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Decon Squad

With Doc absent, it left to Dol to manhandle one of the promethium carts by himself while Lark and Book operate the other. Dol peers back at the storm trooper who simply observes. A Brontian sergeant point them towards a field strewn with dead orks. If there had been any guardsmen they have already been removed. Someone has dug a shallow trench-line to act as a fire-break. The promethium teams scorch the earth as the bodies are removed and the grass burns easily in the full heat of the day. Dol and De'Lark feel waves of heat as the grassfire temporarily rages into an inferno.

Soldiers stripped to the waist drag the xeno carcasses into a large pile. Unlit promethium is sprayed onto the grisly mass until the bodies are drenched.

The non-com looks over to De'Lark. "Light 'em up."

Restoration Squad

"We've been together too long for you to keep your opinions to yourself, Enzo, so spill it, what's on your mind?"

As the pair walk towards the area in need of repair, the vox-operator looks over his shoulder. "Just like back at the Claustrum. Fecking mech-head. Even when they have the equipment to do a job they still make us break our backs. And you know why? Cause they want to save their precious machines from wear and tear. Lookit' what we're doin' Sarge. You tell me those tracked excavators can't break this stuff up and smooth it out? Fecking machinery is more valuable than us."

Indeed the men are put to some back-breaking work: breaking up large chunks of rockcrete into small rubble and then using that to fill in crevasses and breaks in the landing pad. Swinging a pickaxe and sweating profusely, the Sarge can feel his hands start to blister.

Doc approaches the group.

"I can handle this Commissar, you should meet with the Major and the Brontian officers."

Edwin waves off the overzealous Commissar and follows the quartet of guardsmen at a safe distance, keeping a close eye on the restive Lark.

Lore test failed.

Vex glances at the squad and then gives a curt nod to Drususon. "Very well, thank you, trooper." With that he follows Sarp towards the intact building guarded by the entrenched heavy stubbers.

After a cursory examination the veteran storm trooper has yet to make a firm judgment regarding the character and quality of the Brontian hive-world guardsmen. Matters appear to be in order and they perform their tasks with due diligence, nonetheless Drususon withholds judgment until he sees them under fire.

"We have a man who is poisoned. I know what has to be used to make an antidote, but I do not have the equipment. Do you know if such equipment is here, also we have wounded who I can't help more than I already have. I can help with your wounded, if you need such help."

The Brontian jerks a thumb northward. "The wounded have been evac'ed to the station infirmary. Any supplies you need are prolly gonna be there too." Another soldier yells at the man for some equipment and he disappears inside the tent.

Doc you have the choice of catching up with the promethium teams or hoofing it towards the supply depot. Which will it be?"

Edwin stands at attention a step behind the commissar, casting an appraising eye over the Brontians and their camp.

Edwin make an ordinary (+10) Awareness, Imperial Guard, OR Tactica Imperialis test (your choice).

Restoration Squad

Sarge, Murjoff, Scope, Dot, Gerr, and Zees make their way toward a group of men attempting repairs to the landing pad. An engiseer officer directs them to a stack of tools. "The excavators will break up and smooth out most of the damaged rockcrete. See how they leave a trail of crushed rocks and dirt? I need you to follow in its path and make sure the larger chunks are broken up and smoothed out even more. That way we can use less rockcrete if there are few gaps in the rubble. The Munitorum demands we waste as little resources as possible."

The guardsmen are pretty sure they've effectively been ordered to dig a hole and then fill it with dirt.

As the guardsmen grab pickaxes, shovels, and the like, Sarge notes that Murjoff looks over at the engiseer, starts to say something, thinks better of it and simply grouses to himself.

Decon Squad

Commissar Vex, Trooper Drususon, Doc, De'Lark, Book, and Dol move off to a tent marked 'Decontamination Teams.' It is staffed by a couple of surly Brontian guardsmen. After giving you the once-over, they show you a couple of peculiar-looking devices. Essentially each is a promethium drum on motorized wheels. Attached to each drum is a long hose with a spray handle and igniter.

"Take these out north," says one of the Brontians, "Burn the greenies so they can be buried in the cairn. But ya also need ta scorch the ground. Burn it real thorough-like. Ana'thing touched by them greenies might be leavin' spores. Nothin' good comes from spores."

Without even looking up Book sighs, toggles the motor for one of the promethium dollies and rolls it out of the tent, undoubtedly expecting Hathin to follow.

"Take that other drum," Vex says to Dol, "With zeal we shall cleanse this planet from the foul taint of xenos."

The other Brontian looks over at Doc, "Need somethin'?"

Like Mire the other troops, including the Brontians, lapse into their own contemplative thoughts save perhaps the nonchalant De'Lark. The transport vehicle pulls out from the buildings and turns north at the furrow line, following the scarred earth towards the Imperial facilities.

