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Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment

Warhammer 40k

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

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The 275th holds sovereignty over Warhammer 40k, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

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

warhammer 40k

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Warhammer 40k is a part of Only War: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment.

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501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment [15] The primary background and general information of the regiment to which you're attached.
Partheo Karas [5] We protect, we fight, we die. For the Emperor!
Deacis Thorn [5] By the Emperor's will shall we conquer.
Uriah Volc [5] In His name we fight.
Elbel Fischermann [4] Show me where they are. They'll be dead soon enough.
Alex [3] There's always light that pierces the dark
Arthur "Odd Ball" Hadly [1] You like the arm huh.. well don't get too interested. It cost me more then you could ever know.
Standard Kit & Classes [1] Use this template to determine both the standard kit your soldiers will have, as well as the various specializations available.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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"And I'll give you another ten." The least liked woman on the ship walked into the room, the coat tails of her Commissariat garb flowing behind her despite its weight, testament to the determined and impatient way she walked. She drew her coat back to rest her hands on her hips. "With your blessing, of course." She nodded her head in a disingenuous ascension of authority. "Sergeant." She then nodded, pulled her hat off, ran a hand through rough, self-cut hair, and returned it.
Cassandra Rascal walked past the Sergeant to her bunk and pulled her footlocker open. She retrieved a lariat (well, she called it one; in actuality it was a long, nine-headed whip) and closed it again. She returned with it prominently fastened to her belt, opposite her peculiar sidearm. "What's the slapjaw this time?"

Simon Yates didn't elect such a dramatic entrance. He entered dressed in his robes, and if it weren't for the flamer he had been cleaning and praying over a few minutes earlier looked more like he was on his homeworld than mentally and spiritually preparing himself for fighting on a Deathworld. "Good morning, Sergeant Solar." He didn't actually know what time it was, and had never decided if the concept of "morning" was actually meaningful offworld, but it was a nice greeting. "And good morning, comrades." He nodded to the untested soldiers. He felt their nervousness without meeting their eyes. "Today you find your places in the Empire. It'll be fun." He hadn't been made of aware of how insane calling war "fun" or "not a big deal" or "a great way to spend an afternoon" made him appear, to greens or veterans. "And an especially good morning to you, Commissar."
Cassandra bit her tongue; he was almost painful not rolling her eyes every time she encountered the Deacon within the regiment. "Likewise."

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Bottles hurtled himself out the door, followed by a wrench, the rest of the toolbox, and half a servitor. A couple nuts popped off his Flak armor. Keeping his speed up, he sprinted past Sergeant Solar, a couple greenies, and a Commissar by the looks of it. His short black hair and angular face were covered in sweat. There was a grease mark on his face in the form of a hand.

Curses waterfalled out of Grim as he stomped through the door and stooped to grab the wrench. “You touch it again and I swear by the Emperor they won’t find your body.”

Bottles slowed to a jog, and moved for cover behind the Sergeant. “You have got to be clearer on what I should, and shouldn’t touch.”

Grim sighed, and brushed off his red cloak. The metal all over his body whirred and clicked before settling. “Here’s a hint, if the Gun is pointed at you, stop touching.” The Mechadendrite on his back settled onto his shoulder and he patted it.

Bottles huffed and picked up the servitor. It beeped angrily at him. He scowled back at it and rubbed his cheek.

Grim walked over to the Sergeant and looked at the green recruits. The metal covering his arms and legs were covered in grease, oil, and several other substances. The pack on his back didn’t seem to weigh him down at all, and the Lasgun on his left shoulder almost seemed to have a mind of its own, as it seemed to be looking at everyone present. A respirator hung off his neck at chest level, and several tendrils from his pack were cleaning (or attempting to clean) the grease off his various surfaces. “So where we are dropping?”

Setting

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Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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Artisan of War, Imperial Warship
Icarus Toroun

The subtle sound of boots hitting a metal floor became increasingly louder to the group of soldiers, officers and the like in the gathering room for pre-briefing of the drop missing. Coming down the hallway was a 6 foot tall man with tanned skin and short frost colored hair, matching color Imperial armor and enough combat scars to cover a painting in pain. The man was a legend in his Regiment, but a stranger in the company of these ruffians and adrenaline junkies. Compared to them he was a warrior poet, and a good one at that.

This man opened a steel bolted door and found himself in the strangest assortment of soldiers he had ever seen. Two greenhorns, or Squires as his regiment called them, a Commissar from the bad side of the galaxy, two mech-heads and a War-priest all stood around the commanding Sergeant of the squad he was assigned to. Stepping inside and closing the door, Icarus 'Pilgim' Toroun saluted Quin Solar and awaited to be at ease."Sergeant Icarus Toroun reporting for mission brief, Sir." After being put at ease by the Sergeant he then stepped over to the priest and bowed before him on one knee, kissing his hand and saying a prayer to the Emperor as he stood back straight up. He took a place behind the greenhorns and crossed his arms over each other and waited for the briefing to commence, or the rest of the squad to arrive before if there were any still trying to find their way into the brief room.

As Icarus waited for Solar to speak, the white armored soldier inspected each person closer to take in their detail. The two greenhorns were either going to die within the next few hours or become great soldiers to serve the Emperor. The two techpriests seemed to be scarred of the commissar and were probably caught goofing off just before Icarus had arrived. The two officers beside himself in the room were just as he had imagined, and they would more than likely prefer that he not be assigned to the squad. Too many officers in one place provided both a chink in the chain of command and a high priority target on the battlefield, but luckily Icarus knew his place in a squad and could usually find a way out of almost any jam they got into.

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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

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Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun 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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[b]A short being walks through the doors holding a map of the ship in his hand, dripping wet from his last high priority mission and a sniper strapped to his back tightly that was almost as big as him. He looks at everyone, his hood from his tan cloak was up and the lighting made it difficult to identify his face. He walks through the crowd of people to find a nice spot in front, then sets his sniper against the briefing table. He was so quiet that you wouldn't have noticed his presence if he didn't use the door.

Alex waited to be briefed on his mission until he realized he had his hood on and lowered it to reveal he was a ratling with his war paint design on his face. He then looked up at everyone as they paid attention to the officers and wondered what their stories were and how they got into this mess that he himself got into.

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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'Well damn,' Quin thought to himself, watching the Psyker walk away without answering him. 'I should probably learn her name before addressing her.' He frowned at himself for his lack of tact, especially when dealing with someone who could obliterate them all at the drop of a hat.

He decided it wise to address the Commissar's concerns quickly as well, facing a similar powder-keg to the Psyker. "Of course, Commissar. We'll be certain to address your opinion of tactical situations, conditions permitting." Quin was hard-pressed to make sure he didn't sound condescending, or patronizing. He legitimately wanted her to know he appreciated her previous experience, even if he was terrified what that might entail for him if he ever disagreed. He was also careful to ensure that by saying we, Sergeant Toroun was accountable as well.

But for the moment he had been saved from further scrutiny by the mission orders. He could hear the other Sergeants and squad leaders beginning their briefings, and figured he was ready as well.

Ignoring the burble of his squad around him, Quin took a data-slate from his belt. Sure enough the orders were listed, as well as brief details of everyone in his squad.

