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You poke around the small battlefield, as at first glance, you assumed the guardsmen walked into an ambush. Incompetence is not unknown, even for soldiers entrusted with good-quality equipment. They lie scattered in a circle, set up for all-round defence.
You kneel to turn over a body. His chest wounds, visible through his melted carapace vest, are made not by solid projectiles from Kroot rifles, but intense las-burns. Such wounds are a common sight across any world where the Imperial Guard makes war. This corpse has no bite or claw marks either, as you would expect from the Flesh-eaters, and the aliens' tracks are the only ones pressed into the mud of the forest floor.
With this second inspection, the battle makes even less sense.
Instead of evidence, you only have more questions - and other pressing concerns.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
Having retrieved his shield Brynjarr headed outside again and taking a position near the ramp so as to better survey that side of their surroundings, around him the others were also busy. Checking their gear, likewise surveying the crash site, or dealing with matters inside the blackstar. The inquisitor was still resting inside, though the last he saw of her she was more composed and upright. Another minute or so he guessed and she would be coming out here and trying to move onto her obsession, objective Rho.
The high pitched whirr of a narthecium saw spoke of the sad truth, their pilot, young Ironbreaker of Russ’s kin, had not survived. Brynjarr recited suitable rites to mark the passing of and in honour of a fallen comrade. He had not known the marine long at all, not even three standard days, but a brother had given his life for theirs, and respect was due.
While his forthought and words where with the fallen pilot his eyes and ears where not. Several moss covered logs had caught his eye, they were a little to regular for his liking, and the way they drifted closer, irrespective of and even impervious to the remnants of the waves cased by the crash. They should have been swayed gently back and forth, instead the dying ripples were breaking on them.
Brother Ains forwarded a tactical update showing their approximate position, miles from where they had supposed to be dropped as far as Brynjarr could tell. The indicator that their Team Leader was still alive was good, though separated by more terrain then he liked.
He was about to reply to Brother Ains questions when a distinctive sound of what he now knew where barracuda engines reach his ears. Their enemy was coming back to check on his kill, better not to give it a reason to shoot the ruminants of the blackstar or its surroundings.
Dropping down Brynjarr submerged most of himself in the swamp water. Reaching out he grabbed some free floating moss and used it to camouflage his head, shoulders and part of the shield, so that he should appear as no more than some wreckage from the crash sinking into the water. Or so he hoped.
The mossy logs drift quietly, bobbing on the swamp water. As they move, more of their length is exposed, varying from 6 to 8 metres. As Ains disturbs the water all doubt is gone. The 'logs' change tack, following him as he sloshes around to take cover from the enemy pilot overhead, just in time to duck into the tangle as the enemy closes in. As one of the trunks bumps into another, it briefly thrashes, exposing a slab-like head full of serrated, triangular teeth.
Crotalids.
Peering from the back of the hulk, or delve into the wreckage to hide, the shriek of the Barracuda engines cuts the air, treating you to the rush of wind in its wake. As you watch, the spacecraft takes up a slow circle, more akin to a Buzzard than Barracuda, fretting at the corpse of the Blackstar.
It trails through the sky at an altitude low enough for a visual and sensor sweep.
Each of you hears the squelch, not from the swamp, but from the sound of Vox frequencies shifting. As you look at Racel, you can see she is desperately twisting the comm bead controls on the side of her helmet.
Her feverish twiddling has the effect of wobbling the hulk. The displacement, however slight results in redirecting some of the Crotalids to float a little closer to the open, partially submerged, Blackstar.
Just some extra direction here - you will know from your training that the Crotalids are attracted to movement whilst in the water, as that is primarily how they sense nearby prey, or if they pick up blood in the water. Ironbreaker's body is out of the water and has stopped bleeding, so this will not attract them.
They have therefore been roused by the crash and Ains' own splashing.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
Seemingly at the worst moment the suspect tree trunks reveal themselves to be some indigenous reptilian predator, a whole congregation of them. Tactical memories surface in Brynjarr’s mind, Crotalids, or a local variant at least.
