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Simond's mount slammed into the beast's back as the creature raised its axe, and he leaned forwards changed his swing to a diagonal cut intended to intercept the axe strike.

His hand held down the trigger of the weapon and it growled heartily with fury. The chainsword bit into the beast's forearm, and the teeth snarled up a mass of the creature's tough skin. Thinking quickly Simond used the chainsword to pull the creature's arm backwards in a way its arm was not designed to function.
The beast bellowed with pain and rage, and the axe dropped to the ground, It attempted to turn and free its arm but the snagged flesh tore free, stripping the green flesh from its forearm almost completely.

A guardsman down below struck the beast or it slipped as it turned and it fell. Simond brought a return blow upon the creature and caught its other flailing arm with the snarling, hungering teeth of the chainsword a moment before the beast crashed to the ground.
Suddenly surrounded by dozens of vengeful guardsmen the beast did not have a chance. Every soldier that could piled in, butstocks, bayonets rose and fell, sharpened shovels, hacked, and knives plunged into the beast until long after it ceased moving.

Simond backed his horse from the frenzied butchery and turned it towards the crippled ork on the ramp.
His belly was full of fire and glory would be his this day.
Thick dark blood dripped from his horse and his chainsword onto the steel flooring of the dropship.

Teodore nearly panicked when the blast wave went off and his ears started ringing. He crumpled into a ball out of instinct and shouted curses.

When his hearing returned, he looked around to confirm that he wasn't dead. Then regained his senses and a little of his nerve. He knew there were injured, but they all seemed to be "walking wounded." No one was shouting out for a medicae so he knew his job was to keep fighting.

After attempting to take cover, he and his PDF Sergeant comrad look out toward the runt herder ork (the one controlling the grots).

The big ork seemed to be the biggest threat, so Wyona and Teodore started to take aim and shoot at the ork with their solif projectile weapons.

The bigger the Ork, the better it was for everyone involved that it died quickly. Stabilising his Hellgun on the side of the Chimera, Poncho pointed his overcharged weapon and let loose two powerful bolts of energy into his targets, an extra shot was rarely wasted if it landed on its target, after all. His shots landed true, the first one just barely hitting the Orks in the head, while the other sliced through the Xeno's thick set body. The Grenadier kept his gun held up high, ready to fire more lasers into the Runtherd if those initial shots weren't enough.

Simond sheathed the chainsword and retrieved a javelin, he put his spurs to his horse and sped down the right hand side of the dropship's front ramp.

He was more concerned with keeping from being between the guardsmen and the nearby orks than anything, but he hand not forgotten the crippled ork on the ramp.
As he came approached the ork he hurled the javelin, more to keep the beast's head down than anything, more to make it flinch.

Simonds steed clears the ramp in a brisk trot, not totally comfortable with the ringing metal beneath it and while it does not shy away, it is obviously not keen on getting near the puddles of blood here and there either. His javelin – more thrown as distraction as to really kill the crippled ork crouching on his one remaining leg misses the creature, but succeeds in taking its attention, as it swings his left arm with the slugga towards the rider instead of focussing on the troopers leaving the dropship. Those on the other hand have enough sense to not take any risks even with a severely injured Ork and have lined up in two text book firing lines, leveling a dozen lasguns switched to high intensity and full auto. Before the Ork can pull the trigger, it is hit by dozends of lasbolts in rapid succession and while each single one of them does not really do much to the hulking physique of the thing, the pure amount of firepower rapidly shows results. The sixths hit explodes part of his arm into a mist, the 8th takes out its eye and half of his face, around the twelfth his scrap metal armor begins to melt and by the end of the barrage only a heap of burning and smoldering flesh mixed with charred and half molten metal remains of the attacker. By then, Simond is already on the way to ride a wide circle and get in the back oft he remaining Xenos behind their cover.

On the other side of the battlefield, Poncho, Teodore and Wyona focus their fire on the runtherd, who is half behind the cover of the rubble heap popping up now and then to send some shots flying in their direction. Due to the very limited range of his weapon and his poor marksmanship a not very promising endeavor and likely more aimed on keeping his Grots in the fight, whose sluggas and blastas pose a significanlty greater risk. Even though he is half standing, half kneeling in a growing puddle of his own blood he amazingly still keeps himself upright.
Teodors and Wyonas shots are kind of on target, but unfortunatly hit the rubble barricade, at least beginning to detoriate it a bit. Some fragments of their projectiles even hit the scrap armor oft he handler, but fail to do any real damage. Ponchos shot similarly goes a bit too low but due to the very high power of his Hot-shot gun smashes right through the barricade, hitting the Xenos in the leg. It starts to wear him down a bit, but he still is a tough nut to crack.


While Tambo is still rather shaken by his wound, he and M’Gele can at least grab hold of the Chimeras lasgun array and in between the two of them somehow manage to trigger all three guns pointing in the direction of the grots. Not in the mood for anything fancy they just swing them around wildly, trying to force the Xenos deeper into cover to support their squadmates. While the shots go all over the place and do little more than a beautiful lightshow they seem to scare the little buggers enough that they get sloppy with their aim and send their sluggs wide of from Teodore, Wyona and Poncho. Taking a rough glance inside the Chimera it does not look as if the Askaris are in a state to provide more than this kind of covering fire, but at least it is something. The suppression fire is also supported by further lasgun shots from a couple of troopers from the ramp, while others seem to try and go around to put the enemies in a crossfire. You can also make out Simond and his horse – as far as you can see uninjured and in high spirits – clearing the ramp again and also circling round.

