# Patchwork Company: The Legion of Lone Survivors



## Nicholas Hadrian (Mar 20, 2011)

Rain. Was that all it ever did on Urbine Secundus?

Perhaps the gods were fans of metaphor.

Maybe it just set a good scene.

Colonel Markham Stackhouse walked down the steps of the ruined Govenorial Palace, his jackboots conjuring splashes as he walked.

His face was obscured by a regulation gas-hood and poncho. The rain on Urbine Secundus was far from water. 

Urbine Secundus was a death world, 

A hell world.

On other worlds rain was water. Here on Urbine Secundus, the prize of Nurgle, fortress world of the Mockers, rain was acid.

**********************************************************
All: You’ve been summoned. The rain is constantly pattering down on the fogged and filth streaked visors of your gas-hoods. Only the Kreigers are comfortable. Lined up in columns, directly against orders from high command, gathered for parade, the first greeting from your commanding officer.

Colonel Markham Stackhouse.

Formerly Lieutenant Stackhouse of the Cadian 97th.

The officers didn’t care for him.

The sentiment echoed in the ranks is the same.

Just because the man was tough enough not to get shot with every other frakker in his unit does not make him fit to command an infantry platoon.

Let alone a regiment.

But still he tries. Standing atop a pile of boxes stacked together for such a purpose, corrosion slowly eating holes in the metal, he takes a deep breath. A voice shouts for him to get off the “stage” before he gets a tin of rations tossed into his face.

Several other voices shout the man down. Perhaps the “lieutenant” has come to tell them the crusade has been called off.

Colonel Stackhouse lifted his arms, gloved hands raised in what he must figure is a mollifying gesture.

“Gentlemen!” an annoyed cry comes up from the women of the regiment. “and ladies.” he adds, placatingly.

“Welcome to Urbine Secundus.” You can practically hear the entire regiment scoff at his “welcome”, a few shouting for him to stuff his "welcome" where the sun doesn't shine.

Unintimidated he continues. You have to give the “Big Lieutenant” this, the man has stones.

“I’m not going to give you a long speech.” A cheer practically goes up from several men and women, clearly the ones with rain eating its way into their boots. How fickle they are.

“But I am going to tell you this. I know I am not liked by any of you. Hell, some mornings I don’t like myself. But I can tell you this. I understand you. I rose up from the ranks. I have gone through the same hell you will. And here I am now. A green colonel with jackboots two sizes too big and an old powersword that the techpriests insist “will be working properly by the time we reach combat.” He’s greeted by a scattered chorus of laughter. 

“I’m not saying I can understand all of you; we come from a host of different worlds, customs, backgrounds and regiments, each with their own traditions, customs and battleplans. Segmentum Command expects this to be our undoing. I plan to make it our strength. Segmentum Command and the Munitorium broth expect us to disappear into the mist of war and not walk out again.”

“I intend to prove them wrong! Who’s with me?”

A scattered couple of cheers reach his ears. Most of the men simply sit silent.
After an uncomfortable moment or two, the colonel notices the rain slowly eating its way through his poncho and steps down, a Cadian in matte black armor limping behind. 

“At least I got to some of them.” Thought he to himself.

“Jackson.” The one legged Cadian turned to face him. 

“Yes sir?” 

“Go find Captain Ghizhern, tell him I need to see him in my office. It’s urgent.”

“Yes sir.”

“So it begins", muttered “the Big Lieutenant” to himself, pausing only to jerk up one of his clownishly large jackboots. He needed to see a supply sergeant for a pair that fit.

********************************************************************************************************************
All: Ok first, facts you lot all need to know. One, the rain is corrosive, it will eat through most objects inside of a hour of constant exposure, excepting specially treated items, like your ponchos, tents which last slightly longer, with tents and more permanent structures like the stone of the compound wall, the metal roofs of the outbuildings and the Govenorial Palace being exceptions, and even then they can be damaged.

It irritates and reddens skin, only causing burns after about a minute of exposure. So take my advice (which is the order from high command) and stay the hell out of the stuff if you know what’s good for you.

You may choose to visit one of the following locations;

The Cookhouse: The regimental kitchens, anyone wishing to visit this place, send me a PM and I will do a mini update establishing it to which you can respond.

The Field Hospital: Self-explanatory, and the same thing as with the kitchen, send me a PM, I put up a mini update in the action thread right here and you respond to it as you like.

The Supply Depot: Same as the cookhouse and field hospital. Send me a PM.

The Motor Pool: Hopefully I don't have to describe what a motor pool is? Same with the others, send me a PM if you wanna go here.

Or you can choose to ignore these three locations entirely and instead follow the stuff below.

Moskovin, Praxus, Jochem, Marek, Hastus, Haston, You were all gathered together in the parade. Feel free to write yourselves into that as you like. There are four other men in your squad. All of you are marching single file behind the first of these men, Corporal Carrom Maklius. 

Corporal Maklius is currently the de-facto leader of the squad, in absence of a sergeant, he’s a nice enough fellow, thin, fair hair, kind sort of pretty-boy face. 

To look at him, no one would know he disemboweled about 10 traitor guardsmen with only his trench knife and his bare hands. He refuses to name the regiment he hailed from, preferring to keep his stories to himself. Half the time you’re not even sure if he’s joking or not. But you’re fairly certain he is. Most of the time. 

He’s quick to laugh and quicker to talk his head off, quickly steering the conversation away from personal questions whenever he can. 

Sometimes he seems to get your names wrong, calling out to a “Thavian” when looking at Moskovin, or a “Red” every time Praxus draws his eye. He never answers who these men are when pressed, and you figure it wiser not to ask. 

Carrom, as he insists you call him, refuses to engage in intelligent conversation if you try, merely laughing and giving a charming smile obscured by the face-plate of his gas-hood, before insisting you sing a bawdy marching song he knows.

The other three men consist of two twin brothers, hailing from the Tallarn 56th, destroyed in the fighting on the desert planet of Ki-shi; their names are Abdul and Salid.

Both have wrapped their heads underneath their gas-hoods with long strips of black cloth, scrounged from somewhere. These two are the Squad’s heavy weapons specialists. And luckily for you, the twins practically seem prescient, reading the other’s mind whenever they unsling the missile launcher strapped to Salid’s back, handily avoiding jams and miscommunications in a way that seems almost eerie, often they finish each other’s sentences whenever they speak as a pair. 

Though they speak fondly of the sands of Tallarn and their much beloved former commander, the now deceased Sheik Al-alah Aram Hassan, Abdul seems to change the subject whenever you bring up questions about their amazing skills with the heavy weapon, and they rarely, if ever mention their early childhood. 

If engaged in conversation, Abdul begins by suggesting that this is a poor time for it, before his brother ends the conversation by tapping you on the shoulder and shaking his head.

Bringing up the rear, as usual is the last man in your squad. Private Thrius Mc’Mullin. 

Thrius has been described as “A right ray of sunshine” by Corporal Maklius. Thrius is a mostly quiet fellow, refusing to speak most of the time, and talking in a shy whisper if pressed.

He has a tendency to disappear for hours at a time, sometimes returning later, with that familiar hangdog look on his face. (Hopefully Klomster won’t mind me borrowing an old friend here…) 

As per usual, Thrius refuses to speak unless pressed, in which case, he whispers about needing to visit the Field Hospital.

You follow the column back to your tents, each of you peeling off to go to your own quarter, five of you heading for one tent, five for the other. 

You are all relieved to be out of the gas hoods and at this point, after stowing whatever equipment you desire, having whatever conversations you wish with the other players or other men in the squad (Send me a PM if you intend to have a conversation with an NPC when you get back to the tent and we’ll hammer out a collaborative post).

If you like, the Corporal being a fairly easygoing (and not particularly inclined to rules) fellow, you may simply walk out to go visit one of the locations mentioned above. And yes, before you ask, I am emptying my inbox to make room for PMs.

Feel free to describe your relationships with the NPCs in your squads; you’ll be with these guys until we can get the squad up to an actual ten footsloggers later on in the story when I open recruitment back up later.

If you guys would like to do something I left out of the list, send me a PM and let me know, communication between you and me is what is going to make this RP work. I try to be very freeform.

********************************************************************************************************************

Bayle, You have been spending the last twenty minutes in the company of the other officers from the regiment, a mixture of rough-cut Cadians, rougher cut Catachans, refined officers from other regimental backgrounds, and a handful of their adjutants. 

Needless to say your opinion of the “common-born Colonel” is likely not high, a sentiment echoed by the other captains of the company, especially the major, and parroted by the sycophantic lieutenants, hoping to curry favor with their superiors. 

