"....Cannon Meat?" One of the Hezean soldiers says.
"I think he means a Trench-Stuffing." Another comments, he breaths heavily into his gas mask. "Right. Watch out, Cannon Meat. We've had reports of Heretic raiders and patrols in those trenches. Try not to die with an empty gun, yeah?"
Jeradresh gave the Hezean a little grin. "The Emperor loves me too much to let me die," Jeradresh replied. "And they will not be the first heretics I have wet my blade upon. But my gratitude for your warning. Be back soon, Hezeans."
Cheri flinches a bit at the explosions and grimaces as they make their way over, Cheri making sure that they keep together and move carefully, not wanting to get ambushed or separated when they were in such a rough situation. "Alright, Griseo, you head up front, we've made poor Smoop take point far too much" She chuckles a bit as she organizes everyone, being quite effective in the role of getting people where they need to be, which probably comes from her time as an actor, she had to do a little directing herself when it was time for it, and her knowledge of real military strategy may be fuzzy, but she had made enough propaganda to know roughly where they're supposed to go, hell, she had even gone to the real trenches, albeit far in the backlines, a few times to shoot scenes on location.
(As Seargent i nominate Griseo to take point, unless anyone else volunteers also we should move methodically, arriving quickly is no good if we die on the way there)
Jeradresh grimaced at the explosions. He didn't much care for the implications of that. Had their comrades perhaps fallen afoul of the enemy? Still, as much as it would be a shame to lose their heavy stubber or his investments, he approved of the sergeant's caution. No sense in rushing into trouble and risking everyone. Besides, the men they left behind had a heavy stubber, surely that would have to count as something?
Jeradresh fell into step behind Cheri, doing his best to look tactical and useful as he swept the blasted wastes with his lasgun sights. "I am with you, my sergeant. Keep it steady, comrades!"
"The Emperor's light is with me, in victory and defeat alike, heretic!" Celine punctuates this declaration with a frantic scramble back onto her feet, making to shove the apostate before her into a clear line of fire for Albert. "To die screaming his name is the truest prayer! Fie on your blasphemous 'mercy'!"
Albert tensed as he quickly wheeled the stubber back from the now dead group to place his sights squarely onto the Preacher, but he paused before he could fire. If he did so now he would put Celine in danger of his own shots even if he did hit the enemy.
Even as that thought flashed through his mind he knew he didn't have much of a choice if Celine didn't do something quickly to get herself out of the situation. With a minute nod at his own logic Albert steadied his aim on heretic. He would wait as long as he could to see if Celine would pull something before the Preacher executes her but if nothing comes he'll take the shot. Better to risk Celines death than leave her to die for sure and leave the Preacher in a position to turn her attention to him and his wounded comrade.
"A shame, then." The heretic says, then she stabs the knife down, reverse grip, at Celine's throat.
Even with the agony of her wound and her lack of sight in one eye, Celine manages to roll out of the way. She struggles to her feet, even as a burst from the traitor's autopistol hammers against her flak armor, a flash of pain radiating up from her knee and nearly staggering her.
"Sing his name with your death, heretic!" The heretical preacher screams as her autopistol clicks dry, and then dashes in for another fatal knife slash to Celine's throat. Celine, stumbling in the uneven floor of the trench, retreats, letting the knife come to within three inches of her throat, and then, with the attacker unbalanced, snakes an arm around her knife hand and swings with all the power her adrenaline powered shoulders can muster. The cultist is sent stumbling past Celine and the piling of sandbags they'd both sheltered behind, into the center of the trench and Albert's gun sights.
A clear target presenting itself, Albert immeadiatley opens fire. The first burst goes high, and the heretic ducks and comes back at Celine, who stands her ground to prevent her from getting back to the safety of cover. The next burst stitches past its target, one stray round punching through a sandbag and painfully ricocheting off Celine's shin-plate. Seizing the opportunity of Celine's momentary distraction, the attacker swings in for a thrust towards Celine's bleeding face, the Penal Legionnaire barely managing to grab the woman's forearm before the edge of her blade pierces her good eye. The two of them struggle for the control of the knife for a moment, the heretic snarling as the blade draws ever nearer to Celine's face.
"The Emperor is risen!" The woman cries-then there is a flash of ruby thunder. Celine's good eye blinks, and finds her attacker stumbling backwards, half her face an angry red of flash burns, and a substantial portion of the rest is charred, black, sloughing off her face.
"Kill the damn heretic!" Sergeant Colm shouts, from where he lies slumped against the trench wall, and his lasgun lowers, the muzzle still glowing red from the burst.
Before she has a chance to recover, Celine's hands grope for the trench floor, finds the handle. She raises her Chaingrinder, and brings it down across the reeling heretic's leg. She collapses, blood pumping from where her left leg is opened to the bone from thigh to shin.
"You cannot kill me in any way that matters..." The woman grasps out. "He is Risen. We will-" Celine brings the grinder down and cuts her chest open, tearing armored robes, rending flesh apart and splintering ribs. She presses the weapon down, for a long moment, tearing a great gap into the chest cavity, certainly a fatal injury.
She steps back, letting the engine of the weapon die, breathing heavily from the exertion.
The mortally wounded women gasps, choking, even as blood continues to stream in a steady rate from the gaping hole in her chest cavity. Another moment, another ragged, weak breath. Celine guns the chain-grinder's engine, and brings it down, this time on the head. There is a bare moment of resistance before the skull splits and gives away, and the grinder turns what is beneath into an unidentifiable mush, splattered across the trench wall.
Cheri flinches a bit at the explosions and grimaces as they make their way over, Cheri making sure that they keep together and move carefully, not wanting to get ambushed or separated when they were in such a rough situation. "Alright, Griseo, you head up front, we've made poor Smoop take point far too much" She chuckles a bit as she organizes everyone, being quite effective in the role of getting people where they need to be, which probably comes from her time as an actor, she had to do a little directing herself when it was time for it, and her knowledge of real military strategy may be fuzzy, but she had made enough propaganda to know roughly where they're supposed to go, hell, she had even gone to the real trenches, albeit far in the backlines, a few times to shoot scenes on location.
(As Seargent i nominate Griseo to take point, unless anyone else volunteers also we should move methodically, arriving quickly is no good if we die on the way there)
The squad takes it's time. More gunshots, the rapid fire bursts of the heavy stubber, then the lasgun. Finally, the low roar of a chainweapon. Then, silence.
Griseo turns the corner of where where they left Celine and Albert.
The trench is a bloodbath. Bodies, and pieces of bodies, lay where they fell. Enemy militia, for the most part. Albert sits, heavy stubber positioned to sweep down the trench, and no doubt already having done it's part in doing so. Celine lays against the trench wall, one eye covered in a crust of dried blood, her chaingrinder similarly coated in the remains of the enemy.
Colm still lays in place. "...Rest of the squad make it?" He manages, wincing at even the effort of speaking. A nod seems to set him at ease.
It doesn't take long to load the sergeant up on the stretcher, collect their gear, and for Cheri to give Celine a look with the medkit. Fortunately it seems, her eye is fine, aside from the blood oozing into it, which a quick suture prevents.
Then, it is back to the First Aid post.
Fortunately, no enemies accost them on the way back, thank the Emperor. The only real trouble is the exhausting work of carrying stretcher bound patients back and forth-Nyla can begin to feel her muscles burning from the constant exertion, and even Sten is beginning to tire.
(OOC: Nyla takes a point of fatigue helping carry the stretcher)
Fortunately, they reach the aid post again after a long period of crawling across the ruined trenches. The Guards wave the squad through. "Looks like the Cannon meat's back. And they picked up a few more."
"Cannon Meat?" Colm asks, confused. Then, he is taken into the Medicae post.
"Lucky this one." The Medicae comments. "Too crippled to keep fighting, not too crippled he's going to die. Reserve wound."
None of the squad have heard the term, but it seems appropriate.
Especially, it seems, as Cheri's Vox buzzes, a message coming in over the company band. "All Squads, return to your designated trenches, immediately." There could be only one reason for that.
The next assault was about to begin, and their company had been chosen to take part.
(OOC: I'll leave you off here. Next update covering the actual start of the assault will come soon, after the weekend (possibly as soon as Monday). Do please try to post reactions to the events that have transpired so far, or any other things you'd like to do immediately before you proceed back to your section of trenches (Such as begging the Medicaes for supplies, or last minute recon)
-Cheri: 10/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Jerad: 5/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 2 Rerolls
-Albert, 11/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 167/200 rounds in stubber
-Nyla, 12/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended
-Griseo: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 1/5 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
The moment Albert was back at the trenches he was quick to shuck his pack and gun off and onto a crate next to him in the trench. However, he was careful at the last moment to gently lay them down onto the crate, both due to the grenades in his bag and in respect for the stubber's machine spirit.
Though with the items laid out, he was much faster in his movements as he dropped to his knees while pulling out the pig-iron Aquila under his shirt. Shaking hands held the small two-headed eagle as prayers fell from his lips, asking for forgiveness of long past sins and mistakes made as a legionnaire in one breath while another asks for the god-emperor to guide his aim so that he would not miss again as he had this last fight. Such a thing cannot happen again, his inability to hit the heretic had almost gotten his teammate killed and could very well have led to his own death if she had been quick enough to get to him before he could hit her. So he prayed, for the favor of the god emperor so that his Stubber may hit where it's needed and the enemy's would miss anything important. He no idea if it would help him in the end, but he didn't have many ideas outside of it.
The squad takes it's time. More gunshots, the rapid fire bursts of the heavy stubber, then the lasgun. Finally, the low roar of a chainweapon. Then, silence.
Griseo turns the corner of where where they left Celine and Albert.
The trench is a bloodbath. Bodies, and pieces of bodies, lay where they fell. Enemy militia, for the most part. Albert sits, heavy stubber positioned to sweep down the trench, and no doubt already having done it's part in doing so. Celine lays against the trench wall, one eye covered in a crust of dried blood, her chaingrinder similarly coated in the remains of the enemy.
Jeradresh slowed to a halt, peeking over Griseo's shoulder to see the slaughter left by Albert and Celine. He blinked once, then blinked again seeing that the other Penal Legionnaires were still alive, and in good shape. He hesitated a moment, then slung his lasgun and clapped politely in the fashion of aristocracy.
"Incredible work, my comrades! I knew we could trust you to hold without us." he said, politely ignoring that he hadn't trusted them to survive, let alone hold. "Well slain, friends."
He made a note to keep those two close at hand when the fighting got thick. They clearly knew what they were doing.
Colm still lays in place. "...Rest of the squad make it?" He manages, wincing at even the effort of speaking. A nod seems to set him at ease.
It doesn't take long to load the sergeant up on the stretcher, collect their gear, and for Cheri to give Celine a look with the medkit. Fortunately it seems, her eye is fine, aside from the blood oozing into it, which a quick suture prevents.
