W40K RPG, Line of Damnation- Memoria
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W40K RPG, Line of Damnation- Memoria
Out of Character- This thread is for historical tidbits, reminisces, establishing scenes... basically, it's a chance to show where your characters come from and why they became the people they are. It's also a good way to pass the slack time while nothing is going on. I'll lead off with a short Prius vignette soon.
"Children! Children this way!"
Prius Ristani had never been this far uphive. He could see the sky, for the first time in his life. Many of the children around him were similarly transfixed by the sight of the dark clouds drifting overhead, and the bright glow coming from the sun that burned behind the clouds. The air smelled funny up here, and the breeze was strange, not the breeze of recirculated air that he was used to. He'd heard that the rain on the surface levels could melt away the skin, and he'd seen people with strange scars that were supposed to be from the rain. Frankly, the idea of water just falling from the sky was foreign to him. He wondered if it was going to start raining and melt them all while they were waiting to get on the ship.
He looked down, and swallowed. Would the rain melt the aliens attacking the hive? He could see the swarming mass of creatures, a living carpet that slammed into the line of PDF troopers fighting to hold them off long enough for some form of evacuation to take place. They looked like xerq beetles swarming in the compost pits, and even a young, untutored eye could see that they were going to quickly overwhelm the defensive positions.
He wondered if the rain would melt the aliens too.
"Alright, keep in line, keep moving..." the adult was none-too-gentle in his handling, striking more than one child who tried to break the line or lag behind.
As he reached the man, he looked up at him. "Are mommy and daddy going to be waiting for me on the ship?"
The man's face quirked, before his stern expression returned. "You'll see them soon enough. Move it!"
Prius Ristani had never been this far uphive. He could see the sky, for the first time in his life. Many of the children around him were similarly transfixed by the sight of the dark clouds drifting overhead, and the bright glow coming from the sun that burned behind the clouds. The air smelled funny up here, and the breeze was strange, not the breeze of recirculated air that he was used to. He'd heard that the rain on the surface levels could melt away the skin, and he'd seen people with strange scars that were supposed to be from the rain. Frankly, the idea of water just falling from the sky was foreign to him. He wondered if it was going to start raining and melt them all while they were waiting to get on the ship.
He looked down, and swallowed. Would the rain melt the aliens attacking the hive? He could see the swarming mass of creatures, a living carpet that slammed into the line of PDF troopers fighting to hold them off long enough for some form of evacuation to take place. They looked like xerq beetles swarming in the compost pits, and even a young, untutored eye could see that they were going to quickly overwhelm the defensive positions.
He wondered if the rain would melt the aliens too.
"Alright, keep in line, keep moving..." the adult was none-too-gentle in his handling, striking more than one child who tried to break the line or lag behind.
As he reached the man, he looked up at him. "Are mommy and daddy going to be waiting for me on the ship?"
The man's face quirked, before his stern expression returned. "You'll see them soon enough. Move it!"
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
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"Do you think you're tough boy?!" The grizzled sergeant was trying to be terrifying, but it seemed comical to the young recruit.
"No sergeant!" said the young recruit.
"Well you aren't! You are a piece of refuse unworthy of the Emperor's love! You- are you trying to eyeball fuck me recruit?!"
What in the Emperor's name is that? goggled the recruit. "No sergeant!" said the recruit. It seemed to be the best answer.
"Ork shit! You tried to eyeball fuck me you unworthy little heathen pissant! Drop and give me twenty!"
"Yes sergeant!" Twenty is easy, though the big farmboy. I thought this would be tough. Then the sergeant's boot came down on his shoulder.
"You're a big, strong boy. You can take it. Now give me twenty!"
"Yes sergeant." The sergeant bore down with his boot. The recruit struggled through the required number.
"Don't ever try to screw with me again recruit or you'll be in so much pain you'll wish you had become an Ork's bitch! I'll be keeping an eye on you, D'eckor!"
"No sergeant!" said the young recruit.
"Well you aren't! You are a piece of refuse unworthy of the Emperor's love! You- are you trying to eyeball fuck me recruit?!"
What in the Emperor's name is that? goggled the recruit. "No sergeant!" said the recruit. It seemed to be the best answer.
"Ork shit! You tried to eyeball fuck me you unworthy little heathen pissant! Drop and give me twenty!"
"Yes sergeant!" Twenty is easy, though the big farmboy. I thought this would be tough. Then the sergeant's boot came down on his shoulder.
"You're a big, strong boy. You can take it. Now give me twenty!"
"Yes sergeant." The sergeant bore down with his boot. The recruit struggled through the required number.
"Don't ever try to screw with me again recruit or you'll be in so much pain you'll wish you had become an Ork's bitch! I'll be keeping an eye on you, D'eckor!"
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
"And what do you hate?" the instructor roared at them.
"The mutant, the alien, and the heretic!" the children yelled back. Prius yelled as fiercely as any of them, feeling it in his bones. Of all the children in his training company, he was the most devout. He did not fidget during prayer, he did not malinger during group exercises, and he always paid careful intention in class.
But then, he was the only one in his company who had actually seen stinking aliens eat his home. He had seen the face of the enemies of mankind, and his young heart burned with Emperor-given hatred for those who would destroy his species.
"The mutant, the alien, and the heretic!" the children yelled back. Prius yelled as fiercely as any of them, feeling it in his bones. Of all the children in his training company, he was the most devout. He did not fidget during prayer, he did not malinger during group exercises, and he always paid careful intention in class.
But then, he was the only one in his company who had actually seen stinking aliens eat his home. He had seen the face of the enemies of mankind, and his young heart burned with Emperor-given hatred for those who would destroy his species.
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Imperial Overlord
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"This is a lasgun," said the sergeant holding the rod of metal and plastic before his trainees. "Some of you come from worlds so assbackwards that when you think high tech, you think crossbow. Perform the rights properly and the spirit of this weapon is supportive and reliable. It does not have a bolter's prickly pride or a plasma's moods and spite. It is so simple even you dirt brains can use it, for the lasgun is a true friend to the race of man. One day you may be worthy to bear it."
The sergeant twirled the gun and squeezed the trigger. Each time there was a loud hum and bolts of light flashed. The straw dummy started to burn. The wood dummy had a divot blown out of it and a large black scorch mark. The dummy wearing the breastplate had a noticable hole. "The lasgun will burn through armor kill its target. Some alien monstrosities will resist its righteous power. Shoot them again! They will succomb! Each time you pull the trigger, the lasgun will fire and smite an enemy of the Emperor. For those of you who can actually keep time, if you hold the trigger down this model with fire three shots a second! This weapon has killed more of the Emperor's enemies than all other hand weapons combined! You will be worthy of the mighty lasgun or you will die in training! Am I understood?"
"YES SERGEANT!" the recruits roared.
The sergeant twirled the gun and squeezed the trigger. Each time there was a loud hum and bolts of light flashed. The straw dummy started to burn. The wood dummy had a divot blown out of it and a large black scorch mark. The dummy wearing the breastplate had a noticable hole. "The lasgun will burn through armor kill its target. Some alien monstrosities will resist its righteous power. Shoot them again! They will succomb! Each time you pull the trigger, the lasgun will fire and smite an enemy of the Emperor. For those of you who can actually keep time, if you hold the trigger down this model with fire three shots a second! This weapon has killed more of the Emperor's enemies than all other hand weapons combined! You will be worthy of the mighty lasgun or you will die in training! Am I understood?"
"YES SERGEANT!" the recruits roared.
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2004-11-30 04:32am, edited 2 times in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
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consequences
- Homicidal Maniac
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Pain. Pain and the memories of a hideous laughing face were all he had leff of whatever life he may have had before coming to this place. That, and his name, Chapel. Still, there was little time for reflection with all of the horrendous green bastards swarming over the place. It would be nice if they had the decency to die when shot in the head for one thing.
