@PrinceAlexus@Bluetommy@Apollosarcher@Ollumhammersong

Algirae Quintus was a Hive World that had never missed their tithe before – Algiraen regiments of the Militarum fighting across the galaxy on many fronts – had never said one word against the Imperial Creed, and would never have thought of betraying the wider Imperium at large...until they did.

When the sickly and brewing tear of the Cicatrix Maledictum had made its way through the Algirae Sub-sector, destroying Algirae Secundus and Tertius in a process of utter vaporisation, sucking the planets into the Warp, it had taken only a matter of years before the remaining planets of any importance had slipped into heresy and the worship of entities not of this realm of space, the citizens of the numerous Hives following their false and perfidious Governors into worship of the ruinous powers.

This would not have mattered so much under normal circumstances, for the High Lords would have simply sent a fleet and additional Guard units to retake the Sub-sector, but circumstances being what they were this was simply not possible. The true reason it mattered so much was that the Sub-sector provided a tactical lynchpin to the wider sector as a whole and, should it fall and its chaotic sepsis seep into the wider region of space, then there was no telling how far or fast the fire would spread.

For better of for worse the Indomitus Crusade had been making headway in order to secure the borders of the fractured Imperium, the Unnumbered Sons – those Primaris Marines who had not yet been assigned to a Chapter or formed their own - used as both an attacking and holding force when and where they were required.

Hurtling toward this Seb-sector was sent Captain Diniarchus, a Primaris commander with orders from the Lord Protector himself to take and hold the remaining planets, first occupying them and then keeping them within the Imperial fold until reinforcements could be sent. He was given a Company of Primaris Marines, some one-hundred Greyshields and a small armoured vehicle pool, as well as two companies of Astartes plucked from the Nemesis Chapter and Marines Errant respectively.

Two-hundred Astartes, one-hundred Primaris, and three whole regiments of Militarum (drawn from the Kandorian Light Infantry, Shehunid Raiders and 253rd Death Korps Siege Regiment), would have seemed like a fine and suitable force and indeed may have been, had the defenders of Algirae not been forewarned by supernatural means and received aid from the forces of Chaos.

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Valerian Caelius, scion of noble Sanguinius and veteran of the Heresy, looked over the edges of the earthworks for the fifth time in as many seconds and grimaced yet again. Around him moved the masked figures of Death Korps soldiers, some as much as a quarter of his height, his Intercessor brothers equally immobile as the 'big guns' from the emplacements within the Hive City continued to bombard the trench network for the eighth time that day.

Phaedromus Aquae - named after an Imperial saint it was said - was the capital city of Algirae Quintus, a packed and bustling metropolis of thousands of souls, now damned by their leaders to suffer for eternity in the Warp upon their miserable deaths, it had also been turned into a most formidable stronghold by veterans of the Long War and had held firm against all assaults for over a week now.

Why does Guilliman want this city intact? Mused the Blood Angel as he watched the HE rounds fire from the fastness, his blue eyes peering out of the optics of his snouted helmet, every inch of his body wishing for some action – all this inactivity bored him.

He could imagine that his brother Cholon, grown from the seed of the Khan it was said, must have felt much the same. Von Palus and Karkos, well, they bore the yellow of the Fists, and everyone knew how the Fists felt about sieges...they loved it. Their beloved Sergeant Raziel, a son of the Lion and at least two-centuries younger than Caelius from what he knew, was someone who kept his own counsel; apparently the general broodiness of the Dark Angels had rubbed off even onto someone who had never met them.

Unlike his compatriots, Caelius had lived and fought during the Heresy, growing up and surviving on Baal before being inducted into the Ninth Legion. He held within him the shame of having not fought on Terra during the Siege, taken by Belisarius Cawl before that particular event, frozen even as his Primarch was killed by the Arch-heretic and awakening to a galaxy that he no longer knew. As for what he thought about being a mere Battle-Brother, well, he simply served the Emperor (now the God-Emperor!) Whatever his rank.

“A hot fight, yes?” He voxed to his comrades through his helm-mic, the newest pattern of Bolt Rifle held loosely but ready in his hands, “let us prepare for their arrival.”

The enemy were nothing if not predictable, and after every bombardment came the expected attack, everyone from Primaris to Guardsmen realising it once the guns fell silent; all knew that their Iron Warrior masters cared nothing for human life, that had not changed since their fall to Chaos, and once every barrage finished a horde of frothing and fanatical citizens were driven from the city gates bearing Imperial-issued las-weapons and flak-armour to use against their erstwhile overlords.

Out they would pour, a mass in their thousands, any moment now.

Brother Von Palus

[

Imperial siege lines

---

The big guns had pounded for days and the deafening thud and constant echoing bombs and sky illuminated by thr fires of illumination shells, thr burning of inciendery shells and constant muzzle flashes from both sides nightly artillery batteries.