"Alright Squad," Quin started, breaking his relative silence with a power on his tone. "I want everyone to form a line. Let me look at the rabble Command has seen fit to set at my disposal!" He threw his gaze around, waiting for everyone to get in line; with a quickness. Two Sergeants and a Commissar should instill a great deal of fear in a man, rookie or no.

Troopers Augustus Jorn and Kyrus Darrien had formed up in the line, same as the others; this seemed to be their element, doing as they were told, being in formation, and preparing to give their lives for the Emperor.

One could only hope they served that purpose well.


---------

"Let me begin by introducing myself to those unfamiliar with me. I am Sergeant Quin Solar, of Osprey Squad. The sole surviving member of said squad, as it happens." He grimaced, looking around at the group. "But today we're not fighting Tyranids, for which I am thankful, at least. Today we're fighting the most common and hated of enemies to the Imperium of Man; Orks."

He took a moment to browse his data-slate. "Standing with me is Commissar Cassandra Rascal. She'll be attached to our squad to ensure that we function cohesively as a team." He didn't feel the need to say what would happen if they failed to meet that requirement; even the most green recruit knew what a Commissar was meant to do in the face of failure.

Quin then gestured to Icarus, who would presumably be standing at the front 'end' of the line. "Sergeant Icarus Toroun," he continued, "Will be acting as official second in command in the event of my death, a necessity to split the squad into fireteams, or if Commissar Rascal sees fit."

"Belva Clarette," he said, looking around for the Psyker woman; hopefully finding her hovering somewhere behind the line, as befitting her function. "Is a Psyker. For those among you who don't know, she is to be protected as high-priority. Be mindful and treat her with care." He paused for a moment, ensuring he did not sound unsettled at the prospect. "Trooper Augustus Jorn, it will be your specific duty to ensure she remains alive and well," he said, pointing out the youthful-looking soldier. He flashed the Aquila in response, albeit without the full gusto he may have given a more appealing order.

"Father Simon Yates is our resident Priest." Quin was more or less deadpan with this delivery, having shifted to it directly from an order. "Trust and honour him and he will guide us with the Emperor's Light."

"Lastly we have the Techpriest, Lucretia Godwinne, who will be ensuring that our special equipment and any vehicles we find remain intact and properly functioning." He did not point out said Techpriest; he would be obvious enough, with his mechadendrite and significant augmentation.

Quin paused again, taking a moment to read from his data-slate. "That is all we have in the terms of specialists and commanders. The rest of the squad is filled out by Troopers Augustus Jorn, Kyrus Darrien, Derrek Pen, Alex Elashne, and Caccia Scinia." Quin's face twisted slightly in disappointment; the squad was over half specialists and commanders, after a fashion. He continued reading into the briefing, and eventually sighed.

"Now, on to the briefing," he carried on, scarcely allowing the troops time to think about breaking line.

"The 501st will be descending planet-side shortly. We will be dropping through the atmosphere with Valkyrie armoured transports, where we will be subject to acrid smoke from nearby volcanic activity, and possibly enemy anti-aircraft fire."

"From that point we will jump from our aircraft and begin descend via Grav-chute into a former mining colony. The area is expected to be under Orkish control, judging by the amount of modification to structures and geography that the area has undergone. Most of the 501st will be making ground-fall in or nearby to known Anti-Aircraft positions, in the hopes that they can be taken out. Anyone that fails to make their drop points, or finds them relocated or otherwise does not land in one, will be expected to hunt down and eliminate any fortified positions."

"After this point, the area will be considered under Imperial control and can be made into a temporary base of operations, from which further drop missions may take place."

Quin placed the data-slate back on his belt, and turned to open the footlocker at his personal bunk- similar to all the others, but in this case filled with his kit.

"The Grav-chute mentioned is this," he explains, taking a large device from the locker. Folded up, it was about the size of a Vox-pack, but after unfolding it and strapping himself to it, it was shown to be less bulky; a power unit with two 'wings', each with a low impulse grav thruster attached.

"These allow an un-assisted descent to be considerably less fatal. Aside from that, they'll allow a soldier to make slightly higher jumps. This planet is possessed of a higher than normal gravity, and so our landing is still probably going to hurt. Each of you will of course be issued one, and given a brief crash-course on proper use."

Next, he pulled a long cloak, and a skin-tight black suit out of his locker. The cloak at the moment was black; but a close eye would indicate that it shifted slightly to match the background of Sergeant Solar's grey-red uniform.

"This suit is a survival suit, and again each of you was issued one upon entering the 501st's care. This is what will allow us to survive the descent, and the volcanic landscape itself, with anything approaching comfort. It is in essence a temperature regulating measure, as well as a sweat reconstitution device. As with all of your kit, you are expected to treat it well, as it will save your life."

He placed the suit on his bunk, then flashed the cloak. "And this is a Chameleoline Cloak. The Techpriest could tell you more about how it works probably, but all I can tell you is exactly what it's good for; blending you into your surroundings."

Quin threw that on the bed as well, and then crossed his arms. "We have about an hour before we need to be on dropships. Get your kit and get properly suited up, and I'll be meeting you there."

He looked to the Commissar briefly, to ensure she did not have anything to add; and then to the Priest, in case he wanted to say anything inspiring- and lastly to the other Sergeant, seeing as he would be official second in command.

"Dismissed," Sergeant Solar declared, once he was certain there were no more words to say. If the grunts had anything they wanted from him, they could catch him as he made his way to the door.

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Alex waited patiently to be dismissed, then ran out to check out his new chameleoline cloak. When he placed it on, it accidentally turned on and showed the door behind him as he looked through his cloak. He smiles brightly, then went to grab his sniper rifle, but realized he forgot it back in the briefing room. It was a rare event, so he didn't focus on it and went to the briefing room to find the pysker still in her corner as everyone has already left. Remembering the bad feeling she gave off when she brushed into him, but it wasn't his place in interfering with a high person. Grabbing his weapon, he turned back to her and saw how scared she was and so he sat down next to her, messing with his new cloak to turn it off.

"So, what's your name?" He asked, trying to break the silence of the briefing room.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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#, as written by Taunbon
Bel watched the troops gather into a line, but she didn't move, staying in her corner leaning on her staff. The summons wasn't really for her, she wasn't 'one of the troops' and her standing in the line would imply more than she desired and would only serve to put off some of the other guard. Unlike many of the others, her position in the regiment could change at any time, her 'attachment' changing at a whim depending on where people thought her skills would best be of use, but she wasn't a guardswoman. Her position was much like that of the Commissars, just without the perks.

She watched Sergeant Solar start his briefing, bowing her head slightly to show she was listening when he called her name and pointed out to everyone, as if they didn't know, of her status. 'Treat her with care', or perhaps, 'do not shoot her' would have been preferable. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had almost shot her for displaying her abilities... usually around the local PDF forces when their presence had been needed. Her grip tightened once more on her staff as he gave her a handler. He gave her a handler. Not just anyone to watch her and 'keep her safe' but a green recruit. The boy was more likely to get her killed while she was keeping him alive than the other way around.

Bel opened her mouth to let Sergeant Solar know just how little she cared for the idea of a 'handler' especially one that was inexperienced when staying by the Commissar, well within boltpistol range, would be more then suitable when said Commissar started to tear into the priest for not standing at attention. Seeing the flamer carrying priest being reprimanded brought a small tug to the corner of her lips and her previous frustration and annoyance at being given a handler was momentarily shoved to the back of her mind to enjoy the rare spectacle.

