Why won't this sonafab@$~# die!
Ducking beneath the backswing of the greenskin's improvised club, Sgt. Mire swings the chain sickle in a vicious arc, trying to cut the greenskin's legs out from under it.
" Sarge, repositioning to better get these greenskins under suppressive fire! Come on Gerr lets get moving."
The ork battling Sarge and de'Lark brings the butt of its gun crashing down on the weapon specialist's thigh. The sporchi grimaces as a shock-wave of pain numbs his quadriceps and he almost falls over.
With its attention focused on De'Lark, the Sarge is able to hook the back of the ork's left leg. The chit-sickle's teeth grind into the hard flesh and sinews of the ork's hamstring, twisting the limb awkwardly.
Dol effortlessly stands and leaps from the furrow despite the weight of his heavy stubber. Gerr is right behind, clipping a couple of shots at the building they now charge towards.
Ignoring his freshly-received wound, Commissar Vex attacks the staggering ork with his chainsword. "Taste the Emperor's Fury!" he screams and charges.
Vex rips a long, deep gash in the ork's torso and blood, guts and entrails fall forth. The greenskin doubles over in pain and seemingly freezes.
Raising his hellgun, Edwin looses a fusillade of shots at the ork.
Far gone from rational thought, the additional blow merely fuels Lark's growing desperate bloodlust. Clawing with his off hand at the ork's face he tries to bury the knife in the xeno's throat...
Raising his hellgun, Edwin looses a fusillade of shots at the ork.
The stormtrooper's weapon, built to penetrate heavy armor, has no problems punching holes through the wood and rockcrete structure and striking the partially hidden ork. Drususon's marksmanship is rewarded with a yelp of pain from within.
The xeno wrestling with Lark and the Sarge tries to block the weapon specialist's blade with his gun.
Far gone from rational thought, the additional blow merely fuels Lark's growing desperate bloodlust. Clawing with his off hand at the ork's face he tries to bury the knife in the xeno's throat...
The greenskin attempts to duck under the slashing knife but Book throws his weight against the ork's right arm and it remains in the weapons specialist's grip. De'Lark catches the ork on the forehead, carving a long lateral gash along the creature's jutting brow. Blood gushes forth and streams down the xeno's face. Flailing hands do little to stem the flow into the eyes of the beast. The sporchi withdraws just a bit to admire his handiwork.
.
Operator Tartare leaps from the furrow and barrels into the ork before De'Lark and Sergeant Mire.
Using his las-rifle as an improvised club does nothing against the beast, however.
I squeeze off a short burst as I get a feel for the rifle. At best I hope I make the green skin bastage bleed. At worst I hope to keep its head down as the squad slowly advances.
The sniper gives his comrade's las-rifle a quick once-over and finds it to be sturdy, well-maintained and that the balance is not as bad as he thought it would be. Firing the weapon does not kick like his solid projectile sniper rifle. Instead he hears the familiar whine-KRAK as a high-energy beam of light exits the weapon, ionizing the air around it.
Scope is pretty sure the same shot with his sniper rifle would have sprayed some ork guts out the back of the xeno. He wonders if what he holds isn't some sort of glorified lamp pack.
Seeing his line of site somewhat blocked, Doc takes aim at a barricaded ork in a building.
.
The xeno returns fire.
The sergeant is busy trying to wrestle one of the big hulking orks and fails to see fire coming in his direction. Mire hears a crack and feels a punch in the ribs as a greenskin slug catches him in the torso. "Sarge!" yells vox-operator Murjoff as his NCO staggers but maintains footing.
The ork surrounded by Lark, Sarge, and Tartare looks woozy but still attacks.
Like a drunken pit fighter, the ork shakes off his wounds long enough to swing his gun two-handed like a club. Mire, slowed with at least one rib broken, catches the gun stock full-on in the chest and is thrown backwards by the blow.
The ork fighting Commissar Vex lowers to its hands and knees, spewing forth bile, guts, and blood. It attempts to rise with a pathetic heave but instead falls face first with a splat into the disgusting pile of viscera. The commissar sees it is dead as its breath fails to cause the pool to froth.
The ork kneeling by the northern building stands and moves into the structure, taking a pot-shot on the way.
The final ork is a bit unsure. Should it shoot at the burly guardsman with the dangerous stubber or turn and face the trooper that just riddled it with super-charged las-fire?