The landing zone is in shambles. The stench of smoke and burning promethium is overwhelming. A metal hangar is partially collapsed, inside which a small Aquila Lander lays crumpled. The plasteel windows of the communications tower are riddled with cracks and holes from ork rounds. A structure which must have been used for fuel storage is now little more than a still-burning mass of rubble and debris. Another support building is still intact, atop which stand two separate mounted and manned heavy stubbers surrounded by sandbags. Near one an officer surveys the landscape with magnoculors. The rockcrete flight pad is ripped and denticulated from where shuttle Spina first touched down. A small tracked and bladed excavator attempts to make headway in flattening out the now jagged rockcrete. Men with pickaxes and shovels scurry about and follow the tractor like dutiful servants.

From the flatbed the men see dozens of body bags lined in the grass. A Ministorum priest kneels over an unzipped bag; with arms raised he recites some sort of convocation for the departed comrade. Next to him an acolyte holds open a text and from his hands swing a burning brazier. The acolyte looks up and stares at the troopers on the flatbed as they pass.

The truck circles and a further thousand meters off Squad Mire sees Supply Depot 31. Blockhouses line the massive rockcrete walls and pillboxes guard the grounds before it. A large gate is damaged and stands open; the iron doors unhinged and fallen. Not much can be seen through the opening except further rockcrete or wooden structures.

Lurching to a halt, the truck stops near a huge pit and at the bottom are the charred remains of dead orkoids. Periodically as more xenos bodies are tossed in, a soldier using a spray hose douses the corpses with promethium. A second soldier then uses a flamer for incineration. The pair are covered in grime and soot. As guardsmen dismount the flatbed, one of the Brontians stops before Mire. He looks the non-com directly in the eye with a steely intensity. "Yer lot is okay with us." He then moves off as Lieutenant Sarp begins barking commands.

"Sergeant Mire," shouts the officer, "Divide your men into two groups. Half for battlefield decontamination, the other for structural repairs." Sarp then turns to Commissar Vex, points towards the supply depot and converses.

The other Brontians pull the tarp off the equipment and start unloading the flatbed.

Lieutenant Sarp calls to Political Officer Vex, "Commissar, please do me the favor of riding up front. I wish to speak with you on a couple of matters." Vex looks over at Drususon, gives a nod, and climbs into the forward cab.

Hathin chuckles "Ye walk before the feckin xenos nekkid and they'll see an insignificant shard dangling between yer legs"

The Brontian soldiers respond to De'Lark's taunt with snorts and guffaws. "Here that Cullen? You've got an insignificant shard for ye wank!" The soldier named Cullen looks at the sporchi and nods his head slowly. After De'Lark blows him a kiss the Brontian winks back. Showing no outward animosity the foreign guardsmen sit on either side of De'Lark and Book, resting against either crates or the backside of the driving compartment.

To no one in particular one of the Brontians asks, "We've heard ye called the 'Swamp Rats.' What's it like on Oremor? Is it like this boggy, humid, viper's nest?"

Figure I will find out what the word means soon enough. I pull my blade, and turn it so he can have a sight. But keep it firmly in my grip.

"It's a Chit-sickle. Brush or man it cuts through it about the same."

The Brontian response to the chit-sickle are varied. A couple appear bemused but one of the men says, "Call that a blade? I'd soona march before an ork horde nekid than trust mi' life to so insignificant a shard of steel." Scope notices however, that more than one of the Brontians seem to covet the blade although none reach for it.

From behind Lieutenant Sarp shouts, "All right, let's mount up."

The soldiers of both units get onto the truck bed.

Sgt. Mire will attempt to make a Common Lore (Imperial Guard) [40] test, to see if he can recollect anything more about the Brontian regiment, 1d100.

Common Lore (Imperial Guard) test successful by four degrees, yielding the following information:

First degree of success: Bront is a hive-world in the Calixis Sector, more specifically the Golgenna Reach sub-sector and is known to be a violent system.

Second degree of success: Bront was founded by guardsmen as a reward at the end of the Angevine Crusade. It is a relatively young hive-world, having been reclassified after rapid industrialization a mere thousand years after its founding.

Third degree of success: Bront's populace is made from the descendants of countless thousands of Imperial Guardsmen from dozens of systems. As such the planet maintains strong militaristic traditions and discipline. Rumor is that the system is divided into numerous rival clans that settle disputes through ritualized battles. These battles are fought with blades, not usually to the death, leaving instead a variety of scars. These scars are borne proudly and each tells a well-known story to the one who is marked.

Fourth degree of success: Bronitan regiments favor close combat thus are usually regular infantry units not fitted with much armor or artillery. The Oremor 4th's assignment on Skrynne might be explained by the need for some light armor to supplement the Brontian presence. Sergeant Mire knows that Brontians readily supply the Departamento Munitorum with troops and have been deployed in numerous engagements including the brutal insurrection of the Meritech Wars, the mutant uprising on Tranch, and more recently along the fronts of the Margin Crusade. Rumor is that they are proud, tough fighters.