Having dealt with the Flamer wielding ork, Njal sets the Chimera turret in motion to take aim on the Grots and their handler again. Through the still rising smoke he cannot make out much from the ramp, but as Simond is just clearing it again and various lasbolts start flying from there towards the Xenos behind the rubble barricades, the favors seem to have shifted towards the imperials. Turning he sees that Tambo and M’gele already suppress them nicely with the lasgun array and therefore decides to take his time for a careful, long aim to maybe rip one of the enemies apart with a full auto burst as soon as possible.

Meanwhile something keeps nagging in the back of his mind, that he struggles to really pin down. The feeling of having missed something really important that might become a really big problem soon. As he puts the remaining enemies into his crosshair it suddenly hits him like the shock batton of a drill sergant: the drop ships engines are still running… which means the fuel lines leading to them have not been cut as to imperial regulations for vehicle accidents and emergency landings… which also means the burning engine you saw on starboard is still in conctact with the crafts fuel tanks…
A series of potential ways to deal with this flash through Njals mind, his knowledge about imperial tech irreplacable at this moment.
- The fact that the engines are still running means the pilots are either dead or unconcious.
- The troopers might clear the lander in time with the wounded – if someone warns them.
- If the ship explodes, even if the troopers can evacuate, several Chimeras and a lot of equipment will be lost
- There might be a way of cutting the fuel from one of the cogitators in the troop bay, but this would include finding the right submenues
- This would be a lot easier from the cockpit where there are clear levers for it as well as the pilots who might help if they get medical attention, but the way leading to it might be blocked or damaged and who knew if there is a locked door…

"By the Emperor's Frozen Throne," Njal muttered under his breath. Just when things were starting to get under control, he recalled the blazing engine on the side of the drop ship. That could lead to a hot time for everyone, especially if they were still on the ship.

He popped on the internal vox, "Erc, Try to keep those troopers covered with the Chimera. I got to get inside to the pilots."

Redhand clicked twice to acknowledge.

Njal reached up an popped the turret. It was still warm to the touch, even through his gloves. He started to crawl through the top, just like the emergency evacuation drills. It was made a bit more complicated by the flaming chemicals still stuck to the front of the tank.

He managed to slip clear of the tank, and started running towards the front of the ship,

"Evac that can stat!" Njal yelled to the troopers on board. He had to get to the cockpit to shut off the fuel lines.

"By the Emperor's Frozen Throne," Njal muttered under his breath. Just when things were starting to get under control, he recalled the blazing engine on the side of the drop ship. That could lead to a hot time for everyone, especially if they were still on the ship.

He popped on the internal vox, "Erc, Try to keep those troopers covered with the Chimera. I got to get inside to the pilots."

Redhand clicked twice to acknowledge.

Njal reached up an popped the turret. It was still warm to the touch, even through his gloves. He started to crawl through the top, just like the emergency evacuation drills. It was made a bit more complicated by the flaming chemicals still stuck to the front of the tank.

He managed to slip clear of the tank, and started running towards the front of the ship,

"Evac that can stat!" Njal yelled to the troopers on board. He had to get to the cockpit to shut off the fuel lines.

Pyroalchi
Post 2022/10/24 14:19:53 Subject: Re:Against the Savages - Only war RPG
Simonds steed clears the ramp in a brisk trot, not totally comfortable with the ringing metal beneath it and while it does not shy away, it is obviously not keen on getting near the puddles of blood here and there either. His javelin – more thrown as distraction as to really kill the crippled ork crouching on his one remaining leg misses the creature, but succeeds in taking its attention, as it swings his left arm with the slugga towards the rider instead of focussing on the troopers leaving the dropship. Those on the other hand have enough sense to not take any risks even with a severely injured Ork and have lined up in two text book firing lines, leveling a dozen lasguns switched to high intensity and full auto. Before the Ork can pull the trigger, it is hit by dozends of lasbolts in rapid succession and while each single one of them does not really do much to the hulking physique of the thing, the pure amount of firepower rapidly shows results. The sixths hit explodes part of his arm into a mist, the 8th takes out its eye and half of his face, around the twelfth his scrap metal armor begins to melt and by the end of the barrage only a heap of burning and smoldering flesh mixed with charred and half molten metal remains of the attacker. By then, Simond is already on the way to ride a wide circle and get in the back oft he remaining Xenos behind their cover.

On the other side of the battlefield, Poncho, Teodore and Wyona focus their fire on the runtherd, who is half behind the cover of the rubble heap popping up now and then to send some shots flying in their direction. Due to the very limited range of his weapon and his poor marksmanship a not very promising endeavor and likely more aimed on keeping his Grots in the fight, whose sluggas and blastas pose a significanlty greater risk. Even though he is half standing, half kneeling in a growing puddle of his own blood he amazingly still keeps himself upright.

Teodors and Wyonas shots are kind of on target, but unfortunately hit the rubble barricade, at least beginning to detoriate it a bit. Some fragments of their projectiles even hit the scrap armor oft he handler, but fail to do any real damage. Ponchos shot similarly goes a bit too low but due to the very high power of his Hot-shot gun smashes right through the barricade, hitting the Xenos in the leg. It starts to wear him down a bit, but he still is a tough nut to crack.

