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post #181 of 209 (permalink) Old 07-26-12, 09:52 PM Thread Starter
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Vermundr: As you make your thoughts known to Aldr, Morgan, and the priest Odaajn there is no mistake of the anger in the old priests eyes. But anger or not, you had been told to speak your mind and that is what you had done. Keris was not promoted to priest Vermundr Helfang, no more than you were promoted to the position of pack leader. Regardless of how you feel, the right of Keris to walk this path is not a judgment for you to make. Aldr's mechanical voice answered after a time, but it was Odaajn who spoke next, elaborating on those words.

You are chosen for greatness but once you young fool, when you earn the right to become one of us. He rasped, placing both of his hands on the table and glaring at you. Beyond that, you forge your path and the right to walk it. Keris was not chosen to become a priest, his actions and will have made that his path to walk. Your own priest, Sigurd, saw this in him and bade me keep an eye out for when it was time. Ragnar Blackmane did not simply offer you your current title, he saw something of the path you are to walk just as Sigurd...

Enough priest, quash your anger or leave this matter entirely! Aldr cut in with a boom, as if the dreadnought had been beside all of you. Even the impassive Morgun could not help but flinch at that. How many pack-mates have you led to battle Helfang? How many have you lost under your leadership? How many have you still to lose? Keris is another loss, and some may argue a great one, but his qualities betray his calling. He walks the path of a priest because he leads without being the leader, inspires those around him, and has stood before the brink and jumped anyway. Leave to your pack, and truly understand the loss you have suffered in this.

And with that, the link between the dreadnought and the bridge was severed, leaving you to ponder what you had been told.

[All, you are more than welcome to respond to others from their previous posts. The ship is no longer in any danger from within or without, at least no immediate danger. Vermundr finds his way to the pack, retaking his place at its head; when he does this, Keris leaves to return to Odaajn and proceed with what the old warrior would have him do in the coming days before reaching to Jorus system.]

[Bit of a time-skip here, let you all finally get into a little meat of things.]
----
Ten days later
----

All; Sulfur winds thrash about the sides of the thunderhawk in which you stand. Through view-ports built into the bulkhead you can see the 'ocean' below you; it is a roiling sea of yellow-orange magma and stretches on for as far as the eye can see. A small metallic object can be seen in the distance and grows in size by the second. It is one of the planets nine main geothermal stations and the site of but one of a handful of last ditch defenses. More importantly, it is the source of where the message of the Aurora chapter master originated from.

The thunderhawk is again rocked to the side, though this time it is to avoid explosive chaff being thrown in your direction from hostile forces. There are greenskins all but overrunning the station, and its liberation is the first task in pushing the aliens back.

With a whine of the engines being over-taxed, the thunderhawk begins a rapid climb before the side hatches of the main compartment open. Without pause, you jump out into the sulfur rich atmosphere and plummet the hundreds of meters down onto the station itself.

[It took the three ships nine days to reach the Jorus system, taking a great risk to exit mid-system. What you found was a raider fleet, comprising of eight destroyer or frigate sized vessels, surrounding the planet. The light cruiser of the Aurora marines was able to punch a hole with aid from the Hunrodr and Randolfr, destroying half the ork ships before they had a chance to do anything.

After identifying the source of the distress call, it was Vermundr who sought the honour of first drop and so it was granted. Pack Kjarl, with the priest Keris attached, would make planetfall alongside the Aurora warriors to retake the station while the rest of the Space Wolf forces sought to do the same for another station.

Bad shots or not, even orks would not be able to miss a lone thunderhawk coming in to release a dreadnought and disgorge the long fangs of pack Enkil. And so it was from the mind of the wolf-scout Morgun that each of you now finds yourself hurtling towards the station with a jump pack strapped to your back.]


All; You bring your arms and legs in to decrease air resistance, increasing your overall velocity and making you that much more difficult to hit. The near toxic air pushes against the exposed flesh of your face and some of you let loose howls of amusement at what you are experiencing. As the distance between you and the protruding platform that is your landing site is quickly cut down, you can see enemies on the ground and a pocket of resistance that they are all but pushing off the edge and into the lava below.

With the force of gods, you ignite your jump packs at the last second to bleed speed and survive landing, crashing in amongst the charging orks and throwing many back. Not wasting a second, you hurl yourself into the enemy and make to alleviate those previously beleaguered soldiers who may have been on their last stand.

[There are about sixty orks in total, your landing has stunned many of them but they will recover soon enough. They are not easy to kill, and will become that much harder once they regain themselves.]


Alrik and Krahl, you tear into the greenskins with wild abandon, Krahl will be able to kill as many as five or six while Alrik may very well end the live of eight. But be wary of your actions, for it is more than possible for you to over-extend yourself and be forced to suffer for it.

Keris, unlike the others who land in the midst of the largest mobz, you change your course at the last second to engage a different kind of enemy. You descend on an ork, crushing him beneath your armoured weight, looking up at the monster before you. It easily stands as tall as the Firehawk, but with thick slabs of muscle as wide as your torso. The current task Odaajn has give you in the retaking of this station is to take from the orks their head where possible, and this nob looks to be exactly that.

[The nob bludgeons an ork in its path so that it alone will fight you, and with a great bellow it charges your still crouched form. Though portions of your armour have been repainted black to reflect your path, it is only through combat that you can earn the right to bear the weapons of a priest. This enemy is the first on that road, and it is more than a match for you in terms of strength and resilience. It will not go down easy, and not in one go.]

Leidolf; As you plummet to the decking below, you spy the armoured form of Keris, his grey-blue armour picked out by large sections of jet black, veer from the bulk of the mob. Without thinking, you follow your former pack-mate, igniting the thrusters of your jump pack at the last second and barreling into a pair of greenskins. Your mass shatters their bodies in a welter of blood, bolt pistol rounds exploding their skulls with little more than a second thought. Out of the corner of your eye you see Keris standing before the massive bulk of what can only be an or knob, possibly the leader of this frenzied group. That would mean that you followed the young wolf priest into the thickest, and likely most deadly of fighting. As if to prove this, a heavily armoured ork wielding a flaming pike leaps at you, forcing you to jump back and avoid a downward swipe of its flaming weapon.

[The ork before you is armed with a burna, a weapon that is deadly within its own right. In close combat however, it is even worse. A trio of orks also charge you, and you can dispatch all three with some effort, but this will leave you exposed to the burna. The burna boy himself will not go down easily, unlike the three others (easy being a relative term) so make your choice carefully.]

Vermundr and Iorek, You land amongst the orks closest to the disparate human defenders, all but hurling the greenskins away from these mortal men. It does not escape Vermundr's notice where Keris lands and what he fights, but as pack leader your first priority is to the task at hand, and you need to clear this platform and locate the ork controlled anti-air weapons so that Aldr and pack Enkil can come down. The pair of you will be able to dispatch a dozen greenskins before they regroup, and in that fighting Iorek will spot the green clad forms of Namor and his brothers landing on the opposite side of the station to silence the guns you will not be able to reach.

