"There are no facts, only interpretations." - Philosopharch Nietzsche circa M2
“I am listening.” Martiel, the chief apothecary continued to tap and study the salvaged Apothecarian vambrace from their last incursion into real space, the Black of the First Legion had changed to Green, ‘it seems’ he thought idly, ‘everyone is changing their colors these days.’
“We need more supplies.”
“We always need more supplies.” Martiel replied, testing the functionality of the drill and laser scalpel upon a nearby cadaver, the former owner of the armor salvaged and used to repair the gear of this motley crew of The Titana, a Strike Cruiser hailing from the days of the Great Crusade. Whatever was left would sit in stasis in one of the empty rearming chambers turned storage. The scent of burnt flesh lingered briefly in the air as Martiel removed the progenoid glands from the First Legionnaire, the hallmark of every Legionnaire falling into an icy blue preservation fluid held within a reinforced tube that would slide silently into the armored compartment of the Narthecium, “I need four more of these before I’m even considered combat effective.” He holds up the modular drill bit housed within the Narthecium, we all knew its purpose. “Assuming we still act within Legionary combat doctrine.” He said the last with a wicked smile, exposing a bottom row of iron teeth.
They were the bastard sons of a broken ideal, brought together out of necessity, out of survival. They stole a salvaged ship and its crew, picking up the remnants of the Emperor’s dream along their way through the realm of nightmares. Their Navigator, a handful of absconded Librarians and the Geller Field of The Titana allowed them some semblance of peace. “This world is at war.”
The logic engines of The Titana sorely required an update; they needed to tap into the nearest Imperial outpost and retrieve whatever communication codecs this era of the Imperium used. Reams of paper held intelligence intercepts that were barely legible, though they all pointed to a singular world, drawing all others to it. With that came the promise of new war material, be they armor, equipment or Neophytes that were capable of psychological reengineering after they were broken down and made pliable to their whims.
“The great ‘Imperium of Man’ is always at war.” Martiel was snide in his reply, “Fine, I will be part of your little excursion, when am I needed?”
“We’ll be transitioning back into real space in twelve hours, meet in First Squads arming chamber.”
“Understood, now please leave me alone. I have important business to attend too.” Mordekal left Martiel’s Apothecarian chamber, leaving the Apothecary to salvage from the rest of the corpses that they had dragged back from the Space Hulk. Their armor and weaponry already disseminated amongst the survivors.
Hours Later . . .
“What are they again?” Mordekal could almost hear Ventruv’s face contort into confusion as the heavy weapon Legionary spent half a second studying their new foes in the distance, “Why are they blue?”
“I don’t know.” Mordekal said in exasperation. “Why don’t you go over there and ask them?” He half expected Ventruv to get out of cover, cross the distance and introduce himself. Though to his surprise, he was instead greeted with Ventruv rising up with Bolter in hand, thumb on the selector for semi-automatic fire as one well placed round downed one of their foes trying to reach the catwalk overhead. Even Mordekal had to admire that shot, given the distance, angle and speed of the target trying to hide behind cover.
“CS-427, 521, and 954 are in position.” The combat servitors were running up the right flank, around the ruins of an old manufactorum, a distraction unit that had drawn the fire of their enemies, splitting their attention between the Legionnaires and their fodder. “It appears they are running away.”
“Save your ammunition. Move in groups of two to secure the AO. Salvage what you can, we’re out in five.” Mordekal keyed in the ten digit code for extraction.
“So, what are they?” Ventruv said dragging out a large rusted container of Promethium that they were all trying to converge upon, striking the locking mechanism with a clenched fist to reveal absolutely nothing, “Figures.”
“They’re called Tau.” If the reports are to be believed, when they were first encountered they were little more than feral creatures with a rudimentary language, nothing more than a footnote in the great crusades. To think they've grown this far almost numbs the mind given humanities propensity and thirst for progress.
“Well, they suck.”
“Ever the warrior poet.”
- - - -
Well, everyone at the LGS is playing Shadow War and they talked me into playing with them, since I have an idiotic amount of random bits and kit in storage from my other projects ( that I've taken a break from ), I decided to at least build a small KT for the LGS since we're doing a prolonged campaign.
I decided I was going to build a Black Shield force transported into the 40k millennium.
Edited by Brother Tyler, 02 June 2017 - 02:04 AM.