First Founding (To The Glory of the Regiment!)

[Vexing]

First Founding
Act I: To the Glory of the Regiment!


Dawn breaks again with the thudding retort of a bolt pistol. Throne guard and keep you, you're almost becoming used to it.

The four days since planetfall may as well have been four hundred for all the weariness and shock packed into those scant hours. As slumber beats a swift retreat from your nearby squadmates, you recall the early hours of the drop. In the upper atmosphere, tucked safely in the belly of the troop transport, Viklanos below seemed almost appealing. Great swathes of red-yellow grains coloured the modest sphere even from kilometers above the surface, lending a rosy sheen to the large continent where the entirety of the Ledian troops were to be deployed. Light from the system's white-hot star flashed hypnotically off of a great inland sea and scattered lakes large enough to see from orbit as the first of the rattling set in, and one or two recruits swore that they saw patches of deep green skulking nearer to the waters. Punching through the cloud layer while listening to a truncated briefing delivered over the scratchy vox in the hold, keen eyes or curious glances would have caught sight of two great scars across the main landmass. Dark and irregular against the local scenery, they tug at the mind even now, days after setting up your tents in neat little rows and first breathing the harsh dry air of the planet. Perhaps--

Another shot, this time accompanied by choked cry from the distant parade ground. It shakes you from your reverie and banishes the last vestiges of slumber, stirring even the Genweyr in their make-shift stabling compound. The last Guardsmen caught lazing about were given ten lashes and latrine duty for the foreseeable future, and the oppressive heat of Viklanos makes an undesirable prospect that much more unpleasant. 'Forward Camp Theta' is spread out over two long kilometers atop a gently swelling hilltop, a tent city of green, black, and khaki shades that looked so very much like an upturned anthill during the transport's first flyover. The screaming jets that accompanied your arrival have become just as much a part of your new daily routine as the thrice-daily kit inspection, the weapon drills, and the near-continuous sound of the Commissar Ancil dispensing his particular brand of the Imperial justice. From early morning until the late night his personal adjutants handle the investigation and sentencing of any and all activity that the dark, short little man finds "indecorous and indefensible!". The offenses range from cowardice (soot-blackening a Chimaera), to improper equipment (sawing down a shotgun), down to criminal harassment of a superior officer (begging Ancil for mercy); the charges may vary, but the verdict has always been decimation. Grim-faced men and women from the Irsat 341st mutter of entire squads being executed for claiming to see impossible nightmares stalking scouting parties, and of a poor recruit who disappeared at the hands of the Mechanicus Magi assigned to the unit for the dual blasphemies of tech-heresy and unlawful appropriation of the Omnissiah's gifts. Rather than silencing the rumour mill entirely, its voice has merely muted, reduced to mutterings by the campfire of 'Forbidden Zones' and the incredible weaponry that the secessionists have at their disposal.

As for the enemy? While the war rages on numerous fronts hundreds of kilometers to the north and south, even on the great inland sea itself, Theta has been a quiet installation for months. Between the miserable heat, the blinding glare from the mighty white sun of Viklanos, and the stinging insects that crawl over every blade of rust-red grass, not a man deployed here is sorry for the absence of a real fight. Whisperers and loud-mouthed supply officers claim that High Command is merely waiting on advanced intelligence, and that the forces gathering at Theta will somehow be instrumental in breaking the bloody deadlock wide open. Grimmer prophets murmur, always far from Ancil's watchful informants, that time has already run out--they fear that the traitor forces of the Severan Dominate will land reinforcements any day now, and firmly knock the hovering Battlefleet out of the sky.

Strangers in a strange land, the Ledians have kept firmly to themselves out of necessity. The rock-bottom morale of the Irsat 341st hasn't facilitated making friends, and the overly trusting nature of the agri-worlders set against the hivers natural scheming has already resulted in a number of minor scrapes camp wide, all swiftly crushed by Ancil's arrival and subsequent punishments.

All in all, it likely comes as a sharp relief when the laud-hailers and broadcast voxes boom their call for the 13th Squad of the Ledos 1st to report to the Command Tent within the hour. It's almost certainly better than waiting for an overzealous Commissar or a thieving hive-worlder to ruin your day.


Command Tent--A semi-permanent structure made of bleached white tents and low rockcrete fortifications, this is the current station for officers of the Guard and the Commissariat; a rather large tent just to its left bears a crimson Aquila proudly emblazoned on its snowy cloth, standing in for a proper chapel.
Drill Fields--Two vast sections of ground have been cleared as firing ranges and dueling circles; free to any trooper looking for exercise or practice.
Supply Depot--The only permanent structure here, a prefabbed warehouse contains all supplies for Forward Camp Theta and is watched with a hawk's eyes by Coordinator Vedlena, an icy Munitorium official.
Mess Tents--The only place the Irsat and the Ledos intermingle, and even then grudgingly. The food is a mixture between Munitorium rations (inedible) and so-called local fare (indescribable).
Ledian Parcel--This full quarter of the camp contains the entire Ledos 1st, and stables made from found stones and razorwire.
Irsat Parcel--This quarter of camp services the Hive World regiment of the Irsat 341st, close combat specialists and grenadiers.

[Dekana]

Argos was too scared to open his eyes during the descent to the planet. As far as he was concerned, he stepped into one part of the big ship, closed his eyes for a bit, and then walked into a place with the sky. Since then, the ogryn's been hot and bored, not being able to work the farm like he used to. He's been spending a lot of time in the stable, petting the Genweyr and bringing them big buckets of water, since that's the most familiar job in this place.

At the time of the announcement, Argos is seated in the mess tent. Puck, his silent BFF, is off retrieving yet another plate of food for the hungry ogryn. Argos looks around confused. "13th squad... Um... dat us?" When no answer comes, he 'gently' elbows the trooper seated next to him in the side and then asks louder, "Dat us?"

I figure since Vexing didn't say where we were, we could put ourselves anywhere in the camp. Does anyone want to be seated next to Argos, or did he just poke a random NPC? :smallbiggrin:

And I guess I'll speak in golden rod.

[LeSwordfish]

"That'd be us." Vance confirmed, as Lewis climbed back onto the bench he'd been elbowed off. "Don't know what they'd be wanting with us."

He finished packing a wad of smokeweed into his pipe, and lit it with his lighter. The pipe settled neatly into the near-permanent crook in the corner of his mouth, and he took a long drag.

"Looks like we'll be headed out." Lewis commented, rubbing his arm. "No news as to where?"

"If I knew, boy, you'd know. Can't shake you, can I?"

Lewis laughed jocularly, the laugh slowly dying to a frown as Vance didn't join in, instead drawing on the pipe again.

[RivlisDrake]

"Some action, finally!" Malakai crows, nearly leaping from his seat across from Vance. "It's about time we showed the Dominates Ledos steel!"

"Finish putting your uniform on 'afore you run off to be strung up," Akakios cautions him, catching his sleeve.

"Uh... right," Malakai says scratching his head. "Thanks Dayfyd."

Akakios nods and resettles the mounting of his wrist-las before tugging his own uniform tunic into place.

"You want I should round up the lads so we show up proper, Sergeant?"

[LeSwordfish]

Vance made an expansive gesture. "They'll've heard it. Don't let me stop you, mind."

[CrimsonKnight]

As Cally and Gil hustled up to the squad's muster area, the two squadmates appeared to be in the middle of a mild argument. Or rather, Cally was trying to scold Gil while he had the smug look of a genweyr that had just stolen its stallmate's breakfast without the other even noticing.

"I cannot believe you. We've only just arrived, and already you're trying to do your best to get the Irsat all wound up!"

Gil shrugged with the fat grin still on his face. "Hey, not my fault that a few of them thought an Agri-World 'yokel' like me would be easy pickings for a couple of 'sophisticated' Hive-worlders at the Tarot table. Like Gravtown One didn't have its fair share of tough guys with too much money and not enough brains. Sure as they say: a fool and his Throne Gelt are soon parted."

Cally continued glaring for a moment before shaking her head in resignation at her irrepressible partner. "Yeah, and remind me: why was it you were in a hurry to join up again? Just don't make any more trouble than we need with the 341st. Not that I like them much either. Guess I shouldn't be surprised you fit right in with a bunch of sneaks and thieves like them. *sigh* Come on, I don't want to keep the Sergeant waiting, and it looks like half the squad's already waiting on us."

"Bah, it's just the rest of our fellow grunts. Looks like none of them off-world 'specialists' have bothered to show up yet, though just as well." He looked around a moment before adding in a low tone. "The less time I spend around her Ladyship and that witch, the better."

Cally elbowed him in the gut to quiet him, though she didn't entirely disagree with his assessment. Oh, she didn't mind Dimes. He wasn't the most personable to be around, but his professionalism and skill had certainly earned her respect, and she was grateful for the time he'd spent with her on the marksmanship range. And it was nothing less than an honor to personally accompany a honest to goodness Emperor-blessed priestess like Lady Vestis.

No, the problem was the third specialist, the one Cally suspected was the reason why they had both a Storm Trooper and Priestess in their squad as well: Alexander Sarvus. A witch. Sure, an officially-sanctioned Imperial Psyker and ranked well above her humble self, but that didn't make her any less uneasy in his presence. She'd never so much as lain an eye on a Psyker before meeting him, and though they'd been told (repeatedly) that he was a loyal servant of the Emperor as they were and had proper control of his "abilities", that didn't make a simple Emperor-worshipping, Warp-fearing girl like her any less nervous around him.