Heimdall and Ornsvald, You overshoot and crash down upon the backs of the greenskin mob. Sweeping around, Heimdall will unleash a gout of promethium from his flamer and catch four orks in the deluge. As the aliens realize what is happening, he will be able to get off another shot before they manage to retaliate. While that is happening, Ornsvald must choose between leaving his pack-mate here and engage the orks on their blind side, or to rush the greenskins in the wake of the second flamer blast. In either case, Ornsvald will immediatly dispatch a trio of orks before they can do anything.

[Beyond the bits in blue I have already laid out, I don't think any of you need more prompting than that. This is something a few of you have been waiting for, of that I am certain.]

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post #182 of 209 (permalink) Old 08-01-12, 04:54 AM
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Ornsvald sat in the bowels of the Thunderhawk, mentally preparing himself for the fight ahead. He reached up to his bald head, his armoured gauntlets running from his temple to the back of his neck and the Space Wolf sighed, his eyes wandering to the viewing port to watch the small silvery blot on the horizon grow into a full installation. The report said it was a geothermal station; that meant two things to a cunning warrior. First, and perhaps most immediately, there would be no explosive fuel. No nuclear rods, no oil, no gas; this was a good thing. Exploding the scarce land above a sea of lava didn't seem like a good plan anyway.

A brief, rattling chuckle escaped Ornsvald's throat as the thought came, and he felt his equipment at his waist; his serrated combat knife tucked into his belt, his bolt pistol holstered on his left, and his chainsword on the right. In combat they would be held the other way around, with his chainsword in his stronger left hand, but this way meant he could draw both faster with more horizontal than vertical movement. Ornsvald shook himself, forcing him to think back to the station. The second thing to know; there would be pipes, filled with either near-boiling water or, as seemed more likely with an ample supply of lava to heat the water, hyper-heated steam. This was something to look out for; unarmoured Orks would be burnt to a pulp by the steam, but even power-armoured warriors would be in severe danger if a leak occurred.

We'll just have to be careful, thought Ornsvald as the Thunderhawk made its approach.

Ornsvald stood, his jump pack affixed firmly to his back as the ramp on the Thunderhawk descended, and the light finally turned from red to green. Roaring praise to the Allfather, Ornsvald jumped.

The fall was unlike anything Ornsvald had ever felt; he had never used a jump pack for combat before, as that was usually left to Skyclaws, not Blood Claws. The putrid, sulphurous air stang Ornsvald's face, making the scar on his left cheek itch. Ornsvald ignored it, too caught up in the power he felt leaping fearlessly from such a height to bring death to the enemies of Russ. The Canis Helix in Ornsvald's DNA helped him pick out their landing-zone; a small platform, swarming with greenskins. Tucking his legs back up straight and pushing his arms and hands forward, Ornsvald became a living arrow, descending like a storm of wrath upon the Orks.

Ornsvald had nearly reached the platform, when an unexpected gout of hot air hit him, presumably a gas bubble from beneath the lava. Whilst it didn't harm Ornsvald, it threw him slightly off-course; when Ornsvald hit his jump pack and brought his feet in front of him, he had off-shot the landing-zone a little, along with Heimdall, the flamer. Roaring a battlecry, Ornsvald slammed into the platform, the collision creating a metallic thunderclap as he drew his chainsword and bolt pistol. The two astartes had landed behind the greenskin mob; Ornsvald ducked his head down as a great gout of flame washed over him, cleansing the Orks.

The eager Space Wolf waited a moment, watching the corpses of greenskins fall with a building bloodlust. The foul xenos were huge; brutish creatures, and by all accounts the stench of the galaxy. Ornsvald would have no trouble in hating this foe, that was certain.

After a second gout of burning promethium blasted over his head, Ornsvald leapt up, igniting his jump pack for a moment to barrel straight into the surprised Orks. They were on the back-foot, now, after two blasts from the flamer, and weren't ready for a vengeful Angel of Death. Ornsvald raised his chainsword as he slammed into the first Ork, the teeth already whirring with a battlecry of their own. Deep crimson, brackish blood splattered across Ornsvald's chest, flecks of it sprinkling his face. The Ork grunted in surprise, turning to face the Space Wolf fully. Ornsvald knew he would have to despatch this one quickly to keep up the momentum of the attack, so made a daring lunge.

The gambit paid off, and the chainsword pierced the Ork's torso, more thick blood spilling from the wound as the roaring teeth of the chainsword did their bloody work. The Ork yet lived, however, swinging wildly with its axe. Ornsvald ducked out the way and withdrew his chainsword in a fluid motion, carrying on with the movement to turn back around and bring his chainsword in for a decapitating strike. Sure enough, the Ork's head came clean off, another fresh spray of blood covering Ornsvald's roaring face.

He barely had time to wipe some of the blood from his eyes with the back of his gauntlet before another Ork came at him, this one wielding a kind of improvised mace cobbled together from various metal struts. Ornsvald raised his bolt pistol this time, firing three rounds into the charging Ork. The explosive bolt shells all hit the target; two impacting on the Ork's chest, and another on its thigh. The beast faltered, its left leg buckling as it fell to one knee, lowering its head to see its torn and ragged chest heaving beneath it. Ornsvald stepped in, placing the muzzle of the bolt pistol firmly on the Ork's bent head, and pulled the trigger. A shower of Ork brain-matter and gore exploded outwards in all directions, as a third Ork charged right into Ornsvald.

Unprepared for this sudden attack, Ornsvald was taken with the charge as the Ork kept up its momentum. The Space Wolf noticed, with horror, that the Ork was headed for the edge of the platform, and the sea of lava beneath. Ornsvald crashed to the ground, a couple of meters from the edge and on his back, chainsword and pistol still firmly clenched in his gauntleted hands. As the Ork approached, axe held high, Ornsvald raised the pistol and fired. The bolt round slammed into the Ork's shoulder, prompting a cry of pain. The Ork reached down, slapping the pistol out of Ornsvald's hand a further back near the edge. Ornsvald pushed himself backwards, coming within centimetres of the edge as he reached for the pistol. The Ork rushed at him, ready to push him from the edge.

Ornsvald suddenly remembered his jump pack, and, with a mischievous howl, blasted upwards from the ground, his chainsword meeting the Ork's axe head on. The Ork made a noise which must have equated to "oh shit" as Ornsvald raised his bolt pistol and put a bullet in either eye, the Ork's head shattering as its body fell to the ground, twisting weakly.

Ornsvald laughed a grating laugh, the sound reminding him of Fenris, as he reloaded his bolt pistol. Covered in crimson blood and gore from head to foot, Ornsvald readied his weapons, looking for another opportunity to strike.


