[OW] Mountainbreakers (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

++ THE RPG NOOK, IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE CABAL OF DEAD INK, MOJAKE PUBLICATIONS, AND MAZER RACKHAM PRESS, PRESENT: ++

 

++ AN ONLY WAR CAMPAIGN ++

 

+ THE MOUNTAINBREAKERS +

+ PROLOGUE +

+ THE GRAVEYARDS OF KULTH +

Incipe:

This is just a quick snap of prologue to move the game on until Mojake has the time and space to return. Obviously this is his game, I'm just the one in the drivers' compartment for the moment, so Throne help you all, because it's my jib to try and demoralise you into begging me to stop the pain. However, beating will continue until Squad Morale is restored.

 

Setting:

You are advised to apprise yourself of the absolute state of Kulth. It's a charnel pit. Be most aware that Kulth tastes of ash. Everything is tainted or tormented by it, as everything has been burned and repeatedly blown up for the past 83 years. It was once as pretty and glorious as Mirador, but now it's a hole, a rather deep one filled with churning and disgustingly pungent effluvium.

 

Welcome to Kulth.

 

Objectives:

Low intensity, but RP-rich interactions, or as much as we can achieve, maybe even a small fight. I'm not prepared to go into great detail over maps, I'm not autopiloting, and if you do something daft, please fully expect to get your head blown off. No punches will be pulled, and whatever you choose to do is your choice, so if you get your intestines rearranged to be externally mounted on your chin, don't blame me for allowing you to pogo-stick through Saboteur Ork Boss Splodey McBoomsnagga's favourite 'Doomblasta  Deff to Gits' Mine Field^TM.

 

Situation:

You've just landed at Fort Drusus, it is the premier Imperial Bastion on this world, and sees more turnover in squaddies than mattresses in Miss Licky Primrose's Shack of Negotiable Boot-knocking. Start your posts with arrival, either with the Squad (Section, if you prefer - bonus points will be given) and making muster. You will have been given orders to go to Bastion Aleph, one of the many mustering stations for new arrivals. Feel free to dawdle, there are lots of folks milling about, try to find your Regimental Comrades and staffers. Your ever-so-helpful, and thoroughly charming Garrison Sergeant-Major Henrik Jekyll will be along to give you further directions in a few short kicks of the arse.

 

Business/Housekeeping:

Questions in the OOC before your boots hit the ground.

Remember: GM Voice (and only the GM voice) is: Orange

All OOC in any IC post should be: Green.

 

Well? What the bloody hell are you slack-jawed, knock-kneed, scum-slurping, malcontents and doggerel-gobbling lazy bastards doing? Move like you've got a purpose - or that purpose WILL BE CORPSE STARCH!

 

(Looks around for a volunteer for press-ups. Copious press-ups).

 

[Trokair]

Por

 

‘Throne’ he thought, best not to say that, the Commissar would not like to hear such language, or at least such tone. They had been trudging through the camp for a while now. Disembarking from the great metal landers had been the usual organised mess.

 

As he had stood there, in the soft flaky ground, and trying to get his bearings while a number of tracked boxes rumbled past, churning up a smog beyond the normal engine belch, an Officer with a clipboard had started shouting. Jarrow explained and showed their assignment slip while Por stood to attention, best to when the Officer was shouting.

 

Some barked directions later and they were on their way.

 

“Bastion Alef” ... “aleth” ... “alev” ... He tired to sound it out quietly, but not getting a repeat of what the officer had said, perhaps a case of officer accent again. Jarrow had explained accents, the way different people from different places said the same words while sounding completely, well different. Por was no good with it, what was the point?

 

The directions where entirely useless as far as Por could tell, they had had to stop and ask for direction several times, but too little avail. He hoped that Jarrow would make more sense of the replies.

 

Por had seen many a staging ground before. Here the landers ferried the troops to a flat Ferrocrete structure, half sunken amongst the ashen dunes that lurked ready to pounce at its edges. The mustering camps were then spread across several slopes further up into more rocky terrain, To spiky for the landers. It thus was some hours since they disembarked when they arrived at C Company Fifth Platoon second Squad’s Tent.

 

“Looking for a Sergeant Cer-van-tes,” Por sounded out the name with care, “Trooper Pridbor and Jarrow ...” Por trailed off looking to his right and left, then stepped back a bit so he could look back the way they had just come.

 

Turning back to Little Men that were gathered in front of second squad’s tent, Por restarted. 

