Less dedication. Weakness. Downtime could be limited. Inability to control her troops. Unacceptable weakness. Case in point: she did not properly punish the soldier who knocked into her.

415633-983223-17-Zhatka would be sharing a regiment with such weakness. Part of the command squad. He would not be fighting alongside his fellows in the foreseeable future.

How infuriating.

'...yes, Sir.' Hesitation. Weakness. The officer gave an order. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka saluted again, then began walking away as dismissed, only to stop as he realised he was being observed. He turned his head to stare back at the soldier, his mask shifting above his collar. Small. Weak. Inappropriate facial expression. Poorly fitted armour. Should not have been inducted into her regiment. Should not have been inducted into this regiment.

'Practice your drills, soldier,' he insisted, before she made her effort to leave. Given the other soldier wanted the officer's attention, and as 415633-983223-17-Zhatka had been dismissed already, he proceeded to take his own leave, returning to his quarters promptly. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka would have issues practicing with such noise in the area. In which case, he would make do with a somewhat simpler drill. He drew his bayonet, and began.

---

Time for gambling. Time, for Voiddin. The rules of Voiddin were very, very simple- he made them up as he went along, under the guise of a simple card discarding game. The entire game, from top to bottom, was custom made for him to win (and to make out like a bandit with everyone's bets.) Flicking the cards out with a practised hand, he would explain the brief basics (play cards that were higher, lower, or the same, any suite,) before getting to work.

As he dealt out though, he noticed a large, burly shape on the edge of the campfire, holding up a card. "Ey there! Wha' you be doin' hidin' over there like? Playin' Voiddin', git here!" He flicked out a fresh set of cards for the newcomer (if he didn't end up playing he'd just fold them back into the draw pile,) crack his knuckles and get to work.

Alas though, he hardly had time to clear anyone's bets before his diminuitive Cadian translator was off like a shot, along with her bet. "Oi! Gi-" He cut himself off as he saw what spooked the trooper, gulping as he saw the distinctive uniform of a commissar crest the edge of the campfire. Placing the cards down on the table, he would quietly stuff his hands in his pocket.

Sure, he hadn't been on the surface for long, but he knew more than enough when it came to these particular scary-looking individuals. Paramilitary, right to execute at any time for any reason, could dish out punishments worse than any captain... Then, she stepped into the light and he was confused. Commissars were all black, this woman was in navy. His brain ticked over the information provided, until he came to the logical conclusion that this was not a commissar.

She was, in fact, an officer. Fingers crossed the cards wouldn't be confiscated then, he supposed.

---

---

"Sergeant Ro... Was this some kind of a joke? By the Emperor, she had decided on these men before she had come out here, and now she had already met two of them out of a crowd of thousands. What was next; would the man that bumped into her be one of hers? Would she find two Cadian troopers here, playing cards and drinking? Perhaps this was the Emperor's way of telling her she had made a good choice, perhaps not.

"A pleasure to meet you, now, if you'll excuse me for a second..." The captain had noticed something as she spoke to the brawny sergeant. There, a small, diminutive trooper had been scurrying away from a campfire like a rat caught out in the open. Having excused herself, she would stomp across the rockrete, each footfall deliberately emphasised so soldiers knew to stay out of her way. Just as the soldier finished gawking at whatever it was they were gawking at and made to run away once more, her arm would shoot out, catching the soldier by their collar- quite literally so in this case.

"Good evening private. What's got you in such a furtive hurry." Despite being phrased like a question, it didn't sound like one.

"R-restroom!" the little soldier squeaked in a woman's voice. Her oversized helmet slid back, revealing a head of poufy brown hair. "I've got the shits something fierce, comm'sar!"

"Commissar?" The woman looked down at her uniform. She supposed, in this light, to someone not used to seeing the uniforms of Mordia, she could be mistaken for a commissar. "I'm hardly a commissar, and if you were dashing off like that you spent an awful long time staring at that Krieger there." She turned to look at Zhatka, then back down to the small soldier captured by her hand. "Name and regiment please, private."

