In the distant background the ruined carcass of Vernum City was incinerated with holy promethium and constant gouts of flame, the incandescent flame of the Emperor's purifying might being spouted by a over a hundred Imperial sentinel walkers that criss-crossed the currently spore-infested cityscape in an attempt to make it habitable for Mankind once more.

At the Cathedral of Holy Light, where Orkoid and Human bodies were currently being turned from masses of flesh and bone into nothing but so much ash, a mass of already broken regiments had held firm long enough for several Krieger Battalions to surround and annihilate the unsuspecting Greenskins where they stood – a great victory had been one that day, at the cost of many lives...too many.

Outside of the city, like a whole nest of ants stuck rigidly and still to the floor, the surviving regiments and armoured formations of the twenty-year crusade stood at attention to receive commendations and to listen to the victory speech of the architect put in charge of the entire bloody mess, Lord General Militant Egough Van Deer.

The man himself stood atop a towering podium overlooking the neat blocks of infantry, cavalry and armour, arranged in a perfect grid formation in spite of the shell-holes and trenches that had been by and large filled in, the ground now mainly flat but still a shade uneven in places.

At the front of each column of regiments, some as deep as sixty formations, had been placed a huge holo-screen so that all could witness the speech and be thankful for the God-Emperor's love; by and beneath each projection screen waited an ample coterie of aides, officers and NCO's – it would be their duty to hand out the medals once their superior was finished.

Klaxon’s blared as Van Deer strode up the podium, clad in his finest long black coat and wearing a peaked cap he nevertheless looked like some form of avian, and with the bitterly frigid wind beginning to whip up about the field, there was no doubt that he must be cold as well. On either side he was flanked by members of his staff, their responsibilities simply to stand and look austere as the General-Militant made his speech.

“Men and women of the Vernum Crusade,” he begin with a wide spreading of his arms, as if to encompass them all, his reedy voice amplified by the micro-comm before him, “for twenty years you have battled across mud and ice, through blazing heat, and marched stoically into the most hellish landscapes that our enemy could conjure...but you have survived where many would not, you have proven yourselves to the God-Emperor and to me, for this you are to be commended.”

With this signal the pack of aides and so forth were set loose, medals and commendations being drawn en masse from thousands of boxes and pinned to chest or placed in hands with military efficiency. There were awards such as the Triple Skull awarded to almost every regiment in the crusade – the amount of casualties having been beyond belief... - and more specific laurels for the differing regiments, dependent on background and part in the crusade.

It was not odd to see that those regiments composed for the most part of Abhuman soldiers – considered subhuman by many assembled there – were bereft of decoration or reward; Ogryns were too stupid to care, Penal Legionnaires could expect nothing, while those with bodily mutations were simply not counted as equals of the humans they fought by the sides of.

“The following regiments have been given the right to settle in this system, may it be your homes forever more, and may the God-Emperor watch over you.”

A list was read out then that included some of the more intact regiments, as well as some of the most depleted ones, but did not include regiments of Abhuman origin or those such as the Hirisit 482nd, the Cadian 132nd, 1st Foruzian Light Infantry and others.

“Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.”

The General-Militant retreated from the podium, his retinue following in turn and the holo-screens deactivating on queue, the contiguous mutterings of hundreds of voices silenced quickly by Commissars and officers amidst the men.

As soon as the assembly was began it was over, over a thousand fractured regiments directed off toward the Departmento Munitorum headquarters, located in a huge and recently constructed outpost some miles to the west of Vernum City.

---

Terebravisse Scriba, clerk of the Departmento Munitorum and dispiritedly bored servant of the Emperor, looked once more over the pile of parchment he had been asked to process for presentation to the Prefect of Munitions and gave a long and heavy sigh. It had been several days without a break, his fingers, which each ended in another quill, were hurting and heavy and even his augmented eyes whirred with irritation as they focused and unfocused.

The texts that he had been handling for over a week were texts ascertaining to numbers of lives, to regiments that had become severely depleted and damaged by the crusade, and now a decision had to be made as to what to do with them. While this certainly gave him some form of cheap thrill , the regiments very existences resting upon a strike of his quills, it was laborious and time-consuming work and he had better things to do!

“Next...” he hissed, pulling more parchment toward him, his red-lit eyes (more like a pair of goggles attached to his face for all time) narrowing on the Gothic text before him, “interesting,” slowly but with expert precision he made his way through them, marking each one by type of regiment, planet of origin and specialisation, “you...and you...and...you.”

---

Evening was setting in, along with bone-chilling cold, as the most damaged of the regiments arrived at the headquarters buildings – at least nine prefabricated constructs of rockrete and plasteel, mostly square in shape and at least four levels high, a hundred or so large hab-units dotted around the perimeter, in which the regiments would take shelter for the night until the verdict of what was to be done with them was given on the morrow by the Prefect of Munitions.

For now they could rest, converse, eat some standard rations and generally muse over what their fate would be...

The banner of the 132nd Cadian Division crisply fluttered in the wind, the snapping sound echoing throughout the fields, joining with those of thousands of regimental banners. She doubted, however, that any other banner represented so few other men. She spared a glance backwards, looking at the six men and women that were left from the group she had left home with. Two regular guardsmen, Lexandro and Vinnie, each having survived by the grace of the Emperor and a healthy dose of common sense. The twins, Joanne and Jude, holding up their autocannon with aching muscles, ear mufflers tucked into pockets to keep up appearances. Rana, the closest the 'company' had to a sharpshooter, her modified tank-hunting lascannon propped against her shoulder, the size of it making the average lasgun look like a toy pistol. Lastly, Jacinto, looking dead on his feet, almost propped up against the wall slouched, his voxcaster now a detonated box somewhere among the bodies and mud they had trudged through.

She pulled her greatcoat closer with her free hand, and pressed a button on the side of her bionic eye, zooming in on the General Militant. Medals were being handed out, she saw, and a commissar was approaching her ruined company. She crisply saluted, the others following suit, and the commissar nodded, pulling a scroll of parchment from within his uniform. Behind him, a servitor plodded forward, the soulless husk shuffling forward, it's metal hands carrying a cardboard box, it's roof slightly crushed in. Unravelling the scroll, the Commissar read out in a sonorous tone the awards they were to receive. She had almost turned off by the time he had finally reached the actual commendations, the honorifics he had read out being longer than strictly necessary.

