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 Mordian 246th, the 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment, the 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg 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 (or rather the still living remnants) 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...

---

---

"For Mordia! For the Emperor! FOR THE IMPERIUM!" She had punctuated every shout of hers with a squeeze of the trigger. Another shot fired, another rocket whizzing off where it would dully impact and then loudly explode. The men and women of the Mordian 246th surged, bayonets fixed, the air in front of them filled with hundreds of snapped-off lasgun shots, the air thick with the lethal discharge, hissing and fizzing with energy. One could almost taste it, or was that perhaps the copper in one's mouth? It was hard to tell; everything was fire and fury.

When it was done, when the momentum of the charge had failed and they had fallen in their droves, with even the refined uniforms of Mordia punched through and broken, she had been left almost alone. The banner- the banner they had sworn to never let fall, lay ruined and tattered on the ground, scorched and destroyed, the shaft shattered and splintered. Her entire command squad had died in the fighting, medic's chest carved out by a brute's choppa, her veterans impaled, disembowelled, shot to shreds. How she had survived she did not know, but she stood there, hand covered in blood but blade unmarred.

Other squads had crashed by her, the ground earned with double-breasted blood churned up by soldiers from a dozen different worlds, each with their own bayonets strapped to their guns. Walking back through the killing fields, she had banged on the side of a parked chimera, the crew hatch having opened up with a surprised face poking out.

"Captain Di Fieroccu requesting the usage of your vox." She had said in a flat tone.

"... Certainly," had come the baffled reply, and she had hauled herself into the APC, the vox-channels crackling as she picked up the mouthpiece.

"This is Captain Di Fieroccu." Kssh. "Reporting near total loss of the Mordian 246th 5th company. Number of survivors unknown, but minimal. We are unable to reform into an effective fighting force, please advise, over." Kssh.

A pause on the vox channel, filled with pops and crackles. Poor signal here it seemed. "Requesting identification number Captain Di Fieroccu, over." Came the response.

"Three-Niner-Alpha-Tango-Fiver-Zero-Zulu-Romeo-Eight-Six, over." She removed her hand from the radio and waited for the man on the over end to verify her identity.

"Are you declaring fifth company effectively destroyed, captain, over?" Wh... What sort of question was that? She had just said exactly that. Bloody administrators, holding pens in space and never seeing a fight themselves.

"That would be correct. As I said, please advise on the next course of action, over." She didn't let her annoyance seep into her voice. She was better than that.

A long pause, and then the man would finally get back to her. "We are receiving reports that the beachhead is being secured now. The regimental objective has been completed. Return to the reserves. Over and out."

---

---

Arlena had a significant number of medals pinned to her breast. It was only natural- she had served for so long in comparison to many here that it would have been more of a surprise for her to not have so many medals. Still, as an administrator pinned four more to her chest, she had to admit that it was getting a little ridiculous. To start with, her jacket was getting far too heavy to practically wear, and secondly, what good were these medals when her regimental standard snapped not behind her? When her fellow soldiers were slowly burnt and processed into piles of ash? She had survived another campaign, another planet, and now she found herself, not for the first time, wondering what step was next for her to take.

Apparently not settling down, was the answer to that. No, she would be moving on to the next planet then, more violence and killing. A new group of Mordians to whip into good order and march with, to learn their names and their old gangs. Her face showed no change as she thought on it. Yes, it would be good to see new faces. With the medals given out, she would about face, holding her sabre up and against her arm, and begin to march, one arm swaying back and forth in perfect parade form. Normally, she would be followed by her men, but there were no men. The Mordian 246th Fifth Regiment- all 300 of them, were dead or badly wounded enough to be laid up in hospital. She thought it a joke when she had realised that she was the only one standing in the parade ground, but no. It seemed the Emperor had blessed her, for although she had taken shots to her armour, none had been severe enough to merit her a longer stay in a medical facility.

So it was that she would march back in forlorn silence, the cold barely noticeable in her weather-inured bones. Officers received nicer accommodation than the rank and file, so once she had reported her weapons to the quartermaster (unlike the common lasgun, her boltpistol and sabre needed to be accounted for,) she would find her room neat, warm, comfortable and most of all, with her personal effects already placed in a box on her bed. How accommodating.

Picking out a few items, she would empty the box out carefully and arrange the few objects inside around her room. It was actually quite pleasant, when one got down to it. A metal framed three-quarters bed, sturdy and clean storage facilities, a desk and chair and even an en-suite toilet (even officers had a shower bloc however.) Slowly taking off most of her armoured garments, she would pick up a bottle of fine double-distilled amasec, the kind that was far too expensive for a normal trooper, and pour out half a glass's worth, standing stiffly before the small window she had and staring out at the rockrete structure next to the one she was currently standing in. The fine liquor burned its way down her throat as she thought and pondered, allowing the time to slowly slip away.

335729-44456-103-Egida died in the fighting on Vernum Primus. Her bayonet and body alike were cleaved in twain by the choppa in the Ork's hand. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka could not respond. His fight remained before him - another alien, another enemy of the Imperium, who he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. The Ork that killed 335729-44456-103-Egida was itself slain just before 415633-983223-17-Zhatka killed his own. How fitting.

And the fight continued.

---

415633-983223-17-Zhatka stood to full attention. His regiment was depleted - few soldiers remained, of the Grenadiers only himself and one other. He did not mourn them. Those soldiers had died fittingly: sacrificing their lives for the Imperium, to help cleanse the stain of Krieg's failure just a little more, before their equipment was collected for redistribution later. They were brave - as brave as all Guardsmen ought to be.

To be forced to stand in line and accept trinkets marking his bravery, attached to his carapace armour where they would fit, was therefore galling. This was entirely a waste of time. Inefficient, unnecessary, save that other Imperial Guardsmen were lesser in their bravery, and saw such acts as somehow exceptional. They should not be. If they weren't, the Imperium would never have trouble defeating its foes. Triple Skull, to indicate large losses within a regiment. This wasn't needed. Other medals, indicating other achievements. Unnecessary. He would discard it all later.

At least they were not chastised by being made to live on this world, like other, lesser regiments. That would be a deathly insult. The General-Militant seemed the type to insult them that way, pathetically, spinelessly conciliatory as he was, but he had the sense not to. Instead, they would be redirected to the headquarters for the Departmento Munitorum - to fight again, and hopefully to die in a way that was suitable. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka doubted this battle would lead to a promotion to Watchmaster. He rather doubted he'd want it to.

---

As soon as it was plausible to assume they weren't being monitored, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka removed the medals planted on his chest with great haste, placing them in the lowest recesses of his equipment pack with the intent of forgetting they existed. At least none had been pinned through his breastcoat; that would have rendered it functionally unusable. It was designed to seal out chemical weapons. It could not do so with holes puncturing its surface. At best, it would have required a renewed course of treatment as a result - difficult, when no suitable facilities to perform such treatments presented themselves. Under normal circumstances, it would be irrelevant.

These were not normal circumstances.

415633-983223-17-Zhatka's thoughts returned to 335729-44456-103-Egida as he acquired a ration pack to consume. Other Guardsmen did not come to him. This was fine. He'd likely have shared his ration pack with her if she were still alive. She would have shared hers in kind. She always enjoyed the chocolate dessert pills. He, however, found the plastic somewhat stuck to his- his train of thought cut off as he realised where it was leading. No. That was the wrong way of thinking. She died heroically. That was enough.

He ate his ration pack silently, pondering the beneficience of the God-Emperor, that He gave Krieg the opportunity to alleviate their sins by dying in his name at all. Truly, any being less divine would have insisted upon their destruction outright. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka could only hope the next battle he was sent to would offer more opportunities for atonement.

Charlene had begun the day with her daily prayer, the one she had been using ever since she'd first hid inside a trash can to avoid the smog gnats as a twelve year old. It was a prayer that had served her well over the years, one that had never failed her yet. There were variations of it, but it always sounded something like this:

"Oh, Emprah, please don't let me die today! T'morrow would be so much better!"

As the orks let out a thunderous "WAAAAAAAAGH!" in front of her, Charlene briefly pondered if the Emperor had decided not to listen to her prayer that morning.