The sergeant briefed them on their equipment, and it seemed the time to make her opinion known had left her while she was enjoying the spectacle. The news about having to done the 'suit' on almost all deployments was an unwelcome one, she had assumed she would only need it on worlds that required it, but luck, or fate, was not on her side. While she had never used a grav-chute before, she was not as worried as others would be in her situation. If the worst came, she would have to use her power to levitate and lower herself, safely, to the ground.

With that short explanation done, he made his leave. She wasn't sure where he had to go that was of so much importance. Most of her time was spent wandering the ship, staying in her room, or, when she was lucky, meeting with the Astropath for a halfway pleasant conversation. Movement caught her eye, and she turned her head, her eyes widening as the commissar started to disrobe and change in the middle of the room. Bel clutched the front of her robes hiding her burned flesh, instantly becoming uncomfortable with the situation. Whatever it was this unit 'did for fun' was none of her business.

But before she could step, yet another figure decided to try and talk to her. For a moment, her heart skipped fearing that she would have yet another encountering with the flamer toting priest, until she looked down and saw the ratling, the sub-human, from before asking her what her name was. Her eyes narrowed at the question. The sergeant had said her name, not moments ago, had he not been paying attention? Was he trying to trick her? Was this some sort of game or bet that the other troopers put him up to? No matter what it was, she was having none of it as she needed to change, and change in private, "Psyker," she said, giving her title as a name.

With that, she took her leave, her staff accompanying her footsteps as she headed back towards her room to change her clothes for the deployment.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Grim Character Portrait: Bottles Character Portrait: Father Yates
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Derek stomped after Grim as they entered their shared quarters. Grim usually had some space to himself, but Derek had been assigned to him recently. Besides the two very square and very metallic beds there was a small table at the back upon which Grim’s combi-tool lay. It resembled a staff and had red markings to match his cloak.

Grim began to tinker on it, causing several things to pop out, and then back in. Derek ignored him and put on some of his gear. A chime from a bed got Grim’s attention. He returned the tool to the table and read the message on the dataslate. “Oh, this is great.”

“What?” Derek asked, finally sliding into his survival suit. He started strapping his vest back on.

“It seems,” Grim said, dropping the slate and putting on his own survival suit, “The normal grav chutes the Sarge showed off won’t work for me. So we have to use a special chute.”

“We?” Derek raised his eyebrow, and threw on his cloak. It shimmered before settling and showing his normal attire.

“Oh yes, we.” Grim put rations and survival gear into his satchel and swung it over his shoulder. “You will be piloting it. I am just along for the ride.” He held the Chameleoline Cloak at arm’s length. “This is some nice work.”

“You seem pretty calm, considering your life will be in my hands.” Derek said.

“Yes,” Grim said, throwing over his shoulders, and waiting for it to match his uniform. “But I get to see your face right before we hit the ground.”

Derek paled a little. “You think the chute won’t work?”

Grim laughed, grabbing his staff. “Probably not, but who knows. Stranger things have happened.” He strode out of the room, and Derek fell in step behind him.

“So how do these cloaks work?”

“Tech Magic.”

“Right.”

“If we both survive the drop, then I’ll tell you. Otherwise, just know it will match your environment and allow you to blend in.”
“That’s what the Sarge said…”

“I know, and he was right.”

They emerged from the hallway onto a walkway above the hustle and bustle of the hanger. Derek walked down and fell into line, waiting for something. Grim stayed above, staring at the various vehicles and aircraft occupying the hanger. White squares got his attention, and he noticed the cleric descending. ‘How do those tracts not catch fire when he fights?’ He wondered to himself. He made it to the floor just in time to hear a question about the chutes working.

“They either do or don’t.” Grim said, falling in behind Derek.

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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The Commissar raised an arm and moved her finger to indicate the psyker was to follow her. In case it wasn't clear, as she passed the woman she said "Come with me." She walked with considerable purpose, boots clacking against the deck. She expected the psyker to keep pace. "I wasn't waiting for you," she lied. "It was a matter of convenience." They turned a corner (or at least the Commissar did; she would have waited with almost palpable impatience without Belva), bringing them to an empty corridor and onto a circuitous route to the hangar.
"You've been assigned a handler." The statement was blunt and factual, but the Commissar knew how to make it sound more like a question than an observation. "He is new. He isn't experienced with psykers. And he's a few pay grades below knowing what a fuck-up you can turn our operation into." She also knew how to turn observations into thinly-veiled threats. "I'm not. So watching your ass is as much my priority as it is his. I value what your capabilities mean to the survival of the squad and the success of our mission. I will be over your shoulder at all times ground-side. That is as much for your protection as it is everyone else's. I trust you understand what I mean." The hand resting on the hilt of her bolt pistol wasn't meant to be subtle in any way. "What I say supersedes your handler and if I say shit I expect you to ask me how much and what color."

When the Commissar approached their drop-ship, she let her displeasure be known. The Pilgrim had put them in line but let them slack at-ease? "And when the fuck did the Emperor command that his soldiers stand around like the lazy fucks their drill sergeants had trained them not to be?" She expected the whole squad (Pilgrim included) to snap to attention. The other squads that knew what was good for them didn't look in the yelling Commissar's direction. Somehow her voice managed to get carried over the boots-on-metal, grunting, and yelling that came from the rest of the hangar preparing for their drop. "You'll have time to stand at-ease when you're dead, and if this is how you wannabe troopers prepare for a drop I expect that to be damn well soon. Deacon! If you can't show me which one of your hymns commands the Holy Rollers to slack-off I'll have you standing at attention in your sleep. Pilgrim! Is this how you control the men?" She finally reached the squad; that it took her that was testament to the size of the hangar as well as her dedication to yelling. "Do you see any of these other squads milling around wasting their damn time standing at-ease with their thumbs up their asses? Why aren't all of your men's gear stowed yet?" She didn't pause while she figured out how to don her grav-chute. "We're the Imperial Guard not the Limperially Disabled! You may as well have ordered them to put on their night gowns and give their nearest soldier a handjob with how much work they're getting down right now." She took the psyker's bag and her own up the ramp and set them next to each other inside the drop ship. She stomped back down, adjusting her hat. "If I ever catch any of you standing around while there's a mission to prepare for I will shoot you for criminal neglect. There is always a weapon to inspect, armor to clean, a deck to swab, or... I don't care if you're checking your boyfriend's asshair for lice, but I better fucking see you doing something. Am I understood?!"
Simon tried to suppress a smile. It was difficult. "Yes Commissar. Always vigilant, always moving. In the field of battle and when preparing to enter it!"

When Praetus arrived, the Commissar looked him over. Whatever she thought was not revealed by her emotionless face. "Well? Fall in already." She listened to Augusts offer the special 'chute to the psyker but had no reaction. She stood nearby watching the squad, now either at attention or busying itself with something, until the Sergeant finally arrived.