"Every guardsman in the regiment shall receive one CIB for astounding bravery in the field of combat against the Orkoid menace,"
The group stood still as the servitor pinned the medals to their breasts, the new medals glinting and shimmering among the others earned through the long campaign.
"To Officer Carscallen, the MSA, for her selfless charge to take out an enemy bunker with her heavy flamer."
"To Guardsmen Joanne and Jude, the MKA, for eliminating one thousand enemies of the Emperor in their careers."
"To Guardsmen Lexandro, a further CIB for astounding bravery in the field of the Orkoid menace."
"To Guardsman Rana, a THA, for destroying four Ork," the commissar sighed, clearly not pleased at having to use the Ork word, "Trukks during the final battle for Verdus Prime."
"That will be all. When the ceremonies finish you are all eligible for double alcohol rations. To claim them, use these tickets." The commissar handed out seven white tickets, each printed with the symbol of the Imperial Guard, the text underneath confirming what the man in front of them had said. Due to the depletion of your company, you will be merged with various other depleted companies. This shall commence tomorrow." He nodded, before moving on, the servitor shuffling along behind him.
She sighed, knowing that it would still be a few hours before they were dismissed.

---

Carscallen looked on over the muddy fields and prefabricated buildings, the fires of cold guardsmen and women dotting the area. The company flag stood propped up against the wall, her flamer next to it. She fished in her pocket for a tissue, dabbing off before dropping it in the damp grass left over, a bottle of munitorm-issue vodka swinging from her hand. She took a swig and zipped up her fly, before turning back around and walking back towards her company, the slight sway of having a little too much to drink making her walk slightly skewed. She sat down on her log, and blinked twice, noticing that three of the soldiers had gone.
"Hey, where the hell are Rana and the twins? I left for like two fucking minutes!"
Jacinto bit into a sausage and nodded at the taste, before looking at her. "Gone to make some little Cadians. Also gone for more alcohol. We're running low."
Carscallen nodded, before watching as another company walked up to them. "Hey hey hey! The 132nd! Angel, I was just looking for you and your flamer!"
"Licintus, why exactly do you need a flamer, and are you a hundred percent sure you want a drunken Cadian operating a flamer?"
"We were just thinking. We've got one of those Ork hog things with the ridiculously thick skin. We're talking stupid thick. Our flamer barely scratches the skin of the damn thing. You wanna give us a hand? We've got plenty of booze left, promise."
"Fuck it Lic, you've convinced me. Tell the others to find the gouts of promethium, yeah Jac?"
"Sure, sure. Whatever Cap."
Angel stood up, ruffling the hair of Jacinto as she did so. "Don't be such a sore loser Jac. I'm sure you can find another chick out there drunk enough to fuck you silly before tomorrow." She winked at him, before getting up, pointing to Licintus as she did so. "Lic, pick up the fuel backpack. I'll take the flamer."

John was not a Guardsman, he was barely a man after all that happened. He sat on a rock, listening to the boring speech. He was about to protest the words of the speaker regarding medals until he realized that the horrible abhumans were excluded. He sighed with relief. No horrible pseudo-xeno should be remembered in the saving of his planet. No inferior beast of those sorts. He remembered with glee some of his heavy stubber "misfire" upon them, after all, a heavy stubber was an unreliable weapon after all, it's not like he killed the abhumans on purpose, oh no! Of course, the sacrifice of a few ogryns or felinids was worth the heavy firepower produced with it. The best part was, if anyone tried to bother him about it he could just run off, and start singing hymns with his brothers!

Oh, yes... his brothers. He turned to look at them. Some did not even have a firearm, heroically running at the Orks with kitchen utensils. These people saw their world in flames, they saw what was going on, and so they joined the Frateris Militia, just like him. Men and women from all walks of life, poor, or affluent like him. Yet they all shared many things between them now. They were all fanatics, but rightfully so. Any amount of times their devotion let them survive wounds that normal Guardsmen fell from, even the tall, experienced Cadians. Yet there was something else about them.... The Cadians, the Kriegsmen, all of the other regiments, they did the job they had to do. They were in the Guard, and they had to fight. Yet the Militia was different, they did the job they did not have to do. They volunteered for their deaths, they joined because someone should, they would not stand for what was happening. The Guardsmen may be heroes without numbers, but the Frateris Militia are the heroes with no face, no memory nor monuments to them. People ordinary, doing the right thing. They could have stayed in the refugee camp, they could have waited happily for the storm to die down, and return to their old work. Being so closely related to the governor, John could have lived a life of relative luxury on some ship for the past twenty years. But he survived on squig (admittedly a delicacy) and shit.

He stared at himself. He looked down on his gloved hands; they were shaking. It could be because he had to compensate for the recoil of his massive heavy stubber the whole time, but he felt it was for another reason. He knew deep in his heart, this was a new kind of change. He knew that life would never be the same. Oh yes, he could return to his old life, do his best work shuffling papers in the undying Lord's name... or could he? He was covered in any amount of scars, he had a bloody demolition charge on his back to commit suicide with. Would he make a good clerk, secretary, or accountant as before? Would his newfound physique make a difference? What about these hands, to rough to hold a pen now, only a grip and a trigger?

He did not know what to do. Perhaps he could go along with his brothers, with their insane dances and chants, defecate and defame upon the corpses of their dead enemies? No, for now he sat on his rock, a hulk of a man breaking down in front of everybody, tears going down in realisation of what was going on. He was unique in not celebrating. Perhaps he would get reprimand, but it seemed nobody had even noticed him.

Meris Fixun felt kind of out of place in the 33rd Nightstalker Regiment. Which at that point consisted of only around three people - one of them was holding their torn banner and the second one was a Commisar. Making her the only soldier, who was set to be in attention. The entire campaign had been warmly said, a clusterfuck.

Most of their casualties had been due to either, misfire or being sent into bad engagements by some sub-commander. Which was likely the deathbell for many other Regiments here. She didn't pay much attention, when her regiment was passed by in the awards - likely so, none of the other abhuman regiments would be awarded either for their service. Which was left of them though, chances were - there were only a handful of abhumans left, not including the ogryns.

Her own survival could be contributed to the facts that - she was lucky, quick and was mostly busy dealing with wounded. Her only kills being the few orks that were missed by the initial charge, whom had decided to do some 'sneky killy staf' - only to end up with a shot through their thick skulls, before she went back to fixing the Imperium' soldiers.

It was ironic, when the Commisar was the only sane man - during their campaign as a full regiment. She wasn't sure what his name was at that, only the fact - that when the 'Misfire Incident' happened, that essentially brought their forces down to half, it was said Commisar whom had dealt with 'such a waste of Imperial resources and had said Artillery Commander executed via burning'. So in her books, he was an okay guy - minus the occasional blamming their people did. Luckily, she hadn't seen such sights on her own Regiment when their were whole, so it wasn't much of a deal.

