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Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment

Planet Arawath

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a part of Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment, by The 275th.

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.

The 275th holds sovereignty over Planet Arawath, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

243 readers have been here.

Copyright: The creator of this roleplay has attributed some or all of its content to the following sources:

warhammer 40k

Setting

The planet is a hot, ashen wasteland with several active volcanoes. Despite the difficult terrain the mining operations were very profitable. The Tyranid invasion of 810.M41 left the Planetary Defense Force dismantled and the first-response Imperial Guard teams decimated. Space Marine intervention was temporary but effective.

Two years into the Tyranid invasion a swarm of Ork Roks appeared from Warp space and descended to the planet. The already beleaguered defenders began fighting a multi-front war. While the Tyranid threat was more or less neutralized, the Orks have remained a problem.

There are few legitimate settlements top-side. Most of the fighting has been by artillery strikes on distant positions or underground operations.
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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.

Minimap

Planet Arawath is a part of Reike Expanse.

9 Characters Here

Commissar Rascal [36] "Let's see if I can fire all eight bolts before you turn around."
Father Yates [34] "For God-Emperor, State, and Victory!"
Belva Clarette [30] The, relatively, sane Psyker
Grim [26] Tech Priest Enginseer
Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun [25] "My will is as bright as the stars! The Emperor's Light is as bright as the eons!"
Bottles [25] Operator
Caccia Scinia [24] "Tyranids are made for stomping on"
Endric Phoorstein [4] Young, foolhardy and naive, but damned loyal hearted...

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Setting

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment
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Planet Arawatha
High Orbit
1300 (est.) Terran Standard Time
3221 Arawathan Time



Planet Arawath, a red-gray orb of industry and death, not unlike many Imperial worlds in the sector. Hovering over the planet was a small fleet of Imperial Warships. Every once in a while, another wave of dropships would deploy, a ship would leave or enter orbit, or occasionally a series of barrages against the planet surface would begin.

Tearing a hole in the very fabric of space was another series of Imperial warships. Bearing the markings of the 501st, and the emblem of Hendris, it was easy to guess who the ships likely belonged to.


In the docking holds of the ships were arrayed the thousands of soldiers that made up the Regiment itself; standing in formation, each prepared to enter their Valkyrie assault carriers, armed and ready with all of their equipment and survival gear.

The Regimental Commander, Colonel Sarvus Lucien, was busy pacing back and forth giving the regiment their briefing; he too was fully kitted out, wearing a full suit of Carapace armor and a linked grav-chute, as well as carrying an impressive looking bolt-pistol and power fist, both at the moment strapped to his waist.

"Planet Arawath is going to be like a trip home," he shouted to the collection of soldiers. "Volcanic ash, inhospitable conditions, outnumbered by Orks- like I say! Just like home." He did not wait for a response; the troops were disciplined enough around him to know even an encouraging shout was, at this juncture, not advisable.

"Our primary objective is going to be tracking down the Ork Warboss and eliminating him. Secondary objectives will entail destroying, or re-capturing, as many lost vehicle or supply depots as possible. Tertiary objectives will be to support any other Guard Regiments in the area after establishing a base of operations to make jumps from. And of course, as usual; the unspoken fourth objective is to kill as many of the damn Orks as possible!"

It was here that the troops shouted their approval; a hatred of Orks was deeply ingrained in Hendrisian society.
"We'll be in orbit and ready to drop within three hours. Individual platoons will have their orders by then. Dismissed!"



Artisan of War, Imperial Warship
3301 Arawathan Time


Each Squad was designated to meet up with their squad leader, any auxiliary attachments, and specialists in their barracks prior to the mission. Sergeant Quin Solar was standing by waiting for his squad to show up, speaking to some of the other men attached to his squad.

Most of the Regiment was single-sex Male, but the Munitorum hadn't been as specific with the new attachments.

"I don't care if you two see the hottest piece of soldiery this side of Holy Blasted Terra, if I catch either of you throwing eyes as another soldier I'll issue ten lashings as soon as I can find a Commissar," he was rumbling at them; he was a veteran of more than just the 501st conflicts, and the two green soldiers he was talking to held him with fear and reverence. They both nodded shakily, then saluted. "Yes Sir, Sergeant Solar."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Sergeant Solar turned to look at the Commissar as she drew their attention. He smirked; or rather, masked his grimace with one. He was at once pleased that they had a Commissar attached to the squad- due only to the number of new blood they were going to have- and horrified at who it was. Cassandra Rascal. While not the most infamous person known to the Regiment, the Sergeant was well enough in the know to understand certain quirks of her personality.

Nevertheless he did not let any fear or revulsion show. "Commissar," he said in greeting, flashing a brief Aquila salute. The two greens next to him paled and saluted as well, more out of fear of punishment than actual respect.

"At the moment we're holding for the rest of the Squad. So far it's just you and Trooper Jorn, and Trooper Darrien." He gestured to the two greens, who did not react; drills had taken over and, despite the casual setting of the Barracks, they would not move until given the order.

Quin was interrupted by the Priest entering, pleasant as could be. "Father Yates," he offered, bowing his head slightly in reverence. They had met previously, briefly, due in part to the Sergeant wishing to pray in the ship's chapel before the mission briefing. Jorn and Darrien did not respond to the greeting.

"I see we'll be quite well equipped to handle anything these damned Orks can throw at us," Quin mused, deciding to ignore the looks between the Commissar and Priest.

The relative peace of the introductions was broken by a commotion from the nearby storage chamber. The disarray of tools and a Trooper did not sit well with Quin, not by a long shot; and as Derek Pen ran past him, the Sergeant whipped out his arm and caught the runner by the scruff of his jacket.

"Trooper Pen," he growled, gesturing to the Commissar. "Such conduct in the face of an Officer is grounds for punishment under most circumstances." It was not an idle threat on his voice. He released him shortly thereafter, to allow him to pick up the Servitor torso.

He then pointed his free hand at the Techpriest. "And you, Techpriest. If I see you throwing parts all around our damn ship again, I will report you to your Magos."

With a disgruntled huff, Sergeant Solar crossed his arms and shrugged at the inquiry by Grim. "Somewhere. Augory scans haven't come back yet, so we'll get the telemetry of drop zones about half an hour before planet-fall."