The Commissar's arrangement of her equipment and Belva's had been particular, to ensure she was right behind the psyker in the drop order. The Cleric was right before her, eager to be the first to jump. Their proximity gave Rascal the opportunity to lean close to Belva and (in the eerie darkness and not-silence of the dropship's belly) say, "I'm right behind you. Every step." Whether they were comforting words or a threat was for Belva to decide.
The Cleric genuinely offered what he intended to be far more comforting words. After the pre-drop check (which was answered by both him and Rascal with a series of "Check, check, check"'s), he spoke clearly and calmly:
"Every human being has a place within the God-Emperor's divine order, and embracing that place wholly and totally with one's mind, body, and spirit allows us to walk in the Emperor's light. It is the duty of the faithful to unquestionably obey His authority, to purge the stars of the unfaithful, of heresy, of the inhuman. Today, we have the considerable honor of fulfilling our roles, our functions as the righteous weapons of the Emperor. To strike down the wickedness of Ork kind, a blasphemous, dark plight that poses no threat to the true servants of His will. In His name, with His glory and guiding light, we-the faithful soldiers forged in His fire in His name for His empire-will be victorious. Wholly, swiftly, completely, honorably victorious. That is our reward for our service." He paused, letting those words settle over his fellow soldiers. "Ten thousand years ago a considerable undertaking began, one that has yet to be completed. One day the Emperor will rise from his Golden Throne on Holy Terra and complete the grand quest in which we are now lucky participants. It will be a time of salvation and deliverance; we will become one with the Emperor, and all the evil will be expelled from our galaxy, locked in the Warp, then utterly and completely destroyed, purged from existence. It is then that the God-Emperor will sit in judgement of all Mankind, and those who lack faith in Him will be damned for all eternity, suffering a fate worse than what any Ork or damned servant of Chaos could possibly even conceive to threaten.
"That is the Imperial Truth. And only our adherence to it and our unshakable faith in the God-Emperor will allow those who today or in the coming times of hardship die in the glory of battle to join the great path to Salvation directly. You will join the Emperor and alongside him you will become fellow guardians of mankind, bulwarks against the evils of the Warp. Do not fear death. It is not permanent; it is, for the holy and righteous, transcendence to an even higher calling. But for now your duty is to stay at the shoulders of your compatriots and give these Orks one Hell of a beating."

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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 hum of the engines was only a mild distraction from the problem Derek had. It was bad enough that the squad now had a commissar who took every chance to berate and insult them. Now he was literally buckled to Grim, waiting to drop into Ork-run territory. He enjoyed killing Orks, as they were generally simple, if very dangerous, creatures.
His musings were cut short when they entered the atmosphere. The quiet wouldn’t last long, as the Orks would see them soon.
“Nervous boy?” Derek looked at Grim. In fact, it was hard not to look at him. Grim’s face was neutral, and with his hood up, it was even harder to get a read on him.
Derek gripped the support bar. “A bit. Trying to distract myself by thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
“Probably, but it helps.”
Grim shifted slightly. “I don’t like this anymore then you, so let’s get to ground quickly.”
Derek nodded as explosions were heard, and began to increase in volume and intensity. They had been spotted. The Ork’s anti-air was firing at them now, but it didn’t seem that their aim was that good.
The cleric was reading off his scriptures, probably in an attempt to calm everyone. Grim didn’t seem to care, but Derek appreciated the gesture.
At Solar’s command, he prepared himself for what was arguably the best and worst part of any drop.

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Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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#, as written by Taunbon
Bel hesitated for a single moment since any longer and the commissar would just shove her anyways. Her stomach lurched as wind rushed past her body as the solid 'ground' under her feet disappeared. The wind caught her oversize cloak and took it, carrying her small frame with it, spiraling head over feet as the wind toyed with her as a cat may a ball of yawn.

Feeling bile rise in her throat, she slammed on the controls trying to use the thrusters push to righten herself. A few, small pulses, and Bel could feel herself slowing down... well, at least, she had been before the explosions rocked the sky, the concussive forces sending her, once more, spiraling the other direction, back from whence she came, as the aerial forces toyed with her. She could hear the ionizing of air as lasguns went off around her, the roar of engines, and the cries of Orks that, somehow, had managed to overcome the explosions and strong wind forces rushing past their ears. Bel frantically worked the controls on her Grav-chute, knowing that if she did not get herself straight she was going to hit the ground... fairly hard, or more likely, end up a sheath for a large choppa.

Yet again, she was able to regain control and straighten herself, but her spacial awareness had been thrown in the loop. Her eyes frantically looked around, trying to ignore the explosions as she looked for the ground... calming down when see saw it, not even the advancing tank could damper that spark of hope at seeing the lovely brown earth beneath her. The roar of an engine shot her eyes up as a Stormboy turned and shot at her, she almost reached for her pistol, but her cloak was too tangled around her to get to it. She had one option to save her skin.

Reaching out with her mind to the stormboy, she roamed his body and his rocket looking for... to her surprise, the entire rocket was held on by a small latch, it never cased to amaze her, the bravery of Orks. It was child's play to reach out and flip the latch... separating the Rocket from the Ork. While she had searched him with her mind, taking her time, on the outside, in the 'real' world, no more than a moment had passed, and she couldn't help but feel satisfaction at the Orks face when he went one way, and his Rokkit Pack went another. But it was short lived as the Ork finished his arc and started to plummet straight down to the ground below, about to repaint it a very nasty, and rather smell, color.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal
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The Cleric, whether by pure luck or the Emperor's will, had not been spared from facing the orks in the air, but had been given the opportunity to take the fight to them. Whe he realized how far off he was, he spun himself about (albeit sloppily, with several adjusting thrusts to get to an actual 360-degree turn). He looked up at the tank, which was now in more pieces than he remembered, and at the falling commissar with several orks racing to meet her from above and below. "Guide my sword and my flight," he mumbled to himself before using the grav-chute to push himself towards her.

The Commissar quite understandably found her grav-chute much harder to operate when her only available arm had the more immediate job of fending off flying threats. Her unusual bolt-gun was used to great affect, but only eight times; as she emptied the final chamber puncturing the fuselage of an ork below her, she realized she couldn't possibly reload. "Damn stupid ork bastards I-"
"...and as Marcus the Martyr always said: Get used to the fire now. It's the only thing waiting for you in Hell!" Her frantic curses were interrupted when her speaker suddenly became the most grating, hated, reviled, annoying, desperately needed optimism that was Father Yates. His words, wanted or not, came over the entire squad's communication chanel. She cranned her head to see his grav-chute-clad back, aquila-covered tassles flapping gloriously in the wind, silhoutted against the gun. She couldn't tell what he was doing until the orks trying to dive-bomb her were suddenly coated in jellied prometheum. "...are you using your fucking flamethrower?"
"Yes ma'am!" Simon was thankful they were off course and far behind the rest of the squad, or leaving a plume of flaming oil for everyone else to avoid on top of the orks and tanks would have made him feel guilty. Without the threat of killing his team (unless the jelly landed on someone?), he was left to enjoy the majesty of the Emperor's service. "I'm not as good with my laspistol."
"How can you possibly be in a good mood right now?!"
"I'm doing what I was born to do, Commissar. Learn to enjoy it."

It was impossible, but the Commissar and the Cleric fell in tandem. She had managed to switch to her chain sword without dropping the bolt gun while he continued to turn their attackers into flaming bullets. It was a fine plan until an ork who somehow managed to steer while burning slammed into the Cleric, harder than his grav-chute could possibly resist. The Commissar toggled her grav-chute off and fell after them, the g-forces ripping at her shattered arm like a rake. Thankfully it stayed tucked into her inside pocket; she couldn't imagine the pain of it flopping after her. She raced the ork and the cleric, who spun each other about until she quite clumsily slammed into both of them. She dragged the motorized teeth of her sword across the creature's back (somehow navigating herself around its rocket) and kicked it free of Simon; they both fell in free fall away from each other until they could reactivate their grav-chutes. Simon fell in the direction of the landing zone; the Commissar didn't. "Thanks for the assist," she mumbled before bracing for a hard impact.
"Any time, Commissar."

