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Scrazza wrote:(FYI: I have a mohawk )

Pics or it didn't happen.

Holy Throne, it lives?!! Awesome!

Devastator wrote:

Scrazza wrote:(FYI: I have a mohawk )

Pics or it didn't happen.

PLAYER EVENT - Summary


Death From Above - PART 1
Major Mortensen sighed heavily as he looked out across the massive, open battlefield that was now filled with craters, smoking vehicle wrecks and choked with the corpses of hundreds, their blood mixing together in disgusting pools. The medicae had insisted that he remain in the medical tent for a few hours, but he had declined, knowing that his men needed him and he had only suffered a flesh wound anyway - a slugga round had grazed his left side. Accepting only a heavy dose of stims, he hurried out of the tent, leaving the howls of injured men behind him. He called his vox-man, Bern, and when the man arrived he pulled the handset from the heavy radio pack, before speaking into it. "This is Major Mortensen to all Platoon commanders, sound off!"
"This is Lieutenant Garl," "Lieutenant Charkos here sir," "Lieutenant Thomson, reporting sir!"
Mortensen waited for a few seconds, but nothing but static greeted him. He sighed heavily. "What's the status down there? Looks like all hell's come to give us a visit out there!"
"The Orks' numbers are swelling far beyond our control, we'll either all be slaughtered or all pushed back within the next hour, if that," Garl informed the Major grimly.
"I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Briggs is dead sir, I saw his unit get overrun about twenty minutes ago - the Orks broke through our lines, but my unit managed to push them back. However, we're stretched thin sir! We need reinforcements!"
Major Mortensen stood thoughtfully, "Charkos, what's your situation?"
"Well Major, I believe I sighted the Ork brute that's in charge of this horde earlier!" Charkos reported.
Now this was important. Cut off the head and the body will die - the universally accepted way of defeating an Ork horde. "Lieutenant, find that Ork and kill it! It's our only chance! I'll be with you shortly!"
"Yes sir!"

Finally, a plan of action thought Kyel Charkos. He discarded the empty pack from his Lasgun, and having used up his own ammo, leaped onto a dead Guardsman, and scavenged two fresh power packs, and he loaded one into his Lasgun. He then assembled a team of eight men from nearby; including one Melta gunner, and after briefing them on their mission they set about looking for their prey. Kyel knew, however, that finding the Ork wasn't the hard part, it was killing it that was tricky. He'd heard that these monstrous aliens could withstand even a Krak missile to the face! Vrek, Krak missiles could blow through a Chimera or even a Leman Russ, but the idea that the Ork they were trying to kill could survive a hit like that? It sent a shiver down his spine.

What Charkos didn't know however, was that Warboss Warklaw Gordakka was looking for him too. His bionic eye never lied, he knew the humie that'd busted his ride, and he was gonna find 'im and tear him apart. He felt hot impacts on his back, and he spun round to see a few Guardsmen futily trying to bring him down. "Vrek you, you ugly green bastard!" One of them shouted defiantly. Warklaw laughed loudly, and ran at them. Two Guardsmen ran, but the one that had shouted at him stood his ground, firing his rifle straight into Warklaw. The humie was so incredibly outclassed, but still he stood fighting. Even as Warklaw towered over him at double the man's height, and even as Warklaw plucked him from the ground with his power klaw and eviscerated him, the man still stood defiant. He screamed as he died, "For Ousia! Brave as a Gator--" his defiant last shout was cut short by his screaming, which quickly turned into gurgling as blood filled his throat and dripped out of his mouth as he died. Warklaw discarded the messy corpse. "Dese 'umies ain't 'fraid a' nothin' - I likes dat! Shame dey can't fight fer nuffin, though," he grumbled.

The vox was filled with the voice of Lieutenant Garl. "Garl here, Thomson's down - just saw some bloody huge Ork rip through 'im! Vrek me, he must be at least twelve foot!" He exclaimed. This didn't comfort Charkos one bit, but he knew that he would have to find this Ork. He acknowledged the information with thanks, and his team began moving in the direction of where Thomson's platoon was positioned.

Warklaw bellowed a mighty Waaagh! and he was soon surrounded by a large mob of thirty Orks who took up his warcry. A Platoon of men shouted their own battle cry in reply, defiantly swearing on the honour of their homeworld that they'd see the greenskins dead. "For Ousia!" Shouted Lieutenant Garl, vowing to avenge Thomson's brave death. With his men and the battered remains of Thomson's platoon, they charged as one, and the Orks surged forward with animalistic ferocity to meet them. Garl fired his Boltgun into the mob with practiced precision, dropping two Orks before they knew what had happened. The loud cracks of Lasguns filled his ears, complimented by the loud bangs of the Ork Sluggas. Warriors from both sides dropped in the fury of the shooting, but before long the two sides met in vicious close-combat. The Orks natural brutality met by the Ousian's rage and hatred for the greenskins. The Orks had an advantage in melee, but Garl's Platoon had risen to almost double the Orks' numbers when they had met up with the remains of Thomson's men. The fighting was furious. An Ork wielding a crude axe slashed at him, and he ducked the overhead swing, firing three bolts into its chest, which detonated inside the Ork, killing it instantly. Burk dropped next to him, his face cleaved off by an Ork choppa. Garl rammed his bayonet through the Ork's skull, killing it. All around him, the bloody fury of the close-quarters fight raged. Twenty Guardsmen had already died, and thirteen Orks had fallen. Garl turned to his left, and saw the Ork Warboss chopping and hacking left and right, killing with every blow. Mike died, his head and torso crushed beyond recognition in the Ork's claw, and Paul was smashed into the ground as the Warboss slammed his giant chain-axe down on him. Then a heart-warming cry filled the Ousian's ears, driving them to fight all the harder out of fear, respect and pride.
"Ousian's! Fight like there's no tomorrow damn your sorry arses! Give these green bastards hell, Emperor damn you! Fight harder!"
Garl smiled at the sight of Commissar Matthew, watching in awe as his crackling power sword cleaved through Orks left and right, and his Plasma pistol melted every Ork he shot. The experienced Commissar was respected by the whole regiment, and Garl would be damned if he'd fail Matthew now. He ran to his friend's side, shouldering his boltgun in favor of his own Chainsword. "What took you so long?" Matthew asked with a grim smile as he cleaved the head of an Ork. "Oh, you know, the small matter of an Ork horde!" Garl said as he cut down a charging greenskin. "We have to kill that Warboss!" Shouted Matthewson, and Garl nodded. The two company heroes turned to face the towering greenskin, who had also focussed his attention on them. With a warcry, they charged.


