensured their victory until the forces of the void principality itself entered the fray, using the war machines of the Imperial Knights, adapted for operation in zero gravity. Despite the loss of most of the Armigers to the Continental Platform's inhabitants, they managed to crush most of the resistance until the Prince received a challenge to a duel from VII Legion Centurion Castorro.

Despite the obvious advantageous nature of the duel for the forces of the Imperium, Castorro accepted the challenge to a duel against the Astartes with blades without the use of his war machine. He managed to hold out for only six seconds against the Astartes before his resistance was broken. After this, his heir declared the immediate surrender of the Principality's forces.

At the end of this campaign, VII Legion Centurion Castorro received a commendation from the Legion Praetor for his initiative. The VII Saturnine Rams were decorated for their tenacity in battle, and later received additional equipment to combat heavily armoured vehicles. The Irori princely house was stripped of their titles and honours, their war machines were seized by the Mechanicum, but they were granted the title of Rogue Trader by the Emperor and were among the first to leave the Sol System.

 

[SpicyAussie]

Protean Aftermath

Pierre Mardon was a good soldier.

First, in the service of Franc during the Imperial Invasions.

Now, working for the Emperor as the Legate Marshall of His Auxilia.

And in that time, the man had ordered tens of thousands to grisly deaths, ensured that even in defeat his enemies wouldn't have victory and had become the pride of his nation again and again until he took his soldiers to the stars.

But such acts had taken their toll.

The scent of chemically sterilised oxygen was acrid in his lungs, a chill present that would be there for the rest of his extended lifespan. During the decade long conflict with the Imperials an errant burst of atomic warheads struck to the south of the position that his Verdyn Regiment had taken, alongside the ancient Rin Steel River Industrial Complex, causing the wind patterns to change. The muddy, chem-stained fields of Alsack, so inundated with chemicals and emitting gases that would burn through the environmental protections of even power-armoured forces, were now blowing right towards them.

Despite the fact that the bunker complex they were sheltering in was supposed to be self-contained, the chem-scrubbers filtering the dangerous outside air for the soldiers within, several had been made faulty by the relentless bombardment and assaults by Imperial artillery. While waiting for the nerve gas outside to move from lethal to simply manageable, the deadly toxin had snaked its way through the vents and turned the officer's bunker into a tomb. Surviving by dint of noticing the first coughs and being close to the emergency chemical warfare fatigues, Pierre was still exposed to an extremely high concentration of the nerve gas. His survival was deemed a miracle by the regimental doctors and the lack of maintenance a sign of 'perfidious traitors' to the propagandists of Pars, the then-Colonel was sure that his career was over.

However, his fame, his skill and his injury represented an opportunity to several of the more unscrupulous members of the nobility and merchants.

For the young (relatively given his meteoric rise through the ranks), orphan nobleman, having just been told he would be unlikely to walk or even breath unassisted for the rest of his life, the offer was too good to pass up.

The relic power armour he was emplaced within, a myriad of tubes and needles being inserted across his entire body as was so, was the prize. Little did he know it would eventually be his tomb.

The ancients were ever mercurial with their gifts.

The armour made his ruined lungs breathe, his ravaged kidney pump, even took over for his weakened heart. But it would not stop there. By the time of the surrender, his form had emaciated, his organs shrivelled to near-uselessness. Removing him from it would kill him. An ever-present reminder from his sponsors of what he would be without their largesse.

But it still gave him a chance to serve Franc and the Emperor.

From the shattered peaks of the Mid-Atlantik Hives to the rad-infested jungles of Hy Brasil, he would lead his Cohort to glorious victories, the Engineer forces under his control deploying everything from Chem-weapons to atomic rockets.

When Compliance was declared across the entirety of Terra, from the heights of the Himalazia to the cold, antarctic temple-fortress of Orioc, the General was a war hero, a legend of Franc. A sign of the nobility, prestige and history that Old Europa still claimed across the planet.

Legate Marshal Mardon used his influence well, making deals and gaining the favour of dozens of the nobility, ensuring that his troopers would be sent onto the Conquest of Sol with full equipment, the title of Auxilia and with enough of the sons and daughters of his countrymen to ensure there would be no 'mismanagement' of their deployments.

He had prided himself on making sure that his forces were well-equipped, well-led and well-fed, exactly what the soldiery of Franc should be even when they were fighting across the stars.

Stalking through the halls of the Verdyn Cohorts Troop-Barge (which still had the unfortunate name of B-1376A, from the Martian Shipyards as it was), the Legate Marshal had to stop himself from forcing his Adamantium fist through the toady, former-Ursh strategist's head as the fat lump stammered out his excuses.