Heavily emplacemed and well dug in the iron warriors supervised defense was going to be a long, brutal slog. Palus shared his kins hatred of the fallen iron warriors. There was to be a reckoning and the new breed of Imperial Fist gene seeds bigger, tougher and faster than the traitors. They would test there metal against the ancient enemy and win.

The muddy trench had been reinforced by the skills of the Imperial fist members, directing guard to realign the bunkers better, reinforce strong points and prepared to face the iron warriors attack.

Marching to his post towering over the mortal guard Armour greives splattered with mud and dirt. Holding his bolt rifle and testing the sights aiming down the barrel out towards the no man's land of craters.

Each Primas marine was a bastain to thr men of thr guard, each was a point of defence. A immovable object, giants standing and firing as Las fore bounced off there Armour, giving the men alongside standards to rally to, examples to follow.

Replying In a slightly gruff but respectful tone.
Copy that. Section 2-6 ready. Visibility to 1 kick augmented.

The best kind Valerian

It was impossible to hide. The imperial fists whete in there elament right now, towering over all but his brothers the guard moved aside in a mix of rapt fear and admiration of the powerful marines.

Standing at post, Von Palus fell into his slot, each brother trained and drilled to work in perfect unison as a powerful combined unit.

Hitting the groups local vox, he gave thr blood angel a curt nod and confirmed.
"Von Palus. Ready."

Wars weren't fought like this. At least no conflict worthy of song and respect could ever be fought like this. Static emplacements and endless watching and waiting and waiting and watching. It was enough to drive a warrior mad with boredom more effectively than warp-influence ever could. A warrior deserved to feel the ground shake beneath his feet with the thunder of hooves, or at least the squeal of tough wheel rubber. The wind catching their hair. Even running towards the enemy on foot, alone was beginning to seem more and more preferable than continuing this plan. And there was no respect to be found for an enemy who hid behind walls of iron and stone like cowards rather than meet their enemy in the open fields of war. Too afraid to risk their lives in true duels of skill.

It was only due to his physco-indoctrination and warrior training that his chogorian spirit did not take control of his body to leap over the top of the trenches, or eat one of his own bolt rounds in an effort to alleviate his frustrations.

The silencing of thunderous fire promised a short, if unsatisfying relief to his boredom. The enemy was coming. As pathetic creatures that they may be. There was no honour to be found killing the crazed cultists of the arch-enemy. So polluted with warp insanity that the tactics of their former guardsman training barely applied, to say nothing of their discipline. The bolt round that would end their life was greater than their personal worth, and with so many heretics to kill it was quickly proving to be a waste of munitions. The only satisfaction to be found in this butchery was the knowledge that the lives of traitors was being ended en mass. A small comfort.

Taking his stance in the trench, body turned and legs spread for optimum balance, once more Cholon cursed the claustrophobic nature of trench warfare. He barely had room to to anything more than this. The mortal guardsman arrayed around the titan in white armour, marred by earth and grime and pollutants in the air of the once bustling imperial city. And while Cholon new that his presence gave the men courage and a degree of inspiration (if nothing else to play on their sense of pride against showing cowardice before a space marine)Their very presence constricted him into further claustrophobia, though where they had to climb a foot or two up the inclined edge of the trench to peek over the edge and line up their rifles. Cholon merely had to stand and aim. Already a head and shoulders higher than the trench.

That head in turn was attempted to pierce the screen of smoke and dust thrown up by the bombardments. Looking for any sign of the approaching enemy. Ruby red lenses had a particularly sinister glare when coupled with the stern looking respirator plate of the helm. He longed to remove it and feel the meagre wind against his skin but his intimidating height also gave opportunity to snipers, and he was still not immune to bullets hitting his skull.

Cholon didn't bother to respond verbally. Merely sending a confirmation blip through his helmet that he heard his battle brothers words. He was in too sour of a mood for speech.

Raziel had just finished ordering a group of Kriegers to haul away the wounded, they had planned to shoot them. When he reminded them that every one of them who lived could rise to kill the foes of the Imperium of Man once more, lifting himself from the middle of common soldiers the young man pulled on his helmet.

"Take positions, bolters at the ready. They will be coming soon, protect the guardsman, they might not value their lives but we need as many alive as we can to help us hold the trench."

Raziel placed his power sword off to the side, resting both hands on his bolter.

"Controlled bursts, we might not see resupply until dark conserve ammunition where you can."

Raziel lifted his bolter letting his auto sense and helmet display double check his own belief that his weapon was fully loaded and ready for the incoming assault.

"Be safe brothers... And thank you for your patience. I know three of us would rather engage these foes in melee and meet our traitorous ill head on but we must hold for now... And when the time comes I'll sure we are the first ones through that gate, bringing justice to those who turned their back on the Emperor's grace.