Teodore took a moment to duck in behind cover and breathe. He tried to remember how many rounds he had left in the rifle's magazine but couldn't quite remember. That's when he noticed Njal climb out of the Chimera and started to make a run for the drop ship. "What in Terra is he doing?" Out of sheer will and instinct, he forced himself out of cover to take another shot at the runt herder. (Thankfully the brute hadn't charged anyone yet).

Wyona followed up with her auto pistol. "Covering fire!" She yelled, popping off a few rounds at the grots and hoping that anyone in ear shot followed suit.

Njal would likely be exposed as he ran to the drop ship, so covering him seemed like the thing to do...Emperor willing.

Things were going well. The glory was his in this battle. Gunfire cracked around him but he was unhurt and unharmed. He spotted the big ork he'd lanced and he put his spurs to his horse and steered it towards the beast. He'd lay into it and its little minions, put them to flight and slaughter them in the name of Kitheria and the God emperor.

This was certainly a different type of warfare. And it seemed so much better for a light cavalryman.

Again he drew the chainsword. It was time to finish the beast. He held the blade high and stood in his saddle.
"For the king! For the Emperor.
To glory and salvation!"

That Ork was a stubborn one, and well, the fact that the bright beam of his Hellgun had to pierce through the cover the Greenskin was partially behind certainly didn't help. Poncho left out a sigh behind his helmet, the time it took to transfer him to the penals had done a number on his skills, as he braced his Hellgun properly on the bulky weapon and let loose with another barrage of purple shots... that were shot towards the Ork's right leg. One beam went wide, but two sliced into it's intended target.

The Deathworlder kept his gun trained on his target, as he made sure to use the Chimera as cover, but his head swung left and right in search of other targets.

Njal hops down the Chimera unmolested, as the Greenskins are pretty busy keeping their heads down with lasbolts and bullets flying everywhere. Yet his shout towards the troopers earns him just a bunch of puzzled looks. Over the sound of gunfire and explosions, most of them can hardly hear him and his dialect doesn't really help either. One or two of his fellow St. Paulus troopers seem to get the gist though, and a couple of the brighter ones of those that already left the craft puzzle 1 and 1 together as they see the urgency, with which Njal is running towards them. It starts up much slower, than Njal would have wished for, but he can see the lasmen on board getting their behinds up to leave the shuttle ASAP. As he runs up the ramp, he has to squeeze through a huddle of troopers heading out and once inside finds himself facing one of the Commissars - unfortunatly not the one he has caught during the crashlanding. "Where do you think you are going, trooper?! The battle is out there!" the older man shouts at him with a coarse and raspy voice that sounded very much like business. The man himself is a grizzled veteran, with a long scar running straight across his face and a bionic implant where his right jaw once was. His stare is cold and intimidating, yet at least he hasn't drawn his sidearm... yet.

Tambo and M'Gele have missed Njal leaving and instead of trying to use the now empty turret Multilaser keep the lasgun array trailed on the Xenos behind the rubble barricades. Together with the growing amount of firepower coming from the ramp and putting the greenskins in a crossfire this works like a charm and all of them including the runtherd are forced to keep their heads low. Only one of them is able to shoot at least roughly in the right direction, hitting Poncho at the arm with a glancing shot that is absorbed by his carapace armor.


Simond crosses most of the distance to the runtherd, yet he sees that right now the other imperial soldiers have begun peppering his positions with lots of shots from their guns from two directions and it seems not so wise to charge in this moment and risk a friendly fire incident. But maybe an opportunity will arise soon.

And the opportunity indeed comes, as Poncho sends an aimed burst towards the runtherd, that disintegrates the rest of the meazly cover he was behind, hitting him in both legs, adding to his already severe bleeding. At the same moment Teodore manages to even headshot the brute, even though the bullet almost glances of from the incredibly thick skull of the Xenos - a shot that would likely have killed a mere human and another testament for the amazing physique of this enemy.

Those hits really messed the monster up good and in between these new wounds and the heavy bleeding caused by Simonds lance, he finally collapses slowly in his puddle of blood, crawling himself back up again two times but smashing right back to the ground before he finally lets out one last, agonizing sigh and rolls on his back - motionless.

That's it for the grots... With their handler gone and the fight having completely switched into Imperial favor, the little buggers break and try to flee, ducking low and trying to somehow wriggle, crawl and run towards some bolthole they might squeeze through and get to safety. Now Simond sees his chance, as three of them run more or less in the same direction, offering a good target for the soldiers with their guns, while the last one chooses to run completely of course and seems to be out of vision from his shooting comrades. He is heading for a half open manhole cover in the runway, but Simond might just be able to intercept him.

"Cease fire Cease Fire!" Wyona calls out as the last ork finally collapses and dies just as the charging man on the horse attacked the ork from the other direction.

Teodore collapsed back into cover and fumbled with reloading a spare magazine into his weapon, shocked and scared to death by the whole ordeal, hand trembling the whole time as the adrenalin started to drain out of him.

"Wait a minute....is it over?" He asks.

Frost it all.... he did not need a Black Hat right now! Njal skidded to a halt and snapped to attention, he quickly saluted. This one at least looked like a veteran, so probably knew his way around a battlefield. This called for Njal to hold his ice.

