BoggBear's page

Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (20) + 7 = 27

Ruhk quickly steps up, plastering his most affable and disarming smile on his face, leans in close and speaks to the security guard in a hushed tone.

"My good man, you're doing a fine job, and under normal circumstances I'd applaud you for your professionalism.
However, take a closer look at the elf before you.
Let me just tell you, right now, you may be slightly above your paygrade."

"Trust me, this is pretty much my job description, trying to make sure people like you don't get stepped on because "certain people" don't quite live in the same world as you and me."

"We'll be out of your hair in just a few shakes of a lambs tail, and nobody is geting hurt right?"

Culture: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (17) + 6 = 23

"Now, a Rakish pilot, one thing you need is a pair of goggles, even if they do nothing, it is just a must for that style.
And in addition, there needs to be a scarf."

"As for the various hangers on, this here long sleeved but short backed jacket, it's very easy to accessory up, a shoulder patch for example.
Or a particular kind of stitching on the back using a type of thread that stands out.

Perhaps a stitching of a Kyonin flower?
Hmm, that may take too much time to have done..."

Clearly, Ruhk is quickly coming into his element with clothing on the line.

Ruhk chuckles a little at the implications that he could be considered well dressed, before reaching up to adjust his tie very meticulously.
"A drear friend? Why thank you, I'm certainly moving up in the world now."

After taking a few moments to try and force his mind to grow less blurry, Ruhk takes out a small mirror and checks his face.
Apparently pleased with what he sees, he chuckles, then winces in pain, and then chuckles some more.

"I believe this is what is known as a..."banging party" eh?
Its...a pity I don't actually REMEMBER much of it.
If I had some form of vow to get a kiss from a female of every known specie, I have no idea which to tick of the list, haha."

He then looks around a little more as he stroke his head.
"They say it is not a good party if someone has not stolen a traffic cone. Do any of you see one?"

Cormaeg leans back in his chair, and takes out a piece of cheeroot that he begins to slowly chew.
"My point, major, is that at the end of the day, we are all expendable.
We are one of the organisations that carry the weight of the empire on our shoulders.
We are meant to stand in line and die defending the empire.
Our lives are ones of sacrifice, because we are ever sent into the fray, to guard the empire against those that would stand against us."

"No matter what colour uniform we wear, when we put it on, we become a potential sacrifice for the future of the empire.
Medals will not protect you, nor rank.
And I pray only for one thing, that when I stand before the golden throne to be judged, I shall be able to say that when my time came to be sacrificed, I did not hesitate and went willingly."

Culture: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (18) + 9 = 27

"Hmm, look over yonder on that wall, I recognise that graffiti.
I believe they are known as "gang tags", specifically for the Level 21 crew.
I believe that this means we are entering their territory.
Game faces on everyone."

Ruhk favours Celebryn with a warm smile.
"Why certainly, you've proven to be quite a useful fellow to have around.
I believe the term is "Let's get into trouble"?
Though I think the trouble can wait until AFTER we have found some information."

Don't forget to brush up on your War cant of Mars.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy-sVTaZRPk

Well, the only thought that comes to mind is that a Stub Revolver is something produced en masse, whereas Chainswords is more of an artisan production.
At the same time, we're Inquisition lackeys now, we're supposed to have upgraded our tools to something better than your average ganger.
My Psyker is also using a Chainsword as his main tool of destruction.
...
Ooops, I meant "Righteous castigation".

"And I am Ruhk Ekensköld, the most handsome man on my home planet."
Ruhk pauses and shrugs, with a wry grin.
"Excepting of course that now I am on Absalom Station instead.
People call me "The Dandy", and I have absolutely NO idea why."
Again, he pauses and fusses for a moment with his cuffs, making sure they are juuuust right.

"So, that was quite the adventure, wasn't it?
Certainly got off to an exciting start to my visit to Absalom Station."

Pulling on his cuffs to make sure they are nice and presentable, Ruhk chuckles.
"It occurs to me that we have not really been formally introduced as such.
If we are to work together, perhaps we should take a moment to get to know one another?"

"Or...someone lured both of them there as a cover for a clandestine killing of a Starfinder Society member?"