How long he had been there, he couldn't tell. He seemed to drift in a dreamlike daze, sleeping only by accident. Wherever he turned, there were more of these things, and fewer other men standing against them in the ruined cityscape. He'd crawled out of the rubble one day, without knowing how he'd arrived, and his almost blank mind had fastened upon the words of the old man who had led the defenders in counter-attack after counter-attack, "The Emperor Protects, through us. We are but instruments of his will." Upon expressing willingness to fight, and being handed a lasgun still stained with its last user's blood, he had found that he had a profound talent for mayhem. Everyone else in his scratch unit had been dead within days, if not hours, and the same thing had repeated itself over the weeks, until he no longer bothered to learn the name of his new units.
Some considered him a lucky charm, as he had stood fast when so many fell, and others thought him to be a harbinger of doom, pointing out that none who had fought alongside him had survived. It did not matter to him, he had found his purpose, and the feelings of others would not deter him.
It would be months before the fighting in the hive he was in ended, and he learned the strangely appropriate name of the planet he had found himself on. More months would pass in near constant battle, before he was found by an Officio Assassinorum representative, who convinced him that it was better to throw himself at targets that the Emperor needed removed, rather than wasting his talents upon the common unending tide that was the Imperium's enemies.
Still, the name that went with the face he needed to take vengeance upon eluded him. He could only hope that the Emperor would grant him this one personal need, and meanwhile serve him faithfully for as long as he had the strength to stand against the encroaching darkness.
How long he had been there, he couldn't tell. He seemed to drift in a dreamlike daze, sleeping only by accident. Wherever he turned, there were more of these things, and fewer other men standing against them in the ruined cityscape. He'd crawled out of the rubble one day, without knowing how he'd arrived, and his almost blank mind had fastened upon the words of the old man who had led the defenders in counter-attack after counter-attack, "The Emperor Protects, through us. We are but instruments of his will." Upon expressing willingness to fight, and being handed a lasgun still stained with its last user's blood, he had found that he had a profound talent for mayhem. Everyone else in his scratch unit had been dead within days, if not hours, and the same thing had repeated itself over the weeks, until he no longer bothered to learn the name of his new units.
Some considered him a lucky charm, as he had stood fast when so many fell, and others thought him to be a harbinger of doom, pointing out that none who had fought alongside him had survived. It did not matter to him, he had found his purpose, and the feelings of others would not deter him.
It would be months before the fighting in the hive he was in ended, and he learned the strangely appropriate name of the planet he had found himself on. More months would pass in near constant battle, before he was found by an Officio Assassinorum representative, who convinced him that it was better to throw himself at targets that the Emperor needed removed, rather than wasting his talents upon the common unending tide that was the Imperium's enemies.
Still, the name that went with the face he needed to take vengeance upon eluded him. He could only hope that the Emperor would grant him this one personal need, and meanwhile serve him faithfully for as long as he had the strength to stand against the encroaching darkness.
Instructor Nevis was an odd one. Unlike any of the other instructors, he didn't yell, and he'd never used his crop to physically correct any of the cadets.
But then, none of the cadets would ever presume to cross Instructor Nevis. He radiated menace, quite and cold.
"The life of the commissar is brutal, cold, and often short," he informed them. "If you do it properly, you will be hated by most of those who come into contact with you. We are not here to be loved. We are here to be the iron spines of the legions and fleets of the mighty God-Emperor. You, cadet Ristani... you have grown up with your fellow cadets, shared meals with them, shared quarters with them. If you suspected cadet Gotter of treason and collusion with the enemies of the Emperor, would you kill him?"
Prius knew the answer, knew it and felt it. "Yes, Instructor Nevis, I would."
"Remember that, cadets. A commissar has no friends, and must be ready to deliver the Emperor's wrath to anyone who fails to uphold his duty to the God-Emperor."
But then, none of the cadets would ever presume to cross Instructor Nevis. He radiated menace, quite and cold.
"The life of the commissar is brutal, cold, and often short," he informed them. "If you do it properly, you will be hated by most of those who come into contact with you. We are not here to be loved. We are here to be the iron spines of the legions and fleets of the mighty God-Emperor. You, cadet Ristani... you have grown up with your fellow cadets, shared meals with them, shared quarters with them. If you suspected cadet Gotter of treason and collusion with the enemies of the Emperor, would you kill him?"
Prius knew the answer, knew it and felt it. "Yes, Instructor Nevis, I would."
"Remember that, cadets. A commissar has no friends, and must be ready to deliver the Emperor's wrath to anyone who fails to uphold his duty to the God-Emperor."
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
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"This is an knife, you Emperor denying maggots. It can attach it to your lasgun like this. Do you know why you have knives when you have a gun?"
"No, Sergeant!" the recruits yelled.
"Because we can't relying on you bunch of Emperor bedamned heathens not to fuck up shooting the enemy! Because in the 40 millenia of human history, all armies have had a use for the knife! And you will learn to love this knife.! In fact you will learn to love this knife more than the Emperor loves you! And do you know why!"
"No sergeant!"
"Because the knife, unlike you, will be absolutely faithful. The knife will serve you better than you will serve the Emperor! Until you can match the faithfulness of this knife, you will not truly be members of the Imperial Guard. Form up for close combat drill!"
"No, Sergeant!" the recruits yelled.
"Because we can't relying on you bunch of Emperor bedamned heathens not to fuck up shooting the enemy! Because in the 40 millenia of human history, all armies have had a use for the knife! And you will learn to love this knife.! In fact you will learn to love this knife more than the Emperor loves you! And do you know why!"
"No sergeant!"
"Because the knife, unlike you, will be absolutely faithful. The knife will serve you better than you will serve the Emperor! Until you can match the faithfulness of this knife, you will not truly be members of the Imperial Guard. Form up for close combat drill!"
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2004-11-29 11:19pm, edited 1 time in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Fifteen years old. They were all fifteen, according to the Schola. Upon assignment to the commissar training program, they had all been given a new official date of birth, one that corresponded with the Day of Foundation, the day the Emperor officially declared the founding of the Imperium. It was a reminder that in all things, their lives belonged to the Imperium.
They were at the most brutal portion of training.
"All commissars must be proven before they enter the service!" the instructor had screamed. "Weakness must be purged before you are entrusted with the care of the Emperor's forces!"
And so had begun the live fire portion of the training. Out of his training company of one hundred, already there had been nine fatalities, and they were barely a third of the way through.
"You must be willing to kill," Nevis had told them with his usual icy dispassion. "You must prove it. And if you fail, you will die."
The man was brig scum, like all the others who had been brought in for the test, one who had been otherwise destined for execution or service in a penal legion. He wielded a regular sword as compared to Prius' chainsword, but old-fashioned steel was still as lethal as ever. They circled, the prisoner proving surprisingly apt with the blade, carefully deflecting Prius' swings rather than risking his blade against the grinding teeth...
They were at the most brutal portion of training.
"All commissars must be proven before they enter the service!" the instructor had screamed. "Weakness must be purged before you are entrusted with the care of the Emperor's forces!"
And so had begun the live fire portion of the training. Out of his training company of one hundred, already there had been nine fatalities, and they were barely a third of the way through.
"You must be willing to kill," Nevis had told them with his usual icy dispassion. "You must prove it. And if you fail, you will die."
The man was brig scum, like all the others who had been brought in for the test, one who had been otherwise destined for execution or service in a penal legion. He wielded a regular sword as compared to Prius' chainsword, but old-fashioned steel was still as lethal as ever. They circled, the prisoner proving surprisingly apt with the blade, carefully deflecting Prius' swings rather than risking his blade against the grinding teeth...
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
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"Hey, buddy this your first drop?" said the soldier beside him.
"Yes," said Hethor.
"Don't sweat it," said the man beside him. "Too bad this isn't a mixed unit. A few women would make this ride easier. Say buddy, you got any tabac?"
"Yah, they gave us some a while back. Don't know why. Here, take it," he said passing the pack over.
"Thanks buddy," said the other soldier. He drew one out and flicked a match against his stubble. He tucked the pack away and took a long drag. "Ah. Got hooked on Menthas Minor. You one of the replacements."
"Yes," he replied.
