Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you: No adverts like this in the forums anymore. Times and dates in your local timezone. Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance. Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely. Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net. If you are already a member then feel free to login now.

General Buschritter paced in his quarters; the hard, rubber soles of his boots scuffed and scraped the unfinished wood floor boards of his command station. He walked across the dull room to his green, metal field table; pouring himself a mug of thick, black, syrupy caffeine and extinguishing his smoldering crimson cigar into his empty, upturned helmet. Buschritter picked up a hard roll, and using a dull, silver knife, he cut it in half and spread a mound of buttery animal fat into the soft, warm bun. He knew that outside, barely a mile away; men were dying by his orders. The xenos mongrels, called Orks, were assaulting the forest valley from all sides. His Imperial Guard forces were crippled; local troops were over-burdened with evacuating locals and holding the secure area. General Buschritter’s personal adjutant burst through the thin, aluminum door.
“General, we have lost men in the river delta area, Greenskins are pouring through, it appears a sizable force is headed this way,” The adjutant said with a quick salute. The general grabbed his beige, tin vox-caster, clicked one of the dials over, then another.
The general spoke through the microphone, “Blue team, do you copy?”
“Aye, sir, solid copy!” squawked the vox, a blue light flickered on the face of the device.
“How goes your assignment?”
“Uh, to be honest we haven’t seen anything bigger than a swamp rat, sir.”
“Good, I need you boys to move down to the delta area, pronto,” general Buschritter clicked off his radio transmitter and turned back to his buttered roll, waving the adjutant out the door.
Sergeant Hill moved forward, his boots scraping a fallen log before dropping knee-deep into the stagnant, stinking swamp water. Lumbering like apes, the squad of men sloshed through the thick sediment, sending dark clouds of filth streaming through the murk. Off in the humid fog, thick shapes moved sharply, without care or concern.
Sergeant Hill signaled to his vox-officer, “Vox the general, those are Orks.” The general’s vox-caster was off, there was no contact. The squad proceeded forward, the water deepened, and the men held their weapons high above their shoulders to prevent any mishaps in the already reliable designs. A few quiet moments passed.
“Do you have a plan, Sergeant?” whispered Slaggo, raising his weapon, sighting the scope over the head of a meandering Ork. Slaggo’s face was tan, smooth and narrow; his eyes showed a deep conviction toward their target.
“As a matter of fact,” began Sergeant Hill, “no.” He held his shining chainsword above his head before revving the motor, the teeth sang through the air. Slaggo grinned. A lumbering Ork turned to face the squad.
It screamed, “WAAAAAAAGH!” as it began running forward, pistol and axe held high above its stout head, shining in the bright sun that penetrated the thick forest canopy. Slaggo pulled the trigger of his rifle. A distant Ork’s eye exploded into a thin pink mist as it slumped into the muck. Sergeant Hill could smell the charging Ork’s foul, musky stench before it drew near. The beast swung its filth-ridden hand axe for Hill’s head. The sergeant swung his chainsword, countering, one-handed. His other hand pushed away the Ork’s heavy pistol. A strong boot pushed Sergeant Hill backwards, sinking deep in the black mud. His ribs ached, his lungs burned, his head had hit a thick stone. The squad fought off the encroaching Orks, flinging red laser paths through the shadows. Sergeant Hill erupted from below the stagnant pool, gasping for air, he plunged his screaming blade through the belly of the Ork he had grappled with. A jet of crimson blood struck his filth covered body. The Ork fell, pulling the trigger of its slugga pistol. The bullet struck the jaw of Corporal Hanson, knocking the bone from his skull, sending him falling sideways in a bloody rain. Hanson was a legend; he and his plasma gun were owed many victories. Rotting trees and stumps flew apart in flurries of massive bullets. The squad’s second plasma gun operator, Buck, reached for Hanson’s ammunition, severely burning his hand on the submerged weapon. Wallis was kneeling behind a tree, firing his lasgun, a pulse of blood, bone and other horrifying objects shot from his abdomen as a bullet splintered the tree’s core. Buck pulled himself behind a fallen tree; three guardsmen crouched there, firing wildly. There was no hard cover, a bullet would rip apart any of the rotting wood. Sergeant Hill’s chainsword caught the thick jaw of an Ork, sending it flying wildly as the xeno sunk in the mire. Pools of blood spilt around, mixing with the sulfurous, black mud. Guardsmen cried out in pain. Buck aimed his weapon; blue vapors flew, burning nearby guardsmen alive. Buck looked out over the fallen tree; he was disgusted, turned back and vomited. A grenade fell behind a rotting, half sunken tree.