The Commissar's mood shifted to disappointment. Not anger or fear, but blunt, unadultered disappointment at the sight of her "landing" zone: A shelled, burnt building that looked like it had been a tennament house. Its roof was pockmarked, but she didn't have the reaction time or fine control to go through a hole in the roof; she said a quick prayer, tucked her legs and arm to her chest, and thanked the cheapness of the Emperor the roof was made of the cheapest sodwood available. She crashed through it with enough force to fall through the next floor as well. Whatever wall she hit didn't have any studs (or if it did she hit it too hard to tell). She felt herself roll uncontrollably until finally sliding into an exterior wall. She laid in a pile of drywall, wood splinters, and her disappointment. "I couldn't just hit the ground and die. No. You have to try breaking my legs, too. Lady Luck, you're a bitch." She was scared to open her eyes. A useless left arm she could handle; an inability to walk she couldn't. But throbbing pain was eventually realized, from her head to her toes, and that was a good sign. She slowly unsprawled herself, sat up, and looked herself over. "Where the fuck is my hat?"

The Cleric was, some would say, more lucky with what he landed on, but not what he landed in the middle of. He stowed his flamethrower, thankful it wasn't knocked from his arms on the way down. Someone somewhere informed the squad it had made landfall. The Sergeant said something about an objective or a threat. There were things everywhere all over the ground that wanted to kill him. If he hadn't just nearly been pile-driven on an atmospheric level, he would have taken the time to appreciate the theatrics of his touchdown. Two other members of the 501st (conventional troopers as far as Simon could tell) were cowering in a round, shallow trench, most likely the result of an artillery strike. Lightning never hits the same place twice, I guess. Barely inches overhead the brap-brap-brap of an Orkish gunner threatened them, if he was anymore accurate. No doubt one of them was clutching his Aquila and looking to the Emperor for help. But Simon wasn't aware of any of the details; he hit with a hard oof! that kicked up ash and dirt. From the smokescreen emerged a Cleric of tattered cloth, flamer extended, chainsword trailing behind him. The Ork turned, either surprised or angry, lifting his machine gun (pintle mount and all) and spinning to bring it to bear. His chest and head was momentarily engulfed in fire, then seperated visceraly by a single swing. "Deacon has landed."

The Commissar scrabbled, quickly getting her bearings. She didn't hear anything inside the building, which meant she was either alone or surrounded by the only stealthy orks in recorded history. Her lascarbine had been ripped from its lanyard on the way down, but her bolt gun was still in its holster as well as her chainsword. Her arm was limp inside her coat as she hobbled her way over to a window. The building she had crashed through was at an intersection, with more tall buildings on one corner and a crowded view of the planned LZ interrupted by shorter buildings. It gave her a commanding view of orks trying to filter out of the ruins as well as 501st soldiers scrambling into it for cover. She wasted no time shoving a metal bedframe into the doorway of a hastily chosen perch with her feet. It wasn't an effective barrier by any means, but nothing was getting past it quietly and the doorway didn't have a clear line of site. She crouched by the window and set her lascarbine on the windowsill (no second arm to hold it; otherwise she'd be a foot behind the window where other snipers couldn't see her rifle). "Sergeant Solar: I cannot reach you but I can see you." Well, she could see where she was supposed to be. She clicked over to the squad-wide comm channel. "I advise any members of the squad who has landed too far north in the ruins near the expected LZ to rendevouz in a slums building at the corner of..." she couldn't read any street signs; a combination of eyes squinted with pain as well as distance. Somehow she spoke clearly and calmly despite wanting to put her head through a brick wall a second time. "...a tennament building near the edge of the urban center. This is the only time Commissar Bangtail will be welcoming any of you with open arms." There had to be a transponder or IFF tag or something she could use to mark her position, but she was have understandable difficulty thinking clearly. A main line must have burst or something, she thought, feeling liquid crawl down the side of her face. She pushed that thought of her head before squeezing two shots off, the second one seperating a scrawny (well, "scrawny" for their standards; it was taller and wider than her) ork from the lower half of its leg. It fell behind rubble, where anyone with a regard for life would have remained, but it angrily pulled itself onto one foot and she was showered with concrete dust when he blindly drilled the wall a floor above her. Her second shot hit something important, as she didn't see it get up a second time.
The Commissar waited and watched, pulling her carbine into the room. No shots rang out; the ork had been alone, or at least his friends were oblivious to his plight. She rolled off of her feet onto her rump with a groan and closed her eyes. They burned with ash and frustration. Useless arm, seperated from my squad, lost the psyker, and there's a cylinder jabbing me in the ass. She reached underherself and her fingers found a tattered kitbag. Its contents spilled out; tools, a compass, her dataslate, and gun oil rolled across the floor. "Fucking icing on the..." she tried to store the essentials in other available pockets. She reached into the bag and extracted two red sticks, that in her haze and rush she didn't recoginze until she almost threw them out the window. Emergency flares?
The Commissar didn't know how long it had been since she told the stragglers to rendevouz with her. She could have been faffing with her ripped bag for five minutes or an hour. Either way, she sparked a flare and dropped it out the window. She knew it would attract orks like suicidal ork-sized moths to a one-armed flame, but it landed near what used to be a doorway, marking what she hoped was a safe entrance. She bent herself backwards out the window and threw the second flare with a single arm; it arced up onto the roof. Still leaning out, she reached up to her ear to spoke on the platoon level. "This is Commissar Bangtail: Red flares mark an emergency rendevouz. Any troopers seperated from their squads without tertiary fallback points landing in the ruins should make their way to it." She didn't know if she had the authority to tell the whole platoon to rendevouz with her. She didn't know if anyone who recognized her name would take cover within a hundred feet of her. What she knew was that she was resting against a windowsill weakened by artillery and fighting that gaveway to her weight. It crumbled; she felt herself fall. Her thighs caught a piece of rebar that flipped her around. She threw her gimp arm over the ledge. Her whole weight fell on it. She screamed in pain and was barely able to pull herself up. If two burning fires weren't enough, the orks definitely knew where she was now.