Shadow Fiends
It watched and it waited, patiently observing as the Humans advanced cautiously down the corridor, three abreast. There were normal humans, clearly better equipped than the normal human warriors, yet more surprisingly in this unusual party whose motives were a mystery, there were many of the elite human warriors. They were all fully within the long corridor now, so none of them would have time to escape the ambush.

Nyragaz raised his hand and his force halted. Something was awry, he could feel it. "Brother, what is the purpose of our delay?" Queried Sergeant Ulrich. Nyragaz did not reply, for no reply was necessary. Something was heading towards them. Soon it had enveloped them all - an all-consuming darkness that appeared out of nowhere. "What manner of witchery is this?" Growled Brother Ascherfeld nearby. The darkness encompassed the entire corridor now, and none of them could see - not even the Adeptus Astartes with their genhanced vision and the compensators in their helmets. They were in total darkness. That was when the screaming began.

It was Brother Elmar, he screamed out as his throat was slit by a darkly metallic warrior with scythe-like claws instead of hands. They were amongst them all now. More screams. Boltguns fired, Lasguns flashed, offering glimpses of skeletal warriors from the darkest nightmares of mankind. Seven were dead before they knew it, eight, nine, ten - the Necrontyr flaying their skin from their bodies in a vicious and remorseless assault.

Nyragaz unsheathed his Power Sword, thumbing the activation rune, causing the blade to crackle with blue energy. He brought it up to block scything claws that attempted to remove his head, his ancient blade cutting through them. The return thrust went straight through the chest of the Necron, destroying it. It collapsed to the floor, before disappearing in a green glow. Sergeant Ulrich lost an arm to a stealthy attack from behind him, but he decapitated his assailent deftly with his chainsword; the grey metallic head clumping on the steel floor of the Hulk before disappearing.

The attack was over almost as quickly as it began, the darkness fading and leaving no trace of their foes. The floor was, however, littered with dead Imperials, at least twenty-three by Nyragaz's count. A serious loss to his strike force.

Ascherfeld roared in anger nearby, "We must avenge these deaths!"


Knights and Daemons - Part 1
Khan'das roared in delight at the sheer number of skulls they had reaped and the amount of blood that now flowed freely in Khorne's name. Indeed, his hounds had killed many hundreds of the Humans and Orks fighting in this area, and Khan'das himself had dispatched a particularly large group of Greenskins known to themselves as 'Nobz'. The relentless slaughter had lasted many hours. But he had now grown bored of such simple prey; the slaughter was great and it was true that the Blood God cared not from whence the blood flows; but there was no glory in this slaughter - these deaths meant nothing in the greater scheme of things. If Khan'das was to be elevated to the hallowed ranks of the Daemon Princes', he would have to kill many more of greater standing.

Then he sensed something; a new presence that revolted him. He turned to see a giant Daemon; whose body flowed with distorted colours not of this realm; whose position Khan'das eternally coveted. That despicable Slaanesh-worshipping dog Celestus Maglovin had joined the fight.

Celestus rejoiced in the delight of slaughter, snuffing out the lives of the pitiful mortals surrounding him. His warband charged into the remaining Humans and Orks, butchering them swiftly. A roar from nearby attracted his attention, and when he turned to look, he saw Khan'das. Celestus laughed mockingly at the servant of Khorne who was no doubt enraged that Celestus' warriors had stolen the fight from him. He grinned widely as the blood-red Herald of Khorne rode over to him atop his Bloodcrusher.

"Khan'das, to what do I owe this pleasant visit?" Celestus asked mockingly.
"This was our fight! Those souls were to be slaughtered in the name of Khorne and their skulls taken for the skull throne! Not to be used to satisfy your own warped delights!" Bellowed Khan'das.
Celestus always enjoyed the conversations he had with Khan'das. They.. amused him. The very fact that he had once been a mere mortal, a Space Marine amongst many thousands of the Emperor's Children Legion, and now he was a Daemon of far greater stature than Khan'das had ever been in its impossibly ancient existence endlessly enraged the Herald, and Celestus took great delight in that.
"Calm yourself, little Herald," Celestus said, his voice filled with mischief and deceit, "for there are many more skulls for you to reap,"
"What are you up to?" Khan'das snarled in reply, his Daemonic horde gathering around him.
"The Daemonhunters of the corpse-God are here, Khan'das," Celestus explained simply. He felt Khan'das's interest peak instantly.
"Show me where they are! I will take their skulls for the skull throne!" Khan'das demanded.

A great roar that created terror in every Daemon and mortal present sounded from behind them all. The Unbound was here. The massive Bloodthirster towered over even Celestus, and many lesser Daemons scattered in his presence.
"The Grey Knights!" Hissed The Unbound. "I will claim the head of their leader myself! Yes.. I can feel their presence now! You, servant of the Dark Prince," the Bloodthirster indicated to Celestus, "You will take us to them!"
Celestus recoiled in anger, "You expect me to march into battle against the Grey Knights and die for you?"
The Unbound gave voice to a mind-shattering roar, "You dare defy my will? You will fight the Grey Knights with us, or I will destroy you here!"
Celestus was filled with rage. He knew he had no choice; The Unbound was quite possibly the most powerful being aboard the Space Hulk. "Very well," he conceded, turning to lead the massive horde of Daemons and traitorous Space Marines. The coming fight would be brutal.

The Grey Knights all felt it at once: a large warp signature that could mean only one thing: Daemons were coming. Many hundreds as far as Brother-Captain Glaudian could tell. "Brothers, ready yourselves! The Great Enemy is coming for us, and they shall not find us wanting!" He shouted. They were in a large storage bay, and his men quickly created a defensive perimeter out of the many supply crates and scraps of metal they found lying around. They had created themselves a defensible position.
"What is it?" Asked Marshal Night.
"Daemons are coming."
"How can you be sure?"
"We have felt them; the denizens of the warp have a malign psychic signature - part of being a Daemonhunter is knowing when the Daemons are coming."
"Of course," replied the Marshal.

Glaudian surveyed his force. There was Justicar Venatio's Purifiers who were reciting the Litanies of Purity in preparation for battle off to his left. Justicar Cross's Purgation squad, who were checking their weapons. But the bulk of his force were the revered Terminators of Justicars Gideon and Hiracio. But mightiest of all his warriors were the Paladins. These fabled warriors were second in skill and experience only to him, the other Brother-Captains and the Grand Masters.