She forced the thoughts clear of her mind as she formed up in ranks with the still-muttering Gil besides her. No time to worry about any of that now. That announcement could surely only mean one thing: they had an Assignment. And Cally was determined not to come up short in whatever was required of them.

[ArcturusV]

A Witch and his Ogryn: Routine

There were some things you fought, some you resisted, some you bowed to, and some you just stood aside and let pass. This was the latter, and becoming a mild nuisance to Aleksandr.

Jorn had always been... troublesome. Yes, troublesome was a good word for it. There wasn't a single person he'd rather have watching his back. The large Ogryn was highly protective of him, and if his status as an Imperial Sanctioned Psyker, bound to the God-Emperor wasn't enough to keep the Hive Rats away from him, the large fighter who had about 2 feet of height and 350 lbs on most of them certainly was. One scowl from him and a grumbling about "buggun da 'ittle 'un" was generally enough to make people look elsewhere for their marks. And that was fine with him.

But it came with a price. And that price now was being stuck in a hot, miserable mess tent, absently working on his Data-Slate, while his good buddy Jorn was clearing out the leftovers from the morning meal. He didn't bother to ask why he insisted on coming at this time. He didn't grumble about being stuck in here either as Jorn crunched on something that honestly he rather not investigate too closely, and in vast quantities. The answers were always the same. The Bosses said Ogryns eat at this time, or some boss did, at some point. It got stuck in his mind and he refused to eat with the rest of the regiment who were "Doin' Wrong".

"Yous eat dat?" came Jorn's bellow, ham sized fist pawing at the half eaten rations that Aleksandr had finished poking at about 20 minutes ago.

Aleksandr's face broke into a smile, "Yep, ate it all, all gone. Just an illusion, there is no food here," he chuckled a bit at himself as he watched Jorn's crestfallen expression, and the slowly dawning realization that someone was joking with him. Took a good 50 seconds. He could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. But Jorn's face broke into a smile and soon he was shoveling down Aleksandr's scraps and chuckling himself.

"You keep eating like this and we'll have to roll you into battle."

Jorn just grunted and finished his food anyway, leaving Aleksandr to shake his head. About 5 meals, and various scraps left behind by people who couldn't finish their rations powered down like it was nothing. Sure the guy was big, but still it amazed him all the same. "Think we can get a..." he had been about to ask for a walk with Jorn. His duties here were light. Most didn't trust him, rightly, or want to spend time with him. Ciphers were up to date, there wasn't any comm traffic nearby for him to be focused on breaking, and no samples coming in from the frontlines. Jorn with his very fixated nature on "Da Rules" kept his inspections easy as pie. He had taken to walking and exploring near the camp, enjoying the fairly scenic area and the outdoors, staying in shape, remembering those quiet times on Ledos.... though the food was much better back there.

But no, the Laud-Hailers had to call for him, and he saw that glint in Jorn's eye of having a clear set of directions to follow. He liked that. He was getting up and grabbing Aleksandr's arm, ready to pull him along.

"Hey now! HEY! We got an hour, geeze, relax!" Alek called out as he was hauled out of his seat and towards the exit of the mess tent. The Ogryn didn't seem to be listening, and it was all he could do to keep a hold on his Data-Slate as he was dragged outside.

"Remember the rules!" he called out trying to drag his heels in, "Can't show up unprepared, right? Need to be fit for Inspection first!" that gave Jorn a bit of a pause, slowing down his mad march for the Command tent, but not letting go yet, as he tried to figure it out.

"We're not properly geared up to meet da Boss, better go back and change right?" he lead the Ogryn on, "Wouldn't want to look bad in front of da Boss..." It slowly seemed to be getting around to him as his feet stopped, though he still held onto Aleksandr.

[TechnoScrabble]

Dimes was already awake when the morning executions began. The sound of the bolt washed over him like water off a raincoat, silently taken in like so much screaming from a Drill-Abbott.

He'd spent the last hour in the Ministorum 'Chapel', praying quietly, cleaning his Hellgun a fourth time, wishing the God Emperor would send him a decent mono-knife to set on his bayonet lug or at least a good fight. The chain of command here was...restrictive. No applying for patrols, no unscheduled field exercises, no stuffing your armour with rolled up flakweave for extra protection. He didn't feel like a Stormtrooper here, he felt like a little boy getting ordered to do nothing.

Dimes hated doing nothing.

The call came over the speakers and he snapped up, quickly packing up the cleaning kit and his hellgun and making sure his uniform's hat was on right. That ridiculous hat. All wide-brimmed and floppy and standing out everywhere. By the Emperor did he enjoy the moments he got to wear his carapace instead. He hoped this call would lead to more of them. He practically sprinted to the Command Tent despite the short distance and stood at attention in front of the entrance and off to the side, a little toy soldier out of the way.

[aberratio ictus]

In contrast to Dimes, Adrasteia was actually quite happy with the wide-brimmed hat the regiment had provided her with. It had seemed a bit curious that she had been given the same uniform the guardsmen got, when she was supposed to wear her ecclesiarchal robes as sign of her station and function, but in the end, she simply accepted it.

By now, it was a blessing. The hat, specifically. The heat had been unbearable, and it hadn't taken long on the very first day in the Theta installation for her with her naturally fair complexion to catch a fairly healthy sunburn. From then on, she had worn the hat with her habit.

She had spent the last hour in quiet contemplation in her tent. Mostly, there were a lot of new names to memorize in camp Theta. The names of her squadmates, of course, she had learned a long time ago, but now, it wouldn't hurt to know some of the Irsats', as well. Knowing your opponent by name was the first step to getting along with him, after all.

The call from the broadcast voxes didn't instill very much of a sense of urgency in her. An hour was a stangely large period of time for a military summons, which did, on the other hand, puzzle her. The dimensions at camp weren't that big.

The priestess took her time with the way to the command tent. It would probably not be advisable to be there too soon, standing at attention with Dimes - as she simply assumed - while the other members of the squad slowly arrived bit by bit.

[Dekana]

"That'd be us." Vance confirmed, as Lewis climbed back onto the bench he'd been elbowed off. "Don't know what they'd be wanting with us."

He finished packing a wad of smokeweed into his pipe, and lit it with his lighter. The pipe settled neatly into the near-permanent crook in the corner of his mouth, and he took a long drag.

"Looks like we'll be headed out." Lewis commented, rubbing his arm. "No news as to where?"

"If I knew, boy, you'd know. Can't shake you, can I?"

Lewis laughed jocularly, the laugh slowly dying to a frown as Vance didn't join in, instead drawing on the pipe again.

"'Kay, I'll go right over to da big tent!" Argos says excitedly. He stands up, about to bound toward the Command tent.

"And miss your second helping?" Puck says, arriving at the table with an ogryn-sized plate of local food. "You'd better eat now or you'll get cranky later." He's quite the contrast to Argos, being short and not particularly musclebound.

"But, uh, Jorn already left!" Argos says while swinging his tree trunk of an arm toward Jorn, narrowly missing Vance's head.

Puck sits at the table and slides the plate in front of Argos. "The call said an hour - and that's a long time. Eat up."

Not one to argue with a plate of food in front of him, Argos sits back down and digs into his second helping. It doesn't take long for him to finish however, and right after that he bounds toward the Command tent, Puck hot on his heels.

[RivlisDrake]

At Vance's ambivalent answer, Akakios sighs and goes to make sure Malakai doesn't put his uniform tunic on backwards before joining the squad outside the command tent.

[ArcturusV]

A Witch and his Ogryn: Prep

It had taken some talking, but he had managed to get Jorn, and himself, back to his tent with time to spare. Jorn was, if nothing, good at attempting to be presentable for inspection. He prided himself on his ability to follow The Rules after all, his weapon battered, but presentable, his armor and uniform affixed properly, looking like one of the most shiny of shiny Ogryns in the Regiment. Which of course was still a bit more sloppy than most Guardsmen... but the thought mattered. Maybe someday he'd be made a Bonehead.

Aleksandr told him so, it always made Jorn beam with pride to be recognized as one of the smarter and more diligent Ogryns.

Aleksandr meanwhile was cruising through his data-slate as he got ready. With the one hour delay it probably wasn't a field mission they were being given. Maybe a training assignment. It did well to look like he was mildly busy and useful, after all. He wanted something to show if it came down to it. With his gear ready, things upright and touching he headed out with Jorn, still working on his pad.

He had been working on a new regimental war cant. It was important to switch them up fairly regularly, so his counterparts among the throne blighted traitors didn't crack the codes, or so that captured guardsmen couldn't give away the vital secret of a regiment's War Cant

He managed to lead Jorn through the camp on a slower, winding path that avoided some of the rougher sections of their "comrade" regiment, and would bring them to the command tent with just about a minute to spare. All under the pretext of taking a "careful route, so as not to ruin our shiny gear" to Jorn, while he worked on the finishing touches of the new War Cant protocol. Or at least attempted to.

Because I kind of gave him that job.

So Cryptology/Cryptographer. Not sure which roll you want to use, it's the same base modifiers either way, or if you want to give me a conditional bonus for having Trade (Cryptographer) on top of having Scholastic Lore (Cryptology).

[roll0] vs 32 Int, Trained in the relevant skill. Possible conditional bonuses?

[Vexing]

Attracting a few passing glances from other soldiers passing the mustering grounds, Squad Three slowly assembled. By the time all but the psyker and his 'pet' Ogryn arrived, the sun was hanging high in the sky and the temperature was already growing unbearable; the hair hung hot and still, just humid enough to feel like one was breathing through a damp sock, and the omnipresent heat haze that only ever disappeared once the sun dipped below the horizon was out in force, subtly distorting distant tents. With most of the squad left in silence, only the whine of biting flies and faint voices from the interior of the Command Tent could be heard.

