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[OW] Die Hards: Eleventh Hour

Only War Only War RPG FFG Fantasy Flight Games Roleplay RPG Roleplaying Game Astra Militarum Imperial Guard Penal Legion

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#1
Commissar Molotov

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Die Hards: Eleventh Hour



Squad Disposition


  • "Judge"
    Platoon Commander
  • "Nearly"
    X
  • "Scarlet" (Steel Company)
    Former Storm Trooper | Character Sheet
  • "Lughead" (Fenrykus)
    Ogryn Heavy Weapon Specialist | Character Sheet
  • Walker
    Lughead's Companion
  • "Stimms" (Beren)
    Medicae | Character Sheet
  • "Wide-eyes"
    Stimms' Companion
  •  
  • "Whisper"
    (Wounded)
  • "Dagger"
    (Wounded)
  •  
  • "Toaster"
    (DEAD)
  • "Twelvetoes"
  • (DEAD)

Edited by Commissar Molotov, 15 May 2020 - 01:36 PM.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#2
Commissar Molotov

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Outpost Lambda
Moon of Horon - Terullian Sub, Dalthus Sector
c.920.M41


Dawn comes, finally, affording you a glimpse of a grey-smeared sky through the wet jungle canopy - but whilst the pathetic excuse for daybreak might have brought an end to the night, it can offer you precious little respite from your problems. Eleven hours ago, a platoon of thirty-five occupied this firebase. Now there are only eleven. Less than that, when you take into account the wounded.

You have fought on the jungle-moon of Horon for several weeks now. For all this time you have been at the forefront of the fighting, pushing deeper and deeper into Ork-held territory. It has been a grinding war of attrition in which you were given the most basic of equipment and used as cannon fodder ahead of more valuable and accomplished units. Such is to be expected - you are, after all, scum dredged from the bottom of the Imperium and turned loose from prison.

Outpost Lambda - to give it its Imperial designation - is a pathetic, ramshackle outpost that has changed hands a dozen times during bitter, protracted skirmishes that have left dozens - both human and orkoid - dead. It bears the outlines of a prefabricated Imperial firebase of typical manufacture, though it is shrouded with metal plates and scrap-armour added by the Orks during their tenure. It stands atop a jagged ridgeline of interlocking cliffs amidst a clearing burnt out from the tangled web of carnivorous plants and looming jungle trees. The walls still bear the scars of weapon-fire, and the air is filled with smoke and blood.

Judge, who takes the role of Platoon Commander but wears no rank insignia, stands atop a watch-tower. He stares through a magnocular held in his hand as though trying to scry the future. Now is the time to take stock of your situation within the outpost and contact the rest of the Legion scattered through the jungle.





.

Edited by Commissar Molotov, 19 April 2020 - 02:49 PM.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#3
Steel Company

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Wiping the sweat from her brow as she filled an eighth sand bag, Scarlett placed the tip of her trusty 9-70 tip down into the dirt as one of the wounded came up to her with a cup of re-caf, she gave him a smile before taking a sip as she told him, “Only nine bags got punctured this time… How are the c-rats and explosives holding up? You know Judge is going to ask me when he gets off that tower of his.”

 

The trooper shrugged at her as he pulled off his helmet and rubbed the back of his head before answering her, “At the rate we’re going we might run out of med supplies before the ration packs, as for the explosives, well maybe a weeks’ worth if last night was any indication of the kind of attacks we’re going to see.”

 

He paused and gave her a sideways glance as he asked, “Care to settle a bet?”

 

Scarlett looked up at him with a quizzical look while she slumped against the new sandbags and her 9-70 entrenching tool, sipping more of the re-caf she asked him, “Depends on the question, why?”

 

The trooper sat beside her as he laid it out, “Well me an’ Toaster have a bet going on you see, we’re tryin’ ta figure out who everyone was before we got stuck in the One-Oh-One. He says you must’ve been some platoon Sargent or maybe a Lieutenant, on account of how even with us lot you’re maintaining the discipline and helpin’ out the platoon. I say you must’ve been somethin’ else entirely, like maybe you flew a Valkyrie and were never a mud-humper…”

 

She gave a laugh and bumped shoulders with him, “Neither. And I’m not going to tell you.”