OOC: Hope I didn't scare any of you nearly falling into a sea of lava in my first post. I look forward to roleplaying (as well as fighting) with y'all.
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post #183 of 209 (permalink) Old 08-01-12, 07:13 AM
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Vermundr left the strategium quietly. He met back up with his pack, seeing Keris leave just as he entered. He was silent then, and almost entirely for the remaining ten days it took to reach the Jorus system. There were several reasons for this. His mind had been filled with superstition and curiosity; did the elders already know his future? Was his rank to pack leader made for different reasons entirely. Maybe Lord Blackmane hadn't actually seen anything in his abilities, merely visions of him being in the right place at the right time. In that case he would be little more than a tool, really.

He had to keep reminding himself that he was in fact just that. A tool of the Emperor, and a weapon for mankind...nothing else. So long as he served his Lord, his Primarch, and the Allfather the best he could then thats all that mattered. It would be only the scars he bore and the kills he had racked for the Imperium that would count when he came to be judged...not the friends he had made, the respect of others, or the titles he was given. His duty as pack leader was to make sure both he and those under his command killed more enemies, for an efficient and organized group could slay many more enemies than any individual of lesser, equal, and even significantly higher calibre. To guide his wolves in Russ's name, hunting and killing as a pack. Thats all he was and all that should have mattered to him.

He remembered again, that's all that ever did matter to him. It was keeping the split ends of that pack together that was difficult, keeping it a tightly organized and efficient force. What did he have to become to do this properly? As Odaajn had taught him, he needed to be the example for starters. But now a new question, should their lives actually matter to him? The more they did, the worse it was when he lost one, such as Keris. If he was a tool of his Lord, Primarch, and the Allfather, then should he not see his pack-brothers in the same light? When he felt comfortable with an answer one day, he awoke the next only to soon become comfortable with the other.

Those ten days were also filled with cooling down from his confrontation with Keris. He was heading to war, and he needed to calm his mind. This was far from easy, but staying aloof seemed to help for the time being. Aldr's words also helped, to see him as just another casualty rather than a traitorous friend.

"For now, let the heat of battle throw us into a frenzy, as that is our true home. Show these Orks that battle is just as much in our nature as it is theirs.... only we are much better at it.." he said to his jump pack strapped comrades. He hoped the coming frenzy would help clear his mind. An odd type of being the astartes were, he had to admit, finding comfort in ch-... he had to stop himself from this thought twisting his lips and opening his brown eyes wide for a moment....Yes, battle would be good right now.

He tried to give his packmate some advice on flying true, ways to make sure they had a good landing but really he had just as little experience with a jump-pack as the rest of them.

He looked to the lights that would signal their jump. As it turned from red to yellow he made a quick reminder to everyone over the vox reminding them their primary objectives were the anti-air turrets. He wore his gifted wolf shaped battle helm for the first time into a horde of enemies this day. The dark slate-black color a stark contrast from the grey-blue armor covering the rest of him and his squad.

The light turned green and the first one out was the one named Ornsvald. In that very second as Ornsvald roared praises and leapt Vermundr realized how disconnected he had been with his squad, hardly recognizing the blood claw, thinking almost solely on Keris and Russ knows what before that: hunting, Fenrisian trolls, and trying to get onto this mission among other things...and again the question of his pack being nothing but armored tools for him to direct came to mind. But there was no time to ponder now, he was out, flying as an incredible speed toward a patch of rock surrounded by bright, burning magma. He risked a glance to the side and saw the large form of Alrik Firehawk was behind and to the right, looking true to the name more than ever he thought, but a glance of the 'priest' near him made him check his other peripheral. The ghostwolf's flight path stalked closest to his own.

He turned his attention back to where it should be, his inexperience getting the better of him seeing how much closer he had already come to the platform. He engaged his jump-pack and the drastic change of inertia and g-forces that would have crushed the insides of a normal man certainly made a harsh impact on his own, but his body prevailed. The second one came soon after as he landed. He felt his very bones nestled deep within his power armor strain from the impact as his feet crushed into the station's surface, but his weapons were drawn and his eyes were up.

Greenskins. Three were knocked back by his landing: at one moment rushing at the fear filled humans that were now behind him, the next finding humanity's true potential crashing down upon them.

A single tightened squeeze of his chapter ornamented battle-axe and his eye muscles were all he needed to forget his personal troubles. "May the warrior might of Russ guide me this day."

He was up, his axe slamming through the back of the closest Ork's neck as he began to rise fromt he ground. The second took a trio of bolt pistol rounds to the head and shoulder as he pulled the axe up for a strike to the third one's throat on his right. The Jump pack was certainly going to take some getting used to, he thought. Moving his arms was fine but his footwork was affected the most.

His element of surprise had ended, the Orks came for him. A spark of thrill could be seen lighting up in their beady eyes. To most races, seeing the likes of Adeptus Astartes land before them would instill unconquerable fear. To these foul beasts, no, only heightened excitement; a more challenging prize.

Iorek was still beside him, also readying for Orks now aware of their presence. He made a quick look for the rest of the squad. It looked like all had made it onto the platform, though they were fairly widely separated. His HUD told him they were all still at a healthy status. He saw Keris as well, the selfish glory-seeker of course going after the Nob of the group, as if no one else was capable. His happiness of being granted first drop and thus first blood was yet again ruined by Keris, as he was selected to go with his claw on the mission.

Waghs! and teeth and oddly shaped metal pieces of armor and weaponry rushed into his arm's reach, crude ballistics crashing off his war-plate. He quickly became buried in their green and metal masses, unable to see any objectives beyond. He swung his axe, shrugged them off his shoulder guards, applied his pistol both with its ammunition and blunt surface. He would hit them them but they would just hit back twice as much. He completely lobbed off the arm of one of the orks, and it looked at the injury, turned back to him, and roared even louder.

"Filthy Orks!" he slashed, "Jump into the magma for your stupidity and worthlessness! Plague of the Imperium! Jump in, for the wrath of the Space Wolves is upon you!"

With his self given vigor he was able to kill two more, and soon after a third. He wanted nothing more than to push the Orks off the edge of the station, into the molten death below, just as they had intended to do to the humans behind him.

You can never be prepared for the unexpected



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post #184 of 209 (permalink) Old 08-14-12, 11:33 AM
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Ten days. Ten days since the incident in the ship's generator room and since then all had been quiet. It was like a typical voyage through an ocean whose rage had for the moment been spent.

Infuriating. Krahl spent every oppurtunity running through drills or sparring in the cages. Eight sessions, six wins. Not a score to be ashamed of as far as he was concerned. His only gripe at this point, whether due to his timing or the other wolf's own prerogative, was that he had yet to settle his sparring match with Alrik. How long ago had the offer been made? And yet the hand of fate seemed determined to allay their score settling until some unfathomable circumstance had been met.

Fine. If the Allfather or the Great Wolf had a reason for stopping the two of them from meeting in the cages then Krahl would accept that for now. But only for now...