He now spoke outwardly to the Krieg commander near his spot along the trench line. "Commander, have your men form ranks, have the sergeants call volley fire as they near our position. Do not fire until they close enough for you to see into their eyes, then unleash the fury of your weapons upon them." His eyes flicked forward and he took a long breath, switching back to vox communications so he could give orders as needed. The last charge had claimed many of the Krieg soldiers which he then had to explain why wounded should not be put to death unless a medical professional examined them first and came to that conclusion. He was amazed at how the people of Krieg viewed life.

Brother Von Palus

Imperial siege lines

---

Von Palus nodded respectfully to the Sgt, he was a dark angel but had proven himself time and time again in the squad and lead them to multiple victories. The kreigers, how had the impirum lasted as long as it had with such soldiers. Which such a mindset. Shaking his head from thr vastly changed and broken world he found him self fighting for. A oath was a oath, and to be honoured however changed the world they had woken up to.

On there internal vox he replied to the Sgt, hard to hide the displeasure at the state of these kreigers and there fatalism bordering on stupidity.

Sgt. That is a task worthy to challenge even our skills.

Now that's one thing a fist need not telling twice.

Even desite the templer drive and zealous anger was present and always simmering in battle ready to escape and drive him into a rage, the cooler calm imperial fist prided itself on bolter drill, accuracy and precise overlapping fire. Not a single bolt wasted.

Thinking to self a stalker bolter would be ideal to take out the champions, without there leaders the traitors soon began to fracture. Shouting out to the line, they where fatalistic but took to orders to the letter no matter if it lead to there deaths. A small grudging respect was present despite his disdain.

soldiers of the Emparor. Aim for the champions first. They only know fear. They will break like water on your indomitable defence.

Nodding to his brothers. The others had taken the siege badly, bordem, grinding progress grated them to the soul, the white scar even with his helm on the annoyed gestures where obvious to brothers who had served so close. The precision, mathematics and calculations of seige came easily to VON Palus and his gene brothers. Recalculating as the barage smoke cleared he noted the latest barage angles and trajectories where making a slow difference.

Public statements where required, there role was more advanced, the guard needed leadership, compatent leadership. They where not just space marines they had become figures of legend and almost angels in 10,000 years. The whole religion was not something they all quite agreed on but could respect it was a useful tool at times.

Beyond the lines and out past no man's land the sound of drums and shouts rang out faintly to there highly advanced hearing, they where ready ongoing, rallying and beating there men into readyness for attack.

Commander Hecht was, unlike so many of his brethren in other Guard regiments, neither in awe of the Angels of Death nor all that willing to just do as they said; in fact many of the Kriegers, consummate professionals the lot of them, resented this mere Sergeant of Primaris telling them what to do – especially since they had already held off wave after wave of heretical scum without his input, the piles of rotting corpses in No Man's Land being testament to that.

"Commander, have your men form ranks, have the sergeants call volley fire as they near our position. Do not fire until they close enough for you to see into their eyes, then unleash the fury of your weapons upon them."

Giving a snort of affirmation but also annoyance behind his mask, the Commander summoned his Vox-Operator and relayed the orders nonetheless, at least giving a good show to the Astartes in the trench, but a handful of those that had come to the planet not long ago. Throughout the trench networks were others Marines, of the Primaris and 'lesser' types, and although their fighting prowess was assuredly valued their orders were not.

Valerian licked the sharpened canines behind his full lips for the fifth time in as many minutes, the stale air of the planet recycling itself within his helmet as he took another breath and blink-clicked a number of queries on his HUD into nothingness.

“Look to your front.” He spoke over the helm-comm, his limbs springing into a firing position as Kriegers gathered about him in the same manner as they did with his comrades, NCOs and Sergeants noticing the incoming enemy moments later.

They came not as an organised group, all form of rank-and-file forgotten along with their faith in the Emperor of Mankind, but as a howling and yelling mass of poorly armoured and poorly armed sacrificial lambs. What they lacked in firepower though, they more than made up for in numbers, the Hive City holding millions within its boundaries – not to mention the mutants and beastmen of the lowest Hive levels – and for weeks now they had been unleashed on the besiegers thousands at a time.

Such an attack was coming again.

The Guard did as they were told, waiting and waiting and waiting, only opening fire as the enemy came within a close enough range that their las-weapons could not possibly miss; auto-guns and heavy bolter weapons teams opened up immediately, fire from further down the line clearly heard, bolter and las-gun matching the roar of enemy cries.

Each squeeze of his bolt rifles trigger sent an explosive round hurling into a heretic, and Valerian used them sparingly, marking anyone who could plausibly seem like a 'champion' or officer of the traitor foe. A yelling giant with soiled sergeants chevrons here, a peak-capped fool with a star on his cap there, it was almost too easy!