Alas, pleasant boredom seldom lasts long for any soldier. Precisely as Jorn and Aleksandr arrived, the wide flap of the tent moved and a familiar face emerged with a sigh of relief. Captain Alisha, a friendly townie from Squad Two, had spent most of her time in the trip through the void learning as many names of the various Ledians that she could; a mayor's daughter, she took to back-slapping and hand-shaking like a fish to water. It was no one's surprise that she'd been named leadership potential along with a limited list of others, including Joab Vance. Winking at her fellow NCO, she stopped long enough to murmur 'Saddle up!' before trotting quickly to your regiment's parcel, the rest of her squad following on her heels with only a few nods of recognition spared.

Before their dust had even settled an adjutant ushered you into the relative cool of the main tent, the gentle hum of an air-cyck purring in the background. Truly, the benefits of rank were to be envied! Hurrying you through the 'halls' of white canvas (which bulge humorously around the two Ogryn's heads as they're forced to crouch), the squad is brought to what passes for a temporary HQ. The wide, central space of the tent-complex has been thoroughly swamped with desks bearing papers, various picts pinned to support beams, and a massive holo-table squatting in the middle of the area like a peculiar mechanical tuber. Currently inactive, it's being tinkered with by a mono-task servitor as High Command stand and shuffle papers and temporary markers atop it. Those of you with the care to notice might spy canned rations being used as placeholders, likely for enemy installations, with a few empty lho-boxes serving as indicators for vehicles, perhaps? Your own commanding officer (a quiet, elderly trooper named Kedder Yorn, with a sandpaper voice and augmetic legs) is currently in council with Commissar Ancil, Lieutenant Torque of the Irsat 341st, and a figure clad entirely in white robes. With your entrance, the robed figure nods slowly and takes its leave as the two officers switch their focus to you. Ancil continues to fiddle with the tactical set-up, having to strain up to reach.

"Finding the planet to your liking, boys?", Yorn inquires in his usual drawl. Folding his arms over the pale grey parade version of the Ledian uniform, he surveys each member individually. "Beasts all settled in and flight sickness past, I hope. We've big news for you."

"After sundown, tonight, you'll be riding out of camp as part of our offense. High Command believes we have the capability to break this front wide open, and the Ledos will be essential to its success." Leaning back against the holo-table as he speaks, his fingers drum along the metal in irregular patterns; while a stickler for knowledge of the Imperial Guard and its way of waging war, Kedder Yorn isn't much for formalities himself. "They've identified several targets of opportunity from orbit closer to the capital over the past few weeks, but the secessionists are like hawks. You can't get a tread on the ground or a bomber in the air without them seeming to know about it first...which is where you lot come in. Your mounts can't cover as much ground as a Chimaera but should make much less of a footprint, however it is that they're tracking our vehicles. We're breaking up the various squads to cover as many potential points of resistance as possible."

"Given the presence of a codebreaker and your two Ogryn, I believe I've identified the area you'll be of most use. Monitoring enemy vox-traffic has proven too difficult to provide real-time intelligence in the field; their messages are in a masked sub-channel, and what little we do get is encoded. While we don't have a guarantee of cracking the code, Battlefleet scans have discovered a few potential sources of this damned interference. One of them is almost two thousand klicks to our west, spitting distance from one of the smaller lakes; there's considerable activity around a series of cliffs overlooking one of the small refinery towns, and our tacticians are willing to bet it's part of their communications grid. While you can expect heavy resistance, between your mounts, your training, and the abhumans, it shouldn't be anything you can't handle. You'll receive more detailed instructions in the bulk of your mission gear, and I'd prefer you not to read it until outside the camp itself. While I don't believe that any one of you," he glances at the Ogryn for a scant moment, "would necessarily speak about your orders aloud, it's a standard security measure."

"Your standing orders, however, I'll be giving to you now: take the indicated objective, defend it until reinforced, and minimize casualties--the enemy as well as our own. The refineries here aren't useful to anyone without hands to work them, so the more prisoners or surrendered forces, the better." Eyes narrowing, he adds "it goes without saying that looting local residences or businesses will be dealt with in the harshest possible manner. We're here to liberate these people, not terrorize them. If any of you spot a violation in this expected conduct, I expect you to notify me and the Commissar at your first convenience." Ancil smirks, straightening a row of marked c-rations.

"Now then: any general questions before your dismissal? Once you ride out, you'll be expected to maintain total vox silence until the completion of the mission, should you be issued a hailer."

[TechnoScrabble]

Aodh gives a short, sharp "Morning, sir" to the various officers as he passes them or they go past, well drilled by the Schola.

He watches the arranged staff closely, looking for facial tics, observing gesticulations. He tries to get a hold on their general mood and what they feel of the situation, comparing their reactions with the information on the map. He looks for the battle plans, the formations, the unit strengths. He didn't want to hold himself above the officers and NCOs there, but guardsmen without extra training and experience tended to lean towards inflexibility and foolish reliance on outdated guides the Ministorum had yet to update fully. Several rhymes about the adjutant corps come to mind, none are said out loud.

"Sirs, do we have preliminary reports or satellite images of the area?"

He's careful not to overstep Vance, but he has many questions. Polite and to the point as always, but a smooth operation depends on knowing the situation. What's the opposition expected to have on hand? When does vox-silence break? Is any support available? How long will they have to hold once the position is secured? Are enemy combatants open targets, assuming they aren't part of the refinery staff? Will gear be available to aid in setting up defenses once the area is secure? Will other squads be supporting?

[Vexing]

"While the vox-masking and related interference makes it hard to get a good estimate of their strength or their goals", Vorn begins, "I can say for certain that they've some sort of vehicular support. Orbital surveillance has revealed disturbed earth and new 'paths' in the underbrush leading up to the cliffs, so expect resistance to include one or two manned transports or light armour."

Ancil chimes in languidly the moment Yorn finishes, knocking over an empty lho-box on the makeshift tactical map. "Satellite picts are in short supply and will have been provided to regiments with pressing need of them. Even without them, this is a simple task--your charges shouldn't have much trouble taking the objective, despite their obvious failings." The man's eyes rest momentarily on Joab Vance, before picking over the rest of the unit. "Or is there some trouble with these new recruits I'm not yet aware of? Please, inform me." Yorn's face remains neutral and inexpressive throughout the exchange, careful not to reveal his own thoughts on Anci's 'advice'.

[TechnoScrabble]

"No trouble, your Lordship," Dimes says with a deliberate lack of emotion, "I'm just stuck in my Schola ways. There and done before the enemy knows it."

[CrimsonKnight]

Cally had the nervous look of a mouse face to face with a genweyr, and it took a great effort for her not to begin visibily shaking at the Commissar's harsh tone and contemptous words. It was her first time in close proximity to the black-clad enforcers, and it was proving not to be a good experience for her. They were a green, untested regiment, no doubt, but from his mood, it seemed as if he almost expected them to fail at their task. The questions she'd meant to ask in all seriousness died on her tongue, and she focused on just staring ahead and trying not to draw any attention to herself. She'd ask Vance later, hoping the Sergeant could ease her concerns out of sight of Ancil.

[LeSwordfish]

"Aint no problems with my soldiers." Vance said, taking his pipe out of his mouth to frown more heavily. "Talk like that, Commisar, i'd be hoping you could back it up. Wouldn't want you to feel you had to step outside your jurisdiction, now."

[Vexing]

"Sergeant Vance, there are less astute members of the Commissariat that might consider that a threat." Ancil's eyes flash with a sort of gleeful menace, keeping them fixed on the offending NCO at all times. "Perhaps 'Conspiracy to Incite Violence'? I think that you ought--"

Whatever else he might have said was lost in the sudden spate of wheezing, hacking coughs from Yorn; his timing was almost suspiciously good, effectively ending the argument as he recovered at lightning speed to launch into his own commentary: "Most quiet squad I've had so far, out of the three! Will that be all your questions, then, Vance? You sure you're up to this?" The old man waits expectantly on the response.

[Dekana]

"Uh, I got a question sir!" Argos raises his hand like a student in class. "Dat place we're going, it far? We gotta go in da... da big box again?" the ogryn asks fearfully.

[RivlisDrake]

Realizing that anything he says will probably only anger the commissar more, Akakios remains silent, listening intently.

[ArcturusV]

Aleksandr Sarvus and Jorn

Jorn lived for these moments. He didn't catch a lot of the obvious current of tension in the room. He just knew there was a guy with a fancy hat. Fancy hat guys were da bosses. You had to look good for da bosses. His gear was well maintained, not by expertise so much as just sheer stubbornness to thump a Red Robed Weirdo and force them to do it as needed, obsessively so. They seemed to like it. And he liked da bosses liking his shiny stuff. It was quite shiny, the gun he lugged around, ready to bash in the skulls of little 'uns who stepped outta line.

He stood at attention during the briefing, not saying a thing, sure that if he was supposed to say something, da bosses would have asked him to say something. So he took it like an Inspection. Look good, show them you know da rules, and keep your trap shut.

Aleksandr, for his part, was also following that last bit of advice. As the psyker he seldom spoke in such situations. People with their suspicions and the like were probably going to take a dim view of anything he said. Particularly if they had any sort of monodominant leanings to their faith. However he seemed to be paying conversely less and more attention than Jorn. He wasn't snapped into a salute, eyes staring at a spot 3 inches above the Commissar's hat.