* * *


How exactly it had come to this Krahl had no idea, but was in little mood to complain as he felt the roar of the thunderhawk all about him and the comforting feel of the jump pack strapped to his back. It had been far too long since he had used one of these, but the feeling of his first sojourn through the air had not been easily forgotten and he eagerly awaited a repeat of that same performance.


The rush of the air on his face was an exhilarating feeling as they plummeted towards their destination. The small piece of metal against a backdrop of molten lava grew ever larger as the astartes hurtled towards it. Closer...

Closer...

NOW!

Following the cue along with the others, Krahl kicked the jump pack into life and altered his trajectory to better land amid his foes. His impact, like all the others, was akin to a flaming meteorite of vengeance raining from above. Orks reeled all around as the pack slammed into the ground before them. Krahl gave them no chance to regroup, sparing only a slight glance to ensure the others of the pack were nearby before charging into the mob with bolt pistol and combat blade ready for blood.

He cut down one ork with two swift strokes as it tried to stand. The next fared no better, only managing to plant one foot before three well placed bolts tore it clean down the middle. A twisted grin of satisfaction crossed Krahl's face, at least until he got sight of Alrik a short distance beside him.

The Firehawk was a vision of wrath that instilled Krahl with a momentary awe. This was the astartes he had challenged? The thoughts began flooding his mind all at once. Had it been a foolish mistake to think he was a worthwhile opponent for this wolf? Would he survive the encounter?

...

Not now. Now was not the time, and these thoughts were disgusting and unwarranted. The time would come as it always must, and when it did Krahl would meet it head on as he always did. He charged forth, angling slightly so as to stay within a dozen paces of the Firehawk as he advanced. An unfortunate ork who tried to impede him found its arm swiftly cut from its shoulder before its head swiftly followed. Trampling its corpse to the ground, the young wolf used his momentum to barrel into another ork and force it back three paces.

He laughed viciously into the alien's face before headbutting it squarely in the sensitive spot on the bridge of its nose. As it reeled, he brought his blade up and impaled it through its chin.

'Hear me Firehawk!' Krahl bellowed as he approached the older wolf's location to engage another ork. 'You may never like me and I will accept that. But even if I have to save your life a dozen times or beat you to the ground twice that number, I WILL damn well earn your respect!' He let a screaming howl underline his words as he brought his blade around for the next strike...


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post #185 of 209 (permalink) Old 08-17-12, 06:55 PM
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I rumbling snarl mingled with gurgling sound of the mead running down his throat as he tore into his meal in the dining hall. Spotted, here and there, at the tables around him the forms of other wolves, eating, waiting, chaffing at the inactivity of the last days. Leidolf had been in a dour mood since the warp incursion, his nerves frayed, his temper short. It was the dissention within his pack that stirred his blood, that stoked the fire of his rage. He hated to see his brothers in such a state, to see them at each other's throats. Despite the fact that Leidolf respected Keris, his choices and attitude of late had left a sour taste in his mouth. The memory of the confrontation between Keris and Vermundr bringing a silent snarl to Leidolf lips as he tore into a hunk of meat. The sudden animosity that boiled between the pack leader and Keris was a liability, one that needed to be addressed if the pack was to meet success.

Draining the last of his flagon, Leidolf pushed his plate away. His thoughts, dour and depressing, had left him with little appetite. Perhaps a spar, to lose himself in the movement of combat would help to pass the time. He would have to find something to occupy himself, three more days in the warp until their scheduled arrival. Leidolf sighed as he stalked toward the the training halls, feeling like he would be crammed into this metal box for an eternity.

***

Despite his worry the time rolled by at a steady pace and in no time Leidolf found himself standing in a Thunderhawk, his pack at his side, as they rocketed through the sulferous atmosphere of Jorus, the tiny metallic island in the middle of a sea of roiling lava their destination. The recent memory of the ships of the Astartes punching through the blockade of Orkish crafts brought a smile to Leidolf's lips. His bloodlust was up, his desire to vent his rage on the filthy xenos, heigtened by the destruction wrought upon the Ork fleet.

Staring out of one of the viewports Leidolf watched as the metallic object grew slightly larger, it was one of the nine main geo-thermal stations on the planet, one of the last ditch defense positions of the remaining defenders, and the location the message from the Aurora Chapter Master had originated from.

Smiling as the Thunderhawk jolted, slipping to the side as anti-air fire from the Orks on the paltform attempted to hit the speeding craft, Leidolf rolled his shoulders, the unfamiliar weight of the jump pack on his back shifting comfortably. He could not explain why, but the thought of plummeting thousands of feet, crashing into the Greenskins like a thunderbolt from heaven caused his twin-hearts to beat faster, his hand to clutch the hilt of his chainsword in anticipation.

"For now, let the heat of battle throw us into a frenzy, as that is our true home. Show these Orks that battle is just as much in our nature as it is theirs.... only we are much better at it.." Vermundr, the pack leader called, and at his words Leidolf felt a howl of challenge bubbling in his lungs. These filthy beasts would taste the steel of the Astartes. The Sons of Russ, would bathe in their blood and enjoy it.

The Thunderhawk leveled off..... lights changed from red to green.... the side door flew open and with a howl Ornsvald launched himself from the craft, followed closely by Vermundr and Krahl. A rictus grin splitting his face, his joy shrouded by the facemask of this helm, Leidolf ran from his side of the Thunderhawk, and without a second thought launched himself into the open air.

Exhiliration....... A howl broke through the sound of the wind rushing past him, his pack, his brothers, expressing their joy at the feeling of unrestrained freedom that flight provided. His ulalating howl joining theirs, crying his joy and anticipation of the coming fight coursing through his body with the combat stimulants and adrenaline. Folding his arms to his side, snapping his legs together strecthed out straight, Leidolf felt his body accelerate and watched as the platform, covered in the ant like bodies of both Imperial Defender and Orkish invader rushed forward to meet the claw.

Leidolf's joy was tarnished as a rune in his HUD, began to move away from the rest of the Claw. Keris, the fool, had changed course. He was heading away from the rest of the group, his trajectory leading him into a heavy pocket of orkish activity. As his jet pack roared, and he came to rest with a destructive crash, sending orks in every direction, Leidolf saw Keris right himself and engage in combat with a Nob. Damn glory seeker was going to get himself killed.

Spinning in midair and thumbing the activation tab on his jetpack, Leidolf changed his course and opened a vox channel to Vermundr, "Pack Leader, Keris has disengaged from the rest of the group. He seeks the glory of slaying a Nob, but in the process is going to get himself killed with no one to watch his back. I go to aid him, despite his foolishness no one should fight without a brother at his side."