On their way to the Munitorum - her thoughts drifted back to the Siege. Most of her fighting was done as always - forces went in, got grinded down even more with her sneaking through the fighting, killing anybody she could and rescuing whom she could. She wasn't quite sure, where she had ended up - Meris had originally jumped into a more reinforced building, when an ork shell detonated near to her position - after that, all that remained outside was splashes of red goo.

But whenever she went to circle her area for any wounded, she always managed to come across some people stll breathing. Her little 'outpost' had ended with around twenty-seven wounded inside - most of them had lost a limb, leg, or a face - but managed to still wither the storm and stay alive. She had even dragged a Commisar back to her outpost, who had taken a round into the chest - he had been rather cordial in keeping their 'bunch' in line. Or as much inline as twenty-six wounded plus one medic were able. Eventually the wounded stopped, and the rest were recovered - with the Imperium claiming victory.

The Wind... god it hurt so much more now. This was one of Ninke's mish mash of thoughts as she stood at attention with her... regiment. Though not the smallest, they were close. The Hirisit 482nd had 87.5% casualties over the course of a single battle... it was not what Ninke had expected when she had joined the guard. Ten thousand Hirisit had landed on the world of Verdus Prime and just over one thousand would be leaving it alive. The regiment, drawn from a shrine world, was oddly bereft of prayers, silent or otherwise save a few holdouts. The young and vibrant eyes all looked dead in their skulls, listing lazily about the field at pillars of smoke, the speech, other regiments and whatever else they coud settle on. Men slouched against walla or eachother, none looked like they wanted to be here at all... Ninke could not slouch though.

She had been given a surprising honor, though it lifted her spirit only slightly. Standing at attention, her cream colored armour no longer covered by her poncho stood out next to the large regimental standard she held aloft. It had been a lavish thing when they had departed from Hirisit, woven inside the great cathedrals of the shrine world and lavished with gold and silver... now stood muddied and tattered. The Golds and silvers shown through dried blood and muck and the visage of the Shining saint had managed to remain mostly untouched. Ninke stood, shivering in the biting wind all the more thanks to her new limbs. Her left leg starting at the knee, and left arm at the elbow had not survived the battle and now were both cybernetics. Neither could currently be seen through her boots or sleeve and glove. But by the Emperor did the chill hurt where they met flesh, the cold metal irritated her skin already and the chill winds were not helping. The medical technician said it would be like that for a while until Ninke got use to them... she was not looking forward to that.

She stood as straight as she could when the Commissars approached the regiment, and began pinning medls to chests. The first passed out was the Triple skull, after all the regiment had taken more than enough casualties to have earned it. All she could think aabout as the medal was pinned to her were all the dead; her squad and most of her platoon... Belgond... all of them hadn't made and she got this medal because of it. She shivered a bit more but not from the cold this time, nothing was going to be the same now. Her mind drifted to this battle, the hell that it had been for her. But she had survived... through it all when she really should not have... so was the grace of the God Emperor she supposed, eyes glazed over as the Commissar came to stand before her again.

Ninke still had Commissar Jarrack's Plasma pistol was still in its thermo-holster at her hip, no one had ordered her to do anything with it yet so she had just... held onto it for now. she fully expected it was going to be taken from her soon enough, regardless of what a dying commissar had said to her with no one else around to hear... a tear rolled down her cheek, spilling over the many ridges that marked her plasma burns, the other reason the wind hurt so much. The irritated and sensitive skin screamed at her from the cool, whipping wind, feeling like little needles on the scars.

The Commissar looked at the pistol, clearly not owned by the Guardsmen, then back at Ninke... and moved along not saying anything, pinning medals to a few more men before moving on to another regiment.

Truly, nothing was going to be the same for Ninke Ingran...

---

The cold night came, fires were burning, some Guardsmen were drunk and cheering, some Guardsmen were drunk and sullen but most all of them were drunk by now. Ninke sat with a single glass of standard amasec, still mostly full. She had not had much yet, didn't feel like it... even as her regiment revelled in the buildings with others she seemed largely content to sit alone. The Regimental Standard was leaned against a wall nearby, kept neatly away from the ground and drunk, rambunctious Guardsmen. Ninke's eyes were trained on the fields, her armour was of and lay next to the standard in a neat pile, along with her miraculously intact Vox unit. Her hands shook a bit and she took another swig of the amasec, here ears ringing... why were they ringing?

"Ninke! Hey... N-*hic*-inke... why're youshh all alone over here?", Guardsmen Erics slurred at her from the doorway.

One of the few other survivors of her platoon, a private who had gotten through largely unscathed, unlike the vox-officer.

"e-ehm... I'm joost... nosing...", she stood and wiped a bit of dirt from her uniform, moving to the door.

"w-*hic*-ere are y-", She put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Joost... stay vith the standard Erics...", she said and walked out into the night.

Guardsmen roused with one another, drinking and making merry as they wished. Ninke walked past them all as she wandered aimlessly between building, not sure where she was going, taking a swig or two of amasec as she walked... till she came to what looked like some kind of bonfire. It looked like some Guadsmen had put some kind of... creature on a spit and roasting... she couldn't tell their regiment in the shadows cast by the fire. The thick smell of promethium told her it had been a flamer that started this. She wandered into the group and quickly realized she was out of place. They were Cadians, like the ones who had so rudely passed them at the breach and payed dearly for it. Her cream colored fatigues were in stark contrast to the darker cadian fatigues.

She stumbled nervously amongst them, smoe no doubt glaring or casting a sidelong glance her way, the plasma burns snaking around her face illuminated by the flames as she struggled to hiide herself... not doing very well.

"S-soory... I did not mean to... uuhmm..."

In the silence of the night, small noises that normally would have been ignored during the light of day seemed to travel unhindered in the darkness. Khaz cursed the sounds of the breaths leaving both himself and those around him internally as they attempted to keep the sound of wood paddling through water as soft and unnoticeable as possible.

While the leader of the 'Orks' had set himself up in his stronghold for one final battle against the servants of the God Emperor, the First Helhiem Warband was required elsewhere. The largest 'power station' on the planet was a large dam of mind boggling size that had been occupied by a sizeable number of green skinned monsters who had dug themselves in; Despite the wide range of powerful tools and weapons that the human servants of the Emperor had at their disposal, it was quickly deemed by the powers that be that the damn was simply to important to risk causing the structural damage that bombardment of any kind would cause. The orks would need to be dealt with the hard way.

