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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 1, 2023 4:23:17 GMT -5
You have been remitted to the medicae bay for an inspection. The Adept Biologis in charge of the post has gravely informed you that, due to prolonged chemical exposure on the Laramie front, you have developed a form of cancer that requires treatment. You’re a field officer, not a medic, so you ask them how such a malady works. A creeping thing, they say. It turns the Good of the Holy Human Form upon itself. You are still uncertain.
The Adept reaches into your own folder of officers’ map-books and charts with their deft medical mechadendrite. They show you maps you drew yourself – charted trenches of Chaos troops, a crawling, malingering line of saps and fire trenches. Their guns and siege crawlers shell districts into rubble and mud, then their hordes of militia turn that rubble into more entrenchments. It could almost be called a living thing, a creature of dug-out synapses, growing larger as the time stamps on the maps creep onwards. Every day, their snaking trenches eat a little more of Martyrs’ Hold away. Every day, they get harder to stop.
That, the Adept says, is cancer. Unfortunately, you now understand them all too well.
Laramie’s Hope
Martyrs’ Hold, Outer Sectorum #22-Aleph-54913/109-A
Ongoing Glorious Reclamation of the Eightfold Star“Piss-awful weather,” one trooper muses. Mhm, the other grunts with non-committal apathy. They both say the exact same thing at the start of every single watch rotation. They haven’t been wrong yet. Leadbelchers. Better even, Onyx One-Six. The Reclaimers’ finest siege infantry, a core of sappers, trench raiders, and storm-troopers without compare in their ranks. They bear lacquered black flak-plate bedecked in fetishes and sigils of the Eightfold Star, as do most Reclaimers, though their armaments betray their specialisation – Lucius-pattern arms, long-necked lasrifles with battered wooden stocks, their ends spear-tipped in wickedly sharp bayonets. A Guardsman would likely only mount their bayonet when ordered to affix – Chaos, meanwhile, feels no need to remove them. Nothing keeps morale up quite like the omnipresent threat of a good, brutal stabbing. Raining. Always raining. The sheer amount of ordnance fired and kicked-up debris from the wrack and ruin worked upon Martyrs’ Hold has afforded its skies a near-permanent mourning shroud of grey and greyer still, the rain taking watch whenever the ash clouds rest. The two trenchers sit under a jury-rigged canvas sheet covering the command post’s entrance, a ‘temporary’ construction that, as with all temporary things in the trench lines, has lasted longer than anyone bothers to remember. They puff at lho-sticks, accompanied solely by the dull chitter-chatter of rain on the duckboards. An Ecclesiarchal abbot in one of the outlying districts once furnished his entire personal study with such wood, expensively sourced from off-world. One wonders how they would have thought of it now, a dozen planks among thousands, placed solely to be trod underfoot. The rumble of the big guns, ever constant, subtly changes in tempo. Sit in the trenches long enough and you’ll learn the cues of advance and retreat by that sound alone. “Zharr’s running his guns again,” one trooper muses, his tone the harsh bark of Reclaimer traitor-cant. “Wonder what’s got his spirits up.” “Inhaled too much fyceline powder, I’d say. Or he’s got the chance to shell our own men again.” The two troopers share a bitter chuckle, their opinion of this salient’s ‘arch-artillerist’ not exactly high. Unsubtle fanaticism may well suit the common rabble, but the Leadbelchers hold themselves to a higher standard of discipline than the rank and file of the Host of Chaos. They are above it, they say. It is but one of many lies they tell themselves. “Who’s in charge of the Push this time?” Heavier shelling always precedes an advance, and if it’s not them, it’s someone else. A grunt. “Kvekler.” “Kvekler!” The trooper hawks a gob of derisory spittle, instantly lost in the mud of the trench. “Kharneth’s Teeth, that bastard couldn’t find water in a river! And they think he’s going to find the weak point in the lines?” “He’ll find the minefields for us if we’re lucky.” Tch. “He’ll find all the scabbin’ glory if we’re not.” The endless ennui of trench warfare cuts all the harder when the allure of glory for Chaos is a constant, nagging pressure in one’s mind. Death and glory in the name of the Eightfold Star is a better fate than sitting here, little more to think about than whether it’s time to fix one’s boots or not (unless one fancies inviting Narrglath’s Rot, and only the nutters in the plague corps consider the Trench Mother’s ‘blessings’ a welcome thing). Inside the dug-in command post, the Leadbelchers’ commander – Myrvec Laren, prefect, siege-chieftain of the Onyx One-Six – goes about his business, whatever that may be. It is not his lessers’ place to question, unless they feel they have the strength to challenge him. All who have thus far have been found wanting. The troopers offer their customary nod to the last challenger who questioned the Prefect’s will. “Piss-awful weather, eh, Vacuo?”, they chuckle darkly. Vacuo remains silent at his post above the command station. Heads on pikes aren’t usually talkative. |
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Post by Fate's End on May 1, 2023 22:28:22 GMT -5
Today she stood out. To be fair she was playing yet another part.