Seconds after his message to Vermundr was complete, he barrelled into the Orks, his armored mass sending them scattering to the side. Two unlucky specimens found themselves crushed under his bulk, his bolt pistol was in his hand in less than a heartbeat, and two well placed shots ended their lives in a spatter of gore and bone. Sure enough, Keris stood a few meters in front of him, his newly painted sections of black armor a stark contrast to the light blue-grey, facing a massive Ork. A wry grin split Leidolf's face as he realized that here, next to this Orkish leader, the fighting would be the most ferocious, the most deadly. As if to prove his point, an Ork, clad in crude leathers, spots of soot and burns covering not only the leather clothing, but the beast's forearms, jumped out to bar Leidolf's path to his brother's side. The Ork, carried a burna, a flaming pike, a deadly close combat weapon.

In an instant Leidolf's chainsword was in his right hand, balancing the bolt pistol he already held in his left, as he brought his weapon to block a jabbing strike from the Burna-boy. His HUD began to beep, a warning that three more orks, bearing crude cleavers were charging him from the rear. Barreling his weight into the burna, pushing it cross-ways across its weilders body, he pushed the beast back. It stumbled as it was caught of balance, giving Leidolf just enough time to launch a volley of shots at the approaching trio. The rounds, quickly aimed, claimed one Ork's life as its head and part of its shoulder exploded. Another fell, its leg a shattered stump of bone and blood as a second round richochetted up form the metal decking o the platform, the third slowed, approaching more cautiously at the damage dealt to its companions.

Leidolf spun back around to face the Burna, but was rocked as the beast brought the butt of its flaming pike down on his exposed back. Rage flooded through him, his muscles tightened. Twisting to face the Burna-boy, Leidolf led with his bolt pistol, clipping the thing in the temple, eliciting a snarl of pain and feral rage. It spun with the blow, leaving its back open and with a roaring howl Leidolf leveled a heavy blow with his thundering chainsword. Blood flew, black oily ork blood, fanned out from the revving blade, but much to Leidolf's surprise the thing threw itself forward away from his blade. As it turned, its eyes blazing with primal rage, it brandished its Burna and launched itself at Leidolf with a reverberating roar. A howl on his lips Leidolf rushed forward to meet it.

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post #186 of 209 (permalink) Old 08-18-12, 11:26 PM
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Heimdall followed the squad quietly as they headed towards the engine room, watching the darkness around them as he moved his flamer and its pilot light to provide as much light as he could for his squad mates. They soon reached the eerily quiet engine core room, Iorek informing the bridge that it was clear. Heimdall felt uneasy as he stared around the room, not liking how there were not dead bodies of the crew at the very least to explain why there was no response.

As the vox link closed Heimdall heard a roar as the crew men, clearly turned from the All-father came rushing out of the dark towards the small squad of marines. Heimdall felt his wrath boil over. These men had turned before they died, their faith lost in one moment. They rushed at him with crude hand weapons, smashing against his armour and that of his brothers as they tried desperately to kill the God-like Astartes.

Heimdall snapped, grabbing the nearest man by his throat he hurled him, snapping his neck in the process as he maglocked his flamer to his leg. Stomping forward with his hunting knife he set to work on the maddened crewmen that dared attack him, slamming his knife through one holding a crowbar before pulverising anothers organs with his fist. He stayed silent as he continued his grim work, though inside he was a raging boil, barely keeping control over his wolf.

The bloodbath was over as quick as it had begun, Heimdall taking a moment to collect himself as his brothers talked and the packleader entered. Heimdall immediately noticed the resentment towards Keris, as if he was no longer one of the pack.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been days since the attack from the demon spawn and they had arrived in the Aurora's system. The pack was preparing for a combat drop with jet packs, and even though Keris was no longer one of the squad he would be joining them. Heimdall didn't know what to think of that, conflicted about Keris and his role.

Keris was a level headed marine, and would become a fine wolf priest one day. However he had left his pack, and though Heimdall was sure a lot of the pack would see that as him abandoning the pack Heimdall could understand his decision to.

The drop was uneventful, Heimdall listening to what his brothers said, as well as his packleader as he prepared himself. It would be his first real taste of combat, and against Orks. The xeno filth would be purged, and he would be a part of it. Checking his equipment and flamers one more time before the doors were flung open, and he and his brothers leapt into the whistling wind.

Plumenting downwards they could see the orks pushing back Imperial Guard on the landing platforms, ready to push them over the edge and too their deaths. The stupid xeno would not be expecting the wrath of Fenris to fall right on top of their thick skulls. As he descended he noticed that he had been far too wrapped up in the battle below, and had drifted off course with Ornsvald.

The two of them smashed into a smaller landing pad, Ornsvald immediately going down on one knee as Heimdall recovered from his drop quickly, unleashing a gout of flame with his flamer, catching four orks in its fiery death. "Burn Xeno scum. Burn in the name of the All-Father." Heimdall roared through his helmet speakers, fangs bared as he unleashed a second gout of flames into them before they could recover.

Immediately Ornsvald leapt into the destruction his flamer had caused, quickly dispatching three orks, but leaving Heimdall open for an attack to his side. Heimdall turned, flamer spewing death even as he readied himself to grab his chainsaw, in case he needed it.

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Alrik Firehawk straightened, armour thrumming angrily, blood-stained fingers twisting into vibrant-red fists. Iorek Ghostwolf, the one-eyed, milk-skinned bastard, had gibed at Alrik’s expense - Brother Keris entering the generator chambers - Iorek moving to join him, playing the part of Packleader studiously. Alrik’s eyes became narrow, hateful slits. There was a deep-seated animosity between Alrik and Iorek - One that had boiled over several times during the Hecutor Campaign; causing tension amongst the Pack.

Why Alrik felt so vehemently towards the Ghostwolf, he knew not. Was it jealousy? No, most certainly not - Alrik Firehawk was above such petty, manlike things. He was an immortal - One of the hallowed Adeptus Astartes - Of one of the Nine Legions, nonetheless. Indeed, jealousy was an alien concept to the Firehawk.

Perhaps it was the pathological differences between the pair - Iorek was a shrewd marksman, brilliant before the loss of his eye, and still doubtlessly the best shot amongst the Pack; whereas Alrik was a murderous swordsman, preferring to get in the thick of it, to feel, smell and hear combat. Again, he doubted this - Keris and Alrik were polar opposites, but Alrik counted him amongst the closest of his brethren.

Whatever the reason was, Alrik knew one thing for certain - It felt natural.

Idly, the Firehawk played with Kjarl’s flaying knife, circling his thumb over the bone-relief of the Flesh Tearers’ heraldry. The maw-enshrouded teardrop; pale, creamy white enshrouding a carnadon tooth-shard. Alrik’s eyes slowly drifted downwards, locking onto the blade. The maw had turned a gaudy pink, with the blood of the Warp-drunk thralls.