It did not take long for them to come. It started as just a faint noise, coming from the dark and labyrinthine corridors and access ways that opened into the storage bay. But then they came. Hundreds of howling, snarling, blood-red Hounds of Khorne, charging madly in their blood lust. As soon as they had appeared, dozens were banished back to the warp by a hail of fire from the Grey Knights. Storm Bolters barked, Psycannons thumped and Psilencers rattled as they fired round after round of psychically-charged bolts. But soon there were too many; the Hounds' numbers swelling too large for their guns to kill them all, and then it was down to bloody close-combat. The Terminators, with the Purifiers and Purgation squad either side. The Grey Knights were unmovable. The Daemons poured forth from the depths of the Hulk, and were pushed back time and time again. Justicar Venatio and his Purifiers unleashed a great Psychic flame, incinerating large swathes of Daemons, the Purgation squad laying down point-blank fire that decimated just as many, and the Terminators fought back with unmatched ferocity. But it was not long before more opponents presented themselves - screaming Cultists sporting hideous mutations charged madly at the Grey Knights, followed by their vile masters: Chaos Space Marines. Tied down in hand-to-hand combat, the Daemonhunters could do nothing to stop the first volley of shooting from their traitorous counterparts. A storm of bolter rounds, searing plasma bolts, and from some, vicious sonic attacks, hit the Grey Knights' lines like a thunderstorm. Daemons and Cultists were cut down by their own allies' fire without a thought; their lives inconsequential. Two Terminators from Justicar Gideon's squad died, their ancient Aegis armor vulnerable to the super-heated plasma. Three Purifiers and one of Justicar Cross's Purgation squad also died.

Michael Cross shouted a curse at the Heretics and Traitors before raising his Storm Bolter and snapping off a hail of shots that killed a dozen Cultists, his remaining battle-brothers following his example. The Psycannons reaped a fearsome toll upon the Traitor Marines, killing five, whilst the Psilencer felled another two. The Terminators also fired back, killing another six. But then the Traitorous host advanced, followed by more screaming Cultists. More were cut down in the crossfire, but the two sides met in combat once again.

"Push the Heretics back, in the name of the Emperor!" Shouted Glaudian, rallying his troops as he and his retinue joined the fight, counter-attacking with a skill and fury that had so far been unprecedented in the battle. The Paladins tore into the Traitors, and between themselves, Marshal Night and their Brother-Captain they accounted for a further twenty-seven Traitor Marines, the other Grey Knights finishing off the rest. But it had been a bloody fight - only Justicar Cross remained of the Purgation squad, and as well as a Terminator from Justicar Hiracio's squad another Purifier had been killed. In the darkness, something stirred. More Daemons. a tide of Daemonettes and Bloodletters charged in, hacking and slashing madly at the Grey Knights. Justicar Cross picked up an Incinerator from the corpse of his fallen brother and emptied it into the Daemons, killing many. Even as he was surrounded and hacked apart by five Bloodletters, he smashed three of his killers asunder with his Daemon Hammer.

Glaudian knew that there was only one way to stop this great tide of Chaos. "I am the Hammer," he began intoning. His Paladin squad felt the Psychic energy building up within Glaudian and they too pooled their considerable psychic strength into him. "I am the sword in his hand," Glaudian continued, the Psychic energy welling up inside of him, "I am the gauntlet about his fist," the energy was building up to breaking point, and an aura of silver energy was forming about him, "I am the bane of his foes and the woes of the treacherous," the Daemons too now felt the great build up of Psychic energy, and attempted to scatter and flee before him. But there was no escaping his fury, for there was nowhere his mind could not reach, "I am the end!" Glaudian finished with a great shout that echoed in the warp; and the immeasurably destructive powers of the Holocaust were released; instantly destroying the Daemons around them. Glaudian dropped to one knee, the great strain it took to summon the Holocaust taking its toll on him. He was breathing deeply, his energy almost spent. But now was when he needed it most, for as they looked, two great monstrosities of Daemonkind advanced, surrounded by many terrible horrors of the warp. Glaudian saw Bloodcrushers of Khorne with devil-like Bloodletters riding them amongst the horde.

Feris recovered from his shock and anger at the great Psychic witchery enacted by his brothers as the great, towering Daemon leaders finally revealed themselves. The fight so far had been tough, and he had already suffered a wound on his chest where a Hellblade had pierced the ancient battle-plate of his armor, but he knew the battle had only just begun - for what was to come would see the deaths of many of the noble and pure men that he had been fighting alongside. For coming towards them, at the dark heart of the Daemon horde stood a Daemon Prince, and worse, a Greater Daemon of the Blood God, who emitted a palpable aura of malice and murder. Thoughts that weren't his found their way into his mind; whispering to him, telling him to turn on his brothers with promises of power beyond his wildest dreams. Enraged, he forced them out of his mind, deciding to allocate himself many hours of gruelling physical and mental punishment for his lapse in mental strength; should he survive.

As the Grey Knights charged, it was Marshal Feris Night of the Black Templars who was at the front with his sword raised high.


The Emperor Protects - Part 1
Inquisitor Marcus Profugus studied the holographic display in front of him with great interest. Things were looking bad. Though several regiments of Imperial Guard were engaged in the battle for the gargantuan, cavernous sections of the Hulk they were currently occupying, there seemed to be no end to the Ork reinforcements; their numbers swelling with every passing minute.
"How many men do we have engaged?" Marcus asked one of the officers next to him.
"Almost twenty-thousand foot soldiers; though estimates suggest that we may have already lost as many as four thousand," the man replied darkly.
The Inquisitor, despite his stereotypical unshakable mindset, raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had fought Xenos countless times before.. but he had never seen anything of this insane magnitude. The fighting had only been going on for five hours, and if they continued to lose troops at the current rate their forces would be spent by the morning.
"And what of the Orks? How numerous are their accursed forces?"
"Projections show that we're facing a horde of at least thirty thousand, perhaps more," the Officer replied, a shiver running down his spine as if it was painful to say the words. It almost was.
Marcus nodded contemplatively. Looking across the holographic display once more, he noticed their western-most line was held by the woefully outnumbered Ousian 23rd. Three-thousand men. Only three-thousand against almost triple their own number. The odds were not good. That wasn't even factoring in casualties; according to the display they had lost close on a third of their men already. Multiple requests for armored support from desperate and angry Ousian commanders flashed on the display, but they were all unanswered and all at least two hours old. Marcus wasn't surprised. Firstly, armored support had already been sent to their positions, but it had been entirely destroyed. Secondly, the Orks were well and truly amongst the Guardsmen in many places, so he was certain that the commanders were now too busy trying to hold their battle lines to be demanding support anymore.

