"I am willing to see what can be done to mend that which has served generations of the sons and daughters of Rorschach Mundi. And it would be... pleasant, to have a chance for conversation and hearing news from inside the loyalist Hives as well. It has been years since I last heard the accent from a voice that was not my own."
You quickly unpack your toolkit, and get to work as the soldiers lay out their equipment.
Lasguns, patched together and working only the grace of the Emperor-Ommniah.
Lamp packs and stablights with cracked lenses, misaligned energy cells, and faulty wiring.
Armor, tattered and damaged by a lifetime of small wars. Soft flak is crudely knitted back together, hard plates of plasteel and other composites patched with ersatz repair cement.
It's honestly almost too much. Too few supplies, too many disciplines of the Technomat's trade that you're unfamiliar with. Your toolkit rapidly empties as you apply repair cement, slap hasty patches, and replace wiring.
Still, Sergeant Mariss upholds her end of the bargain, and she speaks upon the news of the hives.
"Yamloka remains defiant." The Sergeant says. "Rations have decreased six percent since the last year. Damn traitors pay Terra's tithe, but not Lady Kare's. If not for this rebellion..."
Yamloka you know, is Hive Yamloka. It's Spire Lord, Valk Solrich (So named because his wealth is said to rival a Terran magister), refused the rightful rule of Mother Kare. When you'd last been home, there'd been skirmishing, but the RMCSDF (Or rather, the SDF units loyal to Kare) were busy with other problems. Heathen raiders farther out beyond Imperial borders. Greenskins. The Mutant hordes, riot suppression, the Ogrynkin raider gangs that dominated the ruins of Hive Hybadon's construction site. Other things, things only whispered about, and only when the RMCSDF weren't in the hab-block.
Always busy with some other threat. Outsiders yesterday. Heretics today. Yamloka, it is said, is a thorn in the side that will not heal for some time, no matter how much the Mother of Cities might claim Valk will bend the knee and surrender any day now.
"Heard the civies have to ration sump-meat now. Terra's taken notice of the terrace farms and is requiring an agricultural tithe now." One of the soldiers complains.
The very concept seems almost profane to you. Rationing was a way of life on Rorschah Mundi. A man or woman might be allowed to purchase only a certain amount of Corpse Starch, Nutri-loaf, or precious real botanicals from the terrace farms each hive has made of it's dilapidated, uninhabited sections, the rest reserved so that everyone else may eat. Sump-Meat was the traditional means of supplementing one's allocated rations: hunting rats and Sump-Kroks, growing ant colonies for their larva and honey, and trading with rustiek enclaves who weren't subject to the hive's rationing rules. That even such was being rationed now...
"Morale is surprisingly good among the civilians." The Sergeant adds, as if forgetting she is talking to someone who used to be a civilian. "For their ignorance and miserable squalor, our people are faithful and inured to hardship. We have a common enemy to unite against."
"At least the offworlders are bringing in plenty of tech and coin..."
You continue your work into the night, even as your kit grows lighter, and your hands grow wearier. You leave sometime in the morning, stumbling out to acquire a few more fitful hours of sleep, a chaingrinder and a much lighter toolkit slung over opposite shoulders.
(OOC: So, technically, when I said 1 point for all of you, I meant the 3 people originally in the scene, so technically you would not be able to afford the Stablight, Camo Cloak, and both melee weapons. However, since you got a 0 DoF result, I'm gonna count that as a partial success. You get your 1 point, which allows you to get the Chaingrinder by trading in your knife, but I'm gonna say you partially exhaust the supplies of the toolkit, and it now only applies a +10 bonus instead of +15.
@Kensai @Svend @xjax1 add your new kit to your character sheets please)
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For all his experience masking his feelings, Jeradresh couldn't help furrowing his brow at Dormer's reply. "What? No! I thought the Emperor and His sons had people who also did the Crusading, spread His Light on His behalf? What is the difference between a world being liberated now and then, if His light still shines? Did they do everything personally or something? I swore there were Saints from the Great Crusade...It is a little late, but that Saint Pius, was he not just a janitor before he joined the Imperial Fist Terminators of the Imperial Guard?"
Dormer folds her arms, and scowls, as if realizing she couldn't really argue against that, but refusing to concede. As if to distract herself, she busies herself stoking the small fire, largely unsuccessfully.
"Imperial Fists Terminators?" Viv says. "Not how I heard it. First Martyr's a navy man."
