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Awesome job guys!!!


Going to be watching this one.



The only slight nitpick I have is how to get half a ton of astartes and armor down a fast rope. Please enlighten me to how this is done :D I know that even when we normal humans do a fast rope, it lightens the load of the helicopter, causing the drop rope to get shorter and shorter.


What kind of rope are they using too?




Just my inner semi realistic OCD kicking in sorry :P




Wonderful ideas though! What capacity will the drop guys be working in as I'm sure that most of their flights will be grounded...


Could we see them redeploying with the White Scars to  retake the space port??? :D

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Loved the written aspects peppered with HH models, and to top it all of 1KHeathens is going to be in on this as well?


This is gonna be Epic! Pity I can't afford to branch out to 30k http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/sad.png Doesn't help that no one (that I know of) plays 30k locally either http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/sad.png

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<p>Dude, I live in Dahlonega Georgia. The closet gaming group, much less heresy gamer is 60 miles away (which is three hours in ATL traffic <img class="bbc_emoticon" src="http://image.bolterandchainsword.com//public/style_emoticons/default/tongue.png" title=":P" />) This is a log of love, and to grow as a hobbiest. </p>
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Its a pity that can't exactly work because said survivors of Order Triarii, that have now utterly cut themselves off from the Medusan Council, have essentially labeled the Sons of Ultramar as cowards and enemies. ;) (mostly as an excuse to fight with Vazzy's boys when I can)
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Its a pity I can't logically place my Iron Hands at Terra so I can join you in some meaningful way... Ohwell.

The stars shined their wasted light into the blackness of space. Although to call it "black" was nothing more than repeating a comforting lie. It was the abyss, the bottomless pit, the void. In it, there was no "black", or darkness, because there truly wasn't any light either.


As such, it was startling to all who observed this sheer nothingness, when something came into existence. Colors erupted from the dark, explosions of reds, blues, greens and other indescribable hues.


And from the midst of these vibrant colors, a dark shape stabbed its way into reality. Where once it gleamed with smooth edges and running lights displayed the dark potential of its broadsides, now its black-iron hull was pitted and scarred, glaring holes revealing the interior into space.


It limped forward as the evanescence of the warp-tear faded. Slowly, it crawled onwards.


It was not long before this intruder's presence was noticed. The ever-watchful wardens of gold surged forwards, eager to make their territory secure once again.


Queries were made, and when they were not answered, gun ports were raised. The guardians came closer, weary of these trespassers, and yet curious to see who it was.


Spotlights razed over the drifting hulk as they neared, revealing the ship's identity. Once again, queries were made. Silence reigned.


And then, the answers were given. Mighty cannons were rolled back into their waiting positions and tensions were alleviated. A single reply was sent back to the ship: "Welcome to Terra, brothers. Welcome home."




And just like that, you have a small band of survivors.


Isn't the name Triarii already taken though?

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+ Part I +


+ OD-Day (Terra), Minus 15 +


The Old Man was already waiting for us. He was always first. Always.


The briefing hall at the heart of the Tarasque Class Battleship "Blade of Khamael" was a plain and unornamented room, much like the rest of the ship, it's low hanging ceiling laced with cabling and iron girders, the walls peppered with screens showing the disposition of every first line and support element under the Old Man's command in dimmed scrolling green lettering. The lights were simple, industrial glow-globes, grated like the Iron Mask that sat upon all our shoulders. A large steel table took up the center of the room, riveted to the floor, and covered in large scrolls, depicting the upcoming orbital drop, and the assault lanes to be carved out of the Throneworld's heart. At the far end of the table, his scarred hands stretched across one of the scrolls, hazel eyes drinking in every detail, was the Old Man himself.



Dragoon-Captain Phelan Mahdra, the Wolfhound of Old Earth.


I knew very little of his past, very few did, though many had tried to pry. He was rumored to have been born in an oasis-city in the heart of the rad-choked deserts of Nord Merica. It was said this city had refused Unification, had struck out against the warlord who called himself Emperor, with waves of disciplined armour squadrons. The Tyrant of Terra had let loose his most terrible weapon upon this small fortress, the Thunder Warriors who carried his banner, who had shattered the resistance to his faulty dream. The Oasis had burned, and the few blood-covered orphans who had survived had been torn from the limp grasp of their lifeless parents to be used as test subjects for the newborn Astartes program. Here, the myths surrounding Mahdra wound into truth, and a battle record long and violent enough to shame any Legionary. The Siege of Gatinieau. The Alyeskan Decimation. The Lattenim Raids. The Saturnine Compliance. The Dirge of Tybalt Hive. Mahdra's armour and flesh were scarred alike, from hundreds of thousands of conflicts. But, no matter the war, no matter the wound, one group of scars stood out more than any other upon his flesh. Thick, vicious scars that surrounded every black carapace induction port, trails of perfectly straight and symmetrical gouges carving up his spine and down his arms. They were recognizable as surgical in design, but were far deeper than any other legionary carried upon him.


The oldest of the IV I had spoken to, mostly those who now served a half-life cast in Iron, referred to these scars as the Stigmata of the Firstborn. First-generation Astartes, most who died during the rough and unpracticed implantation of the various organs that turned a man into a demi-god, by scientists and vivisectors who used the youth of Terra as expendable test subjects, rending and killing children as they learned the art of Transhuman Induction. That Mahdra had survived this rough and invasive malpractice was incredible. That he still stood to this day, improbable. I could not take my eyes from those old scars every time I saw the Captain outside his plate, as he was this day. They always reminded me that, no matter the color of his heraldry, or the symbol upon his shoulder, he was a son of Old Earth, first and foremost. IV Legion, not Iron Warrior. His hate for the Emperor was far purer than any of ours, his grievances against the Lord of Mankind far greater. He fought against the tyranny, because he knew long before any of us, that the Emperor was a monster, a rabid dog who needed to be put down. Mahdra had lost everything, and had held his enmity just below the surface, until he had finally found a way to strike back at the man who had murdered his family, and had tried to do the same to his faith. The icon that hung from his wrist on scented rosewood beads was proof of his defiance. We may not have believed in whatever faith he generally kept to himself, but we respected him for hanging onto it. If it gave him the strength to live long enough to see the Emperor brought low, such tenacity was good enough for us. He had never failed us, so we would not fail him, no matter his faults.