"There grabbing people from every shit hole and sticking people everywhere to bring regiments up to strength. Do you know what that means? Casualties, lots of them. They're losing people so fast they are mix and matching regiments because they can't get gear for new foundings fast enough. Get used to seeing people die around you, if we make it down?"
"If we make it down?" asked Hethor.
"We're doing a hot landing in a drop pod. Maybe three out of four will make it to the ground. The rest will buy it from bad landings, malfunctions, and enemy fire. From the ways the navy boys talk, enemy fire is the least of your problems when riding these things." The veteran took a long drag on the stick. "Better smoke them if you've got them."
"Yes," said Hethor.
"Don't sweat it," said the man beside him. "Too bad this isn't a mixed unit. A few women would make this ride easier. Say buddy, you got any tabac?"
"Yah, they gave us some a while back. Don't know why. Here, take it," he said passing the pack over.
"Thanks buddy," said the other soldier. He drew one out and flicked a match against his stubble. He tucked the pack away and took a long drag. "Ah. Got hooked on Menthas Minor. You one of the replacements."
"Yes," he replied.
"There grabbing people from every shit hole and sticking people everywhere to bring regiments up to strength. Do you know what that means? Casualties, lots of them. They're losing people so fast they are mix and matching regiments because they can't get gear for new foundings fast enough. Get used to seeing people die around you, if we make it down?"
"If we make it down?" asked Hethor.
"We're doing a hot landing in a drop pod. Maybe three out of four will make it to the ground. The rest will buy it from bad landings, malfunctions, and enemy fire. From the ways the navy boys talk, enemy fire is the least of your problems when riding these things." The veteran took a long drag on the stick. "Better smoke them if you've got them."
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2005-05-16 08:48pm, edited 4 times in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
They walked along the cold parade grounds, breath frosting into the air in vaporous puffs. It was a style that Nevis had increasingly adopted over the years, conducting his lectures outside, his class following him as he spoke.
"And it is entirely possible that during your first assignment, you might well be forced to assume command of a battalion, regiment, or even a division. This is one of the gravest responsibilities that a commissar can undertake, and it is never to be done lightly. Remember this, cadets... your word may be law upon the field, but at the end of the day you will answer to the Commissariat, and if it is deemed that you assumed command for reasons of personal glorification or vanity... you will not enjoy your fate."
He looked out across the training ground, where younger cadets were running the obstacle course under the ruthless supervision of their instructors.
"Three times in my career was I compelled to step in and assume command of a regiment. In all three cases, it was over matters of orthodoxy, and in all three cases review by the Commissariat found in my favor. Remember this... the officers you will be dealing with are the product of programs refined over millennia of training, and on average their knowledge of the ways and means of warfare will be superior to yours. Respect that knowledge, and remember that in the end the goal is always victory. Victory above all things glorifies Him on Holy Terra."
"And it is entirely possible that during your first assignment, you might well be forced to assume command of a battalion, regiment, or even a division. This is one of the gravest responsibilities that a commissar can undertake, and it is never to be done lightly. Remember this, cadets... your word may be law upon the field, but at the end of the day you will answer to the Commissariat, and if it is deemed that you assumed command for reasons of personal glorification or vanity... you will not enjoy your fate."
He looked out across the training ground, where younger cadets were running the obstacle course under the ruthless supervision of their instructors.
"Three times in my career was I compelled to step in and assume command of a regiment. In all three cases, it was over matters of orthodoxy, and in all three cases review by the Commissariat found in my favor. Remember this... the officers you will be dealing with are the product of programs refined over millennia of training, and on average their knowledge of the ways and means of warfare will be superior to yours. Respect that knowledge, and remember that in the end the goal is always victory. Victory above all things glorifies Him on Holy Terra."
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Imperial Overlord
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Trooper D'eckor walked through the village. "Heretical activity in this sector," the Commissar had said. "Scourge it clean," was her order. The vanguard had done that. They had reduced to village to a burnt out shells filled with charred corpses. Some of them were so tiny that they couldn't have been born live, but must have been cut from there mother's wombs.
Small lines of young women, naked, hobbled, and battered, had been trucked back from the front lines. The locals apparently had strong feelings about this kind of thing and after they were displayed through the surrounding regions they were sent to be slave-prostitutes for units rotating back from the frontline. The Imperial Commander wanted it to be clear he was taking a hard stance.
It bothered D'eckor. Places like this reminded him too much of home. But he was just too tired. He had seen too many people die near him, fired out into the darkness too many times, finished off too many wounded men. He was just wrung out. He kept slogging forward. Anyone not in Imperial uniform was an enemy to be killed and to do otherwise was to face the Commissar.
Small lines of young women, naked, hobbled, and battered, had been trucked back from the front lines. The locals apparently had strong feelings about this kind of thing and after they were displayed through the surrounding regions they were sent to be slave-prostitutes for units rotating back from the frontline. The Imperial Commander wanted it to be clear he was taking a hard stance.
It bothered D'eckor. Places like this reminded him too much of home. But he was just too tired. He had seen too many people die near him, fired out into the darkness too many times, finished off too many wounded men. He was just wrung out. He kept slogging forward. Anyone not in Imperial uniform was an enemy to be killed and to do otherwise was to face the Commissar.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
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Typhonis 1
- Rabid Monkey Scientist
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Nathan looked out across the crowd. At the podium above he knelt when the band started playing His music. He kept kneeling with the others as He came to the podium and spoke.
"Citizens of the Imperium .I present to you the newest members o my Holy Inquisition.Where they go I go.Where the speak it is my words they utter.There will is my will.Arise Inquisitors and accept these Rossettas to show all that you serve me like no other,not even my sons the Space Marines."
Nathan stood with ten other people and walked up to the podium when his name was called. He looked at the Emperor and he smiled at him as he handed him his Rosetta.
" Go forth ,find my enemies ,and punish them Inquisitor Nathan Talstrem"
"Citizens of the Imperium .I present to you the newest members o my Holy Inquisition.Where they go I go.Where the speak it is my words they utter.There will is my will.Arise Inquisitors and accept these Rossettas to show all that you serve me like no other,not even my sons the Space Marines."
Nathan stood with ten other people and walked up to the podium when his name was called. He looked at the Emperor and he smiled at him as he handed him his Rosetta.
" Go forth ,find my enemies ,and punish them Inquisitor Nathan Talstrem"
Brotherhood of the Bear Monkey Clonemaster , Anti Care Bears League,
Bureaucrat and BOFH of the HAB,
Skunk Works director of the Mecha Maniacs,
Black Mage,
I AM BACK! let the SCIENCE commence!
Bureaucrat and BOFH of the HAB,
Skunk Works director of the Mecha Maniacs,
Black Mage,
I AM BACK! let the SCIENCE commence!
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
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- Location: The Tower at Charm
Corporal D'eckor pumped las blasts into the beast's torso. Sometime between blast four and five it decided to drop and be seriously injured. D'eckor kept shoting, putting the holes in its chest up to seven and added a double tap to the head. "Fuck this! There has got to be an easier way of killing them. "
He was given the chance of finding out a moment later. Another Ork rounded the bend, a huge pistol in one hand, a thirty pound cleaving blade in the other. D'eckor shot it point blank in the face. Twice. It dropped. "Praise be to the Emperor, that's more fucking like it!"
"P'terson, you take point," he said singling out the greenest member of his squad. If someone was going to buy it, better him than a proven veteran. His first campaign had taught him that. In this, his second, he was putting it into practice.
P'terson scrambled ahead. The newbie was shaking like a leaf. He's not going to fucking make it, D'eckor analyzed. Might as well give him all the hazardous duties until someone more expendable came along.
The sound of the world's noisiest gang of hooligans reached him over the shelling. "Back," he snarled. "Fall back." The trenches were arrayed in a zig-zag pattern back when the Imperial Guard dug them before the Orks took them. The bend's were the best defences available under these conditions.
The squad hustled back. P'terson tripped and was got half stuck in the mud for a moment. Fucking imbecile, Hethor thought. It was fatal. The Orks rounded the bend before P'terson hit cover. They riddled his body with bullets and he fell.
