Aboard Imperial transport ship Divini Muneris en route through the Immaterium, approx 2200 HRS.

The calm before the storm...

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The barrack-deck of the First Vosmarth Regulars was almost completely silent, save for the ever-constant humming and thrum of the ships engines propelling them all through the warp and to wherever the God-Emperor had need of them. So too were the shutters closed, as they always were during warp-travel, lending an air of familiarity to the ships night-cycle as it progressed.

It was almost silent though, almost.

Sitting in nothing but his underwear and vest, his pale and freckled flesh prickling in the warm recycled air of the regiments temporary home, Private Ùisdean Ruadhán stared yet again at the weapon clutched within his hands. Almost whippet thin and a good six feet and three inches tall, his hands and digits matching this perfectly, Ruadhán could wrap his fingers about the barrel and depression where the stock fixed to the gun without strain or effort and it fascinated him just the same now as it had back on Vosmarth.

Really the weapon was nothing to look at, a standard-issue M36 Kantrael Pattern Lasrifle such as those wielded by the Cadians from one side of the galaxy to the other. It was a robust and sturdy piece of kit, a killer in the correct hands, decorated only with the stamping of a golden Aquila on one side and the forge-worlds production serial number on the base of the grip, finished in a matting of black.

Each and every soldier of the regiment carried the same weapon, even the non-commissioned officers and medical staff, as well as their bayonet-cum-combat-knife, bergen, spare ammo, Uplifting Primer and so on and so on.

To the sleepless ex-Hiver everything was just so...so new.

From the polished and neatly placed combat boots at the bottom of his cot, to the armour plating and helmet waiting silently nearby, it was all fresh off of the production lines. How would it look after their first action he wondered? Would he still be wearing it, or would it then belong to another Guardsman, or be taken as some trophy by an enemy?

Such thoughts bought back memories of his parents faces when he had informed them of his decision to join the Militarum – his father's hard glare before he turned away, his mothers tears and grasping embrace...

With only his table-lamp (set onto the lowest light setting) to show the bloated tears that began to roll down the teenagers face, Ùisdean allowed them to carve a trail over his sharp cheeks and to drip onto the rifle he held in his hands, his mouth beginning to move in a silent prayer as he recited one of the many that they had learnt in basic training.

“The Emperor protects.”

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(OOC: So, this is just a small introductory/casual post period, where you can each give your character some 'screentime' and allow others to get to know them better. Feel free to give as much or as little detail as you like, although more does usually help others when responding to you. Feel free to ask any questions in the OOC thread if you're unsure about anything.)

He had just recently gotten out of basic training with Nick when they got deployed, he didn't know if Nick was sitting praying right now like the guy in the bunk next to him or if he is making sure that all his equipment is ready to go as they always did in basic training every night in case there was a "Simulated Attack"

Damnit, he thought to himself as his mind returned to the matter at hand as he dropped his combat knife, he had already packed all the extra ammunition for the Autocannon and his basic gear was ready to go except his knife that he now had dropped on the floor cutting his left pinky finger as it fell down.

He was a heavy built man, his shoulders were almost as hard as a rock at this point from all the ammo carrying he had to do and his legs were as thick as logs, He is 5ft 10 and has an arm span of 6ft 2, he had almost the perfect genes for mining but he decided to signup to the Militarium when they came to recruit in his district, they were offering a much greater pay than what he had made almost his entire life from mining but the thing that caught his eye was that they were offering something to fight for a purpose so to say, something that would make it feel good if he died as he would know he was protecting the innocent people of his home from these Xenos.

The only thing that is the difference between him and the other muscle freaks that signed up is that the Militarum drafted him to become a Loader for an autocannon, meaning if he died the first 1 minute he hit the ground the Militarum would lose alot more than if they lost a normal rifleman meaning if they even send in medics he would probably be helped before any of the riflemen in the Platoon.

His mind was again fleeting from the matter at hand so he decided that he was going to say a prayer and after that probably get some sleep before the countdown began

"The Lesson the Lion Knight tells us that we must always..."

Mehl's place in the barrack deck was something of a blessing and a curse at the same time. Situated just a few meters from the entrance he had the easiest time of getting to the washrooms and the mess-decks before the majority of the First Vosmarth could even hope to be half way across the massive room that stored them, and on the other end he got to enjoy the near constant trundle of boots as they passed and was almost always one of the first members of the regiment to meet the incoming officers and other higher-ups that the massive transport carried along in it's cavernous holds. It had kept him on his feet to say the least, a constant feeling of dread at every sound of boots walking past the bulkhead to get to some unknown destination of the ship had kept him wondering when the next officer or worse would enter through the doors and start an impromptu inspection or drill him on his knowledge of the Uplifting Primer.

