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Welcome to Hell - Siege of Vraks RP [Warhammer 40k]

MaHaL

MaHaL

Conductor of the Choir of Death
Location
Canada
OOC Thread

The Rubble of Jericho sat silently alongside the rest of the 8th Heavy Company in the bay of the Devourer-class dropship as it shook during atmospheric entry. The bays TechPriest slowly walked over to the 2nd Platoon, incense rising in a cloud as binary chanting intensified. They paused in front of the Malcadors of the platoon, mechadendrites forming the sign of the Omnissiah and touching the Infernus before they moved on to the Defender. The scent of incense thickened as the performed the rituals over the tank. Finally the moved towards the Lucius pattern Baneblade that lead its younger siblings as the vox speakers overhead crackled to life with Colonel Holz's voice.

965812.M41 We will land on Vraks. Any other men would falter in the face of the horrors that await us but the Death Korps is different. 1500 years ago we betrayed the Emperor himself and to this day we strive to atone. To repay what we owe there is nothing we cannot do, even if it means walking straight into Hell.

Now as we begin the final descent, climb into your tank. In this campaign the Regiment will once again go forward in duty. May the Emperor's fury be in your hearts.

Turning to their sibling in red the lead TechPriest chattered in binary.
"Enginseer Vizun, will you aid us in awakening the honoured war engine?"
 
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Esta flexed her metal hand, and waited for this god-awful ceremony to be over. Looking over the new kids to come join her tank, her face would have scrunched up if she could. Young people, and most of them loyal to the bone, she'd bet. Some of them looked all right, a couple even had the scars to show experience, but there were others with ranks on their shoulders yet hadn't seen a lick of combat in their life. Gak-'eads, the lot of them.
 
MaHaL said:
"Enginseer Vizun, will you aid us in awakening the honoured war engine?
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Enginseer Vizun cut a tall, rail-thin figure as she circled the tank, green optics running over the hull of the Rubble of Jericho. It was spotless; just the way she'd left it, but somebody could have despoiled it since she last checked. There were many things about life attached to the Imperial Guard she found superfluous and irritating, but this was a sacred ritual of the Omnissiah, with her fellow Mechanicum adepts in attendance. She would not shame herself nor her machine by performing to anything less than perfection, even if it would be ruined the moment she let the fleshies onboard.

Why couldn't she just have gotten an assignment to a Skitarii Cohort instead?

"Yes, honoured Techpriest. If you would perform the Hymns of Awakening, I shall initiate the Rite of Ignition."
 
Seven-Nine stood stiffly to attention as the awakening rituals wore on. It was more than a religious rite; it was a test, like the countless others she'd passed simply to earn the right to be here now. She ignored the tingling in her calves, the stinging of her eyes, the ringing in her ears. It would be ten, a hundred, a thousand times worse in combat; and she would have to sit at her station, monitoring a half-dozen vox nets at a time, sifting out relevant data for her commander and disseminating information to other units. It was a heavy responsibility and a thankless one - in truth she could be seen as an extension of the tank's logic engines.

But it was with a sense of pride that she entertained that thought. To be a part of this mighty engine of war, an instrument of the Emperor's will: surely this would redeem the stain on her soul, the inherited taint of betrayal. It was a wonder to be granted this privilege. Her eyes shone. The incense would not draw tears from them, but joy and awe did.
 
Blackout said:
"Yes, honoured TechPriest. If you would perform the Hymns of Awakening, I shall initiate the Rite of Ignition."
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Nodding the others stepped towards the vehicle and laid mechadendrites on it. At a signal unseen and unheard to any not touching the machine they begun.

As the chanting grew thicker and thicker eventually all that could be heard was the electronic buzz of over a dozen members of the Cult Mechanicus crying out to the mighty war engine in the Lingua-Technis. The LC503 V18 P4 Multi-Fuel powerplant roared to life with the fury of Fenrisian Thunderwolf before settling to a contented rumbling as the machine-spirit recognized its crew around it and the TechPriest performing the Rite of Ignition, one that had served it for her entire career.