Ruhk considers for a moment.
This didn't feel like a trap, and it wasn't likely to be either.
A group of gangsters decides to get into each other and a few people get caught in the crossfire.
He doubted there was some oldtimey gangster lord who wanted to meet the "meddlers" and "scare them straight".
No, this was most likely perfectly legitimate.
Having convinced himself, Ruhk approaches the Orc and holds out his hand to shake.

"Splendid! An absolute pleasure.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but I would be more than happy to take you up on that Mr...?"

Passionate little thing, isn't he? But he might get into trouble if he keeps pushing like that...
Perhaps I should make myself a little more scares...

Ruhk looks at his clothing, carefully running his fingers over the sleeve, before favouring Celebryn with a brilliant smile.
"Ah, I'm deeply indebted to you, that is a rare brand jacket you just saved.
You're a useful sort of have around."

Moaning quietly over his bad luck, Ruhk stays put where he is.
After all, he can't see, so even if there was an enemy in range, he couldn't do a thing about it.
If only i had taken that earlier flight...but noooo, I had to pick THIS one.

Ruhk turns to look at Celebryn and favours him with a dazzling smile.
"Well now, you are clearly a valuable individual to know. Much appreciated."

Ruhk shrugs a little, unsure of what to do next.
"Well, we're sitting pretty here, any suggestions of what to do next?
Some people seem to have a plan over there, but..."

"Yes, the planet, it is in fact what I wanted to speak about..."
The man heaves a long, tired sigh, shoulders visibly deflating a bit.

"This planet has had a very peculiar effect on all previous rulers. They have all, in their own way, been competent rulers, but supremely unlucky.
It has been whispered that the planet EATS luck, specifically the luck of it's rulers, and then share it will everyone else living here."

Turning slightly in the direction towards the fields he points lightly towards them, even though they can't quite be seen from where you are.
"Those fields, they contain a rare grain that may be extinct anywhere but here, they were brought here by a previous Rogue Trader ruler on a whim, only for this planet to be perfect for them.
They are VERY nutritious, very healthy, and suitable for a large variation of quinine.
In addition, they grow very well here, to the point they are virtually a cash crop instead of merely sustenance.
And...the Rogue Trader turned out to be deadly allergic to them, dying immediately after just one bite of what became a staple dish of the capital."

Finally turning to face you, he sighs again.
"I would like to speak plainly with you my Lord..."

The warp, the gateway to the stars, and a realm of untold terrors and horror.
Coursing through the immaterial waves is an imperial ship, The Rising Sun, on course for the Carsis sector of known space.
At the bridge, everything is quiet currently, the crewmember in charge at the moment might as well be a faceless entity.
His current level of power is as unwelcome as the rash on his neck, but thankfully, neither is likely to troulbe him much further.
Leaning back against one of the cogitators, he takes a sip from his mug of lukewarm recaff and sighs.
I could be in bed by now, but noooo, someone had to be in charge, and it just HAD to be me...

Suddenly, he is roused from his irritated musings by a call from the forward consol.
"Sir, we've arrived at our destination!"
That was unexpected, looking at the chrono on the wall, it seemed like they were almost a month ahead of schedule, which while not a bad ting, might not mean much
back in real space, since the warp can play tricks on you.
Either way, things were about to get a bit more exciting around here.
"Well then, prepare for transition! Sound the alarm! And send out a call to the Lord-Captain and the senior officers!"
Moments later, lights began to flash, and the horn let out a low, long wail, signaling everyone to get into position.

Ruhk "The Dandy" wrote:

I present, Ruhk Ekensköld, Envoy extraordinaire, at least in his own mind.

Hey Ruhk!! Not sure if you remember me, but I ran a Falcon's Hollow game for you a few years back before I had to shut it down. Good to see you're still around!

I do remember that, it was a good game and I enjoyed it.

Mybe it was a vision from the emperor, maybe warp trickery, maybe something else entirely, but for a moment Liam senses...no SEES Cecil in danger again.
Reacting by instinct, Liam lets go with one hand, swings down, his other hand reaching out and...grabs Cecil's shoulder roughly.
As he swings in an arc like a Pendulum, he grunts, heaves and roars as he strains his muscles to the absolute limits heaving Cecil up and over the edge.
Hanging by just one arm, Liam groans, gasps and almost cries in pain, every muscle in his upper body feeling like its one fire.
"Agh...ah....emperor...damn...it...all...."