Mehl was by no means a small man, though he wasn't among the largest that the regiment had to offer he felt he struck a good middle ground of both compact and muscular. Coming in at a little over 180 cm and something around 88 kg of mostly muscle that he had been happy for when he'd been strapped with the rather heavy voxcaster set and it's peripherals on top of his standard kit. Though he couldn't argue that it hadn't gotten him a good position. He quietly turned over in his rack to make sure that his caster was still nestled neatly beneath the rack next to his combat boots and chest locker before turning back up with a feeling of relief that was quickly cut into by the sounds of boots approaching the bulkhead once more.

The pair of boots was making their way down the hall at a good clip and he couldn't help but to inspect himself quickly in the small mirror hanging from the side of his rack, he needed a bit of a shave as the inklings of a black beard were showing but his dark hair was solidly in regs as far as he could tell from his position, he clenched his teeth as the boots neared the door and then passed right on by without stopping. He cursed his nerves and wondered what he'd be like when the boots were even worse than a commissar, when they were the boots of a heretic or some vile Xeno out for his blood. Shaking his head to will the images away he'd recite a quick prayer to the God Emperor and once more take up his routine of listening for any footsteps coming his way as he diligently stared at the bottom of the bunk above his.

There was more sound in the compartment than the footsteps outside though. There was the occasional cough that as far as he could tell sounded a world away in the cavernous hold that was the regiments barracks, the constant drone of the air recyclers somewhere above them as the ship filtered out and back in air that had been breathed in more times than he was willing to even fathom, the slow sounds of his fellow Firsts breathing as they slept soundly without a care in the world for the footsteps outside the door, and to top it all off there was the near constant whisper of a prayer being said by one scared guardsmen or another somewhere in the room. They were too quiet to make out, or even get a general direction from, instead they were just the hint of words that seemed to come and go like the wind that didn't even exist on the transport ship outside of exhaust vents and fans. He rolled himself over in his rack and stared off into the rows upon rows of racks before hearing another set of footsteps closing in on the bulkhead. He pulled his sheet up and shut his eyes, mutter a few curses at his over imaginative mind as he tried to force himself to finally get some sleep.

"How did I get here?"

Darrian looked at the tiny ventilation shaft werring that located next to his bunk, it provided the few immediate square meters around where he slept and dressed with relatively fresh recycled air in one of the stuffy, least hospitable areas of the ship. He couldn't help but think - in a designated barracks room with maybe a thousand plus bunks and probably a few dozen vent holes that he would get a bunk with an obvious advantage. Maybe it was the noble blood giving him another shortcut in the imperial bureaucracy, but surely not the administorum was corrupt but no where near this efficient.

He looked outwards from his desk and bed, onto the dozens of other bunks in his immediate view. Darrian sighed, 6 months ago he had been at Vosmarth's officer accadamy. His performance there and his clout as the second son, of the second wife of Zerric Irso would of all but confirmed for a cushy gig in the Hiveplanet's P.DF. but Darrian's drinking had pretty much sealed his own death sentence when he got into a drunken argument with a Commissar in a Hive-peak bar. The young noble was transferred to infantry, he was as good as dead in a year and everyone back on Vosmarth knew it. Including that fucking Commissar, the man had never even seen an active battlefield but had condemned Darrian to die in one over a bad game of cards. It made absolutely no sense for him to be here, he hadn't expected ever really too leave the Spire of the Hive never less be hundreds of light-years away.

He looked over at his standard issue las-gun and flak armor, he shuddered, memories from officer training, lessons that talked about the expendableness of men and the lack of any real troop support or survivability. Standing up, young corporal Irso cracked his back the humming now directly next to his ears helped to drown out his growing anxieties about his position. His mind kept thinking about ways he could possibly make it out of this platoon alive. Just surviving battles was going to just delay his gruesome death not avoid it. He realistically couldn't get promoted out of the front lines and any injury that the local medic couldn't patch up was probably going to give him a life not exactly worth living.

"I'm so fucked..."