The whole battlefield was a cacophony of violence. Lasguns were being fired desperately. Heavy Bolter rounds hammered into the ork ranks - well, they were less ranks so much as a wild mob - from their mounts on the armored vehicles behind the Imperial infantry. Grenades were being thrown; stikkbombz were thrown back; and big, ugly critters who were all mouth and no brain pounded the ground with their feet as they raced at the guardsmen. Some had bombs strapped to their backs. The rubble and rock on the ground bounced as the ork horde charged forward. Explosions were everywhere. Screams were everywhere. People were dying.

Frankly, Charlene was pretty sure she was going to have to help the Emperor help her.

Charlene fired wildly at the throng of orks, missing spectacularly. She panicked, then fired some more, missing again. Her lasfire smacked walls, rocks, a broken down car, a braindead pigeon that was watching the battlefield curiously, but not a single ork. Charlene's hands shook. They were still coming.

"Dammit, Charlie!" snapped the soldier next to her, her squadmate: Biff. "Who taught you how to shoot?!" the man demanded in a confused, angry voice.

"NOBODY!" screamed Charlie in answer, equally confused and angry.

The girl started firing, turning her head away and closing her eyes. She fired on pure, blind instinct. It was the stupidest thing Biff had ever seen. He actually had to stop shooting a moment to gape at the absolute buffoonery happening beside him.

That's when her shots finally landed on something: one of the squigs.

The squig took a hit to the leg, which sent it spiraling to the side. It ran into one of the orks, who was in the midst of throwing a pair of stikkbombz. The explosives flew out from his hand and landed next to a bomb carrying squig charging alongside a couple of orks on warbuggies, all bearing right down on Charlie's position. Then the stikkbombz exploded.

The explosion knocked Charlie off her light feet. When she pulled herself back up, her squadmate was staring at her, and the orks that had been about to murder the Hell out of her were giblets.

Biff stared at Charlie incredulously. Charlene, in turn, reached into one of her hidden pockets in her vest and pulled out a flask of amasec.

"Praise the Emprah?" the little imp said cheerily before taking a swig.

---

It was Charlene's only significant contribution to the battle, truth be told. She'd spent most of the rest of it hiding and missing shots and... well, otherwise being awful at her job. She also didn't die, which was something she was supposed to do, probably. It felt good not to be dead.

Still, apparently Charlie was getting medals. Sure, most of them were just for participation, but she was getting medals along with everyone else. Her regiment wasn't exactly complete, and neither was the 88th Cadian Mechanized Infantry (which her regiment wound up being meatshields for). But Private Charlene McDinny was alive, so she decided circumstances were pretty good, all things considered.

Unfortunately, the parade had turned out to be incredibly boring. Some old guy in fancy-looking clothes was prattling on about heroes and heatstroke and commendation. Charlie distinctly remembered being told he was a 'General Municipal' or something? General Munitions? Maybe he was the quartermaster's boss?

As General-Whatever Dough Van Gogh continued to talk, Charlie started to get... bored. There'd been a man that had talked before him, and another before him, and she wanted to skip the talking and get to the fun part of the parade. The little gremlin began to slouch. Then she yawned.

"Charlie!" whispered Biff harshly. He nudged her sharply in the stomach with his elbow.

"Oi! Piss off!" Charlie answered, nudging him back with about a tenth of the force.

"No! What are you doing?" Biff demanded. "You don't- don't yawn while the Rupert's giving his speech, you twit!"

"Oh, go suck on the Commissar's pistol, twat!" Charlie whispered back, annoyed. "When's the old guy gonna shut up so we can party?"

"What- what?" Biff asked. The other guardsmen in formation next to Charlie were starting to stare at the both of them.

Charlie didn't get a chance to explain because it was at that moment that the Commissar started looking in their direction. Charlie stiffened up like a board just a second before he did, grinning like she'd just passed gas. The Commissar narrowed his eyes, but thankfully looked past the pair.

"What party?" Biff asked in frustration and confusion.

Charlene's heart sank.

---

There was, indeed, no party or free food after the whole event. But Private McDinny was an optimist at heart, and she knew how to make the best of things.

The young woman was taking stock of her various bits of loot. There were the medals, firstly. They seemed pretty useless, but she figured someone would want to buy them. She'd nicked another guy's messkit, and she really only needed one, so that was as good of loot as any. The scamp had also scrounged up some obscura and some lho-sticks, both of which she figured she could trade for more amasec and maybe a new helmet... or just more credits. Credits were always good, after all. And she'd found some dingy jewelry and electronic-looking bits while looting after the last battle, and she'd snatched from screws and a big knife from one of the blown up orks. Surely she'd be able to buy something with that junk. And there were the fake cred sticks, and...

Eventually, Charlene finished inspecting all her stuff. It was good stuff, it was. She wanted to get more stuff, which usually meant finding what wasn't nailed down and claiming it as "acquisitions," but she was tired and hungry and worn out from all the standing around doing nothing. The young soldier concealed her stash again (mostly on her person, which was a feat that betrayed both organization and barbarism to be quite frank), then sat down on her cot and opened a ration pack.

As she ate, Charlene thought about the war finally being over. That was a good thing. She didn't know what that meant, but it probably meant she could stop being a soldier. Maybe she could find a nice planet without a smog-filled sky to call home, then beat up some posh lady and steal her clothes and pretend to be her. That would be nice.

Charlene was about to drink from her bottle of amasec when she realized it was empty. She cussed aloud. Why'd her amasec supplier have to go and get shot in the head during the fighting, anyway?

With a heavy, weary sigh, the ne'er-do-well dragged herself off her cot and stalked off to go find a new supplier.

The last firing order had not come in from the vox in roughly half an hour, and the echo from the other guns in the regiment had stopped at roughly the same time. In order to replace the smell of diesel fumes with something a bit more palatable, such as gunpowder and cannon smoke, Mordecai had clambered out of the driver compartment of his Basilisk and onto the firing deck of the conjoined Earthshaker cannon. He wasn't concerned about missing any essential orders, having long ago learned how to patch the vox-feed into his personal micro-comm. Instead he took the lull in orders as an opportunity to 'shoot the shit', as it were, relaxing in the high sun with his crewmates.

Officially the gunner and loader, Privates Henry Vael and Felton Kent were easily Mordecai's closest comrades and only true friends. As Mordecai hefted himself onto the firing deck, one arm wrapped around the railing bar, one leg dangling over the edge and the other propped up on the metal platform, the two gave him a casual salute with their first two fingers.

"So Mordo, any news from the brass?"

"No word on anything yet, but I ain't complaining. More time to kick back and take it easy. You dealing, Kent?"

Felton nodded, shuffling up a deck of playing cards before dealing out proper hands for a game of Suicide Kings. The lads didn't have much in the way of actual substance to gamble with, they tended to share most everything anyway, so their games were more a way to pass the time and occupy their hands while talking. Roughly two hours of this passed, Mordecai and his crewmates having slipped back inside the crew compartment of the Basilisk to shade themselves from the beating sun overhead. Having grown bored with the endless hands of Suicide Kings, the men had rigged together makeshift napping alcoves by stretching out across empty crates and containers, fatigue tops balled up as pillows. Mordecai's rest was broken when a call over the vox-comm startled him awake, his sudden alertness rousing the others.

"This is an open call to all members of the Cadian 232nd. The battle for Vernum City is officially over, with a resounding Imperial victory. All surviving members of the Imperial Guard are to report for the final victory speech and ceremony of commendations, effective immediately."

With this, Mordecai snapped his fingers twice in quick succession, rousing the lads to quickly take their places for moving inward towards the city. Mordecai hoped this ceremony would end with a much-needed break. While he liked the Basilisk, you can only spend so much time in a tin can without it becoming a hassle. The smell had started to get to him, too...

---

As the General-Militant droned on with his speech, Mordecai found himself reciting the simple-yet-important mantra of Don't let the knees lock...Don't let the knees lock..., his focus leading to him almost completely drowning out the General with the tinnitus developed over years of working around the massive Earthshaker cannon and the roar of the Chimera chassis engine. Finally, the General finished, the only commendation given to the non-officers of the 232nd was a campaign ribbon representing service in the Vernum Crusade, pinned alongside similar "participation" ribbons from service in a smattering of minor campaigns Mordecai had found himself in since his appointment as a Whiteshield.