Keeping still, so as not to stir up the water around him and attract their attention, Brynjar continues to keep an eye on them. The crash had no doubt brought them here, but maybe some debris further way would draw their attention and occupy them. With the flyer overhead engaging the predetors at range was not an option.
Training could only prepare you so far, and once again Brynjarr found that planets where not his milieu, at least there was no stink of Ork here.
The vox crackles in your helmets, as the Tau pilot responds to the unusual and unexpected hail from Racel.
+In'sha tu-am nichesse Aun'ui? Kado?+
His voice is sharp, suspicious and yet willing. The words you recognise Aun'ui, a so-called 'Ethereal Prelate' - is a dangerous gambit.
This will be an Opposed Test, with Racel's Deceive Skill (Fel 38) vs the Tau Pilot's Scrutiny (Per 30). It will also be an Extended Test, which will take more time. There will be three tests, as the Pilot's Perception bonus is 3.
Racel pauses for a steadying breath, the water lapping round her waist before replying. The exchange goes back and forth for some moments, you are only able to snatch a few words of it, as before. The speed of the conversation is surprising, the Tau, with such short lifespans, seem to be in a hurry to do anything.
Spoiler
Test 1:
Deceive Test: D100 - 006 (PASS, Plus 3 DoS)
Scrutiny Test: D100 - 023 (PASS, no DoS)
Test 2:
Deceive Test: D100 - 030 (PASS, no DoS)
Scrutiny Test: D100 - 021 (PASS, no DoS)
Test 3:
Deceive Test: D100 - 070 (FAIL, Plus 3 DoF)
Scrutiny Test: D100 - 043 (FAIL, Plus 1 DoF)
Result: Racel Succeeds - by one DoS (or more accurately because the Pilot had one more DoF).
The sharp sounds of an engine picking up speed thunders above the wrecked Blackstar, and through the holes in the fuselage, you can all see the Barracuda pick up altitude and roar away. It is a moment of relief perhaps, but the Crotalids are beginning to spread out through the swamp, knowing there is prey in the water, but unable to find it. The largest, obviously the Alpha male who displayed his authority with the thrashing earlier, drifts closer and closer to the rear ramp, nostrils now above the surface, a dark hulk floating below the water.
Snorting....sniffing...searching.
Olafsson:
There is nothing more to be gained here, and it is imperative the mission continue. Whatever mysteries linger, your path is set and you are alone.
It is not the first time, nor is the loss of your comrades, but the duty is clear. Iron Spider must die.
A few metres from your position you can see where the forest cleaves open to admit a road.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
With the croatlids closing in around us, Carde stows his bolter and draws his bolt pistol and chainsword. "How did you get the bird to scurry off Inquisitor?" Carde asks. "I can't imagine a reason why any hunter would abandon its prey when it is about the draw the killing stoke."
Would a Survival check be appropriate to try to spot the best route for the group to navigate out of the water?
A Survival Check would be appropriate here for your purposes.
"How did you get the bird to scurry off Inquisitor?" Carde asks. "I can't imagine a reason why any hunter would abandon its prey when it is about the draw the killing stoke."
Racel's closed, black visor tilts up before her amused voice cuts across the vox. +I told him I was an Ethereal damsel in distress.+
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
Not spotting a safe route out of the water without stirring up the croatlids further, Carde readies hims for their attack. He looks back at his squad one more time, then asks the Inquisitor "So now they will send out some heroes to rescue you, hmm? We better be on our way. We will need to cut through these creatures to get out of this mire."
The threat indicator in his helmet counted out the distance the lead Crotalid. 10 meter, 8 meters. It was headed almost directly for him. He should have chosen a better hiding place.
Over the vox Brynjarr listened in to Racel’s ploy, though the meaning escaped him beyond a few words. However this was a mere backdrop to more pressing concern. 6 meters.
