Drifting back to consciousness had been a miserable affair. There was no part of Celine now that did not ache. Her head, from the effects of fading Frenzon, leaving her feeling as though she'd spent a night indulging in intoxicants save for the nausea, rather than a few minutes of furious combat. Where before the haze of the combat drugs her breathing had been a laboured affair, the fragments of her ribs now made it an agony worse than she'd ever known before in life, only compounded by the movements needed to get up off the ground and back onto her feet. The sting of failure is mild in comparison to all of that, but it too lingers upon her mind. She had sworn herself to destroying that blasphemous image or dying in the attempt, and yet here she lingered, with her life and a broken flagstaff, but the tattered heretic banner had been recovered in the rout.
Still, Celine felt calm, in spite of all that. As though amidst all of that screaming and clashing of steel, she had found a measure of catharsis from the eruption of fury. The whispered prayer on her lips centered her, gave her something to focus upon that wasn't pain as she staggered off in search of a Medicae.
Although my body is broken,
Although my blood pours away,
Although my time may end,
The Immortal Emperor will greet me,
And embrace me with His holy aura,
If only I remain constant in Him,
Through this time of torment.
Albert grimaced as his body ached and throbed, he had taken a beating this last mission he would need get checked out. Working his way through the penal legionnaires and enforcers Wand looked for the nearest medic within the press of soldiers, looking for the opportunity to get healed from his wounds.
He didn't want to be fit for duty the next time he was pressed into action after all, how would penitence be attained then?
(Basically lookin to heal up with the platoon medic)
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.
...
-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.
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.
Jeradresh gave a weary laugh as the tank commander spoke up. They had done it. And without so much as a scratch upon the Last Rites: Their term in this dreadful legion wouldn't be extended.
By the grace of the Immortal Emperor, he was still alive, and still on track to escape the hellish service he'd found himself in. Of course, with how much the Emperor loved him it was as inevitable as the sun setting in the east, but...Jeradresh had to admit he'd been on enough worlds where the sun actually set in the west. He supposed, just as planetary rotation depended on where in the galaxy you were standing, Jeradresh's divine protection depended on his standing with Him upon the Throne. Those rocket troops could've ruined everything! The Last Rites had been too near of a thing for Jeradresh's comfort, and though it was evident the most holy Master of Mankind loved him, that didn't mean he should take his protection for granted.
Thanks were in order, a demonstration that, even if he was above the rest of the common fodder, he was still humble before the divine. Perhaps even a sacrifice. The Emperor did not call for blood in the same way his former, lamentable, masters did. Perhaps he could sacrifice some of his equipment to the other Legionnaires as a demonstration of his humility? That such would undoubtedly further ingratiate himself to his comrades was a secondary matter.
Jeradresh cursed himself as he searched for a field shrine. He should've collected his foeman's cognomen tags and given them unto His altar. The Emperor saw his most righteous slaughter, of course, but ritual was an indispensable aspect of the tie between the mortal and the divine. It was the same reason they heaped blood and skulls on the altars of Jeradresh's...older...patrons. Not, of course, that they compared at all to the blinding glory of the Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind.
"Praise be His name," Jeradresh muttered. Where was that field shrine? Or a priest, at least? He wasn't going to squat in the mud to pray, like a peasant.
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.
Cheri swears a bit as she reads over the dataslate, people pulled off to help elsewhere meant less expertise in her squad to keep them alive, she was starting to really get the hang of things now, but without a demo expert or someone to tell her what's what with the local situation, things were gonna get rougher fast, Hopefully someone else had picked up how the feth the satchel charges and grenades worked by now, but she was a bit more worried about commanding her squad.
@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."
She chuckles and rolls her eyes a bit, tossing Smoop an LHO stick as thanks, having saved a couple for later, but she shakes her head "I need to go find a Fething medic, I can feel my face aching from that last hit that blew my helmet to pieces" She touches the fresh wound on her face, a long cut going down from above her eye and down her cheek, having blissfully missed the eye itself. "Need to make sure Celine gets some med care too, plus, I'm the last one you want looking for shit, I can't find my keys 10 seconds after I put them down" She gives a lighthearted chuckle "I'm more likely to find us some enemies, then i am some edible food" She gives a soft shrug "though maybe if we had a corpse starch factory about, those could be the same thing"
After giving Smoop a pat on the shoulder, Cheri walked off to go find someone to patch up her wounds, she wasn't terribly injured, but she didn't want the cut to scar her beautiful face, she had a career to get back to if she survived this, though that's a big if.
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."
At the afternoon turns into evening, you pick among rubble and bodies and metallic soil for something, anything, better than your corpse starch rations.
Your Auspex isn't much help, both because all the metal in the soil, but also because setting to look for biomatter hardly helps. There's more than your share of corpses around. There's other scavengers about, figures in Penal Legion uniforms, other Imperial Guard from less scrupulous regiments, salvage teams, and dark figures in rags and hive leathers taking their fill from the iron carrion of battle.
Fortunately, you prove yourself quite skilled as scavenging, and quite lucky in equal measure.
An upended cart, smashed off it's wheels by some momentous impact and sheltered in a depression located in a good position overlooking a road. A half dozen corpses in hive robes and rebreathers, rot filtering up from their bodies, even as mess kits are scattered about at their feet.
You kick open the wagon and....score.
Field Kitchen. Complete with some supplies left in it and untouched by it's slaughtered staff and the squad eating at it. You pull cans out of it, checking the labels as you do. Recycled Protein and Vegetable soup base, fungi based biscuits, artificial capsaicin flavoring sauce, and a fruit energy bar ("Natural Ploin flavor!") for consumption in combat.
Good enough. Better than Corpse Starch bars. You shove it all into your pack, and your hand brushes something at the back of the field kitchen, a small box, secured to the interior of it's cargo compartment by a chain. You grab your combat knife and hack the chain off, grabbing your prize.
Thick, plastic packaging, with writing scrawled across it's top. "Natural Chocolate. For distribution prior to combat with the heretics invaders only!" You pry the package open, grabbing at a half dozen bars, and shove them into your pack. Yours now, and to dead heretics certainly.
You pause a moment, then, with nothing else here, bend down to scoop one of the dead Hive Militiaman's helmets off, and then turn back towards your platoon's camp.
(OOC: 4 DoS on untrained Survival
Obtained a decent meal for the whole squad. Chocolate Bars (Six total) can consumed in the field (Not in combat) for -1 Fatigue. They are also an excellent trading item. Also obtained a helmet for Cheri, but it's inferior (3 AP to standard issues' 4) and it is enemy gear. Whether to use it is up to you and @xjax1 )
Drifting back to consciousness had been a miserable affair. There was no part of Celine now that did not ache. Her head, from the effects of fading Frenzon, leaving her feeling as though she'd spent a night indulging in intoxicants save for the nausea, rather than a few minutes of furious combat. Where before the haze of the combat drugs her breathing had been a laboured affair, the fragments of her ribs now made it an agony worse than she'd ever known before in life, only compounded by the movements needed to get up off the ground and back onto her feet. The sting of failure is mild in comparison to all of that, but it too lingers upon her mind. She had sworn herself to destroying that blasphemous image or dying in the attempt, and yet here she lingered, with her life and a broken flagstaff, but the tattered heretic banner had been recovered in the rout.
Still, Celine felt calm, in spite of all that. As though amidst all of that screaming and clashing of steel, she had found a measure of catharsis from the eruption of fury. The whispered prayer on her lips centered her, gave her something to focus upon that wasn't pain as she staggered off in search of a Medicae.
Although my body is broken,
Although my blood pours away,
Although my time may end,
The Immortal Emperor will greet me,
And embrace me with His holy aura,
If only I remain constant in Him,
Through this time of torment.
After giving Smoop a pat on the shoulder, Cheri walked off to go find someone to patch up her wounds, she wasn't terribly injured, but she didn't want the cut to scar her beautiful face, she had a career to get back to if she survived this, though that's a big if.
Finding a Medicae isn't hard, it's the waiting in line.
Triage as a concept is one that's been drilled into Cheri, Albert, and Celine's heads, if only because they might be called upon to evacuate casualties themselves, but in addition to the standard protocols, it's hard not to see that one has to wait simply because they are worth less than other wounded.
A few officers and specialists first, injured tankmen, a Commissar with a severe arm wound, a techpriest with crimson blood joining crimson cloth, being worked on by a Medicae and a coterie of technomats both.
Then, regular Imperial Guard. A smattering of Hezean Mechanized infantry injured in the last push. A couple of white and gold armored Saban Highborn, a few Skitarii, whose red battle robes and stoicism both hide the blood well.
Then, finally, the Penal Legionaries, all but the most dire cases, left to wait for their betters.
A hour. Then two. Agony, Celine has to find somewhere to sit while she waits, finding it very difficult to breath. Another half hour that feels like half a year, and then finally the three Penals are called in to the expansive medicae tents that have been set up, defended both by the arrays of armor savaging the gates, and by trenches and flakboard walls surrounding it to catch shell splinters and sniper fire.
An orderly steps up as soon as both are inside, scanning Cheri and Celine.
"Wait here." He says to Cheri and Ablert, then ushers Celine deeper inside the tent. Another Medicae scan, this time with a large device that takes up half the torso of a Servitor, then another Medicae visually inspects the wound after gingerly helping Celine remove her armored vest. Her face remains impassive, but the way she constantly makes checks on a dataslate is hardly encouraging. She turns, and hands off the slate to a Chirurgeon, a masked man with a blood stained apron, two whirring cybernetic mechadendrite prostheses, and tired looking eyes.
"Severe blunt impact trauma to the lower abdomen, three fractured ribs, moderate internal bleeding." The Medicae says, as if this were another day at the spreadsheet manufactorum. "Suggest immediate sedation and Chirurgery."
The rest is a blur. A injection, laying down on a gurney, being rushed into a Chirurgery suite, and then darkness.
Cheri and Albert, for their part, after waiting another hour, receive fresh bandages, a scan for broken bones or internal bleeding, and after complaining a canteen and a single Morphia pill each. "Pain is righteousness entering the body." the Medicae says, bored, then boots both out for the next group of patients.