Instead he was holding up his staff in the crook of his left arm. Both hands busy working on the Data-Slate that he almost always carried. Adding notes as they came up, ranging from simple statements about the mission, to his own suppositions and ideas that were coming around as details were revealed. Nothing that would get him flogged, refraining from personal comments about the Commissar or Vance's apparent tiffs. Though he did notice them.

Used to dealing with Jorn, and knowing that Jorn was about to get a look of utter terror on his face as the other Ogryn mentioned a Lighter or a Chimera, it was always so hard to tell, he stepped in to cut it off, "I believe the Commander is saying that we will ride the mounts we shipped in from Ledos, open skies and the wind in your hair my friend," that should do a bit to soothe their concerns and preemptively cut the unwarranted freak out down.

[LeSwordfish]

Attempting to give off the impression that although he was taking this lifeline he could have swam to shore quite happily by himself thanks, Vance shook his head. "Nowt more to say, sir. Eager to get going."

[Vexing]

Allowing Aleksandr to soothe the two Ogryn with his explanation, Yorn acknowledged Vance with a nod. There may have been a sigh of relief, but it was quickly masked as new instructions shot from between the Commander's lips toward the Sergeant. "Good. I've faith in you boys--I'm certain we all do." Removing a folded paper, sealed with black wax, the old officer's limping augmetics carried him close enough to hand it off. "You'll be showing this to Logistics Coordinator Vedlana for your requisition. Don't drag your feet about it, or you may not get two sticks to rub together." It might have been a joke to set the new recruits at ease, but his eyes seemed sad and resigned. "Hop to. You're dismissed. Cairn will lead you out."

And that was that. Lead back out of the sprawling cloth 'halls' of the conditioned Command Tent, the sunlight and its heat feel like a hammer's blow. While your informal briefing had hardly taken any time at all, Fourth Squad of the Ledos 1st was waiting outside, their portly NCO James (Jaim? Jamison? One of those names, you're sure), snaps a salute that flings droplets of sweat into the front of your own group. "Good on you! Can't wait to see some action myself, mates", he imparts with a toothy grin. Adjutant Cairn leads Fourth Squad into the Command Tent, and you're just as quickly on your own again.

The vox systems around the camp emit a mournful blare: "Squad designation thirty-one, Ledos 1st Lancers, report to Command immediately."

The sun is high and the days on Viklanos are gruelingly long; the coming nightfall and your mission is a distant promise yet to be realized, with plenty of time to prepare. The 13th have been left to their own devices.

If there are any extra preparations to be tended to, weapons to be modded, trades to conduct, food to be stolen, rumors to be swapped, etc., now would be the time. There's almost a full ten hours before sunset. If you all choose to split off into groups or tackle preparation individually, either way is fine by me, but try to be courteous of your Squadmates wishes. If your own preparations are relatively small (things like gathering your kit and the like), feel free to have them occur off-screen and play out interactions with your fellows instead. Best to get to know everyone before the bullets fly!

It'll be a long while before you return to a camp, so consider this your first and last official resupply for a good long while.

[TechnoScrabble]

Dimes confides in Vance once the group has left, "Some only join the Commissariat because they'd be useless anywhere else. Don't let him get to you."

He turns to the rest of the group, sighing and slinging his hellgun over his shoulder.

"I don't trust the quartermaster to give us what all we need. We're good for striking the enemy where it hurts, but we've **** all for taking and holding a position. Anyone up for a trip to our friendly neighborhood hivers for some shopping?"

[ArcturusV]

"Lookin' to buy a black eye?" Aleksandr said with a smile. The hivers were after all, asshats. He expected that the stormie boy would probably rub them the wrong way, combined with the unit colors, it'd be more likely to get him punched than anything else.

Free from the tent, he gave Jorn a hard pat on the back, which the Ogryn seemed to hardly notice. "I got my siege equipment right here, best slab o' cover you could ask for, the sort of cover that punches people's heads off like overripe Balsan Melons..."

Jorn seemed to beam a little, sure that he was being paid a compliment. He was quite, imposing looking, after all, particularly with that huge lug of a weapon he carried like a guardsman might carry a lasgun.

"Probably would have better luck with the Metal Faces. Sure there are some lurking around here, you know how they are, always muttering their incomprehensible noise. Crazy buggers I tell you. Quite daft. But I'm sure you could work out a trade with them... maybe offer to take some scans of the Devices we find on the mission? They love that stuff. Huge suckers for it."

[Dekana]

Argos is annoyingly excited about the mission, running around and badgering Puck with pointless questions. Mostly to shut him up for awhile, Puck sends Argos to Vedlana along with whoever else is going. Besides, maybe having some muscle in the group will grease the wheels of commerce and get the squad some better gear.

[ArcturusV]

"Well if you wanna go play Rogue Trader with the Gangers and the Tight Fisted... go for it. I think I'm going to go hit more fertile grounds," Aleksandr said with a smile on his face. He slung up his staff across his shoulders, resting his arms along it. Spinning around he started to head off towards the domain of the Red Robed Ones, whistling the Regimental Anthem to himself, skipping along fairly lightly despite the oppressive, muggy heat.

"Come on ya lug, gonna need you if things go right," he said to Jorn, tossing his head to gesture for the Ogryn to follow.

"Uh... yeah bud!" the large ogryn started to waddle off after Aleksandr, quite a swaggering dawdling pace, as his longer legs had no problem keeping up with the brisk pace of the smaller Psyker.

... Some Minutes Later As Appropriate...

"Ooooo! Da Gun Nuts!" Jorn called out, seeing a group of red robed men wandering by on their business. "Gun needs more shinies!"

"No Jorn! No! We get a BETTER Gun!" Aleksander snapped, barely able to cut off Jorn before he charged off to tackle one of the Enginseers and force him to apply more "Shinies" to the Ripper Gun Jorn used. But the words 'better gun' seemed to have mollified the large ogryn for the moment.

"You just let me do the talking, and you get ready to haul our gun off when I tell you, okay? Okay? Okay?" Alexsandr repeated until he finally got the Ogryn nodding. Confirmed the idea was in his head, and thus likely to remain there until something else pushed it out, he lead him on further into the compound, looking for one of the tents of the Armory Enginseers, likely to have the Gun he wanted, and likely to want the Information he could bring back to help him move up from Gun Polisher/Gun Keeper to more "devout" and respected work.

[TechnoScrabble]

"I'm open to any and all ideas, but it's Sergeant Vance who holds final word here," Dimes says, "Off the top of my head, I'm already thinking I'll need a monoknife, we should find some area denial weapons, mines, det-tape, the like...Some material for a three point sling would be nice. We'll need choke grenades, or, failing those, smoke grenades and the heater elements from our ration packs. You drop some of those pellets in with the fuse, makes a nice gas to clear out positions with."

[Vexing]

Puck, Priestess Adraestia, Dayfyd and Specialist Cally all take their leave with appropriate saluting and dismissal, making their way back into the body of your parcel; they've mounts to retrieve, gear to stow, and the like. With Aleksandr and his 'pet' Ogryn already off to pester and bebother the Mars Priesthood for the sacred advantage of superior firepower, Sergeant Vance is left to lead Dimes, Argos, and the attendant comrade recruits to meet Supply Coordinator Vedlana. Now they would see if all the horror stories traded around the mess were true of her...

And if the tales weren't, they were damn close. The Supply Depot will be a hive of activity later in the day, but this early in the morning it has only the shortest of lines before Vedlana's field desk. Cold and efficient, she no sooner has an authorized chit in hand than she shouts a series of codes to twin servitor drones behind her, who search and stack appropriate crates from the interior of the pre-fabbed structure out onto the long grass and red dirt of Viklanos. Of course, that's only if one is lucky enough to receive gear; the line dwindles appreciably as numerous requests are dismissed as, variously: absurd, mislabeled, unauthorized, and 'just plain foolishness'. What few soldiers who receive the crates they requested waste no time in putting distance between the blonde-haired harridan, not stopping to review their equipment while under her disapproving blue eyes. While not particularly old herself, the permanent frown in her lips and the constant hiking of dismissive eyebrows make Coordinator Vedlana seem easily twenty years older than her thirtyish Terran years.

"Next! You lot with the Ogryn." Ledger open before her and ink-pen ready, she takes Vance and Co.'s chit for review, frowning slightly. "All this, then? And will there be any supplementary requests?"

The parcel afforded to the mysterious and frightening Enginseers abutted the drill fields nicely, putting them at a far enough distance from camp that their presence wouldn't affect morale and that no Guardsman with more amasec than brains would attempt a five-finger requisition from holy weaponry they tended. The air is filled with the smell of burning gasoline and thick oil, occasionally interspersed with the harsh tang of ozone. It is here that miracles are performed; as Aleksandr and Jorn arrive, they're witness to a lone Priest raising an entire Chimaera Transport on its side with only the assistance of his implanted servitor arm, mechadendrites lovingly caressing the undercarriage of the noble machine; servo-skulls fill the air with the faint 'whum' of their grav-impellers, the flutter of feathers and squawks of message-carrying Cherubs adding to the constant din of whirring machinery and clanging metal.

Before long, however, Aleksandr sees what he's looking for: far from the maintenance pits and the testing ranges of plasma weaponry lie the quarters of junior adepts, those deemed unfit to work with the higher order of machine spirits and their physical shells. These men and women busy themselves cleaning back-up treads and tires, endlessly packaging las-packs, or chiding malfunctioning servitors in binary. One immediately draws the eye; off by himself under a limp awning, the man is crosslegged and carefully assembling lasguns with his augmetic hands, murmuring the Litany of the Lasgun over each before placing it to his left in a steadily growing pile. His tone is somber, and his posture hunched as he carries on his thankless task. "You being the eight hundredth and seventy third of your brothers, bring the Light of the Omnissiah to his enemies." The gun was placed delicately on the pile before he reached for the next. The score of crates left to assemble likely meant that this task would take days of his time, if not weeks.