 

The trooper pulled his helmet back on as he looked a little dejected, he turned to leave as he said, “Judge wants to see everyone in an hour, best get this done if you want him impressed.”

 

She watched him leave and frowned a little, pulling her knees to her chest and sipping more re-caf before looking skywards and mumbling to herself, “Not even close you two, not even close… Will I ever get to ride in a Valkyrie again?”

 

Finishing her cup, she got to work filling the last bag before stopping to grab her rations as she hurried to meet up with Judge.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#4
Commissar Molotov

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Looking down from the watch-tower and leaving the magnoculars around his neck, Judge gestures at Scarlet.

"Try to find a vox-unit," he says, gruffly. "We need to contact the Legion."
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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#5
Beren

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Garvek was hovering. It was one of the many habits that folks found unnerving about him. Checking the manifests, his pouches and med-kit, the manifest again. Looking busy, and doing jack-all.

 

Everything he'd done to get himself by before had been the benefit of relatively good standing. Not blueblood or any such dross, just leaping to attention, snapping out *Yes Sir!*s and doing one's utmost to appear as a staunch and undoubtedly loyal member of His armies.

 

Surprising how much you could get away with when the uppers thought the better of you. Only know he was in the Penal Legions, and there was no 'better' or 'good standing'. Just everyone in the same mess. At least folks didn't care too much when someone died. The upside, lots of good contacts to exchange. Certain supplies still got through, at least until they got deployed to this God-Emperor forsaken place. Constant battle, the need for relief or to stay on one's toes.  Business the first week had been good, before his stock dried up. As attrition set in the number of contacts outside the squad dried up too, and there was risk in selling so close to home. Sometimes jungles held useful plants or fungus, provided you could tap into the local knowledge. The only only organism he knew about here for certain was a fungus. It was green, a lot bigger than him, and liked to tear off human's heads while shooting the hell out of nothing with a device vaguely resembling a gun.

 

Garvek fixed a smile to his face and tossed a wave to 'Wide-Eyes', an exception to that rule. The former Chimera driver, nodded back, his fidgeting visible even from where he stood sentry. Good to have someone to watch your back, even if it meant you promised the first product you had. At least 'Wide-Eyes' had a modicum of patience. 'Grins' had become so unpleasant as things dragged on, his unfortunate failure to recover from that shrapnel wound had been... unpleasant. 

 

Couldn't keep standing round forever, he had patients to attend to. With a sigh, he began to rush off towards the impromptu infirmary. He caught a flash of red in the process. 'Scarlet'. She unnerved him. From one of those straight-backed high discipline regiments he'd guess, and it was such a damned effort figuring out whether you could trade with those types or not that it wasn't worth a risk. From the corner of his eye he also picked out the unmistakable and lumbering form of the Ogryn, "Lughead". Ogryns. Gullible enough that you could do good work with them, but also stupid enough to let something slip far too easily. Another risk.

 

That smile was plastered to his face again, as he reached his waiting patients. Near half the squad injured in some way, so he'd better do a good job or they wouldn't last long out here.


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#6
Steel Company

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OOC:

 

Moved to a later post, to better flow with events.


Edited by Steel Company, 20 April 2020 - 12:17 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#7
Fenrykus

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3QV7xLB.jpg?1

 

Lughead was on "Century duty," as he called it. Wanting to "help out the Judge-man," the Ogryn hefts his ripper gun onto his shoulder, randomly picks a point on the perimeter, and stares out from there until 'Judge' has other work for him.

 

Nearby, 'Scarlet' and another Legionnaire were chatting. while 'Judge' was on his own "Century duty." After a moment, he called to Scarlet for a vox. <Maybe da Judge-man needs ta talk to da other bosses. Did he see something?> Lughead looked in the direction the Commander had been looking, but couldn't make anything out himself.