She'd felt a momentary tug. A whisper, here on this world was perhaps something she could use. Lots of people here who worshiped the gods. Maybe they'd help. Maybe they wouldn't. That was up to her to find out. So she'd left her pet Ogryn back on Haven's Garden to start setting up the plan, and she convinced a particularly hilarious sorcerer to get her to this damned shrine world built and named after a lie. "Saint" Laramie. She snorted, it was so immensely funny if only people knew the truth.
A woman who went by many names, but mostly Ruse. She stepped quickly along soggy duckboards, rain drenching her flat-cap and current ensemble. A soggy greatcoat, once incredibly purple, now mostly just---brown-ish? A touch of blue . . . Anyways. She was armed, but only with a laspistol. If they shot her, she'd live, or she wouldn't. The prize was enticing, and she needed to see if she could convince some of these upstanding hypocrites to help her claim it.
She modulated her voice, falling into a character made up on the spot and just as easily dropped if needed. Her normally soft, almost sultry voice took on a harder and grittier edge, "Oi! Is this the Onyx One-Six? I'z told to find the Onyx One-Six." She approached along the duckboards, moving with confidence but also with her hands clearly away from her sides, no immediate threat . . . Water dripped down her face, a curl of hair sullenly covering half of her left eye. She resembled at the moment almost nothing more than a bedraggled rat in a coat.
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 1, 2023 23:27:55 GMT -5
"Oi! Is this the Onyx One-Six? I'z told to find the Onyx One-Six." She approached along the duckboards, moving with confidence but also with her hands clearly away from her sides, no immediate threat . . . Water dripped down her face, a curl of hair sullenly covering half of her left eye. She resembled at the moment almost nothing more than a bedraggled rat in a coat. The two troopers regard this newcomer with the same manner they regard any newcomer – their lasrifles go from slung over their shoulders to being held lazily over their chests. Not engagement stance, but not far off, either. If the ragged vagrant has made it this far through the rear lines without other patrols sending an alert, either she’s meant to be here, or she’s a right sneaky little beggar. If anything, her clear stance as a non-threat is more suspicious than the alternative. Chaos trusts itself to not trust itself, after all… “What’cher want them for?”, one of them barks. Crow’s bones, that’s a scraggy mess if ever I saw one. This what passes for soldiery these days? “An’ told by who?” A runner from the front?, the other muses. “If you’re from Kvekler’s lads, scrag off! Bastard can wine and dine on the minefields for all we care.” Vacuo’s forlorn head, up on its pike, offers no such interrogation. |
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Post by Fate's End on May 2, 2023 22:26:48 GMT -5
Ruse slowed her approach, ending it a few seconds after their challenge. If the reputation was to be believed, these were dangerous men and women. Approaching closer without invitation would just get her shot, and that would be awkward. "e'ard it from Castor over in the 97th Mudbiters!" She cried out without hesitation, referencing a spectacularly misbegotten unit several miles away. "I gots a priority target needs thumping. Word in the trenches is that the Onyx One-Six might be able to pull it off and hit the bastards where it hurts."
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 3, 2023 4:19:07 GMT -5
"Ninety-seventh? Ninety-se - pguah!" The first trooper hawks spittle. "Wouldn't know a priority target if it shot them in the arse!"
"What did you expect? Hear their chieftain's a Cadian. Thin-blooded and weak!"