"The explosives of the Imperial Guard vary from planet to planet and from front to front. Sometimes, you have to improvise with a handful of ancient black powder, nails and a metal can, or a bottle of tar, gasoline and strong alcohol, or you can have a small thermonuclear warhead on your hands. On the front, explosives and their use can save your life on many ways, but first, you will have to learn how to use them. Remember, when dealing with explosives, simple solution is the best of all worlds."

Lance Corporal Erwyn Kovacs, a demolitions specialist, a welder and the resident ginger of the regiment ran through his head all the things he had learned in the basic training and in the demolitions school while resting on his bunk. A veteran sergeant had taught him how to handle all kinds of explosives, from simple frag grenades, flashbangs, smoke grenades and claymores to demolition charges and mines with several kilograms of explosive compounds. The sergeant had also given many other tips and tricks on the service: for example, use wool socks whenever you can, keep them dry, and your feet will thank you. Kovacs had yet to find a few pairs of wool socks, but he was hopeful.

Kovacs held a manual on demolitions in his hands and a notepad in his lap. He still relied on paper to write, as it was the simple solution. An electronic writing pad had been beyond his means on Vosmarth, but paper was plentiful. And those devices could run out of battery, get broken on so many ways and weren't always protected against electronic warfare.

Kovacs had been a welder and a construction worker back on Vosmarth. He had had a meager, yet sufficient living, although his living quarters had been cramped. He had had friends and family, but most of them had joined the Guard before Kovacs had. How could he had stayed home, when the people he knew and loved were fighting for something greater than themselves? Kovacs had pondered joining the Guard for quite some time, and when new enlistments were announced, he hesitated... for a while, and had joined. The recruiter had earmarked Kovacs for a demolitions training course.

Kovacs was about 184 centimetres tall and was of medium weight and body. He wasn't overtly muscular, but he had board shoulders and agile feet and hands, being more wiry than most. He had a dark auburn hair on a very short Mohawk, and his face was clean shaven. His facial features were quite sharp, and his eyes were a shade of clear green.

Kovacs continued to read through the manual with a slightly absent stare. He was thinking how he would perform in real combat. Training and simulated combat was one thing, and real combat was a completely different animal, whichever of the Emperor's many foes faced the regiment.

Well, the Emperor will protect his own, doesn't he?

Sleep continued to elude him, much to his chagrin. Tomorrow was going to be another day filled with endless drills and Baltar Iskaron would rather face it after a night's rest, at least one. Emperor above, he hadn't managed a decent night's sleep in weeks. Every day was filled with mind numbing, exhaustive drills while his nights were spent half awake, tossing and turning in his bunk, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen during his life in the sands, inside a ship that was largest than the most populous market city he had ever visited before going to the Hive. Which by itself was an entirely different beast. Not that he had had much time to gawk at that incomprehensible titan of steel.

Guarding caravans through well trodden desert routes, as it turned out, did not prepare him for the life of a Guardsmen. But that was only one of the many prejudices and misconceptions that Baltar had been forced to abandon ever since that fateful day in which his father told him to go out into the world and make a name for himself.

Perhaps, in time, this torrent of disjointed thoughts and ideas would settle and Baltar's mind would allow him to settle down for a night of proper sleep. He needed it, needed it more than ever. Soon the regiment would be disembarking on the front, or so he had been told. And then, Emperor above, the desert was a deadly mistress to the unaware, the tired, the distracted. Baltar could only imagine what an actual warzone would be. And his mind was very fertile. He certainly wasn't counting on the privilege of having a sure bed and uninterrupted sleeping time when they were thrown into real combat.

At least then, Baltar would see the sun again. Not the Sun he had grown up with and learned both to revere and respect as a manifestation of the Emperor's unmatched power, but a sun nonetheless. Certainly just as mighty and divine as the one back home...

Which he would never see again. Holy Emperor, he was never going back to Vosmarth, was he? Never see his family again either. If only he had taken up Haddad's offer. It was the safe route, work under the Trade Master. Learn from the best, his kin in all but blood. But no, Baltar had decided to go to the Hive first. Oh, he surely would've visited if he had taken up the offer. Eventually, if sparingly.

But Baltar wanted to do more! To serve the Emperor. To see places beyond the Desert, new worlds beyond Vosmarth. Problem is, Baltar hadn't really considered the full consequences of his actions.

"Like all stupid youths." His father's voice rang clear inside his head. "But you gave your word, you made an oath to the Emperor himself. And by Him on Terra, you will see it through or die trying!"