 

<Hmm. Did he see a bird? I like birds. Birds have wings, I hope it was a bird.> A flash of movement dragged Lughead back from his reverie, as 'Stimms' made his way to the "hurt and sick tent."

 

<I hope da guys get real good soon, too. Dat way dey can go and see der families when we're done here.> Noise off in the far distance caught the Ogryn's attention once more. He turned back to his facing, peering through squinted eyes, and wondered if he could see anything, despite not knowing what he was looking for. After several minutes, in which time the mountainous abhuman's armored hand clenched and unclenched several times and a runnel of drool began to trickle down his lip, Lughead shook his head. Turning away from his post, he lumbered off to find 'Walker,' an ex-Weapons Specialist and Lughead's current handler.


Edited by Fenrykus, 21 April 2020 - 12:32 AM.

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IA: Sanguine Gargoyles - My DIY Blood Angels Successor Chapter

 

The Octaguide 2.0

DIY Chapter Guide


#8
Commissar Molotov

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GM: Having looted the outpost and the fallen bodies of your platoon is what gets you guys up to the "standard" equipment of an Imperial Guardsman.

 

Stimms:

Outpost Lambda is a mess. Having changed hands again and again, a succession of human and Ork owners have looted all the supplies until you are left with empty cupboards. The only medical supplies available are those you have had the foresight to stow away for yourself.

 

The wounded are in grim shape: Toaster, a flamer operator with a dark sense of humour is unconscious from a head wound that leaks thickly through the bandages swathing his skull. Whisper's face is a mess of shrapnel, having been caught in the explosion of a crude Ork grenade. It is unlikely that his eyes will ever work again. One of Dagger's legs ends in a ruined stump after an Ork attacked it with a scrap-blade the size of a normal man's arm. Twelvetoes lies slumped against a wall, muttering prayers to himself. You know he is slowly bleeding out from a slug in the gut. 

 

 

Scarlet:

After some investigation you are able to find Dogface, the platoon's vox-operator. Or rather, you are able to find his body, riddled with Orkoid slugs. The vox-unit on his back has been shot through and hisses static angrily. 


Edited by Commissar Molotov, 20 April 2020 - 08:06 AM.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#9
Beren

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Stimms had gone over with his usual smile, throwing aside the tarpaulin that made for a makeshift door.

 

"How are we all doing now?"

 

Whispers had started at the sound of Stimm's voice, jerking his mangled face in his directions.  Dagger lifted his hand half heatedly in greeting. Neither of them looked like they were going to die today, their bleeding already having been hastily staunched. He couldn't spare them anything for the pain either. The wounds could be disinfected, not that they'd stay clean long in this place.

 

"Be with you in a moment."

 

The other two concerned him more. Toaster was laid still on the floor, where he'd remained since Lughead dragged him over there a couple of hours before. A pool of dark fluid haloed his head. The soldier was breathing still, but Stimms wasn't a brain surgeon and he didn't know how long that would last. Twelvetoes hardly moved more, and it was mostly his lips. A trickle of prayers matching the trickle of blood from his guts. That wound Stimms was pretty sure he could stitch up, given time. 

 

"Hey!"

 

Twelvetoes shifted his faltering gaze to meet Stimm's as the medic crouched down and took the man's hands to them over the wound .

 

"You have to keep pressure on it, okay? Slow the bleeding. Just hold on for a bit, and I'll get you stitched right up."

 

Stimms reached out to Dagger, tapping him on the shoulder. 

 

"Keep an e.. Watch him for me would you?"

 

It wasn't just the severity of their injuries that focused Stimm's attention. These two could still be of some use when back on their feet. Whispers and Dagger? You didn't get augmentics out here, and you didn't get augmentics in the Penal Legion. Not useless, but Stimm wasn't sure what to do with them. Not that it was his call to make.

 

"I'll back with the God-Emperor's grace, eh? Got to see when out supplies are getting dropped."