 

“Trooper Por reporting for Duty, Trooper Jarrow will be here in a moment, maybe he has gone to find the quartermaster.”

Edited Monday at 06:35 PM by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

Fifth Platoon RV Point:

 

At the rumbling cascade of Pridbor's voice, a head sticks out of one of the many tents, and the stern gaze of Lieutenant Aric Saavedra clocks the Ogryn at once. He could hardly miss him. He emerges from the command tent, swiftly followed by his vox-op, one of his bodyguards, and his ADC. He buttons up his field blouse, and crams his peaked hat on as he approaches.

 

'Trooper Pridbor? Finally, another familiar face. Have you seen any of the others? This place is a shambles.' He manages to make the last word sound quite pitying, before coughing at the harrowed air. There is no sign of the other Sections in your Platoon. Whilst not overly familiar with them, you would certainly know them by name and sight.

 

'Good and True Emperor preserve us,' Saavedra continues, spitting, 'but this place is foul.'

[Lysimachus]

With a sigh, Cal trudged down the lander ramp to the muddy ground and onwards through the huge camp surrounding Fort Drusus, following the markers for Bastion Aleph. He saw a few other Miradorans heading in the same direction, but Cal didn't make eye contact with any of them. Instead, he kept his head down and kept moving.

 

The heavy meltagun at his back caught and clattered against his other gear, and he hawked and spat in irritation, even as he tried to shift the strap holding the gun to a more comfortable position. His flem was a disgusting grey-black colour, even after only a few minutes breathing the filthy air of Kulth.

 

Cal wasn't happy to be here on this slag heap of a world, and he wasn't happy about his new role either. He was a better than average sniper in a regiment of snipers, a decent scout and survivalist. He wasn't a gunner. The cooker he carried might have raw firepower, but it had none of the finesse of his grandfather's long-las. Too heavy, too. Once Cal got settled in a bunk somewhere, he wanted to see if he could pull some of the pointless outer covering away from the body of the gun. Needless extra weight. The grip was all wrong as well - standard issue, but it didn't fit in his hand the way it should. Wrong angle, maybe? Changing it out might be beyond his own abilities, though…

 

His plans were interrupted by his arrival at Bastion Aleph. Cal presented his papers to one of the muster Sergeants, tapping the blue and white castle badge on the flak plate on his left shoulder as he stated his regiment. The other man grunted, unimpressed, and waved him through. Cal did as ordered, hurrying onwards. Now… where was his new Section billeted?

 

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Doc

 

Althus and Cutter walked through the muster point, looking for their specific berth. Rucksack on back, long-las slung in a combat harness across the chest, medipack in hand. Air tasted of burnt dust and low-quality lho smoke. 

 

"Eh, this is worse than the last spot, right Doc?" 

 

Althus grunted at his compatriot. Cutter was uncouth, prone to drink and smoke, but a decent hand with a needle and provided Althus with a more genial face with which his patients could interact. "Doc" had found that explaining aliments and their treatments in a most logical fashion wasn't always appreciated by the rough Guardsmen he treated, and Cutter was there to give the news in a more...caring manner. 

 

Doc's thoughts ceased drifting as they approached Bastion Aleph. He handed over their papers to the dour-faced Sergeant at the desk.

 

"Medic Althus Culvain and Corpsman Cutter reporting in. Looking for C Company's billet."

[Machine God]

Maks

 

"Four Hundred and Ninety-Eight, 

Four Hundred and Ninety-Nine, 

Five Hundred. You can stop, Maks!" The counter a large human said to the burly Ogryn, the press up machine. 

 

"One for the Mountain Breakers. 

One for the Guard. 

And 

One for the Emperor on his Throne!" 

Maks shouted as he pushed up, out of the muddy puddles. 

 

He wiped his fatigues down and looked around. 

 

"Five Hunnert, Sah!" 

 

"Where's da Kommissar?" 

 

"He walked off at Three Seventy" answered Biscuits, lugging over Maks' Ripper Gun. "Watch for the jokes, Maks. We've gotta find the Lads, for dey stick us inna Hole."

 

The pair walked off... 

 

 

 

 

[Trokair]

Por

 

'Trooper Pridbor? Finally, another familiar face. Have you seen any of the others? This place is a shambles.' 

 

Por shuffled his Ripper Gun to the other hand, then saluted with the now free hand. For a moment he was taken aback, a senior Officer, had he gone to the wrong section?

