Decide the fate of the 122nd Caledonian Cavalry, a regiment of Knights astride their insectoid mounts, as it is thrown into the 42nd Millennium in the midst of the Indomitus Crusade.
The Forty-First Millennium came to a close with the death of Cadia and the Great Rift opened in it's wake, plunging the galaxy into a new era of chaos.
A Primarch has returned to guide the Imperium once more. Enemies of Humanity have laid siege to Holy Terra. What was once an almost stagnant Mechanicus has found at least some small part stirring to life following the footsteps of one who dared to innovate. Distant Xenos stir from their slumber, pacts of convenience are struck, and hungering maws draw ever closer.
Somewhere amidst this intensifying madness we find a newly risen regiment of the Astra Militarum, more commonly known as the Imperial Guard, marching forth into a galaxy aflame.
They are not you.
You?
You are the whims of Fate to which thousands of lives will move. None among the soldiers marching to war will follow your orders, but by your choices their stories will be told.
So… From which world will our regiment hail?
[] Balmung - A breadbasket of the greater Imperium, it is from Balmung's fertile plains that dozens of systems and hundred of worlds are kept fed. Much of the planet is dominated by plains, the few mountainous regions acting as transit hubs and cities while the planet's people have long lost memory of the concept of forests (the last forest was cleared from the planet surface over nine hundred years ago).
Due to the abundance of food the planet provides and it's crucial nature for the stability of so many worlds this is merely the sixth time Balmung has found itself forced to tithe a regiment to the Militarum.
[] Urtul - Imagine, if you will, a planet encased in a gargantuan shell of rusting metals. Standing within an observation deck in orbit constant flashes of light lash out from within the decaying structure. If one could pierce through that outer shell they would find endless corridors and long abandoned chambers devoid of true value.
Head even deeper below and soon metal corridors give way to a world forgotten. Forests, long dead, lay preserved as they were seemingly centuries ago. Mountains stripped bare of all but the most worthless stone stand slouched amidst vast wastes. And yet even this planet must pay it's tithe as the 34th Urtul marches out into the stars.
[] Caledonia - Idyllic plains filled with wheat. Rolling hills crested with emerald forests. Quaint rivers beside which rest peaceful hamlets. Vast mountain chains separate the world of Caledonia into distinct territories and it is in the valleys and canyons connecting each that the rattle of iron and clash of steel ring true.
Again the time for the fiefdoms of Caledonia to pay their tithe has come. Again the honored knights of each land have been bequeathed the ceremonial garbs and taken up their swords as members of the 122nd.
[] Forge E-4258-M-9 - Forge Epsilon 4258 Minor 9. Belonging to the greater Forge World of Epsilon 4258, Minor 9 is a minor celestial body orbiting the planet proper. Long ago it was hauled there in order to sustain industries deemed too toxic for undertaking below. While those industries continue to this day the people who call it home have adapted in their own ways.
As a regular attempt to prevent unsustainable population growth and to reduce the Forge World's tithe so resources might be put towards greater projects, the Fabricator-General has ordered the formation of several regiments for the Guard. Among them is the E-4258-M-9.59.AMR.
NaNoWriMo kicking off once again and a little too much Darktide have given me a desire to write for an idea kicking around in my head. Rather than controlling a specific character you all will piece together a regiment of guardsmen being cast into the meatgrinder of the 42nd Millennium and from there you will act as fate. Voting for what theater of war they are thrown to, what surprises await them, how things all go to shit when battle begins, and the like to see what stories unfold as a result.
+=+ 005.M42, Caledonia, Heavens' Gate, Squire Kali +=+
In the oceans of Caledonia there exists a great spire of metal and glass and billowing smoke that rises far above the crushing waves below to pierce the clouds. Jutting from the base of this structure dozens of docks and landing pads can be seen as a fleet of rusted naval freighters join a swarm of cargo shuttles in unloading a seemingly endless press of bodies. Bright eyed youths stare up in undisguised awe only to be ordered forward not by the scattered armsmen bearing sleek, silver rifles but instead the scarred forms of much older folk clad in robes of purest white adorned only by the personal emblem upon the back.
One such youth fresh off her first trip aboard one of these fascinating metal contraptions the Riders of it called a Lighter finds her feet pausing beneath her as all the others. However, on her face is not the awe of the hundreds of other Squires that came before her but instead a stoicism at odds with her age. Her hand tightens around the curved sheath of her Kavas and for a moment she is sure she can feel it. The weight of those who came before. Her eyes drift to the clean strips of red cloth tied around the hilt.
'Six.'
"You'll have all your lives to behold wonders just like this Squires! Move them feet! Form up!"
A voice booms out managing to cut through the deafening roar of the Lighter taking off behind her and her body moves on well drilled instinct. A dozen Squires act as one as a block three wide and four deep forms in seconds. A white banner bearing the three entwined Kavas of House Thrice Sworn standing upright in the back corner of their formation.
"Good. Keep that up and you lot might just survive your first Errantry. Now," a quiet snort comes from the bearded man before them as he turns to walk towards the awaiting tower accompanied by the gentle clink of chainmail, "Lockstep, Squires! The Starry Vale awaits beyond Heavens' Gate!"
No words come in answer. She, no, they knew better. Each and every one of them blooded Squires, prides of their family line. Instead it is only the sound of stomping feet and the rhythmic tap of the banner pole upon the tarmac that follows. Eyes, almost aflame, stare forward at the gates thrown wide ahead through which two dozen could walk abreast.
'I will. I will overcome the Fifth Vale. For you, Mom.'
+=+ 005.M42, In orbit over Caledonia, aboard the Guiding Light, Captain Falkstrum +=+
"... How many?"
Their voice is almost akin to a whisper and yet it echoes through the unnerving silence that fills the room with all the weight of a mountain as the dozen something adjutants gathered before Falkstrum are left to an awkward silence. Falkstrum allows it to carry on. A pair of cold, green augmetics whir constantly as their enhanced sight dances between each of them with no small amount of amusement at the discomfort clear on each face before them.
They had understood what the adjutants had said the first time, of course, but it is moments like these that small lessons are taught. This one? A glimmer of joy runs through the mind hidden behind those green orbs, a solution to the issue long formed before their arrival, as a particularly small sprout among them finally pipes up.
"Eighteen thousand, Captain. Along with their belongings and supplies to cover initial transport. If... If I may?"
The sprout shuffles under Falkstrum's emotionless gaze though finds the courage to push on in spite of it all. An act that has the Captain file them away as one among a scarce few potential successors.
"Our ships will be hard pressed to fit them all, but I believe the greater issue is actually the delays loading such a large contingent would cause. If we were to speak to their Knights. The," A brief pause as the sprout turns through memories of briefings read in haste mere weeks ago before their deployment, "The ones above the Fourth Vale, I mean. If we can convince them to work with us on the logistics with how trained and orderly Caledonians are supposed to be that should cut down our loading times immensely even with some growing pains."
Falkstrum barely suppresses a smile at the suggestion. It matched some of their own plans... And it was something that had taken five such Raisings for their self to come up with.
'Of course, it needs a few tweaks... Like keeping the armsmen separated from the Caledonian portions of the ships at all times.'
Their mind returns to memories of a bloody cafeteria. Three dozen good navy armsmen half dead and tied up in the middle. Six of their Squires wielding kitchen knives eating calmly nearby. Here composure fails as they sigh and their head droops, the sprout reacting in abject fear across from them, 'Well, hopefully we can keep it under the twenty three casualties from last time...'
