POST IX
GALIDRAAN FREE-STATE
OBJECTIVE 1: HELL FROZEN OVER
COMMONWEALTH FORCES:
Enedina Tal
Konrad Bolter
Major Bennett Hall
Tyrell Lockhart
Alais Kaun
ALLIES:
Irveric Tavlar
Tyrell Paxxus
Halketh
Julian Qar
FN-999
Gallius Orcana
Albrecht F. Herlock
Aerarii Tithe
Liza
Korum Krov
Himm'vaun'merek
Kaleleon
Ziroka
ENEMIES:
Kascalion Giedfield
Lirka Ka
Kyrel Ren
The Mongrel
Maestus
Khaostra Devoid
Chimera
UX-0626
Erskine's Loadout
Primary: Custom Blaster-Pistol (Right-hip Holster - left-or-right hand draw)
Secondary: Basket-Hilted Vibrosword Claymore (Left-hip Sheathe - right hand wielding)
Last Ditch/Second-Blade: Fairbairn Vibroknife (Right-hip Sheathe - right-or-left hand wielding)
Pocket-Weapons: Gifted Brass-Knuckles from the Guv'Nah (Both Trouser-Pockets - akimbo wielding)
Blue-Heart Brigade (Mechanized/Artillery/Infantry)
201 Repulsorlift Tanks
5 AT-ATs
12 AFVs
5 MLVs
1 Coy. Riflemen
3 Plat. Combat Engineers
1 Coy. Field-Medics
Support: Tal's Fighting-First Brigade (Mechanized/Artillery/Infantry)
220 Cataphract Tanks
20 AFVs
5 MLVs
5 Predator Launch-Platforms
1 Coy. Elite Guardsmen
1 Coy. Elite Engineers
The Stormchaser XI
The comm-link chatter would ring out from within the Saga, with Lockhart, Barran and Murdoch relaying messages everywhere; establishing perfect order and cohesion on their descent to the base of the trenchline mountain, the silent ones among them (like Kaun, Deaney and the gunner-loader duo) would listen intently to get the best lay of the land from the lions with the best insight. Tyrell, coordinating the Irregulars who waited beyond the corpses and machine-husks at the bottom, would establish a clear chain-of-command for increased cohesion; Murdoch, trying his hardest to keep the AFV vanguard in tight formation, would mutter an active series of concise warnings under-breath in the driver-cockpit's emergency co-driver seat, leaving Erskine to discuss whatever Situation-Reports Pencin and the other ACVs had for him along the way.
Cutting the comm-link chatter's low-humming hubbub like a knife, Tyrell would toss his comm-device to the floor, stating his intent to give his all with a metallic clatter that rang out as loud as the gesture in and of itself. Lockhart wouldn't be needing it for the last rescue of the outing, as all the Irregulars would be sneaking like their Free-State allies, approaching like thieves in the night as Devil One and the Stormchaser intended. There was also a do-or-die gesture to be seen in the Madman's casting aside of his only line of communication in the snow, indicating he wouldn't dare show face around the Saga if he somehow failed the Brigadier-General, that he would rather freeze to death than let his Galidraani comrades down.
'Ya know, ya hear a lot of things back home, about the cause, the fight, the men on the line. I never doubted it, never once. But, well, ah for feth's sake, what I'm tryin' to say is, it's a pleasure to be fightin' next to ya.'
With Lockhart gaining his undivided attention, and though his wording was limited to slang, Erskine understood exactly what the Devil One callsign was driving at; and though the Madman himself was autonomous within the Free-State, Barran knew that the Dunwall Irregulars would be somewhere much greater soon, especially with a man like Tyrell leading them as well as he had been before encountering the Saga. If Tyrell had been adopting anything other than a wildly aggressive stance at the time, the Stormchaser may well have just kept on ascending the mountain in ignorance, so the pleasure (though the Madman wouldn't know at the time) had been reciprocated from the moment the Lord-Commander's ACV opened the Sloane-door to swipe him from the hellscape of snow and destruction outside.