"Our own orders confirm that we are to accompany your unit, lieutenant, you mind telling me where headed?"

Sarp looks at Mire for a few seconds, perhaps trying to read his thoughts. He replies, "No worries sergeant. The periphery has been established and the orks have been pursued into the brush. We are now on clean-up. We have a shuttle-pad to repair."

Mire glances up at De'Lark. The obstinate weapons specialist rests against some equipment under a tarpaulin. Underneath Sarge can see barrels, shovels, pick-axes, and some motorized equipment.

Lieutenant Sarp reaches out to Sergeant Mire, clasps his forearm just above the wrist and shakes it vigorously, "Well met, Sergeant. We were caught out in the flat when the greenskins attacked. Pinned north of these buildings for a bit but you helped draw some of them off."

Sarp pauses for a moment before continuing, "When I heard command was sending a penal regiment to Skrynne I was worried... About, well, the quality of your soldiers. But the men fought well. Drove the greenies back into the jungle. Much appreciated."

"So what's worse the locals?"

gesturing toward the spider's corpse, "or the Orks?"

"I would say the locals."

The Bronitan regulars snort at Scope's question. "Tell ya what," says a bare-chested guardsman, "If these green baddies don' run ya through then ya gotta watch out in the brush. Lizards, bugs, plants. They're all dangerous. Ya gotta keep an eye out all'a time. If things look safe they prob'ly aren't."

"They don't look like much do they Book? Feckers even cut themselves shaving their chests" before laughing derisively. Grinning at the barechested and scar-nicked men as he walks past them "Ladies", he grunts as he boards the transport, and maneuvers his way to one of the better seats - where the bumps from the travel will be lessened.

Book gives a nervous glance at the Brontians. The sporchi's barbs are met with silence and long stares as De'Lark mounts the transport. Book says nothing, apologetically shrugs his shoulders, and follows.

"Pay no attention to him. We don't let him out much. Even the spider died after it bit him. We had to shoot it to put it out of its misery."

"No worries, caro," Scope is unsure of the word's connotation, "We Brontians have a sayin' bout his kind: Empty barrels make the most noise."

Another asks, "Say, while we wait on the lieutenant would you mind if we have a lookit yer blade? Whaddaya call that thing?"

Squad Mire's vigil passes without incident. The Skrynne sun passes overhead and the off-worlders are reminded somewhat of the weather on their homeworld: hot and muggy. From the rooftop, Sarge and Scope see little except smoke rising from the gatehouse area of the imperial station and vehicles moving back and forth from the downed shuttle. Sentinels prowl the area just short of the treeline and Mire is left to guess which one might be Anselm's. Occasional gunfire erupts from the forest but other than a few hawk-like birds crossing the cloud-streaked sky, little else is seen.

After a standard hour or so, An eight-wheeled flatbed cargo truck pulls up next to the building occupied by Sarge, Scope, and Dot. Half a dozen men ride in the back. The passenger-side cab-door opens and an officer stands on the running-board. He calls out, "I am Lieutenant Galen Sarp of the Brontian 4th. You are to render us assistance so mount up."

Sarge looks over at his adjutant as Murjoff checks via the vox for confirmation. A curt nod from the communications operator lets Mire know that Sarp is on the up and up. The Brontian soldiers dismount the vehicle to greet the Swamp Rats. They wear little armor other than maybe shoulder pauldrons and a couple are completely bare-chested. They wear heavy brown leather leggings and carry lasguns. Unusual in the minds of the Oremites, each Brontian soldier carries at least three knives. Some blades seem archaic or ornamental but all potentially lethal. Lieutenant Sarp wears at least half a dozen daggers or knives along his belt and boots. Across his back is a larger blade; too big for a bayonette but smaller than what one might consider a sword. Each Brontian is marked by scarring and cut marks on his face and arms, and again Lieutenant Sarp bears more in this regard than the regular troops.

The soldiers hail each other and prepare to clamber aboard the transport.

Feel free to initiate any conversation, ask questions, or post musings as you meet the Brontians.

Grimacing before hocking up and spitting away a mouthful of blood and phlegm Lark moves to take his position on the perimeter. Feckin enough time fer rest when I'm dead. He ponders the actions of both the Penal Legion and the Xenos, seeing if everything adds up...

Common Lore (War) TN=38: 1d100 Just fishing in the dark ;) Success by 2 degrees.

De'Lark re-harnesses his flak jacket over two ugly chest wounds from the spider which are already turning purple and orange. The sporchi mulls over the fire-fight with the greenskins and their rapid withdrawal in the face of a battalion of Oremites. He has heard the scuttle-butt from other troopers, that the ork is a truly unpredictable foe. De'Lark decides that the withdrawal was probably not some sort of feint but that they will probably be back as well.

Looking over at the spider lair, the weapons specialist also has an initial understanding as to why the Skrynne system deserves its deathworld designation.