The Cleric, as if oblivious to the gunfire that raged around him, steped over the ork's body. He sheathed his chainsword, then offered a hand; he pulled the troopers out of their foxhole. "Deacon. Solar Squad." They both just kind of nodded, either shellshocked or stunned. "Well?" he asked, expectantly. One of them snapped too as a shot cracked overhead.
"Corporal Sanders. Penning Squad." Both troopers snapped a salute. "We were the only two to jump before our Valkryie got hit."
"Very well." The father nodded. "Come with me." The troopers were in a sorry state; one had been taking potshots with nothing but his laspistol. The Battle Cleric stood and examined the Ork autogun for a second, then kicked its mount apart (it was attatched by cheap adhesive; it was amazine recoil alone hadn't dislodged it). "Use this." He tossed it to the trooper, who caught it with an "oof" and was almost knocked down.
"I-I don't know how."
"That's a trigger. Bullets come out of that part. I garuntee it won't explode."
The Trooper looked unconvincend. Simon wasn't anymore sure of his own words than any sane man had a right to be, but he put his flamer away and took it from him. "See?" He shouldered it (well, tried; it was side as an engine block and had no stock he could discern), leaned forward, braced himself, and gently squeezed the trigger. Then he squeezed it like he was trying to strangle the life out of it, and finally the trigger snapped back and the gun erupted in a cacaphony of noise and light. He felt like a horse kicked him in the shoulder. When the dust settled, there was a dead or dying ork that had been running at them with a sharp piece of metal. Despite its effectiveness in making things dead, however, Simon discarded the autorifle. "...yeah. That was a bad idea. Let's go. The glory of battle waits for no man. Likewise these orks won't keep waiting for us to share this moment." He pointed, vaguely. "The planned LZ is that way. Get a move on, troopers." Simon was a lot more comfortable jogging across the battlefield than either of them.

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Character Portrait: Icarus "Pilgrim" Toroun Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Commissar Rascal Character Portrait: Alex
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Endric had filed into the gathering room with the other soldiers. Waiting for briefing, he did a bit of mingling and a lot of 'people' watching. Although Endric was quite average looking and would probably never be picked out in a crowd, he did seem to be quite comfortable, possibly even enjoying himself, in his superficial mingling. He took note of those who seemed to be more charasmatic than others and, of course, the other species present. He was somewhat surprised the Imperial Guard had allowed them to serve, though his father had told him stories of battles alongside such races. Endric fell in line as the briefing began, but let his expression glaze over in reminiscence.
The briefing was obviously over to Endric when he noticed the Commissar changing, pulling him out of his childhood reverie. He suddenly noticed heat in his cheeks and promptly decided that familiarizing himself with his kit would be a very appropriate thing to do - in the hangar - and proceeded to turn on his heel in that direction, avoiding eye contact with anyone, thinking to himself, I'm invisible.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In the hangar, Endric checked over his kit, double checking his diagnoster and injectors, as well as his medikit. He positioned his laspistol slightly forward from his left hip, and strapped his knife to his right thigh. His lascutter was positioned hanging next to his left thigh and grenades were snugly kept over his right buttock. He then donned the chameleoline cloak grav-chute. Endric managed fall in line close enough to the psyker to feel the hair on his neck stand on end a little. He also noticed the squat close by - does he keep sneaking glances at the psyker? A shrill, irritating voice interrupted his volksviewing, and the hair on his neck seemed to scratch the air around it. As he realized where the sound was coming from, he struggled to muster an expression of discomfited trepidation, rather than well-deserved repugnance. The humble laughter that followed, he noticed, was from one of the guard called Icarus, which Endric appreciated greatly for the seriousness of the Commissar's tone had flipped a switch in his mind to the impending battle ahead. He thought he remembered something about 'orks' being mentioned at some point earlier, a race he had yet to encounter. Just keep your eye on the horizon, Endric. Fall free and good and don't look back.
As the outer doors opened and Endric's eyes adjusted to the explosions, his jaw felt slack as he realized the most ugly creatures he'd ever seen were hurtling themselves, in mass, as living bombs. HIs feet felt like lead for a moment, with his face wracked in consternation, he took large, heavy strides toward the edge of the doors, shook his head, took a deep breath, stretched the tingling out of his fingers and leapt into the reddened sky.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wind ripped past his flesh as he watched the carnage below him- and to the left of him... and the right of him...
He turned his head behind himself enough so as not to disrupt his free fall, to view the scene above him. He thought he could make out the Commissar flailing around, but was a little too far to know for sure. The psyker had gone out with the Commissar, but Endric was realizing he could barely make out anyone with the slightest measure of distinction - Shit, I'm falling away from the troops
Endric decided to attempt to redirect himself in the sky- which was a bad idea. He was not used to falling out of moving aircraft, into explosion infested skies, with flaming ork bombs crashing into everything they could and sent himself into a tumbling inertia. The ground became a menacing kaleidoscopic wheel - NO! I will NOT panic! I've got to readjust mys- and with that thought, a large stone-like mass threatened to shatter Endric's body into a sniveling mess of pain. The ground stopped its sickening spin, but the smell and spittle, from the Ork,choking Endric's senses was not a welcome exchange. Everything he had consumed earlier that day came spilling out of his mouth and it took him a couple precious seconds to regain his composure. At which point, he quickly drew his laspistol and shot the Ork through the chest and chin, splattering hot blood and bits of Endric's regurgitation back onto his own face. The dead ork fell, and Endric noticed a cluster of ork bombs bee-lined for him. He activated his grav-chute at an appropriate enough time to miss the oncoming berrage. His eye caught another living projectile heading his direction from the left, which he busted with a single shot through the skull. The ground was quickly approaching and luckily Endric managed to land in a tangle of mutilated shrubbery... or branches.. he didn't really care. He shoved his grav-chute off of his back and clambered out of the brambles. He looked around but could only discern a pile of rubble.. or stone.
"This is Phoorstein, I've made landfall, but I'm not sure where I landed. I believe there is an intact building about 200 meters from my position, due South... and more 200 or so to my East."

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Character Portrait: Partheo Karas Character Portrait: Uriah Volc Character Portrait: Deacis Thorn Character Portrait: Elbel Fischermann
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The two members of Squad Vindicatus with the Commissar stiffened as the Commissar began to berate them, keeping their heads staring straight forward until she had finished her tirade. They were not used to reactions such as this from Commissars, for many understood the value that the Militarum Tempestus afforded an Imperial Guard contingent and would listen to their advice. Not wishing to inflame her ire any more than necessary, Elbel and Uriah strode away quickly and silently.

Once outside of the Commissar's earshot, stepping quickly down the rubble filled stairs, Deacis cursed silently under his breath before speaking to Uriah, "Pissed off, ain't she? Does she not understand that remaining here will leave her vulnerable, unable to be supported by any Imperial Guard units? Not mentioning the fact that this building is a death trap unless there's another way out. Orks storming the building will slaughter any inside."

Uriah sighed as he placed the hot-shot laspistol on his hip temporarily to shove a door open. "Commissar's are willful, Scion Deacis, especially one's such as her. Leave her to her fate, we have our own missions to accomplish." Breaking out into the street to meet up with Elbel and Partheo, none would hear the warning about the incoming artillery fire, the only warning a faint thud coming from the direction of the ashen walls. Too faint to be interpreted amongst the other sounds of battle in the area, the Storm Troopers ducked back into the building as shots began to ring out, followed by the cacophony of a charging Ork mob, roaring WAAAAAGH!!!! as loud as they could.

"Feth! Fall back up the building, Vindicatus! Deacis, fragmentation grenade now!" screamed Uriah as the Orks began to pour through the door way. Rapid fire came from the hot-shot lasguns, each shot precisely aimed to drill into an Ork's most vulnerable areas. Despite their efforts, the horde slowly made its way forward, scrambling over the bodies which were beginning to pile on the floor.

Noise dampened momentarily as the auto-sensors in the Storm Troopers' helmets tuned out the thump of the frag grenade as the grenade exploded, tearing apart several of the Orks and causing a nearby column to shatter slightly, spraying stone backward. Step by step, the Storm Troopers would fall back up the building, carving down Orks, oblivious of the artillery rounds which were to impact in a few seconds time.