There were about five other men in the group that you were standing with, gathered together under a tent set up on four poles, surrounding a table with a snifter of brandy and several tumblers. 

Three of the officers were women, a Cadian, Valhallan, and Britiannian. Feel free to react to the colonel’s speech as you feel fit, you can see him from your position to the left of the parade. You have yet to be assigned command of a platoon, the other twenty captains in the regiment having already been given their posts. You’re sure the colonel has something special for you.

Before you leave the tent, a boy comes hopping up to you, propped up by a metal tube crutch. His left leg is missing. He’s a young Cadian lad, clad in the same matte black Flak armor, assigned to most of the regiment, young and fresh-faced, he seems breathless by the time he reaches you. He introduces himself as Private Jackson Alexander if you care to listen, or “boy” if you don’t. He informs you that the colonel wants you to visit him in his office right away, claiming it to be urgent.

********************************************************************************************************************

Rhen, you are among the men, as is your custom, patrolling silently along the lines like a big great-coated hound, the black plastic poncho keeping the rain from eating holes in your coat right away, You can feel your tattoos itching, as though you expect something to be up, leaving you stalking among the men gathered for parade.

You briefly wonder where the other two Commissars assigned to the regiment are. One you are quite sure can be found in his tent, drinking, the Emperor-damned disgrace. 

During the Colonel’s speech, potentially disciplining men who try to disrupt the greeting of the troops if you like, you continue to pace between the lines, a nervous habit. After the regiment disperses you may either choose to visit one of the locations (in which event, send me a PM and I will include you in the mini-update for that location) or if you choose, you may stick around the parade ground, in which event a young soldier with one leg goes whizzing by, moving quite quickly for someone so impaired.

Not long after watching him leave you can hear shouts coming from another section of the compound nearby. You may elect to investigate if you wish.

********************************************************************************************************************

There you are Heretics, go to it and enjoy, send me PMs if you have any questions, if you wish to take part in any of the events, or have any ideas that you would like to suggest to me.


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## Rems (Jun 20, 2011)

Gizhern’s spirits, not altogether high to begin with, only sank as their new Colonel made his introduction. He was an average orator noted the Volopone officer, no doubt entirely lacking training in rhetoric or argument. The instructors at the academy would have not been kind to him, and that accent! Gizhern rolled his eyes in bewilderment at how the commoners ever made themselves intelligible to one another. More damning than simple snobbery though was the fact that Stackhouse was green. He was a Lieutenant for Throne sake, and had no business commanding a whole regiment. It boggled the mind as to why a more senior officer, such as himself, or the Major had not been given the job. 

Such were Captain Bayle Seigdorn Ghizhern XVII ‘s feelings as he stood in the sleeting acid rain, in a dirty poncho, a hundred light years from his planet or anything even approaching civilisation. He was the only Volopone in this regiment, a scruffy rag tag outfit that didn’t meet any of the Captain’s standards. Bleak despair would be a charitable understatement of his mood. He was professional enough however, not to let such feelings show, his chissled face expressionless beyond his gas mask, wide shoulders set beneath a streaked poncho. Only his crossed arms, a signal of body language, gave some clue to his feelings. 

Trying to drag himself out of his bleak mood the large officer rubbed his arms for warmth and cast his head around, trying to think of some positives. It was rather difficult. While he _was_ alive, Bayle was not entirely sure that was a good thing, his regiment the 35th, better men all than this sorry lot had been wiped out to a man and by right Gizhern should have died with them. Instead he was stuck here on a hell planet. 

As his wandering gaze took in the forms of three officers in particular, his flagging spirits picked up slightly. The Volopone 35th had not been of mixed gender. Indeed no Volopone regiment had women serving and the very concept was new to the aristocratic Bayle. His eyes lingering on the female officer's more desirable assets Gizhern decided there may in fact be an advantage to having women serve. 

He was distracted from his pleasant musings by a young cripple, who came and stood to attention before him. It took Gizhern some moments to realise the boy wanted his attention, the cripple’s head only in line with Gizhern’s chest and so below his line of vision. He idly waved the soldier to ease after the diminutive man gave a small cough. 

“Captain Gizhern Sir, the Luei- Uh Colonel wants to see you Sir!”. 

Bayle nodded his understanding and brushed past the young adjutant, not noticing that he nearly sent the boy sprawling into the mud. But such was the way of larger men and the aristocracy, of which the Captain was both. 

This must be about his assignment thought Gizhern. Whereas the other Captains had already been assigned commands Gizehrn had not, despite being one of the most experienced officers in the regiment, coming from an outfit with an impeccable record. Perhaps one of the other notable families back on Volopone had been pulling strings, the Ambroges perhaps or the House of Capione. 

After a none too pleasant walk through the rain, his heavy tread sending up splashes of acidic rain, Bayle arrived at the Colonel’s Command Outpost, the appropriated Governor’s Manor. Pulling off the cumbersome gasmask he enjoyed the air on his face, relieved that his stubble had stopped rubbing against the oily plastic of the gasmask. 

He expected the unimpressive Colonel Stackhouse to begin with an apology, perhaps some grovelling for favours too. No doubt he would also be after some of Gizhern’s tactical acumen and then offer him a choice assignment. With such thoughts occupying his mind the Volopone Captain smiled at the younger Colonel as he saluted, having to crane his neck down and stoop his shoulders to gain eye contact. 

“Captain Gizhern reporting as ordered Sir”. He paused slightly yet meaningfully before the sir, then added a slight inflection to the word, with an incremental and artful raising of the eyebrows, subtly snubbing the Colonel. Settling into an attentive stance, with his arms clasp behind his back Gizhern waited for the Colonel to begin.


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## Angel Encarmine (Jul 5, 2011)

Patrolling quietly between the line of guardsmen in the acidic rain, Commissar Rhen Udeskee could not help the sneer that crept onto his face. " pathetic..." he muttered, seeing the sad state most of these men were in. Knowing they were all survivors, he began to wonder how many survived out of pure skill, and not cowardice. Not many, he warranted, resting his hand on the handle of his power sword as he continued walking. 

As the colonel made his way to the stage, Rhen turned and began listening to what the man had to say. As the colonel stumbled through his attempt to rouse their spirits, Rhen began chuckling silently, and turning, continued walking through the lines of guardsmen. As he passed several of them, he saw many averted eyes, and looks of pure hatred on the faces of the men. Ignoring them, Rhen began to feel the spider tattoo across his face itch, and cursing the face mask, the acidic rain, the bad omen the itching signified, and pretty much everything else, he continued to pace.

A small group of guardsmen began cheering, and Rhen guessed correctly that speech was over before they were all dismissed. As the men disperse, giving the commissar a wide berth, he sees a one legged man come whizzing by. Laughing at the sight, and after waiting for the officers to leave their tent, he walks in out of cover from the rain, removes his mask, and lights up a smoke. As he smokes he begins to remember the faces of his brothers from the necromunda 8th, their personalities, and how he knew them all from his homeworld. Before he could finish his smoke, he hears several men shouting from another section of the compound. Swearing, he puts his smoke out and replaces his mask, stalking towards the noise and wondering what the damn idiots had done this time.


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## DasOmen (Mar 10, 2011)

Moskovin stood firmly in place, well firmly would be a lie. his legs were shaking like small wet dogs in the arctic, his left arm had a nervous twitch, and his breathing, even through his helm was somewhat eratic. he wasn't a secret heretic waiting to lunge at the new commander, he wasn't someone hodling controband...this time, and he wasn't pretending someone he wasn't, he simply hated standing on the ground. the thaughts of all of the possible tunneling creatures native to virtuarly every death world known to the imperium whizzing through his mind. he barely heard the sargent's speach as he spoke. he had no real qualms with the man, if anything it seemed requisitions hated him somewhat for giving him boots a tad too big and a sword that's power core was faulty. Moskovin however simply waited for the speach to be over... and then, along with the rest of the platoon, turned on heel, and marched towards the tents. moskovin didn't have his head upwards like the others, his eyes darted across the ground, a nervous twitch in his body as he moved... second they were given the clear to break formation Moskovin lashed out with his pandoran lasso and zipped up to the nearest pole. the magnetic boots shorting out as he tried to anchor himself there... the acid and the mud was not being kind to him or his gear, but he did seem calmer when not on the ground.

deciding against going in with the rest of the platoon moskovin leapt from his perch on the lamp post and zipped to the next, missing the top of it and swung around it as if he was going to mid field to intercept a flying ball in a game of grapnel ball... a mandatory sport on his homeworld. landing with a bit of a skidd moskovin came a few inches away from the officers tent where the commissar had entered... right when he was about to greet the man and offer to sit down for a drink with him, shouting came from the other side of the compound... drawing his rifle moskovin followed behidn the commissar promptly, anouncing his presence so not to startle the commissar 

"Diz one iz at jour zide commizzar, ready un vaiting" he'd anounce, hands firmly gripping his rifle as he quickly followed the commissar. he'd lend the commissar a hand for the disturbance, wanted or not.