[ArcturusV]

Five minutes later

"My mind bears a great burden!" was said with all the theatrics that Aleksandr could drum up as he entered the armory tent. He had a smile on his face as he gave the chief Cogger in charge of inventory of the Techie Armory a bow and flashed the Cogger at the guy. "Knowledge to be delivered to its proper guardians."

He strode in, not too afraid of the creepy metal men... after all he was a creepy witch man. At some point there is a brotherhood in creepiness, or at least a mutual respect. He loved seeing how people flinched when he uttered that opening line. Most who were smart would realize if that actually was the case, Jorn would pop Aleksandr like a grape... it is the solemn duty of all guardsmen assigned to a Psyker after all.

Still, he loved when people ducked for cover, and laughed his ass off at them.

He pulled out his Data-Slate, with the notes he had taken on the mission briefing pulled up. The very brief notes that gave away none of the mission particulars (Not that he really had them anyway), highlight "Unknown Machine Spirits" in flashing bold letters for the Tech-Priest. "I have a mission coming up. I thought you might be interested in helping me make sure I return with my objectives intact..." like throwing out Chum for the Miral Land Sharks... Unknown Machine Spirits is blood in the mental waters of any Tech-Priest worth the mantle after all. "My unit lacks some heavy support firepower, that could be critical to the success of our mission. I had been pondering if the Omnissiah might be willing to lend the might of his militant spirits to our cause... thinking something like the Fully Automatic Gigajoule Range, eh? That might also provide cover to its operator, be hauled by beast back, and keep the barbarians of techno-savagery away? Something like that fall off the Cargo Servitor anytime recently?"

[RivlisDrake]

Dayfyd and Malakai try to cut to the supply tent as quickly as possible to restock on power packs (the one part of soldiering that Dayfyd hates is the range, it's embarrassing being so bad at it).

[TechnoScrabble]

"If you would be willing to hear them, ma'am," Dimes nods slowly. "The Schola dictates greater efficiency results in greater returns of gear and fighting units. To that end, I'd like to request smoke grenades and a monoknife with bayonet mountings, if one's available. Any spare wire or chemical heater elements would also be appreciated, and used or damaged goods on that part will do just fine."

Aodh's trying to keep his requests on the cheap side, hoping Vance's higher rank could help acquire the more restricted items.

[LeSwordfish]

Vance leans on the counter. "Wouldn't call these requests "Supplementary" as such ma'am, seem entirely necessary to me. Commissar himself approved them, but he's a busy man, don't take kindly to being chased down with chit and signin' pen."

He made sure his sargeant's pins were visible.

[Vexing]

As Dayfyd and his companion negotiate (and receive) replacement power packs from one of the numerous clerks in the background, Vedlana's eyes seem to bore into a point just behind Vance's own skull. "If the little man wants to come down here and make his requests, he can make some time between shouting and smirking to do so. He's not too busy to come down here and sign off on gear, like the rest of us mortals." Turning to her ledger, she breaks the seal on the chit and begins to cross reference supply numbers and the Regiment's designation, by squad. During that time she hears out the Sergeant's requests and the Stormtrooper's additions. While she out-and-out refuses most of the requests, some bear fruit:

"We're lousy with wire; it's blocking up too much space as it is, and the Irsat boys keep hollering for more. Take it." Five spools of wire, each with a ten meter length, are withdrawn from the Depot.

"Hotshots? Hivers use them. I'll see if we have some spares." A full complement, two hotshot packs per squad member, join the wire spools.

"If you really need another blade, here. But they don't grow on trees, you know." A single knife is produced from a crate of its brethren by a servitor and delicately placed atop the hotshot packs.

Finally finished, she shouts a series of binary commands to a hulking Ogryn-servitor, who disappears into the depths of the structure. Emerging some minutes later, three heavy crates are deposited in front of the group. "Take them and get a move on. Next!" It appears that the regiment got something after all, one of the rare miracles of the Departmento Munitorum. The crates seem delightfully heavy, promising a bevy of equipment.

The vast majority of the adepts continue about their business, only a few bored expressions being thrown Aleksandr's way. Unfortunately, the process of becoming a Tech Adept seemed to have left them without a shred of awe at the psyker's presence, perhaps bolstered by their own understanding of the Materium's mysteries and the Omnissiah's grace. One, however, speaks up from where he is fine-tuning a cracked auspex, his high-pitched voice not quite carrying over the awful din. "And why should we supply anything, mutant? Surely Command has already tended to your needs? All you appear to be offering is knowledge of the Known, that these worms possess ancient technologies and forgotten patterns."

"Why should we provide you with aught?" He looks up from his work, oil-stained features hawkish and pale, awaiting his answer. To his far left, the adept sorting guns completes the eight hundredth and seventy-third lasgun as he also awaits the response.

[ArcturusV]

Data-Slates were true marvels of the Omnissiah. While some used them merely to display a single picture, or a single text, they were quite versatile. Aleksandr made a big show of turning it up so that a small little docking port of holy Machine Spirit Communion was facing the Tech Adept. "... because knowing about something... and having the Machine Spirit impart its secrets to a handy device that you may access... is an entirely different thing, wouldn't you say?" Aleksandr gave a smile.

Jorn meanwhile, looked confused, and seemed to be counting on his fingers as he tried to follow along with what the little 'uns were saying, muttering something like "Two divide by pie carry the trout... uh... whot?"

[TechnoScrabble]

While outwardly silent, Aodh thinks a number of small curses at the lack of smoke grenades, but his face remains sharply blank, par for the course. He nods and mutters a short prayer over the gear, honouring the Emperor and Saint Redundance of the Ministorum, then the Emperor again.

"Saints smile on you, ma'am. If there's a chance you have any tasks needing my help, please, let me know. You'd be surprised at the abysmal amounts of free time I get here, and I'm sure there's something you can find that could use the Schola's touch."

He hefts up the gear, staunchly refusing to let the Sergeant do the manual labour here, and turns his head over his shoulder to Vedlana. Despite the weight of the gear on his arms, he still manages to gesticulate with his hands while speaking, bits of spire heritage holding through even after years in the Schola Progenia.

"Oh, and I know you're busy, but if, by any chance, you happen across a spare triplex pattern, could you save it for me? I'd like to standardize further with my squad, if it's possible."

[LeSwordfish]

"Let me help you with that." Vance offered, not moving a muscle. "Lewis, help the storm-boy."

When they'd carted the larger boxes away, he pulled his knife from an inside pocket and started to lever them open. "Who wants to bet me a pack of smokes this won't be any use?"

[Vexing]

As Vance's knife loosens the last of the nails holding the lid, it pops off with a wooden groan of displeasure. What is inside is nothing short of awe-inspiring. In the first crate lies an ancient hailer, festooned with purity seals and etched with grammatical symbols noting the aged machines service in past campaigns. Even to the least tech-savvy of those present it appears to have been built with the layman in mind, allowing even the dullest Guardsmen the capability to execute complex vox-signalling, including use of the device as a transmission node and amplifier for other hailers. Individually wrapped in yet more purity seals are a series of mortar rounds, carefully stacked beneath the hailer with shock-resistant foam and sawdust further insulating them.

The squad may be unimportant, but their mission clearly is not--and two more crates remain! Just how much enemy resistance does Command expect?

"...Hm. Unimportant, but it does bring something else to mind." Gesturing to the gunsmith, the taller of the two attentive Adepts steps forward. The gunsmith, for his part, begins digging about in a larger crate, slowly assembling a las-weapon of tremendous size. "The mysteries of the machine spirits that the Severan Dominate pawns wield are beyond my scope and my brothers. However, you and yours are likely being assigned to the frontline. You wear the uniform of the mounted regiments, do you not? With their strange vat-beasts?" Behind him, a Mk41 Multilaser slowly takes shape. "We will provide you with a noble weapon to aid your task. I have a simple request in exchange."

"See to it that you use your influence, however minor, to have Tech-Adepts Zevarth and Hort assigned to your unit. In the field, we can hope for greater advancement and further research. Fail to uphold your end of the bargain, and I will personally see to it that you are cursed and reviled by your lasgun." Reaching behind him, Adept Zevarth takes the Multilaser from Hort and holds it out to the Psyker unassisted; his great strength must come from the potentia coil or synthesized muscle worked into his thin frame, to perform such a feat. "Do we have an accord?"

[Dekana]

Argos stares at the hailer in awe, but is much to afraid to lay hands on it (not that anyone would want to see it in clumsy ogre hands).

"Wow... Lookit all dem pretty markings. Whatsit do?"

This is mostly a heartbeat post to show I'm still here. :smallredface: This weekend's been even crazier than the last - funny I how can usually post more on weekdays.

[RivlisDrake]

Dayfyd's eyes widen as he looks over and sees what they managed to find. With a look to Vance he begins to lever another of the crates open, curious as to what else they might find is being sent with them on their ride.

then he stops and grins, looking around, "Any wagers?"

[TechnoScrabble]

"I don't gamble on blessings," Aodh says, fitting his new knife to his hellgun's bayonet lug and sliding the sheath over it, "Command can roll their dice, but I'll place mine in the hands of the Emperor, thank you. Now, I'm going to make my way to visit our good friends on the other side of the camp, then make my last few prayers at the 'chapel'. Anyone's welcome to come."

