Board Thread:Warhammer 40k Roleplay/@comment-14745711-20150116231447/@comment-14745711-20150215075435

OOC: here, this one's much shorter but I'm afraid it really is all I could manage. School has really taxed me and I find me free time absorbed by other things so much. But don't worry about me not finishing this, I'm in it for the long haul, even if I do end up slowing down a lot, I will do my best to push through. Also, we are taking a short break to look at what is happening/happened elsewhere.

Dagorekh strode down the ramp onto the landing platform. A beam of light spilled out from the interior of the ship illuminating the five metal skull-like faces before him. One was dressed in golden finery and had precious stones set into his robotic body. He was surrounded by four bodyguards, each one dressed in almost equally bright regalia. Dagorekh sighed inwardly; Tutkar had always enjoyed displaying his great wealth openly. The exile’s own appearance was far more nominal and practical, composed of a metal cloak that appeared to be made of bronze and a far simpler headdress with two inset red gemstones. This was all of the fine ‘clothing’ Dagorekh possessed, a fact that had earned him little respect at first from Tutkar during the War in Heaven. Martial prowess had more than sufficed however.

The great city stretched far off into the distance, dark and eerily glowing. Few major Necron cities had survived the ages. None had survived intact. This one however had been rebuilt since the awakening of this world, a constant massive project that was still continuing even now. But, Dagorekh reflected, there were few sights more magnificent than this. On either side he could glimpse a great valley filled with towering spires, each one so tall that the lower half was lost in darkness. Unlike a hive city Necron cities had no slums; what possible use could inhabiting the lower levels have for machines? There was a constant background hum in the air, the rhythm of the many generators and Canoptekh machines all merged into one constant drone.

Dagorekh had never liked that sound back when he had had ears. Even as a child the noise would make him toss and turn in bed, while his the rest of the household had slept comfortably. His two sisters had laughed at him for it, Eler and Iseen. Eler had died of the radioactive poisoning that consumed all necrontyr bodies in the end, and Iseen had not survived the bio-forging process, being frail and ill like her sister. Of course neither the young Overlord nor his father had been able to fully comprehend Iseen’s death until much later, due to the Silent King’s overriding command protocols. That had made it all the worse.

“Dagorekh!” came the booming voice of Tutkar, jolting him out of his memories. His voice had remained loud and deep even when it was synthesised. “It has been too long since we last met. Welcome to the necropolis of Ashwan!”

“I see you haven’t changed much,” replied Dagorekh, striding forwards to clasp hands with Tutkar in the traditional manner.

“Indeed,” answered Tutkar, totally impregnable to Dagorekh’s ever pervading gloom. “I suppose if one could say a good word for these bodies they don’t get old or fat or ill. Still,” he added, with a sideways look at his friend, “it has unfortunately deprived me of one of my greatest pleasures in life.”

“You’re not alive you old whore,” said Dagorekh, moving his head in a motion that would have been accompanied by a rolling of the eyes if that were possible. “You’re the dead walking. We all are.”

“You haven’t changed either it would seem,” commented his friend in mock seriousness, “as much of a wet blanket as ever.”

Thunder rumbled in the skies above as the various tracked vehicles rolled forwards. The Deimos pattern Rhino carried its armoured cargo with surprising speed for its size and shape, moving easily over the rough and pitted ground. The ground was not pitted naturally but by the craters left from the various mighty guns that had pounded the landscape just an hour earlier, and had only ceased in order to move on to new targets. The Rhino bore the colours of its legion: black with a burnt orange trim. The number stamped on the side door was XI.

This first rhino was followed by two more, as well as a pair of predator tanks. The Captain had not deemed it necessary to dispatch a large force to crush what was left of resistance on this flank, preferring to keep as much of the 4th company together as he could to best ensure glory. Sergeant Taratal was more than a little irritated by this, but no less proud that he should be granted command over this operation.

Sitting across from him was brother Erenar, once again running last minute checks over his equipment. “You know Erenar,” said Taratal dryly, “if you gave as much attention to the foe as you did to ensuring that your bolter fired smoothly, we’d only need one astartes to wage this crusade.”

Erenar was not bothered, replying calmly; “Primarch Falagust believes that one should never run the risk of inefficiency in the field if it can be avoided.”