Something niggled at the back of his mind though, something from memories prior to his suspended animation by the Archmagos, something that filled him with greater excitement. He had no idea what it was at that moment, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he found out either.

Denach loved this, the roar of the battlefield, the crack of bolters being fired, the bright red web of lasgun fire entering into the heretic ranks. Before the battle had begun, he was mostly silent, preparing for the fight that was to come. Denach had always learned that silence was the best option before combat, as to not alert your foe to your actions, but now it was more the anticipation, too strong to speak.

He held up his bolter and prepared for the assault. He was supposed to conserve ammunition, focus on the champions, that'd be easy, and maybe give him a little challenge. His fingers tapped on his weapon as he waited for the enemy to come.

As soon as the unruly mob arrived, Denach opened fire with controlled and yet still slightly unruly bursts. He enjoyed shooting things, but there was that part of him waiting for the enemy to break through, he would love to pulp some traitor scum in the palm of his hand. He managed to catch the lack of lasgun fire coming from his right, and looked for only a second to spot a guardsman looking right at him. Most guardsmen were lucky to live to see a normal space marine, so seeing one like him must have been a lot for the marine to deal with, but even a single lasgun not firing was a waste.

Denach roared as he pulled himself up the trench wall and planted a few rounds into the closest champion-looking heretic.

"If I see another lasgun not firing, I swear on the Emperor I will rip the offending guardsman's head off with my teeth!" he screamed over the battlefield as he continued firing rounds into enemy commanders. The guardsman to his right quickly changed his tune and once again took up his lasgun. He hadn't seen a commissar yet, so he supposed he'd have to provide the moral support for now. Hey, screaming insults was a lot more likely to work when the person screaming was one of the soldiers of the Primarch himself, a space marine above all others.

He wore the colors of Primarch Dorn's Fists proudly, but he did harbor some worry about the state of his homeworld's chapter, he had heard that the Executioners had betrayed the emperor during his time frozen, and were currently eighty years into their penance crusade. He did wish to wear their colors one day, but the Imperial Fists were loyal servants of the Emperor, and there was no greater loyalty than that of Rogal Dorn, wearing his colors was an honor that few received, and he was happy to serve alongside another of Dorn's scions.

Denach once more fired a burst of rounds into the chest of a heretic, turning his torso into something that more resembled soup than flesh. He did want to lead an assault on this weak scum, but Primarch Dorn's creed was that a good defense was the best offense. He did wish to finally wield a power axe like many of those in his home planet's chapter, to charge into the enemy lines and carve a swath through their heretical bodies, but for now, he would serve the Emperor in any way he could, and he would not fail, no matter the cost.

Denach lifted his bolter once more, there were too many of them for it to be a purely ranged battle, soon they would close, and Denach would enjoy that moment far more than any other part of this battle.

Brother Von Palus

Imperial siege lines

---

Von Palus readied his bolt rifle as if it was a extension of his body, it's sights his eye, it's rounds his arm reaching out to claim there lives. Taking a second to steady his sights hearing the roar of the other bolters, heavy weapons opening. No he would take his time, not a single bolt round missed.

Firing thr mass reactive bolt hit its target and secondary chqrges destroyed the enemies entire upper body with a satisfying and shocking sight to there enemies.

Again, again each shot countingand every round making its mark. The fire of the Intercessors squad was a claiming kills with every round, though thousands still remained charging out over the open ground of no man's land. They would sooner or later be engaged on close combat in the trenches again.

The outer most wire was clogged with bodies, inner lines damaged by pervious assaults. Days of assaults had taken there toll on the defense lines. A bloated champion lumbered forward and Von Palus aimed a shot into the lumbering champions gut. With a Suprise it lurched forward again, no human would survive that. Firing a burst of bolts into the oozing wound it finaly fell with everything from its neck to its legs a oozing hole of rancid flesh.

Getting on the vox as reloading with a calm of thousands of times of practice and real experience.

enemy apraching outer most wire. Breaches and clogged.
Ineffective. It il be blade and bolter butts soon ernough.

Enemy mutants taking multiple rounds. Advise to switch to burst for the most bloated.


Looking over he saw his fellow imperial fist, the marine loved nothing more than to get in close engage the enemy, he had a temperament that ran hotter than a flamer when it came to battle but you could want no other when the assault needed to be pressed.

The blood angel, dark angel and white scar would likely be glad to have a change of pace, the grinding and slow nature of seige warfare was not somthing they took to well. The white scars where famed for there mobility, speed and lighting assaults. The blood angels where famed assault troops, and dark angels despite dark rumours and being so brooding there skill was multi dysaplined.