"If I knew you haven't read a scholastic work in your life, I'd call you a bloody Heretic." Bellok says. "Whatever demented folk tradition you might have Viv, Pius was Guard. The First Guardsman." He pauses a moment, and looks your way. "Old man Colm over here's full of wisdom, so might as well add my own. Don't call Pius an Astartes, or Navy. He's Guard."
"That isn't official doctrine." Dormer says, and suddenly she seems to switch targets. "The First Martyr was an Adeptus Astartes of the Emperor's own Custodes! A mere, lowly guardsman-"
"Haven't we've been over this?" Colm says. "Savine refers to Pius as a Guardsman. That's good enough for me. And it's also good enough for the entire camp of Imperial Guard surrounding us, so please, keep your...unorthodox views to yourself."
As they argue, you mentally add another note. Imperial Fists, not part of the Imperial Guard. Good to know.
Shaking off his earlier confusion, Jeradresh nodded his head at the other two, keeping his private doubts to himself. He might be a pagan, but they were outlaws and if his time in the Imperium had taught him anything, the size of one's hat and pauldrons were the most significant indicators of one's authority. Seeing as they had a dearth of either, he would regard them with skepticism. Dormer, he believed, was likely particularly dangerous to take seriously. The orthodoxy of her viewpoints was somewhat suspect given the priest punching.
"It is like saying I recently heard: Whatever they have got, the Emperor's love, they have not? I know I should be long dead by now if not for His protection." Perhaps it was protection and not love, actually, on second consideration. "And I am also glad to have made your company. I expected a lower class of individuals, certainly not ones so well-learned and spoken as thee. Better company than my own kin, truly." And for once that at least was the whole truth.
"The legion takes all kinds." The Genebulk, Bellok, says, deadpan.
"It's in man's nature to strive." Colm says. "I wasn't always such. A spokesman for workers and Helots both on fair Tellios, far from here." He shakes his head, as if realizing you've probably never heard the name. In truth, it was just another world that King Rakatir had claimed once belonged to the Kindred.
"I could barely read until I was brought to Vankila to serve my time...but well, I could read, and the librarium needed a menial...next thing you know, I'm running a bit of a prayer circle for a few of my fellow penitents..." He smiles.
"Wardens didn't like that. Looks a lot like organizing." Viv says.
"Well, it helped that Bellok here had a few extra packs of Lhos for them every time they passed by the Librarium." Colm concedes.
"If you've really got him on Terra's protection, here's hoping it rubs off on us, yeah? Looks like we might need it." Steed says, warming his hands by the not quite fire.
"Amen." Colm adds. "And if he should not, then I should hope we die well, at least."
Admirable sentiment, but not for you. You were making it out of this alive.
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But then, he had little desire to kneel in the dirt instead of a proper shrine, and sleep was hardly going to come more easily with the morning bombardment. He supposed he had earned himself some friends. And if there was one thing he had discovered in service, it was that rumors spread remarkably easily among the ranks. It almost reminded him of his days back in court. Perhaps they would have some information of value.
"They say they're sending in six companies for a start. Penals." Corporal Hansan says. "Fortunately, we're not one of those companies. Heard the Lt. speaking about it. The Bolwerc pagal-meng was
disappointed, if you can believe it
."
He pauses, as if realizing you're probably not conversant in voidborn slang. "Crazy. Insane. But that's Bolwercs. Always thinking with their bayonets."
The only thing you'd heard about Bolwerc was that it was a mighty fortress world. Could it's warriors truly be so foolish? Perhaps they were the feared feral world warriors the Imperial Guard uses so much.
Bellok steps by, trailing a few belts of ammunition for his heavy stubber slung across his meaty chest. The powerful form of the Genebulk has to almost waddle to stay low enough to avoid the storm of shrapnel blasting across no man's land.
"Not the first in, but things are hardly quiet. Sarge just got word, our squad's being deployed to fill out a trench section emptied for the assault. Suspect you'll be doing the same." The Genebulk rumbles. He pauses a moment, then rests a hand on your shoulder. "For the Emperor's protection. Don't get killed Sophon!"
(OOC: Charm success, 0 DoS)
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Cheri approached the Lt with a smile, crouching her way through the trenches as she made her way back to the command bunker, giving a greeting with a warm smile and a salute to her superior, making small talk and occasionally slipping in questions about the upcoming assault, where enemy positions were spotted, the arcs of fire, where the best spot to assault from is, all the important ones to ensure her squads survival, and In turn her own. She was selfish that way, she cared most about her own survival, but yet she also understood the squad itself is what would deliver that, so she cared as almost much about the squad as she did herself, having grown a bit attached to its strange characters in the short time they were together.