"Sir, Commissar sir. Sit rep is the outside engine is on fire, and could cause an explosion as the Machine-spirits are disrupted.

Per Imperial protocol, the pilots should have cut fuel to the damage. The fact there is still a fire indicates that the pilots are not able or willing to follow Imperial doctrine. How do you wish to proceed, sir?"

Njal snapped a crisp salute. If he could not get through to the Black Hat, he would need to turn around and disembark the landing craft with speed. A bead of sweat sprung up on his brow, and trickled down along the side of his face.

The veteran black hat - Njal believes to remember hearing him being called "Commissar Cole" by the others - takes Njals crisp sit-rep with a cool and level headed demeanor, before aknowledging "Then get your a** up there and do something about it ASAP! Door code is A7729T". The cockpit should usually be locked as to keep the pilots from being disturbed, but naturally the Commissars should have an override code.

Meanwhile Cole turns around shouting orders "You lot over there! Down the hatch, bolt the Chimeras loose and disembark! Junior Commissar Caleb, to me!" he grabs an unlucky soldier nearby by the shoulder and points with his bolt pistol to three others who had the misfortune of being in close proximity "Take these men, and some body bags from over there, go down the lines and grab every longlas, melta- or plasma gun you find!" he raises his voice to an barely believable level "EVERYONE ELSE: OUT! NOW!!!" his order is somewhat underlined by a first, so far only relatively small explosion shakes the craft as some kind of relay or other mysterious technical wonder of the burning engine meets its fate.

Njal hastes upwards towards where he suspects the cockpit to be. Loose cables and sharp edges where the metal floor has broken up from the deformation force him to thread carefully while also hurrying as much as possible. Finally he stands in front of the closed cockpit door, which is indeed locked. The small block of buttons to type in the acces code also looks damaged, with a bunch of small wires sticking out to the side and fizzling with electricity. And as suspected, nothing happens as Njal types in the code Commissar Cole gave him...

Simond saw three of the critters scurrying away, there was another critter heading towards some kind of hatch in the ground.

He had killed three of the brutes already. The three little critters were running out across the front of his companions and he did not trust them not to shoot him as well.
He had seen that kind of thing before, and these fellows had not exactly the accuracy of one of the King's archers.

He bit his lip conflicted as he turned the horse and dug his spurs in. He readied to swing the chain blade down across the back of the fleeing creature.

 OldMate wrote:
Simond saw three of the critters scurrying away, there was another critter heading towards some kind of hatch in the ground.

He had killed three of the brutes already. The three little critters were running out across the front of his companions and he did not trust them not to shoot him as well.
He had seen that kind of thing before, and these fellows had not exactly the accuracy of one of the King's archers.

He bit his lip conflicted as he turned the horse and dug his spurs in. He readied to swing the chain blade down across the back of the fleeing creature.

Wyona yelled at Teodore. "Not over yet trooper, just get your rifle pointed down range and ready to go once that fellow on the horse is out of the line of fire."

Teodore nodded. He spotted one of the grots fleeing, but held off on opening fire. The PDF troopers obviously didn't want to risk a friendly fire accident particularly as the immediate danger from the grots had passed.

Teodore looked up at strange lumbering Kraigsman and wondered whether his new found comrad would be similarly averse to a potential friendly fire incident.

Poncho took aim, suffer not the Xeno to live, and a killshot to the back worked just well to ensure this maxim was followed. His Hellgun rose, and spat another bright beam. The capacitor protested, and nothing came out for a moment, just look enough for the Deathworlder to rotate his weapon, murmuring a prayer to its machine spirit.

It was then that the bright, purple beam shot out of the rifle, which was, by now, not pointed at anything, and the laser just sliced into some piece of rockcrete, harmlessly. Poncho huffed, it was far too soon for fouling to have an impact on the performance of his somewhat temperamental weapon.

The little Greenskins, by now, would have to be handled by someone else, as the Kriegsman took cover to inspect his weapn.

Njal raced up tot he cockpit, more than happy to be away from the Black Hat. Sure, he was on a ship that could explode at any minute, but at least he knew what was going to set that off. You never knew for sure with the Black Hats.

At the cockpit door, he found the door sealed, and the little cogitator mechanism to open it. He jammed the code in, but nothing happened. He blinked once, then tried it again. Nothing. Frosted little machine. He did not have time for this.

"Your service tot he omnissiah is not over yet machine-spirit," Njal grumbled as he pulled out his multi-tool and took the front covering off. He looked inside at the holy workings and started probing around looking for the right connections to appease the spirit.

"I apologize for the rough treatment, but the Omnissiah needs your function for the good of his people. I implore your aid."

Everything looked in order, so he gave it a moderately hard tap on the side of the case. The connections jingled and jumbled. There was a short spark of life, and the doorway slid open. Not all the way, but enough for Njal to slip inside.

"Praise to you machine-spirit," he said as he slipped past.

Inside, red lights flashed and machine-spirits wailed out for attention. Sparks were being spit the the ones that had gotten the most unruly. The pilots were out out of commission too, but Njal did not have time to check on them.

He dashed to the control system and desperately looked around. Dials were whirling, or non-responsive. lights were flashing all over, and the controls were not like that of a Chimera at all. They were much more complicated, and many of them were labelled in unfamiliar low gothic. By the Emperor's Frozen Throne was an Altimeter?