The rest of the unit fans out in defensive formation. Hearing Scope's suggestion, Book lifts the lid of the arachnid's nest with the barrel of his lasgun while Murjoff tosses in a frag grenade. The bomb goes off with no observable results but perhaps a few rattled nerves are qualmed. The guardsmen hunker down until relief forces arrive.

Chem Use successful by five degrees I believe. Success has no immediate effect but will net good results later. See below.

From his field medi-kit, Doc uses his bio-scanner and diagnostic cogitator to analyze the samples of blood and venom from De'Lark's system. The tests confirm what Zane suspects: the poison is an enervating agent meant to weaken and paralyze the victim. Due to his hardy constitution it appears that De'Lark is relatively stable, although Doc notes his speech is slightly slurred and he appears a little lethargic.

Just a few meters away from the dead arachnid is the lid to its lair which is slightly ajar. Hearing Scope's warning Zees looks at it apprehensively and levels his lasgun at it. Eschewing any potential danger, Doc moves to the spider's mangled corpse and uses a probe to extract more fluid from its venom sac.

De'Lark is suffering from one level of fatigue as a byproduct of the venom. He will need medicae facility treatment/extended bed-rest to be healed.

Moments after the arachnid's eradication, Dol and Gerr reunite with the squad. Seeing De'Lark covered in spider viscera and his own blood, Gerr says, "Gee Sarge, sorry we missed the bug hunt. We're locked and reloaded. Where do you want us?"

Dot looks up from De'Lark's frenzy and takes up station at Scope's behest. After a quick survey the spotter says, "Too bad. They're moving away from us."

As the pair maintains vigil Dot breaks the silence, "Don't know what scares me more. The spider or that maniac De'Lark."

With the arachnid dead and the medic working on De'Lark, Sarge turns his attention to the battle. The orks make a full-scale retreat east and north away from the Brontian fortification into jungle environs. Unfortunately for Scope, no more targets of opportunities present themselves. Mire gets a nudge from Murjoff. Handing Sarge the handset, he says, "Cap'n Kluge is on the horn."

After exchanging acknowledgements, Major Scarpa's chief adjutant, Captain Kluge says:

<<Mire, we've got these green bastards on the run and vehicle units are in pursuit. We're going to set up picket lines in the surrounding jungles. Good job securing our flank. Saw you engaging the enemy when we moved out from Spina. Heard from Sergeant Pagi that your squad thwarted the enemy's attack on the shuttle. The major is happy about that I can tell you. I'm sure the navy would somehow hang all the blame on us for it being damaged if orks had reached it. Maintain your position. We'll relieve you in a bit with a squad rotation once we get things a bit more secure around the station.>>

Not sure if the weapons specialist is showing signs of shock or his usual murderous malevolence, Doc Zane races up to De'Lark who is in obvious need of medical assistance. Gingerly touches the sporchi on the shoulder, gently signifying his presence so as not catch a blade in the face. Seeing the two large puncture holes in De'Lark's flak vest, Doc swabs some samples of the spider's venom and also takes a quick blood specimen from the specialist.

First-aid treatment is only permitted once every 24 hours. However, Doc, you may attempt a Chem Use test to analyze the poison and see if an antidote might prove helpful.

The sergeant moves to aid the weapons specialist in time to see De'Lark shove the chitinous arachnid away from his torso. Up close Sarge is easily able to see the fangs withdraw from the sporchi's flak jacket and the non-com is left to wonder how De'Lark is still alive.

The arrival of the sergeant seems to confuse the spider; it pivots, raises its front legs and hisses at both guardsmen.

Trooper Drususon sees the commissar calmly lift his pistol, aim and fire.

BS 32 + short 10 + standard 10 + half-aim 10 - into melee 20 = 42, 1d100 ⇒ 37.
Damage 1d10 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13, pen 4, spider well over -10 wounds, results below.

As the spider coils to launch itself again, a loud shot rings out. A bolt round punches the insectoid at the base of two of its legs. The appendages are blown completely off, spinning the arachnid completely around and it falls to the green turf. From the joint where the legs were ripped free there is now a large hole in its abdomen. A sickly, white fluid gushes forth and the bug is inert and lifeless.

Dodge successful.

Despite his wounded, bedraggled condition, the weapons specialist avoids immediate harm. To Sarge, De'Lark appears somewhat punch-drunk and he wonders what damage the spider's venom is causing. The arachnid continues to circle and hiss, spittle and poison dripping from its fangs.

Sarge is up.

Doc's aim for the round is noted.

Sparing the use of its ruined leg, the giant spider nonetheless is able to coil on seven others and spring.

WS 40 + all-out attack 20 - one level fatigue 10 = 50, 1d100 ⇒ 43, success.

As it leaps into the air the arachnid spreads its legs wide. Falling directly towards De'Lark, the weapons specialist sees the two hairy fangs which have already bitten him and also beneath those rows of small barb-like teeth.