Jeradresh stepped over to the Penal Legion sergeant, and then, awkwardly, gives him a thumbs up as he'd seen some other Imperials do. "Of course. We got them to the medicae post, the rest is in their hands. The Emperor protects, yes?"
Especially, it seems, as Cheri's Vox buzzes, a message coming in over the company band. "All Squads, return to your designated trenches, immediately." There could be only one reason for that.
The next assault was about to begin, and their company had been chosen to take part.
(OOC: I'll leave you off here. Next update covering the actual start of the assault will come soon, after the weekend (possibly as soon as Monday). Do please try to post reactions to the events that have transpired so far, or any other things you'd like to do immediately before you proceed back to your section of trenches (Such as begging the Medicaes for supplies, or last minute recon)
-Cheri: 10/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Jerad: 5/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 2 Rerolls
-Albert, 11/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 167/200 rounds in stubber
-Nyla, 12/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended
-Griseo: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 1/5 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
Jeradresh's shoulders slumped as the vox call arrived, his eyes drifting toward the still imposing gates of the hive and the high walls. He'd rather been hoping they'd be able to keep doing first aid work for a while longer. A few more waves, another few days, then take the glory later after the enemy had been worn down.
He shook his head. The Emperor would protect him regardless, of course, and being able to raise the Imperium's bird flag up high would be a glorious step forward toward securing his release from his present company. Still...It certainly wouldn't hurt to give the Emperor an easier time of things. He had earned good will among some of the other squads, surely, and perhaps that reputation had already spread some. Perhaps he could convince some of them to work more closely with him?
OOC: Apply charm to convince some fellow Penal Legionnaires to serve as my meatshields coordinate with us during the assault.
Jeradresh slowed to a halt, peeking over Griseo's shoulder to see the slaughter left by Albert and Celine. He blinked once, then blinked again seeing that the other Penal Legionnaires were still alive, and in good shape. He hesitated a moment, then slung his lasgun and clapped politely in the fashion of aristocracy.
"Incredible work, my comrades! I knew we could trust you to hold without us." he said, politely ignoring that he hadn't trusted them to survive, let alone hold. "Well slain, friends."
He made a note to keep those two close at hand when the fighting got thick. They clearly knew what they were doing.
Celine starts at the sound of the clap, then turns to look over the returning squad with her one remaining eye. "My thanks, sir. Was a pleasant change of pace to be the one getting the drop on the heretics for once. Sergeant Colm also acquitted himself more than well; one shot that made all the difference for me to yet breathe and slay more of the Emperor's enemies."
Especially, it seems, as Cheri's Vox buzzes, a message coming in over the company band. "All Squads, return to your designated trenches, immediately." There could be only one reason for that.
The next assault was about to begin, and their company had been chosen to take part.
(OOC: I'll leave you off here. Next update covering the actual start of the assault will come soon, after the weekend (possibly as soon as Monday). Do please try to post reactions to the events that have transpired so far, or any other things you'd like to do immediately before you proceed back to your section of trenches (Such as begging the Medicaes for supplies, or last minute recon)
Celine's good mood at having, by great fortune, retained both of her eyes fades in the wake of the vox. So swiftly back into the fray... she had hoped for time enough to get a better feel for the weight of the chain-grinder, to become more accustomed to the cumbersome inertia of each swing.
Still, there is something that can be done in preparation. As the squad makes their way back to their section, Celine runs ahead, for a small detour towards the dugouts of the RMCSDF. They have suppressing fire enough in the squad that one singular lasgun will not go amiss, and the Commissar shouldn't spare much thought over something that wasn't assigned to her being absent on her person. Hopefully they still have things worth trading for.
Sten exhales as a bead of sweat runs down his brow. He makes a show of being more winded than he actually is as he approaches a Medicae.
"I don't suppose you could spare my friend and i a little something for our weariness before the next push?" he says with a chipper tone tinged with partly fake exhaustion, as he points towards himself and Smoop in the distance
"It was not an easy trip i'll tell you that" he tacks on
Whether or not his plea works he'll rejoin Cheri and the others and get ready for the push
The moment Albert was back at the trenches he was quick to shuck his pack and gun off and onto a crate next to him in the trench. However, he was careful at the last moment to gently lay them down onto the crate, both due to the grenades in his bag and in respect for the stubber's machine spirit.
Though with the items laid out, he was much faster in his movements as he dropped to his knees while pulling out the pig-iron Aquila under his shirt. Shaking hands held the small two-headed eagle as prayers fell from his lips, asking for forgiveness of long past sins and mistakes made as a legionnaire in one breath while another asks for the god-emperor to guide his aim so that he would not miss again as he had this last fight. Such a thing cannot happen again, his inability to hit the heretic had almost gotten his teammate killed and could very well have led to his own death if she had been quick enough to get to him before he could hit her. So he prayed, for the favor of the god emperor so that his Stubber may hit where it's needed and the enemy's would miss anything important. He no idea if it would help him in the end, but he didn't have many ideas outside of it.
You set down onto your knees in the bottom of the trench, and you pray.
As the cries of the soldiers, the barks of the Commissars, and Officers, and the sound of the imperial artillery and gun pits howling their fury against the enemy defensive positions assaults your ears, you kneel and pray.
As a squad rushes past, one man nearly tripping over your prone body, yelling a curse ("Kark!"), you kneel and pray.
As Captain Renfrew, the company CO walks past, giving instructions ("The company will advance at the flare. All squads must reach the gates, or lay down their bodies in a berm of dead before them."), you kneel and pray.
As the Penals are forced into ranks, as bayonets are fixed, as a soldier nervously toys with the breach of the flaregun that will be used to signal the assault, you kneel and pray.
Only as the first mournful notes of the horn are called do you rise from your position, securing your stubber. Only then do you join the rest of the damned in their ranks.
(OOC: Prayer success, gained +1 Reroll for using in the upcoming scene, and +10 to Willpower, stacking with a previous bonus to +20)
Sten exhales as a bead of sweat runs down his brow. He makes a show of being more winded than he actually is as he approaches a Medicae.
"I don't suppose you could spare my friend and i a little something for our weariness before the next push?" he says with a chipper tone tinged with partly fake exhaustion, as he points towards himself and Smoop in the distance
"It was not an easy trip i'll tell you that" he tacks on
Whether or not his plea works he'll rejoin Cheri and the others and get ready for the push
The Medicae simply pushes past you, shoving something into your hands, not even acknowledging your words. Given the man seems to be headed for the rear, you must hypothesize he's been given some leave to not join the upcoming assault-and is hauling arse out of here before someone can countermand them.
Quite unfortunate, and your disbelief at the situation causes what he'd shoved into your chest to hit the floor of the trench, forcing you kneel like a beggar and pick it up out of the muck of the trench bottom.
A single stimm, the vial now covered in dust and silt. Great.
Celine's good mood at having, by great fortune, retained both of her eyes fades in the wake of the vox. So swiftly back into the fray... she had hoped for time enough to get a better feel for the weight of the chain-grinder, to become more accustomed to the cumbersome inertia of each swing.
Still, there is something that can be done in preparation. As the squad makes their way back to their section, Celine runs ahead, for a small detour towards the dugouts of the RMCSDF. They have suppressing fire enough in the squad that one singular lasgun will not go amiss, and the Commissar shouldn't spare much thought over something that wasn't assigned to her being absent on her person. Hopefully they still have things worth trading for.
You don't find the soldiers of Rorschah Mundi hiding in their dugouts as last night, but fully turned out in their trenches in battle gear. They are an eclectic bunch turned out for war: there is little to no uniform standard, with each soldier a unique combination of improvised urban camo, flak, mail, and hive mesh. The only thing close to uniform is the gas masks, and the descending sword emblem of the Hive Spires, painted on pauldrons, helmets, mask filters, and flakplates
"Trade?" Hereditary Sergeant Mariss asks, her voice coming out muffled from her mask filters. "A bit late for that. We've been called out to be the followup if you achieve breakthrough."
You suppose even 'If' is a mighty lot of faith to put in the penal legion. Then again, even you are better equipped than half her men.
"She has a lasgun." Another man points out, rasping
"I suppose she does." Mariss says. "Give it here, and be quick. You don't have much time until you go over the top." She gestures towards the piles of extra kit the RMCSDF soldiers have lying about.
Above the lip of the trench, Imperial artillery continues to hammer away, and the rapid fire ripping noise of stubbers and bolters are sweeping, positions fighting to suppress eachother ahead of the coming attack. Down the trench a ways, you can see Captain Renfrew marching up and down the line, shouting instructions, and ominously, Commissar Shrake, waiting still as a statue at the edge of the firing step. A Penal Legionaire nervously holds a horn in one hand, prepared to give it a blast to signal the assault.
Not a lot of time left, not enough to bargain at least. Just grab something and go.
(OOC: Charm Failure, 5 DoF, so you don't get any extra points out of bargaining, and lose some due to your desperate position. Take 3 points from the list.
-2 Low Quality Glowglobes
-1 Decent Quality Stab Light: Much more reliable than the Glow Globes, can be mounted on a Rifle or Pistol
-High Quality Primitive Axe: Good Melee Damage, but very poor against armored opponents. Decent balancing means it can be used for parrying too.
-2 doses of 'Rorschah Mundi' Stimm. Unknown side effects, which the soldiers swear are minimal
-2 Primitive Smoke Grenades. Unreliable
-1 Frag Grenade
-3 Firebombs (Essentially a Molotov Cocktail)
-Stub Revolver: Decent Damage, but slower firing than Laspistol (12 rounds by default, another pick secures another 12)
-Stub Rifle: Single Shot rifle, with 10 shots. Long range and accurate, but poor in close quarters. (Counts as 2 picks. +10 more rounds for +1 Pick)
-Handcannon: Powerful pistol, firing thumb sized bullets. Highly effective against unarmored targets, reasonably effective against armor. 10 Rounds. High recoil means you need 4+ SB to use it without first bracing (Counts as 2 picks. +10 more rounds for +1 Pick).
-Scrap Plates: Additional scrap armor plates. Enough plates to increase your Armor by +1 AP (To 5 AP), but very heavy, slowing you down (Counts as 2 picks)
-Autoloading Shotgun: Autoloading Shotgun, faster firing than the Pump Action model the Munitorum has supplied the Legion, though less reliable, with 18 shells (Counts as 3 Picks)
-Impact Maul: Essentially a steel ball with a artificial heavy metal core, mounted on a shaft with a slip of rubber for a grip. Slow and two handed, but highly effective against armored opponents for an improvised weapon (Counts as 3 picks)
Jeradresh's shoulders slumped as the vox call arrived, his eyes drifting toward the still imposing gates of the hive and the high walls. He'd rather been hoping they'd be able to keep doing first aid work for a while longer. A few more waves, another few days, then take the glory later after the enemy had been worn down.