 

With that, Stimms got to his feet, swiftly making for the lone figure on the watchtower. By the time he made it across the courtyard and up the watchtower stairs, Judge had seen him and was waiting. 

 

"Sir."

 

The greeting was perfunctory and answered only with a nod.

 

"Toaster has been hit pretty bad in the head. Even if he doesn't die on me, it might be a while 'till he's back in fighting form. Twelvetoes is bleeding, but I'm pretty sure I can stitch him up given half an hour. If the wound doesn't rupture again and doesn't get infected, he'll recover. The other two... they're stable, but Whisper is blind and Dagger, well, you've seen him sir. Short of having him strapped to Lughead's back, I'm not sure there's too much we can do about that. "


Edited by Beren, 20 April 2020 - 09:42 AM.

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#10
Steel Company

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Sighing to herself, she rolled Dogface over to to undo the straps holding the Vox unit on him, before slipping it off his back and onto herself. She was just about to leave when she hung her head and went back to his body to pull off one of the dog tags and grabbing his M36 Lasgun as well as his power packs for it. She was about to leave for a second time, when she stopped again and took the ration packs he had, saying out loud to herself, “No sense in letting this go to waste.”

Making her way through the outpost, she kept thinking to herself, Okay, it is making noise; it’s got to have power. That would mean it is transmitting and not receiving, how do I fix the receiving ability…

Snapping the fingers on her right hand, she hurried to the command post with in the fort, perhaps she’d find someone or something that she could use to get this vox unit in complete working order.

++++

In the command post, Scarlett let out a groan as she looked at the damage that the Orks had unleashed between shooting and looting anything they could. Looking skyward she asked out loud, “Was stealing that pig’s real food that bad, that it’s balanced out by punishing me like this?”

Setting the vox unit down next to her, she sat in a swiveling char to survey the room.

Ooc:
Awareness skill check
TN: 13 (Perception 33, -20 untrained)
Awareness check: 1d100 20 Fail, unless modifiers adjust that in anyway.

Edited by Steel Company, 20 April 2020 - 01:10 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#11
Commissar Molotov

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Scarlet:

 

In the detritus and rubble you see a discarded lascannon charge cell. With some re-wiring (and a few muttered prayers of apology to the Machine God), you judge that you could probably get the device working to some level of functionality. 

 

Stimms:

 

Judge nods, again. 

 

"Do what you can, Stimms. We need to find out whether reinforcements are coming. We won't last another night out here." 

 

Beside Judge you see a crumpled map of the local territory, with scrawled notes indicating known Imperial and Ork positions. Even upside-down, your keen eyes can make out several of the salient details. Outpost Lambda is on the very front of the Imperial advance, beyond the main line of the 101st and ahead of the supporting Terullian regiments. If you don't receive orders soon, your unit will be in an even more precarious position. 


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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#12
Steel Company

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Grinning from ear to ear as she picked up the power cell and muttering out, “The instructors always hated and loved how resourceful I could be… Now I just need to remember basic vox repairs…”

 

Turning her attention to the power cell she added, “And you my little friend are going to get new life, maybe…”

 

Hulling the Vox unit onto a nearby table, Scarlett took out her knife and begun to undo the cover over the battery compartment, taking it out she looked at the power leads on the battery in there and the ones on the Lascannon power cell, with another heavy sigh, she pulled some of the wires free from the battery compartment and begun to strip off the plastic jacket with her knife. As she got the last of the jacket off, she attached the red line to the positive rune on the Lascannon cell, with the black wire going to the negative rune. Her hand hovered over the power run as she looked at the unit and spoke, “I’ve never been blindly faithful, probably why I wasn’t marked out for Sisterhood… And I really know nothing about the ‘Machine god’, but if you are real, please, please, please make this work, I’d like to have some real food again.”