((will fix spelling later, have to get back to work))


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## Scythes (Dec 30, 2011)

_Standing at attention in a fairly lazy manner, Praxus was one of the outspoken guardsmen in the formation, mocking “the Big Lieutenant” a few times during his speech. He may have been smacked a couple times by a Commissar, but he felt it was worth it interrupting this idiots speech. As soon as the command "dismissed" was heard he took off running toward his tent to get out of this damn rain. It'd already burned through one pair of boots and gave him a terrible rash on his feet for a couple days. When he got a new pair of boots he also picked up a new treated poncho that he chopped up into pieces to wrap around his new boots. Any extra protection would be great against getting that rash on his feet again. Stripping out of his treated wet weather gear and mask and threw them in a pile in the corner of the tent and sat on his bunk._ "Owe, why am I here? How did I get stuck in such a predicament. I barely made it out of the last war, I don't wanna go to another one," _Said Praxus, then he just laid down on his bunk and tried to push the world away from himself for a little while._


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## Nicholas Hadrian (Mar 20, 2011)

*Mini-Updates for all!*

[OOC] Just to let you know, unless I specifically state what they say, NPCs will only be described in general terms of what they say, you can feel free to fill in their dialogue yourself if you like.

THE COMMISSAR

Men needed ways to entertain themselves.

That was a fact of the Guard.

Unfortunately things… sometimes got out of hand.

Gathered together in a tent, seated comfortably about a table sat five people, clad in black Flak armor, cards gripped in their hands, a large pot of credit chits sitting on the table. Or at least the was the scene five minutes earlier.

Now in its place was a brawl.

A voice outside, in a heavy accent could be heard by Commisar Rhen Udeskee,

”Diz one iz at jour zide commizzar, ready un vaiting.” Announced a metallic face underneath two orange eyes.

**********************************************************
Rhen, Moskovin, Deal with the brawl as you like, choreography of the fight is up to you two for your to determine between you, so communicate.

Three of the gamblers are men, two are women, and right now they’re rather set on beating the living hell out of each other. After the fight, the men and women refuse to speak, each one complaining about having “a friendly argument” broken up.

Gambling is prohibited by regimental mandate, but is not strictly forbidden, more something along the lines of “The Commissar shouldn’t see you doing it.” Brawling however is strictly against the rules, though rarely does it carry a death sentence, except by the most hardnosed commissars. 

You may end the fight inside of one update if you like, but dealing with the situation will come next update, after you have managed to get them all hobbled, on their knees and talking.

**********************************************************
THE FIELD HOSPITAL

Ping.

Ping.

Rain dropped down on the steel roof of the field hospital for the 19th Gregorian Reserves.

The whole building had been thrown up in a hurry, and its shoddy workmanship shone through, despite the best efforts of Dr. Hadrusibal Payne.

One could hear the moans of the dead and the dying, while standing in the lintel, though the only soldiers currently present wore either the white armband of a medic, or the white bandage of the acid-burned.

Perhaps the building itself was prescient.

**********************************************************

Marek, Hastus, you’ve both left the tents with Corporal Maklius’ blessing, deciding to head off to help Dr. Payne, whom has become a good friend in the few days that you’ve known him. 

Hadrusibal Payne is a large man, topping nearly 6 foot 3, his skin a dark chocolate brown, his hair cut into a brush-cut in sort of a bedspring arrangement , he wears a white lab-coat over a brown tee shirt and a pair of fatigue pants, the arms of the coat itself having been ripped off, leaving rough edges. His eyes are almost constantly covered by a pair of dark glasses that he takes off only when examining a patient, revealing a pair of grey, world-weary eyes. Personality-wise, he is a determined, driven fellow, always trying to lessen the suffering of his patients, but taking a sort of no-nonsense attitude, being rough when he has to be, and serving up “tough-love” on a shingle. 

Stepping into the Hospital is fairly unpleasant. From what you can see, Payne himself is napping lightly on a gurney, the entire hall filled with beds, and nearly completely devoid of human life, but for one orderly tapping out keys on a cogitator set up on a desk , and another orderly squeezing out the door in the back. From what you can see the two orderlies are a pair of men with the names “Dornes” and “Saggit” respectively stitched onto their uniforms.

If you choose to speak with Saggit, sitting at the cogitator, he will ignore you and insist he must finish typing these reports.

Speaking with Dornes, the man will walk off, insisting he is in a hurry. His words also seem to be accompanied by a faint, nervous twitch.

Dr. Payne himself proves a difficult man to wake, and provided you do, he will snappishly ask why you woke him up. Marek may engage him in a discussion about the squad’s health, which for the most part is in the pink, with the exception of the ubiquitous minor burns and abrasions.

Haustus may choose to follow Orderly Dornes as he squeezes out the back door. Doing so, Dornes seems to go straight for a large wash-house out back, prompting you to wonder why. Not a minute later he comes out, seeming much calmer, his ever present twitch gone.

**********************************************************

THE COOKHOUSE

Normally the smell issuing from a cookhouse is supposed to be pleasant to experience.

Such was not the case here.

The place was engorged with the stench of grease being burned.

It was enough to turn a rat sick. In fact, if one watched the foundation of the metal roofed building, some imagined they could see rodentia fleeing en-masse.

It wasn't like it was a stretch of the imagination.

**********************************************************
Praxus, you can smell the stink of burning grease almost 90 feet away from the cookhouse. To most men it would be a horrifying travesty of food. To you, having survived on rations best described as “bread-infested mold” it is ambrosia by comparison.

Stepping into the cookhouse, you can see a small frenzy of motion as a number of guardsmen rush about, trying their darndest to fulfill their punishment duties as cooks.

Cooking for the regiment was a punishment in the Gregorian 19th, not because it was labor intensive, but because of the head chef. A small, pot-bellied, ratling by the ironic nickname of “Heather-Toes”.

Gwibspit Heather-Toes, at first sight, small, unintimidating and generally far more threatening to look at than to fight, for the simple fact he broke mirrors when they were held up to him. His nose was perhaps the size of a cherry tomato, dominating the center of his face, which was usually adorned with a corrupt little grin. Perpetually present in his hand, his weapon of choice, a stout wooden spoon.

Apparently, to hear Heather-Toes talk about it, back on Ornsworld, he was an accomplished gourmet. To hear his superiors describe it, he was an abominable sniper who was more of a danger to the man standing next to his target than anything else, a soldier good only for one thing; turning out fuel for the warmachine that is the Guard.

Mecharius had once said of the Imperial Guard that “an army marches on its stomach”. Clearly Heather-Toes didn’t apply to the philosophy, except where he himself was concerned. He is a notorious racketeer, smuggling contraband and illicit goods by the bucketful, yet somehow always managing to keep ahead of the Commissariat by sheer wits alone.

You have a good rapport with Heather-Toes, since you both can agree on two things, you like eating, and you aren’t particularly fond of rules. As such he is quite willing to let you sample a few things from his “private stores” of real cheese, a side of salt Grox he is willing to share with you, some, slightly stale loaves of bread rescued from a bakery and a nice flask of some amasec, “liberated” from the officer’s quarters.

He’ll disappear momentarily before appearing again, as if from nowhere, carrying the ingredients, insisting that it is food for the officers if any of the under chefs ask questions, and then, if you so wish to invite him, sneaking off to join you with a slice of cheese, a loaf of bread and some of the grox stew he furnishes you with, producing a fine cigar after his meal, offering you one and proceeding to smoke it as he sits under the lintel with you, watching the flesh-eating rain.

**********************************************************
TENT 93

More rain.

If there was one thing Urbine Secundus was good at, it was being morose.
In some ways, it reminded you of Kreig.

Unfortunately, the feeling of being home was rarely a comforting one for a Krieger.

**********************************************************

Jochem, after sitting in the tent a while, you can hear Corporal Maklius talking with the two Tallarn brothers, Thrius having disappeared again. 