Thermal reading overlay now clearly separated the crotalids from the surroundings, the lead beast was massive, and given its display of dominance probably the alpha. 4 meters.
Reaching very slowly for his chainsword Brynjarr begun to shift his weight so that if it came to it he would be in a position to act. 2 meters.
Overhead the Barracuda did one last circuit before departing. 1 meter.
Brynjarr could feel the pull in the water as the Aplah passed him. The crotalid’s head was now facing away from Brynjarr, but it could easily twist around and snap at him with its vice like jaw and razor teeth. From a beast like that who knew whether his armour would shrug it off. 1.2 meters
The relief that the reptile had not discovered him quickly ebbed as the alpha begun to climb onto the ramp and investigate the interior of the wreck. From the tactical display he could see that at least one of them was still in the blackstar, or at lease close enough not to make a difference. The inquisitrix should also still be aboard, as Brynjarr had not seen her leave, but he could not be certain as in truth he had lost track of her so focused had he been on the crotalids and the flier. 1.5 meters
Your observation is received as light jest and Racel barks a laugh, the first you can remember her uttering. +I shall rely on the Heroes close at hand,+ you sense the smirk, which is impossible to see behind the visor. +The difference is, now it will take an hour for them to come, as opposed to being strafed.+
Brynjarr:
Yes, you know their behaviour patterns and as long as there is blood or food in the water, they are aggressive enough to go for it. They do not have Dark Sight, so their eyes will be much reduced (read blind) inside the Blackstar cabin.
The Alpha Crotalid finds all this bonhomie less than amusing. He pushes his head up onto the back of the Blackstar, pushing down. It is not beyond these beasts to upset small rivercraft, or drag armoured men down to their watery doom, and here is no exception. The whole Blackstar pivots unevenly, pitching the ragged hull violently as the huge beast finally reveals his the scale of his body, pulling up into the craft, hissing, sniffing.
It is a beast worthy of a Space Marine trial, eight metres or more long, with powerful front arms to hold its ghastly, armoured hide aloft as it plods across the muddy banks of this, its realm, into which you have inadvertently challenged.
It's monstrous head, resplendent with clinging moss and dripping pondweed swivels in the direction of the mortal among you, uttering a low, rumbling growl from a closed throat.
It is within two metres of Brynjarr's stout Astartes shape.
At the growl, others begin to swim closer, yet they are nowhere near enough to reinforce the dinosaur at your boots.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
Ains with a sigh of relief and a look of being impressed by the inquisitor, Ains Plasma Cutter moved to an angle for a decent firing arc. Without much ado he fired his plasma cutter at the nearest creature that was threatening them. He didn’t care much for the local wildlife and the plasma damage to the creatures could be confused for happening during the wreckage. At the same time however the melee tendril rounded into a defensive position drive off anything that got too close.
BS: 37 (I don’t know the damage and on phone so I will update when I get a chance.)
Signature not compliant with forum rules.
Hidden Content
[center][sharedmedia=gallery:images:281153][/center]
[center][i]With iron and fire the beast shall be lain low at the hands of the Hunters whose home is under the Bloodmoon. [/i][/center]
[center][url=http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/363589-ia-bloodmoon-hunters-chapter/]Bloodmoon Hunters[/url] on [url=https://wh40khomebrew.fandom.com/wiki/Bloodmoon_Hunters]40k Homebrew Wiki[/url] and [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzjZpJPat-8]40k Theories Youtube Channel[/url][/center]
[center] [/center]
[img=http://image.bolterandchainsword.com/uploads/gallery/album_16308/gallery_48988_16308_20607.png]
Loth realises that the Inquisitrix' trick will give them some respite but sooner or later, the T'au will be back and in force. There is not ime to lose. The Crotalids are an unfortunate obstacle, yet they cannot let themselves be distracted by mere xenos fauna. There are bigger beasts to hunt. Drawing from years of training and time spent in the Scout Companies, the Apothecary surveys the surrounding marshland from beside the downed Blackstar, keen to navigate out of it and westwards towards objective Rho.