The two Greens had yet to drop their salute, and likely would not for some time unless the Commissar was feeling merciful.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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The Commissar, a hand resting on her hip and the other palm on her unusual bolt pistol, nodded to the two men. "As you were, troopers." As much as she would have preferred to introduce herself with a slew of unnecessary inspections and verbal reprimands about their stature, uniform cleanliness, and so forth, it wasn't good to make friends she might have to shoot. It didn't bother her at all that said strategy had failed to produce friends anyway. She had stopped to return the salute properly before getting her whip.
When the idiot and the enginseer came into the room, Rascal offered a look that was a combination of annoyance, displeasure, and impatience. "Trooper Pen!" She roared, speaking at the same time as the Sergeant, disregarding whatever he said. "Those tools are the property of the Empire and if you give cause for any to be thrown at you again I will personally see that you are tied, drawn, and their owner empty his toolbox without reserve. Trooper Godwinne, despite the immense pleasure seeing this idiot punished for disturbing you would bring me, there's a touchdown today and if I find he is anything less than combat-ready because he so much as stubbed a toe in his retreat you'll have something worse than Orks to deal with. And dammit, troopers, you drop your salutes already."
Simon stood by impassively. "A half-our before touchdown, Sergeant? Is command organizing the operation? That's not a terribly long time to plan a swift and total victory." Which would happen regardless, of course, he didn't have to add to his assessment. "And troopers, I'd appreciate if you tried to keep the grease out of my robes. While I'm glad to see you enjoying each other's company, tarnishing the good fabric of the Emperor himself should not be taken lightly."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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#, as written by Taunbon
Artisan of War, Imperial Warship

Her small hand tightly gripped the metal pole as she made her way down the dark hallways of the Artisan of War, walking slower then she would ever admit out loud, a metal tap echoing after each step as her staff clanked against the metal floor. During the briefing, she had done her best to make herself even smaller then she was, no mean feat, and unnoticeable to the gathered guardsmen, but now she was heading towards the squad that she was to be attached to. Her pack containing all her gear weighed heavily on her small frame even as she fought down the urge to rearrange her flak vest that kept trying to slip down her thin shoulders.

As a psyker, she had her own personal quarters, which was a rather fancy way of saying she had an empty metal room with a single, very uncomfortable bed, all to herself. It was for her safety as much as it was for everyone else's safety aboard the Warship since, from time to time, many psykers could suffer night terrors or attempts on their minds by denizens of the warp that had managed to slip through the ship's gellar field, so whenever it was time to deploy, she had to pack up her gear and take it to whatever squad would be 'graced' with her presence.

Bel stopped in the dark hall, turning her head to examine the engraved wall to her right. While she couldn't 'see' the planet, she could feel it. The raw psychic power of the greenskins like a beacon within the ocean, a sun shining its malevolent rays upon the ship. The second they had left warp transit, she had known what was waiting for them on the planet below, long before the briefing. No psyker could miss the potent psychic presence of a greenskin WAAAGH. She had not seen, nor heard, any of their crude spacecraft circling the planet, and she idly wondered if they had come aboard their 'Roks' or if it was the local feral ork population that had exploded out due to the lack of attention from the local PDF forces. Tugging her hood lower, she turned away from the wall and back towards the hall stretching out before her.





Making her way into the barracks, her staff still making its loud taps as the obnoxious eagle crouched on the top swayed back and forth, well over a foot above her cloaked head. Pausing in the door way, her sharp hazel eyes scanned the people in the room, and she had to admit, this was an... odd squad. Multiple NCOs, a techpriest, a few guardsmen, a commissar, that she had to look twice at to realize the large, imposing figure was a woman, and a.... Priest. Her grip on her staff tightened involuntarily as her eyes fell on the flamer he had in his arms, her ire doubling at her current situation.

Bel turned her eyes to the ground, lowered her shoulders and walked deeper into the room, moving to a corner to isolate herself from the others in the squad. She had little doubt they would bother speaking with her, her kind were, generally, not wanted until the fighting began and sometimes not even then. She reached into her sack and pulled out her dataslate and pretended to be looking something up to further discourage interaction with her, but she was listening to what they were saying even as she did her best to pretend she wasn't.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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A man quickly made his way through the halls of the Artison Of Dawn. He was wearing a red bandana, flak vest, and combat pants which closely resembled the uniforms the Catachan Devils used, although recolored to fit the 501st Hendrisi Deadland colors. He was late for the assigned meeting time since being part of a more organized regiment, and the fact that he was still getting used to not getting killed by plants that can tear down structures alongside creatures that could tear a man apart.

Thankully he had gathered all his equipment before rushing down the halls or else he would be in deeper trouble, and to top it all they had a commissar with them. He was not sure if he was going to be executed right on the spot which would be a sad way to go, he had survived murderious plants that shot spikes that could turn you into a plant, plants that spewed poison, plants that created acidic sticky goo, survived creatures and he would go tell the emperor he died for being late for a small gathering.

He then made it to the room they where all supposed to gather to and got in formation, "Caccia Scinia reporting for duty commissar!" He then gave a salute but made sure to mask all signs of nervousness and to keep a straight face lest he upset the person that has the power to kill anyone that lacks resolve in battle.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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The Commissar dropped her arms to her sides before Caccia arrived. She quickly returned his salute, if only to get everyone in the room to stop wasting time with the flumadiddle of regulation so their briefing could get underway.

The Battle-Priest was rather uncomfortable with the display Touron made. He was used to the mixed bag of reactions his robes caused, from awe to fear, but he felt wrong having someone honor him when he was only the voice of the Emperor. But rather than show his discomfort, Simon simply nodded and finished the prayer with him. "Good morning." He had failed to meet with the man personally, despite an acute interest.
Shortly thereafter, a renegade, a sniper, and their resident psyker entered the room. Simon, glad to leave the center of the room and any focus of attention, decided to introduce himself formally to Belva Clarette. The unfortunatecy of having been assigned to the 501st so recently was that he had hardly any time to actually meet his squad between transferring his equipment, giving sermons, and getting accustomed to the new ship.
Simon sat beside her. Under normal conditions he'd introduce himself and ask for permission, but they weren't civilians. "Good morning, Psyker." He nodded politely, flamer across his lap as casually as a sleeping poodle.

The Commissar preferred standing to sitting, and chose to do so while she waiting for their briefing. She crossed her arms, shifted her weight to one foot, and watched the occupants of the room without moving her eyes. While she didn't pay mind to it, it was easy to see she was the tallest in the squad by a whole foot. Her ankles at that particular moment hurt from hanging over the edge of her bed all night. "Is everyone here?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Sergeant Solar looked around at the room; members from other squads were linking up with their own, and his group was quickly growing as well. Briefings must have all ended at about the same time, and everyone was rushing in. He elected to ignore the Priest's questions until he could give a proper briefing of his own; unlike the Commander, Quin did not like to repeat himself.

But what a bloody circus his squad was. He decided it best to let the Commissar do her job while he tried to bring the squad under a proper form of control. The first matter at hand was dealing with Icarus.

"Sergeant Toroun," he stated pleasantly, his voice rough with many years of shouting himself hoarse. "I reckon we should get it out of the way now; unless they plan on splitting us into two squads, I'll have you operating as my second in command." He didn't know much about Eccelasians, but he knew they were devout, zealous, and proud. Hopefully there wouldn't be any problems.

Following that he peered around at the rest. A Catachan trooper had joined them, as had a Ratling- trying not to be noticed he thought, and so maybe not an official attachment- and a bloody Psyker.

"Feth," he rumbled under his breath, using an adopted curse from another regiment. "Building us up like a damn Command squad or something." He focused his attention on the Psyker.