Carrom and Abdul chat a bit, discussing where they might be stationed next, wondering if the regiment will ever see combat at this rate. 

Salid will pause to wonder out loud when the Vardan column will arrive in the camp, seeing as the re-enforcements of such a veteran and hardened regiment as that one will be greatly welcomed.

After a while, Corporal Maklius will challenge the two heavy-weapon experts to a game of cards, producing a deck and offering you a spot. You may either partake or not, if you so wish. Otherwise you may choose to sit and brood.

After he is eliminated from the game with a loud cry of “Awww!” Carrom will step to the opening of the tent, lifting up the flap, and smoking a lho-stick while staring out into the rain. If you wish you may elect to win the game, in which case the Brothers Tallarn shoot you dirty looks as they pay out, complaining about your gas-mask being an unfair advantage, or they will end up taking you for a small amount of credits. 

**********************************************************

THE GOVENORIAL PALACE
Twenty one.

Number twenty one.

One too many.

Captain Gizhern stared down at Colonel Stackhouse down his long nose.

“Gizhern probably should be standing in my place”. Thought the colonel.

“He clearly thinks so.”

“I hate to do this to a man who’s more senior than I am. I’m a lieutenant! I shouldn’t be here!” argued Stackhouse with himself. Before, unbidden to his mind, rushed thoughts of the Cadian 97th. 

Thoughts of Behemoth.

The planet was marked for death; there was little they could do for that when they arrived. The 97th had been fully cognizant of this fact during landing.

That didn’t stop them from trying to evacuate the planet as the hive fleet rained down horrors upon it.

Colonel Stackhouse could see himself, watching as wave after wave of Gaunts shredded the thin line of Imperial Soldiers. He could see himself, standing above them all, his left arm in tatters, the regimental colors held high in his other hand as he ordered lines of infantrymen forward.

He had been the only officer in his entire regiment to survive the decimation at Arraway. He had been made a colonel on the spot because of it.

Of the 5000 soldiers sent down to the planet, 5 returned. Stackhouse had been one of those men. Because he was there, 50,000 civilians made it off alive.

“I deserve to be where I am standing.” Thought he to himself. He gritted his teeth and spoke.

“Captain Gizhern.”

**********************************************************

Bayle, The colonel seems to almost freeze for a moment when you address him. Then, after a moment of thought he visibly straightens up, staring you directly in the eyes now, pausing only to straighten his cap. He seems more confident than he was a moment ago. 

He speaks to you, talking about the regiment, discussing the importance and need of officers. For the most part it seems rather humdrum to you.

That is until he reaches the point where he talks about captains…

When he reaches this subject you clearly are waiting for him to tell you your assignment, perhaps even a promotion.

Instead he regretfully informs you that already they have too many captains in the regiment, and as such you will have to be reduced in grade to a lieutenant. He already has a command lined up for you. Squad 4, 3rd Platoon, under Captain Aleksandra Romnaevich, a Valhallan woman whom, as you recall, did not take a liking to you, finding you to be abrasive, and a bit unpleasant. 

After being demoted, if you choose you may head off to tents 93 and 94 to meet your new squad, perhaps running into the Commissar on the way, or you may elect to go visit your own tent, the specifics of which I leave up to you.


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## Angel Encarmine (Jul 5, 2011)

walking towards the sound of the commotion, which he saw was a tent, rhen heard a voice behind him. "Diz one iz at jour zide commizzar, ready un vaiting" said a guardsman from the pandoran regiment. Grunting in affirmation, Rhen walked briskly to the tent where the sounds of an obvious brawl were coming from

ripping open the tent flap and stepping inside, Rhen saw that 3 men and 2 women were fighting, intent on beating the hell out of each other. Seeing cards and chips on a nearby table, he quickly came to the conclusion that is was a betting game gone wrong. 

Discarding his poncho, and ripping his protective mask from his face, Rhen turned to the Pandoran who followed him and said a few simple words. " I hope you can fight " he said, smirking before diving into the fray. 

Charging forward, the commissar grabbed the first guardsman, whom was intent on driving his boot into anothers face, by the back of his skull and slammed his head through the table they had used to play their game. As the man went down, Rhen dodged a clumsy blow from a guardswomen, and drove his right fist into her face, breaking her nose and sending blood flying.

As Rhen turned to square off with another of the fighters, he caught a glimpse of another guardsman pulling a knife out of his belt. Slamming his fist into the first mans chest and knocking him back, he turned to the knife wielding guardsman, already knowing he was not fast enough to block the incoming blade. 

Rhen was suddenly greeted with the faint sound of a tether line whooshing as a grapnel latched itself onto the head of the man holding the knife. Collapsing in pain, Rhen looked at the source of the grapnel, grinning as he saw it was indeed the pandorans lasso. Striding up to the knife wielding guardsman who was currently on his knees in pain, he kicked the man in the chest, before addressing all those involved in the brawl.

" I shall overlook the gambling, as well as the fighting, for emperor knows i myself enjoy a good brawl" he said smirking slightly. " But i shall not overlook the cowardly act of drawing a knife when one knows he is outmatched." he said, before nodding to the pandoran

"Avaiting order'z mien Commizzar, Ja, diz one iz avaiting orderz... " said the pandoran, before triggering his rifles las cutter onto the ground at his feet. Drawing his own laspistol, the commissar pointed it at the rest of the guardsman. " On your knees." he demanded, ignoring the whimpering fool with the lasso still clamped onto his head. One of the women was slow to get onto her knees, so Rhen helped her with the butt of his pistol to the back of her head.

Although Rhen found it amusing to watch the man squirm and whimper, he could not speak to him while he had a claw firmly attached to his skull. After giving the man a firm kick to his rear end, he turned to the pandoran_" remove that lasso from the mans face, i would speak with him."__" and make sure these others dont get any bright ideas..."_ he said to the pandoran, holstering his laspistol.


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## DasOmen (Mar 10, 2011)

moskovin became more and more concerned as they neared the tent. for once he was glad a commissar acknowledged his presence, even if the man only grunted in response, something was better than nothing. last thing he wanted to do was follow the commissar into a brawl unannounced and be mistaken for another combatant. as the commissar's pace quickened however Moskovin quickened his march, hands instinctively priming his weapon's capacitors. it wasn't until he entered the tent right behind the commissar that things had revealed themselves to him. it was a game of cards gone wrong, horridly wrong. being a smuggler himself he'd seen these things turn rather ugly. he'd seen people slip blades from their sleeves and even modified combat knives from their pant leg. he'd seen holdout laspistols tucked away inside a chit bag and used on other guardsmen who wanted to collect on a debt that didn't want to be paid back in full. and of course in the guard it was easy to hide bodies provided you killed quietly and were close enough to the body pits where the casualties were dumped in mass in certain camps. so when the commissar turned to him and gave his hopes that the pandoran knew how to fight, a uneasy grin crept across moskovin's face as he rushed into battle alongside the commissar. 

unlike his companion, who had removed his poncho, Moskovin kept his on, acidic dew still clinging to it and in the process of running off. rushing into the fight the first thing he did was rear back with his gun, flip it about and smash the butt of it into the skull of one of the fighters to stun him and cause his opponent to stumble backwards from the butt of it colliding with his forehead. spinning round he removed his poncho in a fluid movement, the ends of it swirling around like a chef tossing pizza dough up into the air, however as it reached it's apex height moskovin gripped hard on the poncho and ripped downwards, spraying the acid that had been collected on the poncho at the man's face, a good amount getting in his eyes. screaming out in bloody murder he recoiled back but not before moskovin leapt forwards, rifle in hand and cracked him in the jaw with it several times. a loud and prominent CRACK CRACK CRUNCH was heard as moskovin dealt a triple threat blow to the man, breaking his jaw and sending him to the ground... the last blow being the hardest. 

turning to try and find another threat, moskovin found the commissar more than holding his own. one man had gone through the table, another woman was on the floor with a broken face, much like moskovin's first opponent, and the commissar was about to engage another foe when the last of the brawlers drew a knife, moskovin's trained eyes catching the glint before it ever left his belt. it felt almost like slow motion as moskovin struggled to raise his arm up to deal with the knife wielding foe. moskovin cursed his slowing reflexes, he could feel the caffeine withdrawal biting at his muscles and mind as he prayed to the emperor he'd make the shot in time. 