 

He had done that before, the little people were not always easily distinguishable for him, and it had taken him time to learn to pick out the others of fifth platoon from other little men after he was assigned to them. Jarrow had told him that the little people had the same issue keeping Ogryns apart. Por found that hard to believe, with their quick brains and all.

 

 

“No Leftenant, seen no one,. Not since mess yesterday morning, Ser.”

Edited Tuesday at 12:29 PM by Trokair

[A.T.]

Rockatansky

 

Flashes of light and dark, lasfire in tunnels and chalk-skinned heretics, flames, screams unheard over the rending of the ships outer hull and the inescapable pull of the void.

 

Rockatansky shot upright and awake  in his seat reaching for his weapon as the landers bays opened. Camp was half a klik north north west by west if anything here was accurate to the deployment orders but the odds of that were slim, either way the comm beacon would provide a bearing.

 

Always best to be first off the craft with welding goggles and mask against the prometheum backwash - too many hung back waiting for the landing zone to clear, perfect target for artillery. Should never stay in one place longer than you had to.

[Mazer Rackham]

Muster Point:

 

As you all wander, dawdle, march and clamber towards the muster point, you can hear a man bellowing. The voice is robust and deep, and when the man emerges from the sea of uniformity, you observe the sigils of a senior NCO. His jaw is pugnaciously, set, looking for trouble, and his face has the expression that said trouble is always about him. He is garbed in a dark grey stormcoat, his webbing and gear arranged with regulation ironclad, and his stern, hooded gaze carries the spark of the fanatic.

 

Scars cross his cheekbones, nose and chin, and his skull appears to have been rearranged several times by forces which disliked the fact it existed. A shock of bleached white hair juts in regimented sideburns from underneath his SNCO approved peaked cap, and long service slats crest his left arm with gilded stitch. A swagger stick is trapped under his left armpit, the boss gripped by polishing, broad, calloused fingertips, the nails chipped, knuckles scarred in boxer array. His fists are as meaty as his voice, as his thickset shoulders and bull-neck.

 

His beady eyes lay upon you, immediately working out you are newcomers.

 

'Halt!' he thunders. 'That man, that man, that oaf, and that pile of gristle, there! Sawbones! Fall in in front of me, I have a job for a few trustworthy fellows!'

 

There is a smile accompanying his...largesse. It is positively wealthy with malice.

 

'We have here some deserters and general Severan scum caught spying!' With a flourish, this pace stick whips the air, and points to a clutch of ragged vagabonds standing in a loose group, corralled by Provosts. 'Since you can't know them, you won't hesitate. Get down there, form a detail and put them out of my misery! Medicae! Certify the deaths, there's a good chap.'

 

He salutes the Captain. 'With your permission, of course, sir.'

 

He looks the SNCO up and down. 'Volunteers, of course, Sergeant Major?'

 

'Of course, sir.'

 

Saavedra, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the prospect, but with no true qualms over the demise of traitors, blows out a sigh. 'Go ahead. I've got to try and get things organised here. Don't miss,' he tells you. 'The rest of you, see if you can get a tent from somewhere and put it up beside mine.'

 

GM: M36 Lasguns will be provided by the Provosts. Organise who's going, who will lead the detail and get set up, otherwise, might have to go scrumping for tents. The nearest unit who're preparing to head out are the Vostroyan 9th.

[Trokair]

Por

 

“Huh?” Por whispered to the rest of squad. “Why can’t the MPs do that, they are right there?”

[Machine God]

Maks

 

“Huh?” Por whispered to the rest of squad. “Why can’t the MPs do that, they are right there?”

 

Maks grinned and waited for God to answer. 

 

And people think that I'm dumb? 

 

 

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Cal shrugged and raised his hand at the call for volunteers, moving to stand closer to the medic that the sergeant had pointed at. He didn't have any problem with killing traitors. Better now than on the front where they might be shooting back. Plus it made sense to get in with the doc. You never knew when you might need patching up.

 

He wondered if the traitors had been interrogated yet, though. They were locals, or at least had been here much longer than the 8th, so might be able to provide the Miradorans with intel about the war on Kulth.

 

“Before we put them down, has anyone pressed them for information yet?” he asked softly.

 

Another of the men, a balding, older trooper who Cal thought was called Roly, had raised his hand a moment after Cal. Now he scowled and let out a derisive snort.