He looked at their other forces - there were the Ousian 21st who were defending their current location - the strategic command of the Imperial forces itself - and they weren't doing too badly. However the Orks continued to charge at them madly and wrack their lines with dozens of crude artillery positions. For the most part, however, this was their most stable front. But Marcus knew that if the others fell, this position would be quickly overrun.

Their eastern forces were composed of the 8th Perciprian Dragoons heavy infantry and the 3rd Reth drop-troopers, who were currently doubling up as an airborne hit-and-run surgical strike force, swiftly eliminating small, vulnerable Ork targets before moving on. The 9th and 10th Perciprian regiments were going to be landing soon, which was definitely good news - a further eight-thousand heavy infantry was to be a very welcome sight. But where was the bloody armor? They needed tanks, Emperor damn it, and the Orks were taking full advantage of the Imperial's lack of armored support.
"When are we going to get armor reinforcements, Lord-General?" He addressed the overall commander of the Imperial Guard forces directly.
"Inquisitor," Lord-General Allanus turned to reply, "The Hikkian 17th are en route, eager to avenge their fallen company I might add."
"Excellent, but when they arrive have the Perciprian reinforcements accompany them; we can't allow the Orks to eliminate our armor before it even reaches the battlefront this time."
"Agreed, I was just thinking the same," replied the venerable tactician.
"What time can we expect them to arrive?" Marcus asked.
"Unfortunately, they are due to arrive tomorrow morning."
Marcus cursed quietly under his breath. "That means we'll have to hold out overnight. As I'm sure you're well aware, our eastern forces - the Ousian 23rd - are set to crumble within the next eight or so hours; by the evening that front will be lost unless we reinforce them."
The Lord-General nodded in agreement, "True, but I have decided upon a plan of action. When the 9th and 10th Perciprian Dragoons arrive in two hours, we will lead a mass counter-attack, combining their strengths with the Ousian 21st, in an attempt to destroy the Orks attacking our position. Once we have accomplished that, we can set our goals to relieving the embattled Ousian 23rd."
"A risky strategem, Lord-General, which will be both costly in time and life. Do you really believe we can accomplish this before the west falls?"
"Inquisitor, we have little choice but to hope we can and have faith in victory. The Emperor protects."
All officers within earshot repeated the phrase, and as they did so they made the symbol of the Aquila over their chests.
"Indeed he does, but it's men that win wars at the cost of their own blood," the Inquisitor said, the grim truth of the statement not lost upon any of the officers.
"If this gamble doesn't pay off, then we may as well just consign our souls to the Emperor now and put a Las bolt through our brains. It'd save time," moaned a junior liaison officer from one of the various regiments stuck in this meat-grinder. A single shot rang out from across the hologram display board, hitting the liaison officer square in the eyes, taking his head off messily. All eyes in the room turned to the intimidating form of Lord Commissar Praxuss, who holstered his smoking Bolt pistol without a word. "Carry on," he said quietly. Slowly, the command centre regained its chaotic atmosphere; everyone working all the harder after the execution that had just occurred. A small Servitor appeared quickly to clean up the mess.
"Well gentlemen, there you have it. I think that-"
"Lord-General!" Came an anxious shout from across the room.
"What is it?" Allanus spun on the spot to look at the speaker, angry at being interrupted. The whelp had better have a good reason for his rudeness, or else he'd have Praxuss expend another round. The communications officer stood to attention and offered a curt salute. "Sirs," he glanced nervously around at the mighty Imperial heroes that gazed back at him with mild interest, "We just received a transmission, Emperor bless us, reinforcements have just arrived!"
The interest of the commanders peaked instantly. Lord-General Allanus was the first to speak, "Is it the Perciprian Dragoons? They're not scheduled to arrive for another two hours!"
"No sir, even better!" The excited communique officer exclaimed.
"Well have out with it boy, who is it?" Marcus ordered.
The officer handed him the data-slate that recorded the message, explaining vaguely as he did so, "Angels sir! The Emperor has sent his Angels to save us!"

Inquisitor Marcus Profugus smiled. "I think this war just turned in our favor."

The Emperor Protects - Part 2





The ramp slammed down on the metallic ground with a clank, the Thunderhawk it was attached to hissing out out of vents and its engines were whirring to a stop. Out of the massive gunship came a retinue of awesome warriors; clad in the finest armor and armed with the finest weapons the Imperium could muster. They were the Adeptus Astartes; the Emperor's Angels of Death; the Space Marines. One of the approaching warriors stood out from the rest; his armor far more magnificent than those he commanded. He carried a great warhammer in one hand, and a Mk 7 Power Armor helmet in the other. He was flanked by ten warriors with white helmets; veterans of their chapter - warriors who had served for centuries, and could slaughter dozens with but their own fists.

The hallowed veterans met with the Imperial officers, dispensing with pleasantries.
"Captain Jordan Gaius of the Imperial Fists fifth Battle Company," the lead Marine introduced himself, "and you would be?"
"Lord-General Allanus," the grizzled commander turned to introduce his fellows, each by name, until finally he indicated to the armored figure hovering nearby, "and that is Inquisitor Profugus."
Captain Gaius acknowledged the young Inquisitor with a curt nod, before turning to a second warrior behind him, "This is veteran-sergeant Santos, my second-in-command."

Marcus studied the Captain; his face was covered with scars earned in battle centuries before he had even been born, and his silver hair was close-cropped and pristine. His yellow armor was covered in ancient battle damage, and a long, flowing cloak trailed behind him. The Thunder Hammer he held at rest was easily as tall as a man, and hummed with hidden power. An archaic Bolt pistol was holstered in a well-worn holster at his side. Truly, they were in the presence of a mortal God.

"What is your situation?" Demanded the Captain, and Lord-General Allanus met the gaze of the Space Marine that towered above him at almost double his height. "Our western forces are set to crumble by the evening, they need immediate support Captain."

Gaius nodded. Both men were wise enough to know that no more time need be wasted here, for every second spent in discussion was a second that could be spent putting a Bolt round in an Orks' skull. "Very well, I shall take the bulk of my forces there," He turned to Santos, "You will remain here, keep me updated and act as my presence here until such a time that I am reunited with my Guard counterpart."
"Yes, Captain," Santos replied, his disappointment at not joining the battle plain in his voice, but he corrected himself, knowing that it was his duty to serve in whatever way Gaius deemed fit. He also knew that his Power sword would taste greenskin blood before this war was done. He and his squad turned to join the entourage of Guard officers. Gaius turned and embarked his Thunderhawk, the mighty craft roaring as it took off. Soon after, half a dozen more such craft followed it, heading west.