‘A portentous omen,’ Alrik whispered sibilantly, lips pulling apart in an odd, malign half-smile. ‘A bloody-mouth and a lone teardrop. The Stormcaller would cry aghast…’

***

Ten days passed. Ten days of brutal training, solitude and sulking. Countless servitors had been dismantled, a thousand thoughts had been reconsidered, debated upon and ultimately thrown to the winds. However, one plagued him, returning whenever banished, disturbingly stubborn.

Keris was leaving the Pack. Keris, his blood-brother, his guiding-light, was abandoning him. Just the notion of it made Alrik choleric. Keris the Priest, Keris the Wise, Keris the Betrayer. How could he? Did he care nothing for Alrik?

The Aurora Marines and Space Wolves had now entered the Jorus System - Powering through the Orkish blockade above Jorus herself, punching their ramshackle ships from the star-ocean. Few naval officers truly understood how to successfully handle an engagement. Space was three-dimensional, something that most neglected to acknowledge; treating their vessels like their wet-navy counterparts. Evidently, the Orkish shipmasters had not prepared for such a sudden and violent attack. After the location of the distress beacon had been decided upon, Vermundr had petitioned that his Squad be within the vanguard. It had been granted.

Pack Kjarl - Pack Vermundr - Stood together within the confines of a Thunderhawk, as it plummeted down through Jorus’ poisonous atmosphere. The world was purgatorial, a vast, glowering eye of molten rock and sulphur-choked air. Alrik did not know the name of their destination - Nor if it even had one - Merely that it was a geothermal mining station, and that it was now in the possession of the Orks. He licked his lips, eyes falling on Vermundr, and then Iorek, before finally resting upon brother Keris. Sections of his blue-grey armour had now been repainted a deep, unreflective black. His presence alone was jarring… Like a knife, twisting, tormenting him.

Alrik averted his gaze, running a cold gauntlet over his head. He was excited. This was his chance to slake his bloodlust. Haladas and Freyr would be avenged, finally. It was a beautiful thought - One that made Alrik grin voraciously - An ugly, snaggletoothed grin.

He purred, craned his neck forwards as the Thunderhawk’s side hatches swept open, staring down at the station. ‘Skull…’

***

..Beta Phi XII…

..Smoke..

..Distant gunfire, pious roars - The squeal of an injured Ork..

..Jubilant howls, the sound of rampaging Blood Claws, accompanying the measured bursts of heavier weaponry and the tell-tale gnawing of Chainsword upon bone..

Alrik Firehawk sweeps forwards, bolt-pistol in hand, eyes scanning the curtain of thick, cloying blackness. It stings his superhuman lungs, leaves a vile taste on his lips. Upon the wall nearby is a member o the Adeptus Mechanicus - Crimson robes peeled back, pinned in place by a dozen blades. The Adept has been crucified, blood and oil leaking from its violated, twisted body. Alrik whispers a prayer to the Omnissiah, before moving into a vehicle garage.

Something massive, mottled black-green, stands ahead of him. In one huge paw, a brutal cleaver gleams.

‘For the Allfather,’ Alrik intones, raising his bolt-pistol, compressing the trigger. The Ork turns towards him as the bolt-pistol barks.

Piggish, small eyes widen. The Ork’s chest explodes, a welter of gore, swaying back and forth unsteadily.

And then, it laughs. It laughs at the youthful Space Marine, a deep, guttural sound - Brimming with mockery. Alrik levels his bolt-pistol once again, snarling, and-

-the gun is swatted away. It slides through the garage, halting metres away. Blood is dribbling from the Ork’s massive gullet as it backhands Alrik, sending him onto his back.

The beast raises it’s cleaver. Alrik Firehawk is done - He has served the Emperor dutifully - And now he is to be ended at the hands of this abomination.

A Chainsword sweeps through the Ork’s throat. The head tumbles away, blood gushes. Haladas stands above Alrik, proffering his hand.

‘Skull or spine, my brother.’ He speaks, smiling. ‘These bastards take a lot of punishment, anywhere else.’

Alrik takes his hand, smirking at his brother. It is the last time he ever does so.

***

‘…Or spine.’ Alrik finished, as he crept onto the edge of the hatchway. The sky was an open expanse before him - Marrying the horizon in the distance. Alrik sucked in the air between gritted teeth, and fell over the edge.

The wind tugged at his face, rippling the layers of scar tissue painfully; his arms outstretched, jump-pack growling angrily behind him. The fall was beautiful. Alrik felt atop the world - Laughing manically as he fell, faster, accelerating still, faster and faster and faster, jump-pack whining, the station growing from an insignificant glimmer to a very large and very real danger.

With a growl, Alrik snapped his arms and legs inwards, igniting his jump-pack once again. He snapped back into reality, landing hard, flattening a nearby Ork as he did so. He gave them no respite, Chainsword swinging into the Xeno’s gut. Intestines, pieces of green-skinned flesh and dark, brackish blood erupted forth, splattering Alrik’s greaves. It roared, gripped in death’s clawed hand, looking up at it’s killer with cruel, beady eyes. Alrik smiled, winked, and crushed the Ork’s skull beneath his boot.

‘That was for Haladas.’ He spoke grimly; like an elder speaking a half-remembered tale.

Another rushed him, swinging an improvised mace. Alrik ducked beneath it, hacked away the thing’s arm below the elbow, before robbing the alien of a head with a tremendous back-handed swipe. Blood jetted and flesh churned as Alrik barreled into another, driving his Chainsword up through the beast’s chest cavity, two-handed, the tip of his chained-blade piercing between the Ork’s oversized shoulder blades.

A sword scraped across the Firehawk’s left shoulder pauldron, dragging across his chest, before falling away at the right hip. He turned with the blow. His Chainsword licked out - Like a spear - Ramming hilt-deep into the Ork’s skull. It shuddered, dead, held aloft by the Space Wolf. He kicked it free, twirling the Chainsword, hunting for his next victim.

‘Oh, shut up.’ Alrik hissed at one of the Orks, who was roaring incoherently. He punched the odiferous monster, snapping tusks, deflating its nose. The Greenskin stumbled, stunned, blinded by pain. The Space Marine tore his bolt-pistol free and proceeded to empty the magazine into the creature’s head.

The next two Orks rushed him together. One swung an immense cudgel, the other held a whirring Chainaxe of Imperial design. Alrik holstered his bolt-pistol calmly and stepped in to meet the pair. Ceramite-shod fingers seized the haft of the Chainaxe, holding the vibrating teeth scant inches from Alrik’s face. He twisted, counter-clockwise, and snapped the Ork’s arm at the elbow. It squealed, horrified, weapon wrangled away.

With a ululating howl, Alrik buried the Chainaxe in the cudgel-bearing Ork’s side. It pirouetted, arms flailing, blood squirting. Alrik bifurcated the first Ork from shoulder-to-hip, organs spilling out in a visceral explosion. He turned back to the other Ork, watching it squirm on the ground, wrestling to wrench the Chainaxe free. Alrik laughed bitterly at the sight, dipping his Chainsword through the Ork’s heart, twisting three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as he did so. It sighed, sank back pitifully, and left life.