Whether it would become an honour or not, ever dancing on that proverbial knife's edge of excellence, would depend entirely on the outcome of the following hostilities and the look in Lockhart's eye was exactly what Barran wanted to see in the Devil of Dunwall's heart-of-hearts. The Brigadier-General would extend his hand in acquaintance as they puffed away on their cigars in silence, letting the others watch on as their hands met in the middle with curt nods of appreciation exchanged before breaking off again; Chiss would be seen running back up the hill, Stormtroopers would also be noticed making for the summit to evacuate like their blue-skinned allies, and the two cigar-smokers would still find something serene to enjoy in absolute contented wordlessness. Quite the sight to behold for all who could see it, and whether one would believe the Stormchaser and the Devil of Dunwall to be wicked, brave or pig-headed, none could deny that both men embodied the eternal archetype of fearlessness.
That's the right attitude, Devil One.... That's the sort of cut-throat I need for this task, no second-guessers here.
Only after Johnstone's sudden bursts of LMG-fire above was the Madman stirred from his meditative serenity, reminding him that he had whiskey of his own, another means of finding common-ground with the Free-State's warfighter-in-chief. Turning to the Stormchaser and passing his personal hipflask, Tyrell would kindly growl,
'Whiskey, straight from a still in Dunwall. Figured we might as well 'ave a taste of home before this last push.', in his coarse Moorlander accent, accepting Erskine's hipflask in exchange as the Lord-Commander opened the Dunwall-still rye with an almost dewy-eyed anticipation. Noticing that Lockhart was smiling with an upward-nodding encouragement to drink, Barran would proceed to enjoy a sip, a gulp, then a mouthful of the inebriating nectar of Dunwall as the city's Devil concluded,
'We'll get 'er back, or die tryin'. You asked for rogues, cutthroats, and tricksters, and by Galidraan, you got 'em. We're 'ere till the end.'
'Ne'er a truer word said, Devil One. An' if ye survive this frozen wonderland the-day, ah'll be havin' yer real name; the name ye were born wae, the name that bought yer ane commission, understand? Need ti track yer details so ah can set yer contingent up wae a redoubt on Archais.... This stuff is outstanding, though. Must be said-'
<"Blue-Heart Alpha, this is Expedient Four, the fiery bastard's got Enedina. We're in no shape to give chase sir, there's... three of us left. H-he said to meet him to the North, by the rocks. We're moving back down the line to pick up who we can and rally with Nines' men, out.">
Called it! I karking knew it an' guessed as much when Lady Enedina was declared MIA.... Wait a minute, was that a Woad accent?
'Kark that idea, Expedient Four! Just get yer erses off-planet an' regroup on Archais. You've done well enough to survive as it is, go the extra mile by living ti fight another day. We'll take it from here, clear instructions have been received so all you need to do is start climbing. Blue-Heart Alpha out!'
Silence of a contrastingly tense variety followed, with all eyes returning to the Lord-Commander for his final say on the matter, and the expression they all saw from multiple angles was one of smirking, poorly-concealed mirth; such that brought out a look of knowing concern from all the crewmen around the passengers, with none worrying quite as much as Murdoch was in that moment. The senior-crewman ground his teeth with rage before saying,
'Don't do it, Milord. Chit always hits the fan after you go off on yer tod! You know this, ah, know this! Wanty know how ah know? Of course ye don't but ah'm sayin' it anyway - you've got that mad Generis-look in yer eye again-'
'-Settle, petal! Ah'm bringin' oor passengers some o' the way.... Got a wee plan brewin', so stay close by the comm-link unit! Ah mean it, these movement orders could mean life or death, Murdo. Less worry, more warfighting!'
The Stormchaser XII
Breaking through at least two battle-lines to make it down to the bottom of the mountain, there was plenty warfare and firepower that was more conventional than the challenge they were only just about to take on, regular blaster rounds and slugs were ripping into the enemy ranks with rapidfire precision, and the people within the Saga had never been calmer, almost like they had become the eye of the storm itself. All but Corporal Johnstone were silent, reloading rifles, sharpening blades and checking energy-reserves as the mayhem erupted all around the ACV's armour plating that protected them, shielding the warriors as they waited patiently to reach the valley they were all expected to sneak their ways through.
