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Snippet #2626585

located in Planet Arawath, a part of Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment, one of the many universes on RPG.

Planet Arawath

Planet Arawath is a mining world within the Reike Expanse that has been under Ork assault for three years. Local regiments of the 319th Imperial Legionnaires, 420th Cannabisian Regiment, and 19th Reiker Defense Force are all engaged.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Arin Sanders
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It was incredible how the appearance of a single Aquila and some comforting words could rally men. Father Yates had fad a gaggle of infantry afraid of the oncoming tide, and turned it into an uneven line of indirect fire. He didn't need a Commissar to motivate soldiers; just needed to remind them that they fought for the Emperor. Sanders (who had equipped himself with the lasrifle of a dead comrade) was right beside him, trying to ignore his head wound. After a fashion he had to hold the rifle out and in front of him while it overheated, but was forced to throw it aside altogether to draw his knife and laspistol.
Yate's life became teeth, flesh, and fire. He couldn't swing without cleaving something in half, but his flamer turned the enemy into an angry, on-fire enemy more than it killed anything. Bodies stacked, artillery and aircraft brought smoke and death to the enemy lines, but it did not accomplish much. "It is amazing," he remarked, "that the universe can fuck up so many times in a row to produce so many of this failed species. But it is that much more practice, before we join the Emperor in destroyed Chaos itself! It is with honor and bravery that the Guardsmen meet all challenges, whether they be heretics or xeno scum!" How he managed to speak clearly on local broadcast was a mystery. "These Orks have asked the Hendrisi Deadfall Regiment for a welcome basket. What the fuck is in that basket, troopers? Soaps? Jewelry? No. Bolts and lasers and fire and death. Treat them the way you treat all unwelcome house guests: With extreme prejudice." There was a lapse just long enough for Sander's to try to catch his breath. He flicked blood from his knife and tried his best to clean the handle so it couldn't slide out of his grip, but the whole weapon, his arm, and torso were covered in blood. Fortunately, none of it was his. "Welcome to Hendrisi," he mumbled.




The Commissar didn't feel very good about all the troopers that had been lost to friendly artillery, but at least five strangers, Grim, and Bottles had survived. She didn't know what happened to the special forces but when they didn't join those crossing the street she decided it better not to wait.
The Commissar didn't bother to check the condition of her grav-chute. It lurched, sputtered, and she fell through a window ten feet below landing on her face with an "oof!" She pulled the device off and angrily threw it against a wall, where it sparked and exposed circuitry made her wonder how it had gotten her so far. "Alright," she broadcasted locally as she picked herself up. "We're using the same maneuver to move to the next building over. There's Orks charging the front lines and we can't hit shit from here. Unfortunately none of you troopers are going to be saving the day from the next apartment, though; your job is to hold the block corner and make every intersection around it a no-ork zone. Am I understood? Nothing gets past us. We will prevent the Orks from flanking." She let the troopers a floor above her construct their own bridge and make their way to the next adjacent building; she leaned out the window she'd come from and scanned the rubble for surviving troopers. She could see the special soldiers pulling each other out of debris. "Hey, stop taking a dirt nap and get a fucking move on," she ordered. "The rest of the troopers that aren't trying to get their beauty sleep are in another building over. If you get a move on now I might be kind enough to provide some covering fire." But the road was thankfully empty enough her awkward one-armed lascarbine usage wasn't necessary.




Father Yates's chainsword had become clogged with fleshy, pulpy bits. He used it like a massive club until he hit something hard enough to dislodge enough pieces of Ork to let the teeth buzz once more. "The Trooper's guidebook says that Orks are weak, pitiful creatures. Its author gives them too much credit and should be arrested for his exaggerations." Neither Simon nor Sanders knew where they were in the fighting anymore. They had maneuvered backwards, sideways, and turned in all directions as the inconsistent line of Guardsmen shifted with battle.
"Damn bastards," Simon cursed, not thinking he'd be heard.
"What is wrong, Father?"
Simon grabbed one end of the cloth he over both shoulders. It had been singed and torn. "I was hoping to keep my tabbard clean."
"Clean? How can you hope to keep anything clean in a drop?"
Simon shrugged. "You can always hope, no matter how the odds may be against you."
"I'll try to remember that."
"Well in the words of Yosef the Martyr, 'If vengeance be thy name, vigilance be my lineage.'"
"...what does that mean?"
Simon shrugged again. "It sounded impressive at the time. Sometimes thinks don't have to make sense to make a difference." Their conversation was cut short by yet more orks.




The Commissar found a staircase and had made it back up to her troopers before they changed buildings again. "I meant today. Hurry the fuck up. Let's go let's let's go." She dropped her lascarbine onto its lanyard and grabbed the makeshift bridge they'd tried to construct and, with help, got it positioned to covered the next alley. Again, she planned to the last one to cross. "Move. Our killzone isn't going to establish itself. You want to earn some fucking medals? You want to save your boyfriend before some Ork makes him his new fuckdoll? Then get a fucking move on."