"Ninety-scabbin'-seventh, I'd trust the trench rats to get a job done over them!"
"'ey now, not too loudly, don't want the rats gettin' ideas."
The troopers' laughter is a series of harsh barks, bitterly derisive. The first takes a puff from his lho stick, as the second stubs his spent stick out.
"G'won then. What's this priority target of yours, then? A field kitchen? The Colonel's pantaloon reserves? Some of the rubble been lookin' at them funny?"
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Post by Fate's End on May 8, 2023 21:26:55 GMT -5
She ignored the jibes. She didn't care about the ninety-seventh, she barely even knew of their existence. Just enough to know they were nearby, but not exceptionally close. "Oh," She replied cheerfully, still not moving closer. "Jus' the holy home o' the vaunted Saint 'erself!" A grin flashed across Ruse's face. "Who do I talk to about trying to convince someone to hit the corpse-worshippers where it actually hurts?"
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 9, 2023 5:15:19 GMT -5
"Oh," She replied cheerfully, still not moving closer. "Jus' the holy home o' the vaunted Saint 'erself!" A grin flashed across Ruse's face. "Who do I talk to about trying to convince someone to hit the corpse-worshippers where it actually hurts?" "Every scabbin' bastard who digs up a funny lookin' bone thinks he's found a treasured relic of the Saint," the first spits. "Why else d'you think Shrine Worlds get so karkin' big? Every other deacon's got a back-room in his estate that the Saint stopped at for a chat." "...well, it don't matter if it ain't real if they think it's real, does it? An' if yer think about it, every relic of the False God's a lie, so what makes the 'real' ones any less fake?" "You've been thinking again. You know that ain't healthy." "Ain't wrong though, is I?" The first raises a finger to retort, then pauses, taking a long drag of their lho stick as they mull over a response. "...it would be nice to gut a few more priests." Mhm. "Hound's owed his due." The two troopers nod to one another in apparent unison of thought, but still regard the bedraggled 'courier' with several degrees of distrust (and a smattering of disrespect for added flavour). At last, the first trooper deigns to give a reply. "Aaaaaallright!" He stamps the butt of his lasrifle on the duckboards with a hearty, rhythmic thuk-thuk. "We'll let you inquire with the Chieftain. But we'll 'ave our eye on you, little scragger. Nothing funny, or it'll be your bones out for the Hound." "No tongue-waggin' neither," the second concurs. "Prefect don't like them what waste his time. He won't leave 'nough for the corpsers to put back together. Just ask Vacuo an' his mates, eh?" The forlorn heads and skulls atop their pikes, thoroughly miserable looking in the rain, say more in silence than words ever would. |
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Post by Fate's End on May 15, 2023 0:55:57 GMT -5
Ruse tapped her flatcap with great flair, smiling brightly at the guards. "I only occasionally wag my tongue." She called out cheerfully, moving inwards into the camp. As she did so, she gave a cheerful wave up at the heads on their pikes, smirking to herself as she glanced around, trying to find the best spot for a so-called Chieftain to be.
Chieftain . . .heh. They were led by a chieftain? how utterly adorable.
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 16, 2023 2:55:15 GMT -5
The entrance to the command bunker is nestled underneath a tarpaulin propped up on one side by the wall of the trench, and on the other by grounded stakes (further up which our aforementioned deceased mates are prominently displayed). The air stinks of rain, chemicals, and lho-smoke from the two troopers stood under it, one of whom issues the customary eight knocks on the door (a thick-set thing, likely repurposed from a destroyed Imperial bastion) before granting entry.
The inside of the command post is little more appealing than the outside – redolent in the earthen smell of a dug-out, reinforced walls badly lit by poorly maintained lumen units. Every now and then the rumbling thud of artillery loosens a puff of dust from the ceiling, rattling loose objects where they sit. A command-net vox lies forlornly in a corner, propped up against the wall and surrounded by a towering pile of old rags. In many ways the command post would not be unfamiliar to a Baran Siegemaster or soldier of Krieg, a gloomy affair brought about by necessity, complete with a junior officer poring over maps and charts strewn across a central table. That, however, is where such familiarity would end.