Nearby Book squeezes off an ineffectual las-round, screaming incoherently, "Ee-Yaaaahhh!"

De'Lark make a dodge attempt which gains a +10 bonus due to guarded attack action.

I will move into range, if necessary, and aim, waiting for a clear shot. I. e. de' Lark gets out of the way.

"I don't know what the fegargo I just killed, but the spider looks more appealing."

Still looking a bit put-off, Dot looks over the side of the structure and says, "Then get your sorry ass up here. It's about to eat the sporchi."

After a brief pause the spotter then mutters, "Which wouldn't be a bad thing, actually..."

EDIT: Scope please make an initiative roll for round 2.

I grin back and to the Seargent, " Thanks you probably saved our lives. 8 orcs took most of my ammo."

Sgt. Pagi winks, gives a nod, and says, "Later you can buy me a cup of whatever Throne-forsaken rotgut passes for drink on this skeit-hole."

Racing back whence they came, Dol and Gerr sidestep an anti-grav munitions sled and exit the shuttle via the aft rampway.

Dol will join up with the squad in a couple more rounds.

Sergeant Pagi is somewhat surprised by the appearance of the heavy gunner and his partner, nonetheless he promptly returns the salute. "Whaddaya got, guardsman?"

I come up to Sergeant Pagi and snap a salute. When given permission I state, " Sir, I have orders from Commissar Vex and Sergeant Mire to resupply our heavy stubber and to bring back 1 canister for the companys plasmagun and 1 clip for each of our companies lasguns, and a clip for our companies sniper rifle. Sir"

" Also Sir, Sergeant Mire wanted to know the status of our operator with the Sentinel? Sir"

Fellowship: 30 1d100

+10 bonus granted for well-played post. Fellowship check successful.

"We're in the thick of it already, I know, I heard," says Sergeant Pagi. "As for the sentinels, that's easy. All armor was sent north to the station. Anselm left some time ago."

He gives a fretful nod towards the array of boxes and crates in the cargo bay, "Whoever packed this mess should be strung up. So far we've unloaded rations, rain-gear, and paper to wipe your arse... Just now getting to the ammo." Pagi shouts at one of his grunts lugging a crate. "But here now, what have we got?" He pops the latches and opens the box, revealing several drums of stubber ammo. The sarge gives a look about the bay, "Do you see any of them Munitorium desk-jockeys about? No? All right, Dol, this is probably the best I can do for ya. Better get outta here."

The non-com hands over two drums of stubber rounds. Gerr grabs them and says, "Thanks, sarge." The loader looks at Dol and grins, "Shall we?"

From his perch atop the building the sniper hunts for more stragglers.

Roll of 15 is another 'cinematic hit.' See below.

As Scope surveys the battlefield he catches sight of something peculiar. At first he wonders if his vision is clouded so he blinks several times before looking through the sniper-sight again. An ork hustles towards the jungle-forest leading some sort of animal. At first the sniper thinks it is a dog but on closer examination it appears to be some sort of nasty creature with barbs, claws, and fangs. It snaps and slavers as it is pulled by its handler.

Whatever the monstrosity is, Scope decides it needs to die and he promptly drills it several times with his rifle. The ork handler rolls into the safety of some high grass and is gone from view.

"Spider's eh?"

"Nothing like worrying about being dragged off in your sleep and sucked dry like a Oremorian passion fruit."

"They got it? Or do we need to redirect fire?"

Dot looks back, scowls, and says with derision, "Thanks for the comforting thought." The spotter then crawls forward to look over the lip of the roof once more.

De'Lark attempts to bring his beloved plasma rifle to bear but the spider lashes out and knocks it from his hands. The weapons specialist pulls his chit-sickle from his belt and takes a swipe.

Dropping rifle free action, half-action to ready hand-weapon, half-action for guarded attack (-10 to WS, +10 to evasion tests until next turn): WS 39 - guarded 10 = 29, 1d100 ⇒ 7, success. Damage: d5 + SB 3 + Street Fighting for crit 1, pen 2; 1d5 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5

The mono-edged blade catches a fore-leg near the patella, it catches and De'Lark gives a vicious pull. With a sickly crack the leg breaks and the spider lurches to the side.

1 wound - 5 hits = -4 for spider's current wound total.

Doc is up.

Back at the shuttle, Dol and Gerr race up the exit ramp. The hatchway has been completely blown off by tech-priests and the pair easily go inside. Moving past the now-empty infantry transport bay, the heavy gunner and loader enter the forward cargo area where the last of the Oremor vehicles are being lowered via hydraulic lifts by navy techs. Amid clamorous shouting from deck officers, blaring klaxons, and roaring engines, the entire bay is frantic with activity. Logistics ratings move boxes and equipment on sleds back and forth while grunts simply shoulder crates and lumber slowly towards freight elevators.

Amid the tumult Dol spots Sergeant Pagi, one of Company F's supply officers. Nudging Gerr in the ribs, the two race over to the non-com.