"Praise be His name," Jeradresh muttered. Where was that field shrine? Or a priest, at least? He wasn't going to squat in the mud to pray, like a peasant.
There is indeed a field shrine, carried on a heavy trailer fit for one of the Imperial Guard's heavy cargo trucks, though you can tell as you get closer they must've deemed the cargo to precious for a mere truck. A boxy, heavy wheeled APC stands in the metallic soil, the Symbols of the Emperor and his priesthood across it's side, and a horribly deadly looking gun turret manned by the same Enforcers who trail the Commissar everywhere.
Two more of those men guard the wagon, but they step aside for you as you step up to the shrine, and the portal matts and tarp laid out on the ground before it.
The Aquila, the fearsome two headed warbeast that signified the imperium, forged from gold, with high letters inset in silver. Many, in high gothic, which you haven't quite mastered yet (Though you're sure it won't take much compared to the Courtly language of Rakatir's kingdom). You trace your eyes down it, looking for one you recognize, when someone else recognizes you.
"I recognize you." The voice says, harsh, from behind you.
"Jerad Sophon." The voice sneers. "You dare much to come here, just like you dare much to take that name."
You turn. A priest, clad in heavy, armored robes. Vellum scrolls run down those robes, full of innumerable prayers and litanies, torn you understand, from the very holy books of the Imperial Creed. The mans' face, one eye a Cybernetic, glares at you in undisguised contempt, but perhaps more importantly is the Chainsword he holds in one hand, the teeth stained dull red.
"You shouldn't be here." The Priest repeats, as if you hadn't heard him the first time. "You shouldn't be wearing that uniform, and you shouldn't be fighting with the Emperor's weapons, besides the penitent. The taint of Paganism cannot be scrubbed from your soul by mere service."
Before you could stand up, perhaps to give this presumptuous commoner a piece of your mind, his blade licks out, towards your throat, and you go very still. His free hand grabs yours, and slams into into the shrine, hard. The Priest glares down at you, the chainsword starting to turn.
"Then again, the Emperor knows his own, Pagan." He nods at the shrine. "Read it!"
You frantically scan the shrine for a verse you remember from your brief lessons, and then the priest's chainsword inches closer to your throat. His hand grinds yours harder into the shrine, into some of the raised letters. "Read it." He grunts out again.
Resigned, you turn towards the passage you touch...and you have to make an effort of will to avoid screaming in relief.
"I swear to remain steadfast and true in my loyalty, and may the darkness claim my soul if I prove unworthy." You translate from the High Gothic, by instinct. This one had been drilled into you by your Inquisition interrogators, and it seemed appropriate. There was very real darkness ready to claim your soul, would not you had found another patron.
"Read it!" The Priest yells, but you're already calming reading the high gothic out, perfectly toned and pronounced. And then, as if to prove it is not just some fluke of Sorcery, you read it out again, this time in the low gothic.
A moment passes.
Then another.
The Chainsword is withdrawn. Footsteps, the door of the back of the APC are slammed shut.
You go back to your prayers.
(OOC: Reroll from Unshakable Faith turns 1 DoF into 4 DoS. +2 Rerolls to do what you will with)
After a brief time to rest, the remains of Squad 123-B are thrown back onto new duties.
Lieutenant Anselm hands Cheri a dataslate. "Trenches as indicated on the map. Munitorum standard, which is also on the slate. I know you can read, Pict Star, so no shallow digs, or skimping on the details." The Officer sourly states. After a moment to review the requirements and retrieve their entrenching tools, the Lieutenant snaps out "Get to it! There's half as many of you as there should be, so you'll do twice the work!"
Even getting to the location of such work is an exercise in nerves. Artillery shells slam down in the no man's land between the Imperial armor and the gates every second, and tracers snap back as forth as positions engage eachother and try to keep eachother suppressed. Rockets and missiles slash through the late afternoon air, aiming to hit the idling tanks, while active defense systems, fortified positions, suppression fire, and thick armor seeks to keep the armor strong enough to continue battering down the gates.
The squad is forced to keep low along a series of Gabions, flakboard panels, and sandbags, filled with the products of a group of penals sweating and digging out a communication trench along side the line of fortifications. None of them are armed or wearing flak jackets or helmets, and it's easy to the see the plasteel chains linking penal to penal. Some of them, aren't even wearing the ubiquitous penitential jumpsuits issued to such work details, but are wearing the remains of the heavy robes the locals wear, sullen with recent freedom. An Enforcer walks down the line, an electro whip snapping out from time to time, and a voice that is harsher shouting "Work!"
Somewhere, from out in the enemy side, a shot rings out. One of the Penal Laborers screams and goes down, her hand ending in a red horror of blood and bone. The Enforcer watches, glaring as the Penals try awkwardly to shuffle the wounded woman back, their chains getting in the way, doing nothing to help even as another round shatters off his helmet. "Medicae care comes out of your debt!" The Enforcer says, as finally, the Penals manage to drag the woman away. "Work!" The whip cracks down again.
Squad 123-B, and others of the fighting Penals, push forward away from that scene. The location indicated to fortify in a depression of rock and metal, and there is already a few Gabions and a shot up flakboard panel, but it is scant cover.
Still, it is what they have, and at least they have body armor. Entrenching tools kiss the earth, and then begin to sink in and remove soil and metal and stone, piling it up in empty Gabons and Sandbags, while digging out the beginning of a standard Munitorum trench design. Off to the sides, other Penal squads are taking up the same work, digging out the beginnings of trenches that will link up with theirs.
Two more figures come down the makeshift causeway of flakboard and sandbag, hurrying and keeping low, even as bullets and lasbeams deflect off the cover and try to kill them. Nearby, an autocannon position on the Imperial lines cranks over and sprays down part of the wall with a stream of tracers. A sergeant, Hezean shouts, "Go, go now!" and the two figures rush across no man's land towards the squad's makeshift construction site.
Replacements, Sergeant Cheri realizes, fed directly into the meatgrinder. If there was one thing the Penal Legion had a lot of, it was warm bodies.
A bullet deflects off a sandbag an inch from the Sergeant's head, and she ducks back down to her work. An awkward time for introductions, but really, when was it not in the legion?
That's all that she can think, all that Griseo can think of as she tries not to stumble while half-running, half-stumbling, barely crouching her way down the walkway. She wants to-needs to be let out of this-this can't be-it's not. The monosword feels so heavy on her hip, the las-pistol on the other-side fully loaded, she's never used a weapon in her life before all of this, nothing proper, nothing that her hive would call shimmered, shimmering. But her feet keep her moving, further and further, every day aboard that ship she'd felt like she would make it.
An occasional warm smile, a promise of protection or that they would look out for each-other. None of that had mattered, everyone she'd known in the-months? She thinks months aboard that ship for her had been scattered, reassigned and moved far away from her. The soot stains her skin, her face, her fingers, her everything and her hair is turning grey-her heart won't stop.
THUMP!
A bullet nearly hits her. "O immortal Emperor have mercy on us, miserable unworthies that we are." Where is my mercy? THUMP!
The heat on her skin, promising death. "O master of the galaxy, protect your flock from the alien." Why aren't you helping me? THUMP! "O keeper of the light, guide our darkened path with your radiance." My word's aren't being heard, are they?
The towering hive before them, she'd only been outside her own twice, but her home, her shrine, her sanctuary had the faintest hint of beauty outside of it left. A sparseness of trees, grey grass and a dying planet, but it'd been better then the bare rockcrete, then the Promethium lakes, then the e-everything. She can't breath, why is it so-her feet have taken her to the other's. Wild eyed, visibly trembling, she takes in everyone before her with an almost stunned expression, like she was back in that church, being yelled at, being told of her damnation, of her-her, she-she would make it out of this.
Her voice cracks as it comes out, tinted with a voice that leans towards a faint refinement-picked up through the countless mandatory sermons that any Imperial on her home, her shrine would hear within the mid-hives.
"By the Preserver, I've made it? This is...Squad, 123-B?"
The hope on her face is undeniable, the light way her face curves into a smile, skin soot covered, grey, chin a little angular and only strands of what might be blond amongst a sea of grey and whites. She's tall, maybe 6'2 or three even, but her pallor, the way she moves and the twitchiness of it all-tells of someone who's not in the best of health, sickly and stunted likely internally like so many hivers. Her lips are gnawed upon, marked up and faintly red from blood over the past few hours, days, weeks, months-she's really not sure anymore.
Only that she can't stop her voice from speaking, her hands from pressing against her flak, her eyes from watering, young, young and desperate.
"I-I'm Griseo, u-uh-which one of you is a-"
She checks her data-slate, sweat pouring off her, entrenchment tool taken up in her other hand.
"Sargent Cheri?"
Her eyes scan over the group, over the Corporal Jerod with his features that she pays no mind, over Nyla who's demeanor reminds her faintly of herself. Albert with his strength, his heavy weapons seems a comfort.
"I'll-be with all of you for the...foreseeable future, it'll...it'll be nice when we all get out of here."
A tiny smile still holding onto hope, desperate delusional Hope.
There is indeed a field shrine, carried on a heavy trailer fit for one of the Imperial Guard's heavy cargo trucks, though you can tell as you get closer they must've deemed the cargo to precious for a mere truck. A boxy, heavy wheeled APC stands in the metallic soil, the Symbols of the Emperor and his priesthood across it's side, and a horribly deadly looking gun turret manned by the same Enforcers who trail the Commissar everywhere.
Two more of those men guard the wagon, but they step aside for you as you step up to the shrine, and the portal matts and tarp laid out on the ground before it.
The Aquila, the fearsome two headed warbeast that signified the imperium, forged from gold, with high letters inset in silver. Many, in high gothic, which you haven't quite mastered yet (Though you're sure it won't take much compared to the Courtly language of Rakatir's kingdom). You trace your eyes down it, looking for one you recognize, when someone else recognizes you.
"I recognize you." The voice says, harsh, from behind you.