the knife wielding trooper rushed the commissar and moved in for a gank, but on the third step with blood lust in his eyes, a strange sound pierced the fighting in the tent as moskovin fired his Pandora's lasso at the armed man intent on stabbing the commissar. the cord whipped through the air, the still closed grapnel shot at the guardsman's skull like a barbaric ballistic missile, passing just a few inches from the commissar's head as he turned to face the knife wielding foe. right as it passed it's head the grapnel opened up it's mandibles, still spinning in the air as it neared the guardsman's head. Moskovin's aim was spot on, and perhaps a little too good.

moskovin's fears about being too late to prevent the commissar from being stabbed subsided with a pounding heart as the slow motion moment seemed to fade. moskovin's shot had been spot on, and perhaps just a little bit too lucky for his liking. the grapnel smacked into the knife wielding guardsman's unsuspecting head with a brutal and sickening Crack. the impact alone breaking the man's nose. the squeezing sensation of the grapnel latching onto the man's head couldn't have been pleasant either given by design it wanted to get a firm grip on it. moskovin watched as the man stumbled backwards falling to his knees and clawing at the pandoran lasso as he gave a muffled scream of pain, agony, and utter terror as the strange device sat latched to his head and possibly felt as if it was crushing his skull. it looked like the man had some kind of strange metallic squid attached to his face. 

rushing up with the first thought on his mind to insure the commissar was unharmed, all thoughts of the commissar being injured faded as he witnessed the coated man firmly kick the terrified guardsmen to the ground. rushing up to him still though Moskovin trained his rifle on the downed man with one arm, while the other was still aiming the lasso at the man, or well as if he was aiming it. the slack in the cord was whizzing up to collect on the spindle of the pandoran lasso so there wasn't so much of a mess around. seeing the commissar nod to him he'd ease up, and snap to attention, or at least a altered form of it as he could only present his arms with one arm at the moment given the other was dedicated to keeping the one guardsmen muzzled for the moment. 

"Avaiting order'z mien Commizzar, Ja, diz one iz avaiting orderz... " Moskovin tried to calm himself some, his mind still racing about trying to figure out which among them had a holdout weapon other than this idiot. in an attempt to quell other idiotic ideas, Moskovin broke his modified present arms and outstretched his rifle arm towards the ground. thumb flicking the setting on his rifle before pulling the trigger. the solid beam of a lass cutter erupted from it and started digging into the ground. not really speaking on why he did it. but the taught of what that thing could do to bulk heads should have been enough to quell other thoughts of dire stupidity such as drawing a las weapon on the commissar or him.

watching as the commissar ordered the lot to their knees moskovin began contemplating punishments the men would face... he also began doing calculations on if their deaths would hamper them or help them. sure less bodies meant less mouths to feed, but also meant less bodies to shoot weapons during an attack. in the pandorans where their numbers were few they solved the issue of that with instead of death sentences for many offenses, they issued heavy duity, kind of the polar opposite of light duity. a person was tasked with carrying a heavy weapon by themselves. no one to help with ammo or setup or anything else... ninety percent of the time unless it was a white cap they were told to carry the punt gun... if any of these guardsmen had to carry such a weapon, he was sure they'd beg for death by the end of the day... then as if to rip him from his thoughts and calculations the commissar ordered him to watch over the bralwers and release the man who's head was slowly being crushed by the lasso...

Moskovin nodded in compliance with the commissar's order to release his target. moving his wrist slightly he'd trigger the lasso and wrench it back towards his arm. the gears and motors inside the launcher whirring to life as the slack was collected around the spindle. "underztood mien commizzar" the pandoran would respond as the man who had the lasso firmly gripped to his face clasped where it had just left, red imprints of the lasso's claw still marking the man's face. turning to the others however moskovin moved his rifle up slightly, removing his finger from the trigger and quickly switching it to semi auto. now he simply had the gun fixed on those in front of him, the remaining four brawlers. he'd stay quiet for the most part as he allowed the commissar to proceed with the interrogation. in his unit, a commissar would normally sentence the lot to punt guns... here, not so much. 

"commizzar" he'd request in a slightly hushed voice. "diz one not mean to intrude, but have vord of zugueztion... ja vord of zugueztion" he'd request, more than fine waiting untill the commissar was done with the man or had the patience to pause. "diz one not be on nergle vorld before... be on nergle zhip dough, ja nergle zhip.. dead not gud to have, nien, dead not gud to have.. juzt vhen jou dink dey be dead, get back up un ztart making much hazzle, ja much hazzle. inztead of making dem dead... perhapz uze oder punizhment... ja oder punizhment... un alzo ztreingden regiment in procezz. ja in procezz... azzing to heavy duity, ja heavy duity... carry un man un arm heavy veapon, on ovn, no elp, nien, no elp. carry, un load, un man, ja carry un load un man.. in crabz, guardzmen vho gamble or retreat, or do zimilarly ztupid ding get zcentence to punt gun... fate vorze den death for pandoran... iz loud az ell, un by de drone eavy...after carry un man for hour, not vant to ever do ztupid ding agian, nien, never again... " the pandoran would shiver at the thaught of being issued the punt gun again... a visible tremor shook the pandoran as a few of the metal plates and void thrusters for zero gravity maneuvering jittered and clackered. mumbling a last "never again" as he watched the guard. 

"on oder and... man did pull knife on commizzar... zo diz one not realy have much to zay to dat oder den very very ztupid move, ja very very ztupid move... ztab commizzar? un den vhat? not make zence, nien, not make zence"


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## brendxb (Jul 18, 2011)

“Bloody planet”, Haston cursed as a drop of the acid rain made its way to his shoulder. He and the Vardan rifles were made to go at a steady jog after their transport was forced to land a relative distance from the imperial base due to the destructive acid rain. Worse yet Haston joked on the transport about his Plasma rifle having a chance of exploding if too much rain got through it, and from this all the other men seemed to put an amount of distance between themselves and the weapon. On its own it wouldn’t bother Haston much, but with limited knowledge of the devastating weapons workings he let his mind wonder if it really could explode due to rain. ‘The imperials would make sure that wouldn’t happen, right?’ he thought to himself before quickening his pace in an attempt to reach the base faster. Soon Haston suddenly took in his surroundings, as well as the actual environment on the fallen planet. He could see flashes of lightning in the distance seaming to each shoot into the very centre of the world, more closer however was what used to be a forest, now all that was left was a pile of burning rotted stumps littered, with broken up, dead soil.
_“You never really liked rain didn’t you”_ he imagined his late brother Michael would reply, “What would you know?” Scoffed Haston, “You’re friggin’ dead” he half muttered to himself. 
“Anyone actually know if we’re headed the right way?!” cried one of the more closer vardans after a quick, sharp curse, probably from an acid rain drop Haston thought, “just over the hill” replied one of the further ahead guardsmen. Good, Haston thought to himself, wincing as another drop evaded his poncho and found its way onto his skin; he wanted to get out of this accursed monsoon.
After a rather heated debate with the base guards, the Vardans finally got their instructions. After good byes were said and teams were broken up, Haston began to seek out his tent or any shelter to get out of the rain, and lay down the heavy standard issue rucksack filled with his belongings.

On his way to his designated tent, Haston saw a rushed commissar followed by a disturbed looking guardsman. _“Wonderin what the bugger and his pet is up too?”_ his subconscious seemed to ask him,_ “Me too.”_ Deciding that his tent was roughly in the same direction, Haston pursued the duo until he watched the commissar walk into a tent making a lot of noise, but, until the guard following him seemed to take out a knife wielding man, he was unaware of the fight. “Just ignore it, and get out before you’re caught in it”, he thought to himself as he made his way to his tent trying to look casual. 
The last Haston heard out of the commissar was “I shall not overlook the cowardly act…” They’re all the same; he thought to himself, ‘kill now, complain later’ and as he heard the sound of a lasweapon firing from the tent Haston gripped his brothers dog tags with whitened knuckles.


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## High_Seraph (Aug 28, 2009)

Standing at attention in the rain "Jochem" was reminded of Krieg. Though not nessecarily a good thing considering it was an atomic wasteland on the surface. Listening to the new Colonel's supposedly inspiring speach made him want to be back with other Kriegers as they just get to the point and let the shells fly before the infantry attack. As he dismissed them "Jochem" walked along wiht his swuad back to thier tent where he took off his poncho and laid on his bunk for a few minutes trying to get some sleep.

After hearing some talking and not being able to fall asleep "Jochem" he swings his legs over the side and shakes his head to clear it. The others were talking about the new people joining the regiment and were pondering where they would be stationed next. Shortly foloowing that Corporal Malkius brought out a deck of cards before being asked by the Corporal to join in a game. Nodding "Jochem" gets up and walks over to the small table. Sitting down he asks, _"So what game are we playing then? If it's new to me would you kindly go easy?"_ after some small laughs they agree and start the game. 