As the howling hoard approached Cholon thumbed the release stud on the revolving chamber for his rifles grenade launcher. He already knew full well what he had loaded to fire. Two frag explosives and one krak, the same as it was ten minutes prior. But he double checked anyway for the sake of feeding a habit.

When the first twisted and sad form broke through the rockcrete dust Cholon's targeting cogitator briefly scanned over and locked a reticule overtop. The machine spirit of his armour seemed to aid in tweaking and making minute adjustments to his aim until the overlay of his weapon's line of fire matched perfectly with the targeter's own projections. But one warped and twisted soul soon became a dozen warped and twist souls, which in turn became a thousand. The limited cogitator in his helmet strained to process each and every new target that came into its view but Cholon soon dismissed its efforts with a blink as it quickly became a pointless endevour for the machine's spirit.

Like he was expected Cholon's trigger discipline held firm. Though he knew his rifle could easily wreak havoc from twice the distance of a mortal's las rifle. Once more he cursed the fate that had him fighting this battle while trapped in a whole. Wild shots scattered around his sillouette, some striking off the armour leaving marks and scorch dust in the paint.

He began his death tally by firing a frag explosive directly into the oncoming horde. With a hollow 'thwoop' and deceptively gentle arc through the air the explosive impacted one of the heretics directly in the chest and threw him backwards for barely a moment before the charge detonated. Killing it, and the nearest four sorrounding traitors and hampering several more with vicious shrapnel.

From there on it was merely a test of patience and trigger discipline. And while his armoured boots stayed firmly planted with each controlled shot he placed into the hoard the muscle and flesh inside was twitching with the need to move... somewhere.... forward, backward, anywhere.

Even as las fire and mass reactive shells reaped a horrifying tally, Cholon knew this was going to come down to a brawl of fists and knives. Firing his bolt rifle one handed, as accuracy hardly mattered even to a space marine at the distance now between him and the enemy. The Chogorian unsheathed his long combat blade, almost as lengthy from tip to pommel as one of the guardsman las-rifles, and held it ready to pierce the throat of the first unfortunate to reach him.

"FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE KHAN!" The Chogorian roared his first words of the battle, indeed his first words for some hours since the bombarding first began. The warcry was amplified by his helmet vox to a thunderous boom tyat spoke volumes of primal heritage and savage intenions.

Raziel turned towards the Krieg commander, again issuing his commands. "Draw your men back, let the fools enter the trenches and we will draw them in close. Once they are here, have your men unleash hell into the melee. Then... If you don't mind I'd like to borrow some demolition charges." He sent radioed out to his squad. "The guardsman will pull back, ready blades we will crush the fools. I have given the guard orders to fire into the melee, our armor will ensure our safety and conserve men."

He spoke, knowing the first concern was to hold the line and they needed men for that, however, he wanted the men alive as he was about to tell his brothers his plan. "Because once we're done were taking those guns out. Brother Denach and Brother Von Palus do you think you can deliver our explosives to the base of the wall? I'm sure these Kriegers have enough ordinance for the job."

"We were told to hold the trench line... They never said we couldn't stop the guns from slaughtering our wards." He offered a roundabout logic that normally would go against the commands of the captain. However as risky as it was opening a hole into the hive would force out the true foe and could garner a real change in the battle.

As first few of the cultists entered the trenches he brought his blade splitting them like timbers. "Together brothers! Fight like our fathers! As one!"

Brother Von Palus

Imperial siege lines

---

Von Palus watched as the white scars grenade fire took a heavy toll on the foolish and deluded traitors, each blast claimed many but there was too many for sheer fire power to overwhelm and the lead wave would soon make it to the imperial lines at there current progress. A well aimed burst of bolter fire hot a flamer oporator with a satisfying bright flash across the battlefield as the As the Sgt seemed to have a plan. He always had a plan.

Switching to the heavy bolt pistol, drawing a heavy combat blade easily a heavy sword to a mortal man they classed as a knife,heavy bladed and mononesged each one was a simple, well crafted and reliable implement of war.

ready, thr blood angle might not like blood on his pretty Armour.

Teasing slightly, the imperial fists though proud where long trained to seige warfare, it was impossible to maintain pretty Armour in the mud and rock of trenches. The blood Angels where famed for there artifice quality and craftsmanship. Skilled warriors though and jibes had always been present in the squad.

A auto gun round bounced off his helmet with a annoying clang, no more it lacked danger but annoying. Returning fire with a bolt pistol at the offending traitor, before returning to the vox.

There was a weak point in the wall, it would be hard to reach even for the marines under enemy fire, a shell blast had exposed some corroded foundations. It would not be a large breach but it was the only place such smaller demolition charges would work. The trained eyes found weakness where others only saw rockcerete.

with cover. There's a weak point below the 4th tower.

Brother Dench, il need s help to cover my back when we plant charges, it take a imperial fist over a entire battalion of these korps.