You end up waiting outside Lt. Ansalm's dugout, while he speaks with an Imperial Guard officer on the phone. Words about 'Expenditure of shells and lives' and 'Letting the Penals get their chance at redemption.'
You wait. Yelling, the Lt. demanding to be 'Put on to the Commissariat!'
You wait. Dial tone on the Vox.
Finally, Ansalm storms out. He regards you waiting there with barely a sneer. "Yes, what is it?"
You let out a torrent of questions. The man was clearly angry as hell, perhaps it was best to prod him while he was screaming mad.
"What? Artillery Arc of Fire? The best place to assault from? You want to go over the top?" You quickly nod, though it is as blatant a lie as you've ever told on film. He pauses, then nods. "Took you for a coward, Pict star. All talk and show, no steel."
"Command's not sending us out. Not yet." The Lt. comments bitterly. "Other companies will have the honor of Immolation. To be sent forward to die in the Emperor's name first. We, the filthy creatures who writhe in the dirt beneath our commanders boots, will be going second." He spits the word as if personally insulted.
"I suppose." He says. "That if you are so eager to go, I can tell you, the second wave will be led by Confessor Junieve Serestra. A pious and faithful woman, who volunteered to lead us condemned to our final reward. A grand act of compassion for you undeserving lot. A truly grateful repentant would march at the front of the column with her, and guard her with their life, for the enemy will surely turn their guns on her."
Ansalm nods. "You want advice, Pict Star? Die by her side. I certainly intend to. It isn't the Right of Immolation, but it will do."
Ok, good to know. Stay the hell away from the Confessor, or at least stay behind her, and hopefully she and the LT will eat the bullets for you.
(OOC: Charm (1 DoS))
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Smoop took the camo cloak with little grace. The rest of the gear looked substandard and shoddy, and she wasn't desperate enough to want anything to do with it.
Instead, she stalked off without a word, then put on the cloak to have a quick look at the fortifications around the breach. They were going to have to storm them soon, and any little bit of intelligence might make the difference - for some of them, anyway. She wasn't so naive as to imagine that they'd all come out intact.
It would be enough if she did.
@Easter
You stalk off to find a spot devoid of people, then flip up your new camouflage hood over your helmet.
Then, after a moment, you dare to poke your head over the lip of the trench.
The breach at the gates looks no more inviting that before. Wreathed in detonations as Imperial artillery bombards it, the entire frontal gate of the hive is collapsed.
But, that only means it has stopped being an obstacle. It is certainly still a defensive position. All along the rubble, there are positions where distant figures you assume to be hive militia have dug into the rubble like burrowing mammals, preparing to see off inevitable Imperial assault. They cringe under Imperial artillery bombardment, but those shells will have to stop falling for you to assault the place. Worse, it's looking like the assault is going to be a climb. One under fire, and while grappling with determined defenders.
And of course, along the walls and gantries overlooking the gate, there are countless forms. Human forms, presumably armed and waiting to fire on enfilade against anyone assaulting into the breach. Gun towers, some small enough for a Heavy Stubber or Bolter, many larger, and firing back at the Imperial artillery.
It is to that unfortunate discovery that Albert adds his own discovery. You turn to look at what he's pointing at. A section of the churned soil and craters advancing up to the Bloody Gates offers a bit of deceptive cover. A few buildings, and vehicles, flattened by artillery, but still at a height to provide some protection from bullets were one to run through it. It'd probably take longer than going through the open, but-
Your thought is interrupted by a high, sonic
crack. Something impacts the flakboard backing of the Trench just behind you. You duck back into the trench, as a second shot slams into the berm just next to you.
You wait a minute. Then two.
Then, and only then, do you stand up, and move back to the squad, intel gained.
(OOC: Awareness Success, 2 DoS. in addition to what you learned here, you may ask me two questions about the Gate's defenses you could've reasonably learned. Post them in the OOC thread so I can veto unsuitable questions.
Stealth failed 1 DoF, but fortunately, that only means you had a Militia sniper take a potshot at you)
A half hour passes. The platoon spreads out to cover more of the trenches. Cheri's squad is left alone, huddled in their trenches, only risking the quickest looks over the top every few minutes, as if to confirm the enemy is still there.
In the rearlines, an ominous, dark mass of bodies assembles, fellow penals, the first grox to the slaughter. Commissars and priests are passing down their lines, as if giving final rites to the dead. Judging by the looks on the unlucky (or lucky) companies, they probably can't even hear the shouted instructions, strung out on stimms and alcohol and whatever else could be at hand to steady a man's courage in the face of inevitable death.