He shook his head. The Emperor would protect him regardless, of course, and being able to raise the Imperium's bird flag up high would be a glorious step forward toward securing his release from his present company. Still...It certainly wouldn't hurt to give the Emperor an easier time of things. He had earned good will among some of the other squads, surely, and perhaps that reputation had already spread some. Perhaps he could convince some of them to work more closely with him?
OOC: Apply charm to convince some fellow Penal Legionnaires to serve as my meatshields coordinate with us during the assault.
"Form up to punch our way through by mass?" One of the soldiers from one of the other squads-A, you think, though it's hard to keep track without proper banners. "I suppose-"
"Don't karking listen to him." A soldier says, another with Corporal's stripes, butting in. "We're not properly armored for that. We've got Infantry Flak, rated for small arms and shrapnel."
"Surely-" the first man starts, swayed by your arguments.
The second man grabs the first's collar, pulling him in close. "I told you before, I did six in the Imperial Guard, 78th Haechan Yellow Banner Line Regiment!" He shouts to be heard over the tumult. "Assault like this? You want Heavy Infantry. Bolwercs maybe, or maybe a Velorum Storm regiment with their assault shields! Skitarii, if you're lucky!"
"But-"
"But we don't have that, which means we're doing this with line infantry!" The man says. "That means the name of the karking game is DISPERSION! There are ten thousand Karking heretics up there that'll be shooting at us! Our job is to give them too many targets to bring their heavy weapons to bear on! Sixteen men in close order?! That's not an assault, that's target practice!"
You take the opportunity to slip away while the former soldier berates his comrade. You guess you'll have to rely on the Emperor's benediction.
He is mighty indeed, and judging by the amount of fire lashing at the imperial lines, you'll need every bit of it.
(OOC: Charm failure, 4 DoF, even with a reroll from Smooth Talker. You don't get any buddies meatshielding for you. However, the good advice about dispersion will mean the first attack targeted directly onto you during the assault will be rerolled.)
The squad reconvenes just in time, assembling in their trenches in the shadow of the gates.
Commissar Shrake gives a glance in Sergeant Cheri's direction, but fortunately, everyone has arrived, and the Commissar simply nods and returns to the firing step.
Around, the company is assembling it's last elements for the assault. The Hornsman and the Flaregun man have been joined by a soldier hoisting of all things, a set of company colors. None of the Penals have seen the thing since they were first mustered on Vankila's mustering ground. An Imperial Aquilla, ringed by chained shackles and a pair of crossed lasguns. Proudly embossed above is 593, the regimental number-the high number certainly not a good sign, given how many previous legions must've been formed and destroyed in decades and centuries past. Finally, three words are written in high gothic.
Servitium, Mors, Redemptio
Service, Death, and Redemption.
With the Captain down at the other end of the company briefing another platoon, the next part of preparations falls onto Captain Ansalm. The junior officer, looking positively drunk with joy at this point, points at each of the sergeants of his four remaining squads. "We've been supplied with two smoke grenades per squad. Deploy them to your best throwing arms." He hands two to O'Garan-and then doesn't let them go. "This is not an excuse for cowardice! I expect you to die on that great big heap of rubble like a proper soldier!" Only after a long glare into the other sergeant's eyes does the LT let the grenades go, prompting O'Garan to stumble backward with the sudden release of pressure.
'That goes for you too, Pict Star!" He shouts, shoving two of the can shaped grenades into Cheri's hands. "Your duty is to die having taken as many heretics and traitors into the bowels of the Warp with you! I don't want a single one of you thinking about living through this!
Then, without even a hint of fear, Ansalm steps onto the firing step and points at the hive above, extending his arm above the parapet. "Think only about killing them! Think only about dying with a red Bayonet-" He manages, before a stitching line of rounds slam into the trench and it's sandbag reinforcements. The Lieutenant ducks back down as a spray of spent lead, sand, and bits of shredded flak spray over him. The only evidence of his near brush with death is a shallow cut along the side of his head, which the officer does not seem to even notice.
(OOC: Well, you nearly just lost your CO to a very lucky Heavy Stubber burst there. Good(?) for you, he made his dodge)
To his credit, without even missing a beat, the officer drops back down into the trench proper. "Next! A proper offensive weapon!" The Officer shouts, and something like hope wells in the hearts of the men. Fire support perhaps? Or grenades to clear out the enemy's positions?
The truth is sorely disappointing. "Bolwerc Pattern AL-31 Assault ladder!" The Lt. explains, as he indicates a pair of large, telescoping ladders that have laid against the wall of the trench. "This will carry you up the enemy's ramparts and into their heart, where your deaths will have meaning. Light enough to be carried by a single infantryman, and quickly deployed! The Emperor looks down upon us with some mercy!"
Then, as if in punishment for sins forgotten, the Sergeant points at Cheri. "You Pict Star, detail someone to carry one of these! Void-rat! One of yours too!" He says pointing to O'Garan, who tries bravely to not sigh in exasperation at being saddled with such a burden, and fails.
(OOC: Who's carrying the Assault Ladder? It counts as a Pack item)
Then finally, as if in mercy, there is a hiss of static from Cheri's voxcaster.
A call from somewhere else. Maybe a last minute cancellation, a stay of execution?
Lt. Ansalm nods at the Sergeant, telling her to pick up the vox-telephone.
Another hiss of static.
"Send more...." A voice on the vox says, vaguely familiar.
"Send more Guardsmen." The voice repeats, static beginning to clear. Reinforcements?
"I haven't killed enough of you yet." The voice says, clearer with every second. "Your first attempt was...spirited perhaps, but it did not send me sufficient heretics to offer in tribute to the God Emperor."
A long moment of stunned silence. "I am Cravax the Claw, and I defend these gates. I am undefeated, and untouchable, and so long as I stand before these gates, none shall pass. I have sworn so before the God Emperor, and so shall it be."
A hiss of static. Cheri can see the Lt's jaw is hanging open, and words are struggling to come out. Either at the heresy pouring from the vox caster, or how the heretics had penetrated their voxnet.
"So please, send in the next wave! And the one after that! It is the duty of every righteous Imperial to lay the bodies of the Enemies of Mankind upon the Altar of the Emperor."
A long moment. Cheri reaches for the switch to cut the feed. "So come, heretics! My gates are waiting!"
The transmission dissolves into static, and Cheri's hand falls from the controls, nothing that can be done at this point. Commissar Shrake, suddenly there beside the sergeant, glares at the Penals.
"The enemy offers us nothing but boasts and bravado." The Commissar sneers. "We will offer them steel. You will offer them steel."
The Lt. nods. "You heard the Commissar. Bayonets!"
A hundred blades scrape against leather as bayonets are pulled from scabbards and affixed to the front of lasguns. The Lt. does one last check of his chrono. "We go over the top in one minute, us damned souls. Take your last prayers, for now we die."
One minute until the moment of truth. The way forward was a straight shot for the gates, perhaps half a minute of running straight forward, but that would put the squad into the sights of a lot of guns, with nothing for cover but their smoke grenades.
Alternatively, there was the way pointed out by Smoop, some time earlier. The collection of debris and battle detritus remains, and though it wasn't a straight shot for the gates, it would provide some scanty cover on the approach-but it would surely take longer to make the final push forward, exposing the squad for longer to attacks, even if they might have some scant excuse for cover behind them and those guns.
Alternatively...Cheri can see Confessor Serestra, marching down the line towards the Captain and the company banner. Ansalm had ealier suggested following her, and while Ansalm was a madman who was surely to die, it might not be the worst idea in the world-the woman probably had a Rosarius, the armor of the soul-perhaps, if they were very lucky, and the God Emperor was feeling merciful, she'd soak up all the fire and the squad could shelter behind the aegis of her force field. But if they gambled wrong....
A minute-no, thirty seconds now, to make the choice, and to put aside all regrets.
The Bloody Gates await.
(OOC: Next update Thursday Night. Before then, I need which route you're taking @xjax1 , whose carrying the Ladder, and how you use the Smoke grenades.
-Cheri: 10/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, +10 to Wp for charge
-Jerad: 5/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 2 Rerolls, +10 to WP for charge, First attack on him rerolled
-Albert, 11/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 167/200 rounds in stubber, +20 to Wp for Charge, 1 Reroll
-Nyla, 12/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Griseo: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 1/5 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
With haste informing the choice in equipment, Celine scoops up the firebombs and sole frag grenade on offer, stuffing them into any available space on her webbing. Finally, her hands dart out and pick up the stablight, before quickly making her way back to her squad. A hopeful choice, perhaps. Power failures or deliberate sabotage can plunge entire hab-blocks inside a Hive into pitch darkness.
Taking it is gambling on the squad actually getting through the gates. Through Cravax the Claw, and whatever other defenses the heretics have awaiting them.
Feeling lighter in her steps without the looted lasgun, Celine hurries over to her comrades.
Albert slouched along the line they were standing at, hoping that making himself slightly shorter would keep the target off of him. Whether it would work or not was debatable, especially since he imagined that his stubber made him a larger target than his stature.
Even now, his prayers still rattled around his mind, giving him a feeling of confidence that may otherwise not have been there. With his faith boosting him, and his make shift attempt to stay unremarkable, his hands trembled a little less at the prospects of this charge. Even still he knew what kind of danger would be involved, no matter the route they took the distance needing to be covered could very well get them all killed. But, no matter the danger he knew his duty, life or death in the legion to make up for his crime. No matter the outcome of this mission, he did his duty and he could be proud of that.
Lt. Ansalm nods at the Sergeant, telling her to pick up the vox-telephone.
Another hiss of static.
"Send more...." A voice on the vox says, vaguely familiar.
"Send more Guardsmen." The voice repeats, static beginning to clear. Reinforcements?
"I haven't killed enough of you yet." The voice says, clearer with every second. "Your first attempt was...spirited perhaps, but it did not send me sufficient heretics to offer in tribute to the God Emperor."
A long moment of stunned silence. "I am Cravax the Claw, and I defend these gates. I am undefeated, and untouchable, and so long as I stand before these gates, none shall pass. I have sworn so before the God Emperor, and so shall it be."
A hiss of static. Cheri can see the Lt's jaw is hanging open, and words are struggling to come out. Either at the heresy pouring from the vox caster, or how the heretics had penetrated their voxnet.
"So please, send in the next wave! And the one after that! It is the duty of every righteous Imperial to lay the bodies of the Enemies of Mankind upon the Altar of the Emperor."
A long moment. Cheri reaches for the switch to cut the feed. "So come, heretics! My gates are waiting!"
The transmission dissolves into static, and Cheri's hand falls from the controls, nothing that can be done at this point. Commissar Shrake, suddenly there beside the sergeant, glares at the Penals.