Sergeant Hill turned back, “Buck! Clem! Har-,” a bullet struck his back, exploding into his heart and lungs. The grenade detonated sending the four guardsmen into a thick downpour of entrails and bone; Buck’s plasma gun exploded. Slaggo slammed the butt of his gun into an Ork’s head, the green beast fell over; a laser penetrated its skull. Slaggo’s long silver blade cut the throat of another attacking Ork. Slaggo looked over his left shoulder; he was alone, the squad was dead. A glancing shot to his right shoulder sent him spinning. He, like his friends, sank deep into the stinking silt. He held his breath and gripped the bottom; he felt Clements’s vox-caster. Slaggo flipped switches, signaling for rescue. His lungs screamed for a breath of air, his brain stung then went numb. A knife rippled the water’s surface, a plume of blood spread from where it impacted the muddy bottom, a massive, green fist tightened, wrenching it from between Slaggo’s shoulder blades.
A Leman Russ battle tank burned in a clearing, the crew pulled themselves out of the wreckage; many of them were on fire. Infantry rushed around them, charging into the enemy. Vox chatter rumored of blue team’s fate on the other end of Buschritter’s valley. Company 287 fought on dry land; they died to the Orks with unbelievable efficiency and speed. Trukks crushed weak human bones; poison gas sloughed flesh from anthropomorphic armatures. Punisher cannons unloaded into the Orks, sending chunks of green-skinned flesh flying to the hungry war-hounds of the Orks, Squigs.
Artillery decimated the line, killing all who dared leave the safety of the trenches. Living men became trapped under the horrifying bodies of friends and the putrid, foul, noxious bodies of the Ork invaders. Heads exploded, vaporized into crimson fogs over the no-man’s-land. Skulls were taken as trophies, bodies torn apart. Valor had no place on the battlefield. Imperial tanks exploded; prayers were recited across the human line. Orks screamed in their crude, guttural language; guardsmen hugged their weapons and cried, prayed for mercy, prayed to see home once more. The site was overrun, there was no salvation here.
General Buschritter swung his arm, throwing model soldiers off of his plotting table. The models soared across the room, hitting the wall and falling into a quite large pile. Buschritter didn’t trust what he couldn’t influence with his bare hand, the solidity of the table comforted him, even while his men died by the thousands. He turned back to his buttered roll, gripped it firmly in his teeth and ripped at the tough, stale bread. Buschritter cursed the stale roll, as it choked him, he swallowed hard. A hearty swig of thick, bitter caffeine forced the food down his gullet. A low-flying aircraft rattled the command center. The general cursed once more.
The air was crowded with Imperial aircraft. Marauder bombers ran nonstop sorties, setting the rolling jungles, mountains and swamps ablaze. Lightning and Thunderbolt fighters hunted Ork machines across the sky. Valkyrie assault carriers lifted soldiers back and forth across the battlefield, from firefight to firefight. The last Aquila lander burst into flames midair while evacuating a family of nobles. Valkyrie 347 crossed through the “safe” zone, into the river delta area.
