A slightly smaller Mess

his smile widens
"Glad to hear it"

Rustsstalker:...You know this is unlikely a killing blow?

"We could always do this more often, though."

Laurence: "How do you mean?"

Charles: More than happy to.

Ruststalker: If they wished to destroy us from orbit, why wait as long as they have? more likely this is to pin us while they launch landing craft.

Hera: "Where work permits, of course."

Laurence: "The thought had occurred. But they will not land under bombardment themselves."

"of course"

Ruststalker: so they will simply land outside the target area.

Hera: "Work's too important to slack off too much."

Laurence: "Then the anti air batteries outside of that area will still fire. And the moment we see landing craft on the auspex, the SDF fighters will lift off."

Charles: unfortunately so

Ruststalker: they have thrown useless aircraft to jam up our anti aircraft weapons once before. Sacrificial chaff. Why would they not under their own bombardment too?

Hera: "Something to take pride in though. We've saved a lot of lives."

Laurence: "We have ammunition to spare for the guns. The crews will focus on landers."

Charles: of course. Tis what keeps me going.

Ruststalker: we have no presence to counter them in the field. They need merely land outside of the guns' range. They most likely wish to test themselves against our ground defences in a direct assault.

Hera: "I don't think i could go on as long as you have."

Laurence: "Then we will meet them. We have the strength here to hold them, and trade lives well."

Charles: you get used to it. More so than you do trenches and shelling.

Ruststalker: you do not sound convinced. Or like you are being entirely truthful.

Hera: "You get used to trenches surprisingly quickly. Not much to think about."

Laurence: "I am a poor diviner. The future will be as it will be."

Charles: not...always

Ruststalker:... this is a strange facade. I am unsure what to make of it.

Hera: "You've fought like that before?"

Laurence: "Facing an opponent superior in every way, our only advantage is surprise."

After the purge of the genestealer cult, Raeven has not seen any of his brothers, save Chaplain Za'Thun. This sits ill with many of the company, as it leaves command in question. Logen stirs discontent, while Za'Thun attempts to calm it.

Charles: have you heard of Vraks?

Ruststalker: we have things to surprise them with?

Noctis and his men keep to themselves, not wishing to cause trouble.

Hera: "Fuck off you were on vraks."

Laurence: "A whole host of surprises."

This until, the chaplain comes a-knocking.

he looks her dead in the eye, silently

the ruststalker doesn't reply, rather clicking slightly to herself

Noctis: enter.

Hera: "Fucking hell. I've not heard much, but i know it was grim. Anywhere the death korps goes..."

Laurence smiles behind his mask, as he waits for the assault to begin.

The chaplain enters the room, terminator, skull mask, mildly terrifying, the ususal. "Brother Noctis... You may have noticed the Captains absence."

Charles: 17 years. 17 years of trenches, of bombardments, of failed charges, of god machines obliterating eachother above you.

suspense builds

Noctis: I have, brother.

Hera: "We didn't get many titans on the spinward. People called it the forgotten front for good reason."

*dun dun duuuun*

Za'Thun: "He has asked to speak with you, of what, i cannot say."

Charles: hm. *sips* In my experience that kind of area tends to be the perfect place to find knight freeblades. They think its a good place to find untapped adventure and such.

*dun dun dun dun duuuuun*

Noctis: *nods, quietly* Lead the way then, brother.

Hera: "We saw a few knights. Saw a lot of them die, too."

*....*

Za'Thun: "You join myself and Galen, in this knowledge." He turns towards the door "We trust you to keep it."

Charles: aye. Freeblades rarely live long.

*and all hell descends from on high*

"of course brother"

Hera: "Yeah... Brave fuckers, give em that."

The SDF lightning and thunderbolt fighters lift into the air, preparing to meet the landing force.

Za'Thun leads noctis to the captain's quarters.

Charles: Aye... Did I ever tell you of my encounter with the questoris house known as the Reiksguard?

by all hell, i mean the bombardment. no ships yet. Just ordnance.

he follows quietly

Hera: "That you haven't."