As servos could be heard whirring to life inside the tank its rumbling seemed more pleased as the senior TechPriest present informed it of the mission its crew would be undertaking, leading the charge into heavily defended enemy positions with the two Malcadors of its platoon behind it.

As the red robed priests moved on to the third platoon the shaking of the dropship took on a more pronounced tone and the automated system blared to life.
"Landing in 5 minutes, all crews to your tanks, all crews to your tanks."
 
Lonard, gasmasked and ready, was inside the tank faster than anyone else if physically possible. Lights flckered on, the Private dutifully muttering some kind of incantation, but low enough to not be caught up by the Engineseer, avoiding to check if the man was fully correct as dim lighting filled the inside of the warmachine.
He simply strapped himself into the chair and folded his hands as if to wait for hours instead of only a few minutes.
Instead, he leaned back and craned his neck slightly to get a better angle to the others.
"Any idea what situation we are getting into after landing, Commissar?" A young voice, distorted by the Gasmask.
 
"Rebels discontent with Imperial rule, expect hard fighting, the good thing that for now there is no sign of chaotic taint" said the Commissar. Then he shouted to the crew " Crew, final check and sound off !"
 
"More fool them." The Driver sounded happy at that. "Everything nominal. Ready and raring to go." It should not seem possible, but the Tank seemed to flare up engine-wise as if to echo the pilot. It was for stunts like these that Lonard was still Private, despite his gift as a pilot.
 
As the Commissar sat on his command throne he slowly muttered the Fede Imperialis "A spiritu dominatus, Domine, libra nos, From the lighting and the tempest, Our Emperor, deliver us."
Yet his prayer was overshadowed by the sound of the Baneblade's mighty engines roaring in preparation of it's landing in the world of Vraks.
 
Esta got into the Baneblade, and swung herself up to the primary gunners seat. Finding that some enterprising idiot had adjusted her seat away from where her seat should be, she fiddled with the seat adjustments until she was once again in the position she was used to. Sighting down the rangefinder, she only could see the dropships wall, but she never the less checked the movement of the sight was right as she moved the barrel up and down and gave the turret a few nudges.
"Lets go kill in the name of imperialism. Everything's working up here, Commissar."
 
"If i were a stricter Commissar and if i don't recognize your value, i will have you summarily executed, do i make myself clear ? " said the Commissar to Esta while caressing his boltgun.
 
Guilliman said:
"If i were a stricter Commissar and if i don't recognize your value, i will have you summarily executed, do i make myself clear ? " said the Commissar to Esta while caressing his boltgun.
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"As clear as always, Commissar. Let none doubt that your lexical standards are anything but completely consistent. One hundred and twenty six."
Esta flicked her vibro knife out of it's sheath and laid it on the recess that the seat made as it was bolted to the wall.
 
Lonard has turned away in order to not witness the exchange between Comissar and Esta. Then he seems pondering as the seconds tick away. "Permission to loudspeaker an imperial hymn while we disembark?"
In combat, Lonard may not ask, but right now it seems prudent and will give the Comissar something else to think about.
 
Permission granted, play the Fede Imperialis let the traitors quake in fear at the sound of our march, we are the Hammer of The Emperor and we shall never falter in the face of our duty.
 
"Alright!" There was a large amount of joy in that word alone. "Techpriest, would you like to?"
Lonard could control and make it so from here, but he learned swiftly that being too liberal with the controls while a techpriest was around tended to put them off. As if no one else could make the whole battlefield quake.
Instead, Lonard reached out in order to stroke the controls of the warmachine-beast. "Soon, sweetheart. Just a bit longer." He cooed lowly behind the Gasmask. This was the largest thing he was permitted to pilot so far and he had fallen fully and utterly in love with the Baneblade.
 
An electric snort made the Enginseer's displeasure known, but she devoted a fraction of her attention towards the loudspeaker system while she skulked at her command panel behind the turret ring, interfacing with the Machine Spirit through her MIU implant.

All of the Servitors were working as they should be, nutrient-feeds full and controls slaved to the appropriate stations. The fleshies hadn't broken anything yet, as they went through their own primitive check-ups. The Machine Spirit was content and prepared for it's mission.