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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: Endric Phoorstein Character Portrait: Arin Sanders Character Portrait: Partheo Karas Character Portrait: Uriah Volc Character Portrait: Deacis Thorn Character Portrait: Elbel Fischermann
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Icarus Toroun

Pilgrim looked above his head as a Valkyrie flew right over his position and covered his face with his arm to guard against the wind even with the mask over his face. He watched as the airship went down and guessed there was a large force of orks in that area. With all the gunfire in the LZ there had to be a large battle going on. Icarus could only get minor glimpses from his distant position, but he could hear more than just guns and battle cries.

The distinctive sound of ork armor rolling over debris came from that area, and it sent a chill down his spine. But he could not move his position as he was needed on that rooftop. "Lasgunners, put your head on a swivel. Scan all streets and alley ways, I don't want to be snuck up on." It was then that the frag grenades shook the building at Icarus half expected the roof to cave into the lower floors. "One of you check the staircase! Let me know if any orks start coming up that way!" Icarus fixed a laser guide to his lasgun and turned on the green beam of light as he used it to plot a firing line towards the LZ.

"Striker, you see where i'm aiming? There is only one wall in between us and that LZ. Get ready to fire down this line when I take it down." Icarus turned off his laser guide and set his lasgun aside for a moment. He takes one of his frag grenades and pulls the pin but holds onto it and tries to judge the aim of his throwing arc. Throwing the grenade with a short yell the grenade disappears into the rubble. An explosion sounds as the already battle-weakened wall falls down from the explosion. Icarus picks up his lasgun as scans the new opening that shows the rest of the company and a large horde of orks. "Concentrate fire on that opening! Suppressing fire for 2nd company right now! Make the Emperor proud!" Icarus fired his lasgun, his shot hitting one of the advancing orks and giving the other soldiers near him the will to fight.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Father Yates Character Portrait: Belva Clarette Character Portrait: Standard Kit & Classes
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#, as written by Taunbon
Bel ducked her head behind cover as an Ork sent a volley of poorly aim shots at her, blasting large chunks of the decrepit wall off. Freeing her Laspistol, she leaned out and took a few potshots back at the Ork the snap of ionizing air meeting with the not so well reaction of the long bolts striking the Orks flesh, blowing large meaty chunks out of it that would have put down any human, only for the Ork to shake his head, give out a warcry and send another hail of bullets at her. The sergeants orders range in her eye, and she tapped on the comm to give confirmation of the orders.

A snap of ionizing air caught her attention as she peaked out over the crumbling wall to see the offending Orks head explode into a bloody mist as a lasbolt struck it. Bel did not bother to look to see what trooper had made the shot, instead, she took the momentary chance to target the tank. Holstering her pistol, she pointed her Staff at the tank, she raised her left hand at it as she channeled the raw power of the Immaterium, the air crackling around her and making her hair stand on end as her mind dived deep into the Great Ocean. Opening her eyes, the power surged through her staff creating a powerful purple light that attracted the attention of the greenskins who hollered loudly firing off rounds in her direction only for the rounds to bounce off the invisible kinetic barrier that was forming around her.

Closing her hand, the Ork tank shuddered as an unseen force took hold of it. Metal gave way with a screech as long indentures in the metal appeared as if a massive hand had gripped the tank. Slowly, the Ork contraption started to lift into the air, sand and rubble falling from its spinning track. It seemed the crew noticed what was going on, hard to miss it even for an Ork, as the turret started to move in her direction, gritting her teeth as a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, the turret of the tank began to bend and warp, lifting up as she pushed on the metal with her mind, the mundane material giving way before the power of the warp. Explosions rocked the tank, and while Bel had no idea what caused it, she assumed it was the Orks firing off a round despite her destroying the turret causing it to explode in the barrel.

Whatever caused the explosions though crippled the tank even further, the Orks that had been taking cover around had stopped firing at her, instead choosing to stare at the floating tank that had large chunks of it exploding for no apparent reason. Lifting the tank even higher having it levitate nearly twelve meters above the ground, she slammed her hand down with her own cry of anger as the sixty ton tank descended back towards the ground like a meteor. Dust and rubble were thrown into the air as the ground shook from the massive impact, the Orks around it were either crushed or thrown back from the released kinetic energy. What remained of the tank, which wasn't much, lay in the center of a large crater.

Bel let her staff drop... then her body, as she sat on the ground with her back to the wall, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath. Reaching up to wipe the sweat from her face, she regained part of her composure and tapped on her comm-bead, "Sergeant Solar, the Ork Armor has been eliminated."

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Relieved to hear a familiar voice, Endric considered Solar's tone to be unnecessarily endearing and responded with a healthy vote of misplaced confidence.
"Acknowledged, Sergeant. I couldn't help that these cesspiles obviously wanted some Punkt precision."
However, despite his best efforts to stay in lifted spirits, the ashes engulfing his vision and oxygen were more than worrysome. He looked around at the distance blobs of (hopefully) buildings, either direction could lead him directly into a crazed blood-bath of twisted welcome. In the face of uncertain death, Endric most certainly could not leave this choice to himself, instead choosing to let fate decide. Then it could be Fate's fault. Quickly, and under his breath, Endric pointed his left finger from right to left while reciting a strange sort of solioquy:
"Eeny, meeny, mony, my,
Barcelona, stony, sty,
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread,
Stick, stack, stone, dead. "
On 'dead', Endric's finger was pointing to the right; Unbeknownst to him, due Southwest.
He struggled to pull his grav-chute out of the dead sticks protruding out of the ground, and succeded by falling down and rolling over backwards, the chute clinging to his chest as if for dear life. He stood up, threw the chute onto his shoulders, then set off in a run, readjusting his cloak to make sure it wasn't going anywhere. He could hear distanced explosions to the left of himself and in front of him, as well as the hum of aircraft, but there was another sound - a land machine that set itself apart of from the ratcheted 'tut-tut' of anti-air machines and orkish kamikaze cannons. The wind was billowing toward him from his left, smashing pillars of ashes against him. He slipped and fell a couple of times, and each time he worked himself back up to a run, he could feel a frightening tightness in his chest. His rebreather was doing it's job, but the atmosphere certainly had the upper hand. In the bleak, seemingly isolated landscape, his thoughts were racing along with him- How far have I run, already? I could be running in circles for all I know. Maybe I should have left the grav-chute... wait...
He was getting closer to something that definitely looked more like a building, but he definitely heard the sound of land vehicles and they sounded as if they were closing the gap between the ashes and Endric. Endric did his best to pick up his feet, controlling his breathing and took out his laspistol, keeping his right hand poised to grab a grenade if necessary. Corners began to appear on the building as Endric scrambled, not ungracefully, toward what he thought was a single wall that might offer some cover, as well as a look out to determine if the building was occupied or not, before entering to find higher ground and whatever might lay across the searing landscape before him.
Just before Endric reached the wall, he could hear what now sounded like two vehicles approaching fast behind him. He fervently searched for a place that might provide not only a brief respite from the wind, but some what of a buffer of his own scent. Luckily, he stumbled over a mound of dirt and rolled onto his stomach just before the first vehicle came into Endric's view - he realized the vehicle would have plowed him over, and then a second vehicle brought up the back end. He couldn't tell from his vantage point how many orks were in them, but watched as they zoomed past the wall he was attempting to reach. They were not heading for the building he could see to his right, and Endric realized they must be heading for the main block of the industrial complex.