Santos spoke to the Lord-General, "We must return to your command centre."
"Yes, let us return," Allanus replied, walking off to their headquarters.

Marcus smiled.

Death From Above - Part 2
The Imperial forces - specifically the Ousian 23rd - were being overrun. Hundreds upon hundreds of good, honest men would never again see their home; embrace their loved ones or share a bottle of their regiments' finest Lausk with their comrades and friends after a hard-won battle. They lay, crumpled and brutalized; most barely recognisable. But that didn't matter now. Their deaths didn't matter now. All that mattered now was the death of Warboss Warklaw Gordakka, the terrible beast that was responsible for all these deaths. Not because he killed them all - though kill many he did - but because a horde beyond counting of his own hated kind had flocked to him at his call, like hungry birds to bread crumbs.

The ground was literally a green tide as far as the eye could see, however Captain Jordan Gaius' genhanced vision could pick out each and every ramshackle Ork vehicle as he observed the great battle below them from his Thunderhawk's porthole. He watched with a smile as other Thunderhawks strafed the Ork forces with bombs and shots from the great cannons mounted on their backs; and he took great delight in observing the destruction those mighty craft caused. Other, more ponderous Thunderhawk variants carrying heavy armor deployed further back, lowering the revered Land Raider and Predator battle tanks to the ground with utmost care, so that their destructive purpose may continue to be fulfilled with all haste. He also noted the deployance of one of the two Vindicators that had been attached to his large task force. Sergeant Cruor was sure to reap much glory from this battle as he lead the Imperial Fists' armored forces from his ancient Land Raider, the Gladius, which had an impeccable record of service that stretched back almost eight-thousand years. The right to command it was only gifted to the most talented of the chapter's tank commanders. Turning his gaze back to the warriors that accompanied him, he and tactical Sergeant Vorus exchanged glances; the veteran-sergeant's expression telling him all he needed to know. But he already knew that his men would be battle-ready, for Sergeant Vorus was diligent in the extreme in the execution of his duties, and in the one-hundred and fifty-six years they had fought alongside each other, no battle-brother under Vorus' command had ever performed in a manner other than exemplary. But his squad had suffered many, many casualties over the years, and none of the Marines under Vorus' command were from the original roster - the seven Marines that had not been killed over Vorus' eighty-two years of command in his current position had all been promoted to either the Veteran company or as Sergeant's of their own squads in Gaius' company. What was more, Vorus was absolutely loyal to him, for he had twice been offered a place in the Veteran company, but had declined both times, deciding instead to remain in service of his Captain and friend. It was nigh-unheard of for any Space Marine to turn down such a promotion, let alone twice, and Gaius allowed himself to indulge in pride at the notion that he inspired such complete loyalty in his warriors.

From further down the Thunderhawk, he heard Sergeant Aurellias' deep voice chanting the Litanies of Devotion with his Assault squad whilst they oversaw final preparation of their wargear. But perhaps greatest of all of them, was Miguel. Old Miguel. The venerable Dreadnought stood motionless in the dark rear of the Thunderhawk, held in place by support pylons and mag-clamps. His enormous power fist and assault cannon lay still now, but when combat reached them, which soon it would, the serene stillness and silence of Miguel's armored form would disappear, shed like a snake's skin, and replaced by unstoppable battle-rage and fury as he waded through the greenskins. Gaius did not know exactly how old the Dreadnought was, but Miguel had served under nine Captain's previous to himself, making him the tenth commander of the fifth company that Miguel had fought, and imparted wisdom, for over the last two-thousand years. Gaius had himself served the Emperor as a Space Marine for two-hundred and seventy-six years, and one-hundred and four of those years he had spent as Captain of the fifth. But Miguel had always been there, ever since he had first layed his awestruck eyes upon the mighty Dreadnought as a Scout when his squad was attached to the fifth battle company for an extended campaign, and as he had risen through the ranks from Devaster to Assault Marine to Tactical Marine, and eventually to Sergeant and soon after Company Champion. Even now, as Captain, he was humbled in the presence of such a great warrior, who stood immune to the degrading affects of time.

As if sensing the Captain's thoughts, Miguel spoke quietly to Gaius, the fake voice emitted from the sarcophogus' vox-grille chilling him more than the Daemon-spawn of Korask or the rigorous and excrutiatingly painful genetic modification and initiation he had undergone to become one of the hallowed Adeptus Astartes, for he knew that it took a greater soul than his own to endure the terrible half-life of a Dreadnought.
"I.. remember.. when you were just.. a Scout, raw as uncooked fish," the Dreadnought rasped.
Jordan chuckled, "In the many centuries I have known you Miguel, you have never changed. You are one of the greatest heroes of our chapter, and I hope one day you will finally agree with me on that."
"Jordan.. I have told you.. many times.. I am no.. hero!" Miguel replied, hidden anger registable in his tone, "This.. is a tomb.. of living torture.. for myself and.. all other Ancients.. I wish for it to end so dearly.. but.. I live to serve, and live I do."
Captain Gaius bowed his head. To most Space Marines, to be, as Miguel would put it, incarcerated into a Dreadnought was a great honour - to serve the Emperor evermore. He had thought like that once, too. But having risen to his current rank, he learned over the years that to be a Dreadnought was to suffer and to become less human than the Adeptus Astartes already were. Never again would Miguel shout a warcry from his lips; never again would he tear out a traitors throat with his own hands or cut down a charging horde of Greenskins or Tyranids with boltgun and blade. Never again would he feel the warmth of the ground underneath his feet. Truly, Miguel had sacrificed everything it meant to be human in his pursuit of eternal service in the name of the Emperor of mankind. Gaius asked himself once again, was it worth it? Is there a point where service becomes too pure, and too much is lost? Or perhaps to not strive to reach such a state was blasphemy, and worthy of execution? Jordan sighed, and hefted his mighty Thunderhammer, gripping it tight as the voice of the pilot sounded over the vox, "Prepare for landing!"

The craft shuddered and slammed down to the ground with a clunk that reverbrated throughout its frame. Simultaneously, the restraints on the Marines and Miguel released, and as the ramp hit the ground, Gaius was already out, thumbing the activation rune on his weapon, and it crackled to life; dangerous energy corruscating about its head.