In the Shadows, you have to be ready for trauma at any time, and tonight certainly could count as traumatic for the small group if runners.
And as the night winds down, all three of them does their best to "self medicate" by indulging in various vices most suitable to their temperaments.

Gig, probably the least stable of the three deals with it by...mostly NOT dealing with it, instead burying his head in work, keeping busy to keep the demons at bay perhaps?
Though the manic state is certainly useful with making progress with his project.

Cheddy, possibly the most stable of the three, instead takes the time to soothe his nerves with alcohol (though that might be considered a "social lubricant" more than anything else) and social interaction.
Being the smooth operator he is, he knows on some level that you are only as good as your last deal, and as such, practice is essential.

Luna falls somewhere in the middle, more stable than Gig certainly, but not quite up to Cheddys standards.
Her night is one of adrenaline, endorphins and a whole lot of sweat.

All three of them might reflect a little on the nature of their lives, chosen or otherwise, as well as the less than common nature of their partnership.
It is unlikely that they won't find themselves running with no others joining them, but having a steady crew isn't normal in the shadows, and something a lot of runners would envy them for.

Finally, the night draws to a close, and sleep finds them all.

Happy Sanguinala.

With a soft but audible click, Marleno's eyes shift to magnification mode and scans the Lieutenant.

My lord, the collar is even ruffled, crushed velvet... this man is certainly...flash, I can only hope there is SOME substance beneath it all.

Havelock sits quietly for a moment, his mind running calculations of the facility.
"Even with the extra firepower we have acquired, we are unlikely to be able to purge the whole facility ourselves, especially since it is possible that they have been reinforced over a period of time."

"The most important things is to prevent both communication to the outside, as well as the possibility of escape for the heretics.
If we can gather sufficient information of the relative numbers as well as how well they are entrenched, we can then call in reinforcements better suited to the situation.
Should we fail because we were too eager to do everything by our own hands, we will likely face censure or worse from our masters."

"However, if we can prepare the ground for an invasion by proper imperial authority, that should be sufficient.
If we can, we should find the head of the snake and cut it off, leaving little more than a tedious mop up operation for our allies."

After having spoken, Havelock tiredly rubs his temples, speaking that much took a lot out of him.

Taking up the other shotgun, Havelock inspects it for a moment.
"Standard pattern, twin barrel, breach loader. Serial number has been filed off, and the barrels have been modified, adding an additional four centimeters.
Naturally that is illegal but, There is just a tiny inflection of humor in his voice as he continues, seeing as we are dealing with confirmed heretics, those additional charges seems...superfluous."

If Indio have an obvious flaw it might be pride, if he is convinced he is right, he'll be fairly stubborn in trying to convince others as well.
At the same time, it's only roleplay, *I* can be convinced more easily than him, heh.

As Asbjörn rolls up he has to run a bit, the problem was all the gear he had on.
The flasks of flamer fuel were the worst, constantly slipping loose and clanking together, which he had been told sternly was NOT ideal at all and should be avoided altogether.

As he neared the various landers he noticed quite a lot of commotion.
Especially since there were an Ogryn shouting, and some old guy standing on a box doing the same.
Hang on, wasn't that the new lieutenant?
Jeez, what a hardass, better avoid that lander or there could be trouble.
He didn't look like had ad much of a sense of humor.

Secretly thumbing his nose at the old fool, Asbjörn instead headed towards the probably MUCH nicer lander marked as "21".

Yup, nothing can go wrong with 21, I love that game!

Pleased with his decision, Asbjörn gets in line, only to suddenly be startled by a bolt gun going off.

Did the geezer just fire at someone?

Looking around, Asbjörn spots something much worse than an old hardass.
Sweet snerk! A commissar, and he is coming this way!
Quick, can I duck outta this line somehow? Nah, he is already looking.
Oh...oh no, he's getting into this one too?
I changed my mind! 21 SUCKS!!!

During the briefing, Cormaeg ponders a few things to say, his inner nature slightly at war with itself, a new trait slowly forming.

"Permission to speak sir?"
Doesn't do to show anything but perfect courtesy to your regimental commander after all, especially not in front of a general that seems to dislike me and mine for some reason...