+=+ 004.M42, An Unknown World, Administratum Sub-Level 43, Area Three, an ailing scribe +=+
Amidst a sea of plascrete bookshelves filled with dusty tomes, tightly bound stacks of data slates, and the chittering clack of servo skulls a hunched figure sits before a desk. Dull grey robes clad their figure. Signs of fraying at the hems and the obvious patches dyeing it in a dozen hues of gray are enough to speak of the uniform's age… Not to mention the withered, wrinkled hand holding tightly to a pen even as it trembles violently.
Dim red light casts a pale white sheet of paper in an eerie atmosphere as the precise even mechanical writing filling the page does little to dissuade the notion.
A faint wheeze forces itself from the scribe's throat as the clunk of valves opening forces the aged figure to breath long after their lungs have given up.
Words like static join the almost comforting sound of pens upon paper and gentle clatter of servos turning all around, "Oh. Oh dear, it seems… I… I forgot again… Didn't I?"
Suddenly the violent trembling stills. Far overhead an impossible breeze stirs. Eddies of wind swirl downward ever so gently. It is enough. Just enough. One among a dozen aging servo skulls flying by over the scribe's head finds its anti-grav engine faltering with the sudden excess force upon it.
The light of its optics sputters out. A crack. A puff of smoke. A hiss of vented oils and hastily drawn in air as failsafe systems roar to life only to fail after decades of wear. It plummets all the way to the desk of a figure currently at war with their own failing memory…
Clutched in its servo arm is a paper detailing a regiment ordered to be equipped… [] as Rough Riders. [] as Siege Infantry.
[] as an Artillery unit.
Below you will find the current understanding and knowledge of those things unique to Caledonia, its people and its culture. Everything from places of cultural or religious significance to their political systems and even items in their daily lives will be recorded here as they are explained in updates. Occasionally you might even find certain subjects more thoroughly covered here if I deem it won't detract from the story being written.
A note: Sometimes the information here will be incomplete, awaiting further reveal in the progress of the quest itself.
A second note: SPOILERS AHEAD!!! As the author I recommend using the information below as a reference once you're fully caught up on current updates to both retain the intended impact of information slowly being revealed and because this list will likely grow rather long as time passes.
Dulkavas - A somewhat rarer form of weapon among Caledonians as it is often restricted by the tunnel warfare they are used to. It is a heavy, two-handed version of the kavas capable of bisecting a grown adult with a proper swing.
Errantry - The means by which one can become a Knight of Caledonia.(?)
Heavens' Gate - The planet's only starport from which the Planetary Governor rules. It stands alone in the oceans of Caledonia housing several million citizens and the full breadth of the world's advanced technology to be drawn from oceanic vaults in times of need. To here warriors are drawn from across the world and the planetary Tithe is paid, soldiers in the thousands ascending to the Starry Vale.
Kavas - A curved short sword unique to the feudal world of Caledonia that acts as the predominant weapon.
Knights of the (...) Vale - A title of prestige and honor given to those deemed true knights of Caledonia. The greater the number of Vales attached to their title the higher their position in their cultural hierarchy.
Remembrances - A practice involving wrapping the hilt of one's weapon with red cloth for each Knight of your lineage who wielded it before.
Silvasari - A type of armor worn by certain Knights of Caledonia and made in its entirety from parts of Vale Wardens.
Starry Vale - A central component to many a Caledonian myth and epic that refers to the vast galaxy beyond the bounds of their planet.
Vale Wardens - The large insectoid species native to the planet of Caledonia's mountains that its people have taken to domesticating and using as war mounts.
+=+005.M42, Aboard the Guiding Light in transit, Ensign Nakamura+=+
Nakamura arrives to the distress call just in time to hear a deckhand's horrified scream. His feet pick up speed. His body moves on instinct as it drops low and readies the autogun slung at his side. His face scrunches as he begins to hear the click of something upon metal and…
'Is… Is that chittering?'
The clank of his boots upon metal ring through the corridor as his pace quickens. A knowing comfort washes over him as he hears the squad behind him following suit. Eight armsmen. Five autoguns. Three high intensity stun guns. Electric batons and carapace armor.
'Enough to deal with whatever stupidity these Caledo-'
As Nakamura rounds the corner his eyes go wide. His body barely stops itself from impacting the far wall on muscle memory from decades aboard this ship. His focus lays on the… Things currently pinning a half dozen deckhands to the floor.
He makes out another few hiding in the vents nearby. His sight drifts past the puddles on the floor around the deckhands.
'... No blood at least.'
His squad arrives seconds after to an Ensign slowly lowering his rifle.
His hand reaches for the commbead in his ear.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
A blessed crackle of static is soon followed by a familiar, comforting voice.
"Yes, Ensign? Have you handled the issue?"
Nakamura can't stop it. He laughs.
"This isn't a problem we can handle, Captain."
Nakamura's eyes lock with a pair of oversized compound eyes covered in a strange blueish green shimmer. Four mandibles click rapidly. Antennae twitch violently. Five more arrowhead shaped chitinous skulls turn in his direction.
'Don't. Move. Don't. Move. Don't. Move. D-'
A chant repeats itself in his head as he remembers advice given on departure by a kind old Knight.
"We're going to need the Caledonians. Their… Steeds have gotten loose…"
+=+005.M42, Aboard the Guiding Light in transit, Anduval, Knight of the Fifth Vale+=+
The world is a mixture of half seen colors, shades of grey, and an almost all pervasive tint of red.
Distantly Anduval can hear the clatter of chain and plate alongside the furious clicking of excited Vale Wardens.
'That click is close.'
A single thought. One response. Anduval slams his head forward with all the might he can muster to smash it against the approaching head of his valiant steed. What little of the world he could see swims as the Vale Warden knocks him flat upon his ass before letting out a scream that causes the entire fight around them to stop in moments.
Anduval smiles.
In front of him the horse sized insect covered in shades of grey and brown clicks its many mandibles furiously as mandibles capable of crushing unrefined metals draw closer… And rub gently against the Silvasari that covers Anduval's body.
His gauntleted hands reach up to gently pet his partner's head, "Got a bit lost did we lass?"
Soon however the tender moment comes to a close as one hand clenches, the greyish-brown plates forming the armor shifting to ease the act, and lightly smacks her atop the head.
"Did you really have to start a revolt to find me you arse? The Seventh is going to chew our heads off for this stupidity you oversized fool…"
On the far side of the hallway Nakamura stands perfectly still in the same place. Now with an entirely new thought repeating in his head… One that soon finds itself spoken aloud to his entire squad, "They're… They're fucking madmen."
+=+005.M42, Aboard the Guiding Light in transit, The Seventh+=+
In what was once something akin to an office aboard the Guiding Light a throne room has been replicated. Two columns of carved stone chairs stand filled on either side of a larger throne shaped entirely from the chitin of a particularly large Vale Warden. Atop it are dozens of beat hides acting both as padding and a sign of status and martial prowess.
Sitting comfortably atop even those is a woman. Five foot tall. Grey hair cut short. Dark blue eyes. A muscular physique. Hundreds of scars. A presence that can only be called imposing.
Behind her a white banner rises from the throne and the eleven stars upon it frequently draw the reverential looks of those gathered here.
"I have been informed that we will arrive at our first stop within a week. Captain Fulstrum has kindly notified me that it is there we will be shifted to another fleet for deployment. We will be trained in the weapons of the Imperium, these…"
She trails off for a moment to fiddle with the weapon the Captain had called a handcannon as it was given in gift.