After a few moments, he found what he thought he was looking for. A palm sized control level on the co-pilots right hand side. It was pushed upwards. Njal awkwardly reached across the man's body, and pulled it to the down position. He craned his neck out the side of the shuttle to see if the engine fire was going out.

A moment later Teodore can make out that the cavalrymen he saw earlier both change course slightly and seem to go after a target that is out of sight from the other soldiers, Wyona and himself, thus leaving three of the small Greenskins open to fire at them. Wyona and Theodore decide to aim for the one the green recruit had hit, when they had first joined Poncho behind the cover of the Chimera. Teodores carefully aimed shot from the autogun smashes into his right shoulder, smashing bones, while Wyonas autopistol riddles him with bullets, achieving a similar satisfying result. In between the two of them they take the limp of the critter of him, sending him to the ground violently were convulses for some more seconds before succumbing to the heavy blood loss.

Tambo and M'Gele flick the switches of the Lasgun array to high powered as the fighting seems to draw to a close. While they indeed land a shot on one of the other grots, it is only a glancing hit, not enough to take him down before he manages to find some bolthole to crawl into together with his last remaining friend. Not really more luck than Poncho had with his shot.

On the other side Simonds steed effortlessly catches up with the Grot running parallel to his direction, giving the feudalworlder the opportunity to add further to his impressive tally today. The Chainblade in his hand screams triumphantly and slashes a massive cut along the upper back of the Grot, followed up instantly by a backhand cut tearing into his right shoulder and chest. Already falling forward from the impact of the first hit, the second throws the small critter to the side, sending him to the ground. His wound bleeds massively, he is disoriented, broken and almost helpless on the ground, so ending his life is not more than a question of mercy by Simond. This moment two of the soldiers from the shuttle round the rubble barricade and see him and Balwin, giving both an appraising salute. Even though they have those strange imperial guns, they are obviously awestruck from the formidable display of combat prowess both cavalrymen have shown in this battle.


The scene is underlined by the bang of an explosion, as a secondary fuel tank of the dropship ignites and tears the right wing open like a tuna can. The craft itself is shaken badly - with unknown consequences for man and material still inside - but Njal seems to still have time. Some shrapnell like metal shearings fly around hitting a trooper that was too careless with his surroundings in the leg, while another one burries itself deep into the armorcrys cockpit window that fragments in a thousand little shards but holds - for now. Njal has his doubts if it will stomach another such hit and the outlook of the cockpit being covered in countless little shards of armored glass is not really nice...
The lever he has pushed down seems to appease some of the machine spirits, silencing their blaring for now, but it did not immediatly do the trick. Looking through the windows what it might have done, the St. Paulus trooper can see the not-burning engine on the other side shutting down.
Counting 1 and 1 together instantly he hurles the body of the copilot a bit to the side and finds another lever looking like the first one even more to the right - expectedly also in the upwards position. Carefully pulling it down to not enrage the machine spirits by cranking it to hard, the burning engine grinds to a screaming halt. And that's not all! If by chance, the God Emperors favor or the benediction of the holy trinity of Omnissiah, Machine god and the Motive force - Njals Eyes fall upon a block of switches on knee height of the dead Navyman which are labeled with a pictogramm of a flame in a red circle with a diagonal line through the fire. The switches are arranged on a very rough schematic of the Drop Ship itself. He stretches out and flips the right wing switches upwards, which the thankfull machine spirits reward richly...

Outside the others can not only see the burning engine stopping (if they have line of sight) but also hear an audible fizzing and hizzing sound. All over the right wing a kind of fog of a white-greyish powder seems to spray out of various nozzles - whereever the fire extinguishing system is still intact - inhibiting the flames through some means whose mysteries are likely one of the Adeptus Mechanicus well kept secrets. Be it as it may, it seems Njal has indeed stopped the fire, not only saving the lifes of all the troopers to wounded to disembark in time, but also their equipment and at least the majority of the Dropship that might still be salvaged over the next months.

While two thirds of the other troopers, as well as the remaining Chimeras and horses, disembark and join up with the Brontians to mop up the remaining greenskins and get the situation at the Aerodrome under control, Commissar Cole orders the other third including the wounded and your lot to stay with the shuttle. You are not completely sure why, but it seems he has something special for you in mind and does not want to risk you just now. Having done the heavy lifting during this battle you are kind of grateful for that and specifically Tambo gets in line with the other walking wounded to get his injuries looked after.

[Huzzah we win!]

Teodore will take the time doing his job as medicae applying first aid where needed and identifying the more seriously injured so they could be transferred to a nearby medicae facility where more advanced care would be available.

He still feels a little woozy from the battle and will likely be thoroughly depressed once the adrenalin wears off. Despite the "win" the war did not appear to be going well at all and there didn't seem to be any chance of escape. By all accounts, the world seemed as doomed as it was the day before...it was just a question of when.

Still, self interest always had a way of asserting itself.

When he gets a moment he decided to ask his sergeant something that was on his mind. He speaks lowly though as he doesn't want to catch any commissar's attention. "Kind of odd that the Commissar is keeping us here isn't it? It makes me think these off worlders are some kind of elite unit. Might be worth staying with em if we can manage it. I figure, if everything goes sideways they'll want to evac the best troops off world first right?"

Generally PDF were not considered the "best troops." Even Teodore knew that. Like gravity, just another law of the universe.