"Jerad Sophon." The voice sneers. "You dare much to come here, just like you dare much to take that name."
You turn. A priest, clad in heavy, armored robes. Vellum scrolls run down those robes, full of innumerable prayers and litanies, torn you understand, from the very holy books of the Imperial Creed. The mans' face, one eye a Cybernetic, glares at you in undisguised contempt, but perhaps more importantly is the Chainsword he holds in one hand, the teeth stained dull red.
"You shouldn't be here." The Priest repeats, as if you hadn't heard him the first time. "You shouldn't be wearing that uniform, and you shouldn't be fighting with the Emperor's weapons, besides the penitent. The taint of Paganism cannot be scrubbed from your soul by mere service."
Before you could stand up, perhaps to give this presumptuous commoner a piece of your mind, his blade licks out, towards your throat, and you go very still. His free hand grabs yours, and slams into into the shrine, hard. The Priest glares down at you, the chainsword starting to turn.
"Then again, the Emperor knows his own, Pagan." He nods at the shrine. "Read it!"
You frantically scan the shrine for a verse you remember from your brief lessons, and then the priest's chainsword inches closer to your throat. His hand grinds yours harder into the shrine, into some of the raised letters. "Read it." He grunts out again.
Resigned, you turn towards the passage you touch...and you have to make an effort of will to avoid screaming in relief.
"I swear to remain steadfast and true in my loyalty, and may the darkness claim my soul if I prove unworthy." You translate from the High Gothic, by instinct. This one had been drilled into you by your Inquisition interrogators, and it seemed appropriate. There was very real darkness ready to claim your soul, would not you had found another patron.
"Read it!" The Priest yells, but you're already calming reading the high gothic out, perfectly toned and pronounced. And then, as if to prove it is not just some fluke of Sorcery, you read it out again, this time in the low gothic.
A moment passes.
Then another.
The Chainsword is withdrawn. Footsteps, the door of the back of the APC are slammed shut.
You go back to your prayers.
(OOC: Reroll from Unshakable Faith turns 1 DoF into 4 DoS. +2 Rerolls to do what you will with)
Jeradresh stood stock still, his heart beating so hard it felt like a hammer trying to smash its way out of his chest. His instincts screamed at him to pull away as he felt the Adamantium edges of the chainsword press against his neck, the slightest caress of those teeth opening leaving stinging cuts across his skin.
A chainsword was an ugly thing. Jeradresh had known many sword-poets to speak highly of their blades, ascribing all manner of high minded ideals to them of honour, glory, and valor. Jeradresh had seen enough of them to know that they were all lies. Chainswords existed for one and only one purpose, and that was ugly death. One thrust of that whirling blade, and Jeradresh's head would be sawed from his shoulders.
And yet, as sweat beaded down his skin, as images of the eviscerated cadavers he had borne witness to flashed through his mind, Jeradresh looked straight ahead. His eyes locked with the priest's dead on, and did not flinch away even when the hungry howl of the blade echoed in his ears.
Who was this priest to judge him? He who was born in the Emperor's light, who had never dwelled in the dark places of the galaxy. Who was he to think himself more righteous, when he had never been tested as Jeradresh had? He who had never been truly tempted, never lived in a place where the ruinous powers held sway?
"I swear to remain steadfast and true in my loyalty, and may the darkness claim my soul if I prove unworthy." Again and again he said it, only growing more resolute and contemptuous with every word. It was his armour of contempt, and it was proof against even the sharpest blade. There was darkness out there, Jeradresh knew, and this priest would never truly understand what it meant to deny it.
He was a pagan, an infidel, a heretic, and a servant of the ruinous powers. But more than all of that, Jeradresh knew, he was redeemed. By service, by blood, and by the Emperor's love.
When the APC slammed shut, Jeradresh gave one last withering look at the doors, and turned back toward the shrine. He knelt, hands awkwardly clasped in the shape of the aquila, and he began to pray.
Two more figures come down the makeshift causeway of flakboard and sandbag, hurrying and keeping low, even as bullets and lasbeams deflect off the cover and try to kill them. Nearby, an autocannon position on the Imperial lines cranks over and sprays down part of the wall with a stream of tracers. A sergeant, Hezean shouts, "Go, go now!" and the two figures rush across no man's land towards the squad's makeshift construction site.
Replacements, Sergeant Cheri realizes, fed directly into the meatgrinder. If there was one thing the Penal Legion had a lot of, it was warm bodies.
A bullet deflects off a sandbag an inch from the Sergeant's head, and she ducks back down to her work. An awkward time for introductions, but really, when was it not in the legion?
"By the Preserver, I've made it? This is...Squad, 123-B?"
The hope on her face is undeniable, the light way her face curves into a smile, skin soot covered, grey, chin a little angular and only strands of what might be blond amongst a sea of grey and whites. She's tall, maybe 6'2 or three even, but her pallor, the way she moves and the twitchiness of it all-tells of someone who's not in the best of health, sickly and stunted likely internally like so many hivers. Her lips are gnawed upon, marked up and faintly red from blood over the past few hours, days, weeks, months-she's really not sure anymore.
Only that she can't stop her voice from speaking, her hands from pressing against her flak, her eyes from watering, young, young and desperate.
"I-I'm Griseo, u-uh-which one of you is a-"
She checks her data-slate, sweat pouring off her, entrenchment tool taken up in her other hand.
"Sargent Cheri?"
Her eyes scan over the group, over the Corporal Jerod with his features that she pays no mind, over Nyla who's demeanor reminds her faintly of herself. Albert with his strength, his heavy weapons seems a comfort.
"I'll-be with all of you for the...foreseeable future, it'll...it'll be nice when we all get out of here."
A tiny smile still holding onto hope, desperate delusional Hope.
"And i would be Holmgaard" he says with a smile (its important to smile!) as his eyes glance quickly glance over the various members of their little party.
Theres a brief pause before he adds "I look forward to working with you all!"
Jeradresh did his best to hold himself up with refinement and poise. Under the circumstances of being shot at while digging in the mud, his uniform coated with dirt and blood, he did better than might be expected. He was not a tall man, and the way he kept his chin high even as he hunched over in the mud was almost comical, but nonetheless, he had presence. Bloodshot eyes glared imperiously at the newcomers for a moment before softening, a genteel smile gracing his lips.
Jeradresh gave a stiff bow. "Hail and salutations, my comrades! You must be our replacements? I am Corporal Jerad Sophon, second in command of 123-B. You are in the right place." He spoke with a thick, lilting accent but each syllable was carefully spoken with care and precision. His enunciation was curiously perfect, affected in the same manner of the highest ranking officers in the Guard.
"Griseo, Holmgaard, yes? You have shovels? Then come, help us dig!" The corporal said, digging his entrenchment tool into the mud and flinching as a bullet skipped past overhead. "I too look forward to seeing my trial of ordeal over with myself, but for the moment, let us focus on making sure we get there in one piece, no? I am glad you look forward to working with us, Holmgaard, because we have a great deal to do! And the sooner we have it done, the less we get shot at!"
He sucked in a breath as he tossed a shovelful of dirt onto the pile. "It is not so bad, really. I try not to think of it as working in the dirt like peasants, but to my time doing archaeological digs back home. Admittedly I am finding more broken alcohol bottles than relics of ancient civilizations, but..." Jeradresh paused, shaking his head. "Perhaps some conversation will make this seem a little less arduous. What brings you to the Penal Legions? I myself am not here not for a crime, but to prove my innocence through ordeal. You may say I am a pagan, who converted to the Creed. I volunteered for this, as a proof of my-"
Something exploded nearby, the corporal's words drowned out by the roar. Dirt rained down from the skies, pattering against his shoulders and helmet. "...Proof of my piety," Jeradresh finished with a sigh. "I am never going to get clean after this..."
Two more figures come down the makeshift causeway of flakboard and sandbag, hurrying and keeping low, even as bullets and lasbeams deflect off the cover and try to kill them. Nearby, an autocannon position on the Imperial lines cranks over and sprays down part of the wall with a stream of tracers. A sergeant, Hezean shouts, "Go, go now!" and the two figures rush across no man's land towards the squad's makeshift construction site.
It was quite a beautiful day all things considered.
Holmgaard had only really seen the sky a grand total of 6 times in his years of life, all of them only coming after he had been sent to the Penal legion. Living within the very bottom of a hive-city made the very notion of ever seeing that awe inspiring seemingly never ending expanse of nothing a bit of a fairy tale.
Even the dull orange-yellow haze of smog and fumes that filled this particular sky sent his very heart fluttering with an almost indescribable feeling of joy. He truly was blessed to be here.
THUMP!
A bullet nearly hits her. "O immortal Emperor have mercy on us, miserable unworthies that we are."
Where is my mercy? THUMP!
The heat on her skin, promising death. "O master of the galaxy, protect your flock from the alien."
Why aren't you helping me? THUMP! "O keeper of the light, guide our darkened path with your radiance."
My word's aren't being heard, are they?
A bullet almost struck his fellow conscripts head as they ran through the enemy fire towards... well he wasn't really sure where Squad 123-B was exactly, but somewhere in the direction they were running towards!
The Monosword was tight in his grip as he hastily shuffled forwards in a weird crouch-like run, keeping his head down and as out of sight as possble. It's weight was very well balanced. Much better than the more makeshift weaponry he had previously been using all things considered, though to be fair he made the best use out of what he had at the time.
A great roar of an auto-cannon sounds out as they run forward towards a trench in the process of being built. Holmgaards wirey and thin frame, common among the very bottom of a hive city works to his advantage here.
After what seems like minutes, but must only have been seconds, they jump down into the pit
She checks her data-slate, sweat pouring off her, entrenchment tool taken up in her other hand.
"Sargent Cheri?"
Her eyes scan over the group, over the Corporal Jerod with his features that she pays no mind, over Nyla who's demeanor reminds her faintly of herself. Albert with his strength, his heavy weapons seems a comfort.
"I'll-be with all of you for the...foreseeable future, it'll...it'll be nice when we all get out of here."
"And i would be Holmgaard" he says with a smile (its important to smile!) as his eyes glance quickly glance over the various members of their little party.