Collen sat on the Valkyrie’s exit ramp, staring bright-eyed at the swiftly passing terrain, especially the sparkling clear streams of water. Rokko buffed and polished his lasgun diligently before clicking it into the overhead receptacle. Then, he sat still, staring at his steadily ticking watch. Harpo looked down the scope of her rifle, swinging it around the cabin, adjusting the sights. Maxim and Giltroy sat with their rifles in their laps. Harrin clipped canisters of Auto Cannon ammunition to his olive drab vest and fatigues. Gibsynn straightened the contents of his pack, an Auto Cannon and sets of extra barrels, before slinging it over his back. Harris slumped in his seat, singing a filthy, drunken tune, his anthem. Sergeant Hagg leaned against a sliding door, whistling along to an old folk song. Anti-air flak suddenly began raining onto the Valkyrie, with a sharp, repetitive smack. Guardsman Gokk slid open a side door, leaning out to look for the source of the fire. Gokk flew back, sparks and spats of ichor and bone sprayed from his disfigured head. He lay mangled on the metal floor, motionless, silent. Sergeant Hagg used his boot to push Gokk’s body into the center aisle of the Valkyrie, crossing his arms across his chest. Collen crossed Gokk’s hands over one-another in the sign of a double-eagle. Soft tears fell from Harpo’s icy eyes, running slowly down her gentle cheeks. Gibsynn laughed, swigging from one of his hip flasks. Maxim slid the door shut as Giltroy comforted Harpo; he laid her sniper rifle on the floor, next to his own and Gokk’s body. Shells began bouncing around the cabin, shrieking as they hit metal.
Sergeant Hagg screamed through an intercom to the pilot and gunner of the craft, peeking out the windows to see wing mounted canisters dump gallons of Promethium onto the lush, green forest world below. Hagg’s voice was already becoming coarse as he tried to convince the pilot to lower his altitude, to allow the troops to disembark. The Valkyrie dropped into the forest canopy, branches and thicket scraped and shook the decelerating aircraft. The fire stopped, the Ork emplacement was three miles to the West, blinded by thick forestation. A clearing, without warning the forest opened up for a kilometer in every direction, thick tan grasses and pale wildflowers covered the expanse, waving gently in the subtle breeze.
“Pilot, bring ‘er down,” commanded Hagg, sliding open the side hatches. The Valkyrie coasted to a hovering stop and began to drop. Vertical thrusters scorched the dry grass; black circles grew in the waving herbs. The rear access ramp lowered past horizontal, Collen slid off onto the sturdy surface of the planet.
Gibsynn pulled a lasgun off of the Valkyrie’s ceiling, tossing it to Collen, who confirmed, “Yup, she’s mine, alright!” He spun, shouldering the weapon, aiming through the empty grasses that swallowed him up to his raised elbow. Troops filed out of the rear exit, weapons in hand, while others climbed down from the sides, unarmed, their weapons were thrown down to them. Harpo and Barnus Wagner, a hulking brute, leapt down from the right, side by side, weapons in hand. The Valkyrie lifted itself back into the sky, flak rained into it as it sped back towards its base; it never returned to safety.
“Anybody else seeing this?” asked Maxim, nervously, his scope aimed toward a leathery, grey mass; it was rushing toward the squad, trampling the brush before it. Two ivory tusks swept back and forth. The mystery creature fell; momentum carrying its body end over end, its hooves flopped through the grass as the carcass slowed to a halt. A gleaming red bolt of light struck the front of its hide. Harpo had her long-las sniper aimed on the thick beast. Collen pushed up his thick rimmed glasses, inhaled deeply to clear his nostrils and quickly rerolled the sleeves of his tan undershirt.
“That was close, huh?” asked Collen looking back and forth between his teammates, who were busy covering ground. Suddenly, another mound of clay-colored flesh tore through the scrub; there were dozens of the creatures tearing through the tree line, into the grassland. Barnus turned, grabbing one of the great beasts by its long tusks; he lifted the animal, its front hooves swung in the air below its hulking body. Barnus threw his weight sideways, throwing the quadruped onto another that was charging alongside it. The two entities struggled, trying to regain their footing; the two creatures trampled each other. Barnus silenced them, unlashing the lasgun from his hip and scattering automatic fire across their thrashing skulls. Collen unhooked his helmet from the carabiner on his belt, strapping it onto his head; he readied his bayonet for a charge. Sergeant Hagg sprinted across the field, firing wildly into the approaching beasts. A single, sturdy hand across Collen’s chest held him back.