The squad returned fire. The had crouched down by the bend or gone prone for better cover. The greenskin lumbered forward, firing their big, unreliable guns and filling the air the bullets. The first one madie it half the distance before falling from las wounds.
The second got two steps further before Rawlin's kneecapped it. Hethor was up top, firing down into the trench on his belly. It was a lousy fucking position, but it gave him some cover from this bunch and a decent firing arc.
Number four took it in the face from Hass'n. She was a cold bitch, make no mistake, but she was a damn good fighter. Rumour had it that her squad was gang raped by a bunch of Menthans from 2nd battalion and she hadn't been the same since. The Menthans thought they owned the greenies and they stole, bullied, and abused them whenever they could. The fucking Commissar turned a blind eye, thought it was good that the men were being toughened up. Bitch. Hethor put one in number five' neck, another in his face, and another in what was left of his skull. The Ork toppled.
Number six was practically ontop of the guardsmen before it fell. Number seven's machine gun had jammed and he proceeded to try and bash Gregar's head in. Greg tripped and fell back. Hethor put three rounds into number eight's right arm, crippling it. It still came forward, wielding a huge chopper. Rawlin's put two in its' torso, which was covered in leather and mail. It didn't go down and buried it's chopper in Rawlin's back. Hass'n finished off number six as Hethor put down number eight.
Nine shot Hass'n at point blank in the chest with a hand cannon. She slumped, maybe dead, maybe injured. Gregar pumped las bolts into it. Number ten reached for Hethor and yanked him into the trench by the barrel of his lasgun.
Emperor preserve me, D'eckor thought. D'eckor was big and damned strong, but the Ork had more than a foot on him and was even more powerfully built. It didn't have a gun, it having discarded it for either jamming or running out of ammo some time in the past. The chopper in its hand was more than enough to finish the fight.
D'eckor sprung forward. He had learned that the Orks had a few good points. Their gear was unreliable, their supply methods were a joke, they were stupid as well as cunning, and they were slow. The Ork had been moving up to finish a human scrambling away. D'eckor collided with it, inside the reach of its chopper.
D'eckor moved. In a second the Ork would grab or batter him with it's free hand and then finish him with the chopper. That was unavoidable. So he stabbed his knife deep into the muscles of the Ork's right bicep and twisted. The ork flinched back, taking his knife with it.
The green skin grunted and tried to lift its' chopper. It succeeded. Hethor butted it in the jaw with his helmet, breaking teeth. It grunted and slapped him with its left hand. Hethor realed back. Damn, I thought that would be worse, he thought. It ain't so tough. Rawlin's lasgun was nearby.
The ork transfered its chopper to its other hand, leaving the knife still sticking in the wound. Hethor swung the lasgun in a swift arc. The but shattered on contact with the Ork's skull, but the greenskin dropped. Hethor looked around. The other Ork was down, its torso an oozing ruin. So was Gregar. The Ork in front on him stirred and tried to get up. D'eckor kicked back down and then stomped it in the face.
He applied his boot a dozen more times. Then he ripped his knife out of its arm and went to work.
He was given the chance of finding out a moment later. Another Ork rounded the bend, a huge pistol in one hand, a thirty pound cleaving blade in the other. D'eckor shot it point blank in the face. Twice. It dropped. "Praise be to the Emperor, that's more fucking like it!"
"P'terson, you take point," he said singling out the greenest member of his squad. If someone was going to buy it, better him than a proven veteran. His first campaign had taught him that. In this, his second, he was putting it into practice.
P'terson scrambled ahead. The newbie was shaking like a leaf. He's not going to fucking make it, D'eckor analyzed. Might as well give him all the hazardous duties until someone more expendable came along.
The sound of the world's noisiest gang of hooligans reached him over the shelling. "Back," he snarled. "Fall back." The trenches were arrayed in a zig-zag pattern back when the Imperial Guard dug them before the Orks took them. The bend's were the best defences available under these conditions.
The squad hustled back. P'terson tripped and was got half stuck in the mud for a moment. Fucking imbecile, Hethor thought. It was fatal. The Orks rounded the bend before P'terson hit cover. They riddled his body with bullets and he fell.
The squad returned fire. The had crouched down by the bend or gone prone for better cover. The greenskin lumbered forward, firing their big, unreliable guns and filling the air the bullets. The first one madie it half the distance before falling from las wounds.
The second got two steps further before Rawlin's kneecapped it. Hethor was up top, firing down into the trench on his belly. It was a lousy fucking position, but it gave him some cover from this bunch and a decent firing arc.
Number four took it in the face from Hass'n. She was a cold bitch, make no mistake, but she was a damn good fighter. Rumour had it that her squad was gang raped by a bunch of Menthans from 2nd battalion and she hadn't been the same since. The Menthans thought they owned the greenies and they stole, bullied, and abused them whenever they could. The fucking Commissar turned a blind eye, thought it was good that the men were being toughened up. Bitch. Hethor put one in number five' neck, another in his face, and another in what was left of his skull. The Ork toppled.
Number six was practically ontop of the guardsmen before it fell. Number seven's machine gun had jammed and he proceeded to try and bash Gregar's head in. Greg tripped and fell back. Hethor put three rounds into number eight's right arm, crippling it. It still came forward, wielding a huge chopper. Rawlin's put two in its' torso, which was covered in leather and mail. It didn't go down and buried it's chopper in Rawlin's back. Hass'n finished off number six as Hethor put down number eight.
Nine shot Hass'n at point blank in the chest with a hand cannon. She slumped, maybe dead, maybe injured. Gregar pumped las bolts into it. Number ten reached for Hethor and yanked him into the trench by the barrel of his lasgun.
Emperor preserve me, D'eckor thought. D'eckor was big and damned strong, but the Ork had more than a foot on him and was even more powerfully built. It didn't have a gun, it having discarded it for either jamming or running out of ammo some time in the past. The chopper in its hand was more than enough to finish the fight.
D'eckor sprung forward. He had learned that the Orks had a few good points. Their gear was unreliable, their supply methods were a joke, they were stupid as well as cunning, and they were slow. The Ork had been moving up to finish a human scrambling away. D'eckor collided with it, inside the reach of its chopper.
D'eckor moved. In a second the Ork would grab or batter him with it's free hand and then finish him with the chopper. That was unavoidable. So he stabbed his knife deep into the muscles of the Ork's right bicep and twisted. The ork flinched back, taking his knife with it.
The green skin grunted and tried to lift its' chopper. It succeeded. Hethor butted it in the jaw with his helmet, breaking teeth. It grunted and slapped him with its left hand. Hethor realed back. Damn, I thought that would be worse, he thought. It ain't so tough. Rawlin's lasgun was nearby.
The ork transfered its chopper to its other hand, leaving the knife still sticking in the wound. Hethor swung the lasgun in a swift arc. The but shattered on contact with the Ork's skull, but the greenskin dropped. Hethor looked around. The other Ork was down, its torso an oozing ruin. So was Gregar. The Ork in front on him stirred and tried to get up. D'eckor kicked back down and then stomped it in the face.
He applied his boot a dozen more times. Then he ripped his knife out of its arm and went to work.
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2005-05-16 08:51pm, edited 3 times in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
OOC- Reposted and expanded upon from the main thread. My creative juices are still a little dry. I guess I used them all up in the fight sequence.
OT:
Pater swam in and out of conciousness, recognising the beeps and clicks of Medical equipment and the hurried mutterings of Chirgeons from the last time he'd been in a position like this- Zethrix Secundus, on the edge of the Eye of Terror. Where he'd lost his hand.
He remembered...
"Sergeant! I want covering fire on the left flank!"
"Yessir."
RatatattatataBooom
"Fragging Cultists, there's no end to them!"
"Keep the vox chatter down, Private Slate!"
"Sir."
Then the noise stopped.
"So, Kruger, it has come to this."
"Torquen, you traitorous bastard! I'll have your head!"
"I think not. Marcus?"
"Yes, master?"
"Kill."
Then, the scream....