It pops off a round at the heavy gunner as Dol charges towards the buildings.
Not hearing Murjoff's warning in time, Sgt. Mire feels the hard round impact his flak vest with the force of a maulchups' kick, and nearly doubles-over from the pain. The adrenaline is flowing fast now, though, and instead he only staggers to one side. Unfortunately his listing movement brings him right into the path of the wounded ork's swing, and the butt of the creature's weapon impacts him just above where the slug round hit.
After everything else, this might be it then...
..well, you're coming with me then, ugly!
With the world going toward an unsettling greyish color around him, and his peripheral vision failing, Mire lashes out with the buzzing chit-sickle once again.
"Ok Gerr we are setting up shop here." I pull the stubber in line and start laying down the cover fire.
Despite multiple wounds the sergeant wades into the ork and strikes with the chit-sickle, finding purchase in the xeno's leg. The greenskin tries to stumble backwards but trips and Mire leans in with his weight. The spinning teeth of the hand weapon shatter bone and with a sickening kkraakkk! like splitting wood, the ork's knee-cap rips free. The beast roars in pain and collapses to the ground, its leg bleeding profusely.
Commissar Vex thumbs off his chainsword, draws his bolt pistol and fires into one of the buildings.
The commissar's bolt round punches the ork in the stomach and it falls down. No noise comes from the structure.
.
"Ok Gerr we are setting up shop here." I pull the stubber in line and start laying down the cover fire.
.
Reloaded and re-positioned, the heavy gunner unleashes another barrage. Wood splinters and rockcrete chips as the building containing two orks is riddled with stubber fire.
Battered and bruised, but unbowed, Lark spits crimson onto the writhing ork at his feet before stepping away and retrieving his precious plasma gun from Tartare. Grabbing the gun and without a word of thanks he runs a hand lovingly over the barrel to make sure the overheat has dissipated before hitching the stock back into his shoulder.
"No problem, sporchi," half-whispers the operator's comrade Dolf Korelo as the weapons specialist brusquely grabs his gun.
Seeing his target blasted bodily backwards by the commisar's shot, Edwin repositions. Bracing himself against corner of the ramshackle dwelling he engages the orks to the north with his hellgun.
Seeing his target blasted bodily backwards by the commisar's shot, Edwin repositions. Bracing himself against corner of the ramshackle dwelling he engages the orks to the north with his hellgun.
Although the area immediately surrounding the shuttle remains active, the bulk of the Oremite infantry forces have moved to the north leaving Squad Mire to hold the line to the east. Sounds of heavy battle come from the direction of the Imperial facility.
.
Operator Anselm drops his lasrifle, pulls out his chit-sickle and attempts to impale the fallen ork. His mate Dolf Korelo gives the enemy creature a vicious kick to keep it down. The head gash continues to seep blood into the xeno's eyes.
Just as Tartare's blade sweeps towards its neck, the greenskin safely rolls aside.
"Feck, Anselm! Just kill the damn thing!" yells Korelo.
"Dot on my target!"
Seeing the Sarge is in serious trouble. I focus fire on the Ork that he is engaged in melee with. Competent NCO's are hard to find. Last thing any of us want is Vex leading the squad.
The obstinate ork still breathes despite being ganged up by several guardsmen. After avoiding the operator's chain-sickle, it tries to raise itself upright although the missing knee is a severe impediment. The sarge waits for the greenskin in a defensive mode--chit-sickle up--and favors his good leg due to knee problems of his own.
Hearing Scope's order and realizing the target, Dot waits for an opening with the laspistol. Scope presses the synthetic stock to his cheek and lines up a shot. His spotter purposefully kicks up some dirt to the left of the ork and checks its roll. The beast comes upright, looking about murderously, flailing wildly with its gun like a club.
After both Tartare and Murjoff cross the sniper's field of fire, Scope pulls the trigger. The las-round catches the ork mid-chest and it drops back to the ground. Smoldering flames envelops its upper half and the greenskin simply covers its eyes and emits a pathetic, keening caterwaul.
Doc sees his sergeant stagger from the ork's blow. Waving at "Zees" to follow, the medic keeps his head down and races north along the furrow-line. The two guardsmen pass the sniper and slide to a stop. Landing in somewhat of an inelegant heap, Corpsman Zorzi looks over and says, "How's hunting, Scope?"