Just as quickly as they had been ushered in at the start of the ceremony, they were ushered out, Mordecai and the others of the 232nd sent to the Munitorum headquarters to account for their various vehicles and heavy munitions, before reporting to their assigned prefabricated barracks. Finally, a bit of real R&R at last...

---

Shacking up with some of the other vehicle crews in the 232nd's barracks, Mordecai, Henry, and Felton quickly helped make the place as much of a home as they could. Ration packs were pooled together and divided out in a makeshift banquet, smuggled and stolen Amasec passed around in anything that could vaguely pass as a cup, and even the scent of lho-sticks hung heavy in the air, despite the best efforts of their users to exhale out the ventilation shafts and cracked-open windows.

Mordecai, as the closest thing passing for a "real" NCO in the bunk room-turned party hall, was careful not to overindulge on much of anything, lest some hasty explaining be required thanks to a surprise appearance by the Commissar. Luckily it wasn't a commissar that arrived, but one of the more recent Whiteshields to be bequeathed by the Emperor to the regiment, currently acting as the Major's courier, a role Mordecai was all too familiar with. The boy shuffled in and was met by the door to the bunks by Mordecai, who seemed a bit surprised to find the Major's errand-boy at his doorstep.

"Letter for you, sir! Straight from the Major 'imself! Addressed to a... 'Corpsal Tarn' I think it says."

"Right, thanks lad. Dismissed."

The Whiteshield popped off what could be called a salute as Mordecai unfolded and skimmed the brief letter. Seems the Major wants to speak with him personally about something. Rather surprising, given the last time they spoke was when they were both about ten-odd years younger. Hollering back to the party boys to keep their noses clean, but not too clean, he stepped out the door and began the trek to the officers' bunks to have a chat with the man in charge. The moment he was out from blocking the doorway, the feast-turned-party quickly breached the gap and spilled out into the open-air space between hab-blocks. Mordecai shook his head and hollered out "Save something for me when I get back!"

The officers' quarters were far more calm than the hab-blocks holding the grunts and treadheads, and it was pretty easy for Mordecai to make his way to the Major, showing the letter to anyone questioning him being there. Snapping a salute and showing the letter to the door guard, he stepped into the makeshift office and quarters of the senior officer of the 232nd Cadian. The Major, he had a name but nearly everyone just called him the Major, was an older man, greying hair, a trimmed beard, and wrinkles and creases across his face. He shared a salute with Mordecai before gesturing to a second chair next to an end table currently serving as a desk. "Have a seat, son."

The Major popped the cork on on a fine bottle of liquor, finer than any Mordecai had seen this close, and poured around two fingers each into a pair of sipping glasses, handing one to Mordecai.

"Savor it, son. I didn't exactly call you in here for a jamboree."

"Sir? So this letter isn't exactly good news, then?"

"No, its not. This isn't exactly something you're supposed to know yet, even I don't have the full information...but you're being transferred."

"Transferred? Are me and the boys being attached to another regiment?"

"No. It's just you. I don't have all the details, but you're being pulled into some kinda mashup regiment once everyone starts being rounded-up for redeployment. I figured it best to tell you before you got caught up in all the festivities that are bound to happen."

Mordecai turned red, then pale, then a sickly green. Quickly knocking back a large swig of the hard drink, a bit of the color returned to his face. He didn't know what to really think of the situation, but he knew it wouldn't be good. The Major gave him a pat on the back with a firm hand.

"Just keep your head up high, give it your best, and hold the Emperor in your heart." Sliding the fine drink bottle to Mordecai, he winked and said "Try to share a bit, yeah? I'm sure Vael and Kent'll miss ya."

Mordeciat gave a nod and a casual salute, tucking the bottle away for his trek back to the grunt barracks. When he made it back, he trawled through the partying masses, which had grown considerably during his time away. Eventually, he was able to round up Henry and Felton, and break the news to them. It was a pinpoint of solemn sorrow in a sea of raucous joy. The men took the fine liquor bottle from the major, poured three cups, and pressed the glasses together.

"To the 232nd, our best mates, and the Emperor!"

The men knocked their glasses back, let out a cheer as they embraced each other, and then waded out into the throng of fellow guardsmen, joining the celebration that seemed to grow every minute.

Sergeant Rojack wrenched the tribal warsword from the Ork corpse, sending a spiteful spray of las fire at the backs of the retreating Orks, watching a few remaining mortars fire into the retreating greenskins as well. The man, standing tall and proud at the edge of the trenches that he and his men counter assaulted out of, turned to address the men of his squad, ready to raise his voice to issue orders. The call caught in his throat, he was effectively alone. A few dying men laid about the field, a handful that had stayed in the trench with their heavy weapons, otherwise, he was alone. The few men who had been crewing weapons crawled out of the trench, looking at their Sergeant, waiting for orders. They were good soldiers, good warriors, almost as good as the dead and dying that remained scattered about the field, their weapons lodged into orkish corpses and smashed down in retribution. Still, the orks were on the retreat again, though it was unlikely they could repel another assault.

"Right lads, grab anything useful off the dead an' dig in. Any of you fine boys got a working far speaker? No? I'll walk back to the officers and see what they order." The surviving men of his trenchline began picking through the remains, some grabbing the better made explosives or better surviving ones off the dead, ork and guard alike, those that couldn't be saved being put out of their misery after prayers, and stocking the supplies in the trenches while the Sergeant marched briskly back towards the 222nd's standard. It still stood, blowing in the hot wind, riddled with holes from stray Ork weapons fire, damaged but unbroken. Underneath it was the command staff of the regiment, off worlders put in charge of managing and leading the feral world troops since it was decided they would not be able to lead themselves, not while being able to interact with other regiments. They had survived other regiments dying, much the same way as they did now. They were the last position, issuing orders surrounded by medics, vox operators, and the like, leading from afar. The Edrastian natives had no respect for them, but they followed orders all the same. The major in charge noted the approaching sergeant, and once Rojack saluted, returned it and dispatched orders.

"Sergeant, by my estimate, the 222nd is beneath minimal numbers for combat effectiveness. Relief forces are arriving now, rally the survivors and prepare to return to the muster positions. Our part has been played. You have your orders, Sergeant." Looking past the major, Rojack could see the trails of dust that the Guard transports kicked up, their replacements would be here before the Orks could rally and attack again. Saluting again, the Sergeant turned and started slogging back to the front trench, where the surviving men were already digging in. They looked up when the Sergeant returned, Rojack was the last of the Grenadiers, best examples of the Edrastian way of warfare, and by extension, the unofficial and, sometimes, official leaders of the tribal warriors in their Shock Regiments.

"Right, pack yer kits lads, command says we're too few to hold off another assault. Orders are to withdraw, let another tribe hold the hill. I know, we ain't done with the greenskin bastards, but we've done our bit all the same. Everyone got their kit sorted? Let's walk lads, can't hog all the glory." Rojack hopped down to help the survivors pack up their kit, everything they could carry, and fell back to the command squad, who was briefing the fresh regiment that had arrived to secure the hill for good. The major turned and visibly paused, having expected at least more than what was present. There wasn't even a platoon left of the regiment, including the entire command staff, and the relieving regiment also noted this, a mixed look of shock and awe that they had lasted this long against the Orks when left at such little remaining effective strength. Custody of the hill was exchanged, and the excess transports were redirected to other uses while the surviving Edrastian's mounted up and rode back to the reserves.

---

---

The Edrastian 222nd Shock Regiment stood with their tattered, battle damaged banner at attention while the speech had been given, medals handed out, the Edrastian's receiving more than some, but not as many as others, and notably not being given leave to settle on the planet. The Father called for their service still, then, so the tribal soldiers would answer the call. Still, that was another day, they still had this night to live through first. The command staff would have retired to other, nicer berthing they privately acquired, likely already doing paperwork on where they would be transferred next, to whichever regiment needed foreign leadership. They had no interest in warning or debriefing the tribal soldiers, who had taken to walking and drinking, stretching their legs under a strangely peaceful night. Well, maybe not walking, but they much preferred to be under open sky than inside the barracks, the tribesman starting a small fire to sit around, drinking and reminiscing on the dead and gone.