When Grand Alpha Gort had volunteered the First Helhiem to spearhead the attack against the dam under cover of darkness with the promise that the dam would be retaken by dawn or die trying, the human Alpha he was speaking to had seemed impressed enough at the challenge that he offered the Warband a true blessing; The chance to go in alone to secure as much glory in the Emperors name as possible for themselves.

Grand Alpha Gort wasn't a fool through; The green skinned monsters had heavily fortified themselves at the various entrances to the awe inspiring structure that they were to take and even with the cover of darkness to get them as close as possible to their positions he doubted that they would manage to close to melee without taking heavy losses from whatever ranged weapons they had. There was however another point of attack...

It had taken a few hours for the Warband to cut down a small forest a trees and create a small navy of transport boats, but once it became dark enough they boarded their boats and started to paddle over the large ocean like lake that the dam had created.

It had taken what felt like eternity for them to arrive at their landing zone, but despite how twitchy Khaz was to get into the fray he kept himself calm; The Emperor would reward their patience soon enough. Before long, the makeshift boat that he was seated in came to rest against a wall of gray stone. One of the archers (He didn't know her name, she was from one of the other tribes) took careful aim before firing an arrow up the wall, a rope ladder trailing behind it. Her arrow struck true. After testing to make sure that the ladder was secure enough to support them, they started to climb one by one.

As Khaz set hoof on top of the dam, he made sure that he had his sword well in hand as he carefully searched the area for possible threats; While there were giant green skinned monsters in sight, they were relatively far away from the part of the dam they were landing at, to busy drinking and fighting to keep watch for a surprise attack... at least from the direction of the water.

It was almost physically painful to wait, but once a hundred or so of his kin had made the climb up the wall, the signal was given; With a loud bray the gathered members of the warband charged while the rest continued to climb up the ladders. The battle for the dam had began!

...............................................................

Taking his seat around a large bonfire, Khaz couldn't get the smile off of his face as he let out his own cry to join those of his brothers and sisters in arms. The green skinned beasts had proven to be a worthy enemy and the battle the night before had truly been worthy of song and story. The First Helmhiem had gone into the battle for the dam a thousand strong, now fifty two remained to sing of the glorious victory that they had earned by the shedding of orkish blood.

The shelters that they had acquired where already decorated with the trophies of battle; Orkish weapons and heads that had belonged to those with green skin who proved strong enough to be worthy of remembrance; The grandest trophy was the monstrous metal 'claw' that the leader of the orks had been wearing, a massive creature in his own right that was brought low in single combat with Grand Alpha Gort. It hung above the door to Gort's shelter in a place of great honor. Khaz looked at his own prize with a great deal of pride; He had pried what appeared to be a steel jaw from the largest ork that he had killed and he had decided to turn it into a shoulder guard of sorts.

Khaz couldn't help but feel in his heart that if he had died right this second, he would have easily earned enough honor and valor in the Emperors eyes to earn himself a good spot in his great tent... and this was just the first battle! Tilting his head back, Khaz let out a loud bray of unbridled joy, for tomorrow was another chance to prove himself.

VOID

The speech was over, the medals handed out, blessings given and the assembly long behind them. However, the horror of serving another day in the Imperial Guard was ahead for many, something that wouldn't go without causing some form of commotion among the regiment. They marched in scattered groups down the dirt path toward the headquarters, mechanized transport left to the regiments who had such vehicles, rolling past them in the center of all the marching, with squads huddled on top of tanks and filled transports while tracks kicked up clouds of dust and dirt. There were plenty others left to walk toward the headquarters as well, to which the Foruzians marched beside in their long walk, chatter consistent throughout the morning as they moved, some finding newfound adrenaline in meeting and talking to other humans outside of the brutality of combat. But the 1st Foruzian Light Infantry Regiment stuck to it's own, the four hundred survivors remaining out of the three thousand that arrived, they were either giving bitter looks, muttering under their breath, nearly falling asleep from exhaustion or weeping as their fate to the Imperial Guard was to be maintained. Or giving a empty stare while marching forth, the noise and bustle around them not a cause for interest, something which Sallius had been doing for a long time.

Sallius was among the remainder of the squad that he had fought with in the last battle, they stuck together, mostly because the logistical experts that kept the organization of the regiment together had been eliminated thanks to the consistent deployment to the front lines. The fact they were even in a formation during the assembly was astounding, though the colonel was quick to reveal that he was just demanding everyone to line up without a care in how and what way they lined up, just demanding that they did. The squad had been bickering with Sallius quietly standing in the center of them since they departed from the assembly, anger for the Imperium at a all new high. "I'd say its all a mistake, we were probably meant to live here y'know, some tired idiot got the papers mixed up. Now we'll be dying on some other battlefield until that same idiot screws us again." one stated, marching to the left of Sallius where the open fields were, the bickering soldier folded his arms, slightly hunched over as cold air blew across the open land. The soldiers did their best to keep warm.

Another squad member was quick to reply, standing to the right of Sallius, speaking louder as he was closer to the road "You're acting like this wasn't intentional. We never got supplies when we needed 'em, we never got help when we needed it, so it ain't like anyone is looking out for us. We're meant to die, they just want to pick us off one by one 'till we're all used up and forgotten."

A arm reached between the man on the left and Sallius, another soldier of their squad, pushing his way through to walk between them, fearfully stating "Hey, don't talk so loud, don't want others to hear you speaking negatively else a commissar finds out, then we'll all be in for thorough questioning." he glanced twice behind them at the rest of the chattering soldiers in the line that of marching guardsmen that seemed to go on for miles, checking for the dreaded commissar's cap. Thankfully, there were none.

"Oh please Don, it ain't like anyone cares," the soldier put a lho-stick in his mouth, lighting it while another convoy of chimeras rolled past them "personally I'd rather be 'questioned' than keep living on with the rest of you poor sods. I mean, look at Corporal Rust here, guy probably can't even hear us through all the explosions he charged through." the soldier then looked up at Sallius's face, to find the tall man staring back at him with disturbingly empty and still pupils..

"My hearing is fine." Sallius coldly replied, as if merely providing information.

"Sure it is, creep." the soldier then took out the lho-stick, looking forward while pushing smoke out of his mouth and into the air, watching the lights of the prefab buildings come ever closer with every step.

***

It was early evening by the time the Foruzians had arrived, the four hundred tiredly departing from their dirt path and getting into formation to be briefed on where they'd be sleeping for however long they'd rest here, be it a night or (what many hope to be) a year. After the quick briefing and assignment to the bunks, the Foruzians were given a fifteen minute shower and fresh uniforms to be worn, something which was happily welcomed by the entire unit. And, after being granted rations, there was no shortage of positive attitudes to be found among the men and women as they ate warm food for the first time in five years, able to relax and not desperately worry or look out for an oncoming Ork attack, or to scream for a medic as a comrade bled out, being an unfortunate victim from a slugga round.