.
Somehow, despite numerous wounds, cuts, and las-hits, the ork still breathes; although one leg is held together with little more than tendons, the xeno gets up. With smoking flames licking its flak jacket and singing its flesh, the ork looks like some sort of hellish apparition. It lunges for Operator Tartare and lets loose a bestial, "Wwaaaaaaauuugghhhh!"
Anselm sees the attack coming and steps aside easily.
Dol's stubber forces the other orks to keep their heads down but they take shots nonetheless.
In the ditch-line, Doc unshoulders his medicae kit and readies to deliver battlefield care to the sergeant. An ork round glances across the top of the furrow in a spray of dirt and hits the medic squarely in the bicep. Gasping in pain the medic looks at his orderly Zees who immediately opens the med-kit and grabs a fistful of gauze.
As I continue to put round after round into Sarge's Ork.
"We don't scavenge better gear soon. We will end up the hunted."
before stepping away and retrieving his precious plasma gun from Tartare.
Wordlessly Hathin shoulders his weapon and takes aim at the Ork just a few meters infront of him. Taking a cursory amount of time to prevent friendly fire he squeezes off a slug of superheated plasma...
Sergeant Mire feels the hiss of air as another hard round flies by his head, and while involuntarily turning away from it, he witnesses Doc being struck as he moves to clear the trench line.
Alright, you're already in trouble, this isn't the time to be getting someone else killed...
Hearing the chattering thud thud thud of Dol's heavy stubber ripping into the ruined buildings, effectively keeping the orks pinned down, he considers bolting for one of them, but reconsiders when he tenses to run, a shooting pain spearing him in the side, nearly dropping him, blurry eyed, to his knees.
With Doc already wounded, it would be just his luck that the doggedly stubborn medicae would try to follow him out into the crossfire.
First...finish this greenskin...
At that precise moment, he looks up to see the sporchi leveling his plasma at almost point blank range across from him, targeting the overly resilient xenos with a look of smug bloodlust.
Oh Feck...
He dives aside, just as Lark fires, rolling back toward the trench away from the lambent flare of light as it envelops the ork.
Bedraggled and bleeding, Sarge limps into the furrow with the help of Guardsman Murjoff. Leaving Doc to press gauze against his own arm, Zees crosses the trench, examines the sergeant's ripped, bloody flak jacket and exclaims, "Emperor's Throne, Sarge! You OK?"
"You dumb feck!" grouses Murjoff,"Does he look OK?" Helping the corpsman to open the sergeant's flak jacket, the vox-operator glances at his unit commander, "Hey boss, you want me to shoot this dumb feck now or later?"
.
Commissar Vex kneels behind a rubble pile, checks his bolt-pistol, and reloads.
"Drususon you better kill that one soon so you can help me mop up the rest."
Plank-boards split and rockcrete shards fly as the heavy gunner continues to pound the building that shields two of the remaining orks.
The wounded ork that attempted to maul Guardsman Tartare turns and sees the barrel of Specialist De'Lark aimed directly at him. It can only stare dumbly as the gun fires a super-heated charge of plasmic death. The bubble washes over the lower half of the greenskin's body.
The right leg of the ork, already minus a knee, is enveloped and torched. Although the right foot now looks like a charred stump, it somehow still stands.
Edmin continues to fire, keeping up a steady barrage of las-bolts.
Half-action aim, semi-auto burst. Target is ork 7.
The ork dives beneath the stormtrooper's hellfire rounds. The building's walls are rapidly becoming dilapidated from the guardsmen's combined fire.
Underneath Shuttle Spina a vehicle ramp has lowered and the first of the unit's armored conveyance has appeared: a Chimera Transport. The machine rolls from beneath the shuttle and moves to overtake the infantry troops now engaging orks to the northwest.
.
.
The ork before Tartare and De'Lark falls back to its knees. The las-round delivered by the sniper has created a small glowing crater in the xeno's chest which ignites the beast's flak jacket and skin.
The ork attempts to roll over but it simply slowly cooks from an irradiated wash of fire. Bones snap, its belly bursts, and boiling intestines gush forth. Incredulously the greenskin still breathes but will not last much longer.