 

Hitting the rune, she got static again. Sighing to herself, she opened up the main compartment of the Vox unit, she found a pair of severed wires, looking around the room a bit more, Scarlett pulled off the front plate of a wreaked auspex machine, finding wires around the same size, she pulled them out and went about stripping the jackets off of them and twisting the red metal ends together with to run a patch on each of the damaged wires in the Vox unit. Hitting the power run again, she was able to pick up a weak transmission. Falling back into her chair, she looked skyward again as she said, “Thank you!”

 

Getting the covers back on where she could, she carried the temporary power cell in one hand to while she made her way to Judge.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#13
Beren

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"Aye Sir."

With that, Stimms went back the way he came, waving over Wide Eyes as he did so.

"Give me a hand would you?

The two of them burst into the infirmary midway through a conversation between Dagger and Whisper. Not that you could really tell Whisper was talking. Taking bets on which one of them was going to bite it first perhaps. Twelvetoes seemed paler now, his mumvled prayers softer and less frequent as Stimms took him by the arm and moved him to rest on his back.

"Alright Twelvetoes, we're going to get you all sown up, hear me? Dagger, Whisper, shuffle over here would you? I need you to hold him down, can't have him jerking about. No, just down a bit, yes there Dagger. Wide Eyes, dab a touch of the disinfectant on your hands. Hold the bits I tell you to, and gently . This is going to use up the last of the general anaesthetic."

Stimms laid out the contents of his med kit within easy reach. He'd have to find the slug, remove it, sew everying up and staunch the blood - preferably without making anything worse in the process.

"Once this is done I can swap out Toaster's bandages for something well... slightly less dirty and see about getting you two cleaned up as well."

OOC: Medicae Skill Check if required.
Int 40 + 20 experienced medicae + 20 Medkit = 80 before further modifiers.
1d100 = 59
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#14
Commissar Molotov

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As Scarlet makes her way to Judge, the hissing static on the vox resolves into voices. Multiple voices, overlapping, showing little in the way of vox discipline. 

 

"They're everywhe-"

 

"Fall back! Fall back, damn yo-"

 

The crack of lasfire, again and again. The rumble of explosions, rendered tinny over the vox-link. In the distance - not on the vox, this time - you hear the rumble of artillery-fire, Basilisks pounding away at the Ork positions within the jungle.  

 

The very air seems to vibrate as there is a sudden roar; it is as though some apex predator has leapt out of the jungle to disembowel you. Only the noise is above you, as a crude Ork aircraft roars perhaps only metres above the ridgeline and Outpost Lambda itself. Then another, and another, each belching thick clouds of black smoke as though they had already been shot down. 

 

Any of you standing near the outpost's walls can see what has happened, from the scarlet plumes of explosions across the jungle and the distant sound of weapons-fire. The Orks have launched a full-scale assault across the Imperial lines. 

 

Judge descends the ladder to the watchtower with haste, hurrying across the Outpost to reach Scarlet. He grabs the receiver for the vox-caster, shouting for details and instructions from the wider Legion.  Finally, he gets some response. 

 

"Judge? Judge, this is Nails. It's fethed up here! The 'skins are riled up and out for blood!"

 

Judge sighs, the lines and runnels of his scarred face contorting into an un-navigable labyrinth as he scowls.

 

"I can see that, Nails. What are we doing about it?" 

 

"We've been ordered to retreat back to the Sawtooth River. The Navy are going to glass the whole region. See if the 'skins can survive that!"

 

"Nails, you frakking idiot, we're still out here. How long before the bombardment?" 

 

"You've got 'bout eleven hours. They're making sure all the Terullians have pulled back. Not sure they'll wait for you though..." 

 

Judge curses and swears, slamming the vox-link down. 

 

"Circle up!" he shouts, waiting til you all arrive before relaying the news. "We're deep in grox-:cuss and it's going to take some doing to get ourselves out of it."

 

He unfolds the map, punctuating his speech with the tip of his knife.  "We've got eleven hours to get out of this area before the Navy bombards this whole area from orbit. We come down this ridge, then we have to cross several kilometres of jungle and avoid as much of the Ork force as possible. There won't be anyone checking to make sure we're clear."