Sallius naturally- being the odd one out -would be the one who wasn't going to stay inside and enjoy the peace and quiet for the night. Instead he stood just outside of the hab-unit, breathing fresh air and observing the commotion of other regiments as they went about, listening to the soldiers talk and cheer or gather around fires. Such differences in uniform, culture and behavior, not a single one looking or acting the same, strikingly different to how they behaved in combat. It interested him, not because of the people he was witnessing or the diversity of humans, but because it reminded him of something long forgotten. Home.

"I'll never be able to get used to that man's voice..." Marcus muttered to himself as he shook his head. He stood alongside the last remaining members of the 344th which composed of nothing more than four Guardsmen, a Commissar, and a half-broken Chimera APC with their banner mounted on it. The officers began handing out medals soon after the Lord General Militant had finished their speech.

Understandably, they all received the Triple Skull after the massacre throughout the munitions sections and the very trenches they were standing in. Until now, Marcus could not understand how he survived, especially after their front lines were broken so many times and he and the ranged infantry he stood with were exposed to the hulking masses of Orks bearing down upon their regiment, or at least what had remained of them at that point. They had to regroup their forces in conjunction with the other assaulting regiments before making a final push through their objective. In the end, they cleared out the enemy, but Marcus and the other survivors stood surrounded by the bodies of their fallen comrades, mangled and eviscerated by the Orks. He was just thankful his rebreather filtered out the rot and shit that usually followed death.

Now that the battle had passed them by already, the gravity of their regiment's near-annihilation finally hit Marcus, and he could not bring himself to make light of the situation as he usually would. He'd known a lot of those men and women a long time, and while you could block out the screams and cries for help in the midst of a battle in order to focus, remembering what might've been their last words when you look back at it is a painful thing. In the end, he and the remaining survivors simply stood around each other quietly as medals were pinned onto them. Even their Commissar seemed like he was in a trance. Marcus could understand; if the morale of their regiment were simply kept up, they would've been able to maintain the offensive without suffering this many casualties. But he didn't blame the Commissar, no amount of shouting, executing, or even leading by example could induce the men to stave off their fear against such overwhelming odds.

By the end of the ceremony, the 344th were among the decimated regiments that were ordered to head to the Departmento Munitorum. After they gathered their gear, they loaded up onto their busted Chimera to drive off slowly to the headquarters, letting some weary-looking Guardsmen hitch a ride with them. They spent the ride chatting with the other regiments, exchanging their survival stories. It helped remove some of their stress and guilt as they realized that their experiences and losses were not so different from many others.

-------------------------------------------

By the time they had unloaded from the Chimera (which they figured they would not be riding again unless someone authorized its repairs) the night had already fallen. The vehicle didn't let them get there any faster, but it at least let them get there without getting too tired. Bertolt, their driver, noted that "If we bring this ol' girl into another fight, she's not coming out of it. Hell she probably won't even get there without some serious repairs". Marcus nodded. "I guess that's about the end of our luxury transport service, eh?" Marcus said. "Heh, yep. Lasted half a day and we didn't make a single profit" Bertolt replied. Their Commissar went off with some of the other officers after passing out their ration and alcohol certifications while the Guardsmen stuck together to enjoy their increased rations.

Dace, one of their Flamer-users started a bonfire with conventional means, while Hardin propped their regiment's banner against their shelter. They started eating sausages and drinking the night away. "A toast to the dead whom the higher-ups can't be assed to remember!" Marcus shouted. "Cheers!" The other three Guardsmen shouted. While they tried to drown their sorrows in flavored meat and alcohol, they noticed what seemed like a wounded Guardsman stumble past their camp, wearing all-manner of scars and burn marks. "Is she alright? She looks like she could fall over into a bonfire any second now." Hardin said. "I couldn't tell if she was wounded or drunk." Bertolt mentioned.

After their alcohol-laced brains considered whether they should intervene or keep drinking, Marcus rose up "Alright, lads. I'll get her back to her regiment." he said. "Come on Marcus, do you really think she'd fuck you with your clothes and armor in that state?" Dace said. "Does everything need to be about sex when it comes to you, Dace?" Marcus replied. Dace shrugged. "Not always, but I wouldn't mind a warmer bed in this weather." The Flamer-user replied. Marcus waved him off. "Go start a fire in your bed then, I'm going to see where that shambling lady went off to." He said.

He followed in the direction he last saw her shambling towards, he left his helmet back at their tent so by now he could smell the promethium emanating form a nearby camp. The scarred lady he saw earlier was standing there, stuttering a few words in front of the Cadian regiment roasting one of the Ork's Squigs on a Flamer-fueled fire, which caused him to temporarily forget his original purpose

"By the Emperor, you actually got one of those things whole?!" Marcus exclaimed loudly, as the Squigs his regiment encountered were generally used for suicide runs and exploded into tiny, irrecoverable bits. "You Cadians really are something else! I've always wondered what they tasted like." He said as he approached their bonfire as he pulled out some of his certifications. "I've got some alcohol rations to spare. Trade you some for a handful?" He asked the Cadians as he held up his certification cards.

Angelika's eyes were streaming, the fumes from the ignited fuel making her alcohol-addled brain even less reliable, yet the squig was crisping nicely. The downy layer of... Fur? Feathers? Whatever it was had burned off, and the skin was starting to peel back, juice and grease running off from the flame-roasted creature. She nodded to Licintus, who set down the fuel tank, before letting the dribbling unignited promethium run off of the end. Now with the roaring out of her ears, she turned to whoever had been talking to her.

"...Trade you some for a handful?" She turned towards the voice and spotted a soldier from another regiment there. She looked down at the alcohol rations he was hopefully clutching, and she leaned down to check that they were legit.
"Looks good. Get your regiment if you want, this thing is fucking huge, and apparently the boys have got some extra food in the back as well. WE ARE GONNA HAVE A FUCKING PARTY!" She shouted the last sentence, and the rest of the soldiers let out a cheer. A soldier had been fiddling with a vox-caster in the back let out a cry, and a pounding noise started up, the music echoing throughout the campsite. "The tech-heads are probably gonna hate this, but who the fuck cares? Let's get fucking going boys!" he called, and the crowd let out another shout, the clinking of bottles joining in the noise.