"Stub and las weapons as they call them. Furthermore organizations known as the Cult Mechanicus and the Commissariat will be attached to our forces. I trust I can leave integrating our army with them to you, Archivist?"
The Seventh's eyes turn to an old crone resting in a stone chair. Tattered brown robes free of adornment and bearing only signs of the passage of time cover her form. A moment of silence follows before she finally nods, "The Hermitage shall do as the Seventh commands."
"Good. Now, about the Vale Wardens that got loose-"
The room falls into a storm of conversation in the time that follows. The Seventh has many fires to put out before the 122nd's First Errantry of the Starry Vale begins.
+=+005.M42, ???, ???+=+
All across the galaxy war rages as Gulliman leads the Indomitus Crusade in reclaiming and cleansing the many worlds lost to the Great Rift. It is into here that the 122nd are thrown.
Another light adorns the skies above.
Untested. Yet to change. Naive.
For the glory of kith and kin.
Faced with enemies they could barely imagine and forced to adapt to warfare much unlike anything they have ever confronted… How shall the Caledonians fair?
We raise these white banners high overhead.
Of the one hundred and twenty-one regiments to come before them ninety lay wiped out to the last on planets far from home. Nine fight on their last legs even as we speak, merely numbering in the hundreds or dozens. Eleven were claimed by the opening of the Great Rift.
For the God Emperor of Man we cry out.
And the rest? Settled upon worlds they had helped liberate long ago, tendrils of their homeworld's culture burying themselves at the heart of what has formed since. Perhaps on worlds unknown to Caledonia there are those who still cling to those same ideals and dream those very same dreams.
To War! To War! To War!
The 122nd Caledonian Cavalry Regiment are most certainly doomed… And yet their story hasn't even begun. We know the foreword. We know how it is most likely to end. So…
To the Starry Vale we ascend hoping that some day we may return.
Upon that day… Look to the stars for They shall be there. Crowned with Twelve.
And the Second Great Crusade shall come.
Where then shall they find their beginning? [] Arcadia, within the Ghoul Stars - An imperial world under siege by xenos threat, it is a world established thousands of years ago as part of the Iron Lords' system meant to quarantine the Barghesi civilization within. Apparently they have begun to chaff at the chains of their captives and the endless Dark Eldar raiding parties…
[] Exploitation Site G-437 - A mining world considered crucial to Cult Mechanicus interests in the region, Exploitation Site G-437 has fallen under attack by an Ork invasion and the local PDF and Skitarii forces have sent request for reinforcements as the greenskin threat grows greater by the day.
[] Fort Hulm - A fortress world on the edge of Imperium Sanctum space to which the 122nd is being deploy for prolonged stay. It is both a means to bolster a garrison depleted by a call for more experienced regiments to back the Indomitus Crusade and a way to provide them time to train and adapt… Though the threats pouring from the Great Rift are never to underestimated.
The Seventh, Commander
3 Knights of the Sixth Vale
18 Knights of the Fifth Vale
72 Knights of the Fourth Vale
285 Knights of the Third Vale
934 Knights of the Second Vale
1866 Knights of the First Vale
9370 Squires
The Archivist, Head of the Hermitage
800 Hermits
3685 Vale Wardens
High Enginseer Oleg
15 Enginseers
200 monotask servitors
10 Ecclesiarchy Clergy
50 Munitorum logistics workers
15 convoy trucks
20 trained Chiurgeons
Three hundred support staff (Cooks, vox-technicians, etc.)
Further estimates unknown.
Heroes:
Commander of the 122nd Caledonian Cavalry, a Knight of the Seventh Vale, veteran of a dozen Errantry Wars, and a warrior with few equals.
Age: 43
Wounds: 3/3
Bonuses:
+5 to 122nd combat rolls when in the field.
???
Technology Level: Entrenched Feudal Era - Technology and equipment hailing from their home world is the prevalent force throughout the regiment. Notably Advanced Animal Husbandry - Showcase a comprehensive knowledge of animal husbandry, a tendency to domesticate highly dangerous predators for their own use, and a meticulous approach to the care of such to ensure domesticated beasts of a particularly high quality. Further notable assets currently unknown.
Regimental Traits: Warrior Culture - Almost every aspect of Caledonian life revolves around warfare and combat with death in battle practically a form of religious worship. While they may be a feudal world this centuries of history has led to a mastery of warfare from fighting it to training for it. When rolling dice for Caledonian combat results roll 2d100 and keep the highest. (Roll 2d100kh) Tunnel Warfare Doctrine - Vale Wars are fought not just in the Vales of the Caledonia's high mountains, but also in the tunnels and caves and Vale Warden nests that lie beneath them. To fight a war in Caledonia is to do battle with human and insect alike in ever twisting enclosed spaces. To Caledonians this is less a form of war and more an art. Provides +10 to combat rolls in applicable situations. (Roll +10 when applicable)
Internal Complications: Old Ways meet New Means - The regiment and the Mechanicus detachment assigned to it are at odds. Tensions are climbing. The Caledonians are slow to adapt to these new tools of war and the Mechanicus have already openly clashed with the regiment's Vale-Smiths. In the old ways the road to progress finds little purchase.
The Impatience of the Blooded - None dare raise their voice in the face of those who earned their place but in quiet spots where only Squires are thought to stand the words are whispered nonetheless. The Hermits have done as they always have but how long the wisdom of countless centuries will temper the most impatient among them is a mystery…
Notable Achievements: None, though such claims spoken within earshot of the regiment themselves will end in all out brawls.
Service History: None currently though don't say as such to the Caledonians themselves.
QM Note: Much like the Glossary this will expand as the quest carries on and more details about the regiment come to light.
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Fort Hulm Garrison Duty - 07.005.M42 - The 122nd's First Crisis
????
1 to 4 - Nothing 5 & 6 - ??? Roll 1d6 = (2), Nothing
+=+ 005.M42, Aboard the First Stand, Annette +=+
Months have passed since the 122nd was raised upon that distant world of Caledonia. Today Annette does as she has every day since this fledgling regiment's Raising... She watches. Standing atop a catwalk in clothes borrowed from a deckhand back on the Guiding Light she strikes a rather unassuming figure with her light red hair tied back in pony tail and grease smeared across her arms. Any curious eye below would likely forget her presence moments after catching sight of her.
"Another worker among thousands. Dismissed just like that..." She mutters to herself, a small grin playing across her face as the show she came to watch starts up down below. Metal screeches as a pair of large doors are thrown wide. Cart after cart of mixed feed begins filtering into the cargo bay and towards a curved wall of stacked containers. A squad of exhausted youths step forward to meet them under the watchful eye of a man clad in that strange plate mail the Caledonians call Silvasari.
Behind Annette someone begins to approach. Their footsteps are... Disturbingly precise. Each one produces the same noise. Each one takes the exact same amount of time as the last. Each one is accompanied by barely perceptible hissing. She doesn't turn, already aware of who her new guest was, "This is for his mount getting out on the Guiding Light apparently. If you asked me a month ago I'd have thought a punishment like this was the Caledonian's shrugging what happened off, but-"
Her words are cut off by a sudden cry to action below. Six legged insectoids can be seen swarming over the wall of cargo containers. Their grey and brown mottled chitin seems to eat the light rather than reflect it causing Annette to lose track of those leading the pack from time to time. Her grin grows wider as the plate mail clad Knight, 'Anduval.' her mind comments, charges towards the closest one to punch it right between the antennae.