*Ah, well, not in the air then, just ready. Fuelled and armed. While men cower in dugouts, save the few brave men who watch the sky still, or man the anti aircraft guns.*

They come to its stone door, The motif of a coiled drake carved into its surface, the sound of steel ringing to a hammer's beat muffled but audible through the slab of black basalt. Za'Thun gestures to the door. "Do not be afeared, brother."

Charles: they're...odd, but one of the most valiant groups of warriors I've ever encountered. Franz, I think is their current leader... what was their title for him...Kaiser I think.

*meanwhile, inside one of those dugouts...*

he approaches the door

Hera sits and listens intently.

Phillipa checks her lasgun's chargepack for the fifth time in ten minutes. Listening to the hammer of the bombardment. The concrete above scatters cement down on them with each close hit. The Sargent is stood, holding onto a steel handrail with white knuckles. When she looks at him, he smiles reassuringly, but she can tell he is just as scared as she is.

The dragon's tail seems to rise from the carven stone, worked in bronze, to form the door's handle. As he draws closer, he can hear Raeven's voice, a deep basso, singing in a mournful tone.

"There hammer on the anvil smote...
There chisel clove, and graver wrote...

Charles: The strangest part is they have a somewhat.,...democratic system in their household. The knightly lords come together and cast votes on who will be the new Kaiser Ritter as they call it. Most households have their 'high king' position be hereditary you see.

a short, smelly, kinda ugly private wanders past, an idiotic smile on his face. Upon seeing the two he wanders over, and offers a cup of brown liquid to the sergeant.
"Recaf sir?"

he approaches, slowly now

Hera: "Drifting into politics, aren't we? You'll have to teach me it at some point."

The sergeant gratefully takes the cup. "Thankyou private. Just what i need."

The song continues, picking up pace, the ringing of the hammer its tempo.

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like dragons' mail,
Shield and hammer, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard."

he chuckles
"Sorry. They have several things that make them... odd. Franz is a good example."

upon sipping it, it turns out its warm mud. The soldier still has a very, very dumb smile on his face. Every word entirely sincere in its stupidity.
"Glad to 'elp sir. Was about to drink it meself to be honest, but can always make more eh?"

he approaches further

Hera: "Sound like the usual chivalry type. Stuck in old terra."

He grimaces, but manages to swallow. Smiling down at the soldier. "Yes, indeed. Thankyou again."

Unwearied then were Vulkans's folk;
Beneath red skies music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang...

There is a pause, the hammer falling silent, before ringing up a slower tempo.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Vulkan's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb...

Charles: Franz is... well. A force to be reckoned with. I saw him once talk a tech priest into giving up claim on an STC his knights had discovered and captured.

Baldrick: Sorry sir, ran out of sugar last week. *gladly sips on his own cup of warm mud*

noctis remains silent

Hera: "Fucking hell, i can't even talk a priest into fixing a recaff machine."

Sargent: "You're not one of mine, are you son? Which regiment're you from?"

The hammer falls slow to a stop over half a minute, the stone of the door radiates heat, close as noctis is.

Charles: indeed... but he's not above...how shall I put this... 'bringing the hammer down' as he would put it, when fellow imperial forces are, in his mind, being 'complete idiots' and his charisma isn't enough.

Baldrick: dunno sir, I'm bad with names

*he keeps on waitin.*

Hera: "Hmn, liable to get a krak missile jammed up your ass doing that."

Sargent: "I... see...Your commanding officer, might have stuck?"

The great stone door swings outwards on well oiled hinges, open to around 45 degrees. Stood with one hand palm to the basalt stone, the Captain. Stripped to the waist, onyx skin bright with a sheen of sweat. The flesh where, not more than a day ago, Noctis had seen Raeven disembowelled, his entrails spilling from his armour, is unmarred. Without scar nor suture. In fact, his skin is unmarred in any place. No brands mark his body. The smell of cooking flesh hangs in the air, a sizzling sound from where Raeven's hand is pressed against the stone.

Charles: you do recall the man pilots a gigantic war machine with ion shielding... and has hundreds more similar war machines at his beck and call. Along with many millions of men at arms.