A moment of peace passed. Alrik watched the other Wolves in their bloodletting, breathing deeply, flexing his fingers. One last Ork stood before him, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a shirt of rusted chain, a makeshift gun clutched in long-fingered, fat hands. It grinned at him, eyes twinkling angrily beneath a pair of dark, grimy goggles. Alrik returned the gesture, giving a mocking bow, and launched forwards with the jump-pack.

The Ork made a curious noise - Something between a mewl and an exasperated laugh - And burst apart. Alrik’s jump-pack whined as it cooled down, dropping the Space Marine back onto his feet, streaked with gore, face covered in a film of scarlet, glittering amongst the ridges and trenches of his scars.

Krahl spoke, then. He was a firecracker of a Marine - Determined, stubbornly so - And, by Alrik’s admission, he could look after himself. Even still, the Firehawk had no doubts that he would beat the young Blood Claw senseless, given the chance.

‘I doubt that, little-wyrm,’ He called out, wryly, licking the Orkish blood from his narrow, broken lips. The arrogance was thinly veiled. ‘You look unhappy, boy. Does battle hold no promise of joy, for you?’

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'

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"Your"

Keris was not one to bandy words with a loose tongue and the seperation made his eye narrow as he stared into the icy blue pools before him, his mouth opening to speak words... hope, caution and care. That he no longer considered himself a member of their pack, that such fractures had become so deep, crevice separating them from their fellows.

He had done his best, to put aside his petty jealousy, his lingering hatred and the slowly healing wound of betrayal in the name of the pack and its sanctity, yet it had not been enough, the lines too deep, the combatants too stubborn.


His mouth was forced shut by Vermundr who returned to them and took control with no words, merely a crook of his finger and Iorek felt his anger bite. You do not care that your pack was blooded, do not enquire for the welfare of those injured under your command, Hellfang was heartless indeed, a soulless vacuum, a driven head, no longer in possession of it's heart and soul.

It could drive them to destruction.

10 days, 10 days of brooding, 10 days of crackling electricity, a fragile spark in the air ready to ignite, the packleaders temper, as tempestuous as a Fenrisian storm.

Iorek stayed away, fearful his mere presence could provide the touchpaper once again haunting the training cages and the firing ranges as he had done in the old days, as he did every time he needed to slip away to drive away his concerns, his anger and rage, the bitter emotions that tore apart his very soul. When his body hurt, his mind hurt, his heart ached but in pain he found tranquility a zen place within the anguish where he embraced the true power within his body.

Yet even now as his arm fought the recoil of his bolt pistol that tranquility he craved, that emptiness he needed slipped away, his stance was right, the weight of the pistol was right, the motion beyond textbook, purest perfection.

The evidence to the contrary was damning horrifying condemnation, the smoldering hole in the paper 3 inches wide of the target, the inner ring untouched, his shot barely clipping the very fringes of the outer ring.
Anger flooded him and he lashed out, his fist buckling the metal as he tore the paper away and tossed it aside desperate to hide the evidence of his bodies failings unable to look at the mass of puckered scar tissue, a constant reminder of the failure that had damaged him, left him as damaged goods... a reject

Now the calm was gone and only anger simmered.

__________________________________________________ _______
He was diving, falling from the sky his pack mates spiraling around them, his body moving in motions he could not remember learning, controlled, body twisting in elegant spirals, eyes closing quickly against the rushing wind as he twisted.

It awoke as he opened them to check his trajectory, a low rumbling growl of a wolf enraged, a wolf terrified, a wolf where no wolf should be, aloft toppling through space.

The wolf within was thrashing panicking struggling for control, to unleash the roaring jetpack and steady their pinwheeling descent, to pull them from their dive too early, the roar an unnecessary warning to the green savages that roared and stomped below. His arms were moving, his mind working frantically to control the sudden onslaught of tooth and claw as the wolf bit and scratched, frantic in its terror, desperate in its exertion and Iorek bit back a scream of anguish as pain shot across his temples.

The anger that simmered boiled and bit back lending him strength as he vented his frustration, the full force of his self loathing inward, hands closing round its scraggy throat fingers tearing at the fur around its bloodstained twisted maw.

Out bastard, submit... I am the master of my own body.

The beast was forced to the ground and he pinned it, held it flat to the floor its panicked screeching cries becoming wimper as it was flattened, it will shattered.

He was still falling, his distraction bringing him close to the packleader, their trajectory right as they continued to tobble, the green blurs below becoming thick limbs and blunt brutish features, great cleavers and blades clutched between thick merciless fingers, the eyes widening as they looked to the heavens.

The jetpack grumbled into life the terrifying descent slowing even as they crashed to the ground amongst the orks upon the platform, the shockwave sending some to their knees even as the wolves tore in amongst them.

His blade in his hand, his pistol in the other, an ork struggling to rise took a pistol round through the skull at point blank range, unnatural black sludge an cranial matter exploding over the platform. A second met his blade as it wheeled, an arcing swing cutting through the thick sinews of it neck, sending its squat fat skull pinwheeling.

Vermundr was charging his sent smouldering, like charred meat, anger seeming to radiate from his very pour, the wolf within's hackles raising, balking at the scent.

"Filthy Orks! Jump into the magma for your stupidity and worthlessness! Plague of the Imperium! Jump in, for the wrath of the Space Wolves is upon you!"

He was out of control,charging into the orks, forcing them towards the edge of the ramp and the mass before him seethed, driven towards the humans that teetered, stunned and stationary, the sudden appearance of the astartes within their midst. They lingered upon the edge of the precipice, caught in the glory of their foes destruction, unaware and unpretected, the orks funneled in their direction by Vermundr's impetuous rage.

No thought for any but himself, selfish and ignorant, this was the pup they choose to lead a wolf pack.

Iorek was moving, ducking a flashing cleaver he sliced low at the orks knees, the great blade slicing through bone and sinew and the great behemoth before him toppled unbalanced its howling cry of agony silenced by a stomp of his foot, even as he pushed on the crack of his bolt pistol sending an ork reeling as the explosive charge blew great chunks of flesh from its torso its gurgling laugh silenced by a second round the blow out its throat, a great kick sending the crumpling corpse back into its fellows, buying him the single moment of respite he needed amongst the scrambling mass

Standing before the humans he ejected the clip and slammed in another deep black ichor caked across his armor.

Breathlessly caught in the moment, the packs reject turned to face the foes bearing down upon them

"Know you are not alone hammers of the Emperor. The Wolves of Fenris are with you, now stand as men and reap his wrath upon your foes"

kudos to lillian thorne for the awesome sig

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Vermundr; Roaring your anger at the greenskins caught in your path, you take your axe in a two handed grip and force a trio of the aliens back and onto the decking. In the periphery of your vision you catch the sight of Keris fighting the nob; your former packmate makes great strides in using his jump pack to avoid the worst of the nobís strength. But despite this, you do see him take a blow to the side that tosses him onto the ground. A commotion further along the decking calls your attention away from the fight though, as you see what looks like a dozen more orks led by another nob coming to join the fight. The second nob seems to have its sights set on Alrik and Krahl who have left a path of devastation in their wake, but the rest of that mob appears to be charging Heimdall and Ornsvald.