Considering the circumstances I will not ask for a formal Logistics Test. Instead consider any request for ordnance to be a Fellowship check. Roll against your fellowship. The modifier is difficult (+/- 0). I will award a +10 bonus depending on the nature of your role-played request.

(1d100=15)

Despite the outbreak of shouting and firing beneath his position, the sniper maintains concentration. "Gretchin herd, 50 meters left," he hears from the spotter. From his prone position, Scope scans west and picks up on a pack of goblinoids some 600 meters distant. Smaller than orks, the sniper knows these creatures informally as 'ammo grotz.' True to their name, four of these little beasts pull a shabby-looking cart filled with ordnance. Through his high-powered scope, the sniper sees grenades and boxes of ammunition. Scope centers his reticule on the explosives and fires. He is rewarded when flames fill his ocular view. Looking up from the rifle, in the distance Scope can see a small inferno burning in the field.

The spotter crawls forward to see what the commotion is beneath them. Taking in the scene, Dot looks back at Scope and says, "You're not gonna believe this. They're fighting a great big... spider."

Moving back into position, the spotter mutters, "Spiders. Great. I hate spiders."

The stormtrooper does not hesitate as he reacts to the new threat, shouldering his weapon and letting loose a single shot in one fluid movement.

De'Lark struggles to keep the spider at bay, pushing back at it with his plasma rifle. The arachnid shifts backwards on all eight, crouching to spring again. It is then enveloped by the super-charged las-round from the storm trooper's hellgun.

Hit Locations - 0-30, front segment (thorax); 31-60 back segment (abdomen); 61-100 legs. Front segment natural armor bypassed, 13 hits - TB 4 = 9 wounds delivered.

The shot cooks through the black, shiny carapace of the arachnid's cephalothorax, leaving its front portion charred and smoking. The horror scrabbles in the brush and to De'Lark's alarm he hears the bug give a menacing hiss.

De'Lark is up. Will give Mark some time to post since he's travelling.

Rolling initiative for Drususon, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

The appearance of the large arachnid is met with shock and shouts of alarm from Squad Mire.

Trap-Door Spider Round 1

Tactical Map

Each square=2 meters
Scope is on the structure roof, approximately 15 feet above the others.
The scrub-bush provides AP 1
The arachnid is considered "scrawny" (less than man-sized) and is -10 to hit

Initiative
Drususon 13
De'Lark 10
Doc 9
Arachnid 8
Sarge 7
Vex 6
Scope NA

The spider's fangs have toxic quality (1). Toughness test is made at -10 per rules, roll of 35/30 fails. Additional 1d10 ⇒ 3 damage suffered. Also target suffers one level fatigue. De'Lark now at 4 wounds.

The weapons specialist feels a dull ache throughout as venom seeps through his body.

Drususon is up. Also Scope, please make a Ballistic Skills test for opportunity fire.

Initiative Roll for Commissar Vex, 1d10 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

Initiative Roll for arachnid, 1d10 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

Planet Skrynne, Ruins Near Supply Depot 31

North of the guardsmen's position, the area surrounding the fort is chaotic. Gunfire and explosions reverberate, smoke and dust raised from tracked vehicles fills the air. Orks stream east, disappearing back into the jungle from whence they apparently came. Some pause, either to take stock or squabble amongst themselves.

Seeing survivors making their way toward the tree line. I snap off a few rounds. Better to kill a green skin today rather than it come back and kill ya tomorrow.

(1d100=24)/(1d100=64)/(1d100=31)

Ballistic Skill 43 + Spotter 10 + Aim 10 - Extreme Range 30 = 33, two successful kills made. See below.

The sniper's first target is a burly ork armed with a giant cleaver. In its other hand it carries three decapitated human heads, tied together with their hair. The greenskin turns and bellows at other xenos, and it kicks a gretchin that passes by too closely.

Scope's shot drills into its chest and it is thrown back. As it sits up, angry and bewildered, the sniper fires again but misses. The sharp-eyed Dot, using powerful magnoculors, helps make micronic telescopic adjustments.

"Right ten, up five."

Before the ork can get to its feet, Scope's next shot scores and this time the beast does not rise.

Another target presents itself. Riding a misshapen, smoke-belching three-wheeler, an ork biker pauses to look back at the battle. Scope's shot misses the driver and caroms off the bike's twisted metal frame. The greenskin immediately revs the engine and drives into the safety of the forest.

A third ork enters the sniper's kill-zone. A hunched, lumbering monstrosity with long arms that nearly touch the ground as it moves, dragging a huge war-club. Scope sees that it travels with a severe limp and must be wounded. The greenskin stops for whatever reason, perhaps fatigued but the sniper does not care. Scope fires and the high-velocity round punches a fist-sized chunk of meat out the ork's back. It spasms in the grass. The sniper drills it a couple more times and the xeno is motionless.

"They're as tough as they look and as smart. Don't underestimate them, now go get patched up."