She took another swig, only realising that the bottle was practically empty two seconds after she had raised it to her lips. A dribble of alcohol wetted her lips, and she scowled, before realising that the squig hadn't been cut up. She drew her combat knife from its leg holster, and a hush decended from the crowd as she approached the spitted creature. The first blow bounced off of the tough hide, and yet when she stuck it in again, it held. She dragged the blade down, the edge slicing through the hide, and she dug two fingers into the cut, pulling hard and tearing off a layer of skin and fat. She tossed it to the side and cut again, this time pulling out a hunk of crimson meat. She grinned and bit into it, the crowd cheering as she did so, knives and bayonets emerging from holsters and pockets. She took another few hunks, tossed one to the hopeful soldier, before calling out for him to "Gimmie those alcohol cards when you next see me, yeah?"

She sat down at one end of the camp and took in th sights. The khaki of the Cadians was everywhere, but it seemed like loads more regiments had come to the party. A squad of Elysian's were digging into the meat, and she spotted the red headband of a Catchcan soldier here and there. A thumping sound could be heard, and she watched as a brute of a Valhallan locked arms with a Cadian in an arm wrestle. She turned away as they struggled against eachother, and took a bite of the meat, a fresh bottle next to her. She fiddled in her pocket for a lho-stick, and held it between her teeth, before noticing a mumbling female soldier alone on the outskirts of the group, plamsa burns webbing across her face. She stood up and walked over to her, not recognising the uniform she wore, especially with that poncho over it.

"Hey, wher'e you..." She grabbed onto the girl's arm, then let go. "I'm sorry. I know how tough bionics are." She tapped the side of her eye and lightly took her arm again. "New, or old?"

@agentmanatee

@Dannyrulx

(Joining the party, in the most ironic and funny way possible)

Meris at that point, was drunk - like most of the Imperial Guardsmen in a metre vicinity of her. Throughout the fighting and surviving, it felt great to party for one night atleast. You fight non-stop for years, then it's always a great moment to let lose - even moreso when such times will likely last only one time.

Her Comissar had given her and her only comrade - their own rations, plus some extra for 'not wanting to waste resources' which due to several abhuman regiments getting mauled and destroyed wholly - they were judged to be the most 'human-looking' abhumans to receive them. And at this point, Meris felt that triple-alcohol rations felt better than any medal she received.

Plus throughout their campaign, she had managed to snog an ork' head during the last days of fighting and had 'tinkered' with it - in a weird way. As such, she was drunk and still managed to maintain more balance than some humans around her - being dark and all, most wouldn't be able to see her armor colors or were too drunk to care.

If there was one thing - she could say good about the orks, is that their heads were atleast strong and thick-skulled. As such, it might have been a weird to see - when a Felinid suddenly appeared, kicking an ork-skull with attached metal bits - in a round shape. Playing soccer with it, or ball. "Yeah! How do you feel now, ya greenskinned freak! Use my skull as an ornament! Ish using your head AS A BALL!" she cheered, kicking her ball several times against the wall and bouncing it back. Before it rolled near the fire and she went to retrieve it - not minding any stares she got.

"Hhey! Anybody up for some kharmic payback? I ghots one ork skull made into a ball - and eight tickets worth of booze! Anybody up for kicking some ork skull-bhall?" she asked, holding said ork head up - and laughing to herself.

Ninke certainly wasn't growing in confidence surrounded by the roudy and quite drunk Cadians, seeing as she had been foolish enough to remain sober, only a very minor buzz so far from the amasec she had been taking swigs of during her stumbling walk here. Even with her poncho on the cold night air made her skin ache where it met bionics, she shook ever so slightly and wanted to get closer to the raging fire... but all the Cadians jostling about made a barrier to her entry. Finally they all went still and Ninke was able to get a bit farther into the crowd, and saw why.

One Cadian, a woman, was hacking away at one of those ork dog things on the spit that seemed to finally be roasting. After a couple swings she tore a large hunk of red meat from the big creature and triumphantly dug in, a cheer sounding from the surrounding men and women, who were now more than just Cadians, as they drew their own blades. a loud sort of pounding music started to be emitted from a vox nearbye as the woman announced they would 'be ahving a fucking party' to the drunk and enraptured crowd. As guardsemn joostled to get at the meat Ninke was again shoved aside, unready for the rush, and fell back. She hissed as she had landed on her right arm, irritating the harsh burns along it as she pushed herself back to her feet, feeling... defeated. She looked to the reviling group and wasn't sure she'd be able to...

That was about when the woman who had so triumphantly stood at the pyre and cut off the first hunks of meat approached her, clearly the woman was drunk as he words were ever so slightly slurred, and Ninke's eyes widened as she grabbed her left arm, the bionic one and quickly let go. Ninke shyly held the arm close to herself as she was asked how new it was and far more gently held it.

"N-new... very new joost a... ehm, couple days. I-its not my only one...", she said, gesturing sheepishly to her left leg as well.

She looked at the womans bionic eye, how lucky she was to not have been killed by something hitting her in the face. "Ehm, how oold ees your's?", she asked, glancing hungrily at the slabs of meat the woman had taken from the squig.

(@Dannyrulx)

"Now that... That fucking sucks girl. I got shot in the face to get this puppy and that still sucks." She chuckled, before offering a further explanation. "About... Three? I think three, maybe two years ago my squad was doing some patrols around a sector that had techheads investigating something. Apparently an old weapon blueprint that would allow them to build some specialist plasma cannons or something. I don't remember the details. What I do remember is that as I was taking my helmet off we got charged by some Orks. One of those fuckers was spraying bullets everywhere and one of those bullets punched through my helmet and straight into my eye socket. Medic said that the helmet had stopped it from just punching through my skull. I killed the Ork that did it. Got the honour of bearing the regimental banner as well, which meant a bit more pay my way. Oh, and upholding the 'honour' of the Cadian 132nd. Whatever's left of that tattered thing." She scowled the last bit before her face lightened up.

"You look hungry. Here;" she raised one of her hand, grease dripping down it, and offered her one of the hunks of crimson meat she had cut from the squig. "Also, you look sober. Not criticising that, there are some that don't like the taste of, but it's awfully hard to enjoy a post-battle party without a bit of buzz." she paused a second, her eyebrows creased, before continuing. "Wait a minute, that means I am criticising you not drinking. Sorry about that..." She shook her head, before indicating to the meat with the same appendage. "Tastes like chicken, mixed with a side of algae. The Valhllans love it because it tastes like a slightly more flavourful version of the shit that you eat, isn't that right Aleksander?!" She turned her head as she shouted this, eyes searching for the man in question. "Iskander's dead, burna got him. Cunt." Came the reply, and she deflated a bit as she turned back to face the girl.