"Aye lads, Father above still has work for us. Now, reckon they'll scatter us, given how few of us there are. Father'll watch over each of us, and those who've taken his hand and now rest by his side. To those that passed, and those that yet live!" A cheer, strong and clear, before the handful of men took a heavy swig from their bottles, laughing and the sound of dice being broken out were made clear. The men would gamble on dice, chuckling and jostling each other as they made bets and rolled in the light of the campfire, while their sergeant looked on. He then drew his boot knife, and gathering some of the scrap wood they had gotten together before beginning the small campfire, and started carving and whittling while the men played.

Rojack could hear other regiment's survivors drinking and making noise, and any who would find their way to the Edrastian's little campfire would find warm welcomes. Such was the tribes way to welcome fellow warriors and survivors, and would quickly encompass any that cared to join in the dice games, drinking, and reminiscing on the recent events. Rojack was at the edge of the small fire's light, leaning against a wall, whittling and carving away while making remarks towards those present, keeping an eye on the approaches just in case an officer came investigating the commotion. One who was familiar with the game would recognize the wooden carvings matched regicide figures, it was something that the Sergeant did in his free time, well, one of the things he did when he had down time. The towering, looming Edrastian's would cut an intimidating figure until one heard the laughing, easy going nature they currently had while drinking, and gambling, and enjoying a rare moment of downtime before being thrown into war in the Father's name once again.

Telaci Vast was not a fan of this ceremony. For a start, there was the fact that he looked very obviously out of place. He had never stood in parade stance in his life, his gun was held very casually, he clearly wasn't in the uniform of the fellows around him, and more than that, there were perilously few of those fellows. So many commissars had stared daggers into him that he was starting to wonder if he'd just be shot outright, but none of them had actually seemed to be willing to finish him off, so he supposed he was alright for now. Bloody commissars- that wasn't something he had had to worry about on the Graced Blade, that much was for sure. Hell, he'd been in charge of discipline up there.

Also, there was the fact that he was receiving medals. This, to him, suggested that he would be attending more functions where such medals would be needed to be worn. He did not like this idea. Not in the slightest. It implied that he was to be stuck planetside for far longer than he had any intention of actually being on a planet for, and what's more, it implied he'd be doing more fighting on the ground. The greenskinned bastards he had battled weren't new to him... Well, they were new in person, but not as a concept, but he really didn't want to find out what else there was out there for him to be thrown at.

So when he had two medals pinned to his chest, he felt mighty uncomfortabe. The only thing that kept him reluctantly standing there were the slips of paper in his pocket- when one of the idiots he'd been with had fallen poking his head out of the trench, he'd given him a quick once over and found none other than triple alcohol rations. Up in space, these things were worth more than any credit, but he had a feeling he'd be drinking all of them today. A celebration of his last fight on Vernum. Or whatever this damned rock was called.

When it was finally done, and they were being directed off to 'pick up their personal belongings,' he ignored it. He didn't have personal belongings, because he'd crashed in from sodding space. Hadn't even received a mess kit yet, which had made eating the rations he had been given harder than hard. Still though, even he had to admit that rockrete structures with cots inside was a welcome sight, regardless of how little he had to slam down in that footlocker of his.

A trip to the supply quartermaster (as opposed to the weapon one, which he had stubbornly avoided out of fear of receiving a lasgun like everyone else) and he would learn that he had enough ration slips for a bottle of finer amasec... Or four bottles of cheap rotgut booze. He knew exactly which one he was picking up, the sailor walking away whistling an old tune and swinging two bottles of 40oz liquor in his arms. Now this? This was what he fancied.

Outside, where the ground was mostly rockrete and dry, he could see campfires slowly igniting, people drinking, gambling, talking. Perfect, a little celebration going on, and he had exactly the thing to contribute. As he wandered through the fires, looking for one where he could pull up a pew, he would finally settle on one which seemed fairly welcoming. Vast, bulky soldiers sat around it, and judging by the tattoos that swirled across his body, the armsman would be willing to guess they were more of the feral inclination.

"Ev'nin bruvdems." He would say, squatting down by the fireside. "Nice t' see boys cracking sum and chillin', get me? An' no badman commissar nowehere." He nodded, content, before taking a swig of the potent liquor he had purchased. "Anywan up fi a game'a sumting? Any'ya know 'bout Voiddin? Ah, an any'ya got a fag fi me? Ain' nobody been welcomin' wit a lho."

In formation Deek stood as erectly as he could. His gaunt figure cutting an odd impression in the line of guardsmen he was now standing with. He was listening with the most strain and focus that he had ever in his life. He was waiting for 2 sentences. “62nd Cladd” and “Colonisation privileges”. Surely they must, surely with all this fighting they cant be expecting to reenforce the 62nd. That could take months maybe even years for the ships to arrive through the void, and its not that i wouldn't enjoy the respite but then it would be right back in the fight again. He willed the words to come. But then the speech was finished. That was it. Was it over that quickly? Surely he must have missed something. That was it, he must have just lost concentration when the General-Militant said what was to become of the Cladd Liberators. After all the Liberation was won, then what?

A bright and spangled Lance corporal was making his way down the line of guardsmen at attention. With a sack filled with letters. Pushing a letter into the hands of each guardsman as he went, right up until he got to Deek. Deek held out his hand to receive the letter. “Excuse me, but i missed the part where it was said what the 62nd was to do.” The Corporal gave a conspiratorial look. “Orders are to march to the Departmento Munitorum.” Deeks hands were beginning to quiver as he opened the white envelope, in it a small medal trickled out into his palm, along with a certificate. It was a campaign medal… slowly it began to dawn on him. He didn't want it to dawn on him. He didn't want to understand. But a tiny monkey part of his brain was reporting that it did understand, and it was ringing its little bell. “You only get campaign medals if its not your only campaign” that was what it was saying. He wrestled with it, but soon it was all but dawned on him and he physically slumped. Just then the warm hand of Rich slapped him on the back. “What do you make of it mate eh? A real medal! Our very first! And not the last Emperor be willing” "Hisss…" The word yes narrowly escaped Deeks lips slowly and with a considerable amount of venom. “We all have to follow the path the Emperor has lain before us, we just have to focus on WINNING.” he said. “We fight to live and live to fight.”

Rich was more focussed with what was on his own mind, -and that vision for Rich was him and his heavy bolter, mounted atop a mound of dead enemies, perhaps even being promoted to command squad fire support team. He knew he just had to keep Deek on side. For he knew that he was rough around the edges but it was hard to find a squadmate more attentive and devoted to the Emperor. This direction to the Munitorum could only mean something special was in store for the remnants of the 62nd, who would rise again like a revenant, they would resurge, reenforce and rearm, they would adapt, evolve and overcome. Rich had a good feeling about this. Like something famous was in the making.

The remaining 3 members of their squad filed out. They were all sharing a pack of lhos to commemorate the parade in their mind, what was surely to be a high moment in their lives. Rich and Deek followed suit. Rich hefted the weight of “Lucks second”, he wasn't going to hand THAT into an armourer if he could help it. The nightmare scenario is that he never gets issued it again, being spotted by some specialist git, and this weapon was venerable, over the many months of fighting it had kept them all alive and was worth its weight in throne gelt. So Him and Deek would provide all the maintenance and special attention that she needed, guarding her like a secret relic. And a relic she was, a relic of the battle for Vernum City.

As the group neared the Munitorum building and its habs it was nearing midday. They had a look at where they would be billeted. The large hab halls each with a stretcher bunk and accompanying footlocker, they were pleased to see such luxuries, in stark contrast to the mud holes they’d slept in at the front. Every regiment was setting out a space to relax and the 62nd were no exception. After a little visual inspection of the uniforms it was found that the 62nd, smaller in number, had set out for themselves a section of rockcrete by the side of one of the buildings. There Rich set down “Lucks second” along with the mound of other equipment men had salvaged and picked from the front. There was a small fire and several guardsmen were making starch stew. First by breaking up starch crackers into powder in a mess-tin, adding water and pepper then positioning the mess tin as close to the fire as you dared, the resultant slop was if not flavorsome, at least hot and hearty. Some men had managed to scrounge some spices or actively foraged for plants on the long march back. Rich and Deek immediately put their mess kits together to join their comrades, Deek had managed to pull out a clump of dander-weed on the way, which gave a very weak taste of sage. After their feast was cooked they joined the huddle of troopers and half scooped half gulped their meal. Afterwords Rich dug into his backpack and removed a very familiar item. Spinning the scrumball in his hands, its oval shape easily recognised. “Anyone up for a game before or after we get blind drunk?”