 

He puts his knife away and fixes you all with a knowing expression.

 

"First things first, we need to make a decision about the wounded." 


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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#15
Beren

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Stimms lets out a small breath of air as he cuts the thread, and sees his handywork hold firm. The sound of heavy weapons fire in the distance he had ignored, but the sound roar of Ork engines overhead at the end nearly caused them to rip the poor sod's bowels open as all of the soldiers reached for whatever weapons you had to hand. Only when it was clear that the so called outpost wasn't the immediate subject of the xenos' ire was the operation finished. Twelvetoes' face doesn't look much better than before, but the wound is sealed tight, and on the ground besides him is a small scrap of metal. The damn thing doesn't look anything like a bullet, just a misshapen and irregular scrap . How the Orks use those things without fouling their guns Stimm's doesn't know. He gives the sign for the others to relax their grips, snd Wide Eyes scrambles off to wherever Judje is yelling from 

 

Stimms reaches down to the Ork slug and pressed it into Twelvetoes' hand.

 

"A souvenir for you, eh?"

 

Yet another apologetic nod to the others, and Stimms follows after Wide Eyes.

 

---

 

Judge's statement brings a grimace to the medic's face.

 

"Twelvetoes is sown up, but moving him too rough, and this isn't exactly likely to be a pleasant stroll. Daggers, well... my earlier comment about Lughead wasn't entirely a joke, and unlike Twelvetoes it's not too likely to do any further harm. Whisper we might be able to keep moving, as long as we keep someone in front of him and someone behind to make sure he doesn't trip over anything. Out of all of them, he's probably the one who can move fastest with the least aid. Toaster is still out cold. Him and Twelvetoes are in the same situation. We could try to improvise stretchers, but it would slow us down. I couldn't guarantee they wouldn't die anyway."

 

Stimms bites down on his lip, eyes lowered.

 

"If need be, I can make sure someone goes quietly. Otherwise, the Ogryn might be our best bet."


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#16
Steel Company

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Scarlett placed a hand on each side of the map, leaning over it and taking in the distances, her lips purse d together, at the same time she heard both Judge and Stims she felt a little bad for medic, without looking over her shoulder to them she spoke, “This is going to be a tight time table taking into account what I can see on the map, I hate to say it, but we are not going to get a stretcher though this and make it before the bombardment happens….”

 

She sighed heavily, before adding, “We could probably strap one to Lug, but that’d be about it.”

 

Turning to face everyone assembled, her voice took on a cold tone as her eyes fell on Stims as she continued; “I know that you’d hate to give out the Emperor’s Mercy, so I can do it for you. What we need to do is get moving in the next half hour if we want to make it to the safe zone, with even a little time to spare. What I’d suggest is everyone loads up on ammo, explosives, water and dry socks.”

 

Her attention went to Judge as she shrugged while mentioning, “Not to be harsh about it, but I know I can make this trip, it’s a hard march through thick and rough terrain. It’s everyone else I’m worried about, I don’t know how well trained everyone else is for this kind of pace we’re going to need to keep.”


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#17
Beren

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“I know that you’d hate to give out the Emperor’s Mercy, so I can do it for you."

 

Upon hearing those words, Stimms face seems to spasm, just for a moment. One might assume that it was an expression of discomfort or anger. If one looked closely enough and knew what signs to pick, they might instead have deciphered a hint of a smirk.

 

That was a.... convenient offer. Limited the risks of someone correlating between those he was sanctioned and known to have 'given peace' to and the ones he wasn't.  Besides, the offer in itself meant that perceptions of him were as far from the truth as could be hoped, given the circumstances. Everybody knows that the gilded nobles who live and breath the Imperial Creed get away with far more than a Grox Farmer ever could. The same applies to every aspect of life, even the wretched life of a Penal Legionary.

 

It was just a moment before Stimms composed himself again, raising his face to meet Scarlett's briefly.

 

"If that's what you want. I'll need Walker's help in getting Dagger on the Ogryn though. More importantly, making sure the oaf doesn't decide to lie down or summat while carrying him."