"Damn. I actually liked that guy. Could drink most Cadians under the table, and unlike most of those frozen-balled bastards, he could take a joke as well. Veteran too, couple of years behind him." She pulled out a match from a pocket and struck it against her trousers, before bringing the flame up to her lho-stick, sending puffs of smoke up into the air. She looked up into the sky, watching as the stars twinkled above them, before glancing back down at the girl. "So, you still haven't told me where you came from. What planet I mean. In case the grey threw you off, I am actually Cadian. Some of us don't wear the khaki, although by looking at the world you wouldn't know it."

Ninke nodded at her, smiling a bit, although it still stung a bit to do so with the burn scars. "y-yes, I suppose it ehm, does suck.", she said, though she thought that may be an absolutely horrendous understatement.

As the woman explained how she lost her eye Ninke listened raptly, the story sounding rather different from her own experience in losing her limbs, and as she was offered the meat she decided it was only fair for her to explain as well. She looked firat at the angry red meat in her hands, large and greasy she gulped before digging in with as big a bite as she could without irritating her scars to much. The grease rend down her chin and stung, but the meat was odd. To her it was far spicier than she had expected, hot and juicy it may have been one of the best things she'd ever tasted on this fucking world. She smiled at the Cadian as she swallowed, grease and juices sting as it ran down her chin which she quickly wiped.

"N-no I am fine vith alcohol I just... have not had much yet heh.", she replied when the cadian woman mentioned she was not drunk yet.

"Eh-ehm I loost mine at seperate times. The arm was when I vas drawing ork fire from a concealed location und eet... well took it off below the elbow. I loost my foot in the final charge at the cathedral. I vas supposet to be in medicaid but I wanted to help... I ran into our Commissar und he died und... gave mee his peestol,", she lifted her poncho to show the Plasma pistol in its thermo holster before dropping it back down.

"Und I went to the line und... just kept shooting. A big ork uh... 'nob'? Yes, he charged me und sliced my leg up badly, and my foot... snapped ouf. After it was ovair the medics had too... amputate at the knee und a Psyker in ym regiment helped keep me alive und... now I have zees.", she gestured to her bionic limbs.

"Oh... and the scars...", she said more sadly, looking down at the ground and away from the Cadian woman, hiding the webbing of radiation and plasma burns across her face once again. she took a few more bites of the slab of meat in her hands, waiting for the womans response.

@Bright_Ops John considered going to the camp with Guardsmen, but he reckoned he would not be welcome. He sat alone, watching as these random people basked in the glory of fighting for his world. Taking a sip of amasec, he thought about the fact that some would be made to stay here to repopulate the planet. He grinned. If he got his old job back, he would be controlling these bastards. No more mister nice guy, oh no! They will find him to be... unsympathetic.

After a while, he stretched, bored. He stood up, and looked about. He noticed in the distance a camp, strange noises coming from it. It was probably one of the abhuman regiments; indeed it was. Picking up his things he stomped over with his armour. After getting near it he cleared his throat, so that the Guardsmen of other camps nearby would hear this challenge. Entertaining them was the least he could do, considering their future. "Hear me horned half-breeds, do any of you stand to fight against me, a man of numbers and words? Or are you truly such fearful cattle as I wish you are. If not, I will see the best of you approach me in five minutes!" He reckoned this was enough time for a crowd to gather, and awaited the arrival of the audience and oppoenent standing impassively.

"Hear me horned half-breeds, do any of you stand to fight against me, a man of numbers and words? Or are you truly such fearful cattle as I wish you are. If not, I will see the best of you approach me in five minutes!"

For a moment, Khaz blinked in confusion as he lowered the leg of cooked... pink thing with teeth that he had been eating as he turned his head in the direction of the shout. He was not the only one either; Just about every member of the Warband had stopped what they were in order to look towards the sound of the strange sounding challenge before turning to look at each other in confusion. "What are 'cattle?'" One of the few remaining healers asked, looking at her peers for answers that none of them knew.

With a small shrug to signify that he had no idea Khaz got up and started to walk towards where the challenge was made, a couple of the warband following suit more out of curiosity then anything else. As he came into view with his green blood stained armor, the metal jaw on a shoulder as a shoulder guard and a large sword strapped to his side, Khaz tore off the last of the surprisingly tasty alien meat off the bone and threw it to the side to be either be cleaned up or forgotten about later on. Chewing his food as he looked at the human who he was guessing issued the challenge in the first place (And looking like a thoughtful goat while doing so), Khaz waited until he swallowed before he said anything.

Talking with humans was doable, if somewhat harder then normal; They were hard to understand with their weird accents and everything. "So... 'Orks' not enough for you." Khaz stated lazily... through there seemed to be a small look of respect in his gaze as he did so. "Emperor likes those willing to fight. Speaks highly of you. Not time for fighting through; Time for feasting, celebrating personal valor and praising the glorious dead that have taken their place in the Emperors grand war-tent. "

After all, they were all the servants of the Emperor. No point letting bad blood get started when there were still plenty of true enemies that need killing.
@Andreyich

@Bright_Ops
With a scream more primal than what most Tyranids could come up with he ripped his helmet and gasmask off his face and threw the heavy thing at Khaz, insulted at the refusal of the challenge. Huffing he would come closer to the light, his arms spread out rising up and down along with his chest as he breathed. Now if one payed any attention they would notice blood both dry and wet all across his head, scars, stitched both by doctors, and some metal makeshifts John made himself. There were even some marks on his face where his helmet was too tight and left massive red lines. He would beat his chest making a donk donk noise as the armoured fist hit plate. Finally he would lift up his heavy stubber, and let the barrels of it start spinning, a mad laugh coming from him. "It's just a fight; all friendly like, no hard feelings. It's for the entertainment and better rest of those around us, would you not agree it is a great service?"

When the weapon began to spin at fully speed he chuckled a little more quietly this time and continued. "Someone is getting hurt, just how much matters upon you. I want some fun, do you not either half-man?" He let his plasteel teeth gleam for whatever viewers were around, the tough guy act was not hard at all when you had the build. "Scared?" he asked.

While he would stand still, his eyes would dart around occasionally, scanning the area for some idiot trying to do something as stupid as "diffuse the situation." He blew at his eye which had some sweat and blood pour into it, burning painfully. But he learned to take the pain, all was now a good pain.

@Dannyrulx "Looks good. Get your regiment if you want, this thing is fucking huge, and apparently the boys have got some extra food in the back as well. WE ARE GONNA HAVE A FUCKING PARTY!" The Cadian who appeared to be the leader shouted as the regiment started playing music through their vox-casters. "I like the way they think!" Marcus thought out loud as he went to retrieve his squadmates.