Nick dragged the autocannon through the hallways of the ship, Nick use to be a miner but not any miner probably the best miner from Lemnos. He was built like a brute, he cracked rocks with little ease and was one of the most valued miners on the colony. Unfortunately for the foreman at Lemnos, the tithe came with little warning and many men were drafted into the Emperor's army. Nick happened to be one, guardsman training was grueling and while Nick didn't understand some of it he made by on the little things. Tis what a guardsman must do, but what a guardsman must have it what is important.

Nick was instilled with a sense of duty, albeit being somewhat of a knuckle dragger he carried on. Never seeing combat he was assigned to an auto-cannon crew with a miner he didn't really know but having him as an assistant gunner would prove important further down his career as the lead-spitter. While everyone was else doing their own thing, general duties and taskings Nick returned to his bunk to service the great creature that he carried. Perhaps he'd see his assistant gunner, but in the meantime the wiping down and cleaning of the autocannon was of utmost importance.

The Emperor demanded it.

@Father Hank@DeadDrop@Deadnaut@Sola@FrostedCaramel@Oak7ree@Drunken Conquistador@CaptainBritton@tech@Katthaj

These aren't soldiers, thought Veteran Sergeant Bishal within the four metal walls of his barrack chambers - his rank allowing him the minor privilage of such personal space - these are children, weaklings...volunteers.

In several weeks they had made their way through the Warp, alongside over a dozen other transport ships and their Naval escort vessels, hence at least twenty other regiments of the Militarum, and now the NCO narrowed his deep almond eyes to peer out into the barrack room (or more correctly barrack hangar) where the men and women of his company and regiment now slept.

Bishal was himself an inhabitant of the Vosmarth deserts, the wide expanses between hive cities and any other place, a short man from the upper mountain slopes of eastern Vosmarth where he and his people had settled (or been settled) many centuries ago.

Now they clung to life only through a constant state of raiding and defense against feral Orks and other, more nomadic, peoples.

It would all end soon, and they would be arriving at their destination...maybe he should get some sleep.

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Aboard Imperial transport ship Divini Muneris - arrival in the Hokuhiri system 0500 HRS - ETA 1 HR until deployment.

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Private Ruadhán checked the magazine of his lasgun again, having already checked it half-a-dozen times to make sure that it was there, his all-black armour (the helmet in particular) framing his pale skinned but freckled face and his expression of unease and nervousness.

Standing before the gaping maw of a fat-bellied lander - his comrades dressed in ranks two-abreast to his right side and both ahead and behind of him - he watched Sergeant Bashil stroll to the front of the squad once more. He was not sure what scared him more, the feeling currently present in his gut, the broad shouldered but smiling Sergeant, or the deafening noise of the hangar bay all around him; all-in-all it bought up within him an almost animal urge to turn, run, and burrow his way into a hole somewhere - the Commissar would not like that, not at all.

"Listen up," yelled the Veteran Sergeant from the front of Fourth Squad, straightening up his uniform and placing one hand on the curved knife he always carried at his hip, "we are going to make our way into this lander in an orderly fashion - our autocannon team to the rear, followed by medics and vox-troopers - the remaining squads of the platoon following in after us."

He paused for but a moment to make sure that they understood.

"It will take a matter of minutes to reach the planets surface, so make sure you've said your prayers to the God-Emperor and that your weapons are ready."

Where exactly were they going, now that was the question.

As far as anyone knew, and if scuttlebutt around the ship was to be believed, Dugatov - the capital planet of the Hokuhiri System - was the target of their particular fleet; they knew not precisely who they would be fighting, nor their numbers, but did know that due to the planets importance to the Mechanicus they would need to go in on foot and slog in out in the dirt and gore.

Dugatov, or 18-24-19 to the boys in red, had indeed fallen to some force when the warp had split the Milky Way asunder...now the Imperium was going to take it back!

"Alright! Check your gear, stow your feelings, and follow me."

Stow weapon, check. Strap one, check. Strap two, check. Chest strap, check.

As the huge ramp began to close behind Ruadhán and his fellow soldiers, the interior of the lander lightning up only with a grim red light to see by, the red-haired boy began to shake uncontrollably in his seat.

Oh God-Emperor help me.