His Will Be Done

Matthewson raised his Plasma pistol and fired with a speed and precision that he had honed over thirty-five years of fighting alongside the ranks of the Imperial Guard. A blinding plasma bolt was projected from the barrel of the handgun, incinerating the artificial air that it passed through, before hitting the massive frame of Warboss Warklaw and searing through his right flank - the crude armor made up of plates of metal offering absolutely no protection to the archaic weapons' attack. The great greenskin roared in anger and pain, but was undeterred in his alien rage, and began to charge towards the Commissar and Lieutenant. Garl felt sweat running down his back; the hot blood on the side of his face; the roaring chaos of the brutal mêlée that had utterly engulfed them; the iron of his Chainsword's grip which he clasped firmly within a two-handed grip growled like a homicidal turbine out to mince some kittens. He was acutely aware of the screams of dying men and greenskins as they were cut down viciously by each other all around him, the bright flash of Lasgun's discharging registering in the furthest extents of his retinas, and the clash of standard issue steel Imperial Bayonets and some more esoteric blades such as swords and machetes that were wielded by a few of the immediate combatants clashing with the unreliable and ramshackle metal of the large Ork cleavers and axes. The sickening wet crunch as limbs were separated from bodies and skulls were crushed whilst arteries burst and exploded, showering blood over those nearby made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. Truly, this was fighting at its most brutal and bloody.

This was the type of fighting that left most of the few survivors as empty, withdrawn shadows of their former selves. Either that, or it made them fething heroes.

For one, Lieutenant Khan Garl wanted to be a fething Terra-damned hero out of the two oh-so pleasant choices that remained to him.
"Men of Ousia, it's Martyr time you sons of scum-sucking whores!" He shouted in an attempt to rouse the men, before the rest of the vicious close-combat ceased to be something he recognised. All that mattered was that they took down the great fething gargantuan Ork that surely heralded a horrible, thankless death that was charging straight towards them. Heh, no problem, he thought. Damn, I'm either going batgak crazy or I'm just a fearless bastard.

Matthewson admired the Lieutenant's bravado and courage, despite the fact that it bordered on insanity and the withdrawn but savage look that now played across the man's eyes like a raging fire. His gaze returned to the great charging greenskin before him, and he raised his Power sword high in an attempt to rally whatever warriors he could to aid himself and Garl in the epic combat that was about to unfold. He shouted something inspiring, though he didn't notice what - such things had merely become second-nature to him, and at times like this he ceased to register the externalisation of such encouraging thoughts.

Warboss Warklaw Gordakka grinned a wide Orkish grin as he reached the two tiny, defiant human warriors that stood before him. He swung at one with his giant chain-axe and reached down for the other with his even bigger Klaw. However, the pesky runts avoided his blows and manoeuvred to get inside his guard. The one in the weathered, flowing black storm coat stabbed him with a crackling energy blade in the burnt and charred area of flesh that was now unprotected after being recently hit by a plasma bolt. Warklaw roared out in pain, and even moreso as the other humie drove his screaming chain-blade into the biceps of his unaugmented left arm. The terrifying roar of anger and pain he emitted intensified ten fold, and he sent the black-coated humie flying with a backhand hit that involved slamming his entire Klaw backwards into the humie, leaving the energy weapon impaled in his side, piercing one of his lungs as Orkish blood tried to flow but fizzed as it was incinerated by the Power sword that remained in the wound. To dispatch his second assailant, he bunched his muscles, choking and jamming the teeth of the vicious chainsword, before delivering a bone-shattering down-thrust with his elbow onto the humies' head, causing it to collapse with a grunt. He bellowed with delight at his victory over these two humie champions even as he clumsily removed the humie blades, discarding them on the artificial ground. He then brought his chain-axe down on the humie next to him, obliterating the man's left shoulder and arm, as well as making a bloody mess of his left flank and a lot of his innards. He decided to let the human insect choke to death slowly on his own blood that even now overflowed from its mouth. Then, a fresh wave of pain reached his primitive brain as further plasma bolts, albeit on a lower and more frequently firing power setting, impacting on and melting straight through his crude armor and burning through several layers of even his tough hide. He spun around to see the black-coated humie lying in a crumpled and bloody mess about two dozen metres away amongst the vicious combat, firing at him. Warklaw swiftly discarded his Chain-axe and unholstered his shoota, and fired a hail of shots at his opponent, although his aim was characteristically awful.

Commissar Richard Matthewson slumped back down onto the arteficial ground, his Plasma pistol still gripped tightly in his hand. He felt a wet, sticky liquid about himself, and realised without looking that he had been shot - several times - by the greenskin's large-calibre slugs. Two had taken him in the collarbone, one in the right arm and one had pierced his stylised flak-chain armor broken and split in several places. He managed to snap off a shot, killing a nearby Ork and saving a Guardsman before slipping into unconsciousness as quickly as his sidearm slipped out of his hand.

Calling up on reserves of strength from the from within his soul that he didn't even know he had, Khan Garl ripped his bolt pistol out of its holster, and aimed it manically at the Warboss that had ravaged him so. He emptied the entire clip into the beast's back. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Warboss Warklaw fell to his knees as the raging mêlée around him began to conclude. Blood streaked down his maimed back and out of his shredded left bicep. Was this it? No. It couldn't be. He refused to die here, to some pansy humies.

Warboss Warklaw Gordakka struggled to his feet, and let loose a Waaagh! that could be heard for a mile all round.


His Will Be Done - Part 2

The great call Warklaw had sent out had brought Orks flocking from all around, even as more Guardsmen ran to join this battle that could have a profound effect upon the outcome of the entire war itself. Whilst mobs of Ork Nobs madly charged headlong into the increasingly massive mêlée whilst heroic and stalwart Space Marines bolstered the Imperial forces, steeling the resolve of the lesser men around them. Truly, this is what Orks, Guardsmen and Space Marines alike lived for. Orks, for the thrill of the fight, Guardsmen to fulfil their sacred duty to protect the Imperium and likewise the Space Marines.

Warklaw charged alongside his Nobs, alien adrenaline flowing through his circulation even as his life-blood flowed out of his wounds. In a matter of seconds he had cleaved apart thirteen Guardsmen, and each of his Nobs equalling around half of that. It was brutal, and blood flowed underfoot. In his great rage, Warklaw left no human in his path recognisable.

But their great charge had left them separated from the rest of the Orks, and they began to be overwhelmed. Still, they killed dozens upon dozens of Guardsmen in the close combat.

A well-placed Bolter round took a Nob in the head, and the Ork crumpled. A Melta shot turned another into molten slag. Three more were cut down in mêlée by an Assault squad who suffered two casualties in return.