With that, he gathers up his hotshot packs and makes his way over to the squad's tent to get himself changed into his armour, glad to finally be rid of that damned floppy hat, even temporarily, and secures the lock on his trunk. All said and done, he sets off for the Irsat Parcel, hellgun slung over the shoulder, helmet tucked under one arm, head on a swivel as always.

[RivlisDrake]

"Well the Toy Soldier is boring," Dayfyd comments as Dimes leaves earshot. "Anyone else?"

"Power sabers!" Malakai declares eagerly, pulling the pack of lhos out of the strap on his hat.

[LeSwordfish]

"I'll be boring and optimistic and say something to fire these with." Vance said, tapping one of the mortar shells.

[ArcturusV]

Aleksandr stroked his chin slowly as he heard the counter offer. Seemed strange that the Tech-Priests didn't jump on the idea of Machine Spirits to study like a Recently Minted Schola Graduate on a Teenage Beauty Queen. He swore that normally you could hear drool shorting out their voxes over things like that.

His eyes glanced up towards Jorn, then back to the M41 being hefted up, "I can most likely help arrange such an assignment in a few weeks. Time is short now and I'm..." he looked at a blank wrist where a chrono might be, "about 10 ticks from leaving. If you can keep a lid on things here, I can arrange to have you assigned in support of our unit next inspection." When was inspections? Well, probably quite routinely, and it was when personnel and equipment were rotated in, making it a natural time for such a swap, "Names will find their ways to the right places." Being the unit's Comms Officer did have some hidden benefits, after all...

"If we're good now, my rather large friend here is quite the adept pack mule," he gestured with his staff towards Jorn, who took a step up and sized up the metal man. There was a dull look on his face, as he tried to decide between picking up the heavy weapon and lugging it around for Aleksandr, or if he was going to get into another thumpin' contest. Thumpin' was fun. Metal men made these neat crunching noises.

[Vexing]

As the two remaining crates fall prey to prying knives and eyes alike, it becomes all the better that no one took up Dayfyd on his wagers. No power sabres lie in either box; indeed, no melee weapons of any description. In their stead are true wonders:

The next crate opened immediately fills the air with the harsh aroma of machine lubricant, scrunching noses and bringing tears to unwary eyes. Wrapped loosely in oily rags and leftover uniform scraps is the imposing outline of a mortar and its tripod. Weapon-jocks and powder heads might recognize the blocky outline of the Accatran IX, commonly referred to as the 'Barker' for the distinct sound made when its full clip discharges all at once. Currently dormant, the thick square-set housing of the weapon's machine-spirit is welded firmly to the firing barrel; beloved of the common trooper for its ability to provide split-second firing support while remaining easily portable, the noble mortar lies in three quickly assembled pieces--tripod mounting, base-plate, and the firing tube all wait serenely to be assembled for combat.

While this potent equalizer is kept all to itself, the second crate is a confusion of weaponry and combat essentials. While each item would have been an impressive contribution on their own to the new squad, their impact is overshadowed by the presence of the vox-operated mortar and the caster itself. A stubby static generator wrapped in crude steel sheets is nestled against a pair of readied demolition charges; in a layer of sawdust and foam insulation is a pre-set digital chrono, six phials of purified Stimm, and a 'Calixian Infantryman's Signaler's Device', an up-town name for the simple flare gun it was. Perhaps many centuries old (if not older), the fat pistol has one shell set next to it amongst the wood shavings, and a series of notches mar the grip. Perhaps kill markers from a Guardsman with more gunlust than brains? The Signaler's Device does seem to have an unfamiliar pattern as compared to the ones used in training back on Ledos Prime.

Not more than a minute after the third unboxing, Aleksandr and Jorn arrive; the Psyker seems inordinately pleased with himself, and it would be foolish to blame him. His Ogryn companion totes a gleaming Multilaser and a grin wider than a Chimaera's tread. The pair amble up to the rest of the squad just as Vance straps the chrono to his wrist, in time to see the rest of the assorted riches for their upcoming assignment.

Within moments, Dimes the 'Toy Soldier' has been swallowed by the warren of the hive-worlder's parcel. Tents are haphazardly leaned against each other, often strung along a neighbor's supports to remain standing; uniforms in various states of cleanliness hang out on tent poles and as makeshift doorways alike, while most of the Irsat troopers laze about dressed down to the barest bones of what constitutes clothes to stand the heat. Rolled up trousers and jerkins with cut sleeves are the order of the day for the 341st, without exception. It's a maze of lho-smoke and Tarot games set atop ammo crates, alleys made with spare cloth for shady ceilings and partially-collapsed tents with what can only be described as "unlawful fraternization" being advertised by the more economically minded troopers. In short, it's a wonder that Ancil (or indeed, any officer) hasn't yet cleaned this place out with bolt pistol and a pocket flamer.

Every step taken by the Stormtrooper draws another pair of curious eyes, and it isn't long before he has a small crowd of smirking troopers tagging along a few meters behind him. Murmured vulgarities and bets over what a Schola attaché to the Ledian regiment could possibly want hear soon bubble through the cheerful din of the Irsat Parcel. His keen eyes spot more than a few men and women turning their industriousness towards weapon modifications rather than fleecing their brethren, the ubiquitous target of their labor being vicious chainswords and chain-knives.

Well into the belly of the beast, he is finally stopped by a young hiver barring his path. A broad grin spreads across the boy's pimpled face, thin arms folded across his chest as he peers up at Dimes. The lad can't be more than nineteen years old at the most, doubtless a fresh recruit to bolster the Irsat's numbers for the Viklanos campaign. "Looks like you might be lost, Sir! No stables or ****houses around here." His voice breaks partway through, but the sudden change in pitch doesn't break his smile. "I'm Mayl. Thinkin' if you want to find a way out, I would show you for a few lhos."

"Or that pretty helmet." Laughter echoes about the slowly building crowd. Sassing a Stormtrooper may not be very smart, but it makes for good entertainment.

[TechnoScrabble]

"Male?" Aodh asks, raising an eyebrow, "Could've fooled me."

He walks around the kid, making a show of being slow and deliberate about it.

"You might want to lay off those Ihos until you've got full sized lungs, friend. It'll help with the ladies. Or the orks, I won't ask your preference."

He walks up to one of the 'workshops', watching their work, comparing it to his own modifications, and nodding slowly, ignoring the glares and hungry gazes cast his way and only letting his own steely eyes meet with people who make an effort of making eye contact. Hivers were no different than any other pack scavengers, averting your eyes meant you were weak, but a passive watch made you a sabrewolf among coyotes.

After a bit of silence, he speaks.

"So, raise your hands if you're pretty sure half of command hasn't even read the Tactica Imperialis. Anyone else? Just me? No?"

[Dekana]

Argos looks a little puzzled by the second box, not able to imagine how the pieces of the mortar fit together. The bombs in the third box light up his imagination, but wouldn't even begin to know how to set them off.

No, the real winner in Argos's eyes is Jorn with his multilaser. He rushes over to the ogryn and gawks over his new toy. "Hey, that look killy! Looks like it shoots, yeah? But it so big, maybe you try smash the baddies with it?"

If asked to help carry any of the new equipment, Argos certainly won't object. The little 'uns look like they have enough trouble with their standard gear as it is.

[RivlisDrake]

"Is anyone going to know how to load and run this thing?" Dayfyd asks, pointing at the mortar suspiciously. "Or are we being taken out behind the woodshed with this?"

[Vexing]

As the sun climbs to its zenith and the heat begins to hammer down, the parade ground begins to fill with green Ledian troopers performing unmounted maneuvers. A few admiring eyes of these folk fall on the wealth of wargear afforded to the lucky 13th squad, but this is hardly the place to flaunt your good fortune. Mounts need to be tended to and final preparations made before what will likely be a long night.

Is there anything in particular that y'all would like to take care of? If not, I'll just assume that your preparations are well and made! Starting tomorrow I'll be firing responses to the recruitment thread; been too busy since my last post to attend to it, aside from scant posts to the forums.

Mayl sneers and draws himself to his full height, cheeks burning as the crowd slowly disperses. If it had been humor Dimes was shooting for, he failed to hit his mark. The vast majority of the onlookers seem to either be disappointed that the Stormtrooper won't take the obvious bait, or perhaps are worried that he's another of Ancil's lackey's here to finger the next targets for questioning. "What do you want?", the boy stammers as best he can without seeming too on edge. His eyes are murderous.

"Yeah, what do you want? It's too hot to beat 'round the ventilator." An elderly trooper with the tell-tale, faraway gaze of an obscura addict asks this next question, putting the finishing touches on a chainsword grip. He hands it off to a waiting specialist, who places a half-pack of lhos alongside a small pile of similar offerings; more lhos, nutrient cubes, and even charge packs. "Mayl, play nice. They'll hang you if you touch him."

[TechnoScrabble]

"You think I'd report the kid for a little rough-housing?" Dimes asks, "We need every one of us we've got out here. Mayl wants a go at me, he can meet me at the range sometime. Right now, I've got business."

He sighs and cracks his neck, trying to get out the kink he's had ever since the ride. No luck yet.

