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Darkvoidof40k wrote: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.
Space hulks usually are the size of moons and have their own atmosphere, amirite?
Darkvoidof40k wrote: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.
Space hulks usually are the size of moons and have their own atmosphere, amirite?
Actually, they're mostly made up of ships, so a lot of their space is made up of tight corridors, hence why Terminators are commonly deployed in boarding actions against them.
However, this one is real big. Like, really really real big. Like "small planet big". So the lower sections have a lot of open space, but the upper sections are more corridor-like.
Darkvoidof40k wrote: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.
Space hulks usually are the size of moons and have their own atmosphere, amirite?
Actually, they're mostly made up of ships, so a lot of their space is made up of tight corridors, hence why Terminators are commonly deployed in boarding actions against them.
However, this one is real big. Like, really really real big. Like "small planet big". So the lower sections have a lot of open space, but the upper sections are more corridor-like.
Oh I'd thought that the hulk literally had a small moon or really big asteroid attached which was where the front Marcus currently resides is located.
But I can always just RP a bit about Zhakov moaning about how actions in space are taking up valuable time and machines I guess. It would make sense since I haven't heard you say anywhere that the fighting outside the hulk has ceased.
Darkvoidof40k wrote:The Imperial Fleet is currently engaged with the large majority of Gorskar's fleet - several billion Orks, so I've been told.
I think that's why Warklaw's ambition is just gonna be to make the biggest bang possible, he's got the next Macharian crusade on one side, he's got a bigger rival Waaagh on the other....
In other words, I dun think Izzy's gonna have a master for much longer...
The Red Thunda shook, impacts smashing against the battleship's already battered and scarred hull, and Gorskar snarled. Time was wasting; every minute the Imperial fleet held his own at bay was a minute in which he wasn't in control of that hulk. On the viewing screen, amid the crackle of occasional static, a Kill Kroozer's engines detonated, hit by a well-timed lance bombardment from a nearby human ship.
As the Kroozer broke apart, Gorskar looked impatiently to his First Mate. Skargrim, for his part, was screaming orders into about a dozen communicators.
Well, at least someone was doing their job properly.
"How's the fleet holdin' up? Why 'avent we broke through yet?"
Skargrim looked up.
"They's more ships than we was expectin' Boss. The first bunch o' Kroozers can't get through 'em. I'm sendin' some more t' do the job."
Gorskar nodded impatiently. Though he took pride in his ships and Rokks, he had never much cared for naval combat. The enemy was too far away, for his liking; he also found it irritating to have to rely on the reactions of his crew. No, much better to face an enemy in hand-to-hand combat, where the biggest and strongest warrior would carry the day, and where victory came down to who hit hardest and fastest.
Gorskar had never yet had any reason to doubt that he was such a fighter.
The ship shook again, and this time he roared in displeasure.
"Enuff! Bring us about, let's get at 'em! Fire up them front guns, and power up th' Killkannon!"
The bridge crew, a collection of grots, their respective runtherds and various meks, began to run this way and that, carrying out the Warlord's orders. Beneath the bridge, Gorskar heard a slight whirring, and an increasing hum. He grinned. He'd never had time to test his new toy before.
A shearing bright light slashed out from the orkish battleship. A Lunar-class cruiser, taken competely unawares, was hit; the beam cut through it's midsection, and on the viewing screen explosions could be seen ripping it's hull apart. As the cruiser attempted vainly to limp away from the onslaught, Gorskar gave a curt nod to Skargrim, who howled an order into the gunnery comms network.
What the looted triad lance array, known affectionately as the Killkannon, had started, regular orkish ordnance put an end to. The human cruiser was torn apart by the artillery, it's shields no longer operational and reactor damaged by the previous blast; it exploded, the brilliance of it's demise like a star. Then it was gone.
Gorskar smiled, then grunted.
"Right, that's one out of it. Where's th' rest of the fleet? Why ain't they 'ere yet?"
Skargrim started to reply, then checked himself. On the viewing screen, clearly visible even through the debris of battle, came the shapes of the second wave of Kill Kroozers and Terror Ships.
"They's here, Boss. I'll get 'em into position."
Gorskar nodded, and glowered out at the vidscreen from his throne.
Now the battle was going more his way. With the timely reinforcements joining the attack, the Imperial battle-line was starting to wear thin. All that was needed now was a decisive blow at the point where the enemy stretched too far...
Gorskar waited for that moment impatiently.
Soon. It would be soon.
The question did specifically state that the sorry amount of time it took was not to be included in the vote, I wanted to know what y'all thought of my literary skills.
In The depths of a Tomb World, placing demo charges.