"Come in, this is Phoorstein! Still unsure as to my specific location - the wind is blowing in my face and there is a building to my right. I was almost run over by two ork ground vehicles, heading directly away from me. I can only assume it is toward the main industrial complex. Acknowledge?"

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Partheo Karas Character Portrait: Uriah Volc Character Portrait: Deacis Thorn Character Portrait: Elbel Fischermann
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"Reloading," stated Deacis, crouching down and slightly unhooking his power-pack to cycle through to the next charge, ensuring that he would be able to maintain the fire rate which Ork hordes required to be put down. Despite the drop in weapons fire coming down the stairwell, the other three continued to delay the Ork Boyz sufficiently for Deacis to finish his cycling without much hampering.

"Continue falling back," Uriah commanded. "We need- GET BACK!" he screamed as several stikkbombz came flying up from the Orks, their long design hurled with great strength to propel the crude explosive core into the enemy lines. All four Storm Troopers scrambled backwards as the grenades began detonating only to be stunned beyond action a second later.

Not having heard the impact of the nearby shells above the sound of their own lasguns and the Orks's yelling and shooting, the Basilisk shell crushing through the building took the Storm Troopers completely by surprise. Despite attempting to cope with the barrage of sensory information, all were deafened and concussed by the explosive shell demolishing the building.

The screams of both man and Ork mingled as the building collapsed, sending dust billowing into the air, mingling with the already omnipresent smoke that covered the embattled city. Among the rubble, Partheo and Elbel dragged themselves out from under pieces of rockcrete and furniture, staggering in a daze. Elbel recovered first and stumbled over to Partheo, placing his arm under the other man's shoulder. Together they moved through the rubble, searching for their companions. Every few seconds, one of the two would raise a Hot-Shot lasgun and strike down an Ork Boy before continuing their search. Sounds of human groaning attracted the two; both worked together to shift the piece, revealing Uriah lying underneath.

"Lovely day, ain't it, Cap'n?" chuckled Elbel, groaning even as he did so as a bruise strained his side muscles. Uriah gave a strained smile before activating his microbead: "Deacis, where are you in this hell hole?"

Static sounded for several seconds before a pained response came: "Somewhere near the south-west end, Sergeant Volc." cough "I think...I don't think I'm faring too well." With that, the connection shut off and the three standing Storm Troopers moved off in the direction which Deacis had indicated. As they neared the area, several Ork Boyz who had happened to survive the shell fired off shots in their directions before quickly being drilled with lasgun fire.

Partheo pointed at a metal beam which was shifting slightly. On it, the squad found Deacis, a large metal pole stabbed through his abdomen. "Doesn't look good, Uriah," commented Elbel. "We can't take him off nor can we leave him here. Best thing would be to remove as much of the pole as we can from both sounds, then find a medic to patch him up so we can continue."

Uriah nodded gravely before drawing his Hot-Shot laspistol, shooting the pole as close to Deacis's armor as possible. When the man dropped to the ground, a scream ripped out of his throat before quickly being silenced, training and will overcoming natural instinct. Partheo, having broken an arm, slid an arm under Deacis's shoulders along with Uriah, Elbel taking the lead as they headed towards the main rendezvous in the nearby area, hoping to find some form of medical support before Deacis expired.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Partheo Karas Character Portrait: Uriah Volc Character Portrait: Deacis Thorn Character Portrait: Elbel Fischermann
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As Partheo and Uriah carried Deacis through the rubble, the man gasping in pain every once in a while as the metal pole moved around in his body, all four took notice of Commissar Rascal yelling at them. All four simply glanced at her before continuing onward, deciding it would be better to not aggravate the commissar in a situation such as this; they were also too proud by far to deign to afford a response to such a statement.

An explosion in the air caused Uriah to look upwards, spotting a crashing drop ship, flames trailing from multiple points where Ork weaponry had struck the craft. Very quickly, the drop ship crashed into the ground somewhat near to the current position of the Storm Troopers. Judging by the sounds of combat floating over from their front, the majority of the local Imperial Guard forces were embroiled in combat.

"Elbel, scrap the main rendezvous. We're moving out towards that crashed ship. Perhaps they'll have some medical supplies." Elbel nodded before turning towards the direction in which the drop ship had crashed. There would be several times every minute in which Uriah or Elbel would have to put down a random Ork boy, Partheo and Deacis unable to fire at the moment. In this manner would they proceed towards the crash site.

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Character Portrait: 501st Hendrisi Deadland Regiment Character Portrait: Arthur "Odd Ball" Hadly Character Portrait: Partheo Karas Character Portrait: Uriah Volc Character Portrait: Deacis Thorn
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The world is dark and silent for what seemed like an eternity, until the feeling of consciousness could be felt in the back of Arthur's mind. His hands searched around his body and face for pain and damage, even before his eyes cracked open to see the world around him. "Sargent Berkley..?" He said as he opened his eyes and found that his perception of the inside of the transport was distorted.

As he looked around, he found that his launch chair was somehow lodged into the ceiling of the lander. Looking below, he could see a multitude of bodies strewn across the hold. Some far past the point of help and others starting to rouse like himself. "Odd, is that you?" He looks ahead to see the copilot Higgins emerge from what remained of the crushed cockpit. He had bandaged himself well enough, but in the end he still seemed worse for ware.

A few moments of fidgeting with the buckle and then resorting to using his knife, Arthur climbed down the edge of his seat to Higgins side. "Squad, report.." He shouts out over the deck and keeps an eye out for his Sargent. Not seeing any sign of Berkley as he scanned the hold, only to see heads pop up from behind the mass of stored ammo crates. Several seconds of shouting and groaning later, less then half of the squad is accounted for. Either those that died, did so in the crash, or they perished in the moments that followed. To Arthur's surprise however Berkley did not survive either, having been thrown from his harness and being thrashed against the interior of the transport.

Arthur and Higgins managed to climb into the embarked chimera in order to get any message out using the vox array.

"Damn greenskins, always shooting the hell out of everything in sight.. why can't they just keep doing that to each other and save us the trouble." The light on the vox chirps on as its speaker starts blaring out what is going on in the world outside the crashed ship. Arthur motions for Higgins to help secure the site "Take a rifle team out and see if you can secure our position.. I need to get this chimera running again and then find away to get it out of the ship." Arthur doesn't need to point out the fact there is a log piece of metal piercing the left side. With the distinct smell of oil and fuel flooding the transports interior.

Higgin nods with some restraint to what he must do, knowing that they would be no match for a fully committed attack by the Ork's.

Arthur pulls up the receiver and begins to speak.
"This is Corporal Hadly of Hounders squad, my transport wings down, my squad is over half KIA along with my sergeant. We have a partially operational transport in cargo, but we are in need of support to get it in field." A feeling of warmth starts to creep across his forehead and a cursory wipe from his hand reveals that his head was wounded in the crash, with a slight stream of blood coming from the crown of his forehead. He holds the wound closed with his hand as he continues "Any forces pulling back should seek our crash site, we can offer the chance to rearm and go to ground."

He pulls a strip of gauze from his first aid pouch and applies it to his head, taking his cutter and proceeding to fix the chimeras current problems.