"But these Vale Wardens as they are called are highly aggressive and immensely dangerous beasts that were likely the peak predator of their world. Even domesticated their attempts at affection are potentially lethal to their caretakers," A synthesized voice finishes where Annette had left off as a red robed figure steps up to the railing beside her, "Yes. I am aware, Commissar."
A gentle laughter escapes her as she watches what was supposed to be feeding time turn into what the beasts below surely thought was a play fight even as a nasty gash is torn across a Squire's torso.
"It is good that we can skip the introductions then High Enginseer Oleg. I shall say this only once: I will not intervene in the conflicts between yours and theirs so long as it does not interfere with the 122nd's duties. However, the moment it does..."
Her eyes finally break away from the fight below to stare into the darkened hood of the adept of the Cult Mechanicus standing beside her.
"You will be the first I execute. And, before you attempt to claim that such an act is an overstep of my powers, I should inform you that you'll be the third member of the Mechanicus I have put an end to."
Lights cut on beneath Oleg's hood, red and green and blue lenses sliding into place in several different configurations seemingly searching for something. Commissar Annette's grin doesn't slip from her face as she turns back to watching the fascinating creatures beginning to tear into the mountains of feed brought to them, "Feel free to stay and watch High Enginseer, but I will have to ask you do so far away from me. In case you didn't notice I am trying to stay out of sight for now. Good day, Oleg. May the God-Emperor and Omnissiah be with you."
She doesn't turn away from the entertainment before her as the sound of the figure retreating rings clear in the air. Her hands reach into her pocket and slowly unravel a compressed food bar that she bites into with surprising relish. Muttering to herself at a volume just high enough for the retreating figure to hear, "Truly a shock those things don't consume meat, isn't it?"
+=+ 07.005.M42, In Orbit over Fort Hulm +=+
Almost six months pass between the raising of the 122nd on Caledonia and their arrival on the fortress world of Fort Hulm. Much of the journey is uneventful even as the regiment finds its numbers swelling to nearly twenty thousand as various auxiliaries are attached to bring them in line with the standards of the Astra Militarum.
A host of enginseers and servitors under the command of one High Enginseer Oleg are brought on for maintenance and repairs to the various advanced technologies the regiment is soon equipped with.
Dozens of scribes and laborers under orders to assist with regimental logistics arrive dispatched from the Munitorum bringing with them convoy trucks.
A dispatch from the Ecclesiarchy sees ten members of the clergy integrating into their ranks to uphold their religious belief and act as spiritual guidance in the days ahead.
Chefs, Chiurgeons, vox-specialists, and far more trickle in with every stop along their route. And it is with every stop that problems begin to grow under the surface of the seemingly calm force of the Imperial Guard.
Youths expecting and longing for the chance to prove themselves find instead chaffing prisons of metal trapping them in the void of the Starry Vale denying them the Errantry they were promised. Clashing ideologies, beliefs, and understandings of the world at large serve to drive a wedge between the Hermitage and the members of the Mechanicus even as the Archivist does her best to hold things in line. News of the fleet's arrival to Fort Hulm does little to alleviate the problems as the likelihood of a years long stay on this world begins to set in.
Gained Internal Complication - Old Ways meet New Means
Gained Internal Complication - The Impatience of the Blooded
The 122nd Caledonian Cavalry is to be one of two regiments to be deployed to the planet below bolstering the standing force to a total of five regiments... A far cry from the fifteen that once stood vigil here before the demands of the Indomitus Crusade drew them away.
It is as transport ships begin to ferry the two regiments to the world below, its surface obscured by hazy grey smoke and clouds of violent hues of orange and red, that disaster strikes.
And with that our Quest can be considered properly underway. You'll find the vote options down below, but for now I want to explain the core mechanic we'll be centering play around. As I mentioned in the opening post you all are not controlling the guardsmen we created so far but instead are essentially acting as fate which will take several forms as we progress but currently means you are forced to choose a Crisis that the 122nd is confronted with.
A Crisis will always be an event capable of bringing insurmountable harm to the regiment. These events will shake its foundations and potentially wipe them out in the process. However, by coming out the other side you will learn more about who and what the 122nd are and they'll unavoidably be changed by them.
Surviving a Crisis will often not be beneficial to the 122nd. Our Quest isn't about building that perfect regiment, but instead attempting to give the regiment we are following a satisfying story. So, who wants to shove our fledglings from a cliff?
There is a twelve hour moratorium on voting!
What Crisis befalls the 122nd?
[] The Extinguished Light Of Wisdom - The Archivist. The Great Hermit of the Vale of Golden Winters. Sage of the Northern Fiefs. Mentor to two Knights of the Tenth Vale. Mother to the Seventh. Many are her titles for she was known across Caledonia as one whose wisdom and knowledge could rival even those from the Starry Vale above. A life of eighty seven years has left her one of, if not the oldest Caledonian. And yet it is during something as simple as atmospheric entry that her life comes to an end.
All Caledonians mourn her death. The Seventh is lost. None remain to keep the Hermitage in check.
[] Only A Moment Of Weakness - For centuries Fort Hulm has stood tall against the enemies of the Imperium and yet never in all those years has the world been weaker than in this moment. Drained of resources and military might by the Indomitus Crusade that swept through merely a year prior, the forces standing guard are stretched beyond thin. And so, it should be no surprise then when the arrival of reinforcements is met with joy on one side... And the roar of planetary defense batteries on the other.
Beware, Knights of Caledonia, part of Fort Hulm has fallen and it is into the very heart of the fire you fall...
[] Look And Behold, The Savage - Intolerance... Intolerance is part and parcel of the Imperium. One of many foul pieces of a cruel regime. Yet so often that intolerance is directed not to their 'fellows' but to the xenos beyond or the mutants they claim to be so different... To Lord Governor Xander there is no difference between the Mutant, the Xenos, the Heretic, and these "Lowborn, backwater savages".
What awaits on the planet below is not the welcoming arms of comrades but the iron grip of a bigoted tyrant.
Welp, broke that vote count. Still getting used to those settings. REGARDLESS, in a more competent declaration: our winner is Only A Moment Of Weakness.
+=+ 07.005.M42, Airspace above Fortress Complex Seven, Kaymor, Knight of the Second Vale +=+
Callused fingers clench tighter on the sheath of her Dulkavas, the great sword practically strapped against her to ensure it wouldn't be a risk during orbital entry according to this metal contraption's Riders. Her eyes scan the cramped chamber, her brain vaguely registering someone calling it a cargo hold when they'd been boarding, to check over those under her charge.
Golden eyes first seek out the plate clad figures of her subordinate Knights. Gideon is a comforting sight, the slightly battered armor covering their figure a sign of a brawl with some of the younger Vale Wardens merely days prior, and as their eyes meet he returns a small smile and a knowing wink. Kaymor snorts and turns her focus to the next under her charge only to be greeted with the sight of them sound asleep. Sure, their face can't be seen through a closed helm...
'It's impressive you can snore loud enough for me to hear.'
A smile plays across Kaymor's face at the thought as she then turns to look upon the Blooded that form the remainder of her wedge. Ten of them, clad in chainmail and leather. Wearing the fur cloaks of their Proving. Some clutch desperately to their kavas seeking comfort. Others bow their head in what she can only assume is prayer. However, one among them peaks her interest. A young girl barely into her teens clutching a kavas bearing six strips of red cloth. Her unflinching gaze is locked on the far wall seemingly unaffected by the violent shuddering and near deafening roar around them.