(OCC: took a bit of liberty with this one, hope it doesn't overstep its bounds.)
Something odd was happening along the Imperial line, Ork marksmanship, never the greatest at the best of times, had suddenly gotten much worse, with their hail of shots going wide or rebounding from flack armor or their intended targets ducking into cover without injury, their close combat skills seemed to be suffering as well, with guardsmen parrying, ducking or avoid the xenos attacks with scant inches to spare.
And the guardsmen were winning, disciplined volleys of lasgun fire was mowing down scores of orks, and several greenskin mobs were run down by the determined counter-charge of furious humans.
The Imperial line wasn't just holding, it was gaining ground.
Suddenly the air felt damp and heavy, like the fetid air of a swap as lighting suddenly lashed down from the distant ceiling of the massive cavern,incinerating dozens of orks with blasts of furious energy, and a fierce wind began tossing ork tanks and buggies around like a giant displeased with his toys, while the imperials advanced untouched.
Far above on an outcrop of twisted metal, Farseer Eluna stood with her spear raised above her head in both hands, the runes around her ablaze like the storm she had conjured around her, and her eyes aglow with the full power of her psychic might, in contrast to the storm around her, her mind was tranquil and focused. She could feel the fates aligning as she had intended and had unleashed her full potential in order to achieve it.
She swung the spear around herself, its blade and haft moving in carefully managed movements as she focused her energy, then slammed its blade heavily into the metal at her feet. at the same moment, a lighting bolt blasted apart another battlewagon. Eluna pulled it free easily, and continued her dance-like movements.
The tide was turning, she could feel it, but it was not yet done. She had more work to do yet.
She spread her mind across the battlefield, searching for a single mind, the one holding these beasts together, the leader....
There.
Smiling to herself, Eluna closed her eyes and focused her will upon that single bright light that was the Ork warboss, looking for an opening, any opening in its defenses, then she would slip in unheeded.... and crush his mind like rotten fruit.
(Oh thats great, now not only do I have an Imperial crusade on my hands, I've got a frakin farseer hunting my head. Add that to all the space marines, necrons and other sharp and pointy things that have so far only killed my orks and I have to wonder what I'm gonna get in return...
All I've got to say is that it better be good or I will be severely dissapoint... )
WARORK93 wrote:(Oh thats great, now not only do I have an Imperial crusade on my hands, I've got a frakin farseer hunting my head. Add that to all the space marines, necrons and other sharp and pointy things that have so far only killed my orks and I have to wonder what I'm gonna get in return...
All I've got to say is that it better be good or I will be severely dissapoint... )
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.
Death From Above - Part 3
A pitiful red slab of meat on legs with a gun mounted atop it ran towards Captain Jordan Gaius, madly squealing, and he smashed it under his Thunder Hammer, turning the squig into a gorry mist of blood.
"Orkses never lose a battle...
Warboss Warklaw was close to death, he could feel it. But in the last hour, his force had become maddened by the power of the Waaagh! and had ravaged the Imperial lines. Warklaw himself, if he could've counted that high, would've known that he'd personally killed a eighty-seven Guardsmen and nine Space Marines. But now his immediate forces had been spent, and his attack was faltering. Ethereal energies flowed about the place, and great bursts of warpfire and great tempests of lightning scored the ground and devastated Orks by the dozen or more.
"Boyz, it's time ta fall back!" He roared.
"Lets get outta here!" A runty Ork exclaimed nearby. Warklaw crushed him underfoot.
The Ousian 21st, though heavily battered and their numbers extremely depleted - over half their number having died already - managed to form firing lines, rag-tag bands of men lead by random officers; be they Sergeants, Lieutenants or a captain. Even the Major was up and fighting, leading sixty-two men in a counter-attack at the Eastern-lines, supported by other groups and Space Marines.
Warklaw was running towards his personal Battlewagon - it was directly ahead of him, he was almost there as enemy fire filled the air around him, and then, he was aboard, safely in the confines of his kustom ride. His moment of respite was short-lived as a shot from an Imperial Fists' Vindicator obliterated the vehicle.
***5 hours later***
.. If we win we win. If we die we die fightin', so it don't count. If we runs for it, it don't count neither, cos we can come back for annuver go, see!"
"Boss.. you dere?" Said the first voice.
"Iz 'e awake?" Asked the second.
"I dun fink so, he seems propa sleepy ta me," continued the first.
Warklaw opened his eyes. But his vision was different. He was seeing, but he wasn't really. What he saw was not with his eyes, but through some know-wotz tek that he didn't understand.
"Where am I? Why can't I move?" He demanded, noticing that his voice had changed, it was metallic and cold.