“You’re the ‘brains’ here, we need you alive,” roared Hagg, over the sounds of the unfolding chaos. Harrin and Gibsynn carried the Auto Cannon to a safe distance before unloading the contents of their packs onto the ground. Harpo, Giltroy, and Maxim ran in different directions, their scopes fixed on the moving targets. Giltroy felt something hard against the toe of his boot, he tripped, hitting the ground with enough force to leave him dazed and defenseless. Harpo turned, yelling for Giltroy to stand and face the approaching danger. He began to lift himself, when he saw another monster charging him. By the time Giltroy aimed his long-las, the beast was nearly upon him. Fear paralyzed Giltroy’s trigger finger, the gun shook madly in his weakened hands. A blurred tan flash slammed into the side of the charging animal, the smack of flesh to flesh resonated across the grasses. Barnus grappled with the beast, wrestling it onto its back, where he drew his long, silver knife to slit the thick, writhing throat.
Rokko was lying prone between two tufts of dead grass, firing carefully aimed shots at the last surviving attackers. He cursed at the dirt on his weapon and took the opportunity to polish the lasgun, using the red strip of cloth that was tied around his head. Barnus rose, turning to identify his comrades; he was spattered in thick red-brown blood. Giltroy tried to stand, he was still dazed; blood rushed from his head, he hit the ground again. The final hulking monstrosity was running toward Giltroy. Barnus attempted to grab the beast as it passed him. Barnus charged after the creature; Harpo lined her sights on the rushing animal. The snap-return of a long-las sounded, then the guttural noise of flesh slamming into the ground. The grey beast continued running at Giltroy. Barnus lay behind it; a large wound ran from his shoulder, across the broad expanse of his back. The revving of a small motor rang out, followed by the singing of hundreds of razor-teeth. Sergeant Hagg’s chainsword cut clean through the neck of the great monstrosity just before it reached Giltroy’s slumbering body. A torrent of dark, muddy-colored blood splashed against Hagg’s midsection. Rokko stood and ran to Giltroy; Hagg pushed him away toward Barnus.
Two syringes of adrenaline, an entire jar of antiseptic paste, and nearly a squad-worth of gauze dressings were used on Barnus’ wound. Rokko delivered a sacred prayer to the Emperor before ushering four men to help lift Barnus to his feet. Harpo prayed continuous litanies of forgiveness; tears began to pool in her eyes. Barnus lay his massive palm on her slumping shoulder, “Why are you praying for forgiveness? It was my fault; I threw myself in front of what should have been your kill. You were doing your duty, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Barnus, you could have died,” Harpo opened her mouth to say more.
“But I didn’t,” Barnus turned and walked toward the rest of the recouping squad.
Collen was fumbling with a wrinkled, cloth map. “Sarge, sir, the river delta’s to the Southeast of here,” he stuck out a thin, bony arm pointing toward the delta area.
“We’re not going to the delta, not directly,” Hagg’s shotgun was freshly refurnished with a darkly glazed walnut stock, it shone in the sunlight. There was a dark grey, obviously metal object sitting about half a mile ahead of the squad. “Double time it, men! How are you holding up, Barnus?”
Barnus responded with a deep grunt. “He’s not in the best of spirits, which is understandable given the quality of the liquor he’s been drinking for the last week,” Responded Collen.
“This headache’s not enough to keep me from bashing your head in, runt,” Barnus growled, “remember that.”
The squad kept up a steady jogging speed through the high grass, whose serrated edges tore at any exposed skin. “What is it? Some sort of bastion?” asked Rokko.
“Mission-essential aquatic transport, extremely secret,” Hagg sounded as if he were listing random words, stringing together phrases that passed over the heads of most of his men.