"Some credit should go to the survivors at the Administratum building, as they were instrumental in guiding us to the proper location.
Most of them gave their lives as well as can be expected of any imperial citizen.
If at all possible, they should be evacuated as soon as possible."

When Cormaeg's first son had died, his personality had hardened and become deeply pragmatical, and every personal tragedy thereafter had only served to double down on those traits.
But now, having stood shoulder to shoulder with his squad, Cormaeg's previous humanity was slowly reappearing, slowly putting him through the fire to reforge him into something a bit better.
Pure pragmatism was making way for enlightened self-interest.

By talking the survivors up, he was give the appearance of being an honorable person, but at the same avoiding seeming weak or soft.
Even better, this also played into Paragraph 234, Subsection A45.

"In time of war, a regiment can accept applications from local civilians to train for the purpose of replenishing the ranks whilst waiting for their next scheduled reinforcement allotment.
In addition, competent military leaders can be conscripted to swell the ranks of command."

The captain was the real prize there, and Cormaeg would make sure to talk her up in his written report, mentioning that she had managed to lead a gaggle mostly made up from civilians for several years, civilians that lacked even the rudimentary discipline for the PDF.
He couldn't outright state that in front of what he suspected was her family though, that would seem callous.

And talking them up, and mentioning the Captain might build some good will with this PDF Major as well...

"Also sir, I would like to formally present these artifacts we recovered from the clutches of one of the Ork warbosses we encountered."

Here he presented the Cap, skull and bolt pistol.

"I do not know much about ork psychology, but taking a trophy like this seems to indicate the Commissar died a hero's death, the bolt pistol merely holding four spare shells."

The fact that it had held SIX shells, and after emptying four of them into the skull of Bigbull before palming the remaining two on the ride back to base didn't need to be said of course.

"I believe the machine spirit was glad to be put back to proper use, and it's shell struck true against Bigbull."

Again, the fact that Bigbull had been helpless, lacking his legs at the time didn't need to be said.

Might have earned some goodwill with the Commissariant as well now...Talking up one of them like that.

Cormaeg was a father of nine, nine children...
With that much experience you get to learn certain things, one for example is that all children are different, but there are still some things that are more or less universal.

Thud was in all respects like a toddler, a hyperactive toddler that had yet to learn right from wrong properly.
You don't yell at toddlers, no matter how angry you might be, they never learn that way.

You calmly explain to them what they did wrong and make sure they understand.

Turning towards the Ogryn, Cormaeg gives him a stern look, pushing his anger aside.

"See these big men Thud? They are called Space marines. They are the emperors chosen people, his angels of death."

"We are guardsmen, we do our duty to the emperor by standing in line, and dying in line.
All we ask is a chance to strike a blow against his enemies, and when we die we die gladly because we know our comrades will step over us to continue the fight."

"If we are fortunate, we take some of his enemies with us when we die, slowly thinning the herd of his enemies.
It may seem insurmountable, but we still fight, we do our duty."

"Today we did our duty well, but now it is the turn of others to do their duty.
The man with the missile launcher is brother Thorus, and he too has a duty to do, and when you get that close, you distract him, you make it harder for him to do his duty.
As a loyal citizen of the empire, you would not want to make it harder for someone else to do his duty like you do, do you Thud?"

Before Thud can say or do anything, Cormaeg holds up his hand.
"The best way to apologize is to stay back and allow brother Thorus to fulfill his duty without further delay.
YOU, Thud, can instead go over to Leni, in case she need you to carry any of the wounded."

Charm: 1d100 ⇒ 46

You can't prove I did that on purpose! *whistle innocently*
I resent the implications that I might be a ROLE player rather than a ROLL player, heh.

A medal...yes, but what kind? A specific campaign medal perhaps, but is that enough?
There is a chance they will recognize just how important a contribution this was and award more than one.
I am certainly going to put in my report a strong recommendation that Thud and Olways are awarded with a Medallion Crimson at the very least.

Heh, it will be amusing to see if I am awarded the Macharian cross for my tactical acumen? I did after all make the "informed" decision to use the subways, not to mention calling in very exact coordinates for a artillery strike against an important strategic target.

We might be awarded with a Honorifoca Imperialis? Also...ah, what is this?

As cormaeg began to struggle to his feet, he felt uncomfortable, not painfully so, just awkward.
Sitting down he paused for a moment, and then quickly turned his face away from the squad as he realized exactly WHAT was causing him discomfort, and now, to be honest, also distress.