Lieutenant Kyel Charkos was almost there. Seven of his Platoon flanked him, and their target was up ahead. "Form a firing line and first rank fire!" He ordered. His men obeyed, forming a frontal line of three men and a rear of four. "First rank fire!" He shouted, and the first three men opened fire, then ducked, "Second rank fire!" The secondary line followed suite. Two Nobs dropped. Then the Warboss himself charged towards them. The Guardsmen scattered instinctively. Charkos didn't stop them, he would rather they run and live to fight another day instead of being crushed into a bloody smear on the ground. He ran whilst taking pot-shots with his Laspistol. He also stumbled upon the bloody and crumpled form of Commissar Matthewson. "Vrek, I need a Vox!" He shouted, but his Vox-man was nearby and he quickly relayed a message back to the field medicae centre demanding an immediate detachment of armed Sister Hospitala to be dispatched to his position. Despite being informed that the Medicae field base was overwhelmed with casualties, he was relieved to find out there was a force of Adepta Sororitas with accompanying Sister Hospitala nearby, and grateful when he was informed they were going to be re-routed to his location. His men stood over him and the prone Commissar, defending them with their very lives.

Charkos was startled by a terrifying war cry above him, and he looked around to see a crazed Ork Nob running through his men, hacking them apart with a great chain-axe. The massive Ork was upon him in a matter of seconds, Charkos' pistol out of energy, leaving him defenseless. He fell on his back as the Nob raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. It was then that Kyel knew he was dead. It was also then that he felt something metallic in his hand. He instinctively pulled it up and aimed at the Nob; the familiar grip of a pistol something he knew all too well. He pulled the trigger, but to his great displeasure, instead of firing the Plasma pistol overheated, and plasma vented over his hand, liquifying it instantly. He screamed in pain. The momentary look of terror on the Ork Nob's face was quickly replaced with delight, and the terribly crude but vicious axe came down, teeth revving.

It never reached him. The axe and the massive Ork that was holding it suddenly turned molten and melted into a viscous liquid slag puddle nearby. Charkos rolled out of the way of the molten liquid before it reached him, deftly dragging Matthewson to safety as he did so. Looking up at his saviour, he saw a young Guardsmen standing over him, a Meltagun clasped in his right hand and a dazzlingly ornate Power sword in the other. He recognized it as Matthewson's. The Guardsman was tall, broad and evidently very strong - stronger than himself, Kyel knew, to be holding two such weapons single-handedly and with such applaudable accuracy with each. Two Ork's charged towards them, and Kyel watched in partial awe and in greater relief as the man cut them down deftly with a parry and reverse sweep decapitating one and a follow-up swing removing the head of the second. The man slung his Meltagun over his back, the leather strap worn and dirtied. A mighty paw reached down to help Kyel up, and he gratefully accepted.

"Thank you trooper," Kyel gasped through the searing pain of his burning left arm.
"Just doing my duty sir," The man replied modestly.
"If we get out of this one, you'll be commended, I've never seen a man do anything like that!" Kyel replied.
The man seemed embarressed, "It was the adrenalin sir."
"What's your name soldier?" Kyel asked.
"Private Robin, sir!" The ragged giant answered.
Kyel grinned. "Well Private Robin, you'd better keep me alive until the blasted Medicae arrive!"
"Shouldn't be a problem sir," Robin explained, indicating to the group of Sororitas moving through the raging combat, Bolters blazing and blades flashing as they cut down greenskins. Some Sisters fell, but the group continued, attending to the few living men.

Kyel picked up a nearby Laspistol, and began to fire.

WOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!! More shenanigans!!!!!

Oh hell yeah guys! I've beaten my own event size record already! 8,421 words already! Get in there. My previous record as from RZ&LWC with an impressive 5.5k words. 3k more this time - probably gonna hit 10k!

Darkvoidof40k wrote:

Devastator wrote:

Scrazza wrote:(FYI: I have a mohawk )

Pics or it didn't happen.

Alright. y'all just wait.

Also: BOOYAHs for Trooper Robin.

Scrazza wrote:Also: BOOYAHs for Trooper Robin.

Big up the inside joke yo.

Are we allowed to continue role-playing now?

Scrazza wrote:Are we allowed to continue role-playing now?

Got, I'd say, one more part of event to do, perhaps two as a max. At least for the main conflict that is, there Knights and Demons event is a whole separate matter, but less important as the involved players haven't posted here in awhile.

Just going to point out though, there really isn't anything stopping the majority of players writing IC.

Alright then, let me just reread the last part of event to get everything right, and I'll be doing a piece of RP.

Uh, Darko...

I'm Khan'Das? The deamon? I've been active here for a while?

Scrazza wrote:Alright then, let me just reread the last part of event to get everything right, and I'll be doing a piece of RP.

Mis-communication methinks, your character is still involved in the event. I doubt that he will be in any more of it other than perhaps in the medicae tent at the end. Nonetheless, still something I'd like to do.

I'll try and do it tonight. But sadly, in an hour and a half, gotta go get an injection against some disease or other..

Chowderhead wrote:Uh, Darko...

I'm Khan'Das? The deamon? I've been active here for a while?

Yeah, I know. I was talking about since I brought the roleplay back to life after awhile of nothing - in other words, when I posted the last two parts of the event.

Regardless, it's good to know you're still with us on this one.

Of course I am. I've been with this since day 5. I think.

Anyway, good to see your stupid f**king cat face in this thread again.

Chowderhead wrote:Anyway, good to see your stupid f**king cat face in this thread again.

Darkvoidof40k wrote:

Scrazza wrote:Alright then, let me just reread the last part of event to get everything right, and I'll be doing a piece of RP.

Mis-communication methinks, your character is still involved in the event. I doubt that he will be in any more of it other than perhaps in the medicae tent at the end. Nonetheless, still something I'd like to do.

I'll try and do it tonight. But sadly, in an hour and a half, gotta go get an injection against some disease or other..

Alright, I'll wait.

Scrazza wrote:

Darkvoidof40k wrote:

Scrazza wrote:Alright then, let me just reread the last part of event to get everything right, and I'll be doing a piece of RP.

Mis-communication methinks, your character is still involved in the event. I doubt that he will be in any more of it other than perhaps in the medicae tent at the end. Nonetheless, still something I'd like to do.

I'll try and do it tonight. But sadly, in an hour and a half, gotta go get an injection against some disease or other..

Alright, I'll wait.

Good man. While you're at it, send me a PM with any ambitions you have for your character(s) and their involvement in the roleplay as a whole. Hell, everyone may as well do this.