"My squad's been given a job better suited for infantry. I don't doubt we'll do just fine, but I'd like to see as many of the little guys get back home as possible. I'm here with some of what I haven't had to sign for to help make sure of that. I'm looking for area denial gear, maybe some anti-armour if you have it. Mines, pipes and springs for making mines, screamers, that sort of business. I've also got some personal requests, wouldn't mind borrowing a mono-sharpener if you've got one, or trading for a chain-knife. That'd be pretty, eh? Whirring little death machine lugged onto the end of my weapon? In return," he reaches back down towards his uniform's inner ankle pockets and tugs them out of his boots a bit, yanking out two iho-packs and the hotshot packs.

"Unsigned. I don't smoke, and my hellgun don't take a standard hotshot pack. I'd rather not be stuck turning these into grenades and hot-knives if I can trade for something meant for the job."

[Iron Warlord]

Malcolm scanned his eyes quickly over the parade ground looking for his new squad. His current situation was far from ideal not twenty minutes after a call goes out for the 13th squad to report to command he receives orders transferring him and 'the kid' to the 13th. 'The kid' was currently in her customary position, just over his left shoulder, waiting for him to tell her what to do next. It was perhaps unfair to refer to her as 'the kid', which was why he only ever called her that in his head, after all she was only three years younger than Malcolm, but the way she followed him around like he was her big brother made her seem so much younger. Malcolm had first met Trooper Isabella Chance a week after she had joined the regiment. At the time he hadn't known her name, only that she had found herself on the wrong side of a group of thugs that thought of themselves as real badasses, and liked to prove it by roughing up new recruits. Malcolm had stepped in and stopped the situation from getting violent and ever since 'the kid' had felt like she owed him. When she had been assigned to his squad three days later she had taken it as a sign and had hardly left his side since. Now they were being transferred, together, just like the last three times, to a new squad that was leaving on an extended mission that very day. Malcolm finally spotted Sergeant Vance and a small group that included a couple others he recognized as being part of the 13th squad.

"Well Izzy, looks like we should go make our introductions." Malcolm says as he leads the way toward the group. Malcolm doesn't need to look back to know she's nodding her agreement. "Sergeant Vance?" Malcolm asks as he pulls their orders from his pocket "Troopers Cole and Chance reporting, we've been transferred to your squad, effective immediately."​ He explains as he hands over the orders.

[RivlisDrake]

"Transfers, already?" Dayfyd murmurs, taking up one side of the crate containing the mortar. "We haven't even lost anyone yet."

"Aye," Malakai agrees. "But one of them is easy enough on the eyes that I don't mind."

[Vexing]

The orders have the stamp of Command, but the instructions are bizarre. For the two troopers, Vance is expected to trade both Priestess Vestis and Specialist Halstead, to be redistributed to "theatres more suited for their unique skills". With any luck, it was just a clerical error, but until one could be sure...better to play it safe.

The business of repacking the crates can be taken care of without fanfare, leaving the two Ogryn to best split the burden between their titanic frames. And while no one has specific knowledge relating to a mortar, its attendant spirit may well make up the difference.

With a noncommittal grunt, the man sweeps up the smokables, breaking their pasted seals to sniff at their contents. Satisfied, he places both the manhandled lho-packs to his side and looks up at Dimes. At least, the Trooper assumes those vacant brown eyes are fixed on him, rather than somewhere beyond him. "For these I can sharpen something up no problem. But anti-armour? Or anything with teeth? Those don't grow on trees, or in crates neither."

"Got anything else to offer? I have some accordion wire leftover from a fortification that my boy Will paid to me. For these packs I could let a spool or two go, but", the addict smiles with eerily white teeth (for a smoker), "you mentioned mines. I got mines. Grenades. Let's talk it over, nice and easy. Got all day." Leaning back on his skinny arms and gnarled hands, the elderly trooper keeps on smiling that dazed smile, waiting dreamily on his response.

[TechnoScrabble]

"I've got three unsigned hotshot packs that don't fit my gear, at least none I actually make use of, a few more packs of ihos in my tent, and I'm willing to do some work when I get back, teach some of the Schola's tricks. In case you haven't seen me at the range, here's some more...solid products," Aodh looks around and shows the man his hellgun, "Notice how the grip's molding has been fitted better to my hand through a careful heating and reshapinng, followed by some careful filing to make sure it retains the structure's strength. The trigger's still within Inquisition variance control, but if I had my little bunkmate here plugged in, you'd get a burst here, instead of here. Some people prefer that over the pressure on the way back after sliding the second safety, in a solid projectile longarm it could cause increased recoil issues, but you don't slamfire lasers so it's all good here. And my personal pride," Dimes slides his backpack off and shows the man his personalized setup, taking the pack off of the straps and putting it back on in a short moment.

"Same attachments, but the harness was made sturdier and the connections had some parts added to make them twist when the two safeties here and here are pulled this way. This is all personal work, if you'd like, I can bring back some more with what I find in the field when reacquiring the rightful property of His Illustrious Imperial Guard."

He looks around, eyeing some of the tents a bit warily, then checks the sun and his simple chrono.

"Aaaand, eh, not my first choice, but I've got some time before I'm needed, so if anyone here is itching for an 'Inquisitorial Insertion Team' to thoroughly check them, I'll take my friends living over my dignity. Wouldn't be the worst thing I've done to make sure someone got their gear situated, and they didn't call me 'Dimes' because I couldn't hit small targets, that's for damn sure."

[LeSwordfish]

"Ours not to reason why." Vance said, folding the transfer order. "Lewis, deal with it."

He turned to see the new troopers arriving and gave them a long look. Eventually he held his hand out to shake, using his other to remove his pipe from his mouth- a singular honor, the other men in his squad would notice.

"Sargeant Vance. Cole and Chance, eh?" He nodded, thoughtfully. "Either of you trained in the use of a mortar? Seems command's given us something big and loud that we don't know how to use."

He'd never been one to stand on ceremony.

[Vexing]

Clucking his tongue idly in that quietly irritating way every elder stumbles upon at some point in their waning years, the addict adds a lazy shake of the head to the already negative clucking. Evidently he was serious.

"Ehhh...I don't think so. I like the work just fine, and I'm sure it's gonna be kind to you. But it's not a patch on what I or Blind Gilly or Gord already do for my boys and girls 'round here. Fancy, though. I trades on things I can touch, feel, or pawn off to the next bunch of greenboots going over and out; I can't make swap on future carving-work in exchange for my mines or wire. That's not how things really work around here, at least if I'm going to be dipping into my private supply. Man has to make ends meet, after all."

Eying Dimes up and down, he once more clucks his tongue. Very serious indeed, it seemed to say. "And I'd rather you not get lost in anyone's foxhole feet first for payment neither. Them isn't my racket, they ain't my boys nor my girls, and it'd be a shame for you to keel over out in the heat with a case of crotch rot or lover's itch, if you're so keen to make deals. Seem more like a bottom anyhow", he adds offhandedly.

"Halin doesn't trade on the future nor things unseen, nor bedding no-one neither, no sir! Bring me guns, bring me ammo, bring me bits and bobs and we can talk about it again. All cards on the table, now? I have some wire, and I've got shredder mines, and I've even got some of what goes bump in the night." He smirks that clean smile again. "Trigger, Spook. Whatever you want to call it. Now are you gonna to offer me something with teeth? Or are you gonna walk on out of here and stop wasting my morning, hm?"

[TechnoScrabble]

"If hotshot charge packs and ihos aren't your style, I'm not all sure what I can do. Got some wire from the armory, but I'll be needing most of that. You seem friendly enough, but I won't stick my neck out and hand off signed gear just yet. The Inquisition doesn't exactly hand me a pay stub for seeing these lads and ladies through to the next day," Dimes is fairly disappointed, but he tries not to let it sound, "And it's not my place to barge in asking for one."

[blacklight101]

"I swear, they're trying to get us killed, shipping us to the front like this," Aleksandr moans to Tristan as they see the group they were to hook up with, "and with your luck, it might just happen this time, too." He slaps Tristan's shoulder, making sure he understood the last part was just in jest.

"Maybe they are, though." Tristan says it more to himself than his comrade, all while he pulls the Aquila medallion out from his pocket and starting to mumble a few prayers that the Emperor might not let him die just yet.

The pair of them half march, half jog to the squad's rally point just in time to see the new boxes of kit being cracked open. Falling in at the back of the already assembled group, Tristan seems to want to wait on being noticed rather than making a racket and introducing themselves. Alek knows the "unlucky" one has a tendency to be quiet, so he speaks up. "Specialists Volkov and Alverii reporting in, sir!" This paired with a sharp salute from both of them hopefully wont make them look like boots fresh out of basic training. Tristan hands over their transfer papers if they are asked for.

[Vexing]

"Well. Damn shame." He chuckles and shrugs, gesturing to the offerings Dimes has already laid at his workspace. "Tell you what, trooper. The charges and the smokes are worth the wire spools. Least for now. How about I give you those, and if you ever change your mind, you just ask for me. 'Halin', alright? Word around the camp is that we'll all be moving out after your lot anyway, so we'll be seeing you soon enough." That gleaming smile flashes again, and lho-stained hand extended. "Shake on it."

It only takes a few minutes for the addict to pull shining spools of accordion wire from his tent (or someone's tent), pre-loaded in black plastic casing cylinders; after dithering over the precise value of the ammunition and smokes, and with more head-shaking and bemoaning his "generous heart", Halin parts with four twenty-meter lengths of the stuff. All in all, between Mayl's posturing and bartering with Halin, the Schola Progenium graduate has spent less than an hour in the Irsat parcel. By the time he returns to the parade ground, he would notice that the priestess and one of the weapon specialists (along with their supporting comrades) had been replaced by fresh faces...