"The Rubble of Jericho is ready."
 
"Seven-Nine ! " the comissar shouted from his seat " what is the ETA on our landing ?"
 
6 rounds , it's not much to a solider. However this old handcanon serves its job well, hitting like a shotgun without the spread. Good outside the tank I don't have time to get into a gun fight, I need the lethality.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by out great war machine coming to life, she feels eager for battle a queen eager to furiously avenge her people. It makes me smile, but most things do about battle.

I start checking my few tools to fix a jam, I debate asking our valued tech priest his thoughts on best clearing jams and the tools for them, but decided against it. It may be an insult to assume the machine will fault. I turn my head away from him and look back to the tank before storing my gear on my body and climbing into my little spot in the tank.
 
Guilliman said:
"Seven-Nine ! " the comissar shouted from his seat " what is the ETA on our landing ?"
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Seven-Nine had just been clambering into her jumpseat when the Commissar himself barked at her. She jumped, banging her head on a protruding ledge; just as well she was wearing her vox helmet. It merely rang instead of cutting her scalp open.

"Sir!" she squeaked, her voice taut with tension. She forced herself to take a deep breath, get her tone under control. When she spoke again, she sounded like a different person, her voice now a rich, low, precisely modulated mezzo-soprano. Glancing over her gauges, she answered, "Four minutes and thirty seconds from... mark. Sir."

That done, she allowed herself to sink into her seat and start strapping herself in for landing. Just like they taught in the mockups.
 
A machine fetishist, a Good and Proper Korps member who if she is actually eighteen I'll eat my heart, a gun fetishist, and the Enginseer. Well, isn't this going Great. Not even all here yet. Her eyes drop to the back of the commissars head, before flicking back up to the turret controls.
 
"Seven-Nine, I want vox contact with the rest of the platoon, now" Said the commissar.
 
Guilliman said:
"Seven-Nine, I want vox contact with the rest of the platoon, now" Said the commissar.
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"Yes, sir," replied Seven-Nine. She toggled the switches on her primary vox to the platoon command net. "Hello 2-2 and 2-3, 2-2 and 2-3. This is 2-1 Niner. Vox check now, over."

Slim fingers twiddled knobs as the vox operators on the other tanks checked in, their voices distorted and hissy with static from the random radiation being thrown out by the forces of re-entry.

"Sir," she called out shortly. "We have vox with the full platoon. Landing in three minutes in... three, two, one, mark."
 
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Guilliman said:
" Crew, final check and sound off !"
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Guru does not look up from the displays and controls in his corner of the command deck, what little personal gear he has stowed in the tiny locker next to his seat.

"Forward sponsons reporting good. Aft sponsons reporting good. Port and starboard lascannon turrets reporting good. Standing by for your command, sir."
 
Kensai said:
"Sir," she called out shortly. "We have vox with the full platoon. Landing in three minutes in... three, two, one, mark."
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As Seven-Nine spoke the word mark they felt a lurch as the landing skids sink into their shocks before settling comfortably on the ground. With a hiss the seal around the loading bay breaks and it slowly lowers itself to the ground and the patter of rain on metal filled the room. The tanks ahead rolled out into the mud and set off in a north-eastern course in to join up with the units they would be supporting. The 8th Heavy Company was to be doled out piecemeal as assault leads rather than give the enemy a chance to start armoured warfare.

As the Malcadors that made up their platoon finally starting moving forward Seven-Nine's screen light up with an incoming visual transmission.

And the information that they were to be attached to the 30th Line Korps for the foreseeable future.
 
Lonard does not particulary wait for an order to roll out. This is, after all, what they are here for and behind them other tanks are waiting. The Baneblade lurches forward out into the mud.
The gasmasked Pilot is singing lowly and uncomfortably while he tests the engines power, spraying mud-splatters left and right as Lonard races the other tanks northeast. "Heading?"
It is only as an afterthought that the Krieg-Private slows down enough so their "escorts" can catch up with them before he starts the race in earnest, taking the forward middle position of the three tanks.
The urge to scream "Yeeeehaw" is supressed merely to not be shot right now.
 
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