Thr first curltests began to swarm forward into trench, disfigured, dirty, pathetic traitors. Thr inner temple screamed for release as a heavy armoured fist shattered the enemy's entire rib cage throwing him backwards into the trench wall with a crunch of breaking bone.

Bright yellow Armour, it was not subtle. That was the point as yellow Armour splattered with red.

Deafening over the armours powerful vox array.

FOR TERRA

@PrinceAlexus@Bluetommy@Apollosarcher@Ollumhammersong

They came at the trenches like a colony of ants, entire battalions worth of bodies ploughing into the fire of thousands of guns – bolters blowing badly armoured heretics into mulch, las-beams glittering in the choking clouds of dust thrown up by the enemy advance, screams, roars and oaths yelled to the heavens on both sides.

The Death Korp in this section of the trenches has done as they were told, pulling back to allow the Primaris their – as Commander Hecht saw it – vain glories, walking back and firing at their foe even as they were now forced to fight in the open. Hecht was unsure whether these Primaris even realised what they had done, now his men were without cover...the enemy did take the bait though, seeing the fire slacken on that section of the line and running toward it like moths to a flame.

“I hope you had a counter-plan, Sergeant,” voxed the Blood Angel, ignoring Von Palus – his teasing seen by the Baalite as unprofessional - “they are coming straight for us.”

Indeed they were, enemy cultists and former Guardsmen soon leaping into the trenches, the first wave mowed down by those Kriegers who weren't firing into the enemy beyond the trench, the rest coming face-to-face with the fury of Roboute's newest fighting force.

Bayonets, rusted chainswords and all manner of implements were used to club and hack at the transhuman warriors Mark X 'Tacticus' armour, while lasguns scorched and seared the ceramite.

Safe enough inside his armour, even as he used his bolt rifle to club a heretic to death, his entire head bursting like a ripe melon, Valerian knew that enough lasguns could even bring them down.

"I am the mountain that stands against the wind, I am the cliff that breaks the rising waves..." The white armoured giant intoned to himself as the tide of mutation and heresy smashed into him. Nearly toppling him backward from the sheer press of bodies he could only bend his knees and lock his armour for a moment until he regained his full balance.

At this point all semblance of fighting had deteriorated in the span of half a second. he still pulled the trigger of his rifle. Pumping point blank bolt rounds that ripped with such brute force at such a range as they would pass through two or three bodies before finally losing enough raw momentum to properly detonate their explosive charges. But soon that magazine ran dry and his rifle became little more than an unwieldy club. Frankly it a sad roll for such a beautifully crafted weapon.

“I am the shield that halts the arrow's flight.”

He continued. Raising his voice louder, his vox speakers amplifying the effects of his booming voice and his recitation of an old tribal litany. Repeating these words helped keep his mind focused and reminded him that he needed to stay put for the plan to work. But trapped in this claustrophobic press of bodies with barely enough room to swing his arms, was the most literal personification of hell for one of his people.

Each swing of his arms either sliced nearly eighteen inches of near perfectly crafted steel deep through tainted flesh and warped bone, or shattered limbs and pulped skulls with his rifle. Soon enough his armour was barely white. The top half was a mess of scratches and scorch marks while his lower half was practically painted in gore and bile as each kill splashed against him. Already the trench began to fill with a pool of blood that would have risen to a mortal man's ankle, and was only going to get deeper.

“I am the stone that splits the stream.”

Cholon knew that the strange soldiers with the skull masks were moving backward. He wished he could join them but he knew his place. He could only make himself an even bigger target to buy them a safer retreat. Trying to bring up his knife let his see two crazed heretic woman clinging to his arm, their weight slowing him down enough so that he couldn't block the great metal wrench from smacking him in the knee from behind. Causing that leg to buckle briefly, before he could right himself another heretic jumped on his back and stabbed a rusted blade against the soft armour of his neck. Though the spirit of his armour was stronger than poorly maintained steel. It snapped before it could pierce through though it didn't stop the crazed man from trying.

“I am the thunder that breaks the horde!”

He roared, tossing his rifle forward, it cracked into the chest of other heretic who fell wheezing to the ground, clutching his broken ribs and freshly pierced lung. “I am the fury of the Khan!” Letting himself fall to one knee he grabbed the man on his back by the neck with his now free hand and squeezed, crunching his pathetic spine and allowing the corpse slump down his back. Dozens of blows from all manner of weapons rained down on him, but still the flash of steel and bright ceramite white carved its way through whatever tainted flesh strayed too close.

Brother Von Palus

Imperial siege lines

---

Von Palus saw the battle as beginning to turn against even them, the hoard had them hundreds to one and even as the far off figure of a mighty dreadnought, bright yellow painted hull lit by flash of artillery hosing down its section of the line, Thousands of rounds a minute and even its reserves would run out if the assault kept up as barrels shined out red in smoke from heat.