After the rush of adrenaline and the inside of the ship the heat hits him. Simond pushes his sallet back from his face and wipes the sweat from his face with a handkerchief.

Simond sends Balwin to retrieve his lance whilst he retrieves his waterbottle, takes a drink and pours some down the neck and flanks of his mount. Then he just walks his horse around the area and revels in the admiration and glory of the moment.

There will be battles ahead, and there will be waiting. But this is the moment of victory and he'll be damned before he gives a moment of it up before he has to.

Njal checked the pilots, and revived the survivor. Together they clambered down to the hull, where Commissar Cole had ordered the injured to gather, along with Njal's squad. He left the pilot with some orderly.

Tambo was getting his head wrapped, so Njal stumbled over. His limbs suddenly felt very heavy as the adrenaline from combat left him. He dropped like a sack of rations next to the Thoth Askari.

"You gonna be okay there Tambo? Looks nasty?"

Erc Redhand wandered over and the two St. Paulus veterans nodded recognition to each other. Njal started stripping off his cold weather gear, as he was sweating worse than a hot water pipe through a drill shaft. What kind of a hell hole had they been dropped into this time?

He saw the other guys from his "unit" and waved them over for a seat. Now was the time to hold your ice, while the Black Hats and the Chect Salads decided what you were going to do next.

He pulled out his canteen, and took a long, long pull. Frosted heat.

[Still on the battlefield]

Wyona snorts through her nose a little bit, as Teodore calls the men they fought with an "elite unit", even though she had to admit that the last months have taught her that the often called upon distinction of the Guard as creme on top and the PDF as what remains had some basis in the real world. Still... "They are disciplinaries... Some Bad Batch set into the first wave to amend for their short commings..." which likely is more the drill sergant than the woman herself speaking before she grudgingly admits "Still, they sure know how to fight and would be good company. And you are right... IF someone is evacuated, the Guardsmen are at least much higher on the list than PDF or common civi's
But that's not up to us. Wait and see what Local Command or the Commissar decide..."


Simond definitly gets some appreciation and his horse a fair share of treats from the thankful troopers, as they wait and hear the sound of fighting all around the landing field slowly subside, and more and more Drop ships coming down and flying back up, to get everyone planetside.

As Njall speaks to him, Tambo nods thankfully and already quips "Not to bad. Enough for a nice story at the campfire or to impress the ladies, not too much to pay extra at the brotel..." Njals struggle with the heat finds some almost ironic counterpoint in the two Askaris, who are huddled in their garment and seem to be used to a similar humid, but even warmer climate.




________________

Now LIVE! Don't miss the interview with the heroes of Teta-7... just after a short advertisement break

Thanks to the combined efforts of PDF and Brontian Longknives on the ground and the troopers landing with the first wave of Dropships, the orkish assault on the landing field is finally repelled. Having prevented too serious damage, the reinforcing regiments are now ferried down with all due haste, as the battle in space still seems undecided between the emperors proud navy and the chaotic assortment of vile Xenos vessels poluting the system.

While the other troopers from the redemption platoon are send away towards the barracks, Commissar Cole collects your little lot and keeps you at the skyport a little longer. There you make the aquaintance of Miss Artema Peabody - a spindly thin Administrativum drone whose face and manerisms bear an uncanny similarity with a weasel. Peabody is tasked with coordinating the local media outlets to prevent misinformation and provide the populace with thruthfull and uplifting news. Thruth being mainly a standpoint dictated by the imperial bureaucracy. Even though nothing like the straightforward, upright and unbending Commissar Cole, both seem to share some history and appreciated each others work. And the Commissar is very VERY clear, that he expects your full and unquestioning cooperartion. From their only half private conversation you already catch a glimpse of the essence of the matter in the form of sentence fragments like "...all four regiments and pdf...", "...propaganda gold mine..." and "...too bad they didn't run into some Brontians..."

In a matter of minutes she debriefs you about what EXACTLY happened on the landing field - a grandious and honestly quite epic tale of heroism, comradry and faith in him on earth, so cool you wished you would have witnessed it yourself - before she reminds you, that you in fact did.
Afterwards she is very clear that where your own memory somewhat diverts from her obviously true version, the error is very clearly on your part - a notion which Cole does not hesitate to underline with a very certain look and a hand on his bolter that delivers the message "I can always get some other troopers to play your roles..."


Soon after you are introduced to one Ruby Felicitas Zeforika - an extravagant man in his early thirties, with very... unconventional mannerisms and a stunningly "stylish" dress - a popular artist and popculture icon of the sector that for some unknown reason got himself stuck in the imperial public relation effort and... enriches it in his very own, surprisingly effective way



The next two days are filled to the brim with interviews, pic-shots, podcasts... Simond, Balwin and their horses are even taken to pose for some artisan that makes sketches for a bronze statue that might one day be part of a victory memorial... All of course under the watchful eye and guidance of Administrata Peabody and Commissar Cole. Well-behaved little guardsmen as you are, you play the roles assigned to you, parrot the stories you are told and do whatever it takes. The final result is... impressive. Seeing some of the clips all over the local channels even you feel all like enlisting in the guard and have to admit that Ruby and Peabody definitly know their trade. They even managed to also link some Brontians, that had an impressively heroic last stand - if you can trust the Regimental Standard, which you of course do - almost at your landing side to your lot, this way wrapping up the story of "the Squad of Skrynnes Defenders".