---

It had been a productive haggling session for Private McDinny. Having traded the weight of her medals and obscura for some credits, the shrimp of a guardswoman was in a fairly good mood. Sure, the oh-so-legal traders hadn't carried any alcohol on them - apparently they'd already bartered it all off to other guardsmen - but Charlie did nick a porn mag that had been left unattended by one of the men when he had gone to refill his recaf. Such magazines were a currency in and of themselves. The one she'd nabbed had a cover that looked exactly like that of THE IMPERIAL INFANTRYMAN'S UPLIFTING PRIMER, so it had the added benefit of making whoever was reading it look dutiful as they enjoyed themselves.

It was as McDinny was scanning the contents of the 'primer' and finding its contents sadly lacking anything for the female gaze that she felt a familiar tingle in her forehead.

Private McDinny always got tingles when something interesting was happening. Of course, 'something interesting' could mean the sort of situation that demanded hiding inside of a closet, such as when thugs were hunting for her, when mortar shells were dropping, or when the Commissar was in a particularly bad mood. But there was also a tingle in her forehead that McDinny got when the fun kind of interesting was happening, and that good tingle was sure a-tingling as she left the troop transports.

Not one to want to miss out on anything fun going on, McDinny made her way around the troop transports, around the hab units, and eventually saw a fire in the distance. It looked like there were people (and a growing number at that) jumping around, laughing, talking, and drinking. That last part was what piqued her interest, and Charlene realized that must have been where all the booze wound up. Properly motivated, it didn't take Charlene long to join the party.

It was definitely the sort of party McDinny had been hoping for after the parade.

There were all kinds of different guardsmen present, though the figures at the center of the show seemed to be big, burly, tribal-looking men with the sorts of bodies that McDinny wouldn't have minded finding inside the porn mag she'd stolen. There was alcohol, and a lot of it; always the sign of a good party. There were stories being swapped, warm campfires (which weren't made in burnt-out, busted trash barrels!), and lots of faces with genuine mirth on them. Even the awful little scamp was able to relax. McDinny normally was tense about most situations surrounded by people that could throw her across a field like a nob could hurl gretchin, but something about the air and the faces that she saw made her feel calm. Well... calmer, anyway.

For once, McDinny didn't steal anything or cause any mischief. The mood was too sacrosanct. She went from group to group, listening in, drinking whatever she was offered, and grinning like a fool. Eventually, she came upon a group of confused looking tribals trying to understand what the Hell a greasy, bow-legged, octopus-haired boogieman was garbling at them.

Being a greasy boogiewoman herself, McDinny came to the rescue of the tribals, thrusting a lho-stick at the friendly voidsman.

"First one's free!" the small guardswoman chimed in cheerily. "Second one'll cost ya, ya ken?"

As she spoke, the private turned toward the rest of the group. "Dirtyboy here's just musing about how right cheery it is to not have a trigger-happy Commissar squinting at us while the kegs and bottles are popped. He was a-wondering if perchance you chums might want to play some cards or if anyone's been on a big spaceboat'r summat.

"Oh, and by the way," the huckster added, "might some'a you gentrified individuals be a mite interested in acquisitions?" Without waiting for a response, McDinny starting pulling the mostly legal objects out of her flak vest. The porn mag, the mess kit, silverware, scrap metal, extra duct tape, lho-sticks... "I got the goods, I do!"

Really, there was no good reason for a simple guardswoman's uniform to fit everything she was pulling out.

The Seventy-Eighth been holding their section of the encirclement trenches, placed around the city in case some Greenskins attempted to slip away after what was sure to be an Imperial victory, for over two months now; in that time there had been numerous break out attempts, and each time the regiment had been whittled down until, as it stood, there were no more than a few platoons left.

It was in fourth platoon, second company, seventy-eighth Finreht Highlanders that Sergeant Greig Sithech now found himself.

Being in the Guard was not the life that the sixty-eight year old would have chosen for himself, no, he had actually wished to be a simple cattle-raider and farmer on his home planet!

Sitting here against one of the trench walls, waiting for the order to withdraw behind the lines or the next attack to wash over them, he was at least thankful that he had kept himself and his gear in the best condition he could.

With a shake of his shaggy head, his mane of dirty grey hair giving him a feral aspect which went well with his bearded visage and general demenour, Greig stood and rolled back his broad shoulders; he may not be the largest of men, but he had the posture, poise, and lean musculature of a true 'hard man' nonetheless.

"Whaur urr ye gaun, Greig?" Questioned the platoons vox operator, Wee Lachlan, the swirling markings about his arms and face not too dissimilar from Greigs own, showing that both were from the clans of the wide, deep, glens but not of the same groups.

"A'm aff tae tak' a keek ower th' tap, aren't ah?"

This was not to be though, the vox crackling to life before Greig could reach the other side.

"Seventy-Third, Seventy-Third, this is HQ, please respond."

"HQ, this is Seventy-Third, orders?"

"Escapees incoming, prepare to repel, ETA ten minutes. Over and out."

"Ye 'aw heard tha', git up an fix bayonets," bellowed the kilt-clad Finrehter, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that for many of them this would be their last charge.

Long strides took him along the readying lines, forearm grasps and oaths exchanged with familiar faces, before Greig came to the officers dug-out. Sure enough there was their Captain, the poor Offworlder continuing to shake and mutter, his mind broken by constant shelling from both sides.

"Time fur annur charge, captain darlin', ye rest easy noo 'n' dinnae fret." Spoke Greig softly, knowing that once this was all over he would be recieving a Commissars bolt.

When the time finally came, fluidly slipping his ever-sharp bayonet onto the lug of his lasgun, the Sergeant prepared to spring... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two...

There was the klaxon, there were the men and women, and all along the trench section the banshee screeches of Finrehters soon mingled with the bass roars of those Orks that had managed to flee the city - and no doubt would regroup later, if not stopped here.

"FINREHT GU BRATH!" Bellowed Greig, his bare legs hurtling over the uneven ground and carrying him into the fray, his bayonet plunging into the ribcage of the first monster he met, several squeezes of the trigger burning neat holes through the brutes torso and sending it to the ground with a beastial groan.

The battle-craze was on him now, the red haze that seemed to be an in-built part of every Finrehter, his vision narrowing as if in a tunnel and his heart loud in his ears, bayonet plunging into flesh time after time and before long his breathing became laboured and he began to slow... it was this time, and this time alone that he was struck from behind, and all was darkness.

---

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

Greig, along with the dozen or so survivors of what he liked to call 'the final charge', stood stiff-backed and to attention as the final words of the speech were read out.

After being found and patched up by the medicae, them hosed down by Munitorum disinfectant, he stood and stared off into the distance (or at least at the back of another soldiers head) as he had done oh so many times before. His thoughts, as they had before, turned to the pyres of bodies and the burning corpses that would never see the rugged hills or mountains of Finreht again, breath the pure air or see the red hawk-eagle swooping high.

It nearly bought him to tears.

---

Evening and the chill of it were soon setting in, darkness coming with it, as the bonfires were lit and the what could reasonably be considered a 'party' began - alcohol flowing freely, food even provided to the victorious warriors of the God-Emperor - but for Greig and the dozen-or-so other Finreht of the Seventy-Third that remained it was one of loss and mourning.

"Urram do na thuit, gum faigh iad fois còmhla ris na sinnsearan." Intoned the highest ranking officer left, raising a silver quaich to his lips and swallowing the fiery liquid, smiling behind his beard as it burned down his gullet.

"Honour to the fallen, may they rest with their ancestors!"

Eleven more silver items glinted in the firelight as the rest drank, before descending into murmured conversation and low-scale boasting.