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When the sirens were wailing to mark the 1 hour until deployment Richard was ready for battle he had almost 2 hours of sleep as he could not stop thinking of what would happen the second the boots were on the ground. He was placed in the 5th row right next to Nick, their autocannon lying on the ground beside them, they had been blessed with the task of carrying this and operating this machine of death he thought that if they got set up they would be able to help their brothers in arms to get to a better position as they threw rounds down range to keep the enemy away.

Even though Command did not tell them what enemies they would be facing he expected it to be Xenos as he had heard stories of the Xeno scum swarming this system, he hoped that he would get to show those Xenos that the human race is the only one that should be allowed in this galaxy

"Listen up, we are going to make our way into this lander in an orderly fashion - our autocannon team to the rear, followed by medics and vox-troopers - the remaining squads of the platoon following in after us."

Taking a look around him he could see some of the younger people in the lines starting to either straightening themselves out to not look like they are about to enter a mental breakdown from the stress of participating in a deployment this early in their life or he would see some of them just sink down in the floor trying to not be seen so that they could stand in the back of their squad

"Well Nick what do you say, time to mow down whatever is in front of us?" he said to his brother in arms as they were walking in line towards the lander, he was quite nervous but he decided that he would talk to people to calm his nerves as that usually helped in the mines back on his home planet.

"Alright! Check your gear, stow your feelings, and follow me." the veteran sergeant said to the squad to make sure that everything was in order,

"Lasgun, check... Rangefinder, check... Flak vest, check... Extra Ammo, check... Krak Grenade, check..."

Richard had finished listing of his kit and everything seemed to be there but he saw that some youngster feeling around like he had lost something, "Hey what did you lose? if its the bayonet you could just take mine I don't really need it, I highly doubt I will get in to close combat with whatever is down there." The youngster looked up at him with thankful eyes and accepted the bayonet that Richard had offered to give to him, he seemed a lot calmer now and if the veteran sergeant would yell at someone for losing their bayonet today he wouldn't let it be some spinky youngster.

after some time they got on the lander and sat down, he saw this really quite small kid that was looked like he was about to explode from how much he was shaking, as Richard stepped around him he decided to rough up his hair and tell him "Kid, as long as you stay behind me and Nick here you should be mostly fine we wont mind as long as you hold our flanks" it didn't seem to calm him down but he nodded and half smiled at him, it looked fake but Richard didn't mind.

Richard decided to sit down in his assigned position and strap up so that he wouldn't be thrown around in the lander as it was going to the surface, he noticed that the lighting in the lander was red and he wondered if it would change to green as they were let out of the lander to start fighting whatever was down there

Lance Corporal Kovacs had checked his gear a few times as he had packed. Backpack - checked. Lasgun - clean and ready. He also had been given more live explosives than in training. Kovacs had two anti-personnel claymores, two frag grenades, about ten blocks of plastic explosive, wire cutters and wire. Everything was in place and in order. The grenades and the lasgun's powerpacks were at hand. He also had a knife on his hip, and his bayonet was strapped to his leg. One couldn't have enough bladed weapons at hand. Lasgun was a great weapon, but in a pitched close quarters, a knife might come handy.

Kovacs didn't feel scared, but almost excited. He hadn't slept much last night, but he hadn't been sleepy. Although he might see Vosmarth never again, he trusted his squad and platoon. Sergeant Bishal seemed tough, but fair soldier. He had, apparently, grown up in the dry deserts of Vosmarth. An unforgiving place to be born and live, but the desert didn't leave much space for weakness, either. Perhaps we'll make it alright in the end, Kovacs thought.

Kovacs' combat vest, helmet and flak jacket were, overall, in good order and still in one piece. "Kovacs' all good", he said. "Just point what to blow up!"

@Sola

The squad's reconnaissance trooper had spoken to him. Kovacs hadn't spoken much to her during the trip to Dugatov, but she gave him a smile, as if he needed reassurance. His mind felt calm and clear, but maybe he had shown some nervousness. Kovacs eyed her. Her size was a bit diminutive, and her gear was a bit over-sized, but maybe she would manage. "Private Haellen, wasn't it?", Kovacs said to her. "Whatever foe is down on the surface, I bet they'll target me before they see you." He said it jokingly, releasing a shy laugh, but he also knew it might come to fruition. Kovacs had always approached stressful and tense situations with a hint of humour.

"Anyhow, I will definitely watch your back if you do the same." Kovacs offered his hand for a fist bump. "I promise."