Theres a brief pause before he adds "I look forward to working with you all!"
Obtained a decent meal for the whole squad. Chocolate Bars (Six total) can consumed in the field (Not in combat) for -1 Fatigue. They are also an excellent trading item. Also obtained a helmet for Cheri, but it's inferior (3 AP to standard issues' 4) and it is enemy gear. Whether to use it is up to you and @xjax1
(OOC: Dont think using enemy gear is a great idea, if only for IFF issues, not to mention potentially being executed by a commissar for using heretical artifacts. However, it's still a helmet, could I take it apart during some downtime to use for a patch job on my helmet? so I have some extra (if flimsy) protection and don't get shot by a commissar/other zealous officer)
Cheri chuckles as she ducks down, paying no mind to the bullet that had impacted barely an inch from her face, hardly even flinching, having developed somewhat of a tolerance for being shot at, if such a thing was possible. She stepped forwards and took both of their hands, giving each a shake before planting her entrenching tool in the dirt and leaning against it. "That would be me, yes I'm the Seargent of this unit, Welcome to 123-B, probably one of the better squads, If I do say so myself, shockingly low casualty rate for a Penal unit" she commented as she took the brief pause to light up one of her last LHO sticks, taking a buff and sighing before she grabbed her entrenching tool once again "But that's enough Chitchat, Command wants this trench dug fast, and were just happy to have some extra help" She planted her shovel in the dirt and began digging again, directing the other two where to help out, generally trying to help the work go faster by coordinating the group's efforts in digging, wanting to appease Command, happy higherups meant fewer death sentences and more support.
(Possibly Command or Charm to help coordinate the group to move us faster, alongside Jerads command?)
He sucked in a breath as he tossed a shovelful of dirt onto the pile. "It is not so bad, really. I try not to think of it as working in the dirt like peasants, but to my time doing archaeological digs back home. Admittedly I am finding more broken alcohol bottles than relics of ancient civilizations, but..." Jeradresh paused, shaking his head. "Perhaps some conversation will make this seem a little less arduous. What brings you to the Penal Legions? I myself am not here not for a crime, but to prove my innocence through ordeal. You may say I am a pagan, who converted to the Creed. I volunteered for this, as a proof of my-"
Something exploded nearby, the corporal's words drowned out by the roar. Dirt rained down from the skies, pattering against his shoulders and helmet. "...Proof of my piety," Jeradresh finished with a sigh. "I am never going to get clean after this..."
She chuckles as she works along side the 2IC, grimacing softly as dirt rains down and gets into her hair, which was only mildly protected by her busted helmet. "Could be worse, eh? that explosion could have been in our trench, rather than to the left of it" she scooped another shovelful of dirt, her hands feeling like they were blistering already, but she did her best to ignore the sting in her hands and ache in her muscles as she dug "Have to look on the bright side of things, we've seen entire squads of penals been wiped out, but we've only lost 2 men to death and 1 to injury, the rest were just transfers, so I think we've been doing pretty well! I bet there are guard units with worse rates than that on planet right now" She laughed a bit but made sure to keep that last bit about the guard quiet, just in case, humour was all well and good in the gallows, but you don't want the executioner sending you off early for a bad joke.
Her eyes scan over the group, over the Corporal Jerod with his features that she pays no mind, over Nyla who's demeanor reminds her faintly of herself. Albert with his strength, his heavy weapons seems a comfort.
"I'll-be with all of you for the...foreseeable future, it'll...it'll be nice when we all get out of here."
A tiny smile still holding onto hope, desperate delusional Hope.
Smoop gave the tall girl a small smile of her own. "Good to have you, sweetheart," she said. "Although I don't foresee much of a future, what with the assault on the Gates coming soon."
Her hands hadn't stopped moving. Digging in was good. It kept you safe. Or at least it kept you from thinking too much about not being safe at all.
"Nyla Smoop," she added. "I'm in for attempted murder of an Administorum official. When we start moving I'm the Auspex operator. That means when I tell you to get down, you get down. Or your head gets blown off. All right? Now get digging."
"That would be me, yes I'm the Seargent of this unit, Welcome to 123-B, probably one of the better squads, If I do say so myself, shockingly low casualty rate for a Penal unit" she commented as she took the brief pause to light up one of her last LHO sticks, taking a buff and sighing before she grabbed her entrenching tool once again "But that's enough Chitchat, Command wants this trench dug fast, and were just happy to have some extra help" She planted her shovel in the dirt and began digging again, directing the other two where to help out, generally trying to help the work go faster by coordinating the group's efforts in digging, wanting to appease Command, happy higherups meant fewer death sentences and more support.
Holmgaard snaps into a badly mangled salute, before taking out his shovel (Sharp if chipped edge, heavy sturdy head, good for bashing heads in, could be used to kill any number of people), and starts to dig with a bit of vigor through the odd mixture of earth and debris.
His lithe frame, mostly hidden by the armor he wears, seems to tighten up in an almost springlike fashion as a core of thin but hardy muscle, cultivated by a lifetime of malnutrition and Hive hardships appears across his scarred body. He has to stop a few times to get his hair out of the way before continuing to dig, at his sergeants direction.
This work at least comes easy. The work is hard but easy, and it hopefully won't become too repetitive with all these interesting compatriots that he's found himself with.
As the topic of their "enlistment" pops up however, Holmgaard simply smiles (its important to smile!) and listens with half an ear as Jared describes his mission of piousness.
"How interesting! I myself a-"
"Nyla Smoop," she added. "I'm in for attempted murder of an Administorum official. When we start moving I'm the Auspex operator. That means when I tell you to get down, you get down. Or your head gets blown off. All right? Now get digging."
"Attempted murder?" he says, suddenly switching tracks, as he gets a bit more excited. "What weapon were you using? And what was your plan?" This Nyla Smoop is an honest to the God Emperor assassin (Competition? Compare notes?). How interesting!
"Attempted murder?" he says, suddenly switching tracks, as he gets a bit more excited. "What weapon were you using? And what was your plan?" This Nyla Smoop is an honest to the God Emperor assassin (Competition? Compare notes?). How interesting!
"Well, uh... I was carving a Grox leg at the table and this middle manager grabbed my behind. I was so shocked I threw my carving knife at him. The next thing I knew, I had this - " she pointed at the burn scar across her jaw " - and a ticket to Rorscha Mundi. Not very exciting, I know."
She peered cautiously at the new arrival. She hoped he would accept her story, but she had an odd feeling he wasn't going to want the unglamorous truth....
Her eyes scan over the group, over the Corporal Jerod with his features that she pays no mind, over Nyla who's demeanor reminds her faintly of herself. Albert with his strength, his heavy weapons seems a comfort.
"I'll-be with all of you for the...foreseeable future, it'll...it'll be nice when we all get out of here."
A tiny smile still holding onto hope, desperate delusional Hope.
Albert looked up from where he was fiddling with his entrenchment tool to try and get it locked into position to look at the new arrivals. A light smile remains on his face as he nods to them before saying, "It's good ta' have you, we'll be relying on each other for the next bit so I hope you know how to use those weapons of yours!" He was happy to get new squad members, hoping they wouldn't die or be transferred out like the others. As he speaks he also finally remembers how to lock the entrenching tool
"But that's enough Chitchat, Command wants this trench dug fast, and were just happy to have some extra help" She planted her shovel in the dirt and began digging again, directing the other two where to help out, generally trying to help the work go faster by coordinating the group's efforts in digging, wanting to appease Command, happy higherups meant fewer death sentences and more support.
Still, with his smile and entrenchment tool now locked into place, Albert moves to start digging where he was told to, he would prefer getting this done as soon as possible so that he has cover for his stubber without having to lay prone. Plus if he can get into cover then Albert can put down his backpack for once, he might be big but that certainly only helps so much when he's carrying so much ammo on his back.
"Well, uh... I was carving a Grox leg at the table and this middle manager grabbed my behind. I was so shocked I threw my carving knife at him. The next thing I knew, I had this - " she pointed at the burn scar across her jaw " - and a ticket to Rorscha Mundi. Not very exciting, I know."
She peered cautiously at the new arrival. She hoped he would accept her story, but she had an odd feeling he wasn't going to want the unglamorous truth....
A bit of the interest dies down in Holmgaard as the rather generic reason is presented (How boring, could be a lie though)
"Ah well. An unfortunate accident." He pauses his as if unsure how to continue before saying "As for myself, well it was simply a dreadful misunderstanding between me and the local Arbites. I was framed you see! They simply had the wrong guy."
A clod of dirt flies in a lazy arc and lands on his helmet as he gives the shovel just a BIT too much heft while smiling at Smoop (It's important to smile!).
"I will say though, we are making rather good progress on this trench!"
(OOC: @greendoor holmgaard is going to lie about his reason for enlistment. if anyone actually cares enough about it to look deeper into it i mean.)
Digging a trench under fire is hardly anyone's idea of a good time.
Lasbolts fuse dirt into glass, bullet send tufts of dirt flying, and high explosive shells impact all around, leaving all the sound in the world to be a constant ringing. The soil is hard and metallic, forcing one to put their back into the entrenching tool in order to even get the small spade full of dirt to empty out into a gabion or sandbag.
Even worse is centuries of accumulated debris and trash. A burnt out of hunk of metal that has to be excavated with entrenching tools, then bodily hauled out of the trench and into no man's land. Smaller pieces of metal that must be dug out by hand, but at least are small enough to throw into the gabions shielding you.
It's exhausting, painful, degrading work. Uniforms are stained with dirt and debris. The equipment is subpar, lowest bidder equipment more suited for servitors and helots. The worksite is loud and open, and sweating penals are forced to stoop low and curse their luck as a sudden hail of acid rain comes down, and then continue to work, in some cases up to the top of their boots in polluted not-quite-water.
The danger is obvious, and it seems lucky that nobody is shot during the work. Or at least, nobody from their squad. Halfway through wrestling some gabions down into position to serve as reinforcements on the trench walls, a detonation and a scream from above, and a ragged corpse in a Penal Laborer's jumpsuit is flung into the trench, landing face down in the polluted muck, and splashing blood onto Jerad's boots. Another five minutes wasted removing the corpse and shoving it far enough way to not stink up the trench.