Cheri cut the line and swore under her breath as the Commissar appeared, swallowing hard as she hears the words "Affix Bayonets" come from his mouth, she knew that meant this really was the point of no return. Even as they were affixing Baynets, Cheri turned to her squad and begin frantically relaying all the information she could, gathering what she could from them and formulating a plan in the precious seconds they had left.
One minute until the moment of truth. The way forward was a straight shot for the gates, perhaps half a minute of running straight forward, but that would put the squad into the sights of a lot of guns, with nothing for cover but their smoke grenades.
Alternatively, there was the way pointed out by Smoop, some time earlier. The collection of debris and battle detritus remains, and though it wasn't a straight shot for the gates, it would provide some scanty cover on the approach-but it would surely take longer to make the final push forward, exposing the squad for longer to attacks, even if they might have some scant excuse for cover behind them and those guns.
Alternatively...Cheri can see Confessor Serestra, marching down the line towards the Captain and the company banner. Ansalm had ealier suggested following her, and while Ansalm was a madman who was surely to die, it might not be the worst idea in the world-the woman probably had a Rosarius, the armor of the soul-perhaps, if they were very lucky, and the God Emperor was feeling merciful, she'd soak up all the fire and the squad could shelter behind the aegis of her force field. But if they gambled wrong....
Cheri swallowed, hard as she considered the three options at hand, taking a deep breath and slowly nodding "Alright, lets take the route Smoop pointed out earlier, her perception hasn't failed us so far." She said, shifting on her feet before sighing "Take cover on the way up, then use all our smokes on the final approach, and try not to be gunned down by the enemy in the process. I... I don't think we will make it out of this, but Let's do our best to make it to the gates, give the traitors a little what for before we kick the bucket" She chuckles a bit and turned to the trenches, getting ready for the whistle to go off, and their dance with death to start.
Cheri swallowed, hard as she considered the three options at hand, taking a deep breath and slowly nodding "Alright, lets take the route Smoop pointed out earlier, her perception hasn't failed us so far." She said, shifting on her feet before sighing "Take cover on the way up, then use all our smokes on the final approach, and try not to be gunned down by the enemy in the process. I... I don't think we will make it out of this, but Let's do our best to make it to the gates, give the traitors a little what for before we kick the bucket" She chuckles a bit and turned to the trenches, getting ready for the whistle to go off, and their dance with death to start.
A long moment, as everyone clutches their weapons tight, and whisper their last prayers.
"Company!" Captain Remfrew shouts. "Stand ready!"
As if to back up his words, a line of tracers stitch along the front of the trench, spitting up sand and bits of flakplating.
"Five!" The Captain shouts. Why did he have to draw this out?
"Four!" He bellows, trying to drown out the sound of enemy artillery and his own fear.
Confessor Serestra steps up next to the company banner. She pauses a moment to draw her gilt Bolt pistol and chainsword. The standard bearer steps up behind her.
"Three!" The Captain hollers, the word mostly drowned out by a bursting shell.
Commissar Shrake takes one last look down the line, as if looking for shirkers, cowards, or traitors. His eyes fall on Cheri like thunderbolts, and for a moment it seems preferable to face the storm of iron, then remain here, to be under those eyes for a moment more.
"Two!" The call comes.
The gates loom above, the rust red of their shattered hinges the same color as the deluge that shall soon follow.
"One!" Hands are white knuckle tight on weapons, and boots are already scrabbling against the bottom of the trench, trying to find purchase for when the entire company will spring out at once. There wasn't time for prayers, last regrets, anything. There was only the dread wait for the last call, for the flare and the horn to call them to account.
Each legionnaire, each condemned soul, stands there in a moment that feels as if it lasts forever. The sound of the artillery seems to disappear, the presence of comrades and hated rivals and meatshields and everything else a penal might call the ranked masses around them withdraws, even old aches and pains. Everything was the tension, the long wait for the moment, for the iron dice of war to be rolled, and the skeins of fate to unwind.
A moment that lasts forever.
Then, the tension is shattered by a long, mournful note from the company hornsman, and a cry of "CHARGGEEE!" from the Captain. The pop of the flare going off and the burst of it's light far above aren't even noticeable as hundreds of pairs of boots slam against the earth, hundreds of arms pulling their owners out from the trench and out into the hell above.
The squad's view of the battlefield beyond, of the land they will be traversing, is, were one of an artistic persuasion, a glimpse into a Hell of man's own making, an approximation of the Warp made manifest in the materium. The ground is chewed up by the impact of millions of bullets and small shells, or simply disrupted and blown apart by the impact of artillery. The remains of the first assault lay where they fell, great piles of shattered bodies and ruined lives, rust red pools of their vitae leaching into the soil. Discarded equipment, the remains of rifles and helmets and boots and scraps of uniform from the fallen, discarded where they fell.
The sound is a constant assault on the ears, somehow worse than it was down in the trenches, a hammering storm of concussion waves from detonating shells and the crack of solid rounds punching past, the whistling noise of lines of tracers whipping by, and by now, the screams. The smell is a sharp iron stench, the great miasma of the dead and dying in their immolated thousands.
Fortunately, none of Cheri's squad, where they of the right mindset to fully take in this hellish vista, they certainly don't have the time. They are rushing forward, boots desperately eating up ground, for the scant cover that Smoop had spotted earlier. For some rough semblance of salvation amid this iron reckoning.
As ever, there is resistance, and though it must be paltry compared to the true firepower the defenses can bring to bear, it feels as if they are advancing through a solid wall of bullets. Albert hisses as rounds find the soft parts of his flak armor, flattening against the armor and leaving much of his body stinging with the impact, even as he pushes forward. Nyla finds herself stumbling as a round deflects off her helmet, the flattened round barely spinning away from her face. Griseo is not so lucky, and one round streaks across her exposed face just above her left eye, spraying blood and bits of flesh into the wound. The trooper goes to one knee, crying from the pain of the flesh wound, while next to her, Jerad forges forward, one arm up in front of his face to guard his eyes, thanking the Emperor for his luck in being untouched.
The squad, minus Griseo, finally manages to stumble into cover, the ruins and remains of detritus of previous ages seeming a treasure of incalculable worth in this storm of death. Beyond, they can witness Lt. Ansalm's platoon command squad pushing forward. The Officer raises one arm, daring his men forward, when the shadow of death crosses his path for a fraction of a heartbeat. One, then two men are destroyed completely and utterly, their chest cavities blasted apart as if struck down by the God Emperor himself. A third throws herself in front of the Lt, her arm and most of her shoulder socket annihilated by the 1' bolt meant for Ansalm. The madman does not flinch but simply pushes forward over the twitching, dying woman's body. "Forward!"
To the left, O'Garan's squad pushes forward, running for the breach with desperate speed. One heartbeat, they are there, the next there is a detonation and a great plume of smoke and soil. Obed, who'd been rushing forward madly with the breaching ladder clutched in his arms, disappears entirely, nothing left of him but a pair of boots and the twisted, broken steel of the ladder. Sergeant O'Garan is hurled from her feet and lands, unmoving, some distance away. The rest, propelled by fear, rush right on by her broken form, clawing desperate meters forward with each footfall.
At the least, Obed's death saves the lives of the squad, as alerted by a split second gut feeling, Nyla shouts to halt-just a meter ahead of a tripwire strung between the rusting hulk of an agri-hauler and a half destroyed rockcrete wall. Spinning on their heels with adrenaline fueled dexterity, the squad moves around, and then pushes forward again. By now the punishing hails of rifle fire are joined by artillery that is hammering down amid the great masses of men. A line of shells slams into the ground. One annihilates a squad, and sends more from their feet, bodies broken by overpressure. The next slams down a scant twenty meters behind the main body of the platoon, and soldiers instinctively duck prone into whatever cover they can find-and doom themselves as grasping fingers of tracers claw at them, cutting them down where they lie.
A third slams into the ruins, barely ten meters from the squad's position. Broken masonry and rusted steel absorbs most of the blast wave, but soldiers who catch the aftershock stagger from the physical and aural blow. Celine half collapses against wall, and Cheri, one hand clasped to a bleeding ear, falls to a knee, all cognition failing. The others, including a recovered Griseo, push forward as even as their eardrums ring with agony. The gates were everything: Salvation if they moved quickly, death if they did not. They were redemption as they were the punishment they were condemned too. Nothing else mattered.
Beyond the scant cover of the ruins, the rest of the company, thinned down to a vague cloud of bodies and steel rushing forward are making ground. The Confessor, surrounded by a great halo of golden light, leads the way, her chainsword raised and pointed directly at the gate, even as the enemy does their best to kill her. A great hammering storm of bullets, shells, and even mines burst against the light of her field, manifesting as golden starbursts that leave burning cracks in the web of light that protects the priestess. Still, it holds for now, and were one the type to care, it is certain some soldiers escaped death by the very fact of the shield absorbing enemy fire. Not all, for to her side, a sergeant and four of his men vanish in a deluge of blood, wiped away by a momentary burst of fire from one of the gun towers looming over the gates. One of the Priestess's functionaries drops, choking on their own blood, as a bullet slips past the field and opens the unfortunate's throat. The Company standard flies proudly, gore from dead men dripping from it's ragged folds.
Up and down the ragged line of advancing legionaries, more die every second. Bullets find weak areas in armor or the open visors of helmets and they die. Shells slam into the earth, shrapnel opening arteries, bones shattering, organs bursting, and they die. Mines burst, breaking legs and ripping out the guts of those unfortunate, and they die. Boots trample over the fallen and wounded, and they die. Wounded men and women scream for their mothers, for the emperor, for mercy, for water, for salvation, as they hold in their guts and apply vain pressure to their severed arteries, and they die. Rippling chains of fire that are bolt shells find squads and everywhere they touch men and women are destroyed so completely that it seems a profound understatement to describe them as merely dying.
Death stalks the battlefield, the Reaper drinking deeply of the lives of man.
But, somehow, as if by the sheer bloody minded determination of their officers, or the selfish, desperate desire to live driving them forward, the forwardmost elements of the assault reach the feet of the gate. Even as their comrades die in droves behind them, the Confessor leads elements of the Legion forward into the ruin of the gates, up a stairway of rubble and martyrs, and to their desired reward. Bolstered by the very image, and the flare that goes up to announce it, the rest push forward, trying to eat up the last few dozen meters by the pounding of their boots and hearts.
Amid the ruins, Cheri's squad continues forward, desperate to not die here while their fellows reached salvation. As if realizing the cresting assault is a real danger, even more firepower turns to hammer the remaining stragglers. A great storm of iron slams into the ruins, punishing salvos of heavy caliber rounds punching through every gap between ruined building and shattered vehicle. Smoop staggers, a round deflecting off the rim of her helmet and taking a large chunk of flesh from her cheek. Blood splashes across one eye, but the auger operator pushes forward, fighting through the pain. Albert staggers as a heavy round slams into his helmet, nearly knocking him from his feet, but he stumbles forward, encumbered under the weight of backpack and heavy stubber.