Hidden Content
Navigation (Int) Test: 56
1d100: 81 FAIL 2 DoF
Oridyn's unfamiliarity with the ash-choked landscape shows. The Astartes grunts in frustration before closing his eyes. A murmured mantra leaves his lips, an attempt to calm his emotions and focus his mind on the task at hand. Releasing a deep breath, the Exorcist opens his eyes and takes a fresh look at the swamp and clumps of vegetation beyond.
Hidden Content
Fate Point used to re-roll the previous test.
Navigation (Int) Test: 56
1d100: 55 PASS
"Inquisitrix, brothers."
The latter word feels unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable, in the presence of Astartes not of his gene-line, of his Chapter.
"While I am as unfamiliar as you are with this hellscape, I believe I have found a path out of this water-logged area. Let us get into the cover of trees and out of crotalid reach before we decide what our next course of action is. The hunter has been distracted, but it is only a matter of time before the dupe returns with rage in its heart and allies bearing weaponry that will atomise us where we stand."
It is at this moment that Ains' plasma cutter cuts through the heavy air, and the crotalids react with fury spurred on by hunger for a fresh meal.
Loth sighs and brings up his boltgun. Hymnus Mors screams its dirge at the closest reptile.
Hidden Content
SAB with Boltgun (BS): 77 (+5 from armour, +10 from SAB, +10 Short Range)
1d100: 68 PASS
Damage roll: 1d10+9
1d10: 2 -> 11 Damage, Pen 4 (before Armour and TB)
"I insist that we should leave this place with haste, brethren. Lingering here and leaving clues for our blue-skinned friends to follow is not to our advantage! Let us not jeapordise our mission further!"
His voice is stern, the barest hint of frustration seeping into the Exorcist's words.
He had to act, and his brothers clearly agreed, as the sharp flare of a plasma discharge and the bark of a bolter reached his sensors almost simultaneously. Bursting from the water Brynjarr put all his might into ramming the alpha reptile, shield in front for maximum impact, if he can reach the softer underbelly he could gut the beast, disabling it and distracting the others that where drawing nearer with an easy meal.
The crack of impact of cremate on hardened scale, coming just as the alpha was mid turn, rung out like a deep cathedral bell. In this case a knell for the reptile as Brynjars chainsword cut deep into the innards, shredding mussel, organ and bone along a meter long wound. The trashing of the alpha come close to knocking Brynjarr of balance, but tail rebounds of the Breacher shield and the strength of the beast quickly fades. As Brynjarr pulls on the chainsword out the Crotalid goes for one last attempts fight back, whipping round to snap at him the beast fails as it rips itself in two.
Kicking the body away from him and towards the melee of reptilian feasting Brynjarr takes stock, his new brothers have each done their part and Loth appears to have found a route for them out of the swamp and onto dryer ground.
WS: 40 +10 (Size) = 50 D100: 36 Pass, 1 DoS Location: Body Damage: 1D10 (2D10 Tearing - rolled 4 and 10, so take higest) +3 (Damage) +10 (SB) resolved at Pen 3 = 23 Edit: Damage: 1D10 (2D10 Tearing) +3 (Damage) +10 (SB) Resolved at Pen 3 = 23 (RF Confirmed) + 1 = 24 Every point counts I guess.
The Astartes have lingered long enough, and when action comes, it is as brutal and effective as the beasts they confront this hour. As the savage predators move as a loose pack, the martial prowess of the Space Marines makes them deadlier still.
Loth's bolter is lethally accurate as the mass-reactive round cleaves into a floating body and tears open a great flap of skin, revealing a bleeding muscle layer, that is subsumed by stinking swamp water. The beast rears and grunts as what once was a predator becomes prey.