Still, twelve determined hands, and six straining spines, manage to dig out the trench to expectations, within three hours. The filled gabions and sandbags are added to the sides of the trench wall, both to create reinforced observation and firing positions, and also to shore up the walls of the trench against collapse. Flakboard, passed up the line of penal laborers towards the squad's position, are used to fill in the "Floor" of the trench, and to create overhangs sheltered from plunging fire and overhead debris.
The squad's trenches meet others. To the east, much of the rest of the platoon is still struggling in the dirt on the finishing touches of their sections of trench, assisted by Labor Helots. A shell lands nearby, sending part of the trench wall collapsing to a chorus of curses.
To the west, Squad 123-C, has dug their trench in similar time, the strong backs of laborers and penitents carving defensive positions from the soil. Their Sergeant, the burly man called Colm, actually heads over to shake Cheri's hand and congratulate the squad on their success.
"Nothing like a bit of hard work, eh?" Colm says. "Second best thing to killing some heretics."
Some people are just built different.
(OOC: Bare success in digging out your trench on time. You needed 10 total DoS, and you got that, barely (Cheri's inspire helped a lot), so you won't be taking any fatigue (Or rather, any that'd persist past your rest))
It is only several hours later that the squad is allowed to rest.
As if in some form of twisted quality control, as night closes in on the entrenchments before the gates, the forward most Penal Legions are not allowed to leave their completed positions. Even the discharged from hospitals are sent forward, and Celine, still pumped full of morphia, has to stumble through cover and trenches to get to the squad's position.
As Lieutenant Ansalm had put it "If you did your job, then you should have no issue resting here."
True perhaps in the most strictly literal sense, though one could still find many things to complain about. The incessant shooting back and forth. The rocking of the earth from artillery duels. Even with some extra time to carve out a crude dugout (Simply widening and deepening an existing communications trench, then laying flakboard and packed earth over the top to create a "roof"), the ground is cold and rocky, and the penals are afforded no comforts that do not come from their own packs.
For most, that would be nothing but reheated corpse starch ration packs, bland, flavorless, and (supposedly) nutritionally complete. Fortunately for Squad 123-B, they have something a bit more.
Rehydrated protein and vegetable stew, with artificial capsaicin flavoring, and fungi based hard biscuits for consumption with the stew. The recycled protein "meat" is fairly chewy, and none can place it's flavor, while the vegetables are bland and clearly artificially produced, either by vat production or vertical factory farming. The biscuits are surprisingly decent, with a slight sweet taste, and going well when soaked in the hot stew. The 'Flavoring' comes in the form of packets of sauce that gives the bland stew some heat, though it tastes more chemical than spice.
It is quintessential Hiver Food, and when the alternative is corpse starch, it is practically the feasting tables of Terra itself.
(OOC: Bonuses from an actual meal already included in Squad Status.)
As the squad finishes up their meal, there is still a few an hour or three before someone would need to sleep. No doubt the Legion will work them hard on the morrow, but a thin blanket and a pack as a pillow isn't exactly a siren song.
A few possibilities present themselves as to how one might spend their next few hours.
The rest of the platoon is still around, crowded into their own dugouts and overhangs, enjoying what few hours of rest they have before the next bloodbath. O'Garan's squad seems to be singing a variety of work songs and hymnals for the entertainment of much of the rest of the platoon, using the relative open space of a spiderweb intersection of trenches. Entertainment is good for the soul, some say (and some say it rots the soul, but who asked them?). Colm's squad, on the periphery of the listening penals, seem to be passing around a few bottles of what looks like amasec, even sharing with others. Trading some scraps of one's better meal for a drink of liquid courage might well be tempting right now.
On the other hand, the Penals aren't the only ones occupying these trenches. To the platoon's west, a group of men and women had bedded down. Gaunt forms in urban camouflage, with rebreathers, totems and charms made from scraps of metal, and weapons suited for close quarters combat. RMCSDF soldiers, and ones that Commissar Shrake had to sternly inform the Penals sharing a trench with them, are "Local allies, loyalists, unlike the heretics you have already battled."
Whatever their loyalties, the RMCSDF soldiers haven't caused trouble, and it's hard not to notice members of the platoon heading over to their side of the trench. Only slightly harder to not notice equipment changing hands, trades going on. Loot stolen from a civilian home exchanged for the (marginally) better rations of the locals. Ammunition traded for alcohol, knives, charms, and small bits of kit. One penal from 123-E even walks back to her trench, a camo cloak about her shoulders, but bereft of her issued bayonet.
Even if one were not inclined towards trade, it might be useful to speak with locals, and get their perspective on this campaign. It's hard to be even more of a mushroom than a Penal Legionnaire, after all.
Finally, one could simply while away the time themselves, or else try and catch some extra shuteye in preparation for the "Big Day" tomorrow (Or the day after, or a week, estimates vary).
Whatever the choice, it had best not be wasted. It might well be the last night one has, after all.
(OOC: This was supposed to be Monday but life caught up to me. But hey, less than a week. Still pretty fast by PbP standards)
After a while of eating and idly chatting with her group, Cheri took notice of the people trading with the locals, glancing at Smoop (@Kensai) and giving a chuckle "Heard you got some good shit in your scavenging run, wanna go see if we can get some shit from the locals? might as well try to make it out of the bloody gates alive," She commented as she chuckles, "I'll do the talking, it's what I'm good at, but you can choose what you wanna try to grab" She smiles softly as she tries her best to be more or less happy, though she could feel the stress of judgement day approaching, and the reaper looming closer.
(OOC: a bit of a nothing post, but I'm gonna talk to the locals and gather any info I can using charm, as well as use charm on behalf of Smoop to help them trade for what they want using their chocolates (if they wanna trade them))
Ducking down into the dugout of her squad, Celine slumped down into a seated position, a curious dull sensation twinging through the haze of morphia at where she'd seen the Chirurgeon's marks left on her as she dressed after the surgery. Perhaps it had been a wholly vain hope, but she was saddened at the unavoidable damage that had been left on the recreation of the Mural of Saint Sophon, as though the temple wall itself had been broken apart and pulled back together by crude girders, which on her body were represented by sutures. It would be a delicate bit of work once she was free to return to rebuilding her life, applying the inks to restore the damaged patches on her hide. She wondered if old Heirike still maintained his workshop, he'd surely be capable of it.
(@xjax1) "Reporting for duty, Sergeant. Apologies for tarrying, the Chirurgeon blessedly chose to be thorough in the care provided. As soon as..." her words slowed to a still, as she had to blink her eyes back to focus, feelings of drowsiness not helped along by how the air felt like it was caressing her like newly-spun cloth, "As soon as the, mhmm, morphia's run its course, I'll be fit for fighting again."
(@Svend, @AbstractTraitor) Swiveling her gaze about the dugout, her eyes settled on the unfamiliar faces in the squad. "Ah, you would the newcomers, new transfers? Terribly sorry for not being here to greet you when you arrived," her eyes briefly panned out to look at the dugout itself, and the trenches outside, "or to help with the digging. Celine Lanate. My name, that is. And you two are...?"
"Griseo, Holmgaard, yes? You have shovels? Then come, help us dig!" The corporal said, digging his entrenchment tool into the mud and flinching as a bullet skipped past overhead. "I too look forward to seeing my trial of ordeal over with myself, but for the moment, let us focus on making sure we get there in one piece, no? I am glad you look forward to working with us, Holmgaard, because we have a great deal to do! And the sooner we have it done, the less we get shot at!"
He sucked in a breath as he tossed a shovelful of dirt onto the pile. "It is not so bad, really. I try not to think of it as working in the dirt like peasants, but to my time doing archaeological digs back home. Admittedly I am finding more broken alcohol bottles than relics of ancient civilizations, but..." Jeradresh paused, shaking his head. "Perhaps some conversation will make this seem a little less arduous. What brings you to the Penal Legions? I myself am not here not for a crime, but to prove my innocence through ordeal. You may say I am a pagan, who converted to the Creed. I volunteered for this, as a proof of my-"
Something exploded nearby, the corporal's words drowned out by the roar. Dirt rained down from the skies, pattering against his shoulders and helmet. "...Proof of my piety," Jeradresh finished with a sigh. "I am never going to get clean after this..."
A tiny smile still holding onto that faint, delusional hope fades from her lips just as quickly as it appeared. Teeth flash biting down on them-she can't-she does not want to go back there-want. Twitching before the corporal-before it forces itself on out, wanting, needing, desperately just wanting someone to understand!
"I'm-I-I...littered, something fell from my pocket, o-onto, at worship-I was going to pick it up, but everyone, it's everyone saw, but..."
Frustration seeps through as sweat drips down, the constant rattling & the sound of shovels digging away, working away. Skin soot covered & grey, she's gotten to work, the press down, the press of a foot, a thick heave before the last words are forced on out of her. Voice cracking every step of the way, as a litterbug-as a young girl vents her words out, what she's known to always be true-IS TRUE!
"It wasn't my fault."
The words come from her & her teeth gnaw down, grinding, spilling little rivulets of blood as eyes try to focus down upon the shovel-work, upon the sting, the discomfort, the pain that rings through her arms. Dirt reigning down upon her, upon her flack with a visible flinch as it gathers within stressed locks, suffocating her-she felt like the trench with each press down, each inch dug only made things feel more compressed, more trapped here, more-
(OOC: Dont think using enemy gear is a great idea, if only for IFF issues, not to mention potentially being executed by a commissar for using heretical artifacts. However, it's still a helmet, could I take it apart during some downtime to use for a patch job on my helmet? so I have some extra (if flimsy) protection and don't get shot by a commissar/other zealous officer)
Cheri chuckles as she ducks down, paying no mind to the bullet that had impacted barely an inch from her face, hardly even flinching, having developed somewhat of a tolerance for being shot at, if such a thing was possible. She stepped forwards and took both of their hands, giving each a shake before planting her entrenching tool in the dirt and leaning against it. "That would be me, yes I'm the Seargent of this unit, Welcome to 123-B, probably one of the better squads, If I do say so myself, shockingly low casualty rate for a Penal unit" she commented as she took the brief pause to light up one of her last LHO sticks, taking a buff and sighing before she grabbed her entrenching tool once again "But that's enough Chitchat, Command wants this trench dug fast, and were just happy to have some extra help" She planted her shovel in the dirt and began digging again, directing the other two where to help out, generally trying to help the work go faster by coordinating the group's efforts in digging, wanting to appease Command, happy higherups meant fewer death sentences and more support.