"Psyker," he began. "We're pleased to have you aboard. I don't suppose you've got an attache?" 'Pleased' may have been a strong word for it, but it would be good regardless. He nodded to the Priest sitting next to her, indicating he had finally acknowledged his inquiry and leaving it at that.

Then he looked to the Commissar. "I bloody well hope so. Still, units are still filtering in, so I'll wait a moment longer before I get us in formation for squad briefing."

So far he had a tally of eleven troops and specialists, counting himself. The liklihood of more was slim, but if there were he would absolutely be splitting the squad in two. Especially given how many specialists they'd been assigned.


For their part the two rookies had finally lowered their arms, and were now watching in awe at the veritable circus of strangers from other worlds filtering in. They had slowly made their way closer to the Commissar; not because they liked her or her position particularly, but she was the largest figure in the room and it comforted them to be near someone who would draw more attention.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette
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#, as written by Taunbon
Artisan of War, Imperial Warship

So consumed in her effort to make herself look occupied to avoid conversation, she didn't notice someone sitting next to her until they spoke. Bel nearly jumped in surprise, not accustomed to having anyone sneak up on her, the last time that had happened a Callidus Assassin had temporarily joined their retinue. She was slipping, or far more out of her depth than she originally assumed. She had to fight the urge to pull her hood and hair down further to cover her face out of shame for her misstep as both her hands were full.

Bel lifted her head to find out who had interrupted her attempt at solitude when her eyes found the priest from before, the flamer sitting in his lap like some kind of monstrous pet. Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes locked on the flame tarnished nozzle, already imagining the flames spewing forth to consume and devour all in their path, to lick and tear at her flesh once more. The dataslate in her hand shook and trembled as phantom pains shot through her disfigured left hand; her eyes still locked unto the infernal weapon, she managed to let out a small, "F-Father," as a pathetic way of greeting as she hoped the man would leave, sooner rather than later.

The call of Psyker snapped her out of her daze, snapping her head over towards the one that called her. Her sharp eyes fell on, what she assumed, to be the 'head' NCO of the squad. Attache? Her eyes narrowed as she understood the gist of his meaning, he was asking if she had a handler. Someone to hold the freak's leash. Her eyes hardened when he nodded at the priest, did he just assume the priest was her handler? Her grip on her staff tightened, her knuckles turning white as she fought down the rage that was building in her chest. As her rage built, she could hear the whispers crawling in the dark corners of her mind, telling her to unshackle herself, to let it out, to rend flesh from bone. The soft caress against the psychic barriers in her mind separating herself from the Great Ocean that sought to embrace her, but in truth, desired only to drag her into the dark depths.

Moving slowly to not draw any attention, she put her dataslate back into her bag as she let out a slow breath, reaching up with her free hand to grip the aquila hanging around her neck. The psy focus helping her to clear her mind and her soul. Turning on her heel, she walked away from the priest making sure not to move too fast so as to not give away her desire to put distance between herself and the flamer wielding priest as she sought a new corner to take solace in.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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As the room grew unsettling for Alex, from the loud chatter and laughter. He closed his eyes to find his inner peace and once he closed off the noise, he felt the strange woman brush past her and felt her distress. He then looked around the room and saw them in their own groups of attachments, but he was still alone. He shook of the growing sorrow that was crawling to the surface and pushed it back down into its corner to wait patiently for his next mission.

He wasn't interested in introducing himself and be political, even in the presence of the other specialists around him and Sargent Solar and the commissar already knew him as shadow for his way of becoming undetected in a moments notice. His soaked cloak and cloths made him shiver slightly, but he tried his best to hide it from the bodies around him.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Grim watched as more soldiers filed in from different places and briefings. ‘Quite a ragtag squad. Glad I don’t have to lead it.’ He mused to himself. He stood behind Bottles, arms crossed, knowing his position made Derek nervous. He kept turning around to look at Grim from his position sitting on a box.

“Keep giving me that look Bottles, and I will give you over to the Commissar.” Bottles reluctantly resumed observing squad. He kept glancing between the female Psyker, and the Ratling. Grim could see the question forming on his lips and said, “Don’t bother.”

Derek spun around this time, “You don’t-“

“Yes, I do. Drop it.” Grim interrupted. Doing a quick once over, he saw that he was almost completely clean. Derek had wiped himself down and looked presentable as well, though he had missed a couple grease marks on his chest.

“Believe me, it’s not worth the trouble and it shows your inexperience.” Grim muttered to Derek.

“But she’s-” Derek started. The las-gun on Grim’s shoulder perked up, and Bottles swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“Yes, she is, but that isn’t our problem at the moment. Besides, they wouldn’t allow her unless Command thought she was fit for duty.”

Derek nodded, and turned back to the briefing. “If we get split into two squads-“

“I’d still be stuck with you.” Extending the Mechadendrite, Grim be tinkered with it quickly before returning it to its position on his shoulder and re-crossed his arms.

“Do you think she really shot that soldier?” Derek said, indicating the Commissar as he and Grim saluted the sergeant.

Grim grinned, “Why don’t you go ask her?”

“I’m not stupid.” Derek huffed. He crossed his arms, unconsciously mirroring Grim.

Grim snorted, and put on a neutral face. “At least, not that much.” Derek said.

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"Twice." The Commissar shot a daring look in Grim's and his idiot friend's direction. Her hearing had saved her life more than once, even before enlistment; one had to learn to hear shifting sand before a trapmouth got its meal. But most of the 501st was raised from a Deathworld; they knew the type that went with it.

When the pysker looked at Simon, he offered a smile. He nodded to her kindly and offered a friendly gesture before she rose and left him. His smile mutated into one of odd bemusement; most people enjoyed his company before they saw him in battle, striking down the evils that threatened his empire. Looks like I'm not making any friends today.
Simon felt bad for her, but was oblivious to how uncomfortable his armament made her. He assumed she was shy (which wasn't unheard of for their type); he failed-as he often did-to connect his flamer to her disfigurement, which he had paid no mind to. As she walked away, his eyes fell on Alex. He opened his mouth as if to offer a greeting, but now the room was filled and he felt it would fall on deaf (or at least occupied) ears. Instead he sat back, rolled his shoulders, let out a comfortable groan, and mentally browsed his rolodex of prayers and battle hymns. He found himself wishing his superior officers would allow him to bring bagpipes into combats. "Nothing says funeral oration like Amazing Grace played on a goat's stomach," he mumbled to himself.