Ains' plasma cutter sears across the back (73 is the body?) of the nearest beast to him. The unprovoked attack both a boon to you all and a signal to unleash some kind of frenzied animal feeding hell. Blood fouls the water thickly, instantly, and the bull Crotalid heaves his bulk round with surprising dexterity, plunging into the water and thrashing towards the other beasts now devouring one of their kin. Now with his back to the Voidborn, he presents an easy target, and more confusion to add to the bloody stew.
Trokair:
Spoiler
The Alpha is hulking, which gives a +10 to Hit. As this will count as an attack of opportunity, there is no need to enter into Structured Time. Your attack will look a little different to Grailkeeper's, as you are making a Melee attack and there is much more to consider. Weapon Qualities like Tearing (roll 2 D10 and pick highest) apply to your Chainsword, and it does a lot more damage than on the profile, because with Melee attacks you add your Strength Bonus (SB), so your roll should copy this format (I'm trying to get all of you to use something like it and be familiar with the format):
WS: xx +10 (Size) = xx
D100: xx
Location: (reverse the number you rolled for your Hit Roll - your character sheet will give you the location)
Damage: 1D10 (2D10 Tearing) +3 (Damage) +10 (SB) resolved at Pen 3 = xx
A rush to the opposite bank and the treeline is within your grasp. Loth quickly cuts past Brynjarr, showing the way out of the snare. The angry maws of the carnivores chomp and tear at plated, chitinous flesh in wet snaps. It is accompanied by ragged gulps of tortured meat, and hungry growls that make the water vibrate.
The Alpha Crotalid never gets a chance to join in the feasting. As it unwisely gives in to ravenous hunger and turns its back, the Boarding Shield batters into the thrashing creature, protecting Brynjarr from the lashing tail and snapping jaws. The Voidborn hacks down with a might borne from the blood of champions, savaging the armoured hide as he promptly and bloodily carves the meaty brute in twain, spilling gallons of thick blood all over the deck and his armour plate. The two wobbling halves of friction-heated meat and carved innards slop into the water, and carry some way under their own weight, before they too are set upon.
By slaughtering the Alpha, a power struggle for premiership of the Bask begins in earnest, with thrashing, hissing and bellowing akin to a wallow of enraged Oliphants.
Although absorbed in monumental, bloody gluttony, such creatures will not be distracted long.
EDIT: Complete.
Edited by Mazer Rackham, 01 March 2021 - 08:49 PM.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
The Exorcist takes point, following the course he has plotted on his HUD and expecting the rest of the group to follow, all the while on the lookout for any other dangers lurking in the murky waters or in the abundant vegetation beyond.
Hidden Content
Perception Test: 61
1d100: 80 FAIL 1 DoF
Confident that the crotalids are the only immediate threat to them, Oridyn trundles forwards with purpose and determination.
The wolves of Chogoris are skinny animals, not the robust monsters of Fenris, but hunters nonetheless. And wolves bide their time. And watch.
And when the time is come to stain the dust with heavy blood, they pounce.
Khordelia-Cáo draws his combat knife and leaps forward, charging into the nearest Crotalid. He is silent as he does so, this wolf not willing to exult in this petty hunt.
WS = 41 + 10 + 10 = 61
D100 = 86, 2 Degrees of failure?
Feels a little silly to have him fail this roll by this much after writing a cool little preface for his action, but such are the dice.
Edited by BadgersinHills, 28 February 2021 - 11:39 AM.
Mazer Rackham, Trokair and Boyadventurer like this
Maybe you could model TWC-sized "were-templars" who's inner Templar took over in the fury of battle transforming them into a giant half man - half templar?
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
Failure is not an option to the Mantis Warrior. He lunges with an almost desperate ferocity, and with great exertion the blade bites home.
Using a fate point.
D100= 55, Pass.
Location: Body.
D10 = 7, Pen 2. So 9 damage if I'm right?
Edited by BadgersinHills, 28 February 2021 - 11:57 AM.