I filed into the room, followed by the rest of the XIV Dragoon command team, and we took our usual spots, to the sound of legionary warplate clacking and buzzing. Mahdra, despite wearing nothing more than a set of leather boots, battle dress trousers, and a sleeveless shirt, still dominated the room. His short grey hair was slicked back away from his broken and weathered face, showing the scars where six service studs once sat. Old and faded honour tattoos overlapped, or were broken by, thousands of scars, sat upon his shoulders and arms, along with the Raptor Imperialis upon his neck. His beloved archeotech revolver sat under his left arm, in an old and battered leather holster. I can't ever remember him without it, even during hand to hand combative training. Those sharp hazel eyes, always aflame with controlled aggression, scanned our faces as we settled in. His gravelly voice, the sound of a man who spent his entire life breathing in cordite-laced smoke, filled the small room. That voice always enthralled me, despite having heard the voices of gods made flesh all my life. When angered, Captain Mahdra's growling inflection frightened me more than my Fathers'; which, considering who my Father was, was one hell of a compliment.


"Greetings.", Mahdra welcomed us with a rumble and crossed arms, "You know why I've called you here. In two weeks' time, we will finally make landfall upon Terra, and engage in the most important conflict in human history. Our designated objective is the Dhwalaghiri Redoubt, Sections III through IX, including the Hindou Kaush's Safah and Pamir Scar. We take that area, and we can shell the Palace interior into oblivion with impunity. We don't, and we die in shallow graves at the steppes, forgotten. This is the endgame, little brothers. Either we win here, or we fail. There are no other alternatives, no fallback plans, no Omega Orders, no taking even one damn step back. This is The End. Questions?" We had none. We knew what was to be expected of us. We knew we rode on to our deaths, like true Dragoons; and we would die in our mounts the same. My hearts soared with cold honour; proud to fight, proud to die. The Captain nodded, the glimmer of the pride he felt in his men flickering in his eyes, for just a moment.


I knew I was going to die. We all did. We did not care. Nothing was going to stop us, because nothing could kill Captain Mahdra. Every fist slammed into their brestplates with a clatter, my own knuckles thumping against the ident-plate on my chest that read 'Mayov'. The Old Man raised his hand, and there was silence. Eyes the color of Terra's long dead forests locked onto me suddenly, and I felt frozen in place. "Sergeant, You're with me on the drop, along with every Sapper you got. We need the revetments built before we can land the armour; you'll have less than an hour to build one large enough to protect the Troop. You tracking?"


"Like a Hunter Missile, sir." I've never been more proud in my life. First of the Dragoons to land on Terra.


I didn't even care that the analytical part of my brain was howling that this was a suicide mission.


-Memoirs of Veteran Sergeant Mayov, Sapper Platoon (I), XIV Dragoon, Deceased




IV Legion Organization


XIV Dragoon, LXV Grand Company, IV Legion

Born during the early days of the Unification War, the Dragoon Squadrons were composed of massed heavy armour, with mounted infantry who would deploy in the heart of enemy formations and shatter their main body through overwhelming superior firepower. Over the centuries, as the IV Legion began fighting in more and more sieges and trench wars, the Dragoons were augmented heavily with artillery batteries, adding to their already significant firepower, leaving the armour dug in behind revetments for breakthroughs, or blunting enemy formations attempting the same. Engineers were used in vast numbers, to break enemy walls and redoubts, in a constant effort to force a breakthrough as swiftly as possible, so as to allow the Dragoons to play to their strengths.

As such, most Dragoon formations, including the XIV, were severly depleted in arms and men by the time of the Great Siege, due to their use in Forlorn Hope breaching. Through the vast resuppliy efforts of the Warmaster-aligned Mechanicum, the XIV were able to re-arm and re-armour their men prior to initial orbital drop with some of the more recent weapon and armour designs, such as the Mk. VI warplate. Absorbing three seperate Dragoon formations that had been left broken and leaderless over the seven year long war, replenished their ranks with hardened veterans who had survived everything the Imperium had thrown against them, bringing the elite XIV Dragoon Squadron to over 150% MTO&E strength.

Less than sixty days later, the XIV Dragoon were a total loss.




::::Recovered recording:::Data-Stack 767::::Noospheric interface complete:::::processing request::::::Granted:::::




[Pict Capture DX/997-76-031] - Veteran Sergeant Mayov


OD-Day plus 1


The Senior Non-Commissioned Officer of the XIV Dragoon's Sappers, Sergeant Mayov was the master of explosives, and their proper placement to both create, and destroy. His expertise was used extensively during the initial day of landings, creating vast revetments to protect and defend the Dragoons inbound vehicles. Again and again, his experience came into being during the Great Siege, bringing down the heavily fortified Safah Ravelin through a practical application of heavy melta charges, breaking through the Dhawalagiri Gap, and the Breach of XX / 767 Bastion. It was here, on OD +37, that Sergeant Mayov was finally laid low. Broken and bleeding, standing atop the hammer-crushed corpses within the Bastion's crumbled wall, Mayov was confronted by an Imperial Fist tactical squad marked in I Airborne unit signifiers, and was gunned down by sixteen separate bolters.


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