Operator Tartare drops to a knee and fires on the structure immediately to the east. The round looks like it strikes true but the entrenched ork avoids harm.
The smouldering ork lays burning on the grass, emitting little more than a wheezy gasp. For good measure the sniper pumps another las-round into the creature, although it is hard to tell if it had any impact or not.
I will help Sarge.
Sergeant Mire bites his tongue as Viktor Zane attends to his wounds, wincing in pain as he examines his broken rib through the cracked flak vest, knowing it would make no difference if he told the doggedly altruistic medicae to see to himself first.
Sometimes its hard to know if I'm grateful or resentful that Doc has managed to keep me alive all this time after Oremor---I guess he at least isn't ready for me to die yet.
The medicae binds his ribs tightly with a thick roll of surplus combat dressing, and the pressure instantly makes breathing easier.
"Owe you again, Doc. Don't forget to look after yourself, too!"
He bites off a remark about telling Doc to make sure that he stays out of the line of fire in the future, because he knows from long experience it will make absolutely no difference. Again, a blessing and a curse.
Mire readies his carbine again, sighting it along the lip of the trench, trying to ascertain the positions of the rest of the squad and the disposition of the remaining orks through the winking tracer hail of Dol's sustained fire.
Drawing a bead on the rightmost ork holed up in the building, cowered down under the stubber fire, he takes aim and fires a quick burst.
The shots crack harmlessly off of the crumbling structure the orks lurk behind, well wide of the target.
Seeing the positions of the commissar and the stormtrooper, he motions for Murjoff to follow him.
"C'mon, we'll flank wide left and come around the other side, Drususon and Dol have them from the right."
As the pair run down the trench, he yells over the stubber fire to be heard, noticing the first of the vehicles emerging from the scuttled transport.
"Vox to the main advance and the major, and anyone still answering in the Spina, too, and let them know the right flank is holding up."
He shouts across the field to where Lark has positioned himself with the plasma gun again.
"Light up that building, Larks, they're entrenched better than shell-ticks in a duct wolf's arse!"
While Doc Zane uses his countless hours of battlefield experience to patch up the Sarge, the orks doggedly stay in the fight.
As the ork in front of him roasts, a punch in the chest lets the weapons specialist know the fight is not over yet.
Inside the other building a a wounded and groggy ork shakes the cobwebs, rolls over and spots the storm trooper.
Firing its shoota, the ork scores a hit but the round glances off the storm trooper rock-tough carapace armor.
Having reloaded, the commissar takes aim and fires.
An ork crawls along the baseboards looking for a good vantage point when a bolter round smashes its right arm. Its gun flies from its hand and the greenskin now writhes in pain grasping its bleeding appendage.
Dodge (TN: 37):
Weaving out of the way of the pinned ork's fire Lark briefly considers tossing a krak grenade back... but there's not much point breaking an egg with a sledgehammer. Picking him plasma back up to sightline he squeezes the trigger...
Shot @ #4:
...and for the second out of three shots the imperfectly built weapon overheats. Dropping it into the dirt Lark turns to the heavens and gesticulates and verbalizes with great vim and vigor at the failings of the guard's suppply auxiliary.
"I cant keep these orcs pinned forever. They have grown some mivonks and think they can fire out of their hidey hole."
"I cant keep these orcs pinned forever. They have grown some mivonks and think they can fire out of their hidey hole."
After firing a las-round Gerr looks over, "Keep it up anyways, Dol. Too bad we can't burn 'em out!"
In the furrow, Murjoff chases his NCO while making contacts with the vox.
Book gasps as he sees De'Lark toss his weapon in the grass a second time. He kneels down next to the steaming weapon, makes a rudimentary cog-sign and prays, "Gun spirit, do not be angry and forgive the one who wields you. We are beset by greenskins and we need your firepower. My comrade... I know he is impious but he still is the Emperor's servant. I ask again--cool thy wrath!"
Edwin turns to respond to the ork's ineffective fire, but rather than a burst of powerful las-bolts, his weapon instead emits a shower of sparks and a disconcerting electric crackle.
[ooc]Roll : 1d100=100
Whether the rash of weapons malfunctions are due to shoddy workmanship or lax maintenance is a question to be answered later. The guardsmen know there are still enemy to kill.