Greig could not currently keep any company but his own, plucking off the brooch bearing his clan crest and unwrapping the top half of his plaid, wrapping it's chequered material about his shoulders and walking some way away from his own fire to lean against a hab-block wall, one hand yet resting gently on the hilt of his dirk.

"Bloody weel survived again, haven't ye auldjin?" He muttered to himself, peering up at the sky and the moving stars of the Imperial Navy, watching his hot breath rise toward them, "a' they brassic wee jimmies 'n' lassies... Weel... Whit wull become o' ye now?"

With as much leisurely surety as slotting in his bayonet, he reached into his sporran and plucked a hip-flask from it, and with military efficiency popped the unscrewed top into his mouth.

"Bugger it."

More liquid, what the Finrehters called 'life water', warmed him as a fire or a billet bed could not and, just for the moment, he was content.

---

Clerk S-25-97-D, otherwise known as Avidius Hilarus, made his way slowly but surely through the ranks of celebrating soldiers and could not help but give a small shake of his augemented head at what he saw. This was not because of their behaviour, oh no, he well knew the value of celebration after a victory... no... it was because he knew what the order contained within the data-slate in his left hand was.

Each officer of the upcoming 'combined regiment' - dubbed the 87th Combined Regiment 'Expeditio Vernum' by the highly imaginative brains at HQ - from the regimental colonel to the lowest captain, would be recieving a personalised copy of the orders and would be expected to follow it to the letter.

His long legs carried him easily through the various colourful groups, his slender frame softly slipping through, until he finally reached the officers quarters and came to the door of one Captain Di Fieroccu.

Several swift raps on the door bought the newly minted company commander out of her reverie and soon enough she would be looking into the one green and one bionic eye of the clerk, his hand outstretched toward her and the data-slate presented along with it.

"Your new orders, Captain. The celebrations will likely proceed through the night, possibly into the new day, but what you wish to do with your company before that is up to you."

With his task complete, Clerk S-25-97-D could not return to his office and proceed with some real work. These Militarum assignments were so dull.

Emperor be praised.

---

What the stalwart Mordian would find, once she decided to enter her personal clearance and view the document, was a list of eighty-or-so military personnel from severely depeleted formations; these would all be part of her new company - Company C of the regiment - but from that list she would, eventually, have to select her own Company Command Squad.

The regiment would be forming officially some time the next day, late afternoon most likely, and until then Captain Di Fieroccu had the entire time to rest, recuperate, or simply get right it.

---

---

New orders. Opening the data slate up, she would prop it against the wall alongside her desk, taking a sip of her drink as she looked over it. So many formations, and alas, none of them Mordians. She could not say that she was not dissapointed, but this was but a new challenge for her, a new way for her to demonstrate her worth to the Emperor. Sliding the glass down and away from the screen, she realised quickly that her new company command squad would need to be formed. Her eyes scanned it- she knew what she needed, even if she did not know if these fellows would provide it. If they fell, ah well, she could always draw more up from the ranks.

A few names quickly stood out to her just from their regiments. Private Charlie of the 107th Cadian and Corporal Servan of the 223rd Mechanized. Excellent, excellent; a few good, stalwart fellows to form the core of the veterancy, and she shouldn't have to worry about getting their training up to date. Dragging their names just below hers, she would continue to look through the list of names and planets, eyes searching carefully.

Then, she blinked, once, twice. That string of numbers, a name attached to the end almost as if an afterthought. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka: 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg? She raised an eyebrow. How interesting that Kriegers had been folded into this little regiment. Surprised she may have been, but she would nonetheless still place the name into the list of others she was assembling for her command squad.

A gunners and gunners mate. Some extra bite. She did not intend to be hanging back and letting others do the fighting, so these two fellows should do nicely, especially if more orks were on the menu. Those trukks... As ramshackle as they were, she could not deny that the sight of so many orks packed into one, roaring vehicle was not a little concerning, but time and time again they had fallen before concentrated bolter fire from heavy weapons squads.

Telaci Vast... There was a whole sentence dedicated to this one, how peculiar. Crash landed naval voidsman, assigned to Hirsit 101st. It was often said that varied perspectives were needed to ensure victory, and this certainly was a different persepctive. She would add the name on, looking now for a few more senior faces to hold things together.

She found them in a sergeant and a lieutenant. 222nd Edrastain Shock and 73rd Finreht Highlanders. Highlanders- she had heard that designation before. Close quarters fighters, much like shock troopers. Combined with the grenadier, she was looking at rather an offensive bunch in her squad, but that was alright- the hardest part would be assigning the honour of the regimental standard. She also idly noted that they had no medic, but she was sure one of these soliders wouldn't mind a little extra training and a lot extra pay for their troubles.

With that sorted then, she would send a brief message to the new officers under her commands. Those that would be leading the platoons and squads underneath her. She intended on running a compact ship, and although she would not be able to run a Mordian regiment as she had wished, and therefore her normal tactics would require some revising, she would nonetheless ensure that they lived up to her ideals. Perhaps she'd request a commissar just to ensure no fleeing.

That though, was for later. She knew that many of the men and women enjoying themselves outside would be those under her command, and nothing let you know about soldiers like how they reacted to superior officers when they weren't sober. Slipping into her coat and fixing her hat to her head, she would consider for a moment, before going to her wardrobe and retrieving a neatly folded navy cape, throwing it over her shoulders and clipping it just beneath her epatulettes. Thus equipped, she would stride out of the room and down the stairs, until she was outside and breathing in the chill air.

Almost immediately she noted two men stiffen up as they stumbled past her. Her gaze turned with them as they walked, and although she could see the exact moment where they realised she wasn't a commissar, the epatulettes and cape that she wore had scared them eough to not stumble until they were well out of her sight. Then, she would turn towards where campfires had been lit, shaking herself out of a march and into a more casual stroll.

---

The arrival of more people was a welcome thing indeed, though the tribal soldiers glanced at each other when the man with the borderline unintelligible accent came asking about, or they assumed asking about, something or another. One of them recognized the last word of his speaking, but the Father interceded on their behalf by bringing forth another who seemed to actually understand what the fellow had been saying, and translated in a far more understandable manner. She also proceeded to offer supplies, likely procured in less than up and up methods. The surviving soldiers of the 222nd would go about seeing what wares she had on her, and what they had of value to trade. Too pragmatic to turn down an opportunity to potentially pad their kits, though Rojack would pass on the offer itself, letting the other Edrastian's do as they pleased however. "Making his word's understandable is appreciated. I need to stretch my legs, otherwise I would deal cards. Play nice with the other tribes, lads, and don't spend your entire Father given pay on your lack of gambling ability."

Getting a chuckle of amusement out of his lads, Rojack would stand, taking a bottle with him as he left the tribe soldiers to their own devices. They were pleasant and welcoming even without the sergeant around, likely it was natural behavior instilled in them prior to departing their home world. Rojack, for what it was worth, trusted them to at least be civil, since polite would probably go out the window once the games started properly, be it cards or otherwise. The man took the odd swig from the bottle, wandering around and checking in at various spots, chatting with various other tribes survivors, and moving on to talk to the next. His walking would end up crossing paths with a very stern, almost Commissar looking woman. Commissar's were one of two positions filled by off worlders that had gotten any genuine respect from the Edrastian rank and file, mainly since they had a habit of leading and fighting from the front. Yes it was to ensure there was no cowardice, poor conduct, and the like, but it was respected more than how the off world officers acted all the same. Closer inspection as he came to attention revealed this woman was merely an officer, though he had no idea what tribe paraded around in a easily spotted uniform. Regardless, as the commissars had put it, respect the rank, not the wearer. That, and perhaps not all off worlder officers hid behind the lines barking orders. The salute was, in spite of the increasing inebriation, in good form, perhaps not to Mordian standards, but proper all the same.