"Err, boss, dem humies messed you up real good, so we had ta put you in a Kan," the first voice explained - Warklaw now recognised it as his Mek, and the second must have been his chief Dok.
Warklaw roared in anger, knowing what such confinement would mean.
"Now boss, don't worry yerself, we didn't put ya in no runty Kan like wot all da uvver boyz gots, we put ya in a speshul, kustom Kan!"
"Yeh, we'z put ya in a Mega Dread!" Exclaimed his excited Mek, who was marvelling at his newest creation.
As Warklaw's new body powered up, he vowed to reap revenge on those who had entombed him in this prison. Seeing his new weapons, he grinned, realizing that it wouldn't be too hard to fulfil his vow.
"Boss, there's sumthin' else ya should know about," his Mek continued.
"What?" Warklaw bellowed out of his crude vox-grille.
"There's annuver boss, calls 'imself Gorskar, 'e says 'e wants ta take over da Hulk, an' 'e'z got lotsa boyz with 'im."
Warklaw grinned even more. He could malipulate this other Warlord into serving him, and then usurp leadership of his Waaagh! from him when he no longer needed him.
The Emperor Protects - Part 3
It had been six hours since the Astartes had arrived. During that time, the 9th and 10th Preciprian Dragoons - another eight-thousand heavy infantry - and the Hikkian 17th Heavy armour regiment, including their two Super-Heavies, had arrived and reinforced the faltering lines. The Orks had fled back to their holes, and the Imperial forces had been content to let them run, needing to regroup and resupply at their lines after eleven straight hours of constant brutal warfare. The Ousian 21st regiment had suffered particularly badly, having lost close to 1700 men out of their starting strength of 3000. The other regiments had suffered as well, but no other had been as unsupported and outnumbered badly as them. They were saved purely by the intervention of the Space Marines, a fact that the only surviving Ousian commander, Major Mortenson, was not going to forget in a hurry.
For now at least, a calm had descended upon the two warring factions of the Space Hulk. Lord-General Allanus sat in contemplation over the recent events. The situation had improved drastically, but if reports from the Imperial Navy fleet, then everything could become very dire very quickly - a massive fleet of Ork ships had entered the system hours ago, and ever since had been fighting with their holy fleet, both sides suffering terrible loses. Though the Imperial fleet killed dozens of Ork kroozers, every ship they lost was irreplaceable at present and yet the Orks always had more. However the two fleets had disengaged, neither wanting to risk any more casualties for the time being, and the Orks had begun boarding the Ork-held section of the Hulk. Allanus knew they didn't have much time. They had to destroy this Hulk and soon. But until then, he left his adjutant officers in-charge, and retired to his quarters for some desperately needed sleep.
Tough as a Gator
In the field medical station, the hundreds upon hundreds of Ousian soldiers were being treated as best as the Sisters Hospitaller could manage, but the compound was literally over-flowing with injured men. It was rumored that no man had survived without any injury, no matter how small or large, and every man there could believe it.
Lieutenant Kyel Charkos sat outside the medical centre, still getting used to his prosthetic left hand. His new friend and bodyguard, the recently-promoted Corporal Robin, stood nearby smoking a Lho-stick. Despite the horrific casualties, Kyel was glad. Glad to be alive. Glad that he had done his duty and they had won. He was also glad to hear that Commissar Matthewson was likely to survive, but was still under intensive care, likewise the extremely brutalised Lieutenant Khan Garl, who was by far the most horrifically injured man still alive. Kyel had been told that there was a very slim chance that he would survive, and the Sisters Hospitaller had given him top priority, recognising that he was considered a great regimental hero and his survival would be a massive moral boost, rather than just letting him die so that resources could be spent elsewhere. Even if Garl did survive by some great miracle, Kyel knew he'd be half machine now. He smiled at the thought that they might have their own "Iron Hand Straken" amongst their ranks. Kyel closed his eyes and prayed to the Emperor.
----
Alright, that's the event finished! Asides from Knights and Demons, but my "top man" should finish it today. regardless, we should be seeing some new characters surfacing soon (glances at Chowder and Devastator).
Warork, sorry about the fact your character has had a rough time of it in this event, but now he's back.. and bigger and meaner than ever.
Now get back to roleplaying, you miserable literary-wretches! *cracks whip*
Character name:Azrael Character age: n/a Character race:Chaos Space Marine Character profession:Sorcerer Character personality:Cynical and paranoid. Character appearance Character height:7f Character equipment: Power armor,force sword,bolt pistol Character bio/background story:Little is know of Azraels background.He is apparently one of the original members of the Thousand son legion and have played part in casting of the Rubric of Ahriman.
