[DW:30K] The Serpent's Cowl (IC)

[Trokair]

Tyr-Ix-375

 

The silence induced by the SKU’s Scrambler did not just hide them from the God-engines, it also lulled the battle script to sleep. With the sensors disrupted it could not locate its next target and Tyr-Ix-375 flowed into the dormant cycles, one more master of itself.

 

+++Play Dead protocol ready for mark.+++  

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

He stopped crawling through the dirty waters of the trench to listen. There was a hole in the outer trench wall caused by the Vulcan's breath.

 

Slowly. Trust to your war-gear and His Hand!

 

 

 

PER 44 -20 (Hard Difficulty) +20 Lyman's Ear and Auto-senses) = 44. Result: 17, Pass 2DoS

 

 

 

Where were the Titans?

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Ashmon:

Spoiler

Deep in the roiling crescendo of battle, the footfalls of giants. Servomotors whine and wrench, ratchets and gears clank and mesh.

 

The Omnissiah-in-metal-flesh stalks the battlefield, yet not directly to front. They seem to be leaning towards the left hemisphere of your awareness. Yes. They are steadily moving off, lurching between walk and stride, hunting.

 

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Toren rocked to a sudden halt on the balls of feet, shocked by the sight of V’Reth’s untimely and spectacular demise scanner meters from his position. The after-image of the Salamander's exploding cranium swam in his vision despite his armour’s visual filtration mechanisms. The damned fool! He remained frozen in place, waiting for the hammer blow of distant artillery. Was it safe to contact the others? Had the traitors spotted him too?!

 

The seconds stretched out for an eternity as he slowly canted his Iron-pattern helm and peered into the cloud of debris and ash and blood and aerosolized grit. The enemy was out there, somewhere, seeking confirmation of his annihilation. The footfalls of the god-engines seemed the steps of primordial giants from the dim and distant mythology of ancient Terra. But these were far worse; the giants of Norska and Hellas could at least be reasoned with on some level.

 

 

 

Awareness Test: Per52 + 10 + 15 (MkIII Auto-senses + heightened senses) - 20 (hard) = 57

D100: 74; failure with 1 DoF

Edited February 2 by Necronaut
Corrected difficulty modifier

[Mazer Rackham]

Toren:

 

Obviously your keen ears are still haunted by the death of these brave cousins, slain in such a contemptuous manner. Whilst the enemy stalks the lands of death, you cannot immediately perceive them precisely, but know they stride onwards still, menace thick in the moment, and solace of certitude just shy of arms' reach.

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

So perhaps they were moving away? He thought as he lay still. 

 

Key's were slowly fondled as he waited a further thirty six minutes. 

 

 

 

PER 44 -20 (Hard Difficulty) +20 Lyman's Ear and Auto-senses) = 44. Result: 21, Pass 2DoS

 

 

 

 

He listened as a Scout would. Carefully. 

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

It now becomes more apparent that the god-engines walk - but they are maintaining a vector wide of the destroyed redoubt.

 

Although their attention and wrath is stayed, it is sufficiently wise to avoid provocation.

 

+Structured Time Ends+

+Narrative Time Begins+

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

Certain about the actions of the Warhounds, eventually he had made it to the Ungarvarr's position.

 

Here also was the Castellax, in a semi-powered down stealth mode it seemed. Blessed be the works of the Omnissiah.

 

He found the Mars-sworn in apparent silent communion.

 

 

No doubt doing unmentionable techniques with the Castellax automata?

 

 

 

"Ungarvarr your ECM blanket still works" hissed Ashmon, trying to get attention by bouncing a pebble off of the Tech-marines armour.

 

"Have you Vox with the Raven sniper?"

 

 

 

 

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

An hour and no response. Not really surprising from the Mars-sworn.

 

Sure the Clans and Chapter revered technology and were rewarded with its gift upon induction to the Chapter.

 

 

Ashmon looked at his left hand, in thought.

 

 

Even when the Librarius was in existence, they learnt within the Chapter. Albeit slightly apart, but part of the Chapter nonetheless.

 

The Techmarine initiates all left and went to Mars for 'higher learning.' They were always separate when they returned.

 

Hah induction into the Cult of Mars.

 

The Mars-sworn was still locked away working the ECM shroud. That was what Ashmon told himself to stop his mind wandering about their strange ways.

 

Hah! We got censured for practising our ways! Yet they still enact their Mars magicks, congress with the un-natural, doing Mars Lodge-Craft.

 

 

 

He tried Vox once again, perhaps the Ungarvarr had refined his cloud.

 

+++Raven?+++ Ashmon quickly voxxed.