(Possibly Command or Charm to help coordinate the group to move us faster, alongside Jerads command?)
She chuckles as she works along side the 2IC, grimacing softly as dirt rains down and gets into her hair, which was only mildly protected by her busted helmet. "Could be worse, eh? that explosion could have been in our trench, rather than to the left of it" she scooped another shovelful of dirt, her hands feeling like they were blistering already, but she did her best to ignore the sting in her hands and ache in her muscles as she dug "Have to look on the bright side of things, we've seen entire squads of penals been wiped out, but we've only lost 2 men to death and 1 to injury, the rest were just transfers, so I think we've been doing pretty well! I bet there are guard units with worse rates than that on planet right now" She laughed a bit but made sure to keep that last bit about the guard quiet, just in case, humour was all well and good in the gallows, but you don't want the executioner sending you off early for a bad joke.
She catches herself finally, the sweat on a brow getting covered in dirt, what the sergeant actually said radiating through her. It's enough, a data-slate having been put away a few minutes or so ago-to allow a little nod of the head to be given, an incline towards her. A simple little break for just a moment in-between the mound of dirt that was rising behind her, for her tongue to roll against her lips, wipe away traces of blood.
"Th-That is...good to hear Cheri."
She says the words naturally without pause at all, as if the foreign name just rolled over her and slipped out past her lips as if she'd been speaking it her whole life. The differing names, the actual presence of laughter, odd's that came out to her mind at least-she's not wrong right?-as actually much better then the cold grip of fear held within was willing to give. A quick swipe away of dirt & gathering grime across her face & the shovel presses deeper, a mono sword on her side-the thought that crosses her mind is that?
Smoop gave the tall girl a small smile of her own. "Good to have you, sweetheart," she said. "Although I don't foresee much of a future, what with the assault on the Gates coming soon."
Her hands hadn't stopped moving. Digging in was good. It kept you safe. Or at least it kept you from thinking too much about not being safe at all.
"Nyla Smoop," she added. "I'm in for attempted murder of an Administorum official. When we start moving I'm the Auspex operator. That means when I tell you to get down, you get down. Or your head gets blown off. All right? Now get digging."
She does not stop this time, but her head turns at a singular word-it's a word she's heard plenty of times by now, a word of broken promises of people transferred away from her. But-she can't help the smile that manages to creep it's way back on, the burn in her chest & a little bit of youthful enthusiasm from rolling through her, from a mother to countless other's, preserver knows she's heard that word so many times.
Every time she's been taken away from anyone giving out that word, but maybe-she had to believe, had to-that it would get better. Amongst an orchestra of real crimes & slights against the creed, against the Emperor another attempted murder was something that she'd heard so many times amongst these past few months that the phrase had lost it's heft. Blending in with the sound of shells hitting, of crews moving to & fro, Nyla's deeds fade from a shrine worlder's thoughts while prayers leave hesitant, lost beneath the sound underneath Bloody gates.
(@xjax1) "Reporting for duty, Sergeant. Apologies for tarrying, the Chirurgeon blessedly chose to be thorough in the care provided. As soon as..." her words slowed to a still, as she had to blink her eyes back to focus, feelings of drowsiness not helped along by how the air felt like it was caressing her like newly-spun cloth, "As soon as the, mhmm, morphia's run its course, I'll be fit for fighting again."
Cheri smiles and gives her a gentle pat on the back once she sees Celine back on her feet "Good to see you got patched up, always great to have more squadmates" she doesn't even flinch as a mortar round drops nearby, shaking the earth around them, simply taking another bite of soup as she continues "Once You're out of your haze... You're pretty good at fixing stuff, no? I know you are pretty good with fiddlin' and maintaining with the Auspex, so I figure that you might know a thing or two about how to repair stuff" she shrugs a bit and taps her helmet, which had gotten torn apart, and takes the other helmet out of her satchel. "Smoop snagged a free helmet off the locals, and I don't wanna get shot by the Commisar for using it, but I figure someone who is better with their hands than I am could salvage some armour from it and patch up the helmet" She grabs Celine a bowl of the Protein and Vegetable soup, with her share of the biscuits, plus an extra one of Cheri's own, a prize for the wounded soldier.
She does not stop this time, but her head turns at a singular word-it's a word she's heard plenty of times by now, a word of broken promises of people transferred away from her. But-she can't help the smile that manages to creep it's way back on, the burn in her chest & a little bit of youthful enthusiasm from rolling through her, from a mother to countless other's, preserver knows she's heard that word so many times.
Every time she's been taken away from anyone giving out that word, but maybe-she had to believe, had to-that it would get better. Amongst an orchestra of real crimes & slights against the creed, against the Emperor another attempted murder was something that she'd heard so many times amongst these past few months that the phrase had lost it's heft. Blending in with the sound of shells hitting, of crews moving to & fro, Nyla's deeds fade from a shrine worlder's thoughts while prayers leave hesitant, lost beneath the sound underneath Bloody gates.
"Doesn't matter if it was your fault or not, sweetheart," she said, her smile turning wry. "s'not as anyone cares if I was actually trying to kill someone or just get him to stop grabbing my behind. Around here, it's simple. You fuck up, you die. Someone else in your squad fucks up, you die. Someone in the next squad fucks up, you die. Someone higher up fucks up, we all die."
Her eyes hardened. "But Mrs. Smoop's little girl doesn't want to die. Not here at least. So you, at least, will not fuck up. You grok that?"
After a while of eating and idly chatting with her group, Cheri took notice of the people trading with the locals, glancing at Smoop (@Kensai) and giving a chuckle "Heard you got some good shit in your scavenging run, wanna go see if we can get some shit from the locals? might as well try to make it out of the bloody gates alive," She commented as she chuckles, "I'll do the talking, it's what I'm good at, but you can choose what you wanna try to grab" She smiles softly as she tries her best to be more or less happy, though she could feel the stress of judgement day approaching, and the reaper looming closer.
(OOC: a bit of a nothing post, but I'm gonna talk to the locals and gather any info I can using charm, as well as use charm on behalf of Smoop to help them trade for what they want using their chocolates (if they wanna trade them))
With that she dusted off her hands and grabbed a couple of bars of chocolate. "Good call, Sarge. These'll be worth a good bit if you can swing the deal. Let's see what they've got to offer."
Holmgaard chews on the food contemplatively as he looks out at that magnificent night sky. The 'weather' doesn't really allow for a good view of that endless expanse of stars that has been described to him. It's mostly just pitch black as clouds loom ominously overhead but even that has its own sort of beauty to it. Unlike the static (dull, boring, LIFELESS) ceilings of the lower hives and ships, the clouds shift and roil, everchanging if you look at them for long enough. And he's even been blessed with seeing the occasional star peek out behind the cover! Well they're either stars or the lights of distant towers and to be quite honest, it really doesn't make much of a difference to Holmgaard.
He lets out a sigh of contentment.
"Truly i live a blessed life"
He stands up, scarfing a last mouthful of food down. Enough sitting around.
After a while of eating and idly chatting with her group, Cheri took notice of the people trading with the locals, glancing at Smoop (@Kensai) and giving a chuckle "Heard you got some good shit in your scavenging run, wanna go see if we can get some shit from the locals? might as well try to make it out of the bloody gates alive," She commented as she chuckles, "I'll do the talking, it's what I'm good at, but you can choose what you wanna try to grab" She smiles softly as she tries her best to be more or less happy, though she could feel the stress of judgement day approaching, and the reaper looming closer.
With that she dusted off her hands and grabbed a couple of bars of chocolate. "Good call, Sarge. These'll be worth a good bit if you can swing the deal. Let's see what they've got to offer."
"I would like to tag along as well if possible!" Holmgaard says, smiling
"If nothing else than to ask our fine friends what we might be running into on the other side!"
(Holmgaard will accompany Cheri and Smoop and try and talk to the RMCSDF soldiers. Perhaps get a better idea of whats on the other side of that gate.)
To the west, Squad 123-C, has dug their trench in similar time, the strong backs of laborers and penitents carving defensive positions from the soil. Their Sergeant, the burly man called Colm, actually heads over to shake Cheri's hand and congratulate the squad on their success.
"Nothing like a bit of hard work, eh?" Colm says. "Second best thing to killing some heretics."
"I would mayhaps put prayer above it, but I suppose one may define labor as worship in itself. Killing heretics certainly is," Jeradresh replied, with as much faux cheer as he could muster. This was almost as strenuous as dance lessons had been. He hoped he wasn't getting too many unsightly callouses. He was still unwed after all.
For most, that would be nothing but reheated corpse starch ration packs, bland, flavorless, and (supposedly) nutritionally complete. Fortunately for Squad 123-B, they have something a bit more.
Rehydrated protein and vegetable stew, with artificial capsaicin flavoring, and fungi based hard biscuits for consumption with the stew. The recycled protein "meat" is fairly chewy, and none can place it's flavor, while the vegetables are bland and clearly artificially produced, either by vat production or vertical factory farming. The biscuits are surprisingly decent, with a slight sweet taste, and going well when soaked in the hot stew. The 'Flavoring' comes in the form of packets of sauce that gives the bland stew some heat, though it tastes more chemical than spice.
It is quintessential Hiver Food, and when the alternative is corpse starch, it is practically the feasting tables of Terra itself.