Mazer Rackham likes this
Maybe you could model TWC-sized "were-templars" who's inner Templar took over in the fury of battle transforming them into a giant half man - half templar?
Your damage roll is nearly right, and it's a solid go at the crazy crunch we have to deal with. As a Space Marine, your massive muscles apply to any weapon you use in Melee, so in all attacks with a weapon like this, you add your Strength Bonus, which from your sheet is 10, because you're a very strong chap. Good catch on remembering the Pen of your weapon and the Location too.
So you have actually inflicted 17 damage! The Pen only affects armour, so does not overspill against health points, but this is a very deadly strike indeed.
The Mantis Warrior strikes as his namesake, wading swift and sure into the ravenous tumult of thrashing bodies. One of the smaller creatures, a juvenile perhaps, gauging by his six metre length, snaps at the Astartes Kill Team as they make their escape. In a whirl of retribution, a knife flashes in the half-gloom of the the shattered Blackstar cabin and buries itself deeply into the Crotalid's thorny and plated body.
Whilst not as brutally demonstrative as the Voidborn's chainsword carving, this is well-placed and must have caught the creature in the heart, because it flexes once, a mere convulsion lashing out, but scoring no strikes in reciprocation. It floats away dead as the log it mimicked in approach.
A safe exit has been widened further as you all pile out behind the Exorcist.
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
A snarl on his face, the joy of the hunt gripping him despite the tangential enemy, Khordelia draws the bolt pistol locked to his armour. He has named it Maia, for a bloody world and a bloody war that saw her earn that name.
Maia barks once at another animal, Cáo hoping it will be be enough to drive them back.
Would like to fire my bolt pistol if I can on Semi Auto.
Ballistic S:44 + 10 = 54.
D100= 56, Fail.
These are some fun rolls, will not spend Fate to reroll.
Edited by BadgersinHills, 28 February 2021 - 03:04 PM.
Maybe you could model TWC-sized "were-templars" who's inner Templar took over in the fury of battle transforming them into a giant half man - half templar?
Yes, that's fine, as we are fudging the combat a bit
As the team falls back, you snatch Maia up, but her grip is so slicked with blood, gore and slime, she slips in your hand making your shot go wide by an annoying fraction. The round does have some effect however, as the loud noise intimidates the smaller creatures to cower away from you.
In your HUD, you can see the other green dots representing your brethren stringing out in a line behind you as they rush for the bank and relative cover. You are the last warrior in the line. The thought is provocative, for reasons in your past, the future of your Chapter and the helm you wear - for it was the Exorcist who recovered Ironbreaker's Geneseed, the Space Wolves who call you friend.
Perhaps you would like to explore this suggestion once the team are ensconced in cover?
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
As the group reaches the treeline, Loth advances boltgun up and ready, tracking from side to side. The Astartes spread out in a circle around the Inquisitrix with trained ease, boltguns aimed outwards at the surrounding vegetation and whatever hidden dangers lay within, roughly two metres apart. The Inquisitrix follows their lead and kneels too, making herself less of a target.
"Inquisitrix, brethren. Now that we are upon the surface of Baraban, we must decide upon a course of action. Our appointed leader is... missing but we are not without heads of our own."
He lets the words sink in and briefly switches focus to his watch sector. Satisfied that nothing new has appeared, the Exorcist continues.
"At present, we have two geographical areas in which our objectives lie. The first, Rho, lies westwards of here. The other, Theta, lies north-east. Thanks to the data Ains has provided us with, we can tell Theta is over two times further from our current location than Rho. It will take us days to traverse the terrain that lies between us and that objective, with marshland, roving enemy force, and Emperor-knows what else hampering our efforts and potentially denying us use of stealth to approach our foes unseen."
At that moment, an Ong'Keh bursts from the thick canopy above their heads. It's gone again before anyone can react, it's devilish cackle echoing among the dark trees.