The scamp didn't skip a beat. "Mordecai Tharn!" she answered quickly. "O-of Cadia, marm!" She saluted quickly and just a bit sloppily, her fingers making an audible 'thump' as they impacted with her forehead.

"Mordecai Tharn? How interesting, I had placed you into my company command squad. What a coincidence that I would be finding you out here." Seriously, this was getting a little ridiculous... Or, was it? Mordecai Tharn was a Cadian trooper, and despite the fact that this weasel of a soldier was dressed in Cadian fatigues, her scrawniness and the fact that she lacked those distinctive purple eyes...

"Tell me Mordecai, how did you find the battle then?"

"Not to my liking, marm?" answered the little trooper with a shaky, nervous grin. "Emprah be praised and what-not, but them orks was mighty ornery, if I do say so, marm!"

"Indeed, they were... But remind me, what was your regiment again? I can quite well tell you're a Cadian." She smiled- but this wasn't a friendly smile, oh no. This was the Mordian pattern soulless officer smile, guaranteed to thoroughly creep out any soldier unused to it, and quite a few that were, and creep the little trooper out it did. Her grin twisted about until she looked like she'd passed gas.

"Marm, i-if I may request the permission?" she stammered. "I've got a need what to deposit these bowel contents of mine, else I'll be defenestrating 'em out the back of me pants, marm."

"Then consider it your punishment for failing to answer a superior officer's direct line of inquiry twice. I had been content to go away with your regiment, private, but now I'd quite like to know your trooper ID, squad number and platoon." The smile continued once she had finished, as if it had been that way all along.

There was an uncomfortable pause. The little soldier twisted about in place, looking around. She swallowed. Then she asked quite sincerely...

"How do I check all that, again?" The words were of honest confusion. 'Mordecai' cleared her throat. "I-I really just was given a gun and told to shoot or die, ya ken?

That there convinced her that whoever she was dealing with, they were not Mordecai Tharn. No Cadian trooper was just 'given a gun and told to shoot or die,' no Cadian trooper she had ever met used 'ken' as slang, and no Cadian trooper would have ever been caught dead not knowing their own trooper ID. "Private. Unless you tell me who you actually are right now, I'm going to drag you to a muitorum office, shit in your pants or not, and get them to tell me who you are so I know if I have the authority to get you executed, is that understood?"

The pale girl looked even paler as the threat was made. She swallowed audibly, and sweat rolled down her forehead, teeth beginning to clatter against each other. If she wasn't afraid before (and she was), she was most definitely afraid at that moment. "Charlene! Charlene!" she said quickly. "Charlene-McDinny-Cadian-one-hundred-seventh-something-I-don't-know!" She shook quite visibly. She did everything short of sobbing. "Don't have me executed! I just want to go home!"

The Mordian's eyes visibly boggled. There was absolutely no doubt that the woman was telling the truth, but... Looking upwards for a brief moment, she would mutter 'are you fucking with me,' to the sky, before releasing her grip on the soldier's collar. "Private Charlene, report to the drill grounds tomorrow at 1200 hours sharp, sober, and with your uniform in good condition. It's a mess." She crossed her arms behind her back. "And welcome to my command squad. I expect to have to make a soldier out of you."

The dazed little trooper stumbled as she was released. She shakily raised her hand up in a terrorized, half-assed salute, then started scampering off. "Private," called the captain after the retreating soldier, who stiffened to a halt. The tiny soldier listened with a look of dread plastered on her face, somehow managing to make milk look full of colour in comparison. "Did I say you were dismissed at any point during that conversation?" There was a brief, if ominous pause. "I expect you to know your trooper ID and old regiment by tomorrow." An even longer pause.

"Dismissed."

Charlene didn't wait a second longer.