The latest of which has arrived! Another set of transfer papers are swiftly handed over to the Sergeant; queerly, they specify that Specialist Volkov and his attendant (no name provided in the orders) are to be transferred in exchange for reconnaissance specialist Heren Kite--a trooper not assigned to your squad in the first place. In addition, a post-script neatly penciled into the margins advises that "Specialist Volkov is to be accompanied at any given point by devout troopers, or given low-priority assignments until his worth can be assessed. Previously disciplined for questioning authority" Still, the additional pair of spears and the hands to wield them can't be devalued, especially now that the 13th Squad will be back up to its full strength on paper.

The arrival of the 13th's Stormtrooper attaché rounds out the squad for the first time today since meeting in the command tent, with an abundance of gear to boot. Not much could be done now except wait for sunset and the night's ride.

[LeSwordfish]

"Specialist Volkov?" Vance said, giving the new meat a long questioning look from somewhere between bushy eyebrow and bushy mustache. "Seems we'll be needing three devout men to keep an eye on you, according to this." He tapped the paper with his pipe, not really bothering to consider if he was allowed to inform Volkov of this instruction. "Let's hope we've got them, aye? Put your mitt down, Lewis, I weren't asking for volunteers."

He screwed his pipe back into his mouth. "Anything we should know, Volkov?"

[blacklight101]

"It was no more than a simple... misunderstanding, sir." He seems to be mostly truthful about the circumstances, but there does feel as if something was being held in that slight pause. He shifts his weight to his other foot, flamethrower sloshing quietly for a moment or two. "Transfered from Third Company, Second Platoon, C Squad. I was only told you would need a Torch on the front." As Alek says 'Torch', he pats the big fuel canister on his back.

[LeSwordfish]

Vance raised an eyebrow- it seemed to indicate that this wasn't over- but let the change of subject stand. "'Pparently we do. I needn't ask you if you know how to use that mortar?"

[blacklight101]

He looked at the mortar in the crate, knowing almost nothing about how to use one properly. Use, yes, but using it properly was entirely something else. "No, sir. My aptitude is with the cleansing fire of the Emperor." He hopes the sarge doesnt find out about his past... exploits and why he was stuck with a big, explosive tank strapped on his back. Not that there were a few in 2nd platoon that were there when it happened or anything.

[Vexing]

Pleasantries exchanged, inquiries launched and dodged in turn, the two newcomers settle uncomfortably into their new role as fellow members of the 13th Squad; the rest of the day passes without further interference from Command or much interaction of any kind, the rest of the Ledians diligently preparing for their various mission assignments. When the silver-white sun of Viklanos slinks below the dusty horizon, like a electrum-coated Throne vanishing into a merchant's purse, the agri-worlders are all saddled and ready to ride out. The most activity Camp Theta has seen since its inception, the milling about of genwyr claws and the thick leather boots issued to the new regiment soon raise a cloud of choking grit that refuses to dispel even as the heat of the day bleeds down to a gentle warmth. What little good could be said of it was that it kept the various nasty and invasive examples of insect life at bay.

Finally, the pathetically small moon rises and casts its own imitation of daylight--and the regiment moves out en masse, spreading out from the camp like a dark stain on the grasslands. Among the first to leave, the 13th blazes their own path to the east in keeping with the orders from Command. In minutes, all that can be seen of their brothers and sisters in arms is the dust trails, and soon even those vanish behind the gentle swelling hillocks and scattered boulders, devoured by distance. That first night passes in silence, for the most part. Finally abroad and alone in the first alien world many of the 13th had set foot on, no words seemed adequate to fill the endless space between the sea of grasses and the stars above, and so only the grunts and rumbles of their mounts compete for attention.

It sets the tone, certainly. The first five days pass in much the same way, one blurring into another quickly. Camping during the day to avoid the worst of the heat only to ride out at sunset proves an interesting change, and wide yawns accompany lidded eyes for most on those early treks. Everyone is soon stained red with Viklanos' dirt, worked deeply into skin and fabric alike by the rigors of saddlework, creeping insidiously into sweaty hatbands and boots; the night cycle, while more forgiving, is still terribly hot and could be easily likened to breathing through a thick, damp sock. Not another soul, Imperial or Dominate, darkens the horizon or springs from the occasional small gorges that peek out like grinning maws in the moonlight; keen eyes might while away the endless kilometers by stargazing, creating constellations for the amusement of the squad or excitedly drawing the eye towards objects too bright to be mere balls of gas hanging in the Void--navy warships and other debris, hovering in orbit over the massive planet. While not as robust as the wildlife of their homeworld, each trooper soon becomes intimately familiar with the wildlife of the plains. Stinging flies, a peculiar arthropod with a claw-tipped tail, and piping cries of flying lifeforms that seem too thin and angular to be comfortable, even at a great distance from their wheeling flocks, all make their appearances over and around daytime camps.

Making time exactly as projected by their orders, the entire journey might have passed without incident. Hiding from the glaring eye of the sun by day and stealing forth by night, almost a third of the journey was completed without complication either real or imagined. Of course, like all military operations, this wonderful spate of boredom and easy progress was not to last.

The inverted 'dawn' of their sixth day out begins at moonrise. Grazing genwyr are resaddled and coaxed into their kilometer-eating trot, wargear is repacked and distributed amongst the group for ease of transport, the same as every night preceding. Almost halfway through the day's expected march, however, something seems to pique the interest of their simple-minded mounts. Great tongues test the air and harsh snorts follow, soon leading to a concert of the beasts voiced disapproval. They aren't the only fauna offended by the unseen event; the biting pests that dogged the 13th's every step seemed to have vanished at some point during the trip, the now-familiar rustling of timid mammalian forms in the long grass conspicuously absent. Before long, even human noses can detect the scent of burning oil, smoking vegetation, and scorched metal long before the squad's eyes pick out a faint glow across the plains. It leads a little out of their way to the west, but some great misfortune seems to have befallen someone, at any rate. The blaze (it had to be a fire, or fires) must be large enough to be seen at such a distance, rough estimation placing it at least two klicks out from their current location.

All that remained was what to do from here. To scout out the disturbance, or to carry on into the night and hope any potential threat passed them by?

[blacklight101]

Riding at night. Again. While a nice escape from the heat of the day and most of the insects, you couldn't see much of anything. Until the sixth day, there was a scent of burnt metal- among other things less metallic- to the night air. Alek turns to Tristan, speaking quietly, "Think they're going to make us have a look? Smells to me like somebody had some fun tonight. Might be a deathtrap too."

Tristan answers just as quietly, "Knowing my luck? Of course they'll make us go look. Gak, this is probably a suicide mission anyway."

"Has that feeling, doesn't it?" Alek leaves it at that, not wanting anyone to overhear. The two of them go back to watching the glow and waiting on orders.

[Dekana]

Argos steers his genwyr toward the glow in the distance. "Purdy," he says in awe. "Can we go look?" He's long since forgot what the group's orders are, and burning wrecks would at least be a source of excitement.

[LeSwordfish]

"You guess correctly, new meat." Vance said. "We're going to mosey on over, see if there's anything we can do to help. We're not wasting time or bodies on this, though- if it gets heavy, pull out, meet back up here. Lewis, call command, tell'em what we're up to."

[blacklight101]

"Hey Tris, sounds like you're right. We get to go look at the pretty glow in the distance," while a poor excuse for humor, it's all he had right now. "Eh, maybe we'll get to burn a few of them before the night's out, could be worse. For a death sentence."

"Gak, but it's still a death sentence. Now we have life in the Guard for the gak Davies started in that bar." Tris frets a bit more, but says a few prayers to the Emperor and shuts up about his luck. For now.

Waiting for the rest to start moving towards the far-off fires, they start to check their gear before what might be a fight.

[RivlisDrake]

"Might see some action before we thought," Malakai grins, adjusting a strap and practically twitching in his saddle to move forward.

"Carefully now," Dayfyd replies, meticulously checking his own wargear before leaning over and helping Malakai. "Don't want to be running into nothing we can't handle without the rest."

[Iron Warlord]

"I'm surprised it's taken this long to come across any sign of enemy activity." Malcolm mused quietly to Izzy. "We're deep in enemy territory, but we haven't seen hide nor hair of them for days."

"Well that's hardly something to complain about Mal. The longer we go without seeing the enemy the longer we all stay in one piece." Izzy countered.

"Still makes me uneasy, it shouldn't be this quiet. Keep your eyes open and your weapon close at hand." To illustrate his point Malcolm double checked the charge level on his laspistol and pulled his spear from its slot on his saddle.

[blacklight101]

Rubbing his forehead and thinking quietly to himself, Gak, I hate it when I'm sort of right. He didn't want to get shot at, but he wanted to set some heretics on fire. There just isn't any winning in the Guard.

[TechnoScrabble]

Aodh's greetings to the newcomers are short, terse. He's all business now, shadows crawling over his face as the day's light comes and goes, rations eaten in bits over the day to keep his metabolism on a slow roll, subtle pointers given here and there to the other squadmates, stinging and biting bugs suffered silently. Hygiene is performed every other day while mounted, a knife used to shave, armor coming off in bits and pieces to allow him to wipe down one limb at a time with a wet cloth. Too clean and you won't blend in, too dirt and they'll smell you coming. Every sunrise and every sunset comes with a prayer and a cleaned rifle.

And then there's fire.

He pats his genweyr softly, rubs it between large, bug-nicked ear-holes. His nose flares. He rides up close to Vance, signalling him over for a word, "Sergeant, do we have any news of our patrols coming over this way? We have zero info on this otherwise, and we need a plan either way."