The commissar simply nods at the battle-scarred veteran's analysis. They approach the rendezvous point and with a wince Vex waves for the medic.

Awareness (TN = 36): 1d100 ⇒ 94

After hollering his unsolicited opinion to the sergeant, the weapons specialist turns north and moves past a large wooden building. Book shadows him to his left as they move across the field and scan for threats.

Lark's Awareness Test fails by six degrees. Concealment Test (35), 1d100 ⇒ 69, failure by four degrees. Concealment "successful," results below.

The sniper continues to fire at targets from his perch above the others. As shots ring out, Sarge waits for Murjoff to get more news from the vox. Dol is no longer present, he and Gerr making their way to the shuttle. The storm trooper and commissar approach.

Perhaps De'Lark is lax in his vigilance. Maybe it is innate overconfidence or temporary complacency. Most likely the specialist does not see it because he is unfamiliar with the planet Skrynne and its myriad hazards. He fails to note the slight change in the ground he moves across: a slight discoloration, some increased detritus, and a small bone stuck into the turf. A few meters from De'Lark there is a slight ridge or lip in the earth, effectively camouflaged by plant and soil materials. De'Lark blinks with disbelief as two black stalks coated with hair or barbs press out from the lip and a two-meter sphere of earth pops upward like a trap-door and a large arachnid, about half as large as a man, leaps forth.

Skrynne Spider--Surprise Round

Tactical Map

Each square=2 meters
Scope is on the structure roof, approximately 15 feet above the others.
The scrub-bush provides AP 1
The arachnid is considered "scrawny" (less than man-sized) and is -10 to hit

Due to surprise, De'Lark (and the other soldiers) may not act this round. De'Lark may not use reactions. Please note that the failed Hard (-20) Awareness checks from the others on the ground meant no guardsman spotted the trapdoor location.

Stunned, the weapons specialist can do little more than raise his plasma rifle in defense as the spider pounces. It rears up on its hind legs and attempts to drive two large fangs into the guardsman.

WS 40 + Surprised Target 30 + All-Out Attack 20 = 90, 1d100 ⇒ 49, success by five degrees.
Damage 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10, pen 2. Hit location torso: 10 points - TB 4 - AP 1 (due to pen 2) = 5 wounds delivered.

Book shouts, "Lark!" Too late. The spider springs and leaps upon the sporchi, causing him to yell once he feels the fangs pierce his flak vest and body. His chest goes cold as venom is injected and the arachnid tries to wrap its chitinous legs around the guardsman's back. De'Lark stares into a myriad of dull, black, lifeless eyes, just inches from his own, and he pushes back with his rifle to avoid falling beneath the weight of the creature.

Lark, make a challenging test (+0) vs. Toughness to mitigate effects vs. poison.

Everyone present roll for initiative for the ensuing round. Welcome to Skrynne.

Hathin, please roll for an Awareness Check. This will be an opposed roll.

He continues to search the horizon, having long ago gotten used to the sporchi's antisocial tendencies. Not an easily provoked man, Sgt. Mire maintains his grim placidity. With a severe stare that could just as easily be affixed upon the weapon's specialist, his terse reply conveys that he isn't in the mood for any nonsense.

Seeing the commissar approach, he sighs, sending another subtle cue to Hathin to move along, his worry returning that the sporchi and the new commissar will renew their tense interaction from the landing.

Awareness Test for Sarge, Doc, and De'Lark fail.

Heavy Gunner Dol and his mate Gerr move off at a trot to the southwest to hopefully replenish their stubber. From his current position the Sergeant sees no immediate threat from either the north or east. Buildings block his view of the main battle, however. The medic and his orderly crouch in the scrub nearby. De'Lark and Book fan out to the north; Book cautiously, the weapons specialist nonchalant.

Adjacent to the sergeant, Murjoff gets off the phone. "Dammit, Chief. There's a lot of chatter on the horn right now. Good news though. Sounds like our boys are routing the greenskins."

Sarge, make a Tech-Use attempt for Murjoff to see if he can learn more/communicate on the vox. Not sure how to handle this but for now let's put Murjoff's Tech-Use at 35.

Sarge, Doc, De'Lark, feel free to post any additional actions or comments as you see fit.

The political officer gives a grime and blood-spattered smile to the storm trooper as Drususon exits the dilapidated building which was the scene of his melee.

"You nearly got yourself killed there, these Xenos are dangerous, let the troopers do their jobs. A good leader leads without getting himself killed."

Vex's smile slowly disappears as he is upbraided by the elder soldier. His jaw becomes set and facial muscles tighten. "What? You dare to question my valor? What do you mean?" His expression softens somewhat. "I thought... Didn't you go after? The gretchin?" After a brief moment the commissar puts his chainsword back on his belt, buttons his loose jacket, and straightens his cap. "You are right of course."

Only then does Vex seem to notice the wound in his right leg. His pant leg is torn and dried blood is caked on his thigh.