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#18
Steel Company

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Scarlett sighed as she responded to Stims, “It isn’t that I want to do it, but your trade is about saving lives, mine is about taking them. No need for you to cross that line, when there is someone that crossed that line a long time ago.”

She gave a nod to Stims, without taking her vibrant blue eyes off of Judge as she said, “By your leave then, I’ll get the wounded taken care of.”

Taking a moment to slide her las pistol out of its holster to check the charge on it, removing all doubt to all in the command post about her intent and will to deliver the final act.

+++

+CRACK, CRACK, CRACK+

The rapid triple discharge in time with a subtle motion of her right wrist going right lung, heart, head over the second to last of the wounded, she turned towards Toaster, her eyes almost hallow as they feel on his still form. Taking a step towards him, she got down on her knees beside him as she said, “I hated you for months when I joined the One Oh One; it took me months to understand why you singled me out so much….”

She placed her left hand on Toaster’s chest, feeling the shallow, slow breathing as she continued speaking to him, “But I think what earned your respect was when you had run my cloths up the flag pole when I was in the shower and I climbed that pole in nothing but a wet towel and got them back.”

Feeling her eyes getting a little watery, she rubbed them with the back of her right hand as she continued, “I’m going to give you the answer to your bet…”

She leaned in close and whispered into Toaster’s right ear, “I was Corporal Katherine; I grew up in the Progenium and went on to be a member of D-82 of the Tempestus.”

She leaned in and kissed his right cheek, before standing again and bringing the pistol around as she said, “Good bye Toaster, may the Emperor take and keep you by his side.”

+CRACK, CRACK, CRACK+

The room was silent, looking around the medical tent, she felt more alone in this moment than she had since she had joined the unit. With the deed done, she went around collecting the dog tags from the now dead as she arranged their arms in the symbol of the Aquila and made sure that their eyes were closed and draped sheets over each of them.

+++

At twenty minutes after the meeting, Scarlett stood at the gate leading out of the fort, her athletic frame hidden under the flak armour, rifle held pointed down lying flat against her chest plate, red hair tucked under her helmet. Her stance seemed to show a hint of high level training, her head scanning the trail out of the fort, she spoke to Judge without looking in his direction, “It’s done; I made it quick for them.”
 


Edited by Steel Company, 24 April 2020 - 07:39 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#19
Beren

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The sound of lasgun fire rang in the air. First one burst, then another.

 

So, she was thorough then.

 

Stimms had been watching the med-tent, far enough away from anyone else that no one would be able to discern the expression of mild disinterest on his face. Crossing the line. It was almost amusing, but even a quiet chuckle to himself might be pushing his luck. That was the issue when you lied to others about what you were. You had to keep the lie up constantly. If he didn't... well. He figured Scarlett was disciplined enough to not frag their only medic without solid cause, but it didn't pay to be incautious. 

 

He spared a glance at Wide Eyes, who was helping to saddle up Whisper with his gear, hand on his shoulder. The man might make decent distraction if they ran into trouble, though they wouldn't have the opportunity to strip his corpse in that case. As long as the blind man's shooting didn't hit another Legionary (well, just Stimms really) Stimms wouldn't be too concerned. That just left his other charge.

 

An Ogryn wasn't exactly hard to spot. Dagger was lying on the ground nearby, eyeing the abhuman with no small amount of concern. One had was on his lasgun, gripping it around the barrel. Walker was busy reassuring both of them, speaking to his charge in clear and simple sentences. All three of them turned to face the medic as he arrived, approaching the handler first

 

"You've explained it all then?"

 

"Best as I can. Don't worry, he knows how to be gentle."

 

Dagger broke in for a moment.

 

"When you said you were going to get me up and around..."

 

"Not quite what you were thinking?"

 

"Not quite, no." The amputee gave a nervous glance at the infirmary, and the red haired trooper that had just emerged from within. "Better than the alternative."

 

Stimms nodded, before craning his head to meet the Ogryn's.