"I-Imperial Intelligence assured me that the Cymoeba were a weaker force! They were quashed by the ancients! N-no one told me the moon was weaponized to that extent!" The man who was once of General Shang Khals cabal of plutocrats and industrialists tried to justify his failure.

"We deployed with the Revenant Legion, there were detachments of The First in orbit with us and the mission was to burn down the moon down to its bedrock and you claim that you did not know?!" Mardon growled out, feeling a flood of sedatives pour into his body from his armour, the cogitator of his cage not letting him grow too heated lest he undergo another heart attack. "You assured me this was a glorious deployment, do you understand the favours I had to exchange to ensure that the Cohort was deployed here? The battle accolades would put the Cohort on the path to the civilised Core worlds, now that prospect is in flux!"

Ragged puffs of breath made his oxygen mask turn opaque, ignoring the whimpering of the social officer he was forced to take on, if he was anyone else than he'd suffer a decompression accident, but promises had been made to several of the Industro-Barons of Cebu City. He would have to use those connections first before the 'strategist' could be disposed of.

His bodyguard unit, several of his former regiment who had risen high under him, were silent, the only sound the whine of the servos of their armour, each of them equipped with Chasseur armour, a priceless and unreplicable Powered Cuirass that cost him more than his family villa in Pars upper hive. Worth it to ensure that his person was kept safe from headhunter units and 'mysterious assassins'. If a lesser man was assigned to his Cohort than it would be disastrous for his nation.

Dismissing the waste of skin, the Legate Marshal entered his quarters on the troopship, his valet already in the process of preparing for the cleaning and restocking of his tomb-armour, brooding on the regiment.

35% casualties.

A miracle considering the sheer capabilities shown by that living hell-moon, the memory of reality quivering as whatever device The First implanted into the beast removing it from existence causing a spike in his blood pressure, a micro-stroke being dealt with by the nano-surgeons that his armour flooded his veins with. But with further opportunities for battle honours in Sol drying up, dealt with by the Emperor, the Astartes or other Cohorts, Mardon was forced to halt as fresh recruits were shuttled to the ship from Terra.

Looking through the stack of date-slates and reports that he had to attend to, the war hero contemplated on several of the positives of the short-lived battle.

Growing deeper ties with an Astartes Legion was a goal moving forward. While he would've preferred one of the…more refined Legions to attach his forces to, the Revenant Legion had no real focus on the political and strategic nature of interstellar combat. With any luck, he would be able to be embed himself as one of Legion Master Ishidur Ossuros most prized allies as they carried the Aquila across the stars. It was clear to see that the Emperor favoured these gene-warriors above the mundane human, with their place at the tip of the spear and near-independence in their strategic decision making. To have one of these powerful forces as an affiliate would mark great things for the Legate Marshal.

Looking down at one of the reports in Sector 42B, the man let out a grunt of amusement. Having a Sergeant of those cannibals rescue the young Sallas would bode well for their relations into the future.

His thoughts turned to Sallas in general. While in his youth he had looked down on the nouveau riche as nothing more than money-hungry merchants looking beyond their place, he had long since realised the reality of their importance to Franc. The task he had given to the Sub-Lieutenant had been completed, made simple by the danger that Proteus proved to be. One of several that his backers had asked him to deal with. The Chjandelmak scion was a simple victim of business, his family having chosen the wrong side during the last revolution and needing to be pruned for the good of the nation.

While he was one of a dozen young noblemen and women who had suffered unfortunate accidents on the field of battle, Sallas had at least ensured that the Veletaris had died with honour. Much unlike Lieutenant Petain, who had 'misfired' his plasma pistol into his own targets chest while they were still in the landing shuttle, far more difficult to conceal given the fact that Ensign Dubois' industrial magnate father still had connections with the newly formed Arbites.

Still, the Sallas family's aims were well connected with the Legate Marshal's own. Franc firearm and munitions factories cropping up across worlds across Segmentum Solar would funnel wealth and influence into the nation.

While serving the Emperor's aims of course.

Regardless, as his valet poured the first of his liquid meals into the armour's nutrient ports, Pierre Mardon whispered the words that had guided him since he had forced the bayonet into the ravaged Custodes heart.

"Viva La Franc."


Author Notes: Nationalism is a hell of a drug. Our Legate Marshal feels like he could be just a fascinating man, from fighting against the Imperium, to leading his forces in the name of it, now to taking the Aquila across the stars. Is he a genuine patriot? Or more just a man taking advantage of the opportunities given?