"Let's catch up with the others."

As he hobbles north, the commissar asks Drususon, "What have we learned so far about these greenskins?"

Using the advantage of height and my scope, I scan down range.

Scope's Awareness Test successful by two degrees.

From his perch the sniper has a good vantage of the battle to the north. A cursory survey of the field reveals that Oremor 4th infantry and armor has reversed the tide of battle. Tracked Chimeras and Sentinel Walkers drive wedges into the orks and some enemy are being put to flight. Although the fighting is well beyond the range of his sniper rifle, Scope sees that some stragglers are moving his way as they make for the jungle forest to the east.

Scope, feel free to make three separate opportunity attack rolls at extreme range (-30). You may of course aim, use your spotter and any other advantages at your disposal.

Muttering to Murjoff, he limps back out of the building.

"Let's get everyone assembled around the northernmost structure and get a temporary perimeter in place before we catch up with the rest of the company. Radio command and let them know, short of counter-orders, we plan to move up the eastern flank through the ruins to see if we can seize some kind of advantage that way."

The sergeant and the remainder of the squad gingerly make their way north to the base of the building occupied by the sniper. An exception is Hathin De'Lark, who calmly strides as if there is no concern to be had. Book zig-zags behind the weapon specialist, sprinting from behind a bush to laying prone behind a small pile of rubble, then to the remainder of some long-neglected wooden shack. The guardsman calls out to his comrade, "For the Emperor's sake! Get your head down before it gets shot off!" He then mutters some oft-recited battlefield litany, probably for the benefit of the sporchi.

Sarge approaches the rendezvous point, his back pressed against a sun-baked rock wall. A few seconds later Murjoff follows suit, speaking contact protocols into the vox.

Also sporting an air of confidence is Commissar Vex. He walks past the slain orks, taking the time to behead each with his chainsword. At the top of his lungs he shouts, "You can never be too safe with these greenskin abominations, men!"

Everyone arriving at the rendezvous point make a Hard (-20) Perception Test.

"Taking my perch."

I start climbing up the ladder to set up my kill zone on the roof.

The spotter waves at Sarge, acknowledging his orders. Scope and Dot scramble up the side of the building and find an ideal location. Although the roof is pitted and crumbling in spots, they carefully position along the northwest corner that commands a decent view of fighting to the north. The sniper lays prone and sets up his rifle and tripod. Next to him the spotter arranges wind gauges and magnoculours.

At a cursory glance Oremor armor and infantry seem to be pushing their way north towards the Brontian installation. There are no apparent greenskins in the immediate area.

Scope, using your advantage from the roof, please make an Awareness Test.

"Well that took longer then expected. Gerr, lets get back to the ship and see if they have any rounds we can scrounge up. This early and only having 1 full drum left is going to be bad."

"Let's get everyone assembled around the northernmost structure and get a temporary perimeter in place before we catch up with the rest of the company. Radio command and let them know, short of counter-orders, we plan to move up the eastern flank through the ruins to see if we can seize some kind of advantage that way."

Gerr looks from Dol back to his NCO. "Uh, Sarge, is it OK if we make an ammo run?"

Ignoring the medic's Parthian shot, the weapons specialist leisurely makes his way across the battlefield.

Lark checks over his plasma, gives Doc a wink and calls out to the Sarge "Sarge you feckin offed that xenos yet? - or do ye need a real man on the job?" as he begins to strut towards where the last sounds of near battle are coming from.

De'Lark sees that the sergeant apparently ignores him and instead peers into a now-quiet wooden structure.

His adrenaline pumping, and refusing to cede the momentum it has given him and his aching ribs, Sgt. Mire rushes across the broken ground between the two dilapidated structures, chainsword in hand, hearing Dol and Edwin's shouts as they corner the last ork in a vicious melee.

The Sergeant uses his good leg to take the small steps leading into the building in a single hop. With panting breath he braces himself against the doorway, managing to see the grisly demise of the greenskin at the hands of the storm trooper.

Me and Dot move to the sturdiest building of the lot to set up on, and give us the best vision down range.

The sniper and spotter move past the first few rows of wooden huts to larger rock-crete structures. Dot tugs at Scope's arm and points to an external ladder that leads to a roof.

7 points damage soaked, one point minimum moves ork #8 from -7 to -8 wounds.

As the ork attempts to stave off Dol's chit-sickle, the storm trooper lunges in and buries his blade into the xenos' chest. The mono-edged weapon cuts through rough leather armor and dermis of the beast. With a vile sound the skin rips away, leaving behind a red ruin of muscle.

Toughness Test required, 1d100 ⇒ 87, failure

The ork falls to its knees and one remaining hand, pukes up foul, putrid-smelling bile, and then collapses, dead in a pool of its own blood, vomit, and urine.

Ork #8 is dead.

WS 29 + all-out 30 + custom grip 05 + ganging up (2:1) 10 = 74
Attack successful, please roll damage