“Top secret river boat,” breathed Collen, “impressive.” By the time he spoke, the vessel was clearly visible. A dark grey hull sat motionless, its high bow stood proud in front of the ship furnishing a massive double Autocannon. The aft of the ship sank low toward the water, covered in mounted heavy stubbers and belt fed autoguns. The men stood agape when they saw the sigil of the Inquisition, followed by the insignia of Ordos Xenos on the nose of the craft.
“We’re dealing with an Inquisitor, mind your tongues while in his presence,” whispered Sergeant Hagg. He stepped aboard, looking trivially for signs of life. Hagg poked his head around a corner, past the pilot’s bridge, down a dark staircase. A laspistol sharply penetrated the dark corridor; Hagg stumbled back, drawing the shotgun from the scabbard on his back. The lasgun was attached to a thin, wrinkled hand, white as bone, thick knuckles on wiry digits. Black cloak, covered face, ghostly movements.
“One would be wise not to aim a weapon at a member of the Inquisition, sergeant,” A whispery voice, played through a tinny speaker; as if screaming on the lowest audible volume possible. The Inquisitor pulled back his hood. The Inquisitor’s face was pallid white, nearly a sickly green; deep lines crossed his forehead. Bright yellow irises glowed out from his milky, dead eyes; tiny black pupils showed an abyss of light-swallowing darkness. A deep red scar ran down the left side of his face, from his brow to the bridge of his nose. The Inquisitor’s nostrils and mouth were covered (or rather replaced) by a steel facemask that constantly hissed, hummed and released foul energies. The Inquisitor slid his hand beneath his cloak, holstering the laspistol next to the Inquisitorial insignia that was clasped over his belt buckle. Sergeant Hagg quickly holstered his weapon, snapped his heels and gave a quick, proper salute. The Inquisitor waved his hand and turned back to the corridor. Moments later, the ship’s captain shuffled up, gave a quick salute to the men and formally invited them aboard. He was dressed in a black officer’s shirt, pleated black pants and a peaked cap. Rokko thought that the captain looked like a laidback commissar (if there were any “laidback” commissars). Rokko chuckled as he stepped aboard the river craft. Giltroy, Rokko and Collen sat beside the massive autocannon construct, dangling their legs over the side of the boat. Gibsynn and Harrin argued over who would operate the anti-air battery, they appeared nearly ready to cut into each other’s throat. Harpo laid topless on the bow of the ship, resting her head on her rifle. Most of the troops had stripped down their uniforms, further than normal; many of the men were shirtless, their fatigues rolled up into shorts. Empty flak vests were strewn across the deck, randomly. The ship’s engines roared, black smoke belched from the tall smokestacks located mid-ship. Giltroy rubbed his eyes before dragging his thick palm down his sickly face.
“How’re ya holdin’ up, ‘roy?” asked Rokko.
“I’m alive,” Giltroy rubbed his eyes again before vomiting down into the churning water, “no more, no less.”
“I can’t believe we’re dealing with Inquisitors,” sighed Collen.
“You mean an Inquisitor, and it’s Grox-manure anyway,” growled Rokko.
Giltroy’s eyes looked ready to cry, “how do you figure that, Rok’?” he asked almost whimpering.
“We’re Airmobile Elites, not Riverine Bodyguards. Buschritter’s a Grox-headed arse!” exclaimed Rokko, unknowing that Sergeant Hagg was steadily approaching from behind.
“Steady your tongue! Another word may lead to heresy, trooper,” Hagg too had seen the many flaws in General Buschritter’s planning, however he needed to maintain order among the men.
The Captain steered his ship down the narrow, winding river, stirring mud in its wake. He peered up and down Harpo’s exposed curves and contours. Maxim strode up behind the Captain and laid an arm across his shoulder, weighing down on him.
“Is there a problem soldier?” asked the man beneath his black peaked cap.
Maxim kept his voice low to avoid attracting attention, “She’s one of mine, Captain, a sniper and a damned good one. I’ll warn you once, man to man; if I catch you eying her like that again, she’ll be the last thing you ever lay eyes on.”
“I’m sorry, sergeant,” sighed the Captain.