The Commissar bristled at the second choir-boy being elected second-in-command over her. Well what the fuck does that make my job?! She didn't dare say anything, but her displeasure was obvious (though easily mistaken as anger at her subordinates whispering about her). "With all due respect, Sergeant Solar, I'd like to request in the future that I be consulted on force deployment. My experience with heretics and traitors of the Empire makes me more than prepared to handle Orks and my experience commanding at the platoon level more than qualifies me for half a squad." Her tone had no sense of argument in it; she spoke evenly despite her displeasure. "Not that I aim to challenge Pilgrim's own qualifications, Sergeant.
"I don't care who's ordering me, as long as they're directing the righteous in our glorious campaign against the evils of the universe," Simon chimed in, an almost sing-song quality of enthusiasm in his voice. "But Commissar Rascal I'd like to remind you of the age-old adage, 'the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.' I'm sure the good Sergeant has is own reasons to, er, trust my fellow Eccelasian."
Trust him to spurn his subordinates into the grave, Rascal thought to herself.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Icarus Toroun

As more of the squad members filed in and conversations continued in their wait, Icarus was more than surprised that Solar had chosen to make him the second in command for the squad. While the malcontent of his new regiment was more than noticeable, he supposed that even a Hendrisian would overlook differences for the good of the mission. It was no pride on his part to bow his head to Solar and accept the position, not that he had a choice in the matter, but as he expected another of the squad members chipped in their say of disapproval. It was of course the other NCO, the commissar woman, who showed displeasure at his appointment.

He turned his attention and ears to the other people in the room, listening in on their conversations. To distract his body from shifting around too much, he unclips his knife from its sheeth on his hip and inspects it. He begins grinding it against a metal plate sown into the armor on the back of his forearm to sharpen it and adds the unease of the scrapping sound to the room. He only stops sharpening the knife when Solar speaks up and begins the briefing. Just to make sure he gets the most out of the material he takes his communicator out of his left ear and lets it hang over his shoulder to make sure he is not interrupted by a surprise broadcast.

As he stood there, Icarus mentally compared each and every soldier and support unit in the room. He tried to figure out what the best strategy would be to best utilize all of their skills and experience into a combat situation. It was something he often did even in the midst of low stress combat so he would be better prepared to command or fight along side these soldiers when it would be needed most. It was also one of the reasons he had survived so long. For this particular lot, distraction and fire support would be one of the best plans against large packs of enemy orks, and he knew all too well the little green buggers loved to stick in large groups.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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The Commissar hardly moved when the order to fall in was given. She managed to position herself to the side, angled so she could hear the Sergeant as well as stare down the line. It wasn't lost on her how it separated herself from the rest of the squad, and she was used to the tact Solar used to not only shift blame to the zealot with his specific use of "we" as well as mentally separate herself from the rest of the squad. So it's another us versus them issue. Splendid. It was better that way; it was her job to be feared, not accepted like one of the damn choir boys and their flowing robes and tapestries.
Rascal had her arms crossed tightly. She towered over the rest of the congregation, easily able to see everyone as Sergeant Solar pointed them out. She was already aware of the squad's composition, simple information about each member, and had compiled her own hierarchy of threats, starting with the Psyker. She looks like she's already been burnt half to death. Maybe I'll do her the kindness of drilling her head with something other than incendiary ammunition, she mused.

Simon fell into line easily along the rest of the soldiers without preference to who he stood by. He slung his flamer casually around his shoulder on a lanyard and let it turn around his leg as he stood at attention. He wasn't so well disciplined as the rest of the line that he didn't twist his head to look at each person in turn-or tried to.
"Is there a kink in your neck, trooper?" The Commissar asked tersely.
"No ma'am."
"You didn't sleep funny?"
"No ma'am."
"You aren't working the heebee-jeebees out?"
"No ma'am."
"Then stand at at-fucking-tention!"
The Cleric suppressed a smile as he straightened himself. He knew (or at least thought) the Commissar wasn't trying to single him out, an impression most soldiers got the first time they were chewed out by one; he was simply made an example to keep everyone else in line, a purpose he was happy to serve.
The Commissar looked at the Sergeant, unapologetically, waiting for him to continue.

Cassandra waited politely for the Sergeant to finish his speech. When he looked at her, she did opt to chime in: "Your Chameleoline will hide you from the enemy, but not from me. As soldiers of the Imperium of Man, we do not cower, and we do not hide. I expect you act that way."
When it was Simon's turn to speak, he smiled and turned to address as much of the room at one time as he could. "If all else fails: duck. As a defensive stratagem it's unreliable, but incredibly reassuring for a moment or two."
Neither the Commissar nor the Cleric had cause to question the strategy. They were dropping to secure a beachhead (of sorts) for further invasion. Neither had used grav shoots before, but Rascal was determined to master it and Simon was excited to try it. He nodded to the Sergeant, and when he was dismissed he left the line to change into his battle gear.
The Commissar's greatcoat was already prepared for the operation (she opted not for the clothing option; she preferred the comfort, status, and protection her great coat offered), but she needed to don the all-terrain clothing. Rather casually she slipped out of her uniform, changed her underclothes for the all-terrain survival variety, then pulled her boots, great coat, hat, and sash back on. "...so what the hell does the five-oh-first do for fun before deployment?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Icarus Toroun

Icarus listened to the briefing on their next mission, taking in as much information as he could before they were dismissed. He expected the area they were dropping into would be hot with orks, but flying right on top of the anti-aircraft guns would be near suicide. Either way, it was not up to him. All he had to do was survive until he got to the surface and hopefully not get scattered around in the wind and separated from the rest of the squad.

As soon as they were dismissed Icarus left the room along with everyone else and went to his quarters in order to get ready for the drop. He knew what he needed, the under armor suit and the grav-chute and the rest of his equipment. Strapping his Las-gun onto his back and checking all his straps one last time, he was finally ready and headed for the hanger. It was not hard to ask around for which Valkyrie would be taking them down to the planet and stood outside the back end as he corrected a few errors the repair personnel had made. He would hate for something on the airship to go wrong before they even left orbit.

He waited for the rest of the squad to show up and in the meantime spoke to some of the other squads waiting next to nearby Valkyries and made idle chatter. He learned more about the Hendrisi regiment and their ideals, their history and of course how they felt about other regiments being added into their own. At the last subject they seemed uneasy since Icarus himself was from another squad, but eventually he convinced them to say their piece, which was of course a negative response to the other regiments. Laughing Icarus put them at ease with a joke about how he did not like the situation either. He thought that now the Hendrisians wouldn't be so silent around him.

As other members of his assigned squad started to arrive he moved back over to their Valkyrie and hung out around the back. "Form a line next to me, and wait for Sergeant Solar to arrive. You are at ease until then." He had to repeat this to each person who came in as they arrived until either the Commissar or Solar showed up. He did not wish to give out orders with Solar there, nor did he want the Commissar getting snappy with him.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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The good Father Yates was afforded was his own quarters, though he would have been just as comfortable (if not more) sleeping and sharing a living space with the rest of the 501st, or at the very least the squad he would be guiding in the light of the Emperor.
Simon changed quickly, exchanging his robes for the all-terrain clothing and battle armor he would need. He ran brushes of various sizes down the barrel, through the heat-bleeding holes, and all the connecting nozzles and ports of his flamer. His laspistol received less nurturing attention but was similarly quickly cleaned and inspected before being stowed on his hip. He threw a good book, corners well folded and dogeared from multiple reads, as well as clothes and an extra tank for his flamer in his bag, which was thrown over his shoulder opposite the flamer. He left his room holding the strap of his bag in one hand and his staff in the other. Soon the words and symbols of the Imperium of Man would be affixed to her, inspiring courage in his men and fear in the enemy.