'A good blade to survive six. Strange. I thought only the Seventh had brought one of the Named wi-'
Further thought is brought to a screeching halt. Kaymor's entire weight is thrown to the side. The world spins as the straps holding her into the seat save her from a certain death. The screech of metal and deafening crumpling of something are ringing out from every direction. A noise unknown to her, the sounds of explosions, join the madness.
Her eyes go wide as the world spins yet again and a flare of red and orange and grey and black rips open metal contraption she thought herself safe in. Fingers twitch. Thoughts form. She acts too slow as Gideon is literally ripped out of the cargo bay. Perhaps a worse end than the Squire who turned to a fine coat of red paint across his armor. Static crackles in her ear as she sees the world beyond the metal shell. Dozens of dropships pouring down from on high towards the web of dreary grey fortifications below.
Balls of fire and death tear through the sky as dots of light scream up from below. Lances of pure red cause tears to well up in her eyes. One after another she watches them go. Tens of ships... Hundreds of lives gone in seconds. Then the static turns into a shouting voice, "I'm taking us for an emergency landing. Brace for impact! I repeat, BRACE FOR IMPACT!"
+=+ 07.005.M42, Fortress Complex Seven, Kaymor, Knight of the Second Vale +=+
A swift downward swing sees a man split from shoulder to waist. Her mind barely registers the cleanness of the cut as she twists her body to the right, fingers tightening on the grip as she brings the Dulkavas tearing towards its next target. Clad in clean, dark green armor the figure screams defiance in the face of death. Face twisted in a snarl as they try and fail to bring their weapon to bear.
'A lasgun.'
Her brain recalls the lessons aboard the First Stand where a clustered group of naval armsmen, those strange red robed figures, and the Valesmiths had worked to teach them of their new tools. She could feel hers even now bouncing against her back as her blade slices through her foe's leg with an ease known only to Bloodforged tools. Kaymor smiles as the lances of light which might have hit her before now harmlessly score the plascrete walls of the bunker around them.
Stomping with all the force she can muster, she turns her eyes to the half open door ahead through which the constant ratatatatatat noise of some gun she can't identify still calls out. Her mind questions how many lives it claims even now as she fruitlessly moves to wipe the blood from her right eye. She growls at the wasted motion and waves her sword to shed the worst of the blood and gore.
"Silence that Emperor forsaken gun."
At her order Bear charges his way in with three of the Squires. Kaymor watches as half a dozen beams of light scour across her fellow Knight's armor only to prove too little to stop him. Two hands move independently as the twin kavas in his hands start to scythe through the traitors. Kaymor's eyes narrow as one among the Squires hefts a lasgun and sends a burst of light deeper into the room.
"The Blooded adapting faster than a Knight. How shameful..." She mutters before charging in to join the others.
One thing about it never goes away no matter how many times you experience it. It is the way the stomach roils as the anti-grav engine sputters to life.
'Like half your stomach is going up and the other half down... Not that I'd mind getting those compressed ration bars out of me.'
A stray thought allowed in an attempt to tone down the tension running through his body. Novak smiles as he starts to make minor adjustments to his path. Around him fifteen other soldiers just like him have joined the madness that is a HAD. He takes a deep breath and revels in the high oxygen mix that the rebreather dispatches with a near silent hiss. He can hear his heart pounding and his mind settling into just the right mix of anxiety and adrenaline fueled ecstasy that would allow him to perform at his peak.
The air begins to feel like knives cutting against his few patches of exposed skin and a hint of joy hits him as he speaks to his squadmates, "Terminal velocity is slightly higher here. Don't know if its a lower atmo or higher gravity, but our numbers are wrong. Adjust arrival time by nineteen seconds."
Comms crackle with static as a wave of "Yes sir"s come through. Novak's hand grips around the weapon secured to his chest by a quick release rig.
'Just a slight push on the release lever and I can have it out, scoped, and firing in three seconds. Adjusted arrival time is one minute forty three and counting. Slowed descent will net us twenty seconds of air time if we really squeeze it. Take out the lighter ones first-'
Novak's brain churns as he walks through every step of the upcoming engagement. Below the clouds begin to break as the sprawling fortress complex below comes into sight. Three concentric rings of grey walls stretch out from a central web of towers jutting out from what one could be forgiven for thinking was a flattened mountain top. Perhaps it once was.
But now?
Now the all too familiar shape of an orbital defense work has taken its place. Even through the adaptive tinting of the First's helmets the non-stop flash of yellow and red striking out towards the fleet above leaves spots of light floating in Novak's eyes. Staring at the fearsome destructive force trying to tear their orbital support apart, his heart jumps for joy as the smell of burning ozone squirms its way past the air filters. Experience warns him of the show to come.
And then the world turns white for a moment and Novak's visor goes dark to shield him from what the Sergeant could only describe as the Wrath of the God-Emperor Himself. Even blind to the world beyond he knew what was happening. Hot dropping into a site under active counter barrage from a fleet in orbit should fill any normal person with abject terror at the death awaiting them but...
"Looks like this just turned into a party boys. Thirty seconds to the Suspension Zone. I want each and every one of you to kill ten of these treasonous fuckers, am I understood!?"
A chorus of HOORAH!!! is the answer. Novak's thumb flicks the safety off on his hotshot as color begins to return to the world, a sign that the first wave of orbital bombardment has come to an end. What awaits is not the sight of a distant fortress below but instead visibly manned fortifications with figures as small as ants rapidly growing closer. A slight flex of back muscles joined with a mental command stir the jets on his back to life, "Adjust to quadrant three. Silence those damned AA guns!"
In the next moment the traitors below are no longer ants but the size of his palm. Still, Novak simply adjusts his direction as the roar of gunfire from below grows louder by the second. First he can make out the defaced banners raised high upon the battlements below. Hasty work by surprisingly skilled artists leaving the aquila decapitated alongside slogans like 'Death to the False God' and 'For the Despoiler'.
Another slight twist of the hand. Another mental command as the all too familiar sensation of his stomach flipping rips through him. Freed from its rig his weapon opens up into the unexpecting defenders below joined seconds later by the rest of his squad. In the moment between anti-grav activating and their feet touching down on the platform below some three dozen are cut down.
Novak frees up a hand to signal forward as he orders over the comms, "I want those explosives planted in forty seconds. Jax, Tip, Brandon. You three secure the stairwell."
His eyes glance over to a freight elevator nearby. He smirks.
"Heide. See that elevator? Now, look at those AA shells suddenly liberated of a purpose. Send our friends down below a gift to let them know the elevators out of service would you?"
+=+ 07.005.M42, Bridge of the First Stand, Captain Reznek +=+
"Port lance batteries recharging. Confirmation reports are in, Complex Seven's void shields still holding. Requesting permission to maneuver the fleet to bring starboard batteries around for a second barrage!"
Metallic fingers tap against the cold metal of the command throne as Reznek runs through preliminary reports being fed directly into his mind-vaults by the connections binding him to his throne. Even now sparks arc from a few of them as the heavy load of information being passed between the Captain and his ship places them under dangerous strain. Fifteen fortress complexes dot the planet below. Each capable of three weeks of continuous fire against its designated defense zone.
'Trying to pull the fleet out of Complex Seven's fire zone... We'd need at least six hours.'