5 turned into 10, soon hundreds flooding past the broken wire. They trusted the Sgt with there lives but the situation was beginning to lose control, Deathkorps falling back behind there positions and enemies tested the marines flanks. His armour was holding but as every minor blow added up warning runes began to slowly flicker to life about minor damage. The armours spirit was formidable but even that could be worn away like a stream cutting into stone. The White Scar fell to his knee, clearing himself of some mortal, the blood and bodies carpeting the trenches.

Taking advantage of his brothers lower stance, Von Palus emptied a magazine of bolt pistol fire at a group, mass reactive rounds making a heavy mark on the group trying to take advantage of the marines lower stance further back down the trenches. on the Internal secure vox.

Sir, At current. ammo dry in 5-10 minutes

Reloading and taking the head off a man who had half his face a mass of scar tissue from some cult branding or dark ceremony with a single blow shattering a crude trench club but among the new hoard came a new threat. A hiss and blast of scorching heat staggering even the marines strength, runes warning of damage, heat burning through the thick ceramite plating searing the skin below. Plasma could harm even the imposing and advanced Mk10 armour.

Grunting from the Plasma hit, the Stoic Imperial fist was determined not let his injury be seen by the enemy.

Grabbing a broken trench support from trying to get balance back and casting it like a spear through the offending man's chest, improvised, crude but effective enough. Fighting off the pain, stims kicking in, driving Von Palus back up grabbing the pistol and sending a badly aimed but impacting shot into a flamer operator's arm igniting the entire fuel supply with a bright flash 10 or so metres away.

---

@Ollumhammersong@Jbcool@Apollosarcher@Bluetommy

Denach fired off one last burst of rounds before the tide of heretics smashed against their fortifications. The battle wasn't going well for sure, the Guard were collapsing, and it was up to the one squad of marines to hold the line against the tide of heretical scum. Denach felt just the slightest tinge of fear as a web of lasgun fire shot from the charging heretics into his armor and that of his battle-brothers.

Denach did not fear the one heretic who charged at him, swinging a makeshift flail as he screamed out praise to the ruinous powers. His gods did little to help when Denach smashed his face with a single blow of his bolter, pulping the heretic's skull beneath his boot as he fired another bolter burst directly into the chest of another worshiper of chaos. He dropped his bolter into the sea of corpses beneath as he smiled beneath his helm.

This was honorable combat, not hiding in the trenches and firing at whatever looked slightly like an enemy, man to man, blade to blade, as it was on his home planet. Denach drew his knife and struck for the heart of the nearest heretic. Pulling the blade loose, he slashed once more against the tide of bodies, slashing the throat of another heretic and snapping the neck of a third with a crushing blow. Denach let out a roar as he drove his blade through the throat of yet another opponent, ripping the man's head off with his left hand and tossing the head away like garbage. The Executioners always took the heads of worthy opponents as trophies, this opponent was far from worthy, so his head would be used to feed the dirt.

As more lasgun fire collided with his bloodstained armor, Denach continued his rampage, ripping the chain-sword from the hands of a heretical champion and driving it deep into the man's chest, snapping it in twain as he tore the handle loose from the dead man's flesh.

He would hold, though his battle brother probably could not, considering he had been wounded, as Denach noticed out of the corner of his eye. Denach attempted to fight through the crowd in order to get to the man, one guardsman was expendable, an Imperial Fist was priceless.

Raziel's blade reaped a grim toll upon the heretics as his attacks came with a flurry of speed unmatched his blade cleaving through them one after another when the enemy had committed all their soldiers into the trenches to assault the marines Raziel voxed the squad. When I signal the guardsman take cover! Commanded the son of the Lion as he changed his vox channel. "Commander! Open fire upon these scum and charge them! Show them what the men of Krieg can do to idiot foe!"

"Cover now!" Raziel ducked down shielding himself as the lasbolts from the guard poured in. Soon the sound of charging foot falls and bayonets meeting flesh filling the air. "Now brothers! Join together and let us crush these traitors under foot! For the Primarchs!" He spoke bringing his blade down upon a chaos champion as moved to join his kin and battle alongside the guardsman.

Brother Von Palus

Imperial siege lines

---

Von Palus staggered up back to full height and saw his brothers still fighting unharmed and armour in better shape. Least the rest of the unit was capable. The unit mattered more than the man.

A ammunition was running lower and a ruined scout tank lay in a a empaced spot. Tracks long beyond repair but it's guns worked. Limping over as his body attempted to heal its greverous wounds clubbing aside heratics, no skill or finesse just brute force.

Working the mechanism was tricky, yanking trigger guards off and grabbing the ammo box. Voice pained, but resalutely determined.

there mistake was not killing me.