Speaking up first, Murdoch would pass comment on what they were to expect, having studied the comm-link chatter between Enedina's units and the message sent to Erskine personally, the Woad-born Sergeant-Major knew there was more to their foe than the perceived ability to manipulate the environment around them, and had a raised eyebrow throughout the process that was visible enough to turn all eyes on him with piqued interest. Quick to notice this out the corner of his left eye, Murdo quickly turned to address the others, inhaling through his nostrils before saying,
'Our opponent is more than just a prolific arsonist, and more than a potential manipulator of the elements around him. To put it simply, our opponent - from what I've been able to ascertain, can wield and create fire with nought but the power generated in his hands.... Be careful out there, Milord. You're not fighting against liquid mercury this time, it's burning flames generated within split-seconds.'
'I swear, I've never called it so many times in a row- never mind.', the Lord-Commander groaned away to himself before turning to the former GA-Marshall. Exclaiming,
'Sloane-door! Let's go!', as he shared a grip with the Dunwall Irregulars' commander to stand him upright, Barran realised then that he had no need of anything more than the two heavy-hitters he had left to him, understanding (as he turned to face the level valley snowfields outside) that involving Nines and Julian may have brought on more risks than Barran had initially thought. Happy that his cyborg friend would be grateful for the Saga's inability to wait for Qar's return to the field, Lord Erskine would smirk as the snowfall billowed in through the opened Sloane-door, then he would run out without warning, with Alais and Tyrell jumping out right after him, allowing Murdoch to shut the door behind them as they ran off into the Csillan storms beyond.
When the Saga veered off to the right, Barran would wait for the engine's rumble to fade into silent, blizzard-muffled obscurity before making his next plan of action, only to be distracted by the rising corpses all around their position. Both Lockhart and Kaun were clearly new to the experience, readying themselves for the fight of a lifetime until Lord Erskine cut in with a simple,
'Stand down, it's only a parting gift from Lord Halketh.', as the concerned duo reluctantly assumed passive attitudes to the undead who began to walk northwards in their usual ignorance towards allies. Affording himself a fraction of the laughter he was known for, giving a reassuring chuckle as all the zombies walked past them, and though they were moving somewhat quicker than the Halketh-undead he'd known before, there was still no doubt that they were just scouring the entire surrounding area for Mawite or Sith prey.
'See? They couldn't give a damn about us! An' for as long as we've been seeing them in the field, these walking corpses have never once gotten that urge to eat their master's comrades. Let's go, and keep yer heids doun.... Ah'll explain how we handle this on the way, so try t'keep up!'
The Kellas VI
'Negotiations, is it?'
He didn't sound at all like Gowrie expected, though the laughter threatening to drown out their commander's words before subsiding had been expected in contrast, however, the parting of the marauders had helped Lord Aron to see other elements in the crowd, another sub-faction entirely from within the ranks of the ridge's chosen protectors. This was no rabble, and certainly not amateurs to the ways of warfare, and inadvertently endearing themselves to the Tuath as he saw them all spurning their enemy's praise. Mirth of the Mongrel's own would join the laughter of his subordinates (stalwart and loose-attachment alike) after his opening rhetorical question, a course, throaty guffaw that felt colder than the insolence that seemingly emanated from his injured form, a laughter that also indicated malice enough to threaten death without even so much as verbalizing his intentions.
'We've been killing each other for hours on end without so much as a word, and now it's time to talk?'
Raiders, cultists an' murderers don't give a damn about their subordinates.... But this one actually does, intriguing.
The marauders among the crowd had returned to their positions, leaving room for troops closer-knit to the Mongrel to fill the gaps left in the protective line of blaster rifles, all of whom had grown quiet after hearing their commander's tone changing, threatening with fixed bayonets seconds after the Mongrel switched to something more accusatory than the mirth-filled mockery that lined his gruff vocalizations before. Standing at the other edge of the trench, the Kellas' adversary appeared like a demon in the windy snowstorm as it battered the faces of both opponents, lashing heavy snowflakes side-on whilst they insisted on staring at each other from their little wind-exposed spot on the Mawite line, the warfighting representatives of both ideological-extremes seemed to be in their natural habitat for settling into their ultraviolent ways.