The Commissar watched the psyker, cleric, and the cleric wannabe leave while she changed in full view of the rest of the barracks. She didn't care what the grunts thought, half expecting them to gawk at the briefly nude woman (it wasn't the first time she'd been assigned to an all-male regiment, and testosterone-jacked deathworlders like herself tended to have negative reactions to the unexpected) but hoping to make it out of the barracks unaccosted.
Rascal stalked her way down the halls of the ship towards the hangar, running into Simon as he exited his room. "Father," she acknowledged flatly as she passed, not trying to strike any kind of conversation. She scowled when the holy man fell into step beside her. "Commissar Rascal." He offered her a smile. "You look good in your new duds."
She raised a brow. "That's a highly inappropriate observation of a commanding officer."
Simon chuckled. "I'm not making a pass at you. The black fire-retardant material poking past the collar of your uniform and the material of your laces reminds me of a librarian on Theatris. One day her printer caught fire, and ever since she replaced her boot laces with the same Darapat primary blend so she'd have something safe to stomp on it if it ever went up in smoke again. She wore the same shade of motled black a lot. She said she liked the color ever since she read a trilogy by an author named-"
"You really like to talk, don't you?"
"No. It's a ghastly slow and ineffective method of communication. Full of nuances no one really masters, and only ever understood by individuals who spend a life unable to find others with the same proclivity for pontification and poetry."
The Commissar didn't have a response to that (she wasn't entirely sure what the condescending erudite had said), but fortunately she didn't need one; they came to the psyker's door, where she stopped and waited for the nervous woman to shuffle out of. "You should get to the hangar, Deacon. I'm sure your squire boy is bored without you."
Simon opened his mouth to inform her he had no squire, but he understood what she meant. "Right. See you in formation, Commissar." He continued walking; the Commissar crossed her arms and waited for Belva.

Simon walked into the hangar. He stood on a catwalk, hands wrapped around the safety rail, leaning over, inspecting the dissaray of busy troops scrambling to prepare for the drop. Equipment was ferried past him; someone shouted at him to get out of the way until he stood and faced them; a young flight deck attendant nearly tripped over his clipboard and mumbled a quick "Sorry, father" before scurrying away. Membership in the Ecclesiarchy came with the benefit of deferred treatment, something Simon could appreciate (and occasionally take advantage of) but regretted when it caused the discomfort or interruption of someone's work. He turned away from the impressive view of all the aircraft and descended a stair case to the flight deck. He walked quickly, having no difficulty in identifying the Pilgrim's peculiar armor.
Simon quickly adjusted the litanies of his station. He made sure the cloth of his faith hanging over either of his shoulders and down his chest was straight and clean before approaching. As instructed, he fell into line. "...so how do these Emperor-granted grav-chutes work?"

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Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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#, as written by Taunbon
Bel let her eyes roam around the empty metal room, her personal sanctuary, or her personal prison, sanctuary and prisons were often one and the same their meaning only dependent on the mood of its occupant. Moving to her small, uncomfortable bed, she dropped her bag and started digging through it, tossing out what she didn't feel she needed and leaving what she did until she removed the two items she would need, the terribly uncomfortable looking bodysuit and the cloak.

It took more time than she would ever admit to anyone to get the bodysuit on, fighting down the chills as the thin, constrictive membrane pulled and tugged her dead, burnt flesh. Bel had an extremely strong urge to itch, to pull, to yank, or otherwise, move the suit as it clung to her body far tighter than she liked. It seemed while they gave her over sized suits of everything else, they gave her a slightly smaller bodysuit... or she had put on weight, but she preferred to think it was the former. She tugged at the cloth gripping her stomach in a doomed effort to get the material to stop clinging so tightly to her, but it did not yield. She gave a small huff of defeat, she would just simply have to get used to the constrictive clothing.

The rest was far easier, slipping back on the fatigues and the over-sized flak vest, and stopping to fiddle with it to keep it from sliding down her shoulders, fastening the laspistol to her hip, and the large cloak that pooled on the ground around her feet; she was as ready as she would ever be. She cringed as the suit pulled on her flesh when she bent down to scoop up her lightened pack and slung it over her shoulder, yes, she dearly hoped getting shot at would help her forget the immense discomfort the damnable suit was giving her.

Taking up her staff, she pulled the hood over her head and left her room, the cloak dragging on the ground behind her which she pretended to ignore. Not everyone could be a massive commi...

Bel blinked in surprise as said massive commissar was waiting in the hallway... outside her door, "Commissar," Bel greeted neutrally, hiding her surprise with practiced ease, "I apologize for keeping you waiting," she said, reaching up with her free hand to move a lock of her dark hair to cover her burnt cheek.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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After the Sergeant had left the room, the rest of the squad milled about taking whatever last rites they felt necessary before the drop. Both Troopers Jorn and Darrien had remained, being both familiar with the procedures of planetary drop, and already having most of their equipment on-hand.

Both troopers were pleased enough that the Commissar had not selected them for the chewing out; it was never something that was pleasant. Regardless, once the briefing was over, an air of camaraderie with those present became noticeable; it was a funny thing, getting to know people moments before either you or them were probably about to die.

Augustus Jorn had been preparing to greet his 'charge', the Psyker Belva; unfortunately for him, she was removed from the situation by the discomforting presence of the Ratling.

If he was honest with himself he hadn't noticed the loathsome little creature until that moment, but that didn't change the fact he was more than a little annoyed. "Oi," he called, directed towards Alex.
"What's the idea, bothering her? Didn't you pay attention to the briefing? She's a bloody Psyker, and her name is Belva Clarette." He frowned at the Ratling and shook his head. "You try to pickpocket her or anything like that and you'll have my gun down your throat before you can say 'Snatched', got it?" The man's inexperience was matched only by Alex's seemingly similar disposition, and so he felt justified in talking down to the abhuman.

With his threat in the open, Augustus strode off to prepare for the drop.

Kyrus was gathering items from his bunk; unlike the fresh-faced Augustus, Kyrus seemed to have some years under his belt at least, even if it wasn't spent as a soldier. In response to the Commissar's muted musings, he shrugged. He then realized this was perhaps an official inquiry coming from an officer, and stood erect. "I do not know, Commissar. This will be my first official drop, Commissar. I would assume weapon maintenance, as dictated per the Primer, Commissar." After this he paused for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"As designated Vox-trooper, I should go and ensure that my kit is at one-hundred-percent efficiency, Commissar. Thank you, Commissar." He then flashed the full Aquila, both hands crossed over his chest and his fingers splayed out, like wings. And then he departed quickly.

The rest of the squads in the barracks began departing to their own preparations, and a ship-wide alert would be heard;
"All Guardsmen, planetary drop will be proceeding in half an hour."


