Lionel stood on the crest of hill 53, pulling the magnoculars to his face he watched the devastation spreading across the city. He saw the thicket of las-weapon fire whipping from the Krieg lines and heard the thunderous roar of thousands of Orks howling in unison. The Cadian 501st recon had a mobile field ops post set up on Hill 53, as they prepared to advance into the city. He dropped the Magnoculars, letting them hang on their leather strap over his short leather jacket. As he walked away from the hill crest towards his officer cadre he heard the scream of valkyrie engines as his Kasrkin teams hurtled towards the enuing battle to provide much needed support for the enbattled Krieg troops.

He scratched the join around his augmetic arm. A sure sign of trouble to come. That itch had caused him to duck just as a Tau rail rifle round turned his commanding officer to mush. He paused to mourn the loss of a fine officer. He made a quick tour of the emplacements on the hill, pausing to share jokes and jibes with his men. He reached the forward observation position at the base of the hill as the wind began to pick up, causing the sounds of battle to carry towards the hill.

Sunggled in a camo-cape in the horseshoe of the sandbags was Varrek. Varrek had been with Lionel since the start of his career as a Leiutenant in the 501st back in the Damoclese Gulf. His face was gaunt and skeletal, the skin parchment thin, clung to the skull beneathe like wet linen. The eyes however were ice-blue containing all the warmth and compassion of an icicle. They wer the eyes of a trained marksman and they had served Varrek well. The stock of his care-worn and aged Long-Las was marked with every kill Varrek had made. At the last count, Lionel knew it to be around one hundred and fourteen.
"Seen much today, Varrek?" Lionel inquired. Varrek trained his knife-sharp blue eyes on his commanding officer. "I saw a couple of scouts a while ago, but they left without their heads."

Suddenly a loud roar ripped out of the wasteland. "Waaaaaaaaaagh!" A tide of huge green bodies filled the wasteground infront of the hill, voices raised in the age old warcry of their race. Varrek placed his eye to the scope of his rifle and began firing. The crimson darts of energy ripped into the massed ranks, blowing heads from shoulders and limbs from bodies. Lionel drew his bolt pistol and emptied the magazine into the charging Orks. The hail of fire made little impression on the huge force.

Lionel reloaded and drew his power axe from the leather sheath hanging between his shoulder blades. Already the 501st was counter attacking. Small arms fire hailed down from the upper slopes punctuated by the large boom of battle cannons and the woosh of missiles. The Orks were undaunted by the blizzard of fire and contiued to charge. As his men drew up behind him, Lionel raised his axe above his head, the power field glittering in the pale sunshine. "Chaaaarge." He roared at the top his lungs, and the 501st hurled themselves forward into glory.