Jeradresh kept his face studiously neutral as he ate. Killing foemen was one thing, so was risking his neck on the battlefield. Rehydrated stew with with chewy meat and vegetables with a flavor that somehow reminded him of the color grey was quite another. And yet somehow, somehow, it was still the best thing he'd eaten in months. A part of him was actually starting to enjoy it. Delicious chemical solvent flavor.
Surely, the Daemons he'd slighted were cursing him with a sort of madness, but he would endure this test. He was Jeradresh Za'khar Kazron, and not even the utterly barbaric conditions he was facing would defeat him.
A tiny smile still holding onto that faint, delusional hope fades from her lips just as quickly as it appeared. Teeth flash biting down on them-she can't-she does not want to go back there-want. Twitching before the corporal-before it forces itself on out, wanting, needing, desperately just wanting someone to understand!
"I'm-I-I...littered, something fell from my pocket, o-onto, at worship-I was going to pick it up, but everyone, it's everyone saw, but..."
Frustration seeps through as sweat drips down, the constant rattling & the sound of shovels digging away, working away. Skin soot covered & grey, she's gotten to work, the press down, the press of a foot, a thick heave before the last words are forced on out of her. Voice cracking every step of the way, as a litterbug-as a young girl vents her words out, what she's known to always be true-IS TRUE!
"It wasn't my fault."
The words come from her & her teeth gnaw down, grinding, spilling little rivulets of blood as eyes try to focus down upon the shovel-work, upon the sting, the discomfort, the pain that rings through her arms. Dirt reigning down upon her, upon her flack with a visible flinch as it gathers within stressed locks, suffocating her-she felt like the trench with each press down, each inch dug only made things feel more compressed, more trapped here, more-
Jeradresh's eyes traced the stammering woman up and down for a moment. Then, he nodded his head in understanding, a sympathetic smile playing across his lips. "Of course not, my dear comrade. I am sure you are innocent as I. You should not fret over much. The universe is cruel, and men fallible, but the Throne is not. We two are not here to earn our redemption in blood, for there is nothing to redeem, yes? Accident of birth and accident of pockets are nothing the Emperor will condemn. This is but a Trial by Ordeal, where our triumph proves the Emperor's favor. And as the Emperor already knows we are innocent, He is already with us, and so we are invincible, no?"
In truth, Jeradresh had no idea what littering was. He'd only ever seen the word in reference to Imperial accounts speaking of the dead 'littering the fields', and he doubted she'd managed to stuff a corpse in her pocket. Not unless it was a very small corpse, maybe a rodent, or some bits of bones? He supposed she was guilty of desecrating a holy site through negligence in some fashion, in which case she should be grateful she wasn't flayed alive rather than stammering about how it wasn't her fault. It's what his mother would've done. Plenty of things were nobody's fault, they still suffered and died for them. The galaxy was too unfair and cruel to suffer weak fools like her for long. He'd seen her ilk too often in stammering servants desperate to make up for their mistakes before they drew the master's lash to know anything else.
But she didn't need to know that. It was cruel to lie to her, and crueler to tell the truth. Perhaps if she took some heart in the Throne, He may protect her as well. If not, well, Jeradresh had tried, and if her standing up straighter meant she got shot first, such were the way of things.
Cheri smiles and gives her a gentle pat on the back once she sees Celine back on her feet "Good to see you got patched up, always great to have more squadmates" she doesn't even flinch as a mortar round drops nearby, shaking the earth around them, simply taking another bite of soup as she continues "Once You're out of your haze... You're pretty good at fixing stuff, no? I know you are pretty good with fiddlin' and maintaining with the Auspex, so I figure that you might know a thing or two about how to repair stuff" she shrugs a bit and taps her helmet, which had gotten torn apart, and takes the other helmet out of her satchel. "Smoop snagged a free helmet off the locals, and I don't wanna get shot by the Commisar for using it, but I figure someone who is better with their hands than I am could salvage some armour from it and patch up the helmet" She grabs Celine a bowl of the Protein and Vegetable soup, with her share of the biscuits, plus an extra one of Cheri's own, a prize for the wounded soldier.
"Emperor's blessing be with you then, my sergeant," Jeradresh commented. "If you have no tasks for me, I shall take my leave and be joining with the other squads. If you do not mind?"
After a while of eating and idly chatting with her group, Cheri took notice of the people trading with the locals, glancing at Smoop (@Kensai) and giving a chuckle "Heard you got some good shit in your scavenging run, wanna go see if we can get some shit from the locals? might as well try to make it out of the bloody gates alive," She commented as she chuckles, "I'll do the talking, it's what I'm good at, but you can choose what you wanna try to grab" She smiles softly as she tries her best to be more or less happy, though she could feel the stress of judgement day approaching, and the reaper looming closer.
(OOC: a bit of a nothing post, but I'm gonna talk to the locals and gather any info I can using charm, as well as use charm on behalf of Smoop to help them trade for what they want using their chocolates (if they wanna trade them))
Holmgaard chews on the food contemplatively as he looks out at that magnificent night sky. The 'weather' doesn't really allow for a good view of that endless expanse of stars that has been described to him. It's mostly just pitch black as clouds loom ominously overhead but even that has its own sort of beauty to it. Unlike the static (dull, boring, LIFELESS) ceilings of the lower hives and ships, the clouds shift and roil, everchanging if you look at them for long enough. And he's even been blessed with seeing the occasional star peek out behind the cover! Well they're either stars or the lights of distant towers and to be quite honest, it really doesn't make much of a difference to Holmgaard.
He lets out a sigh of contentment.
"Truly i live a blessed life"
He stands up, scarfing a last mouthful of food down. Enough sitting around.
"I would like to tag along as well if possible!" Holmgaard says, smiling
"If nothing else than to ask our fine friends what we might be running into on the other side!"
(Holmgaard will accompany Cheri and Smoop and try and talk to the RMCSDF soldiers. Perhaps get a better idea of whats on the other side of that gate.)
With that she dusted off her hands and grabbed a couple of bars of chocolate. "Good call, Sarge. These'll be worth a good bit if you can swing the deal. Let's see what they've got to offer."
The RMCSDF's section of trench is guarded by a pair of sentries that stand like imposing statues at the edge of their territory, faces not visible beneath their gasmasks, and bodies shrouded in heavy urban camouflage cloaks and belts of metal shards over flak armor. One is armed with a well used looking Lascarbine, while the other has a self loading shotgun slung.
"Trade?" the shotgunner rasps through his (their?) rebreather. Cheri nods.
"Talk to the Sergeant." The SDF Soldier says, gesturing with their shotgun towards one of the nearby dugouts. The three Penals do so, having to duck somewhat to fit inside the hastily dug trench section, and move past a crude
Inside, in contrast to the austere conditions of the Penal Legions, the SDF have seemingly made themselves at home. There are hammocks, made from wire frames hung from the walls and sections of plastic tarp, with rolled up cloaks and ponchos for headrests and blankets. A pair of heavy portable heaters, obviously hand cared for, have been dragged into the dugout, and used both for making the cold earth more bearable, and in one case, it seems cooking a meal that looks much the same as the Penals had just consumed themselves. The floor itself is covered in another plastic tarp.
Luxurious, compared to their own conditions.
And of course, the inhabitants. Many of the Rorschah Mundi native soldiers are simply sleeping, in the way only exhausted soldiers can in such conditions. Two fuss over one of the heaters and the pots of chemical smelling stew, though one supposes it can be hard to smell with those gasmasks. Another, sitting between two crates, counting supplies. Others, sharpening bayonets and fighting knives, handloading shotgun shells, or in one case, reading from a prayer slate. Many turn to look up as the Penals enter, more with idle curiosity than disgust as one would suspect.
"More offworlders." One of the soldiers says. "It seems we are hosts to outhive guests once more, comrades."
"More Varlets." Another snorts. He goes back to his prayer slate.
A soldier, distinguished both by the fact she carries a Sword rather than a carbine or rifle as much by the presence of a polished gorget of chrome steel about her neck, nods at the Penals. "Varlets perhaps, but guests regardless." She waits a moment for the Penals to file in. "Make yourself comfortable. We shall breathe the same air." Then, in a manner that seems to be a part of the same ritualized greeting, she removes her gas mask, setting it down beside her. Contrasting the grey of her uniform, her skin is a dark brown, with an Aquilla tatooed one one side of her face, a downward facing sword on the other.
"I am Hereditary Sergeant Mariss of the Rorschah Mundi Confederated Self Defense Force, 79th Rifle Regiment." The Sergeant says, sitting down on a crate. "Mother Kare's own Spire Swords." She says with pride. The planetary governor's favored regiment, presumably. "And you are soldiers of the Vankillan Penal Legions." She adds, as if an afterthought.
Without further ado, she nods towards the soldier who is counting supplies. The man nods, grabs a selection of items from the crate, and spreads them out across a plasteel folding table. Knives of various sorts. Spare Gas Masks. Stablights and glowglobes. Small electronic devices, both dataslates and more esoteric. A pair of large solid slug revolvers, along with a belt of ammunition. Grenades of a variety of types, from frag to smoke. A pair of the Camouflage cloaks the SDF soldiers wear, neatly folded. A battered lasgun, a dead man's name carved into it's cracked plasteel stock. A self loading shotgun, a bandolier of shells draped next to it.
"We'll be going into battle together tomorrow." The Sergeant says. "There'll be horrors beyond that gate, I hope you understand?" She takes a second, then elaborates. "Lozepath has stood defiant against Mother Kare's rule for near on a generation, and heresy has festered within it's people for near on as long." She sighs. "I am told you are not soldiers by profession, but closer to levies, but I hope even you understand the danger that is the heretic. The heretic has nothing to lose, he can be driven to even greater fanaticism than the loyalist."
"The soldiers they will have chosen to hold that gate will be the most determined of their misbegotten kind. They may lack even the arms that I or you could call upon, offworlder, but they will have a twisted faith in victory that will not be daunted even by a million guns, and they will add to it all the slayer's skill they can muster." The Sergeant says. "That fight will be a bloodbath. Count yourself fortunate indeed if you are not in the first wave. Make your peace with the Emperor if you are."