Oh God-Emperor, the scream. Marcus, a balding, emaciated wretch, exploded in a shower of blood and pus. Out of him came a Daemon, 10 feet tall with a wingspan almost twice that and a slavering jaw full of uneven, decaying teeth. It’s howl burst eardrums even through Stormtrooper helmets and killed the Sergeant instantly. Inquisitor-heretic Torquen, Emperor damn his eyes, laughed as the Daemon tore into the unprepared troops.
OT:
Pater swam in and out of conciousness, recognising the beeps and clicks of Medical equipment and the hurried mutterings of Chirgeons from the last time he'd been in a position like this- Zethrix Secundus, on the edge of the Eye of Terror. Where he'd lost his hand.
He remembered...
"Sergeant! I want covering fire on the left flank!"
"Yessir."
RatatattatataBooom
"Fragging Cultists, there's no end to them!"
"Keep the vox chatter down, Private Slate!"
"Sir."
Then the noise stopped.
"So, Kruger, it has come to this."
"Torquen, you traitorous bastard! I'll have your head!"
"I think not. Marcus?"
"Yes, master?"
"Kill."
Then, the scream....
Oh God-Emperor, the scream. Marcus, a balding, emaciated wretch, exploded in a shower of blood and pus. Out of him came a Daemon, 10 feet tall with a wingspan almost twice that and a slavering jaw full of uneven, decaying teeth. It’s howl burst eardrums even through Stormtrooper helmets and killed the Sergeant instantly. Inquisitor-heretic Torquen, Emperor damn his eyes, laughed as the Daemon tore into the unprepared troops.
-
consequences
- Homicidal Maniac
- Posts: 6964
- Joined: 2002-07-07 03:06pm
Subject: Assassin Superior Chapel
Dissemination: None below Primus Alpha Level Clearance
This agent at first glance appears to be an ideal subject. Utterly dedicated, supremely loyal, and with a commendable success rate, he seems to embody everything that the Assassinorum strives to instill in its agents. However, certain concerns arise once his background is delved into.
The first point is the cult of personality that seems to be developing around his exploits. While admiration of superior assassins is encouraged, and striving to equal their abilities is a laudable goal, the current state of affairs exceeds this, and starts to reach the state where assassins have secondary loyalties that may interfere with their primary tasks and standards.
The second point is the implausible achievements, most notably being Chapel's very survival, that he has accrued. While a number of these are primarily unverified rumor(the incident where he supposedly entered a heretic controlled Leviathan, killed all on board, drove it to the primary enemy strongpoint and self-destructed it in their midst being the most spurious), the verified facts show an alarming tendency for the subject to survive in situations, that bluntly should have been certain death, even for one of his known abilities. Possible Daemonic influence, or even a voluntary pact on his part is suspected.
The third point is the subject's profligate expenditure of expensive, rare, and in some cases nearly irreplaceable equipment. While all of these expenditures have been shown to be justified, and oftento have achieved admirable results, it is the opinion of our logistical component that he would serve us better dead, where he could no longer impede our other agents ability to gain access to needed materials.
The fourth, and most minor point, is that the subject's loyalty to the Emperor is so intense that he can in no way convincingly play the part of a disloyal subject of the Imperium, much less an outright heretic, severely limiting his utility in most infiltration missions.
It is the opinion of the Assassinorum's director's that subject Chapel should be sent on the most dangerous assignments available, to avoid losing less problematic individuals needlessly, to gain the most utility out of his abilities until his inevitable failure and/or betrayal, ad to create a heroic martyr in the inevitable result of his death, which shall be much less dangerous to us as a body than a living legend.
Message ends.
Dissemination: None below Primus Alpha Level Clearance
This agent at first glance appears to be an ideal subject. Utterly dedicated, supremely loyal, and with a commendable success rate, he seems to embody everything that the Assassinorum strives to instill in its agents. However, certain concerns arise once his background is delved into.
The first point is the cult of personality that seems to be developing around his exploits. While admiration of superior assassins is encouraged, and striving to equal their abilities is a laudable goal, the current state of affairs exceeds this, and starts to reach the state where assassins have secondary loyalties that may interfere with their primary tasks and standards.
The second point is the implausible achievements, most notably being Chapel's very survival, that he has accrued. While a number of these are primarily unverified rumor(the incident where he supposedly entered a heretic controlled Leviathan, killed all on board, drove it to the primary enemy strongpoint and self-destructed it in their midst being the most spurious), the verified facts show an alarming tendency for the subject to survive in situations, that bluntly should have been certain death, even for one of his known abilities. Possible Daemonic influence, or even a voluntary pact on his part is suspected.
The third point is the subject's profligate expenditure of expensive, rare, and in some cases nearly irreplaceable equipment. While all of these expenditures have been shown to be justified, and oftento have achieved admirable results, it is the opinion of our logistical component that he would serve us better dead, where he could no longer impede our other agents ability to gain access to needed materials.
The fourth, and most minor point, is that the subject's loyalty to the Emperor is so intense that he can in no way convincingly play the part of a disloyal subject of the Imperium, much less an outright heretic, severely limiting his utility in most infiltration missions.
It is the opinion of the Assassinorum's director's that subject Chapel should be sent on the most dangerous assignments available, to avoid losing less problematic individuals needlessly, to gain the most utility out of his abilities until his inevitable failure and/or betrayal, ad to create a heroic martyr in the inevitable result of his death, which shall be much less dangerous to us as a body than a living legend.
Message ends.
-
Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11978
- Joined: 2004-08-19 04:30am
- Location: The Tower at Charm
D'eckor swirled the amber liquid in his glass and studdied his cards for the third time. The Emperor had not interviened and the hand was still a dog. He sipped some the substance that the local's alleged was whiskey and through the cards in. The tension dropped noticably amoung his fellow gamblers. D'eckor leaned back in his chair. He was the lord of all he surveyed.
The CO of the firebase was a colonel, but he rarely left his dugout and was probably on something most of the time. The commissar was a liability and was probably going to get scragged sooner or later. The dumb fuck had gotten too many soldiers killed to be tolerated. Most of the officers were slightly less useless.
But Sergeant D'eckor came back with more men and killed more of the enemy than anyone else. That his killbag included the previous commissar (false, that had really been the enemy) and a green lieutenant (false, it was a lieutenant and the major) was widely rumoured. Nobody said anything. D'eckor was hard, but he brought his boys back. And some numbers that made the officers look better.
The Commissar came in. Everybody stood up and saluted, even Hethor. The commissar walked up to him. He was young and a little scrawny, with a fanatic's gleam in his eye. Rumour had it he had been shot six times by Orks at close range and survived. Hethor had talked with a medicae and knew better. It was seven times.
"Sergeant, I want you to round up two squads of men."
"Yes commissar. In what way shall we serve the Emperor?" Commissar's ate this shit up. So did Maddox.
"I will brief you in half an hour," said the commissar.
I can have them in five minutes, idiot thought Hethor. What he said was "Yes commissar." He didn't need the briefing. The commissar's attempt at maintaining need to know was laughable. It was another sweep and kill mission through the highlands, using a variation of one of the three routes. The bonehead officers were only slightly smarter than Orks. Maybe he should frag the colonel, get some new blood here. Couldn't be any worse than the current lot, thought Hethor, deciding the issue. This pointless stalemate was going to continue until it killed him unless he did something about it.
The CO of the firebase was a colonel, but he rarely left his dugout and was probably on something most of the time. The commissar was a liability and was probably going to get scragged sooner or later. The dumb fuck had gotten too many soldiers killed to be tolerated. Most of the officers were slightly less useless.
But Sergeant D'eckor came back with more men and killed more of the enemy than anyone else. That his killbag included the previous commissar (false, that had really been the enemy) and a green lieutenant (false, it was a lieutenant and the major) was widely rumoured. Nobody said anything. D'eckor was hard, but he brought his boys back. And some numbers that made the officers look better.
The Commissar came in. Everybody stood up and saluted, even Hethor. The commissar walked up to him. He was young and a little scrawny, with a fanatic's gleam in his eye. Rumour had it he had been shot six times by Orks at close range and survived. Hethor had talked with a medicae and knew better. It was seven times.