Artisan of War, Imperial Warship; 2nd Company Launch Bay
3530 Arawathan Time: 30 Minutes to Midnight



It was a strange mood in the launch bays. Lines of 2nd Company Valkyries were prepared to dock with the considerably larger Devourer dropships that would bring them into the atmosphere; and from there, disembark again and beging the flight run.

The soldiers were busy speaking with one another; getting to know their new companions. For the most part it was an uncomfortable air, many of the recent recruits were either completely green, or had never been on a drop before. Either way, Death Worlders do not make the most comforting companions, and so it was a tense and dire feeling that permeated the room.

Solar Squad, as it was called due to its Sergeant, was setting up near their designated Valkyrie. The Imperial Navy Pilot of the craft was performing initial cold checks, and Icarus was standing by with the two Troopers. Both were fully kitted out, aside from their Chameloline cloaks, which they had opted to don after landing, to spare them the ash clouds.

Kyrus was wearing a large vox-pack on his chest, due to the grav-chute on his back. The Vox-pack meant he would likely be near the Sergeant at all times, in order to ensure the chain of command was not broken, and communications would remain intact.

Augustus, meanwhile, was wearing a considerably larger grav-chute than the others, with four impulse nozzles instead of the normal two. The conspicuous barding on the front would imply that it was meant to be occupied by two.

When Sergeant Solar arrived, both of the Troopers saluted him with precision. "Stand-by, gentlemen," he rumbled. He'd keep them at attention until the rest of the Squad arrived. If the rest of the party was late, he'd keep them at attention until it was time to jump.


When the rest of the unit had arrived- the Support Specialists, Caccia, Alex, and Bottles, there was another member with the group as well; a veteran soldier of the 501st. He introduced himself as Praetus Nicodemus, and saluted the Sergeant before moving into position with the others.

"Ma'am," Augustus said to Belva, flashing her an Aquila. "As your assigned protector, I took the liberty of requisitioning a higher impulse Grav-chute, in case you were not comfortable attempting landing on your own." He more or less left it at that; he had the device, and was going to go down with it regardless of her option.


Everyone would have been given the basic training necessary to utilize the grav-chutes. The gist of the training was essentially; Don't turn it on until you've got your legs facing down, or you'll just accelerate ground-side. Aside from that there was not much to say about the assault until it was time. Sergeant Solar was kind enough to offer stimulants or nerve stabilizers for those who had never been on a drop before; which was most outside of the 501st at this point, and even then most of the new Guardsmen accepted some.

Ten minutes before launch, the Valkyries were loaded into the Devourer dropships, and the comparative darkness of the two decks filled with Valkyries settled in.

Darkness and the sounds of powerful engines roaring to life.

Twelve minutes of this, and then planetary entry turbulance, a familiar feeling for every soldier. As it abated, Sergeant Solar, who was sitting near the back of the Valkyrie, stood up and looked towards the eleven soldiers, specialists, and officers in the Valkyrie.

"Pre-mission check," he bellowed.
"Comm-beads," he stated as an inquiry, tapping his and ensuring that each soldier spoke to verbally verify its activity.
"Respirators on," he commanded, pulling his up and setting it on his face; each was in essence a full face mask.
"Test fire Grav-chutes." The soft thrumming of their packs would reverberate through the hull; around them, the soldiers would hear the other Valkyrie squads going through similar procedures.
"Weapons checks!" Each Guardsman was expected to keep their firearms at the ready the moment combat became a possibility. As soon as the Valkyries broke free of the dark hulks that were the Devourer dropships, they could potentially come under Ork fire.

For better or worse that moment came very quickly. A loud grinding sound erupted from an overhead array, and the exterior bay doors began to recede into the walls. Immediately ash and heat bombarded the Valkyries, and their occupants; these Valkyries had no closing doors, no mounted weapons, and only the bare minimum of armor. Speed was their strong suit; speed and the ability to operate in the hostile conditions to which they were about to be subjected.

The roar of the dropship's engines were then rivaled by those of the Valkyries, lifting off from two decks and speeding out either side of the behemoth vessel. They were above the largest of the ash clouds, and so there was no visibility and no Ork fire.

Within moments they were airborne and moving through the sky. Hundreds of other Valkyries would be seen flanking their own; from behind, the five Devourers that had delivered each Company were dispensing the ships, and beginning to make their way back space-ward.

Despite the darkness, their eyes would acclimatize quickly; not that there was anything to see. The Valkyries were slowly descending towards the immense sea of ash below; others within visibility had already fallen into the clouds.

Soon it was their turn. Falling through the ashes was no small feat, and more akin to submerging into a liquid environment with how thick it was. Darkness was absolute in the cloud, and the sounds of screaming winds and the dull thrums of the Valkyrie engines leaving them isolated from the rest of the world.

The loud 'thra-koom' of a detonation could be heard from below. Scattered, bright tracers zipped through the clouds, briefly illuminating other Valkyries making their descent. They were at a slight angle, using the clouds to get as close to above the target locations without passing overhead as possible.

And then their Valkyrie passed through the cloud; spotlights and fires were visible below, as well as the outlines of the immense structures of their targets. When more and more Valkyrie craft became visible, the volume of fire coming to meet them increased as well; and the source of the immense explosion from before could be seen, as a large plume of smoke and flame rose from the north-most part of the complex.

In a few moments a huge ball of flame and metal flew past the fleet of Valkyries, revealing them just as the spotlights.

Rockets and large shells flew up to meet the invasion. The Orks were well prepared, but not well enough, as few of the craft were actually hit at this altitude.

"Be prepared to jump on my command," Solar shouted.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Icarus Toroun

Icarus was pulled out of his own thoughts by the yelling complaints of the Commissar. Her loud voice pierced his mental images like flames in the darkness. He opened his eyes and found her yelling her way across the hanger. She did not just reprimand him however, it was the whole squad as well. Her words however blamed him for their issues. He only had one reaction, which he saved for after she had finished her rantings. He laughed, not too loudly but enough to be heard by the squad. It was a friendly one and seemed almost like an acceptance of the Commissar's words instead of anything insulting.

As soon as Solar and the last members of the squad arrived Icarus took his place in the Valkyrie, directly across from the Commissar no less. He almost smiled but contained himself for the moment. As the darkness closed in, Toroun became at piece once again. The fly down from orbit made his mind focus on the task at hand. He was almost an entirely different person on the battlefield and it was starting to turn over in his skull. He followed the pre-drop check and spoke when required, moved where and when required for it, almost like he was hypnotized into the act.

After the cleric finished his mid-flight sermon Icarus called out the regular response of his regiment with: "For His Shining Light." It wasn't very loud, but the lack of anyone else responding likewise gave Icarus a small amount of homesickness for his old regiment. That was soon swept away however as the orbital ship's bay doors slid open and the Valkyrie's began to disembark. Looking out at the landscape it seemed much like the interior of his home planet. Ash filled, desolate and filled with dangers. He waited for the first shots to be fired, and as they started to sound off from below he fully entered his combat mentality.