Fortunately Cheri knows, they will not be the first wave. Such will fall to other, better rested penal units. It is only a small comfort.
"You can add that of course, to all the defenses of a hive. Wallguns aplenty, and fighting positions. Even the mighty cannonade assembled here will struggle." She shakes her head. "And beyond them...that is a hive fight. Darkness. Confined quarters. Four hundred million souls whom might well call us a liberator or invader in equal measure.
"Hey, at least the area literally just beyond the gate should be the Great Plaza. Perfect for all the tanks you offworlders brought." One soldier comments. "OF course, it's all Hive fighting after that, but at least you'll have one last taste of open air, if you survive the gates. Have to look on the bright side."
"My apologies, I'm being cynical. We all know well the Emperor and Imperium will prevail." The Sergeant adds. "What is to us to not know is if we will see it. Comfort in the fact that no matter what, the enemy will die, even if it is choking on our blood."
"Amen. The heretics and traitors of Lozepath have defied the Emperor and Mother Kare long enough, and I'm glad the Imperium is finally taking things seriously." A trooper adds, taking off his gasmask to eat. He has the same tattoos as the sergeant, though one can note, skin as ashen as new snow.
"Only because Lozepath stopped sending their tithe." One of the others complains. "Two decades of defiance, and you come only when they stop sending ball bearings and lasgun lenses offworld."
"Why do you even need our Tithe?" Another comments. "Your worlds must be impossibly wealthy to equip the force outside these gates."
"Other offworlders are well supplied in all articles of warfare." Sergeant Mariss says, nodding at her subordinate's assessment. "Your compatriots come in carapace plate and driving relic-warmachines by the hundreds. You have copious artillery and ludicrously extravagant supplies of shells. Some of your soldiers wear and fight in the garments of nobility."
"Our weapons are handed down, parent to child, or else tithed from our hive's tech fanes as sacred obligation. Our armor is patched and our swords are notched. Our wargear are the articles of daily life, fashioned into the gear of soldiers. Our rations are thin, and of poor quality." The Sergeant continues. "Yet we have a surplus, compared to you. Your masters have not seen fit to shower you with their endless offworld wealth."
She gestures to the laid out offerings. "Show us what what you have, and we shall see if we can help eachother, yes?"
(OOC: What do you offer, and what are you interested in? Cheri got 4 DoS on Charm, so that's why you got some good information here. You can ask additional questions as well if you like.)
Any citizen of a hive, indeed, most Imperial Citizens, are well used to a constant backdrop of violent background noise. One could hardly go eight hours in a hab-block without the sound of gunfire somewhere in the background, though in most cases it was mercifully as far away as the next block. Knife fights, shouting matches, brawls, and the like. The concept of being able to sleep in silence was a luxury one can assume afforded only to the highest of spireborn. Sound was little issue to you.
The battlefield makes mockery of this belief.
The background crackle of arms is there, and intensified. Every second is the not-so-distant crackle of snipers trading fire between the lines, of auto cannons and heavy bolters suppressing positions, and the worryingly close sounds of furious small arms exchanges. The thick earthen walls of the dugout do their part in smothering this, but there is only so much that can be done with not but a tarp thrown over the trench, and the quickly built nature of the work.
Worse of course, is the artillery. With an interval of time that seems to get shorter every hour, but never was any more than half a minute, there is a low, ominous whistle of a falling shell, then a ear shattering detonation, a rush of displaced air that is almost painful even shielded from the direct shockwave by walls of earth and sandbags. It never stops throughout the night, a hellish imagining of a concert plated with ten thousand guns.
That is not the only problem though. The ground is hard, with nothing but your pack for a pillow and a thin tarp to keep you from the literal earth. It's cold, even your thick, flak cloth uniform serving only to make it tolerable. The Hives had had the opposite problems: Limited heat exchanging capacity and the presence of five hundred million human bodies made every part of the hive stiflingly hot. Trying to sleep in the opposite condition is like trying to walk on water. The ground shakes, dirt falls through the cracks in the flakboard ceiling, and someone nearly steps on you some hours after you'd laid yourself to the earth (fortunately, there was no conception of being buried in precious soil on Rorschah Mundi-so the connotations of the grave mercifully escape you).
But still, humanity can conquer any obstacle, even if it is one so mundane. Your exhaustion, the morphia, and your injuries overpower even your discomfort, and slowly, you drift off to some half sleep, a constantly interrupted twilight state.
"Emperor's blessing be with you then, my sergeant," Jeradresh commented. "If you have no tasks for me, I shall take my leave and be joining with the other squads. If you do not mind?"
Colm's squad, 123-C, have managed to create something like a fire, or at least, a smouldering pit full of trash the emanates heat and some light. You sit yourself down next to the thing that does not quite deserve to be called fire, and the collection of Imperial religious fanatics surrounding it.
"The repentant heathen joins us." Sergeant Colm says, from his place besides the not quite fire. The NCO takes a heavy swig from a bottle that doesn't quite look like Amasec, then passes it along to the next man.
"Is he really still a Heathen if he's repentant?" Another asks, a wiry youth with religious tattoos running up her arms. She accepts the bottle, takes a swig, and then passes it to the next man.
"Yeah, but he's still a Nob." the next says, laughing, a hulking mountain of muscle that is delicately inserting new rounds into a stubber belt. You're well familiar with this archetype, though back home they were made with flesh-twisting sorceries and empyrean exposure therapies. From how this man lacks visible mutations besides his size, and the title of 'Genebulk' you've heard used, you can only assume his kind are created by an altogether different form of esoterica than warp sorcery. "Name's Bellock." The Genebulk offers, then passes you the bottle.
"Viv." The youth offers as well, as you consider the bottle. Brown, the labels gone. It does not smell like Amasec. "Weren't you saying he wasn't a nob a few hours ago?" Viv asks the Genebulk. He shrugs, as if such a status was fluid, or perhaps as if he were forced to concede to your noble character and bearing by observation.
"Steed." A bald man, near the back adds. "No heathen sorcery with that name, y'hear. The Emperor will stop ya'."
"Dormer." The final member of the truncated squad offers bluntly, a woman who looks more a pit fighter than a priest, but then who could know with the Imperium. Certainly not you.
With introductions done, you say a brief prayer-for your own liver if nothing else, and you tip the bottle back.
Like the fire, you must concede what comes out is at the very least some form of alcohol, though certainly not amasec and definitely unworthy of your personage. It's strong, with an earthy flavor you suspect came from some form of tuber or grain. For a man who'd grown up drinking the worthiest of Amasec vintages, the thought of your current debasement is quietly horrifying. Peasant alcohol. How far you'd fallen.
You nearly choke on the strong bite of the drink, but after a moment to adjust to the strong 'Flavor', you are able to choke down the swig you'd taken. At least this would get you drunk fast, though you doubt that's advisable even if one were looking for liquid courage.
(OOC: Endurance (T) test success, 1 DoS)
"Hah!" Steed says. "Stronger stomach than I'd thought, for a Nob."
"Better than your first, Viv." Dormer grunts. The youth hangs her head.
You eagerly hand off the bottle to whatever hand will take it. Someone does, you don't quite see who, in the dim firelight.
Colm shakes his head at his men's guffaws. "I must admit some curiosity...Jerad, was it? Jerad Sophon?" You nod, confirming he has your name correct. "Faith is all." He says, repeating a truth you'd heard enough times. "But us of the Imperium, we come into that faith by birth. We have never known the cold dark of ignorance of his light." He gazes out towards the direction of the gates, though he does not dare to raise his head over the lip of the trench. "Even those Heretics, they think they follow the Emperor, and they must've followed him truly once."
Probably, you still weren't really clear on that, or what their doctrinal split was.
"But you are-were a Heathen." Colm makes the sign of the Aquila. "What was it like? To learn the Emperor is All for the first time? To have the light of faith to warm you on a dark and cold night for the first time ever?"
"Gotta be a bloody shock I imagine." Viv offers.
"Nah." Bellok, the Gene-Bulk says. "Heathen don't mean Atheist." He spits at that word, as if it were the worst curse. "Must've held some alien faith before, eh, Nob? What's it feel like to have your faith proven false?"
Colm shakes his head. "Bell, don't antagonize him. We're all brothers and sisters under the throne."
"Yeah, but he's adopted." Steed jokes. Two or three of them snicker at the jest.
"The question remains." Colm says. "Adopted or trueborn son of the throne. Atheist or Heathen. He came to the throne regardless."
"So he says." Dormer says. "Me, I'm not so sure. Anyone can take a Saint Name."
The bottle comes back around again, and curse it's wretched name, at least it gives you a moment to think of an answer for these questions.
Cheri chuckles as she listens to the two speak, nodding softly at their comments. "Levies, Slaves, Soldiers, I don't think the distinction matters all that much, I think all of us know well of what the heretic looks like, and what that means" She shook her head a bit, they were all heretics to some degree, though hardly to the degree of those they were fighting. She was called a blasphemer but at least she had the good sense to keep her faith in the side of the emperor, cynical as she may be, he does protect her for each moment that she breathes, and when she dies its because she is destined to, dying in his service is the greatest honour, or so they say.
She chuckles at the mention of wealth, shaking her head "We are chaff told to go die in droves" She chuckles a bit "our equipment is much the same as yours, handed down from one dead man to the other, but ours is just made to keep us alive long enough to die in a useful manner and no longer" She grimaces a bit before shaking off her cynicism, the battlefield is no place to feel bad about yourself.
She approached the table and looks over everything carefully, glancing over things "Well, we have some special treats, morale boosters for the troops we can trade" She chuckles as she motions for Smoop to bring out the chocolate bars, "If these aren't enough for the gear were after, Ill also trade off my Frenzon, the drugs are one of the few high-grade items were given, but I'm sure they will be more useful to you than me"
(OOC: I think a Stablight or Glowglobe is a must, we have to navigate the dark corridors of the hive if we survive the fight through the gates, and we're not gonna get to do that if we can't see shit and if possible I would like to get myself an actual new helmet, not just a repaired one, since it will protect much better. Apart from that, don't think there's anything major we need? )