Running back to the bonfire, he called out to his fellow troops. "Hey boys! Get off your drunk asses and come with me!" He shouted at them. "What's going on? Did you find that Ork tooth set you dropped on the way to the capital?" Bertolt asked. "Hah! I wish! But nah, what I found is a a hell of a party with everything washed up Guardsmen like us could ask for, now come on before they finish eating the Squig." Marcus replied as he gestures for them to follow.

"Squig?" Hardin asked in mild confusion. "Move your ass!" Marcus shouted as he jogged. Eventually, the four Flashflooders reached the location of the party. The female Cadian who had addressed him earlier passed him a piece of the Squig and told him to give her the ration cards later. "That's awfully generous. Thanks!" Marcus shouted back as he took a bite out of the alien creature.

"This... isn't half bad." Marcus said as he struggled a bit to cut a piece with his combat knife and passed it to Bertolt who was nearest to him. "Heh, and they expected us to kill Orks with these blades." Marcus added, noting the difficulty he had with cutting through the smallest variant of Ork. A thumping beat was now echoing around the camp as the vox-casters played music. Hardin had brought the alcohol and meat they had requisitioned earlier, and the group of four continued their revelry in the presence of all the other surviving regiments. Some other Guardsmen had joined their small group as well, sharing food and drunken tales. A Guardsman from the Catachan Jungle Fighters was arguing with Bertolt about the viability of using Chimeras in tight spaces ("If you can't find a use for a Chimera in close quarters, you're not driving them right!"), while Dace was flirting with one of the ladies from the Elysian Drop Troopers.

In the midst of this, an abhuman Felinid suddenly came into the scene, kicking what appeared to be an Ork head filled with metal fragments and shouting obscenities at it. After they kicked it a bit too hard, it rolled near the first where what remained of the Squig was roasting , and they invited others to join their stress release.

@NecroKnight"Hhey! Anybody up for some kharmic payback? I ghots one ork skull made into a ball - and eight tickets worth of booze! Anybody up for kicking some ork skull-bhall?" She asked in between fits of laughter. Marcus looked up towards the Felinid and stood up. "Now yer talkin' my language!" he shouted at them as he walked towards them, now quite a bit beyond tipsy and walked in an odd, wobbly manner as he took the head from them. He started kicking it in no particular direction as he dedicated each kick to members of his regiment.

"This is for Cyrus!"
"That's for Ash!"
"AND THIS IS FOR THAT ONE BLONDE GIT WHOSE NAME STARTED WITH 'S'!"

Without meaning to, he had rolled the Ork head towards the female Cadian he had spoken to earlier, and the scarred lady with bionic implants who were chatting some distance away from the party. "Whoops. Sorry ladies! Looks like this Ork got a little too deep into your flanks. Hahaha!" Marcus said as he laughed hysterically. "Would you care to join us in punishing this trespasser, courtesy of our furry ally over here?" He added as he bounced the morbid ball in his hands and glanced back at the Felinid.

@Dannyrulx@agentmanatee

"Uhh, Boss, if anyone asks, the three Savlar Chemdogs with conspicuous autopistol rounds in their heads wasn't me or the boys, yeah?" Rena pulled the mouthpiece of her personal comms device closer to her mouth and hurriedly looked around at the other two troopers, all with nervous expressions on their faces. A crackle emitted from the unit, and they crowded closer, until they heard the voice of their officer come through. "I thought you guys would be too busy fucking to kill penal colony members? Anyway, nobody cares about those junkie fucks, so just get out of the area. Let the commissar find them in the morning, whatever, just get out of the area so nobody sees you, alright Rena?"

---

Angel sighed and put the comms unit down, before turning to back to the girl standing next to her. "Sorry, my squad gets into trouble sometimes. I don't mind bailing them out, it's just... I feel like I'm wrangling my kid again, except instead of being a year old, they're in their twenties and with las weaponry." She took another drag from the lho-stick, and was about to continue talking when she heard someone shouting.
"That's for Ash!"
"AND THIS IS FOR THAT ONE BLONDE GIT WHO'S NAME STARTED WITH 'S'!" She turned to the noise and saw the soldier who had been offering her the alcohol rations kicking... Was that an Ork head around? It was a green ball with bits of metal attached to it, and it certainly looked like it came from one of the brutes. The ball rolled towards the two, and the soldier let out a laugh, letting out three terrible jokes in quick succession, before indicating to a 'furry ally.'

Immediately, she tensed up, and switched her eye to see in infrared. She saw another figure behind the man, and her hand instinctively went to her holster, her hand resting lightly upon the grip of her bolt pistol. She carefully watched the figure, and breathed out, seeing the pointed ears of a felinid. Her hand remained near the grip of the bolt pistol, but she moved forward, retorting to the man with "Those are quite possibly the worst pickup lines I've ever heard, and I've heard quite a few!" She flexed her arm to prove her point, before taking a short run up and kicking the ball as hard as possible towards the trooper.
"THAT'S FOR ALEKSANDER!"

@Dannyrulx@Rultaos@agentmanatee@NecroKnight

"You people can't be serious," a loud and commanding voice spoke from beyond the campfire's light. The owner of the voice moved into view and revealed himself to be Commissar Ismael Castor, formerly of the Cadian 143rd. He was reasonably tall and built like a brick shithouse, the fabric of his Commissar's garb stretched around his muscular torso, and made even more intimidating by the huge, high-collared greatcoat that was draped around his shoulders like a shroud -- not to mention the variety of weapons strapped to his person. Most of the partying soldiers suddenly fell silent and froze in fear of a reprimand. Castor waited for a few seconds before he spoke again, dragging out the moment, until he chuckled and waved dismissively. "Carry on, you've earned it. But is that seriously a Squib over the fire? And what in the Emperor's name is that?" he asked and pointed at the Ork head the soldiers were punting.

In truth, Castor couldn't care less what these soldiers were doing. He just wanted a distraction from his own thoughts. The total decimation of the Cadian 143rd gnawed at him. He had spent fifteen years with those boys and girls, good years, and now practically all of them were dead. Castor knew that it was for a good cause and that this world, should the Imperium hold it, would host billions of souls and produce untold numbers of advantageous technologies to safeguard the realms of man. But still... so much death, and still, after all these years, no rest for him. Castor would undoubtedly be reassigned to a new regiment and start his work all over again. How did the saying go again? No rest for the wicked?

"Oh, I see," Castor said after squinting his eyes at the Ork head. "It's one of those xenos. Hey, fellows, mind if I have a go? They killed a lot of my friends too."