Hamlin Mehl

The intense urge to check his casters settings was attempting to move his body without his minds consent and biting down on his tongue was the only thing he could do to keep his focus squarely on the effort of not disgracing himself in front of the entire formation by giving into his bodies untimely demands. He straightened himself out and bit hard enough to the point that he began to taste copper in his mouth as Sergeant Bashil gave something that he imagined was supposed to be a rousing speech before their first taste of war. Before their first taste of what life was really like in their beloved Imperium.

"Listen up, we are going to make our way into this lander in an orderly fashion - our autocannon team to the rear, followed by medics and vox-troopers - the remaining squads of the platoon following in after us."

Mehl snapped himself out of his near-trance state and undid the vice grip that his teeth had on his tongue as the Sergeant neared what was the end of his short speech. Mehl weighed his options as the idea of being among the first aboard the impressive lander dawned on him. They'd ridden similar craft up to the Divini Muneris from their muster grounds on Vosmarth. They were unyielding beasts. Massive things that by all accounts should have been able to lift off the very deck they sat on, let alone come screaming into atmosphere under combat conditions. He swallowed back the bile that threatened him as he followed the Sergeant aboard and moved smartly to his place a the far end of the rows of seats. Unstrapping his caster from his back he'd quickly stow it in the slot specifically designed for it and get to securing the rest of his gear quickly after.

With his weapon and caster stowed he plopped into his seat and began to do up the straps about his chest. A solid and satisfying click signifying that he'd done it correctly he watched with morbid anticipation as the rest of Fourth Squad filed in and took their places, and ahead of them all the loadmaster at the mouth of the open bay of the lander. The man, done up in a flight suit and helmet completely masking his face from view, gave what looked like some urging shoves to the last few to enter the ship before grabbing at the intercom transmitter at his chest. The door began to close and the internal lights of the bay shifted from their warm, if not overly dingy, bright color to that of an eerie red, bathing them all in something that reminded him of death itself. He could see why, he'd used red lights during his time working the Hive, it preserved night vision, and was hard to see from far away, meaning he'd been able to work on things that would have otherwise disturbed the pompous Nobles of the Hive Towers had they been able to spot his work lights from their magnificent views. They were preserving their vision, and allow them the ability to be as undetected as one could remain when riding in a several thousand ton lander to the surface of an enemy held planet.

He shifted nervously in his seat before coming to something similar to comfort in his place. He peered down through the red light and the unnatural shadows it cast on the faces of his fellow Vosmarth. He could barely make out any of them, though a few were easier than others, the Sergeant being chief among those followed closely by the lithe and undersized Haellen. 'Hell she's too young for this.' he thought as she seemed to look his way and he offered her a smile in the gloom before he he continued down the row of practically unrecognizable faces. Trying to make out some of the farther troopers toward the front of the bay he gave up as the red gloom made it too hard to pick out faces he knew past a certain point.

"Listen up, we are going to make our way into this lander in an orderly fashion - our autocannon team to the rear, followed by medics and vox-troopers - the remaining squads of the platoon following in after us."

'that's it?!' Darrian breathed into flak vest, keeping as quiet as possible as there was only a few guardsmen dividing him from the Seargent at the front of the lander, and if he knew anything at this point saying your thoughts too loud would just doom you to die halfway across the galaxy.. The lander glowed with a feverish anxiety and as he looked around he noticed lots of his squad mates fiddling and re-checking equipment. Not in the orderly methodical fashion the drill instructors had demonstrated in prior training, and with none of the confidence he had seen commissariat or officer recruits in his time at the imperial academy. Maybe the academy wasn't what had actually sentenced him this useless death, maybe his training and time there was going to be what kept him alive, give him the edge. Just as his disillusion was starting to make him feel better about his impending drop into enemy territory, reality kicked back in when the overhead lights turned dark in the shuttle and was replaced by a red glow. Emperor save him, if he was too survive this day it was all in the Emperors hands at this point, anything in his favor or anything he did down there was only adjusting his survival chances on the margins.

He moved over to his position in the Lander, almost at the front of it. and really started to look around at the grunts that he'd probably be dying with today, most of them wore the face of hive factorum workers - with an almost resignation for death to the imperial cause, it was either going to be upon a battlefield or from the lethal conditions of the lower hive. A few of them however, had the tan and rough look of out-hivers, traders and caravan runners their home was the inhospitable wastes of Vosmarth, the primitive Orks- their neighbors. Corporal Irso nodded his head at the roughish looking guardsmen to his left, at least a few of them had a practiced survival instinct...