Behind them, Cheri, struggling to her feet, is met by the cresting wave of the hail of bullets. Rounds punch through the rockcrete wall she'd staggered next to, spraying hails of shrapnel and bits of broken bullet into her armor. More pain joins the ringing in her head as bullets flatten against her chest plate, greaves, and the soft armor protecting her lower arms. Next to her Celine struggles to her feet and pushes forward alongside Griseo, expecting the sergeant just behind them.
They are to be disappointed.
As the punishing wave of stubber fire begins to peter out, the next challenge the defenders throw against them starts up. A great overlapping thunder, and a wave of burning comets in the smoke and iron choked air punches at the ruins. Celine curses and ducks as a heavy bolter round punches past her, missing by milimeters. One of the misaimed burst hits a column next to Griseo, bursting like a hand grenade. The former worker stumbles, pain exploding through her chest from the impact, and stumbles, but manages to come to her feet a second later.
Cheri, finally stumbling to her feet and moving to catch up with the rest of her squad, isn't so lucky. Even as the ringing begins to subside and she is able to take something resembling conscious action, one of those burning comets slams into the broken, shredded remnants of the wall she'd shelter behind. Pain, even worse then the bullets and the blast that had already delayed her, and probably doomed her. Pain, and then darkness, a vague feeling of falling, and then, nothing.
Celine tosses a look over her shoulder to find Sergeant Cheri, sprawled amid the ruin. Everything below her calf on her left leg is gone, gore pumping from the wound in a great, sanguine pool at her remaining foot. It doesn't take a medicae to tell the wound will swiftly be mortal from bloodloss alone, unless the sergeant and former Pict Star receives immediate medical attention.
But, it was not only a question of Medicae alone. Above, the gates loom, close even to Celine, lagging behind the squad. Another thirty seconds perhaps of running, and she'd be there. It'd take the same amount of time to bandage the sergeant, to give her a sliver of a chance out here, and every second she, or anyone else who chose to gamble with what remained of their life spent here would be like dicing with death. Logically, it was no choice at all, but the matter of redemption and the matter of comradery were not matters of logic.
Whatever choice is made, it would need to be made quickly.
The Bloody Gates wait for no man.
(OOC: Cheri is unconscious, missing her left foot, and suffering Blood Loss (2), mechanically this means she's likely doomed to bleed to death rapidly over the next ten or so turns. There is a chance if she makes some difficult toughness tests, she can stop the bleeding herself, but it's not especially likely with her fatigue penalties. Her receiving basic first aid means she has a chance (not a guarantee) to survive long enough to be found later by Medicaes if the assault is successful. Otherwise, her death is near guaranteed.
Celine is close enough to reach Cheri with a half move, while everyone else would need to run backwards to reach her. Position wise, most of the squad is two turns of running (one turn in cover, one in the open) away from reaching the gates. Celine, Cheri, and Griseo are three turns of running (two in cover, one in the open) from reaching the gates.
I leave the choice between mercy and personal salvation to you.
-Cheri: 0/14 Wounds, 3/7 Fatigue, Unconscious, Blood Loss (2), Lost Left Foot, Useless Leg (Left)
-Jerad: 8/16 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 2 Rerolls, +10 to WP for charge, First attack on him rerolled
-Albert, 5/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, 167/200 rounds in stubber, +20 to Wp for Charge
-Nyla, 7/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Griseo: 5/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Damaged Torso (-10 to Agility, -5 to Ws, T, and S)
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 1/5 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
It is here, in this moment, that Celine makes the conscious realization that she knows very little indeed about her Sergeant. She has heard her referred to as a Pict Star, and she had once remarked, seemingly in jest (she well and truly hoped it had been in jest), of being here for some grievous slight against a member of the Ministorum. Little about her conduct had shown proper reverence, or even what shreds of remorse are needed to at least regret the consequences wrought by an unwise action.
Here, in this moment, no one would judge her for leaving her behind, for rushing towards the last barrier between the Imperium's justice and Hive Lozepath heedless of her. No officer or Commissar would find her at fault for it.
No one but the Emperor could look upon her and find her wanting, if she did that.
Swift, panicked strides carry Celine to her fallen Sergeant's side, a swift toss of a smoke grenade to grant concealment from the enemy's sight as she slides to a kneel, hands scrambling through the Medicae kit to staunch the flow of vitae from the stump of a leg.
No one but the Emperor could look upon her and find her wanting, if she left her to die.
It was pandemonium, that's all Albert could think of as he raced across the field. It felt like everything was blurring together as the pain of his rapidly bruising torso seemed to merge with the adrenaline running through his veins, leaving everything outside of whats in front of Albert distant and hazy for him. The only thing he could focus on was trying to stay in cover when he could and running as fast as he bodily could towards the distant gate.
Not that running was easy with what he was wearing, the heavy stubber felt awkward even as his heavy ammo pack was just loose enough to hit his back every couple of steps as it bounced along with his run. But no matter the distraction or obstacle Albert kept moving, he refused to stop moving no matter the reason. A combination of faith and an instinctive need to survive kept him running into the teeth of a fortress, one that had already killed so many and would likely kill many more.
(Albert is sticking to the plan, running with the others and hoping the smoke gets them through alive.)
Smoop was past caring for anyone. Not her squadmates, not the officers, not herself, not even (dontsayitdonteventhinkityouthoughtit) the Emperor Himself.
All that existed was fear, and pain, and a very small, very fragile bundle of life that wanted very badly to keep living.
Her helmet had already deflected two rounds. One harmlessly, the other gashing her face. The next would punch through, take her brains out like - she couldn't even recall any names any more, not even her own.
Fear. Pain. Life.
She screamed long and loud as she sprinted for the Gates.
Death surrounded Jerad. Burning legs propelled him step by agonizing step over the bodies of the dead draped across the rockcrete, glassy eyes staring ever upward toward a heaven only they could see. Burning lungs choked with exhaustion pushed him on as death screamed from above, plucking entire squads from the world and raining them like broken toys. Burning eyes, wet with tears he didn't know were exhaustion, fear or sorrow, witnessed every life claimed by the cold hand of death. Obed, the horse thief, who had hoped to survive for his comrade Iven, gone in the blink of an eye. O'Garan, tossed aside like a doll the gods no longer cared for. The sergeant, the damned pict star...She was gone, wasn't she? She'd staggered behind and now she was gone. Dead, no doubt, and now he was left in charge of these poor wretches. He shouldn't care for their deaths, he told himself. Perhaps if he kept telling himself it enough he'd actually believe it.
"Smo-" He wheezed through his raw throat. "Smoke! Smoke!" he choked out, glancing wildly around for their grenadier. But she too was gone. She was running back, her smoke grenade popping. Was she running back for their sergeant? Fleeing? He looked away, sure that he would see the collar around her neck alight.
Death. Death. Death. It was all this cruel and miserable universe could seem to give, and yet...And yet it parted before him like theater curtains. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, his mouth dry with terror, and yet somewhere within him a manic laugh bubbled up through his wheezing throat as he scrabbled over broken rubble and bodies. Faith warred with animal terror. He wanted to run. He wanted to curl up in the rubble and hide, praying Celine would return with the sergeant's smoke grenade.
He had been here before, walking through woe and death. It could not touch him then. It would not touch him now. No, the Emperor protected. Even the Horus and all of his mother's gods could not send Him to true death. He alone had overcome the uncaring stars.
Ahead he could see it. The golden light of the Confessor's Conversion Field, no true miracle but a beckoning from the God-Emperor onward regardless. The aquila banner, crossed with lasguns, rising high, despite the blood staining its fabric. Even haloed in the chains of the Imperium's barbarian ignorance, it called him on toward the Light.
"For-forward!" He coughed through the smoke, waving a hand onward. "He protects!"
And step by terrified step, ragged breath by ragged breath, Jeradresh pushed himself toward the Bloody Gates. The Emperor loved him. The Emperor loved him. The Emperor loved him and death could not claim him.
It was happening! IT WAS HAPPENING!
Holmgaard ran foward, laughing in a mixture of terror and jubilation, as his feet carried him through the smoke towards the gates.
His fumbling hand found its way to the monosword attached to his hip as he unsheathed it and raised it above his head, while dodging potholes and rubble.
This was IT! This is what it had all led up to! Every straggler he had found in the darkness, every wrong turn and bend, it had all led up to THIS MOMENT.
Here he would indulge in the battles between him and whoever stood in his way, or he would die trying. IT WAS PERFECT!
His feet carried him forward, and his laughter followed him all the while.
(Holmgaard follows the others, though i imagine near the front)
One last push, a short dash across open ground, and they'd be at the gates. They'd be out of the worst danger.
That would be the thought pulsing through the head of what remains of what was now Jerad's squad, if indeed any of them where capable of thinking in this hellstorm. Fortunately it is not something that needs to be thought-it is a bone deep axiom, a commandment written in fire, terror, and blood.
Even as Jerad is shouting to push forward, that the Emperor would protect them, the enemy is replying. More shells slam down into the gore soaked earth. Jerad, Albert, and Sven, already running, are out of the blast radius. Smoop, just a foot behind, is caught at the edge of the blast. The Auspex operator is blasted to her knees, eardrums ringing.
Pushing out into the open is like opening a floodgate of lead. Bullets and shells descend from the walls like a hellish rain. Ahead, a laggardly squad in the shadow of the gate is halved as a hail of stubber rounds hammers down men under it's sheer weight. Their sergeant drops, an unlucky slug ripping her jaw off entirely and sending her to the ground in a jet of gore, while two more join her, armor deforming and shattering under the onslaught. Another squad strikes a mine, the few maddened survivors running straight through the cloud of gore and and soil left in the wake of their vanguard.
Thirty meters. A woman to the side of the squad's advance has one hand clutching the stump of her leg, the other desperately trying to apply pressure to the opened jugular of a friend, screaming "Medicae! He needs a Medicae!"
Twenty Five Meters. Far above, an enemy guntower detonates, an impossibly lucky Imperial artillery shell finding a weak point. Somewhere nearby, someone finds the breath to cheer, but it is a faint noise, carried away by the wind and concussive waves of enemy artillery.
Twenty Meters. Six men, destroyed utterly by a heavy weapon above. Jerad doesn't even notice their blood spatter striking his uniform, doesn't even hear their dying screams.
Fifteen Meters. An officer, visible at the foot of the gates. He is waving the soldiers forward, shouting something inaudible in the maelstrom. A penal falls, a wound at his hip pumping out his lifeblood. His hand reaches for the Officer, as if he could pull himself across those last few meters, as if he'd make it.
Ten Meters. An overlapping series of screeches, signalling doom. All three who'd made it this far, and even Nyla, some ways behind, can feel in their bones.