 

+++We need to go. I'm with my Brother and friend!+++

 

 

 

 

Edited February 7 by Machine God
clear up

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Taking the lull in hostilities to mean they had fooled their erstwhile assailants, or they had moved on to larger prey, Toren scuttled forward through the blood and muck and slid down into the trench. The ruin of V’Reth lay nearby, and lacking an apothecary or someone else to provide his last rites there he would remain, the precious gene-seed of him and his brothers rotting on the vine. The Raven Guard sergeant shook his head ruefully, touching the headless Salamander's breastplate before turning to look for the Iron Hands.

 

As he wended his way through the small network of trench, making sure to maintain a low profile, he searched amongst the corpses and wreckage for a surviving piece of anti-armour weaponry that he and his allies might be able to bring to bear upon the traitors. 

 

Suddenly the voice of the one named Ashmon crackled across his vox, catching him by surprise. His head whipped around until he made visual contact with the Iron Hand and nodded at him.

 

+Agreed. We will fall back to the hills and regroup; put some terrain between us and those titans. Search for any surviving firepower heavier than a bolter and prepare to depart. We leave in two minutes.+

 

 

Search Test:

Per52/2 = 26

D100: 32; failure, 0 DoF

 

Edited February 8 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

Toren:

 

Your hands close on the launcher toted by a Salamander Legionary, but the barrel has been warped by the passing caress of explosives.

 

The nuncio-vox crackles again.

 

+Position...zer- fi.. two. Reinfo-...comi- Ser..- V'reth, do you -opy?+

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Reinforcements? Was this some sort of cruel trick being played by the enemy?! Then again, how could they possibly know it was V’Reth and his men specifically in this area?

 

He knelt in front of the twisted shape of the damaged launcher, turning it over with the barrel of his boltgun and left it to sit and rust in the trench. The Iron Hand was right -- they needed to quit this position before those blasted warhounds returned to sweep the area. The bark of small arms fire in the distance clarified his thoughts. 

 

+Identify yourself! Sergeant V’Reth and his brothers are dead. This is Sergeant Ekara, Nineteenth Legion. Enemy has overrun position with titan support. We are preparing to evacuate. Standing by.+

[Mazer Rackham]

Toren:

 

As the swirling dustbowl finally dissipates so you can see abroad at the carnage wrought, and even in the distance the clouds of debris and murk are illuminated by gilt and azure pulses, the whistles, gasps and chirps are broken, but they come along the tinny, tiny bandwidth allowed by the broken comms.

 

//Roost/Gather//

 

It is at that moment two tiny specks round the crease of a foothill, thin ripples of sand lifting in their wake.

 

Slender javelins hurled by blazing turbofans, bouncing and tumbling in the tormented air currents, bobbing on a swell of anti-grav plates.

 

//Wing/Flock/Headwind//

 

It is the final transmission comes before the vox unit dies.

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

The ghost of a smile touched his lips as the black specks of his brothers rocketed towards them across the wastes. Finally some good news. 

 

+Cousins of the Iron Tenth, we are leaving! Ground transport is en route. I estimate less than one minute out. Fall back to the trench network entrance and stay out of sight until then… is that battle automata joining us?+

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

++Good to hear you. Negative on extraction to hills, we have a new mission++ replied Ashmon.

 

++I received a transmission on a Higher Vox bandwidth, from a Raven Guard wind-talker.++

 

Ashmon relayed the message.

 

++Primarch Vulkan, the Eternal Flame, orders you to take what survivors you can, and punch North. The traitors have set up a comms disrupter. You are the closest unit. Switch Nuncio Vox to channel Beta-Omicron Six-Alpha, and wait for reinforcements.++

 

 

++Hopefully the Techmarine is in control of the Blessed Automata++

 

 

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Toren pursed his lips behind his red-striped Mk III helm at Ashmon’s news and nodded.

 

Wait, a higher vox bandwi-- ?! Ah.

 

His eyes narrowed as he read the hidden meaning behind the codicier's words and a sneer twisted his features, unseen by the others. Apparently his legion's psykers had also been given remittance to utilize their unnatural gifts. So be it. 

 

+Acknowledged. Our transport to that end, whether they know it or not, will arrive shortly. Make your final preparations now. They will not tarry for laggards, and nor will I. Switching to nuncio-vox channel Beta-Omicron Six-Alpha, copy.+

 

Gathering himself and his weaponry, Toren started making his way towards the mouth of the trench network in a half-crouch to await the arrival of his brother legionnaires. He wondered what tidings they would bring on their black wings. 

 

+Rouse thy bones, techmarine! You have less than a minute to get you and that machine to the evac zone. On the double!+

Edited February 8 by Necronaut

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

++Nice shooting, by the way++ said Ashmon, trying to be civil. 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 8 by Machine God
Friendly typo

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: OOC We'll take a small pause now to allow everyone to catch up and add any narratives. I will move us all on afterwards.

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Toren grunted, then canted his helm in acknowledgement.