Five minutes of gambling later one of the brothers, Carrom he thought, was eliminated first and the others were hard to read as they kept calm and he wasn't that great at reading people anyways.


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## Scythes (Dec 30, 2011)

_Praxus enjoys his first decent meal in months, maybe years, he's not sure really, just that it's been a long time. The stew wasn't 5-star quality but it was still better than anything he's had recently, and the bread, well, it wasn't moldy, and bread is bread, so it worked for him. After the meal he sat on the lintel and talked with Heather-Toes about the base they were at and this Emperor-forsaken world they were on while enjoying liberal amounts of the amasec and the fine cigar. Praxus felt almost like royalty, except that he was stuck in a uniform he didn't like, on a world that he had no idea where he was, on a base full of people he'd rather not get to know, in a never-ending rainstorm that could kill you if you weren't protected properly. _

"So, Toes, how can I get my hands on some more of this amasec? I could use another bottle or four. What's it gonna take for something like that?" _He asks idly while chuckling to himself as he watches some officer scurry through the rain trying not get his face eaten off by the acidity of it._ "I think if you can keep in amasec while I'm here, at a reasonable price, and possibly the location of some attractive, promiscuous females, we can very good friends."


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## Jackinator (Nov 18, 2008)

*Marek Nye*

The young Colonel's speech had been predictable, but then they always were. Rarely was there any truly inspiring leader, and they never lasted long in any case. It wasn't fair, Marek mused, that those who loved the men they led had to die for them Jared Colm had died because of that too. Marek's old Colonel had loved his men, but he'd led from the front and that had been his downfall.

Still, the man seemed sincere, perhaps he would be a good leader too, Marek was not one to judge on first appearances. It was hardly a good quality in his job, he'd seen plenty of men, murderers, martyrs. All sorts came in, asking for his help, they all got it. He wasn't going to let a man die on his watch, not if he could help it. It had got him into trouble before, contravening orders to save a crippled man, but he was too good to let go just like that. They had to keep him around, even if he pissed off the Commissariate. There weren't many trained doctors, not even enough for one in a platoon, let alone a squad, he and Payne were the only full doctors, when they hit the combat zones it was going to get messy.

He blinked as he realised he had actually walked into the Field Hospital. For a moment he stood in the doorway, seeing what it would become in his minds eye. Orderlies desperately trying to mop the blood-slicked floor while crippled and maimed troopers screamed in pain. He shook it from his mind, knowing it would come soon enough.


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## Santaire (Feb 13, 2011)

Urbine Secundus was a hell hole, no doubt about it. Just typical then that Segmentum Command would send the Patchwork Companies; people they thought were already as good as dead. To hell with them. They thought they were going to die when among the soldiers of the Patchwork Companies some of the most efficient and deadly killers in the guard could be found. Cowardice was alien to them, the long war had taught them that fear is a weapon used by the enemy. So they fought. They fought the Archenemy that had turned their backs on the Emperor.

In days like this, where the shells are pounding around me and people are dying all up the line I remember my time on that war torn planet, the friends I made and the soldier’s I saw die.

My name is Hastus Nye and this is my story...


I stood in the pouring rain and cursed beneath my gas hood. Why oh why couldn’t the Lord General actually use his brain for a change and bombard the planet from orbit. The way he was acting his brain would be more useful as a football than as the natural computer powering his entire body. Doubtless he had some cover story about ‘important relics’ or ‘critical mining areas’ and would be back up by either the spineless idiots in the munitorium or the straight backed arrogant swine in the Ecclesiarchy who didn’t care as long as their palms were greased with silver by the end of the campaign.

Despite all this I was not one of the ones who shouted at our new colonel as he climbed atop a hastily constructed stage. I was disciplined, commissar Mercutio had done his work well yet still it was difficult to resist the urge. We were being commanded by a lieutenant who had only just been promoted while captains in the regiment were put aside. He may have been a Cadian with a brilliant command record but that didn’t stop the officers from being disgruntled, captain Ghizhern in particular, the arrogant Volpone. Not that I had any respect for him or his views. He was a stuck up fool in my opinion but knowing my luck he’d probably end up as our platoon commander.

“Gentlemen,” the Colonel cried. A protesting chorus came from the female soldiers in the regiment. “And Ladies,” Stackhouse shouted in placation. “Welcome to Urbine Secundus.” I resisted the urge to sprint up there and punch him in the face. From the jeers coming from others in the regiment I knew I was not alone in this. “I’m not going to give you a long speech.” There was a cheer from several members of the regiment at these words that the colonel promptly ignored as he continued.

“But I am going to tell you this. I know I am not liked by any of you. Hell, some mornings I don’t like myself. But I can tell you this. I understand you. I rose up from the ranks. I have gone through the same hell you will. And here I am now. A green colonel with jackboots two sizes too big and an old power sword that the techpriests insist “will be working properly by the time we reach combat.” There was a scattering of laughter among the ranks as he said this. “I’m not saying I can understand all of you; we come from a host of different worlds, customs, backgrounds and regiments, each with their own traditions, customs and battle plans. Segmentum Command expects this to be our undoing. I plan to make it our strength. Segmentum Command and the Munitorium broth expect us to disappear into the mist of war and not walk out again.”

“I intend to prove them wrong! Who’s with me?” There was a half-hearted cheer from the ranks as they were dismissed after these defiant words. I turned and began to trudge towards the medical tent where my father would probably be working. Marek Nye was the perfect medic, always having the time to listen to concerns and help with problems. Me, I went there to get my bionic eye checked out, the scar tissue was beginning to fade although there was still a chance of infection even at this late stage. My father was already there when I arrived and I watched as he paused and could guess what he was thinking, picturing in his mind’s eye the bloody hell this currently pristine medical facility would become.

I removed my gas mask and was about to walk up and talk to him when one of the orderlies, Dornes, knocked into me. He muttered a hasty apology and I noticed his hand’s twitching. I paused, confused and when he left the tent I followed him, seeing him walk into the washhouse out back and return a few minutes later with his normal twitch gone. Then I knew. He was on some kind of narcotics. Something way more extreme than Iho sticks Well I wasn’t going to stand for that. I walked up to him casually before suddenly and with blinding speed slamming him against a wall. “What are you on,” I spat. He stared at me in fear and I snarled again “what narcotic are you on Dornes.” I kept him pinned against the wall as I waited for a response.


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## Rems (Jun 20, 2011)

Captain Gizhern stood attentively, smiling condescendingly and making small sounds of agreement as the young Colonel Stackhouse extolled the virtues of the Imperial Guard and its officer corps. While it was refreshing to see that the Colonel evidently understood the ways things worked and had an appreciation for the established order Gizhern did wish that Stackhouse would just get on with it and give him the details of his command, Volopone Regiments prided efficiency. 

So it was that as the Colonel continued, getting into the heart of his speech Gizhern patiently listened to the utter ruination of his honour, and command position. His smile became a frozen rictus of disbelief as his right eye began to twitch and his fists slowly clenched and unclenched of their own accord. He was gobsmacked. For the first time in his life the Voloponian officer had been denied and humiliated, he had been disrespected. Things like that just did not happen to those of his station. 

Several courses of action suggested themselves as the Colonel droned on, Gizhern barely hearing. He could, the Captain- Lieutenant now, simply punch the smaller man in the throat, rip his head off and run off naked into the acid rain, buckling under the weight of shame. That was one option. Another option was to get in touch with his family; they were powerful and respected Imperial nobility afterall, he was sure that he could ruin this young puke’s life and career with words in the right ear. Or he could disregard such petty vengeances and instead acknowledge the Colonel’s orders, obey the chain of command and do his Emperor given duties to the utmost of his abilities. 

Gizhern was in turmoil as he stood rigid, feelings of pride, honour and dignity battling with rigid military discipline and a fierce devotion to the Emperor and the Imperial Creed, traits instilled in all sons of Volopone. He knew not what to do. Personal honour and the credo of his House demanded he avenge himself yet such actions were against all tenants of the Imperial Guard. By correcting one disgrace he would create another. 

Breathing heavily and swallowing roughly Gizhern decided on the latter course of action and for the first time in his life, swallowed his pride. Striking Stackhouse, as tempting as it was, would no doubt be punished severely by the Commissariat and only worsen his position. Rash action was not what was required but instead patience. He would take this indignity and soldier on. He would regain his former position in time, then rise even higher wiping out the stain to his honour and bringing glory to his house. 