Nine meters. Sven pulls forward, eating up the last few meters in a mad attempt to fling himself at the gate like a bullet.
Eight Meters. Jerad steps to the side, spacing, and keeps running. Dispersion was the name of the game.
Seven Meters. The hammer falls. Fresh series of artillery shells, fired at the very foot of the hive, slam to earth. This close to their own positions, the shells are inaccurate. Fully half the salvo waste themselves on empty space. One lands amid a pile of wounded, sending them to the Emperor in a thousand pieces. One hammers to earth just short of Smoop, and the auspex gunner is forced to just keep moving even as her head rattles inside of her helmet like a ball bearing inside a sock.
The final shell lands three meters behind Albert Wand.
The blast falls like a hammer, and the gunner himself disappears amid the shockwave and displaced Earth with whatever might've passed for a scream or a death rattle swallowed by the hammering force. Jerad, who'd been just behind Sven and closer, barely escapes, thanking the Emperor for the advice about dispersion, and that shell just being a bit short of him. Shame about about Wand, but he was surely dead. A glance back and...
Albert lies amid the disturbed earth. His armor is shattered, the broken plates hanging off him like a funeral shroud. His right arm and left leg are both bent at the wrong angles, and both his ears are bleeding, red streaming from the destroyed eardrums. Worse, his torso looks akin to what happens when someone has taken a sledgehammer to a wall. The upper chest is caved in, several ribs no doubt broken, and the whole area a mass of crimson. Jerad can only watch as the mutilated man's chest attempts to rise, his brutalized lungs valiantly working to keep him breathing even as his ribs spear into his chest cavity like knives of betrayer, and his lacerated heart tries desperately to pump blood to his brain even as if it spills out onto the hungry earth.
Seven Meters. All he'd have to do would be turn around, forget this, and sprint away. Forget the dead man's name, forget that image, seek his redemption by arms as was promised.
It would be simple.
Then, with only a split second's more hesitation, Jerad throws himself to the ground. Grunting with the exertion, he hooks one arm around the dying man's good shoulder, and then with the other arm, pulls himself forward. He abandons the Stubber, the backpack of precious ammo too complicated to remove even as he struggles with the weight.
Six meters. A spray of autogun fire streaks past, chasing Smoop as the woman runs right past her corporal. Jerad can only watch as the auspex operator manages the last few meters, reaching the feet of the gate with Sven, and a few hundred others.
Five meters. A hail of fire from above, another clawing finger of doom reaching for him. Jerad can only ignore the sudden shock of pain from his forehead and the trickle of iron that runs past his lips. It is joined by another spear of pain at his lower back, where a bullet must've barely deflected off his back plate. He grits his teeth and keeps going.
Four meters. A strung up corpse, all that was once a person bleeding out into the now sticky and red tendrils of razor wire. Second by agonizing second Jerad maneuvers around it, even as bullets strike at the body, at the ground around him, at the wire.
Three Meters. Elbow and forearm into the dirt, pull forward, repeat. Elbow and forearm, pull forward, repeat. A scream, somewhere far away. All he cared about was the gates, and the slowly fading breathing of the man strung over his back.
Elbow and forearm....instead of the course soil, or the soft flesh of a corpse, Jerad's elbow strikes something hard. He almost thinks nothing of it, probably just a discarded weapon, but an image flashes into his mind. Obed, the ladder in his hands, the sudden blast...
He diverts around that spot. crawling forward. Two meters.
A mortar detonation, somewhere behind him.
One Meter.
His elbow strikes the ground, and a hand reaches to grab it, two more grabbing at the shape on his back. Jerad, nothing left but faith, accepts the hand, and a pair of penals pull the Corporal up into the rubble at the very foot of the gate, sheltered against the enemy guns.
What remains of Squad-123-F shelter there, providing security for a few wounded, of which Albert is quickly shifted to join. Corporal Hansan, now in command of the five that remain, nods towards the remnants of 123-B. Jerad, Smoop, and Sven. No sign of Griseo, and Celine was likely dead along with Cheri.
"Warp of a thing, that was." Hansan manages. "Thought you wouldn't be joining us. Guess you get to join us on the climb."
The three survivors glance up. The rubble of the destroyed gate and the infrastructure behind it have created what seems almost like a giant stairway, a crimson ascent towards the embrace of redemption and the Emperor. Some ways above they can see the brilliant light of the Priestess' refractor field, and the red lightning of lasguns exchanging fire with a thundercloud of muzzle flashes and detonating grenades. The Standard, visible as it waves the penals forward, somehow still untouched by shot or shell. Other positions, taken by storm with the bayonet as the penals fight their way up the stair, and the enemy's forward defenses make them pay in blood. Already, more than a few bodies lay where they have fallen, or else have descended down the stair bonelessly.
But it is a lesser number than the losses getting here. There is cover, and less defenses in position to sweep the rubble. The way up would be arduous, but not suicide. So long as the standard flew, there was a chance.
The air is hard to breathe, whether from the smoke, or from the sheer amount of death choking everything. The iron stench of fresh blood joins it as Celine stops at the foot of the critically wounded sergeant Cheri.
The wound is ragged, the flesh torn apart like meat ran through a dicing machine. The broken shin bone is sticking out of the gore, and even a hardened hiver can't help but wince in horror. Of the foot itself, there is no sign. Probably painting the soil she was currently kneeling in.
Shaking hands tear open a physik kit, spools of gauze desperately being applied. Nothing can seem to stop the bleeding, and over what feels like an eternity, the soldier fights against the hemorrhage, gore soaking through her gloves, her forearms, the plates of her legs, and into her boots, caking and soaking everything.
Even as the world itself shakes and the enemy artillery howls it's hatred at all that remain here in this hell, as her hearing goes, and slugs punch through the smoke to land in dangerously close strafing patterns all around, she fights. Finally, she manages to stem the flow, if only by wrapping the entire lower leg in gauze, and using the torn edges of Cheri's uniform trousers as a makeshift tourniquet. By the time she's done, the former pict star is ashen like a ghost, but she still breathes shallowly. It would have to be enough.
Gingerly dragging the sergeant behind a stout stone wall, and relieving her of the boxy Voxset, Celine takes in one breath, and then another. A quick prayer, a desperate call to at least let one of them live.
Then she runs.
The first few seconds go well. The enemy, focusing on easier prey, only has the occasional rifle and stubber burst for her, and she takes that on her armor or the low stone walls she dodges past. She leaps over a section of barbed wire, ducks under a burst of stubber fire along a section of low wall, and then comes to the edge of the area of cover.
No man's land. There is no sign of her squad, just death and the detritus it leaves behind. The death she must now confront head on.
No moment to spare to pray, Celine hurls the last smoke grenade as far as it will go, waits a second for it to disperse as rounds thud against rockcrete cover, and then springs out of cover just ahead of an autocannon tracking towards her. She makes it to the smoke cloud just ahead of the spray of murderous shells, and keeps going.
She can't count the the meters with the smoke obscuring her vision, and for this lack of vision or thought as she sprints forward she can only realize how lucky she must've been in hindsight. Perhaps halfway to the gate, stumbling over bodies, something clicks beneath a boot. She's already moving, running, too late to throw herself prone or behind some form of cover when the frag mine detonates somewhere beneath her.
She stumbles forward with the concussion, ears ringing, back screaming in pain, and shrapnel deflecting off her arm and shoulder plates. She'll never know why she was alive-perhaps a body had obscured the mine, or perhaps it had simply been an almost dud. Perhaps she was blessed. It matters not, as legs screaming and body aching from a dozen wounds, she manages the last few meters to reach the gate, practically falling to her knees at the foot of the great structure, if not for the knowledge such would be folly. Her hands pull her up to the first layer of rubble, and people, some she recognizes from her squad, help her up to the first layer.
(OOC: You really just got extremely lucky there: Stepped on a mine...but it rolled double 1s for damage)
Only three others, four if she counted the remains of Albert. All exhausted and wounded, her included-but they were alive. That had to count for something.
"That's the last of the stragglers. We can't stay here." Hansan says, stating the obvious. "Commissar is going to look askance." The young Corporal-turned sergeant turns to the remains of what was once Cheri's squad. "We're going to need to move out in at most a minute."
The rest is unspoken-use that time wisely. It might be the last you get.
(OOC: You have about a minute before you need to start pushing up to join the main body of the assault. IF you want to try first aid on someone or yourself, trying to quickly scavenge the wounded or dead for kit, or anything else, now would be the time
-Cheri: 0/14 Wounds, 9/7 Fatigue, Unconscious, Lost Left Foot, Useless Leg (Left). In cover and bandaged.
-Jerad: 0/16 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 1 Reroll
-Albert, 0/13 Wounds, 12/6 Fatigue, Dying (30 Minutes), Disabled Torso, Unconscious, Damaged Heart, Damaged Lungs
-Nyla, 1/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Griseo: 0/13 Wounds, 7/6 Fatigue, Unconscious, Disabled Leg (Right), trapped somewhere in No man's land.
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 0/5 Fatigue
One last push, a short dash across open ground, and they'd be at the gates. They'd be out of the worst danger.
That would be the thought pulsing through the head of what remains of what was now Jerad's squad, if indeed any of them where capable of thinking in this hellstorm. Fortunately it is not something that needs to be thought-it is a bone deep axiom, a commandment written in fire, terror, and blood.
Even as Jerad is shouting to push forward, that the Emperor would protect them, the enemy is replying. More shells slam down into the gore soaked earth. Jerad, Albert, and Sven, already running, are out of the blast radius. Smoop, just a foot behind, is caught at the edge of the blast. The Auspex operator is blasted to her knees, eardrums ringing.
Pushing out into the open is like opening a floodgate of lead. Bullets and shells descend from the walls like a hellish rain. Ahead, a laggardly squad in the shadow of the gate is halved as a hail of stubber rounds hammers down men under it's sheer weight. Their sergeant drops, an unlucky slug ripping her jaw off entirely and sending her to the ground in a jet of gore, while two more join her, armor deforming and shattering under the onslaught. Another squad strikes a mine, the few maddened survivors running straight through the cloud of gore and and soil left in the wake of their vanguard.
Thirty meters. A woman to the side of the squad's advance has one hand clutching the stump of her leg, the other desperately trying to apply pressure to the opened jugular of a friend, screaming "Medicae! He needs a Medicae!"
Twenty Five Meters. Far above, an enemy guntower detonates, an impossibly lucky Imperial artillery shell finding a weak point. Somewhere nearby, someone finds the breath to cheer, but it is a faint noise, carried away by the wind and concussive waves of enemy artillery.
Twenty Meters. Six men, destroyed utterly by a heavy weapon above. Jerad doesn't even notice their blood spatter striking his uniform, doesn't even hear their dying screams.