No platoon lieutenant is this, but a Prefect of Chaos, his lacquered black flak-plate decorated with a lurid pelt torn from some unknown xeno-beast. Though he should have no need of immediate armaments, a wickedly sharp chainsword sits at his belt, ever ready to be drawn. The various tools of a siege officer are strewn around within easy reach – map books, a flare gun, a weathered pair of spotting binocs – but an implement of immediate killing is never out of his instant reach.
“I assume you have good reason to intrude upon me, little vagrant.” Low, growling, commanding. A voice well suited to the rank of its possessor. He does not look up from his charts, the table creaking under the weight of his arms.
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Post by Fate's End on May 24, 2023 21:18:57 GMT -5
"I do, oh mighty chieftain. A very good reason." Ruse smiled, dripping rain forlornly all around her person in minor puddles. "I come with knowledge of a target that will cause great damage to the enemy if its taken, or even if its merely damaged. But to strike at such a target, there must be a fearsome force available. I'm hoping you might have such a force."
She was careful not to move around too much, not to give this fearsome creature an extra reason to want her dead. Would he help? Or would she have to find other, less suitable tools? Though in this case, suitability went hand-in-hand with how pliable their minds were. This force was the one she wanted, at least a few of them, enough to get the job done. She stood there, smirking as water streamed down her cheeks, waiting to see how best to proceed after his response.
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 25, 2023 4:32:11 GMT -5
The chieftain of Chaos glares up from his plotting desk, at last deigning to meet his visitor with his own eyes. Bitter, angry – tired. It is not the look of a man who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep – it’s the look of a man who hasn’t slept a night in his life.
Unfortunately, getting a look at the Prefect means the Prefect gets a look back – and evidently doesn’t much care for what he sees.
“Do you think you’re the first one to walk in here, smug smile plastered on their face, more butter in your words than a frakking palatial buffet, and assure me that you’re the one with the secrets that will at last cripple the Corpse’s lapdogs?” Could’ve been asking about the weather for all the energy he puts into it, low tone somewhere between disinterested and disgusted. “Never to the point. Always with the preamble. I wipe scum like you off my boots every time I put them on in the morning."
Such is Chaos – the obeisance that flatters one warlord will disgust another. None are ever alike in their tastes. Chaos for a reason, one supposes.
“I’ll humour you, since my soldiers let you in – but I want evidence.” A cursory, pointed tap of a finger on the maps splayed across the table. “No fancy words, no idle blabber, evidence. The Gods don’t work on empty words and neither do I.”
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Post by Fate's End on May 25, 2023 23:24:28 GMT -5
A mask falling away from a visage. A performance drifting away from an actor.
Ruse's expression changes, the smile shrinks and becomes less manic. Her posture straightens and her movements become less grandiose, taking on a new role. Any affectation of accent from earlier is gone as she nods her head politely to the chieftain. She moves forward with sudden confidence, pointing at a location on the map that to all intents and purposes seems . . .empty. What once was a designated "relaxation" park largely made up of some of the planet's trees and bits of grass preserved. It served almost no purpose other than relaxation and enjoyment, and held exactly zero strategic importance in the growing siege and by extension, the war. Technically within the Imperial Held lines, but only just, and mostly due to the fact that neither side cared to attack or defend it.
"This park is so insignificant it doesn't even get a name on the map." She stated softly, her voice gentle, but full of contained energy. "But if you look it up in the datastacks of this idiotic shrine world, you find a name. "Mother's Rest". A little known fact about the fantastically misguided and naive woman they call a saint here, but she had an adopted son. Officially she's buried in that monstrosity of a cathedral and hospital that they say she built. The bones though, aren't there. The son wouldn't dare let his mother be buried there. This park is built exactly where her original home was, though I doubt the building's still standing. In the center though," Her smile grew increasingly larger and more predatory, "we'll find her final resting place. With enough artifacts to prove who the bones belong to before we do whatever the hell we want with them."
She took a breath, measuring her pace of word for effect. "There will be guards, and they won't be slouches. But it's a hell of a lot easier than breaking through a siege line, and if it works, it will damage our mutual foes in ways you might find it hard to even imagine."