"Sergeant, I want you to round up two squads of men."
"Yes commissar. In what way shall we serve the Emperor?" Commissar's ate this shit up. So did Maddox.
"I will brief you in half an hour," said the commissar.
I can have them in five minutes, idiot thought Hethor. What he said was "Yes commissar." He didn't need the briefing. The commissar's attempt at maintaining need to know was laughable. It was another sweep and kill mission through the highlands, using a variation of one of the three routes. The bonehead officers were only slightly smarter than Orks. Maybe he should frag the colonel, get some new blood here. Couldn't be any worse than the current lot, thought Hethor, deciding the issue. This pointless stalemate was going to continue until it killed him unless he did something about it.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
"Do you ever doubt?" Hethwyn asked him as they erected the small shelter. It was precious little against the raging environment, but once inside they would at least be out of the biting wind and falling snow. Prius tugged the line to test his knot, his fingers still numbed from the brief exposure of taking his gloves off to tie it.
"Doubt what?" he asked, satisfied with his work.
Hethwyn paused a long moment. Prius looked over at him. "The tent won't put itself together, Heth." His partner for the training mission nodded and resumed work.
After another moment, he finally spoke again. "Doubt... anything. I mean, you... you always seem so sure."
Prius crawled backwards and crouched, assessing their work. Against the snowy background, their shelter was virtually invisible. Good. He slid forward, giving a thumbs-up. Hethwyn grabbed his pack and crawled in first, then Prius followed. Once inside, they popped a glo-warmer and pulled back their hoods.
"Well?" Hethwyn pressed. Prius tugged off his gloves and goggles, then cupped his hands around the glo-warmer, pondering the question.
"What is there to doubt?" he finally asked. "We know the word of the Emperor is literal truth, and this forms the foundation of everything we do."
Hethwyn bit off a chunk of a ration bar. "Don't give me quotes from Indoctrination. I want to hear what you really think."
"Why?" Prius asked, looking at him.
"Feth, you're as paranoid as they say," Hethwyn retorted.
Prius started a packet of caff brewing, flexing his fingers and inspecting them. He had a certain fear of frostbite- last arctic training quarter they'd had three cadets lose fingers and/or toes to it. Satisfied that all was well with his hands, he finally deigned to answer. "It's a paranoid profession, correct? Our trust must be in none but the God-Emperor."
Hethwyn made the sign of the aquila, then sighed. "This is going off-track. I just wanted to know... do you ever feel like you're going to fail? Do you ever worry? You just seem to be always... like no matter what objective they put in front of us, you just march right in, no matter how dangerous it is."
Prius looked up, his eyes traveling to Hethwyn's hand. "Are you going to finish that bar?" Hethwyn shook his head mutely and offered the remnant. Biting off a chunk, Prius ignored the bland tastelessness of it and chewed mechanically as he pondered the question. "What is there to doubt? I'll succeed, or I'll die. We know what waits for the valorous death, Heth. Better to die moving forward." As he finished the sentence, he took this moment to likewise make the sign of the aquila.
Heth shrugged. "I guess so."
"You can't guess," Prius said, carefully disposing of the wrapper. "You have to know, in your bones. That's what it's all about."
"Doubt what?" he asked, satisfied with his work.
Hethwyn paused a long moment. Prius looked over at him. "The tent won't put itself together, Heth." His partner for the training mission nodded and resumed work.
After another moment, he finally spoke again. "Doubt... anything. I mean, you... you always seem so sure."
Prius crawled backwards and crouched, assessing their work. Against the snowy background, their shelter was virtually invisible. Good. He slid forward, giving a thumbs-up. Hethwyn grabbed his pack and crawled in first, then Prius followed. Once inside, they popped a glo-warmer and pulled back their hoods.
"Well?" Hethwyn pressed. Prius tugged off his gloves and goggles, then cupped his hands around the glo-warmer, pondering the question.
"What is there to doubt?" he finally asked. "We know the word of the Emperor is literal truth, and this forms the foundation of everything we do."
Hethwyn bit off a chunk of a ration bar. "Don't give me quotes from Indoctrination. I want to hear what you really think."
"Why?" Prius asked, looking at him.
"Feth, you're as paranoid as they say," Hethwyn retorted.
Prius started a packet of caff brewing, flexing his fingers and inspecting them. He had a certain fear of frostbite- last arctic training quarter they'd had three cadets lose fingers and/or toes to it. Satisfied that all was well with his hands, he finally deigned to answer. "It's a paranoid profession, correct? Our trust must be in none but the God-Emperor."
Hethwyn made the sign of the aquila, then sighed. "This is going off-track. I just wanted to know... do you ever feel like you're going to fail? Do you ever worry? You just seem to be always... like no matter what objective they put in front of us, you just march right in, no matter how dangerous it is."
Prius looked up, his eyes traveling to Hethwyn's hand. "Are you going to finish that bar?" Hethwyn shook his head mutely and offered the remnant. Biting off a chunk, Prius ignored the bland tastelessness of it and chewed mechanically as he pondered the question. "What is there to doubt? I'll succeed, or I'll die. We know what waits for the valorous death, Heth. Better to die moving forward." As he finished the sentence, he took this moment to likewise make the sign of the aquila.
Heth shrugged. "I guess so."
"You can't guess," Prius said, carefully disposing of the wrapper. "You have to know, in your bones. That's what it's all about."
The pain.
The silence.
That was was struck Pater first of all, after he regained his senses. At first he thought that the Daemon had stopped screaming, but it wasn't so; He couldn't make out any sound, except a low throbbing in his temples.
He hadn't realised the floor was red.
Then he tried to pick up his staff, pick it up but ohgodhedidn'thaveahand!
The silence.
That was was struck Pater first of all, after he regained his senses. At first he thought that the Daemon had stopped screaming, but it wasn't so; He couldn't make out any sound, except a low throbbing in his temples.
He hadn't realised the floor was red.
Then he tried to pick up his staff, pick it up but ohgodhedidn'thaveahand!
Taver Michaelson had thought he knew what hatred was.
Life had been fairly easy for him as an agriworker. The toil was hard, but rewarding. His family ate better than some low-end members of the nobility. It had been as serene and placid an existance as a subject the Imperium could know, outside of perhaps the drug-addled aristocracy.
Then he'd been swept up in the latest tithe, one that ignored even protected labor exemption jobs like his.
In basic training, a brutal four-week course where he learned to sleep in mud and point the proper end of a lasrifle at the enemy, he had his first taste of hatred. He felt it for the sergeant who instructed them, and the corporals who assisted the sergeant.
But he really hadn't appreciated the true power of hatred until he met that paunchy toad of an Emperor-bedamned commissar.
He could feel the fanatic's eyes boring into him. "Look at me, trooper. Do you understand what I said?"
He stared into those merciless dark eyes, struggling to retain his composure. Indeed, struggling to keep from leaping across the desk and strangling the life out of the fething bastard. He had strong hands, every field worker did, and the idea of watching the commissar turn red and then blue as the life was choked out of him was overwhelmingly appealing.
The dark eyes stared back at him, unflinching. He's not human, Michaelson thought. There was no life in those eyes, no spark of compassion or empathy.
"I understand... Lord Commissar."
"The fate of your family is tied to my fate," Prius repeated. "There will be no 'accidents' on my watch. I will bring this regiment into line and it will do its Emperor-given duty."
"Yes sir," Michaelson said.
He didn't know how, but some day he would find a way to take his revenge.
Life had been fairly easy for him as an agriworker. The toil was hard, but rewarding. His family ate better than some low-end members of the nobility. It had been as serene and placid an existance as a subject the Imperium could know, outside of perhaps the drug-addled aristocracy.
Then he'd been swept up in the latest tithe, one that ignored even protected labor exemption jobs like his.
In basic training, a brutal four-week course where he learned to sleep in mud and point the proper end of a lasrifle at the enemy, he had his first taste of hatred. He felt it for the sergeant who instructed them, and the corporals who assisted the sergeant.