A man with black hair and a moustache has emerged in the doorway to the dugout. he clears his throat.

Noctis still wears his helmet, as he usually does, so his reaction is masked

Hera raises an eyebrow. "The warp hath no fury, such as a woman scorned."

The sergeant looks over. "Ah, this your man?" Gesturing to Baldrick.

His eyes, smouldering like coals, sear into the lenses of Noctis' helm. He lifts his hand from the door, exposing the ugly, seared flesh of it. He turns around, walking back into, what noctis can now see is a forge. With walls of black basalt and glassy obsidian, lit by braziers, filled to the brim with coals, flame leaping.

Charles: *chuckles* Not a fight you want, in my opinion

Blackadder: well lets not go so far as 'man' with this one but yes.

*silence*

Hera: "Depends on the reason doesn't it?"

Sergeant: "He appears somewhat... Lost in the attic."

In a tone like the angered rumbling of mount deathfire, he speaks at last. "Come."

Charles: It's not exactly like he's the only imperial subject willing to 'deal with' fellow servants of the emperor if he feels they're... well. Being incompetent morons.

Blackadder: No need to be polite, he won't realise. I'm fairly certain one of his parents was an ogryn. Would explain his dull wit and throne-awful features. Wouldn't explain the smell though.

he approaches slowly.

Hera: "To be fair, theres a lot of them willing to have good men shot for being vaguely annoying as well."

Sargent: "Oh thank fuck." He unceremoniously drops the mug on the floor, then shrugs at his female private. "Its not like it can get dirtier."

Upon the anvil lays the chestplate of his Cattaphractii armour, reforged, and laid chest down on the anvil. A chisel and hammer beside it. Silhouetted by the blazing furnace behind.

He gestures to the plate. "How many times have i beat this plate back into shape, i wonder"

Charles: well don't worry. the Kaiser is not so callous.

Baldrick does not seem to notice
Blackadder: Baldrick, would you mind telling me what the hell you're doing here and not in our dugout?
Baldrick: I was looking for a mop sir, so I could mop the trench floor like you said to

Noctis: a great many, I'm sure.

Hera: "Good. I want to kill those people."

Sargent: *Stunned silence*

Raeven: "A rhetorical question, Brother. The thrust of the point is. I cannot remember. I must apologise for calling you here, it is for selfish reasons, i admit." He walks past the anvil, looking into the forges flames. The dance of fire never ceased to calm his nerves. "There are so few people, that i can talk to..." He opens his palm, looking down at the charred flesh, watching the skin knit itself anew. "I have known Za'Thun, and Galen for so long now... Less time than i knew some... but far longer than most... We have spoken every word that can be said, now. To one another. Each new conversation is but... a retreading... I find myself longing for new perspectives."

Charles chuckles at that

Blackadder: and did you find a mop?
Baldrick: no sir, not yet sir
Blackadder: then keep looking then.
*baldrick wanders off*

Noctis: I understand, my captain.

*Le time skipitty?*

Sargent: "You just wanted rid of him didn't you?"

Raeven: "It was easier during the crusade. With Vulkan and the Emperor there. I did not feel quite so alone as i do now."

tis the next day. Dinner went fucking fabulously, and the 'entertainment' after went well too. Hera's had time to get up n eat n shit, and charles has asked her to meet him in his study.

Blackadder: would you trust that one with a lasgun? Probably end up with an incredibly bad case of sunburn in one specific point of your body.

Noctis: So long as you have brothers by your side, you are not alone.

*knockitty knock knock*

"I certainly wouldn't trust him with a kettle."

He is silent for a long while, staring still, into the forges fire. "It is... different. It is difficult for someone mortal. even long lived as astartes are... To understand."

the door opens, to charles, in his usual attire, a wide smile on his face

Blackadder: ah good, turns out we did hire at least one competent officer.

Noctis: You are not alone, brother.

"You're still grinning from last night aren't you?"

Sergeant: "Just a Sergeant, sir."

Raeven: "In this world. I am. I do not wish to share the fate of the lost legions."

Charles: maybe.

Blackadder: what does the O in NCO stand for, Sergeant?

Noctis: and what fate is that?