The Canteen [Open] [Social] [Imperium]

Badork - Corporal, Mordian 87th

Badork looked at the Guardsman quizically for a few seconds, then pointed at himself.

"Me not a Sir, me BADORK!" He said, again saying his name like an explosion. "Me a corporaa...corpo....cor..." He paused for a moment, by the throne this thinking malarky was hard, and then pointed to his corporal chevrons.
"Me one of deese!" He said proudly.

"And you is ickle, ickle George!" He said knowingly.

He pointed at Lucas' rank markings, "What dis one?" He asked confused. Again.

Badork stood back up at the sound of someone approaching. They'd used that word "soldier", that could only mean one thing...Officer!

Badork spun around with surprising agility and speed and saw the officer insignia on the man. He smashed to attention, he brought up his fist in a blindingly fast salute and managed this time not to knock himself out (or anyone else for that matter). His regimental Commissar would have been proud, if a little bemused.

*OOC - see Badorks careful roll in the discord.*

"BADORK SIR, YES SIR!" He bellowed as loud as he could. One always had to make sure the officer could hear you.

"Bloody Throne" Was all Krast could think as the Ogryn, with surprising speed, quickly snapped a salute to him, bellowing out his name. Well he couldn't really blame the giant abhuman for yelling, his lungs were probably the size of Krast torso. Still, he did cringe at the volume, and held a hand to his right ear in mild pain.

"At easy," Krast looked to the Ogryns chest for his rank, and nearly choked when he saw the Corporal insignia. Throne and Bleeding Eye, when did they make Ogryn Corporals? "Uh, Corporal Badork. I was just wondering what you were doing with the poor lad at your feet there?"

As he spoke, he noticed that the kid, a Draxian legion soldier by the looks of it now that Krast was closer, had saluted him as well, making him cringe slightly and look up to the ceiling. Throne that still felt wrong. He wasn't some snobby officer that had people saluting him when he was off base or just getting a bite to eat. He'd setting for a "Sir" and a nod. Oh well, he was one of the more senior members he guess, as far as shock troopers went.



Hearing his name, Krast looked back down, now frowning as the kid spoke. Something was familiar, he realized, and cocked his head as he tried to remember.

Things went sideways immediately, as the frakking Tau and Kroot jumped their convoy. He opened up on one, burnt another. Someone had run over to him, built like a stick but holding his weapon like any Guardsman worth a Throne, gasmask covering the wide eyed stare.

"Well carve me up and throw me to the Raptors, Lucas? Shit I haven't seen you since, well ever. How the hell did you wind up here?" Krast suddenly exclaimed, a broad smiling covering his face now as he recognized the kid.

Badork - Corporal, 87th Mordian

Badork stood at ease when told to by Lieutenant Krast.

"Dis ickle ickle George, he my new friend." He said with a smile. 

Badork, in his usual bizarre fashion, had decided Lucas was his new "George", for better or worse the poor lad was now lumbered with the hulking brute. The Mordians would be so relieved that someone else would be having a turn.

Badork stood impassively as Lucas and Krast talked. When Lucas ran and hugged the officer Badork was overcome with joy.

"BADORK loves hugs!" He said clapping his hands with glee before stepping forward and scooping both men up in a firm embrace.
"I like it here,  I no get many hugs with the fancy pants men." He said, refrencing the Mordians.

He stood there hugging the two men for an awkward amount of time before putting them down. There were several sly chuckles and mirth filled glances from the patrons at the spectacle.

There was a loud grumbling from Badork's stomach.
"Hungry!" He said as he patted his tummy. He turned and stomped off towards the line of soldiers waiting for food, the line getting shorter and shorter as he approached.

Krast had seen dozens of combat encounters and war fronts in his life, and had undertaken some of the best training and modification to be some of the elite of elites. He’d fist fought orks, traded fire with Eldar, and been on the wrong end of Tau suits more times than he could count.

All of that training and reaction time did nothing when Lucas ran up and hugged him. It was startling how fast the little trooper could move, given how scrawny he was and all the gear he carried. With that speed, Lucas managed to turn that small frame into a battering ram, as his helmets edge dug directly into Krast diaphragm, pushing the air out of him in one loud huff as he tried to keep balanced.

Despite his lengthy records and degrees of success in the militarum, Krast could count on one hand how many times he remembered being hugged. It felt…alien in a way. His instincts and training were telling him to retaliate, grab at center mass and lift before throwing the smaller assailant to his back. He held those instincts back, seeing something in the way Lucas held him.

The kid really had missed him. Him, a nearly washout Kasrkin going into his 30s, who by all rights should be floating in space in the warp.



“Wow there,” Krast began, somewhat getting his breath back, reaching down to pat Lucas on the shoulder, when two slabs of meat shaped like hands grabbed him and Lucas, and crushed him into an inescapable bear hug. The precious little air he’d managed to gather was again crushed from his lungs, and now he found it hard to reinflate them.

Things were starting to get dimmer when Badork let go, grumbling something about food. Krast sucked in air in a choking fit for a moment, somehow landing on his feet.

“Throne, I think he might have popped a rib.” He bemoaned, rubbing one of his sides. He looked down too Lucas, who had faired more or less as expected, and gave one of his half cocked smiles.

“Let’s talk more over some Grub. I think your friend there might not leave us much if we don’t hurry.” He said, standing up and smoothing his uniform.




Krast looked up as a new voice joined in, this one with a whine to it, like a vox caster slightly out of tune. Looking up, he saw a red robed machine cultists heading right for him. Ah frak, what now? To his surprise, the robed figure(a woman maybe? It was always hard to tell with some of the more metallic ones) seemed to be in a somewhat pleasant mood, and more surprisingly knew them.

"Uhm, Enginseer, how can I help you?" He asked cautiously, hoping this wasn't about to turn his night out into a slough through paperwork.

Although canteens by nature are crowded places, there is usually still room that can be found for those who prefer their own space or are avoided by others for what ever reason. It is in one of these spaces, away from the loud chatter and common noises of the canteen that an older officer sits. Master of Ordnance De Grotto glanced over the report he had brought with him and now held in his dominant hand. But his mind was elsewhere.

He had been cooped up in the makeshift command building for longer than even he could stand. The shortage of staff had lead to him sleeping and eating in the same room, leading to him fabricating a love for the game of golf and a desire to observe the club to reminisce his days of playing the game back on his homeworld. In true he had always despised golf and simply wanted a reason to eat a cooked meal and get out for once. All of this under the promise that he would have his own recommendations completed in triplicate the next day. Realizing that he had now been staring blankly at the paperwork for 2.34 minutes without a thought towards it, he sighed and placed it down. He had come here to take a brake so he might as well eat the food on his plate while it was still hot.

He took a spoon for of the yellow substance dominating his meal and chewed it slowly. It was.. it was... It wasn't half bad!

The aged officer looked around and towards the kitchen as if in disbelief. 'They must have a ratling cooking or at least overseeing the food preparations.' De Grotto thought to himself. The creatures always had a nack for cooking to party make up for their outstanding short comings. That and being particularly good shots.