"M'um, nothing unusual to report. Restless legs as well?" The Edrastian accent, while not as pronounced or unintelligible as some, did mangle certain words all the same. The man had returned to a more relaxed, but upright position all the same, after saluting, having done as instructed by his own regimental standards for officers. He'd no idea the standards Mordian forces would operate at, mainly since most Edrastian's had no idea about the existence of the Mordian tribe at all, so it was with guarded curiosity that he was regarding the uniform still. Wearing the colors of the natural sky were usually reserved for either formal funerals, sending the deceased their bodies after the Father accepted their souls by his side, or the extremely rare case it would provide adequate ability to be difficult to detect by sight. The man also had no inkling that this was to be his future commanding officer, perhaps the pseudo commissar attire made it easier to interact with than a formal, proper officer. After all, the only officer's that he'd dealt with were the ones who hid behind the shock troops proper, using far speakers and medics to ensure their own well being.

---

No luck with the tribals understanding him... But hey, would you look at that, there was someone that did get his accent. "Wagwan sista!" The lho being stuck out towards him was especially nice, the man opening his mouth and plucking it straight out of her fingers. Raising a lighter to his lips, he would strike it alight instantly, breathing the smoke in nice and deep before letting it slowly trickle out of his nose. "Now dat be wha' I been lookin' for dis entire time, y'get me?" This woman seemed like something of a dream, if it wasn't for the fact that there was but one problem he had.

"And eh, sista, don't get mi wrong, 'preciate wha' y'been doing fi me, bu 'dirtyboy?'" He shook his head, the dreadlocks which were the exact reason he had been given such a name tumbling about his head. "Call me rudeboy if ya gotta use a nickname, else be calling me Telaci. Telaci vast." The lho-stick in his mouth jumped and bounced about with each word he spoke, but the next thing she said would quickly perk his interest. Mess kit and more lho sticks. He could take them, yes he could.

"Say, mess kit and the lhos. 'ow much you be wantin' fi dem? 'Can offer ya someathis." He would place one of the bottles he had so recently acquired down on the ground closer to her, before then remembering something. She was selling scrap metal, and hey- he had scrap metal as well. Just happened to come in a weird shape. With the booze and his medals combined, it was an easy deal, and he'd put his new mess kit down on the ground, and his new lhos in a pocket of his.

"Now, this be a good day, fi shure." From the same pocket he had put his lhos into he drew out a pack of cards, emptying them out into his hand and giving them a quick shuffle. "Y'be doin' a pretty good job o' translating mi talk, but one ting ya got wrong was wu 'Voiddin' is. Voiddin' ain't no spaceship, it be a game. A good one too. Anyone up fi a little bita gambling?" Down here? Planetside? Oh he was going to make a killing off of these sods.

---

Deep into the ever-growing festivities, Mordecai had completely lost track of his brothers-in-arms. Not that it mattered much, he supposed. As long as they were enjoying themselves, he could rest easy knowing they'd managed to get a proper sendoff for their longstanding friend. In a way, the lack of their presence was in and of itself a farewell. It was certainly something he'd have to get used to, not having Henry and Felton stapled to either side. Mordecai shrugged, perhaps this was all part of some plan the God-Emperor was arranging. Only time would tell.

Tucking away his gift from the Major, Mordecai set about wandering alone through the throng of celebrating Guardsmen. People passing around lho-sticks and bottles of every shape and size, rations and foodstuffs of all types being worked into far more edible stews and soups, and gambling as far as the eye could see. Despite this massive aura of celebration and enjoyment, the general sense of foreboding would not leave Mordecai's mind. Perhaps that's why, instead of continuing to drink and sing with the various rowdy folk, he chose to sit down at a hearty campfire, chiefly occupied by a band of tribals, but also an odd fellow dressed in a ramshackle assortment of armor and clothing, as well as what looked to be a Cadian private so small, Mordecai wasn't sure they could have passed for a Whiteshield, let alone a fully-trained soldier.

Sidling up to the fire and taking a seat, he offered the tribals a wave. "Hope you lads don't mind, been looking for a place to rest my feet." The odd man out was chatting with the Cadian, who Mordecai noted seemed to be younger gal rather than the scrawny teenager in disguise he'd expected. The walking patchwork quilt of a man was finishing up speaking, his strange accent wreaking havoc on Mordecai's already lesser hearing. He did manage to make out that the man was offering a hand of cards, though the name of the game, Voiddin, wasn't one he was familiar with.

"I'm up for a game, can't say I'm familiar with that one, but in the end cards is cards. Name's Mordecai, by the way. Mordecai Tharn."

He'd offer a firm hand to Telaci, the other giving Charlene a mock salute with the first two fingers. "It's good to see another grunt of Cadia, miss. You from the homeworld proper, or a Regiment on tour?"

@Lady Selune@Eisenhorn

Near the end of the ration pack, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka found it increasingly difficult to continue eating, as the soldiers in the area made an increasing ruckus. Unprofessional. He'd wanted to eat silently. Even seated in a distant hab unit, the celebrations drilled into his ears like chainswords. They had been offered an official celebration already. They did not need to celebrate further. They did not need to celebrate at all.

He persisted, and eventually consumed the full ration pack, dessert pill included. The waste was discarded, the mask was replaced. He had intended to practice bayonet drills. He could not do so under such circumstances. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka proceeded out toward the front of the headquarters, where the noise was clearly originating. He strongly detested it. He had it in mind to try and put a stop to it, in fact. Though, given how weak the Guardsmen of other regiments were, it was possible they wouldn't. Inability to follow orders. Insubordinate.

If only that were so. The officers were likely as weak as the front line. No such weakness would be allowed in the Death Korps. No others of the 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg were present. This was a blessing. Not tempted by such weakness. And yet, it showed their own inability to demand the proper routine of others. Surely they found it bothersome too?

The question did not need asking. Only results needed to be obtained. Shortly, he encountered a Commissar, speaking with another soldier. Physically strong. Poor posture. Surely being berated for the latter. Salvaging of carapace armour peformed. Unacceptable. Theft of materiel. Loose caparace armour ought to be returned to higher authorities. Why had he not been shot? He began to approach, then recognised that he had been misled by the female soldier's uniform - this was a member of the Mordian Iron Guard. But, he further recognised as he moved around them, an officer in turn. High-ranking. Perfect. She, too, must be on her way to put a stop to matters. Adopting a proper ready stance, he waited until he was given permission to speak, then stated his case with a firm salute, citing his identification rapidly to ensure time was not wasted on pleasantries:

'Sir, Grenadier 415633-983223-17-Zhatka 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg, Sir. The celebratory proceedings outside are excessive. They are unnecessary. They are interfering with proper combat drills. Requesting they be brought to an end, Sir.'

That should be convincing. Though she would not need convincing to start with, if she were as disciplined as he hoped.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Just then a body came barreling passed, nearly rolling into the fire it lent over and scooped up a small oval shaped ball before it impacted the flames. Picking itself up, it held a scrumball in the crook of its arm. Then threw it back in the direction it came. “Try… converted” he said.
Then the figure turned around to see who he had just bumped into… and noticed… that he was locked directly in the gaze of… of… a Commissar!?
He immediately snapped to attention and cracked off a salute. “Gunner Rich Bower 62nd Cladd!” he stated “sorry, ma-am… for the rude entry ma-am. We was just playing a game of scrumball in our downtime ma-am”. He then began to appraise just how much trouble he might be in, and… his eyes began feeding information to his brain… this was not a Commissar… it was, let's see. 3 pips, thats a Captain! Oh Emperor! His body didn't know if he was in trouble or had just had a lucky fluke, after all there was no harm done and he had addressed himself properly for the fault. Then he saw the profile of a proud upstanding feudal worlder to be sure, and with Sergeant's stripes too! He looked like he'd give the 62nd a run for their money if it was a sporting game. Maybe the brass had decided to join in with the rabble for the festivities! What else could explain the officers presence here. He was just lucky he wasn't drunk yet… well, COMPLETELY drunk yet. Lastly he saw a ghostly visage of a Krieger, standing stock still by the group like a specter. What could HE want?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Afterwords he then began to look for a group to sit down and maybe swap stories with. Some strange fella with octopus hair, had his shotgun slung, looked kinda like a voidsman though with all the regiments around with differing uniforms he could just as easily be wrong just like with the “Commissar”.
He noticed a Cadian man, excellent he’d always wanted to meet a Cadian, partly due to their reputation, and just as he was about to look away he noticed a small scrawny figure, almost hidden by the dancing light of the fire. He peered closer and the shadows only seemed to grow longer and dance quicker, until he was sure… yes… quite sure he was gazing at another Cadian, diminutive though it may be, it was hard to guess the gender until it slapped a card down and he heard her voice. They seemed to be playing cards.