But he really hadn't appreciated the true power of hatred until he met that paunchy toad of an Emperor-bedamned commissar.
He could feel the fanatic's eyes boring into him. "Look at me, trooper. Do you understand what I said?"
He stared into those merciless dark eyes, struggling to retain his composure. Indeed, struggling to keep from leaping across the desk and strangling the life out of the fething bastard. He had strong hands, every field worker did, and the idea of watching the commissar turn red and then blue as the life was choked out of him was overwhelmingly appealing.
The dark eyes stared back at him, unflinching. He's not human, Michaelson thought. There was no life in those eyes, no spark of compassion or empathy.
"I understand... Lord Commissar."
"The fate of your family is tied to my fate," Prius repeated. "There will be no 'accidents' on my watch. I will bring this regiment into line and it will do its Emperor-given duty."
"Yes sir," Michaelson said.
He didn't know how, but some day he would find a way to take his revenge.
-
Typhonis 1
- Rabid Monkey Scientist
- Posts: 5791
- Joined: 2002-07-06 12:07am
- Location: deep within a secret cloning lab hidden in the brotherhood of the monkey thread
The Inquisition stormtroopers blew the door in and rushed forwards.They held there hellguns at the ready as Nathan strode in behind them .The cultists stared as the group surged forwards ,Nathan in the middle, to confront the cuklt leader.
"Yield now heretic."
"I don`t think so Inquisitor in fact you will soon be helping us."
Nathan looked at the mad man plasma pistol pointing at him." I am a servant of the Emperor and for your crimes the sentence is Death."
He pulled the trigger and shot the man outright.H fell forwards ,blood rushing from his mouth,it touched a thin scratch in the permacrete and a pentagram appeared below Nathan and the Troopers.
All of them screamed as the Daemons quickly surged in and took cntrol of there bodies. Nathans form greaw, enlarged ,massive wings sprouted from his back as his face changed ,horns sprouted from his head as his nose and mouth elongated to a muzzle.A second pair of arms appeared as hi legs morphed and changed to canine ones .He reared his head back and let loose with a scream .
"BLOOD BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD"
"Yield now heretic."
"I don`t think so Inquisitor in fact you will soon be helping us."
Nathan looked at the mad man plasma pistol pointing at him." I am a servant of the Emperor and for your crimes the sentence is Death."
He pulled the trigger and shot the man outright.H fell forwards ,blood rushing from his mouth,it touched a thin scratch in the permacrete and a pentagram appeared below Nathan and the Troopers.
All of them screamed as the Daemons quickly surged in and took cntrol of there bodies. Nathans form greaw, enlarged ,massive wings sprouted from his back as his face changed ,horns sprouted from his head as his nose and mouth elongated to a muzzle.A second pair of arms appeared as hi legs morphed and changed to canine ones .He reared his head back and let loose with a scream .
"BLOOD BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD"
Brotherhood of the Bear Monkey Clonemaster , Anti Care Bears League,
Bureaucrat and BOFH of the HAB,
Skunk Works director of the Mecha Maniacs,
Black Mage,
I AM BACK! let the SCIENCE commence!
Bureaucrat and BOFH of the HAB,
Skunk Works director of the Mecha Maniacs,
Black Mage,
I AM BACK! let the SCIENCE commence!
-
Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11978
- Joined: 2004-08-19 04:30am
- Location: The Tower at Charm
Brutal, bloody, pointless stalemate. For six months the brass had been dreaming up of new offensive to break through the enemy line. Four bloody failures. Four failures to break the line, four failures, to punch through and attack the planetary defense batteries. Four failures to weaken the enemy enough to bring the navy in the war. Four failures to get closer to victory.
You didn't need to be a genius to figure out that there was going to be attempt number five in the near future. Hethor knew when his regiment got rotated near the front that it was their turn to bleed and die. The chances of him getting his ass shot off because a general who only understood frontal assault was going to fail to learn for a fifth time was far too high.
There were some other clues which did not bode well. Those stuck up "elite" stormtroopers were patrolling in squads lead by junior commissars. The placement and coverage of heavy stubbers and multilasers batteries was also less than reassuring. Someone, probably a commissar, understood these suicide charges were less than popular with the troops. Hethor considered his options and decided now was the time to "volunteer" to lead a sweep and kill mission through the woods. It was a death trap crawling with enemy troops, but at least his life wouldn't be in the hands of the jackass general in charge of this operation.
"Sergeant D'eckor!" sounded from behind him. A green louie with fancy shoulderboards was standing behind him, along with several other officers and . . . . .Colonel Stran. What in the Emperor's name was Stran doing here? These guys weren't in his regiment.
"Yes sir!" said D'eckor, saluting as the officers approached.
"You and your platoon have been selected for a special assignment. Assemble them at point Upsilon three in one hour!"
"Yes sir!" Replied D'eckor. Maybe the bone heads were going to send him into the woods after all. But assembling in the daylight? Trust the brass to fuck up a stealth mission. They were going to make it damn hard for him not to get killed in this ratfuck of a mission.
You didn't need to be a genius to figure out that there was going to be attempt number five in the near future. Hethor knew when his regiment got rotated near the front that it was their turn to bleed and die. The chances of him getting his ass shot off because a general who only understood frontal assault was going to fail to learn for a fifth time was far too high.
There were some other clues which did not bode well. Those stuck up "elite" stormtroopers were patrolling in squads lead by junior commissars. The placement and coverage of heavy stubbers and multilasers batteries was also less than reassuring. Someone, probably a commissar, understood these suicide charges were less than popular with the troops. Hethor considered his options and decided now was the time to "volunteer" to lead a sweep and kill mission through the woods. It was a death trap crawling with enemy troops, but at least his life wouldn't be in the hands of the jackass general in charge of this operation.
"Sergeant D'eckor!" sounded from behind him. A green louie with fancy shoulderboards was standing behind him, along with several other officers and . . . . .Colonel Stran. What in the Emperor's name was Stran doing here? These guys weren't in his regiment.
"Yes sir!" said D'eckor, saluting as the officers approached.
"You and your platoon have been selected for a special assignment. Assemble them at point Upsilon three in one hour!"
"Yes sir!" Replied D'eckor. Maybe the bone heads were going to send him into the woods after all. But assembling in the daylight? Trust the brass to fuck up a stealth mission. They were going to make it damn hard for him not to get killed in this ratfuck of a mission.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11978
- Joined: 2004-08-19 04:30am
- Location: The Tower at Charm
Hethor got his boys and girls over to the martialing area. They probably hated his guts but they knew survival rates in Hethor's platoon compared to everyone else's. If Hethor could just manage to avoid having them assign another lieutenant, everything would be golden.
There were a lot of troops over here. A quick glance told him that a good third were stormtroopers and commissar cadets and the rest were light infantry. The Emperor have mercy. They're going to have us assualt something. But there was something wrong here. Too much brass. Why were they here to get their asses shot off. They were far too close to the heretics' guns.
The hatch of an unfamiliar armoured vehicle opened and Hethor's question was answered. The figure that emerged was huge. His dark green armour added even more bulk to his frame. Metal studds glinted on his forehead. Even without the armour, he must have been as massive as a bull Ork.
"Soldiers of the Emperor," the demi-god shouted. The chosen of the Emperor's voice carried like he was hooked up to a vox projector. "We are the Dark Angels! We will lead you to victory over the heretic scum who dare raise their hands against our beloved Emperor. Bow! Bow and give thanks to the Emperor that you will have the privalege of acting as His instruments of punishment."
"The Emperor knows that you are weak. The Emperor knows that you are not the equal of his Space Marines. The Emperor will allow you to prove your worth to him by slaying his enemies. For with service to the Emperor, redemption is possible! Soldiers of the Empire, prepare to follow the Dark Angels into battle and to victory! All hail, the Emperor!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
There were a lot of troops over here. A quick glance told him that a good third were stormtroopers and commissar cadets and the rest were light infantry. The Emperor have mercy. They're going to have us assualt something. But there was something wrong here. Too much brass. Why were they here to get their asses shot off. They were far too close to the heretics' guns.