With that matter handled, the Mordian would turn back to where the squad was. She was going to have to whip this squad into shape if what she was seeing was actually true. Lying, cowardly Cadians, feral worlders... By the bloody Emperor. Nonetheless, she would come into the light of the fire and look down towards a set of cards sitting on an overturned crate. She'd give one of the soldiers around it- a lanky, dark-skinned man with what appeared to be a blackened mop placed on his head a death stare, before squatting down and taking the cards into her gloved hands.

"So. What are we playing here?"

Greig finally had enough of wallowing in self-isolation, taking one last swig of fiery alcohol before turning back toward his surviving squad mates and the small fire they had managed to get going; it was more than enough to illuminate the scraggily lot of them, yet small enough to not be noticed as one of the larger fires going.

"Richt then lads, let's stoap pitying ourselves 'n' git some entertainment gaun, aye?" Asked and proclaimed the sergeant as cheerily as he could, rummaging momentarily in his huge rucksack - a distinctive piece of Finreht equipment - to produce a slender shimmering instrument that he gave an experimental whistle, the high-pitched noise piercing the air around them.

"Dae ye hae yer fiddle, Neacel? 'N' yer drum, Tadhag?"

Two of the six found their own instruments, lifting them out and giving one another a smile. Then came the last.

Grinning Wee Lachlan, now minus his vox set - it having been blown asunder some time between their last charge and the present moment - produced what appeared to be a tartan-dressed octupus from his bag and, after placing it beneath one arm, gave a few sorrowful drones.

"A'richt then! We'll stairt wi' a short dance, 'n' then git oan tae a tae o' jigs. As yer superior, ah will tak' th' foremaist dance. Lay oot th' guns."

Two lasguns were lain on the ground in a cross, Greig taking his position in the bottom right corner of the makeshift square, and a nod to Private Tadhag got a drum beat going, soon with a squirling tune courtesy of Wee Lachlan.

A small bow to no-one in particular and Greig was off, his kilt swirling about his knees as he leapt over the guns, keeping within the square and twisting this way and that as he did so.

No doubt it would attract some form of attention from others, even with the Finrehters placed within their own little corner, but whether it was the right sort or wrong sort of attention they would soon find out.

@Lady Selune@ReedeThe23rd@BCTheEntity@CleanBreeze@Eisenhorn@Irredeemable@Reia

Time: 5 AM Location: Adeptus Ministorum HQ, Vernum Primus Weather and Temperature: Clear white skies, -8 degrees Faranheit/-22 Celsius.

I am a scribe, a clerk, and I am meant to be at my desk! Raged Terebravisse inwardly and in verbal silence, I'm no Ordnance-tech or Regimental Aide.

The harsh Vernum weather chilled his exposed flesh, the joint between his quilled fingers and the still-organic flesh there taking on a rather unwanted ache as he clutched his writing slate to his chest, his bionic eyes whirring quietly as he moved his head momentarily to look over the ranks of assembled soldiers and war machines to his right; nearly three-thousand men, including Abhumans and recent conscripts, made up the ranks of the freshly minted 87th Combined Regiment - no actions or glories yet taken that would provide them with one of the monikers so commonly taken by other more veteran regiments, in spite of the many veterans of decimated formations who even now stood to attention on the frosty rockrete parade ground beside him.

Ahead of him walked the Command Platoon of their commanding officer, Colonel Dragutin Vyacheslav - formerly of the 1502nd Valhallan Regiment - a man who exemplified his planet in both mind and body, his icy flesh standing out in stark contrast to the recently presented uniform of black and white camouflage he now wore, and his glacial blue eyes focusing on the podium that had only recently been erected before the soldiers. Unlike that of the Lord-Militant it was a simple wooden platform, although holo-screens had been dispersed throughout the ranks, that the men and women may see him as he spoke.