Fifteen Meters. An officer, visible at the foot of the gates. He is waving the soldiers forward, shouting something inaudible in the maelstrom. A penal falls, a wound at his hip pumping out his lifeblood. His hand reaches for the Officer, as if he could pull himself across those last few meters, as if he'd make it.
Ten Meters. An overlapping series of screeches, signalling doom. All three who'd made it this far, and even Nyla, some ways behind, can feel in their bones.
Nine meters. Sven pulls forward, eating up the last few meters in a mad attempt to fling himself at the gate like a bullet.
Eight Meters. Jerad steps to the side, spacing, and keeps running. Dispersion was the name of the game.
Seven Meters. The hammer falls. Fresh series of artillery shells, fired at the very foot of the hive, slam to earth. This close to their own positions, the shells are inaccurate. Fully half the salvo waste themselves on empty space. One lands amid a pile of wounded, sending them to the Emperor in a thousand pieces. One hammers to earth just short of Smoop, and the auspex gunner is forced to just keep moving even as her head rattles inside of her helmet like a ball bearing inside a sock.
The final shell lands three meters behind Albert Wand.
The blast falls like a hammer, and the gunner himself disappears amid the shockwave and displaced Earth with whatever might've passed for a scream or a death rattle swallowed by the hammering force. Jerad, who'd been just behind Sven and closer, barely escapes, thanking the Emperor for the advice about dispersion, and that shell just being a bit short of him. Shame about about Wand, but he was surely dead. A glance back and...
Albert lies amid the disturbed earth. His armor is shattered, the broken plates hanging off him like a funeral shroud. His right arm and left leg are both bent at the wrong angles, and both his ears are bleeding, red streaming from the destroyed eardrums. Worse, his torso looks akin to what happens when someone has taken a sledgehammer to a wall. The upper chest is caved in, several ribs no doubt broken, and the whole area a mass of crimson. Jerad can only watch as the mutilated man's chest attempts to rise, his brutalized lungs valiantly working to keep him breathing even as his ribs spear into his chest cavity like knives of betrayer, and his lacerated heart tries desperately to pump blood to his brain even as if it spills out onto the hungry earth.
Seven Meters. All he'd have to do would be turn around, forget this, and sprint away. Forget the dead man's name, forget that image, seek his redemption by arms as was promised.
It would be simple.
Then, with only a split second's more hesitation, Jerad throws himself to the ground. Grunting with the exertion, he hooks one arm around the dying man's good shoulder, and then with the other arm, pulls himself forward. He abandons the Stubber, the backpack of precious ammo too complicated to remove even as he struggles with the weight.
Six meters. A spray of autogun fire streaks past, chasing Smoop as the woman runs right past her corporal. Jerad can only watch as the auspex operator manages the last few meters, reaching the feet of the gate with Sven, and a few hundred others.
Five meters. A hail of fire from above, another clawing finger of doom reaching for him. Jerad can only ignore the sudden shock of pain from his forehead and the trickle of iron that runs past his lips. It is joined by another spear of pain at his lower back, where a bullet must've barely deflected off his back plate. He grits his teeth and keeps going.
Four meters. A strung up corpse, all that was once a person bleeding out into the now sticky and red tendrils of razor wire. Second by agonizing second Jerad maneuvers around it, even as bullets strike at the body, at the ground around him, at the wire.
Three Meters. Elbow and forearm into the dirt, pull forward, repeat. Elbow and forearm, pull forward, repeat. A scream, somewhere far away. All he cared about was the gates, and the slowly fading breathing of the man strung over his back.
Elbow and forearm....instead of the course soil, or the soft flesh of a corpse, Jerad's elbow strikes something hard. He almost thinks nothing of it, probably just a discarded weapon, but an image flashes into his mind. Obed, the ladder in his hands, the sudden blast...
He diverts around that spot. crawling forward. Two meters.
A mortar detonation, somewhere behind him.
One Meter.
His elbow strikes the ground, and a hand reaches to grab it, two more grabbing at the shape on his back. Jerad, nothing left but faith, accepts the hand, and a pair of penals pull the Corporal up into the rubble at the very foot of the gate, sheltered against the enemy guns.
What remains of Squad-123-F shelter there, providing security for a few wounded, of which Albert is quickly shifted to join. Corporal Hansan, now in command of the five that remain, nods towards the remnants of 123-B. Jerad, Smoop, and Sven. No sign of Griseo, and Celine was likely dead along with Cheri.
"Warp of a thing, that was." Hansan manages. "Thought you wouldn't be joining us. Guess you get to join us on the climb."
The three survivors glance up. The rubble of the destroyed gate and the infrastructure behind it have created what seems almost like a giant stairway, a crimson ascent towards the embrace of redemption and the Emperor. Some ways above they can see the brilliant light of the Priestess' refractor field, and the red lightning of lasguns exchanging fire with a thundercloud of muzzle flashes and detonating grenades. The Standard, visible as it waves the penals forward, somehow still untouched by shot or shell. Other positions, taken by storm with the bayonet as the penals fight their way up the stair, and the enemy's forward defenses make them pay in blood. Already, more than a few bodies lay where they have fallen, or else have descended down the stair bonelessly.
But it is a lesser number than the losses getting here. There is cover, and less defenses in position to sweep the rubble. The way up would be arduous, but not suicide. So long as the standard flew, there was a chance.
The air is hard to breathe, whether from the smoke, or from the sheer amount of death choking everything. The iron stench of fresh blood joins it as Celine stops at the foot of the critically wounded sergeant Cheri.
The wound is ragged, the flesh torn apart like meat ran through a dicing machine. The broken shin bone is sticking out of the gore, and even a hardened hiver can't help but wince in horror. Of the foot itself, there is no sign. Probably painting the soil she was currently kneeling in.
Shaking hands tear open a physik kit, spools of gauze desperately being applied. Nothing can seem to stop the bleeding, and over what feels like an eternity, the soldier fights against the hemorrhage, gore soaking through her gloves, her forearms, the plates of her legs, and into her boots, caking and soaking everything.
Even as the world itself shakes and the enemy artillery howls it's hatred at all that remain here in this hell, as her hearing goes, and slugs punch through the smoke to land in dangerously close strafing patterns all around, she fights. Finally, she manages to stem the flow, if only by wrapping the entire lower leg in gauze, and using the torn edges of Cheri's uniform trousers as a makeshift tourniquet. By the time she's done, the former pict star is ashen like a ghost, but she still breathes shallowly. It would have to be enough.
Gingerly dragging the sergeant behind a stout stone wall, and relieving her of the boxy Voxset, Celine takes in one breath, and then another. A quick prayer, a desperate call to at least let one of them live.
Then she runs.
The first few seconds go well. The enemy, focusing on easier prey, only has the occasional rifle and stubber burst for her, and she takes that on her armor or the low stone walls she dodges past. She leaps over a section of barbed wire, ducks under a burst of stubber fire along a section of low wall, and then comes to the edge of the area of cover.
No man's land. There is no sign of her squad, just death and the detritus it leaves behind. The death she must now confront head on.
No moment to spare to pray, Celine hurls the last smoke grenade as far as it will go, waits a second for it to disperse as rounds thud against rockcrete cover, and then springs out of cover just ahead of an autocannon tracking towards her. She makes it to the smoke cloud just ahead of the spray of murderous shells, and keeps going.
She can't count the the meters with the smoke obscuring her vision, and for this lack of vision or thought as she sprints forward she can only realize how lucky she must've been in hindsight. Perhaps halfway to the gate, stumbling over bodies, something clicks beneath a boot. She's already moving, running, too late to throw herself prone or behind some form of cover when the frag mine detonates somewhere beneath her.
She stumbles forward with the concussion, ears ringing, back screaming in pain, and shrapnel deflecting off her arm and shoulder plates. She'll never know why she was alive-perhaps a body had obscured the mine, or perhaps it had simply been an almost dud. Perhaps she was blessed. It matters not, as legs screaming and body aching from a dozen wounds, she manages the last few meters to reach the gate, practically falling to her knees at the foot of the great structure, if not for the knowledge such would be folly. Her hands pull her up to the first layer of rubble, and people, some she recognizes from her squad, help her up to the first layer.
(OOC: You really just got extremely lucky there: Stepped on a mine...but it rolled double 1s for damage)
Only three others, four if she counted the remains of Albert. All exhausted and wounded, her included-but they were alive. That had to count for something.
[/SPOILER]
A manic little giggle escaped Jeradresh's lips as the former nobleman knelt in the debris. Dirt-caked hands scraped raw by jagged rockcrete and broken plasteel patted his chest, arms, face. It felt surreal, a mirage sent by some cruel and thirsting god to taunt him with the illusion of survival, and yet he could feel the rigid plates of his vest, the scratchy fabric of his uniform, the grit covering his skin. His hands came away from his face sticky with blood, and for a dizzying moment he wondered if he'd been shot dead and was only just now was noticing it.
And yet as the moments crawled by, reality reasserted itself. He could still feel. His lungs still rose and fell with the furor of a drowning man. The scarlet on his fingers felt warm. He was still alive. Jeradresh gaze rose to the Aquila flying high above and giggled again. Of course he was alive. How could he have doubted for even a moment? A moment's weakness.
Muttering a prayer for forgiveness, his eyes fell from the Aquila at the broken body of Albert, the man's chest a nest of bandages. Had he really saved that man's life? It didn't seem real. It was insane. Stupid. He should be dead. He shook his head and began digging through his physik kit, hoping to patch up the scrapes and cuts across his face.
"That's the last of the stragglers. We can't stay here." Hansan says, stating the obvious. "Commissar is going to look askance." The young Corporal-turned sergeant turns to the remains of what was once Cheri's squad. "We're going to need to move out in at most a minute."
The rest is unspoken-use that time wisely. It might be the last you get.
(OOC: You have about a minute before you need to start pushing up to join the main body of the assault. IF you want to try first aid on someone or yourself, trying to quickly scavenge the wounded or dead for kit, or anything else, now would be the time
-Cheri: 0/14 Wounds, 9/7 Fatigue, Unconscious, Lost Left Foot, Useless Leg (Left). In cover and bandaged.
-Jerad: 0/16 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 1 Reroll
-Albert, 0/13 Wounds, 12/6 Fatigue, Dying (30 Minutes), Disabled Torso, Unconscious, Damaged Heart, Damaged Lungs
-Nyla, 1/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Griseo: 0/13 Wounds, 7/6 Fatigue, Unconscious, Disabled Leg (Right), trapped somewhere in No man's land.
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 0/5 Fatigue
Jeradresh cleared his throat, then wheezed something unintelligible. He tried again and finally managed to force the words through his painfully dry throat. "The Commissar shall not see us, not through this madness," he croaked. "But the priest-She has to. She is the...The..." What was the damned word? "The edge of the knife, that forlorn hope? We have to be with her, for the glory."