His mind instinctively pulls on data-packets brewing in the depths of the ship under the watchful eye of the First Light's most skilled Logisticians. Nano-seconds later his face begins to twist into a scowl at the opening projections, "Bring the fleet around. Tell the fleet to prioritize effect over fire volume. I want the anti-orbital batteries melted to scrap not the Complex, the 122nd, or the Fir-"
His voice cuts off. His scowl deepens.
"Captain, we just received a telepathic transmission signed off by-"
His comms officer withers under the icy glare Reznek returns, "I know. Send out the order, all ships are to cease counterfire and begin breaking orbit along the given escape vectors."
His augmented hand digs trenches in the metal of the command throne.
"Furthermore, the remainder of the 122nd and the First down with orders to recapture the Complex," His voice trails off for a moment and he sighs before finishing, "They are to ensure the batteries are left undamaged at any cost."
+=+ 07.005.M42, Fortress Complex Seven, Squire Kali +=+
Eyes meet from across the intersection. Kali didn't know the Knight on the other side. Somewhere in the last six fights as the fragments of the 122nd began to drive themselves into the fortress like nails they had begun to split up. Entering into the maze of hallways and rooms built not simply as living space or storage rooms but as interlocking layers of defense...
'Just like home.'
Footsteps echo through the corridor signifying the closing enemies. Even a Squire could decipher the number with how poorly they disguised their approach. Seven distinct sets of footsteps. Body weight. Height. Length of limbs. Injuries or disabilities. While not even the most skilled Knight she knew can decipher everything from footsteps it was a basic skill for a Caledonian set on Errantry to learn. Even here on this foreign planet far from home it pays in dividends as it always has.
Kali moves almost in perfect sync with the Knight. Charging from her cover at the corner, she catches the first entirely off guard and her blade soon sends the traitor's head flying with a single strike. A second readies their lasgun but doesn't retreat. Kali is certain they expected her kavas to get stuck upon bone.
'A lesser one might have,' She steps to the side, moving with the momentum of the blade to dodge the first shot. They don't get a second as a hasty upward swing removes the weapon... Hands and all. Recent experience drives her free hand to her waist. An unfamiliar weight is brought to waist height as the man before her drops to the ground in pain. A pair of soldiers expecting a continued melee charge are instead met with a storm of lasfire filling the air with the scent of burning flesh.
"Ha, incredible work Squire. Achieving what most would need months to complete in not even a minute. I look forward to you joining the ranks when this is over."
Kali merely nods. Her kavas feels even heavier than before. Perhaps some of it is exhaustion setting in sure, but... Her eyes dart to the six Remembrances still hanging from the hilt though now torn and bloodstained. Sure enough, the Knight's gaze follows and their tone turns solemn, "Ah... I see. Then we have even more reason to press on it would seem."
She nods and joins the Knight in heading ever deeper into the fortress complex.
+=+ 07.005.M42, Fortress Complex Seven +=+
In the wasteland surrounding Complex Seven dozens of smoking wrecks can be seen. Each and everyone an impromptu tomb for those unaware of what had truly awaited them here. And yet, caught unaware and outgunned neither the 122nd nor Ulric's First have been found wanting. On the ground below the survivors of the 122nd Caledonian have emerged from crashed dropships and emergency landings to reap a price of blood against defenders who once thought themselves prepared.
Trenches and pillboxes fell in minutes under the charge of brave Caledonian warriors while in the skies above the First organized in what most would call an absolutely mad plan. Ten surviving squads engaging in HADs, High Atmosphere Dives, as they threw themselves from their dropships for stratosphere and mesosphere height assault drops. Caught off guard by the ferocity of the Caledonian counter attack, hammered by a brief orbital barrage, and unaware of the First's drop capability the traitors find themselves on the back foot as the majority of their AA guns go silent.
Already dozens more dropships are carrying the remainder of the 122nd and the First on an entry burn, all of them unaware of how much safer their operation has just become. It is in the midst of this battlefield that eddies of invisible wind swirl as fate draws near...
We have encountered our second main mechanic of the game. Twists of Fate. These happen when the Caledonians roll a 1, a 99, or a 100. They are pivotal events that shape a Crisis either in favor of the Caledonians (for a 99 or 100) or against them (on a 1). Essentially the reward for critical successes and the downside for critical failures. Only through Twists of Fate can you directly intervene in a Crisis as they would otherwise play out until their climax.
There is a twelve hour moratorium on voting!
So, what event changes the Battle for Fortress Complex Seven?
[] The First's Beachhead - Not only do the HAD squads manage to take out the majority of Complex Seven's anti-air batteries, but under the command of Sergeant Novak they manage to secure several of the landing pads both regiments were originally meant to arrive at. Using them as the center, Novak proceeded to guide a combined force of the First and 122nd in creating a secure defensive position. Turning the AA guns on the enemy, these locations will allow the remaining regimental forces to be deployed directly into the Complex.
[] The Nightmare of the Vales - While relatively small in number, a core of the 122nd's cavalry were among the initial dropships that survived and today they have begun to show a new world why the Vale Wardens are so feared and respected. The chittering. The chittering, its in the walls and the floor and the ceiling and OH GOD THEY FOU-
[] Ohhh, that looks shiny! Better keep it. - Slowly but surely the surviving forces of the 122nd Caledonian have reformed... And somehow in the process managed to do so around the central reactors of Complex Seven with High Enginseer Oleg and a small portion of his Mechanicus assets behind them. Now, the High Enginseer has begun manipulating the flow of power and slowly begun seizing control of the Complex back from the traitor forces. While this has drawn a heavy counter attack from enemy forces it has also greatly weakened their outward forces... If only they can hold.
Nil frowns and adjusts his stance behind the sandbag barricade he built not even an hour past. Months have passed but even now the symbol of his dedication to the Warmaster's cause still aches from time to time in spite of being long healed.
His voice carries out to those around him, each clad in the dark green flak armor that once signified their service to Fort Hulm, "You think there was a traitor? Caught some vox chatter while we were setting everything up. Looks like we're facing a bunch of savages. Plate armor. Swords. That sort of thing. Hard to believe that gets past emplaced stubbers and massed las."
From right next to him comes to the distinctive sound of a heavy stubber's slide being racked. His fellow member and partner of a decade answering first, "Maybe, but I doubt it. You know how Under-Shadow is. If it was traitors they probably would've unraveled right in front of these assholes and they would've been dealing with one of those Things instead of the trench works. None of 'em would have made it inside."
"Enough," a hand claps down on each of their shoulders as the squad leader cuts in, "Question not the failings of others. Their souls have passed on and now await the Warmaster's judgement of their worth. Focus on our work now. Just got word we've lost another level to these corpse worshipping bastards."
It is in that moment that pieces click together in Nil's head. His Mark was aching.
'Last time it hurt that Commissar had us in a trap... Didn't expect there to be so many of us. And the time before that was wh-'
His thoughts stop dead in their tracks. His eyes go wide as a barely audible noise registers in his ear. Yanking free from his squad leader's grasp the guardsman whirls to bring his lasgun up, "FROM AB-"
He doesn't get the chance to finish. It all happens so fast. Dust sprinkling down from above as webs of cracks form of the ceiling. A strange orange tinted liquid dripping down from growing holes. The scuttering of something in the vents all around. Panicked motions to respond are cut short by huge chunks of the ceiling giving way in a small avalanche of rubble. Instinct pushes Nil backwards and sends him tumbling over the sandbags...
A surge of self hatred. A wave of unbridled wrath. A pain digging into his chest even with no wound.