He got ready to jump out by unharnessing himself from the Valkyrie so he was no longer attached to the inside of the airship and hung onto a support bar above his head as he leaned towards the opening, ready to dive out at a moments notice but still in his place and not obstructing those around him.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Caccia was onboard the Valkyrie listening to the explosions happening around them. They were lucky they haven't blown up from the Ork anti-air, was it just the design of ork weaponry? Or was it the intervention of the emperor himself? Whatever the case we are the Imperial Guard, no matter how many men we lose we just keep coming until either we or the enemy are defeated.

As the Valkyrie was at a low altitude he heard the sergeant shouting to get ready on his command, he then unharnessed himself from the Valkyrie, attached the grav chute to his back, and pumped his shotgun before gripping the support bar ready to jump. His guess was as good as anyone's, the Orks would be itching for a fight and they would be swarmed when they hit the ground. There would be choppa boyz, shoota boyz, stormboyz, nobz, mega armored nobz, flash gitz, kommandos, looted tanks, squigoths, wartrukks, maybe some mekboyz, maybe a warboss, weirdboyz, and the oh so horrible gretchen. The last one was just a minor nuisance but everything else on his list was a danger and he prayed to the emperor they would last through this mission.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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#, as written by Taunbon
Bel raised an eyebrow at the Commissars statement. It was convenient to wait outside her door... by not waiting by her door? Bel lowered her hand on her staff, letting her flak vest slip down her shoulder a few inches as she shrugged and followed in step behind the large woman, it must have been some sort of military pride thing, either way, she didn't understand it and doubted she would.

Did the Commissar not know she had requested to be deployed close to a commissar to ensure what she was saying happened on the field? Bel tilted her head, letting her hair further cover her burns as she watched the commissars back, only half listening to her as she said something about watching her, new trooper and safety. While she was sure the Commissar was telling her... vital information, she was focusing on the psychic forces pulsing from the planet from the collected WAAAGH! energies. Nothing else in the galaxy gave off the same presence, the same, dare she say, awe-inspiring power. She refused to let herself think of how powerful the beast could become if they learned to refine their raw psychic potential. The WAAAGH! was far from the largest she had felt, but she did not look forward to meeting any of the crude ork psykers on the planet, if she were so unlucky. While they were unrefined and uncontrolled; it only made them more dangerous as an opponent as they still maintained the normal Ork lack of fear and restraint.

The Commissars sudden yelling snapped her out of her trance, her eyes locking onto the Commissar before it dawned on her that she was now in the hanger bay; she had been deep in contemplation and her mind, feeling the Ork psychic waves radiating from the planet, but she didn't think she would become so absorbed that she would become oblivious to such an extent. Her master would have been extremely displeased with her, to say the least.

Bel turned her head to her handler wearing a large chute. What? Was she so incapable that she needed to be carried by another trooper? The idea of being strapped to another person would distract her more then the hesitation that come with her first drop, "No. I can handle it, go... do whatever it is you do," Bel said dismissively, turning her head away from him and walking over to done her own grav-chute hazarding she wanted just as much to do with the trooper as he did her. Attaching the chute and triple checking it to ensure she did it right and wouldn't fall out of it, a rather unsightly way to die, she joined the squad.

She nearly jumped when a voice spoke behind her, far too close for comfort. Bel fought the urge to turn her head as she was warned... or comforted? Both? By the Commissar, once again. But the Commissar was lucky. If she was behind Bel the whole way, there was a chance the Commissar might survive this campaign. Straightening her shoulders, and ignoring how her vest slid down her shoulder a few more inches... and pushing aside the momentary fear that someone behind her may step on the over-sized cloak as it dragged behind her, she awaited the call to jump.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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It was a matter of fact that the term 'Orkish Aim' was something of an oxymoron. Indeed, for the majority of Orks shooting a weapon was simply an act to make noise, with the occasionally pleasant side-effect of blowing apart someone's limbs, or in this case, making an aircraft explode into a cloud of smoke, debris, and body parts.

As soon as the weapons fire began flying towards them, the fleet of Valkyries had started to make a sharper descent. The volume of fire had increased dramatically, so much so that even with their large spacing and relatively small targets, there were plenty of hits to be observed from the sides and back of the squad's Valkyrie.

Another huge ball of flame and metal flew skyward, arcing majestically and tumbling back towards the earth below.

"We have interceptors approaching," the pilot relayed, "And we are at critical velocity."

It was at this point that Sergeant Solar nodded and marched to the open end of the craft. "Guardsmen," he bellowed.

"Now is the time! Make the Emperor proud, do not let Him find you wanting! I will see you on the ground!"

With that, he leapt out the back of the craft, aimed himself towards the ground, and fell out of sight- even though the Valkyrie was making a sloping descent, the Guard would be dropping in a more direct route.

Augustus was intent to wait until Belva had jumped, ensuring that he could stay within relative proximity of her during the drop.

Kyrus would be jumping last; with the Vox-pack under his care, he wanted to try and ensure he landed in a relatively secure position.



Once the Guard had begun loosing themselves from their Valkyries, they would see the scene below with relative clarity. Now fully through the major ash clouds, the spotlights and scattered flashes of weapons fire below would be quite visible- and there was a huge volume of weapons flashes.

The act of descending through mass quantities of fire is never something one relishes, much less when your best form of protection is an ablative vest that works best against low velocity ammunition, as some of the Guardsmen were wearing. Despite this, the casualties were relatively low; every so often a Guardsman could be seen taking an Ork slug or anti-aircraft shell, and this would usually result in him flying wildly off course, or just detonating.

Solar Squad, what they could see of one another, was relatively untouched.

That is, until the Tank showed up.

It happened to be the case that the massive chunks of flame and slag metal were the failed attempts of some form of Orkish artillery. Whatever the case may have been, they had perfected the design, and were now lobbing entire tanks with mass quantities of explosives up at the invaders. At least this explained the immense explosions below.

Of course not many survived, but the fact of the matter was that an armoured platform covered in Orks and armed with heavy weaponry was rapidly approaching the falling mass of Infantry, and this was generally to be considered in poor taste for survival.

To make matters worse, the volume of fire not only seemed to increase, but the Orks had begun to launch StormBoyz up into the fray as well.

Stormboyz, for the uninitiated, strapped large rockets to their back to simulate guided flight. Usually armed with huge pistols and blades, they could quickly ruin an infantryman's day.