It is a somewhat well known quirk of humanity that witnessing death, and being in a position where you could yourself die, the desire to "mate" arises.
Just as a way to continue the specie.
However, when this happens to an older man who had more or less thought such desires beyond him after the death of his wife...well, it can be quite embarrassing.

Thank the emperor for sturdy armor to hide the physical effects.

Cormaeg pauses for a moment, time slowing down at the possibility of death, and bringing with it a sense of ice cold clarity.
If I die here, I suppose it would be seen as a glorious death, and my last recorded words were of concern towards my fellow soldiers, not bad...
But I would rather my TRUE last words were something more...pithy...

Taking his finger of the send rune on the vox for a moment, to make sure ONLY the squad hears him, Cormaeg smiles a dry smile and quips.
"Off the record, most generals are complete grokkshites..."

"As for taking some with us, thanks to us, an entire fortress of vile xenos are about to be obliterated by imperial might.
I'd say that earns us a place by the golden throne Olways."

Of course, the sergeant had no intention of dying here, not when he realized just how much credit he has earned on this mission.
Much more than could possibly be spent in one go. More than enough to jump him all the way to captain, though that would not happen as it wouldn't be seen to promote a Sergeant that high in one go, no mater how much of a hero he might be.

Killing a warboss, being instrumental in the death of another one, possibly having killed one of their "big meks", recovered the mortal remains of a commissar, sending coordinates during a "friendly fire" incident...the list goes on.
It's not a question of needing more honors for more promotions, just a bit of time...

I've already thought about that a bit, I plan on Bringing back Asbjörn for the next mission, since he didn't get a chance to shine as much as he could have.
I'm also planing on giving him the advanced specialty of Brecher, since not only is it a good fit, it also is so close to an operator that it makes logical sense why he would have been trained in it.

I'm trying to make things fit like that, Liam is going to become a Sentry when he is played next, and I think I added some reasoning in play, constantly griping in inner monologues about lacking proper firepower to help, Sentry having Intelligence as one of it's characteristics thus not being too far removed, and relying on awareness and perception a fair bit, which Liam has pretty high stats in.

And Cormaeg is fixing to becoming a brawler, adding more offense to his pretty decent defense training.

I like the logical chains like that.

"For the emperor, *BLAM*, for the Serenus 1st, *BLAM*, for the squad, *BLAM*, and for me! *BLAM*"

Having hopefully eradicated the menace that is Bigbull for good, Cormaeg gestures towards the lower leves with his Chainsword.
"Thud, the others still need you, there are still orks to fight, go!"

Knowing that time might be short, Cormaeg himself does not immediately head for the new frontline, instead he reaches into his pack and garbs the manoculars that had seen little use so far.
He also grabs his briefing slate, hoping it might contain a good map so he can find some coordinates for the General.

He then heads for a window, hoping to quickly spot the ork artillery.

Don't forget the remaining militiaman, maybe his shotgun can slow the ork going for the stairs down a bit?

Int: 1d100 ⇒ 23

"BIGBULL IS DOWN! NOW FINISH OFF THE REST OF THEM!"

Not being able to properly use the Bolt pistol was less important now that the target was unable to properly dodge or avoid a bullet, which is why Cormaeg draws the Commissar's weapon for it's intended purpose, execution by headshot.

"Olways, keep covering the door, anything green stick it's nose through, you shot it off!."

"Krish, Tivnan, finish of the stragglers and then find Lucky or his corpse, he had the vox. He should be in the rubble of the desk by the left staircase on the lower level."

"Thud, for the emperors sake, stop, drop and roll. You're burning, put yourself out!"

Oh Grokk! Not now!

Despite the realization that Thud might very well end up dead, Cormaeg still felt his very veins fill with ice at the sight of the massive Ogryn toppling.

"Ogryn Thud! By the emperor, I am your Sergeant and I ORDER you to get up and retreat!"

Command (Fel +10 +?): 1d100 ⇒ 86
Dammit, reroll, come on!
Command (Fel +10 +?): 1d100 ⇒ 42
Ok, better.

Knowing that there was no way he could drag Thud away, The Sergeant allowed himself one more split second moment looking at Thud before taking his own advice and retreating from the soon to be very intense energy outburst.