“I’m no Ogryn-brained sergeant, I take pride in being called a grunt despite my rank of corporal,” There was a slight wavering in Maxim’s voice, nervousness; speaking to an officer of an Inquisitorial vehicle in such a manner was ‘punishable’. Maxim turned and walked away before he could say any more, accidentally knocking his red devil-skinned boots together midstride. The collision reminded Maxim of how he went about hunting the great beast, single-handed.
Maxim slid back the bolt of his wood-stocked rifle. His rubber boots sloshed through the mud, tearing through the tracks of the Catachan Devil. Catachan was hot and humid in the summer months, flies buzzed through the thick air, their bodies like bloated cacti, covered in sharp hairs and spines. Maxim raced forward, toppling a thorny sapling he knew to be poisonous. A few meters ahead, the dense forest opened into a wide valley, one of the few on the world without settlements built into their hearts. Here lay the Catachan Devil, its red body shone, waxy in the sunlight. It had heard Maxim, turned and was charging toward the tree line. Its long armored body, half-scorpion, half-centipede trailed forward, pincers snapping voraciously. Maxim quickly loaded a round from his shoulder pouch and fired into the beast, hitting its ‘head’ square on. A second shot pounded one of the beast’s hundred claws. Loading a third shot, the bullet slipped from Maxim’s fingers hitting the mud below. Maxim’s hand shuffled through the pack for another round. The devil struck Maxim’s midsection with the force of a freight train. Maxim lay on his back, clawing at the ground; his palm rubbed his fallen bullet. The red devil threatened to slice Maxim in half, its claw wrapping around his midsection, drawing out torrents of blood. Maxim gripped the bullet tightly before sliding it into his rifle’s chamber and twist-sliding the bolt handle forward. A quick shot soared upward, through the beast’s jaws at though the inside of the invertebrate’s carapace. The brain was turned to acidic slime which dripped down onto Maxim’s face as his worked his way out from under the beast.
Barnus grabbed two stub-guns from the back deck, ripping them from their steel mounts. He tucked them both under his mesomorphic shoulders, unleashing a split second’s worth of pure devastation into the nothingness around the river boat. “Yeah, that’ll do,” he laughed, whipping chains of ammunition across his.
The captain signaled to Hagg, “Sergeant, may I have a moment of your time?” he said quite loudly.
Sergeant Hagg paced over, leaned over the captain’s control console and yawned before throwing a quick, lazy salute, “What is it, captain?”
“I hope that your men understand that they are utilizing my vessel for Inquisition sanctioned transport and nothing else. Unfortunately, it seems that they’ve made themselves quite at home here. Also, make sure to tell that ‘baby Ogryn’ not to break anything,” The captain was speaking in a sharp whisper.
Hagg straightened up, assuming a more assertive posture. He smirked, “I agree entirely. But one thing, captain; before you call any of my men a baby Ogryn, remember that it is a complement among us. Our job is to be strong, we break things.” Before the sergeant could begin another sentence, the men on deck began clamoring about.
Flak jackets were thrown back and forth and helmet straps were tightened onto broad chins. A sickening wail filled the air, vibrating through metal surfaces. A glint of light caught the captain’s eye as he looked skyward, in horror. An Ork dive bomber sailed downward, coasting unto the ship. Heavy guns lit up, punching pock marks across the boat’s carcass. Barnus turned and fired nearly two-thousand rounds of ammunition in just over a minute. A single shot punched through the casing of a particularly large bomb sitting under the vehicle’s left wing. Sparks flew for a moment. The entire half of the aircraft was instantaneously engulfed in the explosion. A shockwave of heat and shrapnel rained downward, flecking the water like a heavy rain. The bomber lost control, flipping and spinning its way into the water directly in between the river boat and dry land. The canopy had blown out, sending a torrent of glass shards into the green skin pilot; still, it struggled trying in vain to free itself from the burning wreckage. It cried out in its heretical tongue. Barnus silenced the struggling pilot with an overzealous double-pass by the two stubbers. Blood jumped from the mangy beast and pattered against the side of the ship. Orange mud stirred in the water, lifted by the crash and the ship’s wake.