They say a plan seldom survives first contact with the enemy. So it was that battle would first be joined; mid-air collision.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Standard Kit & Classes Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Father Yates had wished to jump first, but it was just as fitting to see Sergeant Solar guide Solar squad to the ground. It was not so fitting, however, that the battle-cleric waited a comfortable amount of time before diving head-first off the Valkyrie, hot on the Sergeant's heels.
There was several seconds of tumbling free-fall that made Simon wish someone had told him how to jump in a less suicidal fashion. He watched ash-cloud turn to sky turn to ash-cloud turn to thick blackness turn to ground in a blurry roll before a combination of a hotter-than-average air pocket and his spread-eagle "flight" strategy somehow oriented him feet-first. He (though he'd never admit it) fumbled, trying to remember how to activate the grav-chute. Eventually his fall very suddenly slowed down and his whole harness felt like a powerful hand yanked it up between his legs. Of course the fall wasn't slowed so much that he wasn't still rapidly approaching- What in the Emperor's name?
There was a large metal thing with organic things shooting stuff, as well as smaller organic things rocketing towards him. He had heard of Orkish ingenuity but this was-literally-insane.
It was exceedingly difficult to free his chainsword, but with a triumphant yell that was lost to screaming winds of his descent, Simon raised it overhead. He brought his legs together and toggled the grav-chute off and on, falling in the least comfortable, jerking fashion he could imagine. It was a crapshoot whether each re-activation happened while he was vertical or horizontal, occasionally shooting himself forward but not headfirst, in a stair-step descent. It put him several hundred feet forward (far enough that the giant mass of metal covered in orks wasn't a collision threat), right into the path of a rocket-strapped xenoplague murderpile. Passing underneath by what felt like a hair's width happened so quickly for Simon that he didn't know if his sword tug into flesh or only bounced off of the ork's propulsion device, but his chainsword definitely hit something-and holding onto it made him thank the Emperor himself for his arm not being pulled out of its socket.

The Commissar was in no rush to be a war hero. She muscled the pysker towards the door, waiting for Belva to take her go before jumping horizontally from the dropcraft. She fell almost flat (her feet were inclined lower for control), looking below for her self-assigned charge before falling after her.
Rascal found the method of reaching the battle oddly calm; she had her arms crossed in front of her chest, which was where there were most comfortable, and her ability to quicken or slow her descent by widening or closing her legs was a modicum of control she hadn't felt since she first left Buickvale. Why even activate my grav-chute? she mused, until the ground and all the things that should have been on it but were now careening towards her came into focus. Because death is for cowards.
The Commissar was a very factual person, not given to emotion.
Fact: She was falling at an incredible speed.
Fact: Things that should have no business flying were rushing to meet her.
Emotion: HolyfuckingshitwhatthefuckamIdoinghere?

The Commissar's plan had been to follow the Psyker to the ground and trot around behind her killing the occasional ork and hopefully not needing to "discipline" her insubordinates. That fell apart immediately; she'd lost sight of the psyker, and only vaguely knew where the rest of her squad was supposed to be relative to the ground (as in not on it yet). Even if it was possible to keep track of anything in the air, the suddenly needed evasive maneuvers would have scattered her far from Belva anyway. But the Commissar hadn't seen the threat soon enough, and her lack of experience with the grav-chute made her reaction that much slower. She suddenly jerked forward, like a massive boot had kicked her at the base of her neck. She flailed, nearly cartwheeling, but by some luck or unknown reflex kept herself from spiraling. Though she couldn't see, hear, or feel it, potshots whizzed past her as she rapidly approached the ork-covered tank. Most of her body would miss it, she knew, but she had that sixth-sense gut-feeling of Fuck! that sometimes struck deathworlders right before something awful happened. In his case it was the Commissar's left forearm striking the edge of the tank. Her wrist and hand stretched at inhuman angles, and bouncing away left her in a diagonal spin until she righted herself with the grav-chute. A scream of pain wasn't silenced until she could rest her arm inside of her coat, useless hand tucked into an inside pocket. She didn't bother looking at it; she could feel the bones that were now dust and the inner-arm bits she didn't know the names of but knew shouldn't be exposed to air.
As if that wasn't a shitty enough introduction to Orks, more (with more control and aim) were adjusting course for her. There was no end to the litany of curses she spat while freeing her bolt gun.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Standard Kit & Classes Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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After hearing the sergeant shout, Caccia jumped out of the Valkyrie and activated his grav chute. He looked down and saw the green horde below getting ready for the invaders, and to make matters worse they lost a lot of men trying to make it to the ground. He could consider himself lucky to not be blown apart in the air or get his grav chute hit then veer straight to the ground and explode.

He was close to the ground now and saw an ork tank moving in position, now he realy regretted not bringing a Melta-gun or some krak grenades, he dosent even know if his allies have any anti-vheicle weapons or equipment on them. While he was rambling on in his mind while trying to find a area to safely land and take cover, a storm boy came flying in his direction all the while yelling and waving his blade at him, to counter this threat he aimed his shotgun at the orks head and just as he got in effective range, "BANG!" The orks head vanished in a sea of red mist and gibs, causing its limp body to crash into the ground and causing his rocket strapped on his back to explode from the impact.

It was no time to relax yet, he still had to get a move on and avoid the gunfire from bellow but that was just the beginning of his trouble. More stormboyz began to fly high into the air trying to intercept us, or at the very least crash and possibly break every bone in the poor sap that gets hit by them and have a gaping hole through your body. He pumped his shotgun again and took out the next stormboy that flew close enough to him all the while avoiding the gunfire from below and narrowly avoided a shot that could have took out his grav chute.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Caccia Scinia Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Standard Kit & Classes Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Icarus Toroun

As the order went out to jump, Icarus watched Solar fall from the Valkyrie as well as the next couple soldiers in front of him go for the exit as soon as possible. If only they had the experience to know what lay on the outside. Icarus jumped out of the Valkyrie right in front of the Psyker, diving into the atmosphere with a battle cry. A welcome sight met his eyes, uncountable weapon discharges coming up to meet his planet-side decent. He got to work picking out targets immediately, knowing what the orks would send at them. The StormBoyz were expected, but for Icarus the tank was a welcome new addition to the types of ammunition the orks sent against drop units.

Streamlining his body towards the tank, Icarus used his grav-chutes to slow himself just a little as he took one of his frak-grenades and held it by it's pin in his hand. When he got close enough to the tank, he hucked the grenade at one of the portals in the tank and continued falling. He got a satisfying boost in speed from the concussive wave of the explosion he had created above him. But now he had a problem, that fiery wreak of a tank was falling directly on top of Icarus, faster than he was falling.

He had to spin out of the tanks path as it fell and he let out a phrase of scripture in the Emperor's favor as a salute to the death of the ork armor. He had more problems coming his way, mainly more StormBoyz which he had to dodge around and occasionally he would shoot one of their rockets out of balance with his las-pistol which would cause a smaller yet equally satisfying explosion when compared to the tank. It took several minutes of straight falling until Icarus even thought about the ground and considered when he would have to start slowing his decent.

Because he had used his falling speed as a tool to avoid the orks he got to the ground faster than some of his fellow squad members, but he was able to use his grav-chutes to slow his fall and hit the ground with just enough force to flatten him to the earth without any major injuries. A scrap or two here and there but nothing broken or punctured. His landing sent up a cloud of dust and ash which obscured his vision. Ditching his grav-chute in the crater he had landed in for the moment he laid down prone peeking over the edge of the crater lip with his lasgun ready as he scanned the area for hostiles or friendlies. He spoke into his comm-link to the rest of his squad. "Thunder has struck, ground-fall achieved."