The hatch of an unfamiliar armoured vehicle opened and Hethor's question was answered. The figure that emerged was huge. His dark green armour added even more bulk to his frame. Metal studds glinted on his forehead. Even without the armour, he must have been as massive as a bull Ork.
"Soldiers of the Emperor," the demi-god shouted. The chosen of the Emperor's voice carried like he was hooked up to a vox projector. "We are the Dark Angels! We will lead you to victory over the heretic scum who dare raise their hands against our beloved Emperor. Bow! Bow and give thanks to the Emperor that you will have the privalege of acting as His instruments of punishment."
"The Emperor knows that you are weak. The Emperor knows that you are not the equal of his Space Marines. The Emperor will allow you to prove your worth to him by slaying his enemies. For with service to the Emperor, redemption is possible! Soldiers of the Empire, prepare to follow the Dark Angels into battle and to victory! All hail, the Emperor!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
"THE EMPEROR!"
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Former Inquisitor and current sorceror of Tzeentch Matheus Torquen laughed. The tunnels beneath this world twisted and altered in the ever-changing image of their Master, but Torquen had found it nonetheless.. That fool Kruger could bear down on him in a Titan, it didn't matter as long as he wielded his prize; The bastard sword Bor'agor, buried under the surface of this miserable, unnamed world for millenia. He hefted it in his hands; Perfect. Of course, that was to be expected; It had moulded itself to his grip the moment he pulled it from its plinth. He heard a footstep behind him.
"Come in, Davik. I'm surprised to managed to defeat Marcus. Ah well, I shall merely be forced to use your blood to draw him back into this realm. A pity, really. We were such friends."
"I don't know you, Heretic." Kruger spat, blood streaming from a gash in his head.
Ah, but you do." They circled each other in quick, practiced motions. "You know me all too well. This is a vendetta to you, Davik."
"Don't call me that."
"What should I call you, then? You are a mere morsel to whet my master's appetite. As is your pathetic, pious apprentice." He cocked his head and smiled. "As is your master, the pathetic False Emperor."
"Traitor!" Kruger charged at him, Chainsword whirring. Torquen lazily swung his sword, catching the Chainsword's teeth. the two blades ground together. Torquen applied more pressure.
"Fool." He snarled. "This is the Daemon Sword Bor'agor! You should know better than to face me with a Chainsword." The Chainsword was smoking now. Torquen forced Kruger onto his knees and flicked the Chainsword out of his hands contemptuously. "How did you manage to kill my Daemon, by the way? You never could master the Banishment spell."
"I didn't banish it."
Torquen roared with laughter. "You left it to massacre your tiny army just for the privelidge of fighting me? You flatter me, Davik. I think I might make you Marcus' next host."
"No." Kruger whipped a throbbing sword out from his jacket.
"Is that a power sword, Davik? You aren't flattering me any more."
"Recognise it?"
"Of course I do. I saw it when I killed it's owner, that old fool of a witchhunter Cyrus. Sentimental as well as vengeful, Davik?"
"No. Look harder."
Torquen squinted. The sword was throbbing with barely repressed energy, but it wasn't powered. How-
"Daemon sword Bor'agor, meet Daemon Sword Marcus. Kill."
Torquen screamed...
"Come in, Davik. I'm surprised to managed to defeat Marcus. Ah well, I shall merely be forced to use your blood to draw him back into this realm. A pity, really. We were such friends."
"I don't know you, Heretic." Kruger spat, blood streaming from a gash in his head.
Ah, but you do." They circled each other in quick, practiced motions. "You know me all too well. This is a vendetta to you, Davik."
"Don't call me that."
"What should I call you, then? You are a mere morsel to whet my master's appetite. As is your pathetic, pious apprentice." He cocked his head and smiled. "As is your master, the pathetic False Emperor."
"Traitor!" Kruger charged at him, Chainsword whirring. Torquen lazily swung his sword, catching the Chainsword's teeth. the two blades ground together. Torquen applied more pressure.
"Fool." He snarled. "This is the Daemon Sword Bor'agor! You should know better than to face me with a Chainsword." The Chainsword was smoking now. Torquen forced Kruger onto his knees and flicked the Chainsword out of his hands contemptuously. "How did you manage to kill my Daemon, by the way? You never could master the Banishment spell."
"I didn't banish it."
Torquen roared with laughter. "You left it to massacre your tiny army just for the privelidge of fighting me? You flatter me, Davik. I think I might make you Marcus' next host."
"No." Kruger whipped a throbbing sword out from his jacket.
"Is that a power sword, Davik? You aren't flattering me any more."
"Recognise it?"
"Of course I do. I saw it when I killed it's owner, that old fool of a witchhunter Cyrus. Sentimental as well as vengeful, Davik?"
"No. Look harder."
Torquen squinted. The sword was throbbing with barely repressed energy, but it wasn't powered. How-
"Daemon sword Bor'agor, meet Daemon Sword Marcus. Kill."
Torquen screamed...
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Imperial Overlord
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11978
- Joined: 2004-08-19 04:30am
- Location: The Tower at Charm
Eight demi-squads of Dark Angels lead the way through the woods. More than a thousand Imperial Guard troopers tried to keep up with two score Space Marines. Marine scouts had already been at work, the grisly evidence of their skills littered through the forest like leaves in autumn. It wasn't until they closed with enemy lines that there was any resistance.
Hethor heard the shots and overran the destroyed positions. With their autosenses, auspexes, and augmented abilites, the Astartes found and killed nests of the enemy without pause. The skirmish line gunned down heretic soldiers on the run, firing and moving with superb accuracy. The barely slowed to finish the wounded, stomping on skulls with their armoured feet.
Hethor hustled his people forward. The commissar were in the back and the Marines only had eyes for the front. A small knot of the enemy managed to survive the Marine's initial volley. D'eckor's platoon added their fire to that of the Marines. None of the return fire came their way. The few feeble shots were fired at the Marines, with the only hit glancing on a shoulder guard. The Astartes continued their advance.
The Marines continued to push forward. Eventually they stopped to allow the guard to catch up as their scouts continued to work ahead. Hethor's people had barely gotten their breath back before the Marines pushed on again. They were in the enemy's part of the woods now and Hethor understood the plan.
The forest was impassable to most vehicles. Almost all the defenses would be anti-infantry with the most of the anti-tank placed well away, along the gap where four previous Guard assaults had drowned in blood. Anti-infantry weapons against the Astartes? They would cut through and shred the defenders, rolling them up from the flanks. That's why all the vets and the stormtroopers. Not to prevent the force from breaking, but to insure that they Astartes had the support necessary to win.
Adrenaline flowed through his body. He wasn't being sent to die. He was being sent to kill.
Hethor heard the shots and overran the destroyed positions. With their autosenses, auspexes, and augmented abilites, the Astartes found and killed nests of the enemy without pause. The skirmish line gunned down heretic soldiers on the run, firing and moving with superb accuracy. The barely slowed to finish the wounded, stomping on skulls with their armoured feet.
Hethor hustled his people forward. The commissar were in the back and the Marines only had eyes for the front. A small knot of the enemy managed to survive the Marine's initial volley. D'eckor's platoon added their fire to that of the Marines. None of the return fire came their way. The few feeble shots were fired at the Marines, with the only hit glancing on a shoulder guard. The Astartes continued their advance.
The Marines continued to push forward. Eventually they stopped to allow the guard to catch up as their scouts continued to work ahead. Hethor's people had barely gotten their breath back before the Marines pushed on again. They were in the enemy's part of the woods now and Hethor understood the plan.
The forest was impassable to most vehicles. Almost all the defenses would be anti-infantry with the most of the anti-tank placed well away, along the gap where four previous Guard assaults had drowned in blood. Anti-infantry weapons against the Astartes? They would cut through and shred the defenders, rolling them up from the flanks. That's why all the vets and the stormtroopers. Not to prevent the force from breaking, but to insure that they Astartes had the support necessary to win.
Adrenaline flowed through his body. He wasn't being sent to die. He was being sent to kill.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.