Celine sees none of this.
She is bent in prayer, her sword dug into the earth, and her eyes closed. Distantly, she can hear the sounds of her comrades going around, presumably attempting to achieve a material advantage. That was good, but prayer was just as important.
The final lines of her prayer come again, and she starts over again, when her thoughts are interrupted by a woman's voice, not one she recognizes.
"It is good to see someone holds faith still, in the eye of this particular storm." The voice says. Celine's eyes open and looks up to see a priestess of the ministorum. Her robes are ceremonial, blue on white, with the heavy two headed eagle of the aquilla adorning it in multiple places. A servitor trails behind, a heavy banner folded up in it's spade like hands, it's head cast down as if in solemn contemplation of a relic. And yet for the heavy silk-cloth, the edges somehow unstained, the servitor, and the lack of military credentials, this woman is surely a warrior, for slung across her hips are a chainsword, and a bolt pistol on the other, with
'Remissio' raised in gold along the barrel. There is armor beneath the silk cloth, and the woman's dark hair is worn short, her face studded with scars.
"I am Confessor Serestra." She says. "I have come to see the souls I am to lead to their final reward, in the last hour of their lives." She says.
She pauses. "I would offer you a blessing, sinner, and to take your confession." She does not say the word with any degree of scorn, just as if it were a fact. "I cannot claim to speak for whom the Emperor will find worthy, and who will be cast out unto the outer dark, bereft of his light, but confessing one's sins can hardly make your scales more unbalanced."
Her eyes sweep over the rest of the squad, huddled and waiting. She smiles. "The same offer goes to all of you. These are the last hours of your life, sinners. I offer you the chance to die with your souls all the lighter."
(OOC: Celine succeeds Piety with 2 DoS, so you get a nice special event. Does anyone confess their sins, and receive their blessing?)
A few minutes later, the Confessor is moving down the trench, towards the next knot of soon to be condemned souls.
As she does, a horn blows. A flare goes up, detonating in the skies above the trenches.
Then, thousand of boots slam into the soil at once, and pull themselves out of the trenches. The forlorn hope, powered by combat drugs, the lashes of the commissars behind them, and the fear of dying a coward propelling them over the top.
Above the din of detonating artillery shells, hammering cannons, and the crack of rifles, a noise rises from thousands of mouths.
"Forgive us, oh Emperor, we who go into the pit."
A shell detonates somewhat nearby. A scream. A dozen screams. Bits of earth, and bits of red come splashing down over the trenches. A stitching line of heavy slugs slam into the top of the trench, and a woman screams, what remains of her torso dropping into the trench in three pieces. A helmet falls from somehere above, richochetting off the parapet and down into the sump like a misaimed bullet.
The singing continues. "Beyond hope of redemption."
A man, his rifle abandoned, tries to drop into the trench again, his eyes wild. His head is gone in a thunderclap, and the puppet that was his body collapses, stringless at the edge, gore pumping from the neck. A furious hail of shots hammer at the flakboard trench-walls, as if clawing to get at the soldiers huddled there. Somewhere nearby, a scream of 'Mother!', and another hail of shots in that direction.
Somewhere distant, lasguns. A desperate cry. "Forward! Forward Bayonets!" Hundreds of voices take up the cry, almost audible over the sound of the storm of iron and light the enemy is using to slaughter them. The sound of a horn, a mournful noise, another flare going up from somewhere forward. More fire, some on the trench, most well beyond.
"The slain in the grave, cut off from your hand.,," The doomed men somehow manage to lift their voices, before the newest wave of enemy artillery crashes down on no man's land and the trenches. An overlapping wave of hammers, slamming down into the earth like the Emperor himself decided enough was enough. But this was not the Emperor's fury, but that of war, and so men die.
Something is hurled over the top of the trench, another body, the third at their stretch of the line alone at this point. The broken, boneless mass slams into the earth practically at the feet of Celine, and it's hard not to fight nausea at the sight. Two limbs gone, one leg ending in a pulsing mass of arterial blood, an arm in a twisted horror of shell splinters and shredded flesh and broken ghostly white bone. A dozen smaller wounds, one eye gone, vitreous fluid pouring down a torn cheek into the mud.
And yet, impossibly, the form's chest rises. It chokes, gore pumping from it's sundered eye socket. "Please..." The one good eye lands on cheri, and the man, for this meat still merited such a description. "Please..." his arm reaches out, trying desperately to grab for something.
Somewhere, farther than anyone thought they'd get, the dirge rises again. "Grant us Redemption..."
(OOC: Well, what do you do?)