carrot and stick

Of course, nothing lasts forever, whatever you individually though about it and finally Commissar Cole puts all of you on the flat bed of a truck and carries you off to a supply depot, where your regiments have been garrisoned for now. If there should really still be one of you who did not suspect it, Cole explains that for moral reasons alone, the 9 of you are now a squad - for better or worse - and will only return to your units if and when the Administrativum or Commissariat says so. Teodore and Wyone are thus also Imperial Guard now, Wyona becoming private first class as her PDF rank does not just transfer. But regardless of what you think if that idea, Cole indeed seems to see some potential in you - if you manage to melt into a unit. At least he says as much and you don't deem him the kind of commissar who would do so just to appease an audience. After a while you are dropped of in front of one of an assembly of large warehouses that were requisitioned to serve as garrisons for now. Inside numerous compartments have been cleared - mostly by just pushing everything stored inside to the back - to each accomodate one squad. A look inside your temporary new home shows a box of roughly 10 x 10 yards size, with three small, opaque windows on the wall opposite the entry and some single lightbulbs on the roof doing their best to keep in half lighted. On the sides are stacks of local timber which seem to have been stored here to dry - which explains the dehumidifier working with a slight humming in the corner. Overall the climate is pretty bearable even for Njall and a gift on this planet. A bunch of two-sturry bunks have been set up on the sides, directly bordering the stacked timbers, while a ten lockers are on the back wall under the windows. A hand full of armchairs provide and opportunity to rest - their seat covers are made of a flower printed fabric, that looks old and worn out, a bit like they were salvaged from some older residents home.

As you file in, Cole slaps a small stack of paperwork on casket that serves as improvised desk in the middle of the room and smiles. "Now Ladies and Gentlemen... you want the stick or the carrot first? Of course everyday in the service for him on earth is a pleasure, so there are only carrots for those in the Imperial Guard. So I'm sure you are happy to hear, that your days suffering the exquisite food, warm rooms and light camerawork are over and you will have the pleasure of serving again on the frontline soon. Maybe in a week if you are lucky..." which to at least some of you sounded more like the stick.
"Which leaves you lucky SoBs with a whole couple of days to become a functioning squad. Which leads me to this..." with a plink, a pair of sergeant stripes made out of brass land on the casket. "You obviously need a Sergeant. I could name one, but I believe in your case it is better to have one that has your trust. So I'll give you till tomorrow 8:00 to give me a name for a field promotion. Vote, discuss, throw some dice - I don't care. But you have to live with your decision.


Second point..." with which he points to the stack of documents "Your heroic deeds saved quite a lot of equipment. But unfortunatly not every soldier made it out alive that wreck. And generous as you know the Imperial Bureaucracy ALWAYS provides everything that is necessary for an Imperial Guardsmen. So just this once each one of you can have his pick among the items on this list.



And last but not least: If you decide, that you need another trooper to round up your squad, I might be able to find you one. But that is also up to you. Any questions?"

Simond waited till the Commissar left them then immediately went for the least worn and faded arm chair. He has taken on a bit of an arrogant strut since the fighting on the landing zone, his ego has inflated since that incident on the landing zone and he is now openly crediting the grots he injured or killed as full orks that he slew whilst bright rust has started to bloom on any new scratches and scrapes on his helmet.


"Someone else will have to be the sergeant, I'm not about to start commanding foot. Even if you have that..." He waves his hand vaguely outside to approximately where the chimera is parked, "machine."

Teodore looked around at the pile of weapons dread sinking in as he realized what had happened.

"Suicide squad...they put me on a suicide squad. That's what this is..." He mutters to himself not willing to even touch any of the equipment as he felt if he did so that he would be unwittingly signing up for some impossible mission.

Once he regained his senses he was able to respond to Simond.

"Look, this may be just another war zone to you lot, but to me, and Wyona this is our HOME. You need a leader that actually knows the terrain, knows the people...knows, well more than you lot anyway."

"That's why I say make Wyona the Sergeant. That was her old rank in the PDF anyhow. And if it wasn't for some bureaucratic munitorium nonsense the rank would have transferred over anyway."

Njal moved over to the Humidifier, and gratefully fell into a pile beneath it on the floor. Sure, this was a huge downgrade from the propaganda units mess and kit, but at least it was out of that frosted heat.

"If we go by combat experience, my bet is the son of Krieg knows his way around a battlefield better than anyone here," Njal had gotten a better feel for the man, and was confident he was not suicidal like his fellow planet born.

"Redhand, what do you think?" The other Saint Paulus trooper just shrugged. Then he tossed his gear up on a top bunk and clambered up for some shut-eye.

Poncho had fallen back to the role of the good little Kriegsman for the sake of propaganda rolls, his face had been kept hidden and masked, his Hellgun finely cleaned up, and his slightly out of regulation ''Krieg Fang'' tucked away in his kit in favor of a standard issue combat knife. When all that was over, however, he took the occasion to remove the bulky mask and skull face, switching back to his better quality weapon.

Everything was tightly wrapped around the powerpack of his Hellgun, and the disgraced Grenadier wore just his armor and helmet over his uniform, dropping the heavy pack on the floor carefully, and began to make a little alcove, setting his sleeping mat, blanking and sleep bag in as much comfortable a set up as he could with what he was. When the subject of leadership was brought up, however, he stopped, and listened.