To prove her point she withdraws a small sheaf of papers stamped with the Administratum's seal, sealed away in a weather proof bag that had been secured just inside her shirt. Half of the papers were very clever forgeries detailing scant sightings of guards in the park, but some were genuine. Those that were detailed a construction completed over a century ago, of an unnamed memorial that was significantly light on details. Suspiciously even. The sort of construction that someone with great power had commissioned, and wanted no questions asked as to its purpose. Enough to get this chieftain's attention? Ruse would have to see.
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on May 29, 2023 4:15:17 GMT -5
The Prefect doesn’t ignore her sudden change of character, no matter how much more palatable it is. So this one’s in the claws of the Crow, eh? Tricksy bastards. This one’s probably not their true face either. Pointless to ask if they have one.
There is no instantaneous response forthcoming. The officer takes a moment to think, leafing through charts, plots, and maps, cross-referencing the newcomer’s supposed target with the most recent reports of front line movement and enemy positions.
We’d need to punch through Sector 77 at the front, he muses. No guarantee this’ll happen, but if it will, might as well make sure it’ll work.
“Vox.”, he growls.
The command net vox unit slumped in the corner amongst the pile of rags suddenly decides it’d rather not be slumped there anymore. The aforementioned rags straighten themselves out, revealing themselves to be a hunched-over, crooked figure swathed in thick, hooded robes. They clutch a staff crowned by the debased vox-caster, and an arm-thick wyrm of cabling emerges from where the face under the hood should have been, snaking its way into ports across the command vox’s casing. They – it? – burbles something in nonsense-cant, a harsh voice laden with static and heavy clicks. This, apparently, satisfies the chieftain.
“Which unit is currently rotated onto Sector 77?”
Huagh-brakkakka, the vox-creature warbles.
“Kvekler? Serpent’s scales, I take shits smarter than Kvekler!” Apparently it’s not just the line troopers in O-1-6 that don’t think too highly of the fellow. Of all the frakking coincidences! His stupid probing’s going to give the game away!
And while the Guard are busy with him being stupid, comes the idea, a raider section could skirt in past the lines and scrag the objective. Which leaves one more question.
“What’s in it for you?”
Not in it for him – for them. The Gods offer nothing for free, and their peons are no different. He doesn’t trust this Crow-touched vagrant as far as he can throw them, and he doubts they’re asking for him to potentially get his men killed solely for the selfless advancement of Chaos. What’s their personal stake?
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Post by Fate's End on May 30, 2023 22:30:07 GMT -5
Careful now. Tell him some of the truth, but maybe not all.
Ruse grinned, and there was little kindness and barely any mirth within the expression. Rather like that of an ancient predator presented with the thought of a delightful supper. "Aside from the glory to the forces of Chaos, the Pantheon, what have you." She said with a breezy tone. "If this works, I get personal satisfaction in throwing off a rival of mine. He caused me trouble a few years ago, and I want to return the favor. He thinks I don't know about this little monument to the false saint. I'd love to prove him wrong." She clasped her hands in front of her and swayed in an almost childish fashion, eyes glinting as she stared at the chieftain.
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Post by Warsmith Wolf on Jun 20, 2023 3:36:25 GMT -5
"Aside from the glory to the forces of Chaos, the Pantheon, what have you." She said with a breezy tone. "If this works, I get personal satisfaction in throwing off a rival of mine. He caused me trouble a few years ago, and I want to return the favor. He thinks I don't know about this little monument to the false saint. I'd love to prove him wrong." Tch. Banal. Uninspired. Always the same with the undisciplined, he muses. As if he had not insulted his own rival two utterances prior. As if he does not have his own peers to jockey with for the attentions of Chaos. He scans across the plots and maps one more time, then glances back at the newcomer. I do not like that smile, the Prefect decides. Crow’s cunning. Nothing good to come of it.“One raider section.” A finger raises to accentuate the point. “ One. You go in while the Corpse’s forces are distracted with Kvekler’s rabble, you level that crypt, and then you’re out before the Guard get wise and cut you off. If you get separated from the section, then tough. I’ll not have them wait around to get shot.” And hey, if you catch a bolt on the way, that’s less worry for me, he muses. |
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