[You are now faced with a choice, you could either charge through the mob of orks before you and intercept the nob fighting Keris, potentially robbing him of his fight, or you could rally the guardsmen behind you, and other elements of your pack, to engage the incoming orks and prevent your packmates from being overrun. Do you choose your own aims and spite Keris, or do you trust your former packmate and rally these mortals to counter the greenskins? You have not failed to notice the effect Iorekís words have had on the guardsmen already, but is he enough to fully rally them?]


Iorek; You are not given much more time for words or thought as yet more orks leap at the chance for a true fight. Two more come at you, one chopping down with a crude axe that you block with your arm, before delivering a riposte with your own blade. The second ork never gets a chance to do anything, as it is smacked by half a dozen las-blasts and then speared by four bayonets. However you quickly notice that while your words had an effect on the closest soldiers to you, many more still have the look of defeat on their shoulders (after all, you cannot see their faces in this hazardous environment.) You hear a bellow that can only be a challenge, and see a second nob rushing towards Alrik and Krahl, or more likely the Firehawk. In its wake though, there are close to a dozen more orks entering the fray.

[For now though, there are ten more orks between you and any form of relative freedom. You will be able to deal with four more on your own, but what of Vermundr and the forty soldiers near you? Do you attempt to rally these men further, deal with the enemy on your own, or put this task on the shoulder of your own leader?]


Alrik; A bellow of pure rage erupts over the sounds of death, and instinctively you know it is aimed purely at you. Turning to face the source of the noise, your sights lock on the running mass of a nob and it is coming for you. With a grin made lopsided by your mauled features, you tell Krahl to deal with the lesser enemies about you while you yourself go about the business of a real fight.

This creature, which normally towers over even your fellow pack-mates, is barely more than half a hand taller than you. In one arm it holds a wicked cleaver, and its other arm is wrapped in a chain with barbed hooks hanging off it.

[The two of you clash head on, your first move is to bring the top of your head into the nobís face. Beyond that, the rest is left to you though this fight will not end right away; the nob can take a lot of punishment and deal it out in spades if you are not careful.]


Krahl; A roar of pure rage pierces all other sounds around you, stopping the remaining orks in their tracks and calling the attention of Alrik to something new. Without much thought to the consequences, the Firehawk tells you to deal with the orks already here while he combats this new threat. Something easier said than done, but something you step up to with a howl of your own.

[There are still six orks left around here and they recover from the war-cry quickly enough. You will be able to dispatch two with relative ease, but the remaining four will not be so easy, though it shall be doable.]


Heimdall; You twist around, looking for more orks to roast with your flamer, when something slams into your side and sends you sprawling. For the briefest of moments, your flamer falls from your grip and away from your person. But that is for but a moment, as you hit the decking and feel the weapon under your bulk. You lash out with a clenched fist, the closed gauntlet impacting on something solid before there is an audible crack of bone and the weight on you falls away.

[Before you have a chance to get back to your feet, you hear the pounding of boots on metal; tearing your hunting knife out, you ram the blade up and into the chest of a charging ork, stopping it dead and giving you a moment to recover. That is when you notice another dozen orks coming at you and Ornsvald; with the flamer you will be able to deal with another three of the greenskins, but do you have enough time to get it?]


Ornsvald; Jumping back to your feet, you sidestep an over-arched chop from another ork and proceed to hit it with your elbow and send it over the platforms side. A raging bellow assaults your ears, and you see a brutish ork charging towards Alrik and Krahl, but more importantly would be the near twenty orks surrounding or charging towards a prone Heimdall. Without a moment to lose you barrel into the enemy, your chainsword lopping the head off an unsuspecting greenskin before a blow to the side of your head makes everything blur.

[You lash out wildly with your weapon in order to clear some space, but keep in mind that there are about eight orks in the immediate area. Your sight will return quickly, and in time for you to dispatch another ork before engaging with the others who will not be quite so easy.]


Leidolf; Using your jump pack for added momentum you slam into the burna with the force of an enraged razor-ursid, all but shattering the greenskin as it bounces off the decking. It tries to rise up, but you smash a boot onto the orks chest, readying your pistol to finish the job. Before you get a chance to pull the trigger though, the third ork from before jumps at your and spoils your aim. It tackles you, bringing you both to the ground where it attempts to wrestle your own gun from your hand.

[Your chainsword is pinned between your bodies, which would normally be good if the teeth were not digging into your own armour. You could continue to fight the ork for control of the gun, or let go and have a hand free. Either way, you will be able to kill this ork, and find the burna dead from its wounds though it will be at that point in which pain registers along your thigh from the fire pike. There are three more orks near you, ignore the pain and deal with them to keep them off Keris.]


Keris [Same as before, though as you combat this nob it does manage to land a hard blow to your side and throw you ten feet away. The hit will force you to a knee, but you will ignore that pain and return to the fight.]

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post #190 of 209 (permalink) Old 09-07-12, 02:03 PM
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Heimdall twisted around, trying to make sure that he didn’t get flanked whilst he was looking around for a target that he could roast alive. As he was twisting he felt something slam into his side, a xeno that had managed to take advantage of the fact that he was alone apart from one other Wolf who was fighting away whilst his flank was open.

Heimdall snarled as he was thrown of his feet, feeling his flamer fall from his grip, something that he would have to worry about. Lucky for him, when he slammed into the concrete platform he could feel his flamer underneath him, though it wouldn’t be much use there. He could hear the xeno bearing down upon him and quickly grabbed at his hunting knife, twisting it free of its protective sheath.

Heimdall turned to stab the ork that was charging at him, the ork sinking onto his blade as he stabbed it in the chest, twisting the blade as he did so. He quickly moved his head out of the way of the falling cleaver, watching as the ork shook as it died. He felt a moment of respite before a roar as a dozen orks charged towards him, trying to take down a Space Wolf whilst he wasn’t on his feet.

Heimdall heaved the ork off of him, lying it down next to him and yanking his blade out. He had only seconds before they would be on top of him, and he grabbed at his flamer. He barely had time to get to his feet and turn to see the first three orks, the fastest orks about to bear down on him. “For the All-Father. For Russ!”

Heimdall roared as his flamer did likewise, the promethium burning into the orks, burning through their flesh, muscles, bones, everything. The first three orks dropped, burnt and burning husks as Heimdall stood over them his roar amplified by his helmet and coming out more metallic. He wished the he had his brother Leidolf at his side, he could use his anger and rage right now against the ork menance, but he was busy chasing after Keris.

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