100 of the Precipian finest, a combined strike force of the 9th and 10th Dragoons grenadier regiments, sat outside the briefing tent. It was rare that everyman in an operation received the full briefing but Marcus decided it was for the best. This was a dangerous mission. He needed every man's trust and trust wasn't something an Inquisitor of the most holy ordo's received often.
Each man wore a full suit of carapace armour, complete with respirators and reinforced face visors. Most carried a deadly hellgun, outdated when compared with the hotshot lasgun, it's increased firepower was more than enough to make up with its lack of penetration power. Several men were grouped into support stubber teams. The high caliber, high rate of fire weapons would be deadly in fighting orks and any bugs that happened to lurk in the hulk. Others had flamers, vicious dragons which would burn though armour, carapace and flesh alike. They were even vaguely useful as anti-tank weapons, setting fire to most armoured vehicles and forcing the crew to either burn or bail out. Often the fire would trap the crew and they either were slowly burned alive of, if lucky, the fire would reach the magazine and the whole crew's lives would end in a mercifully quick explosion. Everyman carried a las pistol as a backup and carried long knives. Many of the hellguns sported modifications such as grenade launchers and lamp packs. Marksmen in the strike force had laser sights attached to theirs.
Consisting of 10 officers and 20 sergeants the men were well led under the command and staff of captain Nicolas Cecil. The gruff man had been raised from years of combat. He had one or two scars but surprisingly for a man of such long service no bionics or missing limbs. He didn't seem at all phased by the inquisitors presence or status, a trait which Marcus liked.
Added to this formidable attack group, was a single vulture gunship. While it would be unable to provide air support for the entire mission, it would at least give a helping hand. As well as the vulture, the squad of combat engineers were also tagging along. Domini and his team had been at HQ assisting in repairs but Marcus had brought him along for one task only: cutting the corridors of the hulk apart. The men had brought along several las cutters. High powered laser cutters which could cut though sealed doors, closed bulkheads and ships hulls.
Marcus stood in front of the assemble men who he'd temporally added to his retinue.
"As you all know, our standing orders are to destroy the hulk. But as of yet no one has come up with a plan to follow these orders. I intend to investigate a section of the hulk which has intrigued me from the start." Marcus turned to a large map of the hulk sector they were in and pointed to a strange, irregular shape roughly twenty-six levels down from their currant position. Between them and the shape was a series of large and small chambers, some the size of capital class hangers in space ports and others so small that men would have to crawl their way though. "This shape here, we thick is a tyranid bio ship. How it got there, why it hasn't deteriorated and if it is alive or not are all questions that have yet to be answered. My theory is that it was trapped in the hulk and is somehow feeding off supplies that were on various ships in the hulk. I highly doubt that we will encounter any tyranid biorganisms but there is an ever present threat from the orks and other interested parties."
"The quickest way to there is through these sections of the hulk." Marcus pointed to the applicable sections "but unfortunately, to get to these we have to go down an access shaft located here." He pointed to an ork encampment. It was commonly known as 'The Scrapheap' and was one of the most fortified ork positions on the hulk as of the moment. "Now the orks have been on the retreat since the Ousian's made their breakthrough, but this is still held strongly by the orks. HQ has made the decision to go around it mostly but know it has started to become a refuge for the withdrawing ork forces. If the scrap heap is to be taken we must take it know. As such, you and several companies of the dragoons will be at the forefront of an armoured assault supporting the Hikkian armour. This is going to be a hard and fast encounter. If you get the chance to push your advantage do so. Our forces have better armour than the orks but they have the numbers. Naval command has denied air support for this mission due to the enemies air superiority and the large amount of anti-air emplacements in and around the fort. I'm not going to lie, this is the hard but once we secure this not only does our front line advance but we get our access route. Any questions?"
"What are we looking in this bioship?"
"Clues to defeating the tyranids, clues to destroying the hulk... anything of use really."
"Couldn't we just cut through the surface here?"
"This compartment is extra thick, it would take months to cut through, months we don't have..."
"Will our forces be enough?"
"I have no doubt that under the Emperor's guidance that we will be victorious and that our might will not be blunted by this attack. Anything else? Good. Dismissed."
I'll roll with it, for now, but try and cut down on the exaggeration of just how massive I said this Hulk is. 
I think that's why Warklaw's ambition is just gonna be to make the biggest bang possible, he's got the next Macharian crusade on one side, he's got a bigger rival Waaagh on the other....
Waaagh! Gorskar = 2050pts
Iron Warriors VII Company = 1850pts
Fjälnir Ironfist's Great Company = 1800pts
Guflag's Mercenary Ogres = 2000pts
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