"I also believe that Rho is of greater strategic importance to the current war effort and if we were to retake or destroy it, we could very well turn the tide of this conflict. At the very least, we must deny our enemy further use of the augur. Shas'O Mal'Caor..."
His Gothic accent is thick, and pronounciation of the T'au name clumsy: the hypnogogic training confers knowledge, not fluency.
"...knows this and will surely emerge from his nest if we strike the augur facility decisively. Then we will have a chance to accomplish our main objective."
Oridyn risks a glance towards the Inquisitrix to his left behind him, a portion of him hopeful that she will voice support for his plan, the rest loathing himself for such weakness.
Racel slumps down against one on the giant tree trunks, giving it a solid pat. This is your first considered look at the forest itself, from under the canopy. The bark of each of these giants is gnarled and lined, stained a deep red-brown colour, like ruddy iron. These boles are so robust, they would likely stop very heavy ordnance. It is no wonder that heavy armour has such difficulty here.
She looks up, startled by the little mammal taking his devilish pleasure by shrieking at the invaders below. As the creature passes and you make your case, she reaches up to remove her helmet, revealing her bruised face and split lips. As an apothecary, the reason is clear. Her helmet is obviously a little too big, and her head has pummelled around inside it.
"What say you?"
Racel struggles with her her pouches, drawing a canteen and taking a gulp. She wipes her bloody lips on her sleeve, the black absorbing the discolouration. The delay is obviously drawn out as she lets the silence hang. She put the canteen away and her eyes meet your crimson lenses, but you suspect she can see past the ceramite mask you wear.
"Objective Rho has to be dealt with. It's a priority."
The only immediate answer is the creaking of the trees and whisper of blue-green leaves, but there are words unspoken, the way of the Inquisition. It isn't the reassurance you wanted, but it's the approval you need.
Trokair, Dosjetka, BadgersinHills and 1 other like this
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
"Thank you for your insight, Inquisitrix. I will however ensure that each of us is given a chance to express their thoughts freely. Our leader is missing, so we must collectively decide what our next course of action is."
Silence sets in once more as Loth finishes. A gentle breeze makes the canopy above creak and moan as the branches heavy with foliage move from side to side as if with great reluctance. The wind also brings the stench of the swamp beyond. There is a smell of blood, too.
"We must also consider the health of our team and the fate of those who were once part of it. I have successfully recovered Ironbreaker's gene-seed but his cadaver and armour remain within our downed ship. Something must be done there."
The Space Wolves' funerary dirge still echoes in the corners of the Apothecary's mind.
"And while I have full view of my brothers' vitals, I do not have access to yours, Inquisitrix. I see only minor cuts and bruises. Is there anything I have not noticed that might need tending to?"
Mazer Rackham, Trokair and BadgersinHills like this
"And while I have full view of my brothers' vitals, I do not have access to yours, Inquisitrix. I see only cuts and bruises. Is there anything I have not noticed that might need tending to?"
A strange look enters her eyes that is familiar to you - possibly because you treat your humanity as a disarming foil, the careless humour you so employ to defend your melancholy. Her previous wooden mien vanishes as the glimmer grows.
"Only after a meal and flowers," she smirks then, completing the mischievous cast of her features. It dies as she notices your posture is unchanged, either not amused or merely not understanding. As so often with Astartes, both conclusions are equally valid.
"A moment's pause, Oridyn, that's all," she holds a palm up in sincere concession. "I would hear what the team thinks, of course."
Commissar Molotov, Trokair, Dosjetka and 2 others like this
Fuel-oils and the scent of burned exhaust metal greeted the back of his nose and throat. The horrible stink of scorched plasteel, where the naked sun had touched it in space, lingered in the air - a delicate cross between extinguished candles, burnt plastic and molten solder. It was a truly awful concoction. "Smells like home," he winked at Tyrell.
The giant stood across from him, visor opened and mask withdrawn. He pointedly sniffed. "You lived in a fart-bottling plant?"
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