The deck was still in a state of chaos. Harrin lay with his hand over his face, a long shard of rusted metal stuck up from its center. Gibsynn kneeled, attempting to lift the hand, which he found was mounted to the deepest crevice of Harrin’s skull by the shrapnel. Harpo was burned badly, a ‘flamer-tan’ stretched from the high left of her neck and stretched downward, across her bosom scarring to her right hip; intense pain ravaged the entirety of her being. Giltroy laid slumped over the safety rail, half overboard, a heavy round in what was left of his head. Collen had fallen over the side of the ship, slipped under the railing; Rokko fought the pain surging from the shrapnel in his arm in order to save him. Maxim rushed to survey Harris’ body as it laid motionless, face-down on the back deck; three rounds traced up his back in a twisted zig-zag. A flask drained next to his open, breathless mouth. Barnus crouched, grabbing the flask, taking a swig and flipping the lid closed before clipping it onto his belt.
The sky was bright orange as night approached. Marauder bombers dropped a hundred gallons of promethium nearby, lighting the forest the same shade as the sky. A city lay before them, another few hours away, but its silhouette stood out from the bright orange of the sky and the promethium flames and the green blackness of the all-encompassing jungle canopy. Smoke rose from the city, heavy artillery shots flew high into the sky, raining down flares and hellfire. Fireworks.
Nightfall came quickly; the men were silent, not lamenting over the fallen but trying not to be noticed by anything that lurked in the shadows. The engine was turned silent and the ship hardly moved. Everyone knew that the sound of the water on the hollow hull could be heard far enough away to attract attention on its own. Gibsynn swung the auto cannon mount round in semicircles, scanning the river banks for motion. Not a single man took their eye from their weapons’ sight apertures. Harpo’s burns were covered in medicinal gauze, blood seeped through as time went on. Hours of silence passed; no shots fired, no commands yelled, no yelling, no death. For the Catachans, who knew little but combat, this didn’t even qualify as war.
The captain spun round as he fell to the deck, clutching his wrist. A rocket twisted and spun wildly before making contact with the bow, exploding onto a wretched blue flame. Bullets rained onto the deck. Collen murmured something about a monsoon and a tin roof back on Catachan before firing wildly into the tree line. Red laser light and shining tracer rounds raced to cross the river, penetrating the green skin ambush. Orks crowded to the river bank and were slaughtered by the onslaught of anti-infantry and auto cannon fire.
The terrible scream, “WAAAGH!” was yelled across the line, sometimes defiantly, others more of a dying whimper. A great mechanical claw, surging with energy swung through a mob of Orks; flaying them. Forward ran the powerful War Boss of this planet’s offensive. Auto cannon shells could do little to harm the monstrosity, the Ork stood more than twice as high as the already hulking others. Raising its handgun, it spewed white-hot flame across the ship. Men screamed as they were incinerated. Collen prayed as he ran through torrents of fire, toward the control console. A round penetrated just left of his abdomen. Collen swore he could see ghastly blue-glowing Orks moving on deck; his nose bled as he felt warp energy come over him. The captain and sergeant writhed on the deck, wounded, shielded by the console. Collen grabbed the ship’s throttle, it singed his flesh. He gripped it tightly and plunged it forward, his hand becoming nearly engulfed in flame. When he pulled his hand away, the twin-headed eagle of the Imperium lay branded into his palm. Collen cursed as the boat picked up speed. Fire spread, growing wispy, blown by the wind over the ship. Below deck, the Inquisitor writhed in his cot, unstirred over the course of the entire day.
Collen snapped awake. He was slumped over the safety rail, head rested on his arms. It was morning; light glimmered through the trees, creating odd, moving shapes on the river boat. Looking around, Collen saw the rest of the squad pacing, chatting and tinkering with their weapons.


C&C appreciated

Here is you, here is a clue, it's the enter-buttom. Good fluff, as I like the meeting with the Inq, and they are like the Catachans I guess, rude and loudmouthed.

Updated.