 

+My thanks… codicier,+ he rasped at the Iron Hand. +You slew many traitors -- that I cannot fault. Just keep your sorceries away from me, and we shall have no quarrel.+

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: Right gents, let's get this adventure completed!

 

The Rendezvous:

 

The two javelin anti-gravitic attack craft have seen much better days. Weapons destroyed through use, barrels blown, their carapaces are pocked and scorched by impacts, collisions and smeared with blood.

 

In fact the whole craft has blotches and blemishes of the stuff across consoles and cockpit, where successive brothers have mounted only to become unsaddled in death. On Isstvan V, such tours of duty were likely measured in minutes, and those numbers were small. Each is guided by a pilot, who, has likewise experienced gentler times. The battered, mismatched Corvus and Maximus warplate the two Astartes wear is a riot of colours, salvaged from whatever pieces they could find still working and had the least...holes.

 

They are a pastiche of the situation, a microcosm of these now shattered legions.

 

+Hail brothers,+ one pilot calls. He wears the insignia of the 66th Assault Company Talon Strike Wing, marking him as potentially the original pilot of this craft. An endeavour and feat in itself. He glances over all of you, looks at the automata, still functioning. +Marvellous. I was told we have to take it with us, and I will leave nothing for these traitor bastards.+

 

+Bonnet?+ the second pilot calls jerking his chin at the bent and buckled front of his craft.

 

+Tylo jests,+ the first pilot drops out of the javelin and approaches you. +Suggestions? We must move quickly.+

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

++Well met, Tylo!++ said Ashmon. ++Certainly the wee beastie would provide a measure of ablative armour++

 

He began clambering upon to the first speaker's Javelin. He positioned himself between the cowling and gimbal on the starboard side, the remains of the cyclone missile system provided him with sufficient anchorage.

 

++Toren you can hop into the cupola here and provide some firepower with your long-arm, whilst we wait for the Mars-sworn to move his chassis and affix the Blessed Automata to Tylo's Javelin.++

 

++Tyr-Ix-375 are you awake?++ enquired Ashmon. ++I am Ashmon and these Javelins are on our side, despite the riot of colours of their armour++

 

 

Ha another of the Lies of Mars. Different parts from different armour marks and from different legions could exist together!

 

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

+Brothers,+ Toren warmly greeted his brethren from the 66th company. +You two are a sight for sore eyes. However, I must reprimand you both for your laxity in the maintenance of your armour.+ The last remark was made with a hint of amused sarcasm over the vox, a subtlety likely only the other XIXth legionaries would detect. 

 

//Broken/feathers/fly/far//

 

He nodded at the dismounted pilot, Arden, and sauntered around the two javelins, inspecting their war-wounds, their missing pintle-mounted weapons, the empty passenger seats where other XIXth legion battle-brothers should be seated. 

 

+These have been to the wars,+ he commented thoughtfully. +The castellax is enormous, Tylo. I judge your craft will struggle to stay aloft bearing that burden alone, but if you and Arden work together it may suffice. I will leave that determination to the techmarine.+

 

//Share/loot/spread/wings//

 

+Brother-Techmarine, we await your arrival and judgment at the extraction point. Tempus fugit!+

 

He nodded at Ashmon and added, +I will certainly take a gunner’s perch, though I believe your brother techmarine may have more to say about the lifting capabilities of these vehicles, and how we might secure the automata.+

 

He looked off into the distance, long-rifle at the ready, searching for enemy movement on the horizon. +Stay sharp. The bastards are not far off.+

 

 

Awareness Test: Per52 + 10 = 62

 

D100: 40; success with 2 DoS

Edited February 16 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Rendezvous:

 

Toren:

 

Tylo and Arden take your banter with weary good humour. Arden tips and flutters his fingers.

 

//Feathers/broken/bat/nightmare//.

 

He indicates your posture. +Very wise.+

 

Your wariness finds nothing amiss on the horizon. It appears to be one of those oddball moments of relative calm within a hell storm.

 

Edited February 15 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Ashmon:

 

He nodded to the reply from Toren and noted the sing-song subvocal battle-cant.

 

++It is clearly evident to the layman that the Javelin's grav-plates can lift a far heavier load than Land's Speeder. Minus the weaponry its load is lighter, it should have no problem shouldering the burden.++ Ashmon replied.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 15 by Machine God
Toren

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Toren bit back a retort and shrugged wearily at the Iron Hand, +You may be right, cousin. I have little business with such automata. They are loud and slow.+

 

He looked sidelong at Arden and Tylo.

 

//Bat/fire/kill/shadow/flock/sorrow/alone//

 

He paced about uneasily, checking his wargear while scanning the skies. 

 

//Kill/many/moon/wolf//

 

+What awaits us to the north, brothers? What remains of the 66th?+

Edited February 16 by Necronaut