It still stabbed at his heart to leave a man behind like that, THAT was something that damned well never got easier, and never ever SHOULD!

Disengage

Just as planned...

Strength + 30: 1d100 ⇒ 60

Damnation! Darkness? Wind? What is next, emperor be-damned sleet and hail!?

As he is hit by the gale, The arm that Cormaeg is holding his laspistol in snakes out and hooks around one of the legs of the table, keeping his balance with some difficulty.

"I know what is appropriate to say here, but I REFUSE to invite that kind of karmic retribution!
...And I'll personally shoot the first one of you that dare say it!"

Pinning (Wp - 10): 1d100 ⇒ 41
Going nowhere...

The battlefield was quickly slipping out of control, more chaotic than anything they had fought before during this ill fated mission.
The sudden appearance of darkness, even if said darkness dissipated almost immediately was not welcome, nor was the consequence of more fire being blindly directed towards the the makeshift barrier.

Snarling angrily, Cormaeg popped up to take a quick potshot at one of the shooting orks.

Attack: 1d100 ⇒ 98

Unfortunately, instead of the loud whine and the following beam of death, the laspistol splutters pathetically and refuses to fire.
Cormaeg ducks down behind cover again and whacks the gun against the floor with a snarl.
Somehow the activation rune lights up again, proving once again hist how sharp the emperors humour can be.

Emperor damn it all, that mortar would have been useful now, or a las cannon...or the heavy bolter the survivors have downstairs...
Or if we're listing impossible things that could be helpful, how about a company of storm troopers, and no time limit?

Cormaeg fixes Pvt. Ovis with a stare.
"I am fairly certain what you are about to say. And yes, it IS your hive, and yes, ideally it WOULD fall to you to defend it yourself and take it back in the name of the emperor."

Then his eyes narrow and he takes a step closer.
"But then tell me, if you come along, will it help? Will it?
The emperor gives us each a task, to me it is to be a professional soldier. I signed away my life on that piece of paper and meant it."

Taking yet another step closer, enough so their noses nearly meet, Cormaeg's voice takes on a dangerous edge.
"The emperor doesn't ask us to die, he asks us to live, he asks us to SUCCEED. Dying in battle is an atonement for FAILURE."

Taking a step back, Cormaeg's face softens a bit, and he crosses his arms over his chest.
Having said his piece he nods.

"Permission granted Pvt. Orvis."

Garborn does briefly raise an eyebrow at Marisol, but any reaction beyond that is quickly lost amid another booming laugh.

"Good good! Strong couple, based on trust, respect, co-operation and...lust!
Haha, Erastil approves of such unions, and should also have a blessing from Gozreh for fertility!"

Garborn pauses to mutter a short benediction in the secret language of the druids.

"Ah, but ask why come here?
Simple, three good reasons.
First, was born here! Can probably see area from the top of a decent tower, so always return here every few years.
Second reason, when wandering, sometimes find sacred places to nature, communicate with the deep green there, sometimes whisper secrets. Heard about great undertaking, birth of new civilization in heart of wilderness. Was curious, wanted to see with own eyes."

Garborn pauses, rubs the back of his head with one massive hand and then begins speaking again.
"And third reason, getting on in years a bit, wandering just not enough anymore, need to do something else, leave a mark, leave a legacy!
Look! Garborn pats his massive belly with both hands, Fat belly yes? Big fat belly! You think it comes from eating too much, drinking too much, enjoying life?
YES! Is right! But look!" Here Garborn stops and rolls up his sleeves to display his tree trunk like arms, slowly flexing, to allow his impressive muscles to be fully displayed.

"Strong arms! Big strong arms, born from hard work.
EARNED my meals, can earn many more.
Why not use Garborn? Work hard, play hard, walk with natures wisdom, and big bonus as well!
Secret to success, you see, as much as Garborn loves life, life loves Garborn back!
Yes! You walk with Garborn, you walk in blessed shadow!"

Suddenly Garborns voice lifts in song, a deep bass that almost makes the walls themselves vibrate with the force of it all.

Perform sing: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (17) + 13 = 30

I like life
Life likes me
Life and I fairly fully agree
Life is fine
Life is good
'Specially mine, which is just as it should be
I like pouring the wine and why not?
Life's a pleasure that I deny not

That's the secret of living
Any man can fly!
Why?
Because I like life!