He stored his gear and began to strapped himself into the vessel, he checked his harness buckles and his anxiety bubbled away as he failed to clip them into place several times. Before a victorious click secured him to the ship. He looked up and around the ship and gave a weak thumbs up to who had ever seen him fail with his buckle.
"Sir, do you have any idea what's going to be greeting us when we land!" Irso yelled over to the seargent as the engines began to hum quickly feeling the room with a noise so loud it removed all his anxieties of his impending morality and brought him too attention. It was time, he was ready, he was going to survive.

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For the first time ever since he had enlisted, Baltar Iskaron had overslept. Much needed sleep, that had nonetheless, earned him a harsh reprimand from the higher ups a few days ago. After that, Emperor and Sun be praised, he had overcome his sleeping problems. The relentless drilling still had worn him out, but the lack of sleepless nights did wonders for his rest and general good humor.

Which still wasn't enough to compensate for the fact he was about to be thrown into his first battle. This wasn't gonna be Baltar's first fight. He had had his fair share of scuffles back home as a Caravan Guard, and before that merely helping defend their camp from the tribes that lived deeper in the desert. But he was now sadly certain that no amount of shooting the rare screaming Ork or skirmishes over watering spots would hold a single, measly candle to the kind of...of...whatever was going to happen once they landed.

"Don't you go pissing your pants, boy. Don't need you bringing anymore shame upon the clan name."

Baltar steeled himself, mentally reciting prayers and litanies to the Emperor and Sun, as he gave his gear one final check. It still felt somewhat alien to him, all this equipment, the flak armor, the lasgun itself. Back home he and most other Caravan Guards had to make do with an assortment of different weapons. Baltar himself had used an old and worn stub gun. Getting used to the lasgun instead had been something that he was sure would come soon enough. Even the combat knife was far shorter than the saber he had so painstakingly trained and used all these years.

"A warrior must know his weapons, boy. Respect and revere them or you might as well shoot yourself now and save us all the trouble."

Now there was nothing more to do besides following the rest of the squad to the entrance of the monstrosity of a landing ship that would carry them to...wherever they were going to fight.

"Listen up, we are going to make our way into this lander in an orderly fashion - our autocannon team to the rear, followed by medics and vox-troopers - the remaining squads of the platoon following in after us."

Baltar caught himself nodding along to the Sergeant words. Noticing with some misplaced pride that he seemed to be another desert dweller like him. He ignored the other assembled soldiers, intent on listening to everything the officer would choose to impart upon them. Maybe now he would finally find out where and against who the regiment would be fighting. Finally confirm which one of the hundred wild rumors where correct.

"Alright! Check your gear, stow your feelings, and follow me."

At that Baltar gave his gear one last keen eyed inspection, noticing that yes, everything was in order. Just as it had been the last three times he had checked less than half a hour ago. Then, Baltar realized the Sergeant had already entered the lander. That was supposed to be all? Oh Emperor and Sun, they were going to be thrown into the battlefield utterly blind, weren't they?

"So what, boy? You're now a soldier of the Emperor. And you will fight his enemies wherever they appear. Remember your oaths and stop mewling like a little girl."

Baltar shook himself. Trying to will the fear and nervousness away as he made his way through the dark belly of the metal beast, looking for a seat.

Nick dragged himself through the ship's corridors eventually it was time to go, go for the deployment that they had been waiting for a long time. Equipment adorned through some resistance at first, the armor wasn't brand new hell this would probably be the 30th time it was issued to a trooper. A good piece of equipment that survived always went to the next, except maybe the armor wasn't as good as it use to be. Nick thought to himself as he got all his gear together, and of course the Auto-cannon which was lugged into pre-deployment area where the unit started to prepare and then drop down to the hell below. Some say it was a rogue colony of sorts that was rebelling against the Emperor, all that Nick knew was there would be a lot of shooty shooting.

Richard started talking to him, Richard was the assistant gunner to Nick. He made the Auto-cannon was never hungry, and that it was always SHOOTING. His voice was reassuring, the attack would go with ease or the two of them would both cease to exist. It didn't bother him, Nick always thought dying was just a process of life. Nick responded"Heh... Yea we'll corpse as many as we can." He looked over at the auto-cannon it's big barrel just looked hungry enough for some combat. The veteran was talking, a sergeant somebody he was inspiring but inspiration for combat already came from the long waiting the unit had done until now.