Nil watches as the rubble crushes Vulk underneath. He watches as strange, insectoid creatures smash through vents and pounce down onto the surprised defenders. Three sets of antennae twitching violently atop their pointed heads. Double sets of mandibles crunching through flak and flesh with terrifying ease.
And then they come. Huge, monstrous creatures akin to those smaller insects but so... So much larger. As one drops down from above one of its six legs stabs through Nil's commander with terrifying ease. Upon the beast's back a rider clad in the same grey and brown shades as their mount looks down at him for a moment. Spear in one hand. Laspistol in the other.
He can see it. Feel it. His time has co-
A Mark burns.
An eight pointed star carved upon flesh by blade defiled twists and turns against the binds of the material.
Shadows shift unseen.
Tendrils spreading from beneath pull at the strings of Reality.
By Unseen Hands that which is Seen is made Unseen again.
Somehow the rider's gaze simply skims over him. Their gaze turns to the few surviving members of Nil's squad... Those not being devoured by the smaller cousins of the rider's mount. Emotion overwhelms him as he watches the rider guide his savage beast to pounce at a soldier- 'No, my friend.'
In an instant flesh is torn asunder by an uncaring beast. Frantically the remainder try to raise a resistance...
Nil scrambles to his feet. His lasgun discarded where it fell. Heart pounding in his ear. The Hate growing. For himself. For these savages that ruined the Warmaster's plan. For the corpse that sat upon a throne of lies.
Behind him bursts of lasfire diffuse almost harmless across the insect and its rider.
Novak jerks Tip to the ground beside him just in time for the air above them to be filled with something akin to a torrent of lead. Two heavy stubbers ripping across the hastily established battle line claiming no fewer than three lives as troopers failed to take cover in time.
'Four more of them are moving up now. They'll use the higher volume of fire for suppression and start moving the other two forward. Back and forth, back and forth...'
He scowls as he pulls a frag grenade from his rig and thumbs the activator. A rune atop it turns red. Throwing off memory, the grenade sails up and over the metal barrier as his hand raises to the side of his helm, "Grenade out. Follow up with a frag each and then de-"
A small crack rings out cutting him off, "And then deploy smoke on our position. Heide, signal the rest of the First to begin fall back operations under my order. We're giving up half the guns."
Amidst a subsequent wave of explosions as his squads' frags follow his own an unexpected response comes, "But Sir, the dropships haven't fin-"
"We give half or they take all of them over our thrice-damned corpses. Give the order!"
Novak winces a little. Regret flits through his mind at the first time he's been so harsh to her.
'I'll make it up at family dinner later...'
All around him smoke begins to pour from hastily thrown canisters. Already Tip is start to crawl back towards the way they had come. Snatching his laspistol from his belt, Novak shoves it over the barricade and starts blind firing to add volume to his squad's intensifying suppressive fire.
"Well... Hopefully she doesn't tell her mom about that. Had me running full kit sprints for two hours last time."
Muttering to himself, Novak readies for the coming fighting retreat and starts to pray that giving up those emplacements with the worst angles on the dropships would be enough to slow the assault...
+=+ 07.005.M42, Fortress Complex Seven, The Seventh +=+
Silvasari is surprisingly comfortable. It adapts to some extent in an attempt to maintain the body temperature of the wearer and properly made sets utilize the chitin of Vale Wardens carved into hundreds if not thousands of hexagonal plates then fused to suits formed of the muscle fibers of their former host.
Light.
Paradoxically cool and warm.
Durable.
Agile.
The Seventh smiles as she stares at the shaped helm in her hands. It does not last long as the dropship she is upon begins to jerk and vibrate violently alongside the roar of its engines growing ever louder as it moves in to land. Perhaps far more importantly, a certain frustrating coghead continues to speak incessantly into her ear.
"-according to the schematics the central reactors should be on level B-9 in Zone C-C-1. I have sent Enginseer Talos the approximate best route for you to follow. I must once again stress how vital it is you take the reactors before they can further reinforce them. While the chances are marginal that a competent Lexmechanic or Enginseer has fallen to such foolish propaganda as them they are never zero. In fact, by my estimation of the Mechanicus forces supporting such a sizable complex there is at least a nineteen point five nine three four six nine ei-"
"Enough Oleg. I don't need the numbers. There is a chance they can overload these reactor things. There is a chance they can bring 'bring online automated defenses'. They are likely to concentrate a large portion of their forces on securing place. So..."
The Seventh jerks violently as the dropship finally touches down. Across from her the coghead Talos signals her and the other Knights gathered to free themselves from the harnesses holding them in place. Her helmet fits comfortably on her head. Plates and sinew shifting to accommodate her even as a Squire hurries forward to begin opening the containers resting in the center of the bay, "So, we do what we do best. Charge in. Kill everyone that gets in our way. Drive a lance all the way through the complex and claim this reactor of yours before it becomes a threat. Simple."
An exasperated sigh comes in response laced with static as the distance between them puts strain on the signal, "Haaaa... As you say Seventh."
Pouring out from the containers are close to forty Vale Wardens. Only a dozen of them adults while the children skitter about underneath them in twos and threes. At the head of the pack one substantially larger than the others has already begun to poke its head out beyond the open cargo bay, a couple of las blasts slamming harmlessly against it as antennae begin to twitch in an all too familiar frustration, "Squires! Knights of Caledonia! To arms I call you! The First Errantry War of the Starry Vale calls our name! Our banners await the legends we will forge on this world! The Hermits even now scrawl in their tomes the first words of glory earned!"
As her voice carries through her comm-bead, boosted through dropship bound vox-relays and further carried across squad deployed vox-casters, it reaches every last warrior of the 122nd. It signifies the beginning in truth. Her feet pound across the metal flooring as she breaks into a sprint and leaps forward.
Hands grab onto leg joints barely in reach as her muscles strain to pull her up atop the Vale Warden more than twice the size of its kin. Mandibles click furiously and antennae twitch in her direction as irritation turns to joy.
Her voice is joined by thousands.
"To war! To war! To war!"
+=+ 07.005.M42, Fortress Complex Seven +=+
Some believe themselves prepared. All throughout the fortress complex the traitors to the Imperium steel their hearts and ready their arms. Corridor intersections are turned into fortresses in miniature. Walls of sandbags and furniture and sheets of metal backed by stubber emplacements and guarded by massed by lasguns lay scattered all around. Independent squads lay hidden in rooms prepared to ambush any passer by. Lone defenders man holdouts built in the complex's conception, each positioned to allow one to hold against many time their number. Handmade tripwire mines crisscross empty hallways in webs of death.
And yet, none of it is enough for what comes.
Riderless Vale Wardens lead at the head of the charge, coordinated by the adult steeds behind, and against them improvised mines prove of little effect. Sure. Their exoskeletons are shredded by the mass of fragmentation explosions. Some few collapse and perish from their wounds... But for most they are little more than flesh wounds barely able to slow them.
Caledonian warfare is not merely that of massed cavalry charges but an exercise in ambushes, counter ambushes, tunneling, and shock strikes.
And so, when ambushers pour from rooms or strike from hidden positions as they pass it is to unsurprised defenders prepared for that and more. They are met by the silent embrace of gnawing mandibles, glinting spears and sharp blades. Desperate lasfire finds little purchase against beasts and knights clad in a material that simply does not care.
They are met with death.