''We're a poor suicide squad so far, not even a casualty, or perhaps a great one'' Then the discussions of who should lead happened, the man ran a hand on his naked chin, pale face considering the words he heard.

''The way of the Death Korps is not for the common Guardsman, this trooper... I, that is, think the locals should be leading us. I wasn't a Grenadier for long, anyway. Do we have comm beads in the gear?'' He finally asked, still working on setting his sleeping quarter in order.

As you had no further questions, Commissar Cole snaps one last parade ground salute and leaves you to it.

Tambo and M'Gele choose one of the two story bunks together, with the younger leaving the elder to choose first, so that Tambo picks the lower matress. Overall the last days have already shown you that for the Askaris seniority seems to account for pretty much, so that Tambo pretty much calls the shots when it comes to the pair of them. Responding to Teodores first muttered comment on being a suicide squad Tambo smiles "Naa... I don't think so. We Askaris have been in some pretty sh***y deployments, believe me and this here ain't so bad." his tone implies that he does not refer to bad deployments in the sense of particular dire or extreme fights, but more in the sense of his own regiment getting the short stick when it comes to "who covers the retreat because their losses matter the least".
"We got two days off, and another week from the front. And after all that effort with the pics and screentime, they won't just throw us in the grinder. Don't get me wrong, we will have to carry our weight. Everyone else does too. But my gut tells me it won't be something we can't handle."

As everyone starts to get comfortable, M'Gele rumages through the equipment lying around to make your stay comfortable and manages to find a small promethium burner and a kettle as well as a side door leading to some shaby looking washing- and sanitary room. He fills the kettle and sets some water boiling, before he digs deep into his backpack and lifts out a small jute bag filled with dark, aromatic beans whose fragrance reminds a lot of some flavor off recaff. "Who fancies a brew?" he askes and would go around to collect your tin mugs or whatever your regiments use to drink. From one of his uniform pockets he also takes out what looks suspiciously like one of the sugar dispensers you saw on the mess table of the broadcasting station this morning...

Meanwhile Tambo has filed over to the list with the equipment (storing it here would not have been too sensible, you are intended to mark, what you want to take). Absentmindedly he pulls out a slightly squished paper bag with a bunch of cookies that you also saw in the mess, as well as his cantine mentioning "I also have something stronger if you fancy your recaff with some chesthair. Got it from one of the kitchen boys...". He reaches the paper bag around, offering it to everyone who wants.




In the last days you already got the impression, that both Askaris are not particularly font of "autority through rank" and more used to being led by people they knew and trusted. Therefore you are not surprised when Tambo mentions regarding the Sergeant question "As long as it is one of our lot, I'm Ok with it - no outsiders. But I think a good leader is one that can hang back, keep a good eye on the situation and is not busy shooting. Poncho has our hardest hitting weapon, and should be busy shooting, not shouting. M'gele and me are scouts... So my choices would be either Njal or Wyona.

Oh... and yes, there are some Microbeads in this list. 'one cache' - should be enough to go around."

Simonds slightly arrogant answer seems to be just ignored, would neither be the first or the last time the Askaris were treated from above. Best to not dwell on it.

''Oh. Good point'' Poncho was almost done setting his little sleeping abode, clearly, beds were a luxury the Death Korps did without in their favored tactics of trench warfare, and it didn't occur to the man that he could take one.

''Best we make sure that if our sergeant goes down, we only lose a lasgunner, rather than losing both a leader and one of our better guns. And perhaps we could decide on a second in command? The Grenadiers did this, Watchmasters die as easily as anyone else, after all''

With the announcement that there were comm beads, he quickly reached for one, and inspected it, making sure everything was in order ''We should pick a frequency and channel before we head out''

Me? A leader? Oh, how his old L.T. would have laughed at that idea! What a whiteout.

Njal chuckled, "I appreciate it Tambo, but I am not the leading type. Therefore, I will second Wynona as the NCO, after all she has the most experience with stripes on the arm and probably knows the area the best."

Erc began to snore lightly from his bunk.

He eagerly swooped up the tin cup from M'Gele. It was nice and warm, but it felt like something he was used to. It smelled way better though, almost like it had come from the propaganda hall's mess table.

"If we want a harder hitting gun on the Tug, now is the time. However, the Multi-laser gives a good rate of fire but doesn't hit as hard. I think we definitely want to see if we can get some smoke launchers and a snowplow on the front. Is that on the list Tambo?"

Simond scratched his chin at the idea. A woman to lead the group, it was an absurd notion, he was not without his suspicions on the others for backing the choice.
"I too agree, the woman is the most suitable choice. She may know the ground better than any of us. But if we are to act as a mixed unit each arm must be free to do what it must at all times, I don't suppose she knows best how to employ foot and horse together in this way of warfare, or that... thing." He gestured outside again to where the chimera was parked.

Simond drank the strange draft that Tambo had made for them, it wasn't exactly tea of any kind he had tried before, but it was good.

He'd put his boots up to get comfortable on the seat, his seat. The finest of the seats. Simond all but put his nose up to the suggestion that he might need better gear.
"Is there any of those exploding lance heads avaliable?" He asked after a moment. He'd heard of the things and thought them absurd, absurd as putting a woman in charge. But the sight of seeing that ork stuck through and not being overly bothered did stick with him, even if the beast might have grown by a foot or three in his recollection.