He licked his lips, desperately attempting to wet them and cleared his throat again. "The hard part is done. We have walked through the fire and storm alive. Now is the good part. Up that rubble is the breach. Vengeance on the canids who have been shooting and killing us. Glory and honor for us, for standing with the banner and being with the first to help seize the breach. Even the black hats will know it was us that took the walls."
"One last effort, friends. Then we will be heroes, yes? Redemption is a fitting gift for heroes, no?"
OOC: Social test to try and buff the squad maybe? Otherwise just first aid to try and patch myself up.
Celine walks over to her Corporal, nodding along to his speech. "Jerad. The sergeant, she's back over in the field. With the Emperor's grace, she'll be passed over by the shellfire and recover enough to call out for a medicae, and be returned to us in time. But until then," she hefts the retrieved vox-caster towards him, "the task of leading the squad falls to you. You'll be needing this, I think."
Once the weight has been passed on, she rushes over to Albert to try to stabilize him. The Emperor shall deem the proper hour to recall His servants to His side, but to her is to task of ensuring that he shall serve again if his hour has not yet come. And if it has, to ensure his passage to be without further pains.
Alberts mind was one of pure focus as he ran, everything around him slowly being pushed from his mind as all of his will was split into running and his destination. Squad mates fell away, the battlefield around him, even the weight of his equipment, all of it was gone as he ran. His legs pumped like mad, nearly churning up dirt as they moved like pistons to bring him and his equipment to safety.
All that went through his mind was a single thought, "Keep running". It kept replaying in his mind like the announcements they would run back in his home hive, the hourly ones that reminded citizens how to live pious lives. "Keep Running" certainly felt like it held the same level of importance as those announcements, that if he could just listen to it than he would make it through this.
It was right there in front of him, not even a minutes run away. It was right there, but for all it mattered each meter was a mile.
One second Albert was running and the next his world was fire, dirt, and pain. Between one step and the next a shell struck and he was sent flying like a ragdoll. In less than a second a well armed and healthy man was turned into a shredded wreck. His only blessing that the pain and trauma forced from him his higher thoughts, leaving him only enough to groan in pain and twitch.
He wasn't aware, or strong, enough to notice or help when arms grabbed him. The most he could do was remain as still as possible as he dragged through dirt and mud towards safety. He couldn't notice the danger he was in, neither from the mines nor the bullets. He couldn't understand the risk taken to save him, not truly. Though some deep, animal part of him was thankful in its own way as they finally made it to safety.
That same animal instinct kept him awake, on the edge of death yet still fighting to live. It wouldn't let him go, holding a grip on him tighter than even the penal legion held over him. So he lay there, wheezing with destroyed limbs and a ruined torso. Waiting for either for medical attention or death.
Smoop didn't bother with acknowledging any of the other survivors. It may have been the effect of the concussion from the near-misses, or intense fervour, or just sheer desire to stay alive, but she was staring with single-minded focus at the screen of her Auspex, willing it to show something - anything - that might improve their odds even by the merest shred.
She blinked, and shook her head, and wiped the screen, and peered at it.
Emperor Above, she whispered, give me a sign. Anything. Please.
"That's the last of the stragglers. We can't stay here." Hansan says, stating the obvious. "Commissar is going to look askance." The young Corporal-turned sergeant turns to the remains of what was once Cheri's squad. "We're going to need to move out in at most a minute."
The rest is unspoken-use that time wisely. It might be the last you get.
(OOC: You have about a minute before you need to start pushing up to join the main body of the assault. IF you want to try first aid on someone or yourself, trying to quickly scavenge the wounded or dead for kit, or anything else, now would be the time
-Cheri: 0/14 Wounds, 9/7 Fatigue, Unconscious, Lost Left Foot, Useless Leg (Left). In cover and bandaged.
-Jerad: 0/16 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 1 Reroll
-Albert, 0/13 Wounds, 12/6 Fatigue, Dying (30 Minutes), Disabled Torso, Unconscious, Damaged Heart, Damaged Lungs
-Nyla, 1/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Griseo: 0/13 Wounds, 7/6 Fatigue, Unconscious, Disabled Leg (Right), trapped somewhere in No man's land.
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 0/5 Fatigue
Holmgaard is grinning ear to ear as they step forward and hand Celine a stimm as they fuss over a dying Albert
He probably shouldn't be shivering in sheer excitement, but he just cant help themself. He's so close to the action now. The grip on the monoblade tightens and slackens in a rhythmic tempo as Sten counts down the seconds untill they all head out into the fray again.
he walks over and stands next to smoop as they stare at the Auspex.
Holmgaard can barely wait.
(OOC: Sten gives his extra Stimm to try and help Albert. Then gets ready to be the first one out when they have to go)
Once the weight has been passed on, she rushes over to Albert to try to stabilize him. The Emperor shall deem the proper hour to recall His servants to His side, but to her is to task of ensuring that he shall serve again if his hour has not yet come. And if it has, to ensure his passage to be without further pains.
Ultimately, there's not much you can do for him but bandage the most obvious wounds, stimm him, and hope he reaches a Medicae. The man's state of health (or rather, lack of it), was simply beyond your current medical supplies or expertise. It is known that Imperial Chirurgeons are capable of working miracles under controlled conditions, and as you both pull away from the dying man, the thought that he will most certainly need one is prominent.
(OOC: Failure. Fortunately, this doesn't worsen his chances if a medicae does show up, and the Stimm does give him a better chance of survival overall)
Smoop didn't bother with acknowledging any of the other survivors. It may have been the effect of the concussion from the near-misses, or intense fervour, or just sheer desire to stay alive, but she was staring with single-minded focus at the screen of her Auspex, willing it to show something - anything - that might improve their odds even by the merest shred.
She blinked, and shook her head, and wiped the screen, and peered at it.
Emperor Above, she whispered, give me a sign. Anything. Please.
There's too much interference, too many voxes transmitting and disrupting the auger spirits, too many energy weapons filling the air with electromagnetic noise, too much metal in the hive walls, too much everything.
Still, you are not unskilled, and over a long minute of switching search bands and constantly pinging and desperate, wordless, prayers, you get the ghost of a reading. Living beings ahead, in the tangle of rockcrete and metal and plasteel and martyrs that is the gates, between you and the forward, trailing edge of the assault, where only the dead should lie. Someone alive, in a place where there should only be death.
(OOC: Failure, 0 DoF, gives +5 to upcoming Awareness test)
Hand and foot, crawling and climbing at once, finding hand holds and clear channels of rubble to push forward into the breach. Ducking as bullets and shrapnel whiz by-little of it meant for them now, but it would be profoundly unfair to die now by a bullet aimed at someone else.
Climb, and look to the light.
Ahead, the light of the Confessor's energy field shines still, golden cracks spiraling through the globe of radiance that protects her. "Forward!" She cries, and hands and feet answer. "Kill them!" she proclaims, and ahead, lasguns and bayonets and fragmentation grenades roar their agreement. "The City will be ours! Redemption will be yours!" she calls, and hundreds of thundering hearts ache desperately for it.
Forward, through the rubble, you press on. There's perhaps a dozen of you. The remains of what was once Cheri's and O'Garan's squads, now led by their Corporals, and a few other stragglers from shattered squads. A rag tag force, but one moving with a singular, desperate purpose.
(OOC: @xjax1@Easter time to introduce your new characters)
You know you are making progress because the light, the glowing light that indicates the cresting wave of the assault, grows closer and closer with each effort of will. Already, you can see it, it is farther than anyone else has gotten. Even as you press forward, desperate to be there, to be seen to have taken part, the light is nearing the summit. The few dozen bloody survivors clustered at Confessor Serestra's sides and trailing behind her fighting for every inch.
Another few dozen meters, and you'd be with the other survivors, you'd be there.
Unfortunately, it seems the enemy hasn't yet had their say.
A fighting position built from rubble and hastily emplaced razor wire and sandbags stands in your path. It at first seems no trouble, having been grenaded out already by the forward elements, the bodies of dead militiamen strewn about alongside a half dozen legionaries.
But appearances can be deceiving-especially in a defensive position prepared by Hive Fighter Veterans.
Ultimately, it's Smoop who calls out the warning, made paranoid by the anomalous lifeform readings at the foot of the slope. And it is well that she did, as a half dozen forms suddenly burst from the bunker, rushing down the slope at the attackers.
"The Emperor lives in death!" the lead cries. More of the fanatical militants seen earlier, dressed in a facsimile of priest's robes, the leading two waving swords, three more behind armed with daggers and autopistols. The thought that they must've been lying in wait to ambush any stragglers-or possibly to take the main force from behind-is a mere passing thought as adrenaline and the drive to survive pushes through the exhaustion and desperation of the last few minutes.
Their fight wasn't over yet. If they wanted to reach the summit, they'd have to fight for it, step by bloody step.
OOC: 8 DoS on Awareness vs. 6 on Stealth, so you avoid getting ambushed here
Jerad's test means you're all Inspired (+10 to your first action) for this combat
-Jerad: 0/16 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue, Frenzon Expended, 1 Reroll
-Nyla, 1/13 Wounds, 1/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Stimm Expended
-Celine, 7/13 Wounds, 3/6 Fatigue (-5 to all tests), Grenade Expended, Frenzon Expended, +10 to Wp for charge
-Sten: 13/13 Wounds, 0/5 Fatigue
Smoop had set the Auspex back in its carrying case while the squad pressed ahead, taking a two-handed grip on her laspistol to still the shakes. She was trembling hard, twitching at every step, seeing heretics in every shadow.
It turned out that it isn't paranoia when there really are heretics in every shadow.
She saw the rubble of the bunker move, seconds before the would-be ambushers burst from their hiding place. She heard her voice, raspy from exertion and thirst, scream brokenly, "Enemy left! Fire!"
And with that she felt her arms bring the laspistol up, felt her finger squeeze the trigger, with no conscious decision, no will behind it. She was an automaton - or a vessel of the Imperial Will. Pumping las bolts into the oncoming enemy. Putting round after round into the air, her only purpose to cut them down.
"Kark you!" she screamed. "Kark the whole karking lot of you! GET SOME!"
At the sight of the heretics who had snuck behind the main line, Celine quivers with fury. Whether it was for an entrapping attack from the rear (unlikely, given their lack of numbers and meaningful armament), or to catch reinforcements heading up to the breaching force on the Gate, these heretics were doubtless intending on foulness with their strategy. Most likely, they'd intended to hide here to attack stretcher-bearers and Medicaes, to kill the wounded but salvageable among His servants and loot the precious medical supplies.
That would not do, she thinks, as the chain-grinder in her hands revs up with a growl like an Underhiver mastiff.
"The Emperor demands your life!" she shouts in reply to the pretender preacher's cry, as her legs pump into a swift stride, and then to a screaming charge, warrior and killing implement roaring as one at the chance to do His will unto the world.
also we should move methodically, arriving quickly is no good if we die on the way there)