 

“Fool boy. If they had anything useful, someone more important than us lot would be asking the questions…”

 

 

 

Edited 18 hours ago by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Tek

 

Tek, fresh from his first proper meal since making planetfall, pulled on his cap, stepped out of the Fort Drusus mess hall into the muddy bailey and fumbled in his uniform shirt breast pocket for a lho stick. He lit the thing and took a long pull, filling his mouth and lungs with the acrid smoke, and stood and surveyed the hive of manic activity for a few moments, watching as the small army of menials and enlisted men and women rushed by him, each hurrying along in the name of Kulkaan-Tronopi, the God-Emperor, for purposes as individually myriad as they were inscrutable to an outsider.

 

He let out the smoke slowly and rubbed his eyes as Wayak, who had been waiting for him, squatting on his haunches in the alleyway between the fort's commissary and command bunker, rose and saluted. Tek nodded at the short, wiry man and took another drag.

 

“What news, Jefe?" 

 

“No rest for the wicked, Wayak," he replied wearily. “The recaf is terrible. The Miradoran roasters could make a killing here.” 

 

He sighed and offered his vox-operator a tired smile and took another drag from the lho stick and watched a rhino as it rumbled past and spat.

 

“I sat with some troopers from the 21st Tallarn. Heretics and xenos aplenty, according to their sergeant, which must be why we are here, my friend.”

 

He patted Wayak on the shoulder and pulled a data-slate from one of his field jacket’s oversized pockets and showed the roster to his comrade.

 

"We have orders, of a sort. We are to muster at Bastion Aleph. Start rounding up the men. We have been assigned some newcomers from other squads – little lost lambs to bring into the fold."

 

Wayak pulled at the leather thong around his neck and produced a small wooden fetish carved in the shape of the Miradoran Aquila and kissed it while he studied the list and replied, “Dios mio. Big lambs, Jefe. I will find them." 

 

Tek watched him jog away and started trudging through the mud towards the quartermaster’s office. It was time to take possession of his squad’s kit before some enterprising individual made off with it. 

Edited 7 hours ago by Necronaut

[Machine God]

Maks

 

He took one large step forward, carrying his Ripper Gun at the ready.

 

"Biscuits and I will do it, Sah!"

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Provost Outpost:

 

The detail marches down to the clutch of dour-faced and morose prisoners. Some are emaciated, filthy. They have either been kept in the cells of this bastion for a long time, or they have been over the wall and haven't managed to keep themselves in good order. Marks of corporal punishment lay upon them; big red wheals of manacles and chain-harness, the ragged tears of the lash upon their shoulders through the threadbare sacks of the penitent.

 

Sullen, glum, resentful. They mumble to each other through battered faces where fists or batons have struck, except for one. A raven-haired woman in her late twenties is smouldering, defiant. Her garb marks her out to be a civilian, but there is the bearing of discipline about her. She alone is silent, a thin reed ignoring the bruising about her face and neck. She alone stands unbowed, but to do so is painful, for she favours a leg, and balances enough to make a show of paying it no heed.

 

Indeed, as one of the Provosts turns, she spits right at him, snarling.

 

The baton comes up.

 

'STOP!' Jekyll roars. 'She'll be dealt with soon enough.'

 

Provosts are uncommon in the Guard. Usually discipline is dealt with by the Commissariat or the Regiment's own beefy-boys, but these men appear to be deputised to the garrison, and they carry themselves coldly. Steel helms and masks mark them out as Mortressan Highlanders, renowned for brutality and complete obediance.

 

'Ever seen what a ripper gun does to little Severan harpies like you?' Jekyll called, with a laugh.

 

The woman just stared back, hotly, prompting another guffaw.

 

'Alright,' Jekyll said, 'line up, one man per target. Lash them to the posts!'

 

The Provosts move in, tying the victims to the stakes, which are stained ruddy. Behind them, is a wall thick with dark splotches and spalling from las-bolts. The ferrocrete is certainly playing its part in dispensation of Imperial Law.

 

A Battalion Scribe steps up to read the charges, including desertion, forsaking of oaths, abandoning their posts, theft, dereliction. He sentences the woman differently, stating she is a Severan Dominate spy. 'Sedition, Espionage, Sabotage, Larceny, Granting aid and succour to the enemy of the Emperor....'

 

The list goes on for five minutes.

 

'Make ready,' Jekyll orders.

[Lord_Ikka]

Doc

 

Doc moved with the extermination squad, stood to the side. He drew his laspistol and made ready to finish off any of the traitors that the squad didn't kill outright.

 

A dirty duty, killing those that had no weapon in hand, but necessary. Traitors and spies cost more lives than anything but disease on the battlefield. 

 

"Make ready," the sergeant spits out.