Firing exact bursts of heavy fire to save bolter ammo dfor the assault, forced to improvise by there lack of support.

If we pool our krak Grenades we might be able to break the wall where thr foundations have been weakened and coroded.

Carefully firing bursts of fire, even thr ammo box would run low. The battle would have to be taken soon or not at all, each burst bringing pain but a marine could fight through worst, lose limbs and still fight.

@PrinceAlexus@Apollosarcher@Bluetommy@Ollumhammersong

The Kriegers were a flurry of rushing bayonets and silent determination, las-blasts hitting Valerian even as he grappled with several opponents, black-clad and faceless warriors of the Emperor unleashing another volley before streaming back into the trenches; it had been a bold strategy on the part of their Sergeant, and the Blood Angel was still unsure whether it would pay off – his weakening of their trench section had drawn an overabundance of heretical attention, the scum of the subverted Hive City pouring toward what must have seemed like a breach to the secondary and tertiary tench lines further back.

"Now brothers! Join together and let us crush these traitors under foot! For the Primarchs!"

He could feel the pounding in his veins as he tore apart an enemy with his bare hands, the combat-blade at his hip – larger even than that of their older Astartes cousins – completely forgotten. Even as the gore and matter dripped from his gauntlets he seized another nearby adversary, crushing the man's helmet and skull with a squeeze of his huge hand, something in his blood urging him on to greater heights of fury.

It was said that Archmagos Crawl had removed the flaws from every strain of gene-seed, but the question was whether what the Blood Angels knew as the 'Red Thirst' was even a flaw at all...or was it something within Sanguinius' gene-coding that had been their all along, and would always remain there too.

If we pool our krak Grenades we might be able to break the wall where thr foundations have been weakened and coroded.

Caelius paused momentarily, slow and methodical breathing exercises bringing his urges back to some sort of baseline – at least enough for him to retain control of himself for the moment. His eyes swept over the scene, the vast walls of the capital Hive rising high in the distance, and for the briefest of moments he wondered whether his Sergeant had come out of his cryo-sleep somewhat damaged.

About to vox to his squad leader, any words he may have had were interrupted by a vox-wide message, apparently straight from command...

“This is Captain Diniarchus to Primaris of trench section Epsilon 8-12/72,” began the broadcast, ringing inside the helmets of Valerian's entire squad – it just so happened to be their trench section, “I do not know what you did, but you have the enemies attention! We shall take advantage of this.” There was static for a moment and then the Captain went on, “there will be a momentary bombardment, a rolling barrage that you shall follow behind. Elements of the Nemesis Chapter and Shehunid Raiders shall be with you as you secure the enemy trenches along the parameter of the city.”

If one were to peer above the top of the Imperial trenches then, some 250 yards (230 metres) across No Man's Land, they would see their heretical opposites. Enemy emplacements dug just as deep and being just as strong as their own, but they were held by inferior soldiers and were unsupported by both Astartes forces and the might of the Basilisk artillery some miles behind the loyalist fortifications.

“There will be a general advance, so prepare yourselves and the Emperor protects.”

In short, once the rolling barrage began, splintering barbed wire and hopefully causing the enemy to take cover, Raziel and his squad – along with supporting elements from allies along the front of the trenches – would head across the space between the two trench-lines. It was a 'take and hold' assignment, but with many yards of boggy and corpse-strewn ground between them, and one that would test even the Primaris once the assault began.

Thanks to the sophistication of the imperial machine spirit, Cholon's internal vox cut through the noise of a dozen shrieking traitors clambering over his armoured body. He heard the plan for an assault and cursed himself for hurling his rifle moments prior.

The next curses to come out of his mouth had less to do with the many, many enemies still hacking and stabbing at his ceramite exterior. Remembering that his rifle (and by literal attachment, the grenade launcher) had been hurled into the hoard not a minute earlier. He originally planned to dig it out from the corpses and offal after this assault was repelled. But now he had to go digging through heretics for his own weapon.

It was a tall order to lift himself from the pile of bodies, even the servos in his knee joints whinned gently with the effort of standing. The crack and subsequent volley of organized lasfire helped. He could see bodies twist and faces contort as short range las fire heated through meagre clothing and soft flesh.

It was a start. Some of the bolder guardsman took shots at the cretins crawling on the Chogorian's back and legs. Some of those las rounds scored his armour but none came close to damaging anything. It gave him some extra breathing room at least. Enough to unhook a frag grenade from his belt and toss it somewhere into the rear of the hoard to detonate indiscriminately, and to draw his sidearm and begin carving a bloody new path towards where he last threw his weapon. He only hoped the spirit of the weapon would forgive him for discarding it in such a lowly manner. He would have need of its ability again soon.

"As long as we get to leave this trench, I don't care if we run into the eye itself." Speaking his first words to his squad since this assault had begun.