---

---

A man saluted to her. She saluted back, hers far more snappy and neat than his. Still, she didn't hold it against the man. Despite a few sips to warm her belly, she had no doubt she was stone cold sober in comparison to most of the people here. When he mentioned restless legs, she would consider it for a second, cocking her head as she did so. "Perhaps they are. Perhaps they are." She looked the man up and down. Large. Bulky. Tribal markings. A feral worlder, but one with good bearing and grace... Which made sense, since he had the stripes of a sergeant. One of the better of his lot, or did he happen to come from a dignified tribe? Who could tell.

"At ease there sergeant," she would say. "I'm not here to shoot anyone, nor am I here to-" She would pause, looking at the gas-masked figure that was stood waiting. She would indicate for him to talk, and then when he said his name, she could do nothing more than blink. "Pardon, soldier, you are Grenadier 415633-983223-17-Zhatka?" She would wait for confirmation, and then sharply nod. "Excellent, excellent, I was actually intending on looking for you regardless." What were the odds of this one soldier among all the hundreds of others noticing her? Who knew. "As for the celebrations, I am afraid that those that are less dedicated to their drills than you require some down time, and I would find myself in a rather bad light should I attempt to put an end to them. That being said, you are to be folded into a combined regiment under my command, and I have selected you to be part of my command squad. Report to the drill grounds at 1330 sharp tomorrow, you are dismissed until then."

Just as she was about to return to the sergeant, she would take a step backwards as she felt someone knock into her, whirling around to see a barrel of a man carrying a scrumball under his arms. Under normal circumstances, she would have given the man a tongue-lashing he wouldn't soon forget, but apparently she was growing soft in her middle age. "Do that again soldier and I'll have you doing knee-ups with your rifle over your head for an hour. Mind your surroundings in the future." Then, she would turn back around and finally be able to face the sergeant once more.

"So sergeant." She offered her gloved hand out to the man. "Captain Arlena Di Fieroccu. As you just heard, I am forming C Company of the new 87th Combined Regiment here on Vernum. Who might you be, and if you wouldn't mind, might I see the remnants of your squad?" She was curious to see just howt typical this man was when compared to his fellows.

---

---

McDinny had mixed feelings about the offer to gamble. On the one hand, something about the way Telaci spoke, something about the vibe she gave him, was entirely untrustworthy. It was slimy, really. Maybe she was the only one that felt it, but that's how he felt to her. Honestly, a sweeter relief she could not have known; it was good to meet a kindred spirit for once.

The issue was just that Charlene didn't have much she wanted to gamble away, not unless she knew she could cheat. Unfortunately, McDinny wasn't good at cheating with cards. She was just lucky.

Excitement won over, however. Charlene sat on down at the table with Telaci and smacked down some of her less valuable bits: a cheap credstick, some scrap metal.

"Rudeboy it is! Deal me in, ya grease gretchin!" Charlene made grubby 'gimme' fingers at Telaci, and the game was just about to start when another man approached.

He wasn't the most handsome or interesting fellow Charlene had ever seen. Sure, he had purple eyes; that was a weird thing, that was, though it seemed like every Cadian she met had those. But unlike most guardsmen, he wasn't riddled with scars and bullet holes, and he seemed just muscular enough to get away with not being yelled at by a superior for being a wimp. It was mighty respectable, really. The big goggle circles around his eyes, however, were enough to make McDinny break out into snickering even as he gave her a two-fingered salute.

"A-a what?" she answered the man, taking a deep breath. Her brain needed a few seconds more to catch up. "Oh! Er, right! Naw, honest? I don't know how I wound up with the regiment. I just woke up and got a gun shoved at me. Mite bit disconcerting, it was."

Of course, that wasn't a particularly unusual affair, even for people who were from the planets that recruited them. Imperial recruitment often involved getting people drunk, then dragging them off to military bases or aboard a Rogue Trader. But it certainly didn't say anything good at the young woman's patriotism.

Nevertheless, there wasn't much of a chance for any of the parties involved to add anything. Just as the cards were being dealt, there was a loud ruckus further off from the group, and McDinny peeked to see what it was. Apparently it was just someone playing some sort of game with a ball. However, McDinny wasn't so focused on the man. She was focused on the tall, intimidating woman in a dark outfit whose exact colors were concealed by the darkness. It was a tall woman with... with...

"Oh, bloody Commissars," grumbled McDinny as she saw the commissar's hat. She got on up, snatched the goods she had set down for gambling (as well as just one unimportant trinket someone else had bid), and backed away. "Uh-uh! Ah, I'll just be getting while the getting's good, ya ken? Not staying for the blamming."

So, even as the big fellow playing scrumball approached the table, McDinny was retreating as quietly and quickly as she possibly could, slinking as far around the most likely trigger-happy woman as she could. The Commissar was engaged in a discussion with the big, bulky fellow with the tasty bod on one side, and there was a man with a mask that-

A wave of cold washed over McDinny, and she got the strangest sense of... loss. Anguish? The private actually stopped and stared at the mask-wearing man for a time. Maybe it was just the way his mask was shaped, but something about the way he looked, or... something about him made her feel sad. She couldn't figure it out.

McDinny suddenly remembered what sort of evil presence she was lingering near, and shooting one last cautious glance at the Commissar, she finished slipping away from the celebrations quiet as a mouse.

The stink of chemicals announced the approaching man well before anything else might have. Not an inch of exposed skin, easy breathing mask, covered in armor. Another tribes Grenadier, if Rojack was to hazard a guess, and from a far more somber, far less pleasant one. Not all soldiers approached war like his own tribe, the Sergeant mentally reminded himself, but he found himself listening closely to the interaction between the officer and this newcomer, silently gauging the response and what to expect. The sharp salute and sharper uniform spoke volumes, this one's tribe valued appearances and protocol, whether that translated well to warfare or not, he couldn't say. It wasn't his own soldier's way, but he was silently appreciative of the fact the officer effectively said no, leave them to their own devices, and apparently she was tasking him with meeting her elsewhere tomorrow, forming a new regiment, so on and so on. He refocused when her attention returned to him, the one who had all but shoulder checked the officer getting off relatively light, though he wasn't familiar at all with the game being played, or at least the name made no sense. Still, the man got a friendly nod from the Sergeant, a rather far cry from the officer's response. The extended hand was given a firm, even handshake. None of that 'crusher grip' nonsense, he never saw the point.

"A pleasure m'um, Sergeant Rojack Cestarn, 222nd Edrastian Shock. The lads aren't quite as, call it, adjusted? That might be the word, but they mean well all the same. Follow me m'um, the lads aren't too far off." Rojack turned and started off, not taking terribly long to approach where the remaining survivors of the 222nd were gathered, one poking his head up at the sight of their Sergeant returning, an important looking hat following in tow, and a few nudges between them got them at least on their feet, more heavily inebriated than Rojack, since they'd been sitting, drinking, and gambling while the man had been walking and talking. Similar uniforms, including the patchwork salvaged armor, though to a lesser degree than Rojack's own kitbashed kit. If any of the surviving rank and file were too inebriated to stand, it didn't readily show since they would hold each other upright.

"M'um, this is the last surviving combat unit in the 222nd. The command squad is Father knows where, but there were no fighting men among them." Rojack's tone had shifted, and while one could not quite call it disrespectful, his mood and thoughts on the off world regimental command squad were plain as day. They'd hid behind medics, far speakers, and Edrastians while barking orders and had been showered with the majority of the accolades during the parade prior to this evening's festivities. Once Captain Fier...fire.... fire rocko....Fieroccu had put them at ease again, they'd return to their drinking and miscellaneous activities, be it gambling or chatter, though sideways glances were readily apparent. The surviving soldiers were evaluating the officer, leery due to their experiences with the regimental command squad of the 222nd, and while the Sergeant caught a glimpse of that mousy one, who'd been able to piece together what the other fellow had been saying, skulking off, he said nothing. Given her offers before, well, doubtful she had any interest in dealing with commissar looking officers.