He would not forget this insult however. He would go now and do his duty to his utmost but he would not, could not forget. An apparent calm descended on the former Captain as he stiffly saluted and made a parade perfect about face. Squaring his shoulders he marched into the rain, an icy rage locked in his heart.

Stalking off through the acid rain he made his way to tents 93 and 4, wanting to take the measure of his new command. Runners and wardens flinched from his path as they saw the huge figure coming, a thunderous scowl on his face.


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## Nicholas Hadrian (Mar 20, 2011)

[OOC] Sorry the update too so long, technical difficulty mixed with schedule difficulty combined to do nasty things to me. So in the end I had to end up writing this thing twice since the server ate the original, so I’m kind of writing this one on empty, and for that I apologise, let me know in the OOC thread if you guys need more details and on what and I’ll edit this post to provide..

THE WAR BEGINS

A tide came slowly in.

A tide clad in decaying yellow plastic, like a tide of diseased human piss.

They bore guns of terrible make and design, created with only the purpose of causing as much pain as possible.

Banners of lurid green and ragged cloth flapped limply from shoddy poles.

A slow chant, its phonics distorted, difficult to make out or understand rushed forward ahead of them like a wave. Listening to it too long could make a man go mad. Listening to it for even a brief while could make his ears bleed.

They were also slowly marching up the hill.

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All: This is it, the big one. Not all of you see it yet, but you will, and some will notice or find out right away. Don’t react to this particular bit unless you are either explicitly told that you may in your personal instructions or if another player “tells” you about the encroaching Chaos platoon. For the most part, I will tell you when you start to notice what is going on.

Major events that you may choose to incorporate into your posts are, in order; a shell coming out of nowhere to strike down one of the watchtowers, obliterating it, a mob of sudden confusion and panic as men try to figure out what is going on, several officers coming out to calm the men, one being shot in the shoulder by a sniper, before the sniper himself is eliminated (it may be one of you if you wish, run it by me first via PM), the men rushing to gather their equipment and getting into formation to repel the attack, several tanks starting up to engage the enemy, and finally, loading into a chimera to join the counterattack.
You may add details as you like, but, please try to avoid things TOO out of place.

You may take part in any part of this after or at the same time as events you know about, so if your post says you hear the officer being shot by the sniper, you may take part in that and any events after it, but you may not take part in events relating to the flash mob or the watchtower being blasted apart. For this most part, this is just for future reference, so remember this.

Also, letting you all know, yes, this has been just the beginning and you all are writing good stuff, but I want moar! Longer posts! More writing! I demand moar! Also, double check your posts gentlemen, if need be, do like me and write them out in Word first.

***************************************************************************************************
A GAMBLE

Rain poured down in sheets of whitish green, looking for all the world like bleach being poured on the ground.

This bleach however would not wash away some stains.

Blood spattered the ground, moaning men and women, clad in black fatigues kneeled, on their knees in the mud.

Commissar Rhen Udeskee planted the muzzle of his laspistol against the head of one.

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Rhen, Moskovin, You now have the men and women prone, the fight is broken up, and you are considering killing a man for drawing a knife. For all intents and purposes it appears as if you will do so. I leave the exact details of any mercy or execution to you. You can choose either.

After, or perhaps even before that you can choose to head off, or react to either the big situation, or to Haston. If you choose to react to the big situation, then you may elect to do whatever you like, either going to meet the rest of the squad, perhaps commandeering a nearby vehicle or what have you, send me a PM when the two of you decide what to do. The situation itself first makes its presence known when a large shell comes flying out of the air and smashes into the side of one of the makeshift watchtowers nearby, collapsing it. If you choose you may attempt to rally the men, or calm them, if you do so there is a chance the gamblers may escape.

Haston, as you are approaching the Commissar and his new adjutant, you end up passing over a section of wall and nearly do a double take when you see the enemy gathered below. You may elect to either run to the commissar to warn him, or you may elect to do something else entirely, just send me a PM if you choose to go off somewhere else. This takes place before the shell smashes the watchtower apart.

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Marek, As you walk into the Hospital, you can attempt to strike up a conversation as I described in the last update, if you do so you will be able to talk for a while before hearing the sudden “crump” of the watchtower being blown apart. You may either choose to find your son, start helping prepare the hospital for intake of the wounded, or grab your gun and go to join the rest of your squad. Or you can PM me if you have an idea for something else entirely.

Hastus, You have Dornes by the neck, he gives a trenchant response along the lines of “What the hell are you doing?”, if you continue to try and get something out of him he tries to push you off, protesting his innocence the whole while, before you are both interrupted by the sound of the exploding watchtower. By the time you’ve reacted to it he’ll have managed to push you off, being quite strong for such a wiry fella, and will have made it out the door by the time you catch up to him. Feel free to join your father, or head out to join the squad. Be sure to collaborate!

***************************************************************************************************
THE COOKHOUSE PORCH

Smoke curled up in soft plumes, bringing with it the scent of sweet, slightly cinnamon scented tobacco.

These were very nice cigars indeed.

The rain continued to pour, buckets of it falling by the minute, straight upon the head of any poor sod unlucky enough to be out in it.

Luckily you aren’t one of those sods.

A loud explosion, a shattering boom and the world shakes beneath you.

Are you sure you aren’t about to be one?

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Praxus, you and Heather-Toes are enjoying a nice smoke listening to the rain, stomachs full for the first time in quite some time, when you hear the sound of the watchtower being destroyed, you can react to the situation as you like, either running off the join the squad, joining Heather-Toes in defense of the kitchen compound, or heading toward the fighting. Heather-Toes himself will begin gathering the kitchen staff, pulling a number of lasrifles from a concealed cabinet, ones you can instantly tell have been more than a little… retouched shall we say? Before handing them out to the staff, and you if you choose to stay. Heather-Toes himself will grab one, cigar still protruding from his mouth before slipping on a pair of foot covers and a poncho before leading the kitchen staff and men on punishment detail with him.

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TENT 93

A nice night for gambling.

But then, any night was a good one for gambling as far as your average Guardsman was concerned.

Just so long as the stakes weren’t that Guardsman’s life.

This wasn’t a particularly good night for a gamble then.

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Jochem , You’ve won the card game it seems, much to the displeasure of the Brothers Tallarn, whom are now sitting in the corner muttering to one another about the unfairness of playing cards with a man wearing a mask. The corporal is sitting at the flap of the tent, looking out into the rain, smoking a lho stick, if you care to join him.

If you wish, you may sit on your cot to count your winnings, or spend a bit of time merely sitting in thought.

Anything you choose to spend your time doing will invariably be interrupted by the sound of a loud explosion, the rest of the squad diving for their guns, Corporal Maklius ordering the Brothers Tallarn to grab their heavy Bolter and head straight for the sound, ordering you to fall in with them as well. You can argue with the corporal if you wish, suggesting you either gather the rest of the squad or perhaps, simply go to inform the officers about the situation. Or you can choose to investigate along with the Corporal and brothers. If you choose to follow them you head straight for the compound gate. Along the way you all may run into Lieutenant Gizhern.

Bayle, You walk out of the Colonel’s office feeling completely poleaxed. Demoted and shamed, all in the name of a number arbitrarily pushed on you by the Segmentum Command.

It’s enough to make a man swallow his gunbarrel. Or make someone else do it for him.

But still, make the best of it, isn’t that the Volpone way?

You are walking along the compound, making a beeline for the tents at the far end of the column when you hear a loud explosion, and turn just in time to see one of the watchtowers, a barely held together stone and mortar construction, falling down like a poorly stacked house of cards.

At roughly the same time, though you have little to no idea who they are yet, you see a mob of several soldiers, two Tallarns, who bear a distinct resemblance to one another, and a fresh-faced, handsome young fellow with a Corporal’s stripe, and potentially, a man clad in black fatigues and Krieger Deathmask bringing up the rear. You may choose to interact with them as you feel fit, be sure to commiserate with High_Seraph about what you choose to do. You can then accompany them to the gates if you wish.

There you have it, let me know if you need details or if there’s anything I need to fix, but for now, I badly need sleep. Night fellas.


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## Angel Encarmine (Jul 5, 2011)

Listening to the pandoran guardsman speak, Commissar Rhen Udeskee could not help but agree with him. Looking around the tent, he noticed that the men and woman who had been involved in the fight were glaring at him fiercely, almost daring him to execute them. _"on oder and... man did pull knife on commizzar... zo diz one not realy have much to zay to dat oder den very very ztupid move, ja very very ztupid move... ztab commizzar? un den vhat? not make zence, nien, not make zence"_ were the last words he heard from the pandoran, Moskovin was his name, he saw looking closer at the mans armor.