PM sent.

I'll send a PM

wizard12 wrote:I'll send a PM.

Good to see you posting in this thread again.

Please note that your character isn't stuck in "event limbo" as it were.

Cool, seeing as most events are done I may get back to doing proper posts.

Edit: h and they may be slow coming currently as not only am I helping a friend script an abridged series but I also have Piano and Singing exams coming up.

wizard12 wrote:Cool, seeing as most events are done I may get back to doing proper posts.

Good to hear.

I'd appreciate it if you could do a re-read and give me a brief appraisal of what your character's situation is at the moment.

Darkvoidof40k wrote:

wizard12 wrote:Cool, seeing as most events are done I may get back to doing proper posts.

Good to hear.

I'd appreciate it if you could do a re-read and give me a brief appraisal of what your character's situation is at the moment.

Give me till Wednesday and I'm sure I can provide that and a decent IC post.

AWESOME.
Moar of that.

IC:

Marcus snapped back to reality. The bombing had stopped... for now at least. He motioned for Robur to follow him.

"Now we can get to Naval command. If it's still there. That was quite the air raid wouldn't you say?" Marcus started up in a light hearted tone.

"Quite so inquisitor..." Robur mumbled, knowing that Marcus wouldn't really be listening to his response.

"I do say that I should requisition a squad of storm troopers. I don't have the time to wait for inquisitorial men to get here so I'll have to take some of the Guards grenadiers. And some transport... oh and provisions and..."

"And what, may I ask, is this for Inquisitor?"

"Oh! Have I not mentioned? We're going on an expedition Robur! I've been studying the maps of this hulk and there appears to be a shaft somewhere in sector 35-XFG that leads straight into an old trader ship. From there we can make our way towards a relatively intact and by the looks of things quite inactive tyranid bioship. Not one of their big ones but I hav a few tests in mind to do. Think Robur, we could discover a weakness in one of our most terrible foes yet! Think of the fame, glory and renown!"

"It would defiantly make a name for yourself Inquisitor" Robur sighed, many inquisitors had done similar things and yet there were any useful results. Worse still, as the ship hadn't decayed that meant it was still alive, meaning there was a chance of hostile contact... "remind me inquisitor, why are we going to naval command again?"

"All will become clear soon..."


------------------ At naval command --------------------

Commander Zhakov, acting commander of the 38th Reth Air Crops stared at the depressing data slate. The malicious piece of hardware spread a sickly green glow across his face in the dimly lit room. He put it down briefly as he spotted a squadron of ork fighta's on the hololithic display table moving through the first defense line. He picked up yet another data slate then addressed his command staff.

"Send commanders Rever's, Galali's and Hawk's squadrons to intercept those fighta's and drive them off. Tell them to be prudent, I'm low on machines and pilots as it is so tell them if they can just scare the buggers off then I'm happy. Leave the killing to them AA regiments."

He turned back to the first slate, an update and overview of all available naval forces. He sighed as the names of Rever, Galali and Hawk turned from light blue to yellow to indicate they weren't engaged but were on sortie. He would have like to give them more time to rest but he didn't have the squadrons. Four other thunderbolt squadrons were either temporally out of action or unable to take off due to bad runway conditions. He'd also lost too many men in the last night. All squadrons had lost some machines and many pilots who survived were critically injured. He was down to only a handful of marauders and his lightning squadrons were on detachment to the drop troops and recent reports said that they'd inflicted a high kill to death ratio but he was saddened by the prospect of calling them back. Lightnings were murder to the orks crude craft but the drop troops needed air cover and to provide decent cover he'd have to give up more thunderbolts than he needed to keep the orks from hitting vulnerable targets.

Well, at least it wasn't raining orks... but now a bombshell had just walked into the command center and it was ripe to go off.

"Inquisitor, I really can't do anything for you." Zhakov moaned.

"I don't need much, only a Land Attack Craft attached to my personal retinue."

"I can't give you lightnings or thunderbolts, I could give you marauders but since they're bombers they're slightly useless to you I guess. I could convert the bombers into destroyers but that would take around 6 hours trusting the orks don't come at us again. Then all my marauder runways are bombed to hell so we'd have to spend about another 6 hours getting it ready for flight; again, assuming the orks don't come, and then the destroyer is still slow and needs an escort, one which I can't provide."

"And vultures?"

"I have a single vulture, currently attached to the Vendetta hunter squadron code named 'Burning Horizon'. They're conducting hit and run attacks on the enemy supply lines and I can't pull that vulture away from them."

"And why's that, all reports point to the vendetta's receiving little resistance."

"Because when the orks get tired of it then... then..." Zhakov signed, "Fine, you win. Have your damned vulture; but know this. If it is shot down I'm holding you personally responsible for the loss of my Vulture." Zhakov spat out both bitter and exasperated. All of naval command was dead tired. He was unwilling to risk his vulture in the hands of someone who didn't know aircraft but... he was too tired to put up a fight of any worth. He couldn't win against the inquisitor who was lucky enough to see sleep everyday. He was too persuasive, too powerful, too energetic and most of all sickeningly naive. "And know this, a secret of my family that none should know of" Zhakov leaned closed to the inquisitor until he could wisper "It is frowned on to have family among your own regiment on Reth. The pilot of the vulture, she is my sister. None can know or I would lose this position."

"Such sentiments would be called a conflict of interest, I should have you replaced..."

"But you won't as you need that gunship and everyone else here is too stubborn to co-operate. I tell you so you know what is at stake, not just a machine, not just any old pilot but a family member you get me."

"I understand" Marcus stood back, "My thanks Commander. Also, is there a vox station I can use?"

Zhakov waved in the generally direction of the vox-man, turning back to his data slates and holo table. If the light hadn't been so dim Marcus could have sworn the commander had tears in his eyes.

Marcus smiled. His plan was falling into place.


-------------------------

OC: slightly cheesy I know, but I needed a plot device and the pilot being a family member was better than it just being a good friend or it being a strange attachment to a machine.

So the RP rolls on...

*Taps fingers*

Waiting for Knights and Deamons...

*Taps fingers which somehow have gotten an anti-cat nuclear device*

Chowderhead wrote:*Taps fingers*

Waiting for Knights and Deamons...

*Taps fingers which somehow have gotten an anti-cat nuclear device*

Scrazza like this.

also, TROLOLOLOLOL for me.

Going a bit heavy on the aircraft inside the Space Hulk, eh wiz? I'll roll with it, for now, but try and cut down on the exaggeration of just how massive I said this Hulk is.