There were others around him of course, those consoling those who were not ready for the drop. The new, the old, the weak. In the end the battle would make them strong men & women or just plain dead. He leaned back into the dull chair he was sitting in, like many have done before Nick contemplated the whole situation. To his understanding, he and Richard would be in the back to hold down cover fire over the entire unit. Sucks for those who have to be the front and foremost.

@DeadDrop@Sola@FrostedCaramel@Oak7ree@Drunken Conquistador@CaptainBritton@tech@Katthaj

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No one had really known what to expect upon arrival near Dugatov - not their enemy, the condition of the terrain, nothing. It must have been especially irking therefore when the transport finally descended to the planets surface, the NCOs standing to and bellowing for their squads to prepare themselves for immediate debarcation.

It was probably for the best that the transports had held no windows or portholes that would have allowed the Guardsmen to see outside, as the conditions of the planet onto which they were moving were...unappealing to say the least.

The sky, wracked with streaks of lightning and the bass boom of thunder, rain pouring down in a never-ending sheet, was as crimson as a Vostroyan parade uniform and equally as hard to look at. Similarly the deep earth, pockmarked with natural and unnatural foxholes both, the wreckages of various Mechanicus vehicles littering the Mars-like landscape outside the walls of Dugatov City itself, was must as red and far more trecherous.

Sergeant Bashil was one of the lower-rank officers calling for his squad to make ready to disembark, the other squads of the platoon doing the same all around them, and stood perfectly still even during the turbulent piercing of the atmosphere and, finally, the landing of the transport onto terra firma.

"Alright, Fourth Squad! Up and ready."

Ruadhan released his safety harness and stood to in a surprisingly fluid motion - rocking somewhat as the lander gave a thump and was still, only the glare of the red light and the chugging of the idling engine (along with the now familiar noises of Third Platoon arranging themselves) filling his ears - one slender hand grasping his lasgun and his youthful eyes focusing on Bashil, his mind in utter turmoil.

Somewhere up ahead were black-coated agents of the Commissariet, their weapons of 'encouragement' held ready, 2nd Lieutenant Tasi also able to be seen right by the landing ramp as it began to yawn open...

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Dugatov City, or what was left of it, rose up in the distance - able to be seen through the constant pouring of rain if one were to wipe their eyes and raise a hand over their brow - a previously sprawling Martian stronghold and excavation site that had fallen silent, the very reason they were now standing in squad-by-squad formation and getting more soaked through every second; metallic walls that had been obviously breached were the clearest structures, glinting with moisture when the lightning flashed overhead, towers of differing sorts reaching toward the skies in the manner of crooked fingers...and who knew what lay within the confines of the city itself?

"Line up! Line up!" Yelled Bashil and his fellow NCOs over both the weather and the engines of other landers, several regiments already forming themselves up facing the city on these barren and wasted plains - including the Frigian Twelfth (a heavy assault regiment from an industrial world), and the Ardus Armoured Division (a tank regiment of primarily Leman Russ Demolishers) - Ruadháns eyes widening as he saw the heavy vehicles positioning themselves in line with their foot-slogging cousins.

It took nearly an hour, but soon enough the entire Vosmarth Regulars were arrayed in neat (and very wet) ranks - strangely no movement coming from the city a couple of miles before them - the various HQ elements of the regiment consulting with one another even as further Imperial forces lined up on their flanks.

All appeared to be going well, and it was...for a while.

The first anyone knew of an attack was when the ground began to move, the red sands about a mile in front of the Imperial forces - in between the walls of the city and their front lines - shifting and shaking to reveal humanoid figures that, from that distance and through the rain, were not accurately identifiable; a swift scattering of the regiments officers was enough to tell the common soldier that something was up, the cannons of the Ardus Armoured and other 'heavy' formations opening up all along the line.

Orders were barked throughout the regiment, and Sergeant Bashil turned to Fourth Squad with a grim expression on his usually plain face.

"Keep hold of your weapons, stick close to your mates, and keep up the rate of fire once we engage the enemy. Do not run, or you all know what will happen."

Ruadhán shivered both with cold and with fear, his eyes making out the slowly shambling horde of skeletal figures like shadows in the rain, their weapons glowing with an eerie green light and their fallen comrades - scatched by shrapnel or even blown apart - rising moments after 'dying'.

"God-Emperor protect us," he hissed, his trousers becoming warm from liquid that wasn't rain, "God-Emperor protect us all."