"No use...we cannot possibly catch the lithe bastard...
Hopefully, having chased him off, we can still find Ameiko. Let us look for her.
We may still have achieved some success here, possibly even the most important type."

With her gone, there is no chance for more free food.
...
...
And saving her is the right thing to do...

Cormaeg gives the Captain a brief salute and a nod.
He then turns to the assembled troops, both his own and the ragged survivors.
"I won't waste too much words here, but now is indeed the time, the time to bring the wrath of the emperor down on the head of these misbegotten xenos!
Now is the time for blood and wrath, now is the time for revenge and justice!
For the fallen! For Humankind! FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Command (Fel + 10): 1d100 ⇒ 21

Cormaegs eyes are drawn towards the brew being made, and his face takes on a faraway wistful expression.
"Every guard regiment has their own tradition when it comes to brew, back in the PDF we sometimes had guard regiments stationed planetside for awhile and they would introduce us to their traditions."

"Our planet was a common Rn R planet, so they would be shipped in, stay a month or two and then be posted to active duty again."

"The Brontians for example, they have no sugar rations, and they like their recaff being extra bitter.
One of the quickest ways to get on a Brontians bad side is to offer them a sweetened drink, they take offense at that."

"Now the Kalatchians, they are the exact opposite. Back on Kalatch, only the nobility has access to any kind of sweetener as a general rule, so they consider it a massive luxury to have even a spoonful of sugar in their recaff.
More than a few of them will pour their entire sugar ration into their first cup and spend the rest of the day buzzing like a little kid."

"The Beregars don't drink anything nonalcoholic, so if you want them to have a cuppa with you, better be ready to spike it or they'll take it as an insult to their manliness."

"The Valhallans, they don't have recaff, instead they have their own traditional brew called "Tanna".
It's certainly bitter enough to appeal to a Brontian."

The Sergeant seems to drift off for a moment, then he shakes his head and goes back to working on his chainsword.

Taking out a small file, Cormaeg begins to slowly rasp between the teeth of his chainsword, filling the air with a methodical sound of metal against metal.
"Oh it wasn't the exact truth, I was underselling it a fair bit.
The reality is somewhat more dangerous, but when you make a report you have to be mindful of not overselling your actions or the opposition."

Leaning in to blow some grit from the file before continuing, Cormaeg grunts a little.
"The fact that some of us are mobile at all is thanks to medic Tivnan, and as you saw, not all of us made it in one piece.
The number of greenskins were higher than three to one as I claimed to the captain.
We spent time climbing through broken elevator shafts, dodging through mazes of pipes, and trying to get into cover from ork guns."

"That is the life in the guards, and we are a new and untested regiment mostly.
If we do well, they will send us to tougher and tougher warzones, if we do badly they will use us as fodder against overwhelming enemy numbers."

"If we can get to the office, if we can get a good look, get some good coordinates...then perhaps you'll get a chance to call in that fireworks after all.
But first I suspect we will need to deal with this "Bigbull"."

"Oh, hello there Sarg...*BLAM*!"
"You...YOU shot lucky!!!"
"Huh, I guess "Lucky" was an ironic name then wasn't it?"

The sarge can't quite hide the momentary smirk that steals across his face at Thuds question.
It's not quite the question itself that makes him smirk, but rather the elegant solution to the problem as how to explain it.
And so Cormaeg takes the opportunity to demonstrate an age old maxim of the sergeant class in the military.
When you don't want to deal with a problem, fob it of on a grunt.

"Don't worry trooper Thud, trooper Notch will be pleased as punch at being given a chance to explain it for you."

Turning to Notch, Cormaeg favors him with his most deadpan expression possible.
"Trooper Notch? The floor is yours."

Exactly, the world is nowhere near as dark as the extremists wants us to think.
But good news just don't have the same impact on the media, so we just don't SEE it as much as the bad.
Most people are pretty decent people, and even the ones that might not be interested in doing good are even less interested in doing harm.

As his head clears a little, Cormaeg frowns at Leni's flippant attitude.
That mouth of hers will get her killed...only one way to prevent it I guess...
I'm going to have to get her promoted. Can't do that as a mere Sergeant though, which leaves only one option.
...
Get myself promoted.