_"I happen to agree with our pandoran friend here, you pathetic whelps, and you may all consider yourselves lucky that i do not wish to end your lives where you kneel._ he said, nodding at the kneeling guardsmen. Walking over towards the broken table, Rhen knelt and scooped up the credit chits in his hands, before walking over to Moskovin and handing him half the pot. Tucking his half of the credits into a pocket of his coat, he continued to speak. _ " however, i am not willing to overlook the attempted murder of a member of the commissariat."_ He said, before turning and leveling his laspistol at the head of the offending guardsman.

_" for the attempt on my life, i sentence you t-"_ were all that he was able to say before hearing the unmistakable sound of a shell falling out of the sky. Diving for cover, he heard a crash and felt the ground rumble as the shell detonated. Staggering to his feet, Rhen tore aside the cover to the entrance to the tent, just in time to watch a guard tower fall to the ground. _" forget the heavy weapons, you guardsman shall prove your worth against the enemies of the Imperium. Redeem yourselves in battle, and I shall overlook your mistakes. Follow Me!_ he shouted at them, before putting on his poncho and mask and tearing out of the tent.

Running full speed out of the tent, the commissar skidded to a halt as he saw the glorious sight of a Leman Russ tank idling not 50 feet away. Grinning, he shouted to the men that they would take the tank, before sprinting full speed at it. Climbing up the side of the Russ, he opened the hatch and dragged out a bewildered driver. _"In the name of the Emperor, I am commandeering this tank, when my men are all aboard you will take us to the enemy or i will have you shot. _ he yelled into the mans face, before dropping him back into the tank. 

Watching the men sprint up to the tank and board it, the commissar could not help but see a lone guardsman jump into the cockpit of a chimaera, and as he heard the engine turn over again and again, he jumped down from the tank and ran over to help him. Seeing that the guardsman was attempting to hotwire the chimaera, guardsman Haston he noted, Rhen grabbed him by the back of his uniform and all but dragged him to the tank. _" if you are so eager to fight, then you shall accompany us to the front line"_ he spat, shoving Haston at the tank. As they mounted up, Commissar Rhen Udeskee stood halfway out of the top hatch brandishing his powersword. _"FORWARD"_ he roared at the men, eager to join the battle.


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## Santaire (Feb 13, 2011)

I still had Dornes pinned and he began to splutter in outrage but I saw a flash of fear in his eyes. He was screaming in my face “Get off me! Get the fuck off me you fucking maniac!” I just shook my head, punched him in the gut and slammed his face off the wall. I dragged him upright and he pushed himself away. He was protesting his innocence the whole time and I was just about to body tackle him to the ground when there was a sudden explosion. I spun and saw the watchtower collapsing.

He kicked me away and ran for the door. I sprinted after him and then past him, snarling “I’ll deal with you later, now help my father.” I came to a halt in the centre of the tent and shouted “Marek!” I saw him look up and nodded to him and ran for the door. I paused there and turned, raising a hand in silent farewell. He echoed the gesture and then I ran back into the rain. I joined up with my squad and saw Ghizern coming towards us with an expression that managed to be both furious and disgusted at the same time. Just perfect. No doubt he was our commanding officer.

My lasrifle was already up as we ran. Though I was jolting from side to side the gun never moved more than a millimetre. There were only 3 things in my world, my weapon, my squad and the enemy. An officer was shot in the shoulder with a sniper and I brought my lasgun round. My HUD showed the range. 200 yards without a scope. No problem. I brought the rifle’s butt to my shoulder and looked down the sight. The weight of the weapon was comforting. I had killed hundreds of heretics with this one weapon.

I breathed in and held it, pausing in my run for a second. I focussed on the face of the sniper. I exhaled and pulled the trigger at exactly the same time. The rifle slammed backwards into my shoulder and the round, white hot, crossed the intervening space in a nano-second. It slammed into the heretic’s forehead and he fell from his position. He was already dead. I was quite possibly the only person in the company who could have made that shot. Even the snipers would find it nigh impossible.

I had earned more marksmen’s lanyards than any 2 of them put together, maybe even any 3 of them. My accuracy percentage on the rating was 94 with no trouble, my best being 99 on 2 occasions. Indeed the only reason I wasn’t carrying a needle pattern lasrifle was because I has chosen not to, I worked better with the standard weapon. And the weapon I carried now contained memories. I had used the same lasrifle since first being recruited for the Kessalan 3rd. It had served me well all the way up to the destruction of my regiment and the death of all my friends. I’d be damned if I gave it up.


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## DasOmen (Mar 10, 2011)

moskovin rushed to follow his commissar as he made his way outside. moskovin possibly saw the tank before the commissar did and his steps had a visible perk to them as he darted after the commissar as he took command of the tank. relying on another driver was like sticking a knife in moskovin's gut, but he'd abide the commissar's order... least till the driver proved incompotant that was, then he'd yank the driver free in an effort to better command the vehicle's machine spirit to deal death to the enemies of the emperor. 

as the driver was dropped down into the vehicle moskovin scrambled atop to the turret and climbing inside the hatch almost frantically, not frantic as in he's going to be shot and afraid for his life, but frantic in a odd sense that he seemed releaved that his feet no longer touched the ground. as he climbed inside moskovin immediately went about prepping his "new home" so to speak. making sure everything was up to par, and if it wasn't, making damn sure it was for the battle ahead. moskovin was no tech pries, but he did seem to have a gift for vehicles.


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## brendxb (Jul 18, 2011)

‘Just leave it’ Hanson thought ‘keep fighting every purge threatening humanity. Unless they pretend to follow humanity’. “At least I know that I’m fighting for what’s right.” He said to himself as he continued to walk through the base heading for his designated tent, knowing his belongings were out of the acid rain, he decided to take the long way across the wall where he was sheltered from the rain, for as he found out his poncho did little to protect him from it. However not long after he caught a flash in his peripheral vision. He looked through one of the many holes in the camps so called walls, but as he checked the horizon almost relieved he saw nothing, but as he began to turn away he saw a horde of chaos filth well beyond the safe distance. Finding himself locked at the growing force he began to slowly unpack his plasma gun knowing far too well that any chaos marine might see his movement and pick him off before he can signal help. Still almost as soon as he had weapon ready he saw a sudden movement from the force. Knowing how chaos worked he did the only sensible option, and ran like hell. Only a few seconds later he heard a crashing noise as chaos artillery smashed apart one of the more distant fortifications. “Crap! Crap! Crap!” Haston screamed as he dashed between the other guardsmen but unlike them he knew just where he was going. As soon as he entered the armoury he heard a not so distant crack of a sniper before a volley of lasgun shots fired in response, and after spending half a second to not so elegantly blow the lock of the weapon cabinet he grabbed a handful of charges for his rifle and as much grenades as he could “you never go halfway do you?” he thought his brother would say, and as Haston dashed to the vehicle section he mummed under his breath “I really don’t do I”.
“Well grenades are always handy just remember to throw them.” His sub conscious seemed to tell him. Soon he heard alarm bells wail and orders for units and soldiers to fight, “about damn time!” he yelled allowed as he clambered into an unmanned Chimera seeking it as a way to reinforce the defence. “You do have the key right?” he imagined Michael almost sarcastically saying “crap… well we used to hotwire old cars back in Varden how different could it be?” Haston said as he slid to the control panel and began crossing wires with what seemed to be eloquence and skill “correction I hotwired the cars you would either set the alarm off or break it” He imagined Michael saying, and as if on cue an alarm went off from the Chimaera before being cut off as smoke rose from the engine. Still he suddenly the loud growling of the engine start, and as Haston was about to pat himself on the back he realised it was coming from behind him. As he turned around he found himself being grabbed by a commissar who said with a familiar voice " if you are so eager to fight, then you shall accompany us to the front line" he almost spat. Shocked at the sudden change of events he found himself being flung into the back of a lemon Russ with a crazed commissar standing at the top of the hatch yelling at the top of his lungs with a shaking pilot looking about as if he was actually more calm about what was happening than he would if nothing had happened at all. Loading his plasma gun as the tank drove forward he almost dared any snipers to try and shoot the commissar just to see his reaction as he scrambled into the tank shaking. That was after all the best parts of the job seeing the men who impose fear in their men cower back. They’re all the same commissars, “cowards” he said under his breath as he readied for another battle and flicked his safeties of as his weapon glowed blue.


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