 

"I trust you'll be taking good care of Dags then, eh?"


Edited by Beren, 25 April 2020 - 02:13 PM.

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#20
Steel Company

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Letting her eyes fall on the rest of the squad going about their preparations, she felt like an outsider again. Suppressing a frown as she saw lose webbing, poor placement of power packs, utility knives, canteens, lose body armor fittings or just out right forgetting to do it up.

 

Using her right thumb she moved the power selector switch on her rifle to the middle position, thinking to herself, I’d give almost anything for my old Hotshot gun and carapace armour for this…

 

When her eyes spotted Whisper she felt a combination of rage and fear run down her spine when she saw the rifle in the blind man’s hands, muttering quietly to herself she spoke, “That is friendly fire waiting to happen…”

 

Rolling her left wrist palm up to see the chrono before tapping Judge on the shoulder in a silent way of telling him they needed to move out now.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#21
Commissar Molotov

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With the business done, you set off down the ridge in the weak morning light, leaving Outpost Lambda behind you and following a narrow trail cut haphazardly into the hillside.

Despite the warnings across the vox of the Ork assault, the entire area seems deserted. Only days before your company had fought its way up this trail, and there is still the evidence of battle littering its slope. Below, you can just make out the edge of the swamp in the hazy noon light, periodic flashes beneath the ever present mist a testament to the battle still raging. The descent is a difficult one, even for fit soldiers, and the threat of Ork attack is everpresent.

Finally you reach a break in the trail - a vast cascading waterfall from high above you. The falls are choked with decaying trees, vegetation and detritus, turning the water a muddy brown. The way across - a makeshift rope bridge, has been destroyed and hangs limply on either edge of the falls.

"Finding another way around is going to cost us too much time," Judge says. "We have to cross here."
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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#22
Steel Company

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Scarlett swung her rifle behind her shoulder before looking over the edge and seeing the drop. Looking across she frowned at seeing the distance was too far to jump, looking back at Whisper she shook her head telling herself, He’s likely to die crossing this

 

Hauling up the ropes of the bridge on her side, she looked around for anything they could use to get across the gap.

 

OOC:

Survival Role

TN: 16 or 17 depending on rounding (Perception 33 -16 or 17 for untrained)

Survival Role: 1d100 7 Pass or Pass with 1 DoS depending on rounding not counting any modifiers that may be applied or deducted.


Edited by Steel Company, 04 May 2020 - 03:11 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#23
Beren

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Glancing at the falling torrents of water, Stimms moved up to where Scarlet had hauling the shattered remnants of their half of the bridge up. He drew attention to himself with a faint cough before speaking, keeping his tone quietly deferential.

 

"Sorry ma'am, but... are you sure that'll hold Lughead's weight? Might it be better to have him pull up one of those trees back there, bridge the gap with that and have him lean on the rock-surface for support as he crosses? I'm sure he could make a start on it while you handle this, and..."

 

Stimms now lowered his voice.

 

"...the Ogryn ought to be crossing last in any case, just as'n precaution."


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#24
Steel Company

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Scarlett gritted her teeth together as she screamed in her mind, Ma’am! Seriously!

 

Trying to keep her tone level, if a little of an icy edge seeped into it as she said, “I’m not an officer, I work for a damned living. Besides who said this was for Lughead, one of us needs to go across first to secure a point for the rest of us to cross.”


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#25
Beren

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Stimms struggled to keep mixed expressions of amusement and mild alarm off his face as he shuffled back slightly.

 

Not a blueblood then. Likely not a pilot neither.

 

"Ah, I see then." 

 

He choked back an abortive attempt to say 'my apologies', and suddenly his face wrinkled as if something had just occurred to him. Turning towards Judge he asked:

 

"Sir, we're not too likely to need our cook'ry and sleeping gear over the next eleven hours are we?  Might be best we unburden ourselves of them and some of our rations too. Can't see ourselves needing them if the bombs come down on our heads, and they didn' send us out with too much anyway."


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