As he lopes along the furrow Sgt. Mire feels a tug at his jacket. Murjoff hands him the vox-receiver. Establishing himself on the line, the Sarge communicates with Major Scarpa's chief adjutant, Captain Kluge:
<<Mire this is Kluge! Keep holding that flank steady! Just a sec...**vvvvKRAK! KRAK!** ...established a firing perimeter to the north. Mortar units should be able to punch a hole in the greenskins... SSSHHHHKKKKKKKK ...Brontians are hanging on but just barely. Kluge out.>>
A burst of static is followed by a second transmission:
<<Hey Mire, this is Shuttle Spina. Message from the armory deck. The mechs are asking if Tartare can get back here. They're disembarking his Sentinel. Over.>>
Over the din of battle the Sarge hears the reassuring engine thrum of a Chimera as it roars past his position northward.
The ork at the feet of De'Lark and Tartare continues to roast. With a final, wheezing gasp, the ork exhales its last breath.
I keep pumping round after round into the Green skin.I examine as each hit impacts into its skin seeing what effect I have on it. There has to be more than one way to kill an Ork.
Nothing else being up close and personal I get to learn how much punishment there bodies can take. And pray to the Throne that I never square off against one of these in hand to hand. I am certain down to my bones they would make short work of me.
The skin of the burning ork turns a charred black and peels off. Melted fat and armor seeps from its vest and clothing and the sniper's las-rounds add more energy to the blaze. The eyes pop like super-heated eggs and slowly the blackened corpse inert and blazing.
I look around to see if anyone else needs attention. If not, I will treat myself.
Zane surveys the immediate area, noting that both Sarge and Dol still carry wounds. The medic has done what he can for them; further battlefield treatment will be of little use. The only other squad member suffering from obvious injury is the obstinate weapons specialist. De'Lark, however, is under direct fire from the enemy which poses a problem. Knowing the sporchi's proclivity for violence, Doc is unsure of cooperation should he approach the weapons specialist where he is nor is he confident of getting Lark to retreat to the relative safety of the furrow.
The skin of the burning ork turns a charred black and peels off. Melted fat and armor seeps from its vest and clothing and the sniper's las-rounds add more energy to the blaze. The eyes pop like super-heated eggs and slowly the blackened corpse inert and blazing.
As the sniper fires several rounds into the dead and frying xeno cadaver, Spot turns and mutters, "Um, easy there, Scope. I think we got that one."
Unsure of the exact intentions of the sniper's actions, a few seconds later the spotter says, "Targets in the building, due east."
I will try to heal myself.
As he lopes along the furrow Sgt. Mire feels a tug at his jacket. Murjoff hands him the vox-receiver. Establishing himself on the line, the Sarge communicates with Major Scarpa's chief adjutant, Captain Kluge:
<<Mire this is Kluge! Keep holding that flank steady! Just a sec...**vvvvKRAK! KRAK!** ...established a firing perimeter to the north. Mortar units should be able to punch a hole in the greenskins... SSSHHHHKKKKKKKK ...Brontians are hanging on but just barely. Kluge out.>>
Mire squints his eyes and his brow wrinkles in the familiar expression of an NCO trying to make out a poor vox transmission while both ends of the call receive heavy fire. Frequently an exercise in futility, he believes he hears enough of the message over the din to safely say he understands it's gist.
"Mire here, I receive you 5x5 Cap; we're mopping up here, will be advancing soon, just tell us where you need us."
A burst of static is followed by a second transmission:
<<Hey Mire, this is Shuttle Spina. Message from the armory deck. The mechs are asking if Tartare can get back here. They're disembarking his Sentinel. Over.>>
"Copy that, Spina, he's on his way."
Mire stares out across the field to where Tartare and Lark crouch, alternately coaxing and cursing the malfunctioning plasma gun. He shakes his head, black thoughts directed at the Munitorum for the unreliability of the kit they've been forced to put up with since Oremor.
He shouts to be heard.
"Anselm, forget that fecking thing, you and Dolf get your tails back to the Spina. I just got word, Drustos is finally ready to debark!"
He considers the operator's heroics back at the shuttle-lander a short time ago.
"And tell them since you saved their asses to queue you to the front of the damn line!
He hands the vox-phone back to Murjoff, biting his lip in anticipation, watching for the orks to raise their heads and gauging his chances of reaching the thick brush where Hathin hunkers down under fire.