“There’s a difference between efficiency and being obsessive,” pipped up Jonah from his seat just next to Erenar. “I don’t know about the rest of the squad but the noise of you constantly checking the firing mechanism is starting to drive me crazy.” There was a round of quiet laughter around the rhino, magnified by the echo in the enclosed space. Erenar maintained a discreet silence, but he did reluctantly cease his constant fidgeting. Taratal thought it was far more likely that that was the cause of his constant checking and double checking: he was nervous. He supposed he couldn’t blame him for that, after all, how could one not be nervous before battle, when any of your companions could be felled, or you might not manage to die or emerge victorious having done your part properly.

But then the sounds of gun fire could be heard, and the rhino rattled as it came under fire, and the time for pondering was over. From up above the sound of the turret mounted heavy bolter could be heard, a mass of rounds spraying out towards the foe like a lethal hose blast. “Six, five,” Taratal began to count under his breath. An explosion boomed off to the right, “four, three.” The rhino screeched to a halt a halt, “two, one!” The last part of the count Taratal cried aloud as he and his brothers were on their feet and issuing out of the front doors of the rhino, already scanning for potential targets.

Quickly, heads came into sight above the trench line ahead of them, human and xenos in some places, hoping to open fire on the attackers as they disembarked. Their hopes were quickly foiled. Six heads, six shots, six kills. The targets were split open on impact, the bolter rounds detonating inside their skulls. These were beings of normal stature, and clad in more nominal armour, wielding ordinary electric based weapons. Their guns could fire rapidly it was true, but their loading system was inefficient, the rounds having to be loaded directly into the barrel. And besides, their rounds were no match for power armour.

As if to prove the point a hail of light bullets showered out from the trench. Most did not even find their mark, and those that did simply pinged off the astartes’ armour. ‘They’re afraid to look long enough to be sure of their mark,’ thought Taratal with disgust, ‘they might as well hold fire and save their ammunition as fire wildly.’ The three tactical squads were now within a hundred meters of the trench line, now was the time to put on the charge and show these fools what the Legion Astartes could do. “Let the flame of your weapons engulf your foes in terror and doom!” Came the cry along the advancing line of space marines, and the charge began. The squads had been going at a swift pace for a normal human, but now they ran faster than any ordinary human could have managed, great boots pounding into the churned up ground.

Fifty meters, forty, thirty, twenty, ten, and then the thirty tactical marines were pouring into the trench line. Taratal blasted one man in the face at point blank, before spinning and hitting a pale blue skinned xeno in the face with the butt of his pistol. He then pulled his chainsword and proceeded to carve up first the xeno, and then a third human soldier who had tried to charge him from behind. Similar displays were being enacted across the trench, which was really more like a ditch than a proper trench Taratal reflected. It must have been a hastily erected defence.

A few seconds later they were up and over the next trench line, charging just as rapidly as before over the rough ground. This patch was less churned up, but the markings of the now six month long war were showing in the planet’s current ecological condition. The only plant life Taratal had seen over the past few weeks had been bushes and patches of sickly looking grass, spattered heavily with mud. Then he had no more time to dwell on such things, as his chainsword bit deep into alien flesh.

The surprise many in the liberation fleet had felt upon discovering an entire inter-planetary civilisation that was equally made up of both humans and the xenos species called the Kuria, had been immense. But that surprise had quickly changed to contempt upon discovering the vast number of vain and in many cases violent religious practices the dualistic cultures carried out. They had of course welcomed their human brethren with all the warmth of a dead moon, proceeding to fire on the Imperial envoys as soon as they had been told to whom they were speaking. War had followed soon after, as the Deep Shadows Legion was deployed to the planet’s surface.

As Taratal decapitated the man in front of him, a lascannon shot scorched through the air above him. The predator had found its target and was splitting apart the bastion ahead of them before the marines reached it. Taratal snorted in disgust, “even this many battle brothers seems an unnecessarily large number to defeat these enemies,” he commented to his fellow sergeant Brax, “we might as well have sent in ten brothers alone and the battle would be over no swifter than how it shall end now.”

“You’re making the same mistake you always do Taratal,” grunted Brax, in a voice that was deep even for an astartes, “you underestimate your enemy.”

“I have yet to see anything which should lead me to a contrary opinion of them as of yet,” replied Taratal. He switched to private communication with Brax via the vox in their helmets as they both mounted sides of the trench and led their squads in a mad dash for one of the two bunkers that now remained between them and the small fortress, which loomed out of the dim light created by the rain, like some terrifying shadowy monster. “Besides, the captain decided I was good enough for the position didn’t he?”