'I'm not sure yet whether walking up to our lines alone was a brave decision, baring your throat to us, calling me out to speak one warrior to another... or if it means you assume we have any respect at all for your 'civilized' rules of war. I hope it's the first one. If not, you're a fool, and soon to be corrected.', the Mawite commander eventually continued, though he paused soon after, stopping himself in his train-of-thought to gaze on the Galidraani positions along the southern snowy hill that mirrored the ridge itself. The Mongrel's eyes would scan the rise uphill, drifting his gaze behind the Lord-Major's shoulders from left to right, before snapping back to the cold stare of the Kellas to growl,
'No, it must be the first one. I've seen you fight in the trenches, and you can't be Core-Worlders, even though you stand beside them here. You're not soft, not like they are.'
Urging his subordinates to part for their negotiations, the Bloodsworn that Gowrie barely differentiated from the other marauders (made more difficult by the fact that much fewer of the marauders remained to listen in to the parley) shifted back some more in either direction as the Mongrel commanded. As the wounded commander jumped down, he grunted in pained exertion before pointing out the crate lying opposite his own, offering the Tuath a seat as he sat down to ask,
'So, what can we do for the Free State today?', with a sharp return to expressing his barbed laughter for all to see and hear. The Mongrel's eyes continued to burn fiery wrath into the retinae of Gowrie's eyes as the Tuath accepted the offer to sit opposite, on equal eye-level once more, allowing both parties to settle themselves into a state of mutually-curious observance for a few moments as Lord Aron sat on the other crate without complaint.
'Putting it simply, aye?', the Kellas finally responded, opening up with a quick comment to carve out his room to speak without weakening his position by demeaning himself to request it. Looking over his foes wounds, crude-dressings and surgical attempts of the medical-shamans who were still occasionally tending to one they were rallying behind like never before. The painkillers and stimulants they had were clearly not enough for the job, but were proving just effective enough to keep the Mawite commander in the land of the living, yet the Tuath had seen enough to side-track himself for the greater benefit of his foe, muttering,
'Would you believe me if I said it might be a bit o' both?', as he drew his hipflask slowly from his coat's inside-pocket, completely oblivious of the Mongrel's silent response.
Drinking a few mouthfuls of the Tuath rye before screwing the top and passing over, the Kellas was signifying that his little moment of reprieve would offer safe, innocuous reprieve if the Mawite chose to accept the brief kindness for what it was. Aron would wave to get the Mongrel's attention, pointing to the bottle and the wounds before acting out a pouring motion to note the whiskey's beneficially-sterile properties; taking the Kellas' suggestion, the Mongrel would apply the well-aged whiskey over the worst of his burned-out and stitched-up gashes and staunch-marks in an effort to stave off any and all potential infections. Approving, Gowrie would bare teeth in appreciation of his opponent's survival instincts as he muttered,
'Good. This buys you a little time, but not enough to even dream of making it as far as Csilla's orbit, but we'll get to that.', nodding his assurances as he silently urged the Mongrel to pour some on his lesser cuts also.
'Might want to take a few swigs o' that afore ye pass that back, lad.... I'd like to address your earlier statements about the back-and-forth killings today first, as it brings me to my,"Bit o' both", comment from before. An' my response, though you may not accept it, is simply,"But we haven't lost as many to each other as either of us would expect". I know how that might sound, but think about it - both sides have been on a form that would make even the most-seasoned commanders blush with envy.', Aron would start finally, pausing only to let the response sink in properly. The Mawite commander's eyebrow would rise with doubt as he took his drinks from the flask and threw it back with the top screwed back on, remaining silent to let the Imperial officer get to the point,
'It's not because we're this or that, better or worse than anyone. We're not losing many of our men because places like this are where men like us belong, you know we're out-of-place anywhere else. Stick out like sore thumbs, so we dae.'
'In not-so-many words, the battlefield is our natural habitat - the blood, death and chaos represent what we endeavour to endure on our separate paths to glory. And yet, these catalysts don't define us or guide how we choose to fight. The choice of how we fight is ours and ours alone, and often the most fun part of it all. Better to thrive on the deception than stick to a rulebook that would stifle the imagination of minds such as the one sitting opposite me.... Better to bait than be baited, better to trick than be tricked, better to win slyly than lose honourably. So it's not our love of these rules of war, but rather our passionate disregard of them that has kept the brigade behind me intact for so long.'