And then come those makeshift fortresses. Against a conventional force perhaps they would've held and reaped a bloody toll. Against the 122nd they met instead the Nightmare of the Vale. Young Vale Wardens pour from vents as adults under the guidance of their riders dig through ceilings or floors or even nearby walls to get the defenders from angles they never even dreamed possible. It is as if the fortress they had long called home is suddenly some distant, alien land that never welcomed them.
Even in the minds of these diehard zealots the fear of what they face begins to grow as more of their defensive network falls by the minute.
And then comes that final and decisive blow.
In the very depths of the fortress complex lay the central reactors. The lifeblood of the complex. Huge, sparking relics of ages long past barely understood. Great works of metal that hum the song of the raging psuedo-stars they contain. It is from them that everything from the simplest lightbulb to the searing lances of the anti-orbital batteries call when they need power.
It is here that Oleg's fears are found worthy ones. Under intensive guard a small cadre of hereteks work ceaselessly atop the mangled bodies of their former companions. Bodies twitch and writhe as errant electricity lashes out from broken capacitors. Smoking shells of servitors sputter in and out of life before being put out of their misery by soldiers clad in black and red.
A few hundred strong. Their armor covered in the eye watering and mind warping symbols of the Great Enemy. They stood ready to safeguard those who would either see Complex Seven fall properly into traitor hands... Or turned to a smoking crater to deny even the smallest asset.
Again the enemy finds themselves unprepared for what is to come. Increasingly urgent reports putting these elite soldiers on ever higher alert as they hasten to secure the sector. Heavy stubber emplacements are brought to bear. Doors welded shut and booby trapped. Walkways connecting to the reactor platform are sent hurtling into the depths below as chokepoints are formed that can be held by mutually supporting fire positions.
They face instead that which haunts many a Caledonians' nightmares.
Doors are smashed open by Vale Wardens at full charge. Tripwires dealing only minor damage even as gun emplacements tear trenches through chitin, living and plate armor alike, but ultimately do little to stop the charge. Distracted by these initial invaders they fail to notice the far greater threat.
They come from above.
They come from below.
Crawling along conduits and cooling pipes. Clambering along cliff faces and up fallen walkways.
The Seventh is at the head of the host. Dropping almost ten meters from the darkness above her steed crushes a heretek underneath even as her spear skewers another. Its body jerks and sparks as mechanical limbs lash out futilely towards a target both out of reach and beyond the capability of malfunctioning cogitators. The bark of a handcannon sounds. Six shots ringing out as the hereteks are exterminated to the last.
Some rush forward to stop her and save those who would give them even a sliver of a chance to survive. Not one can get past her Vale Warden as it lays about with active fury upon realizing their goal. Entire men are bit in half and others slung into the dark below where the telltale glimmer of compound eyes await.
Following the Seventh are almost a hundred Knights and behind them hundreds of young Vale Wardens. Attacked from seemingly every angle even these elite troops hold for mere minutes before their guns are silenced to the last.
In the relative quiet that follows a voice can be heard swapping rapidly between synthetized and physical, "The reactors have been captured High Enginseer. Reporting eight heretics who have turned from the Omnissiah. Beginning to take control of the systems now. Requesting assistance."
Meanwhile, far above the traitor guard are met with the full might of a drop regiment as hundreds of soldiers descend from on high in a storm of hellgun fire and jet flares. In an instant a unified defensive front is turned into dozens of isolated pockets of resistance as the First deploys across almost every inch of Complex Seven's battlements. Anti-air guns fall silent as their operators are struck down or forced to man suddenly compromised defensive positions. Under the thorough command of their Colonel, the First make short work of the enemy destroying them piecemeal and then uniting with other elements to bring ever greater portions to bare.
It is as the noose of the First begins to tighten and the lightning assault of the 122nd has shattered the defense in depth below that the unyielding will of the Enemy begins to show. In mere minutes decisions are made. Short bursts of vox-comms between the enemy turning a large scale defense into an ordered retreat.
Entire platoons of the traitor guard willingly sacrifice themselves to give their comrades the cover they need. On Complex Seven's battlements any idea of conservation is thrown aside as heavy stubbers let out streams of constant fire that soon warp barrels and lasguns turned to full-auto empty battery after battery. In the corridors beneath the 122nd finds itself faced with suicidal counter charges. Entire squads of traitor guardsmen sprinting down hallways with bayonets attached to meet the Caledonians in kind.
Such acts are met universally with an outright slaughter with heavy losses on the traitor side and yet they are more than enough as large elements of their forces begin to disappear into Complex Seven's depths. By the time units can be deployed to follow them they have already largely disappeared into what is soon revealed to a vast underground network of tunnels and caverns seemingly prepared for this.
While many from the 122nd and even the First would soon call for immediate action to pursue the events to follow would put those ideas to rest. Arriving just in time to avoid any real fighting is the Planetary Governor and his regiment of personal guard. Both regiments will soon finds themselves under the Governor's direct command in operations to come, but for now?
The Battle for Fortress Complex Seven has come to a bloody close.
And with that the first Crisis comes to an end and I get to unveil the rewards you get for throwing the 122nd off cliffs! By surviving a Crisis the 122nd gains you all Fate which can be spent between Crisis in order to manipulate things (not always to the benefit of the 122nd). As Crisis get more dangerous the reward for surviving them is greater, of course. In this instance Only A Moment Of Weakness was the least dangerous Crisis and rewards a base 2 Fate for surviving it.
Beyond that Twists of Fate and how well the 122nd performs will generate more Fate to be spent. In this instance a very well performing 122nd nets you all 2 Fate and your choice of The Nightmare of the Vales provides 1 Fate. In total that will leave you all with 5 Fate to spend in the next update.
I'll update the regiment and glossary informational post later today, but the next update will likely be in a day or two.
The Nightmare of the Vales:Roll 2d100kh+20 = (107, 71) vs Roll 1d100 = (43)
Two squads lost.
Two Knights of the Third Vale lost.
A Knight of the Fourth Vale lost.
Fifteen Vale Wardens lost.
The First Holds:Roll 1d100+15 = (18) vs Roll 1d100 = (46) AA Casualty Roll:Roll 1d10 = (9)
Four squads lost.
A Knight of the Sixth Vale lost.
Two Knights of the Fifth Vale lost.
Four Knights of the Fourth Vale lost.
Six Knights of the Third Vale lost.
Eighty Vale Wardens lost.
Caledonian Landing Invasion:Roll 2d100kh+25 = (97, 40) vs Roll 1d100+10 = (19)
Revealed Hero - The Seventh
Two squads lost.
Three Knights of the Fourth Vale lost.
Five Knights of the Third Vale lost.
Fifteen Vale Wardens lost.
The First Strike From On High:Roll 1d100+20 = (57) vs Roll 1d100 = (20)
Traitor Cohesion:Roll 1d100-15 = (72) Going to Ground:Roll 1d100-10 = (73) vs Roll 2d100kh+25 = (91, 49)
Five squads lost.
Two Knights of the Third Vale lost.
Three Knights of the Second Vale lost.
Eight Knights of the First Vale lost.
Five Vale Wardens lost.
Final Losses:
630 Squires
134 Knights of the First Vale
66 Knights of the Second Vale
15 Knights of the Third Vale
8 Knights of the Fourth Vale
2 Knights of the Fifth Vale
1 Knight of the Sixth Vale
315 Vale Wardens
Crisis Concludes +2 Fate from Only A Moment Of Weakness
+2 Fate for the 122nd's performance
+1 Fate for Nightmare of the Vales.