Terebravisse continued to look gloomy, even surrounded all around by his fellow servants of the various arms of the Ministorum, his ears blocking out the continual droning of the brazier-waving priest striding forward before their snaking column. Other members of the Ecclesiarchy would be doing the same duties amidst the ranks of the Guard, saying prayers and reciting verse, but Terebravisse had no time for such things outside of his chamber. His own way of worshipping the God-Emperor was to make sure everything within his holy Militarum was correct, not to kneel on some stone floor or yell praise into the abyss.

Even as these thoughts occured to him the Colonel was mounting the podium, his command platoon - the Regimental Commissar, the standard bearer yet without a standard, and a hand picked group of aides and soldiers - surrounding the lower section of the wooden construct, forming a cordon and keeping watch for any signs of trouble.

Peering down his hawkish nose, his features very much like that of a bird-of-prey, the Colonel ran a gloved hand through his greying black hair and cleared his throat to speak, but not before taking a moment to survey those before him.

Before this 'inspection' each and nearly every soldier had been issued with a number of specific items, firstly their freshly produced uniforms - standard-issue flak vest, helmet, boots and cloth based on the Cadian style of armour, sporting a black and white camo scheme due to their 'founding' on the Hive world of Vernum, an urban enviroment - with many of the soldiers before him already looking toward him with the violet eyes of that great fortress-world; in fact this was the very reason for the choice of uniform, the solid core of his regiment being Cadian through and through.

Secondly came the process which many had complained about, but could really do nothing about, and that was being re-issued with standard issue equipment; this meant standard-bearers stripped of their former flags, sometime to be replaced by those of this newly created formation, it meant non-issue weapons taken from those that were carrying them, and it meant that such items were taken and locked up in the regimental stores.

It should be noted that the Abhumans remained outside of this structure, being counted as auxiliary formations, to be dispersed and shared among the rest of the regiment if and when they were needed.

His eyes fell for a moment on the only part of the regiment he had not yet inspected personally, and only because it was the part of it that made the flesh in his cheek twitch something fierce - that of C Company under the command of a Captain Arlena Di Fieroccu.

He was a veteran, not lost on Munitorum politics and efficiency, but had they had to have given his regiment a shortage of fresh materials! Why had the God-Emperor seen fit to find them lacking here, an entire company no less!

This was a company that he told himself he need not inspect, their commanding Captain a Mordian after all, and he had known them long enough to realise she'd keep them in line.

With the last flicker of annoyance sloughing from his features, he turned with a smile to look directly at the holo-projector relay set up in a servo-skull hovering before him.

"Brave warriors of the Imperium, you have done all that the honour of war requires, but there are still more enemies to drive from the domains of Man," his face took on the stern expression of one that knew these enemies well, "you may hail from different worlds, may fighting in differing styles, may speak another language, but from this point on you are all of the Emperor's Imperial Guard. You will fight and die for your brothers and sisters, beside them, as part of the 87th Combined - at least until we win a victory worthy of some other name."

His cool gaze could be felt even through the holo-screens, his calm but grave demeanour clear as he raised his voice to a crescendo, "you fight as one, you die as one, for Vernum was but the beginning of it; fight hard enough and you may one day be granted the right of settlement, perhaps even the right of a trophy world."

Pointing his hand up into the sky, he turned his head toward the crisp mornings gaze and let out a short sigh, "tomorrow we board our transports and begin the cycle of service anew, as a regiment dedicated to the Emperor anew, so check your gear and fill your bellies, for there is no telling when you may get either fresh uniforms or fresh food again." With a gesture from his hand the standard-bearer below the podium, who until this point had carried a furled and covered flag, pulled off the cover to reveal a flag bearing the symbol of an Ork skull impaled upon a Cadian combat knife, the word 'Vernum' visible on the top left of the red background...the rest just waiting to be filled.

"Do not fail me, do not fail his Holiness on Terra, if you should find problems then report them to your officers and servants of the Commissariet. Above all remember this, the Emperor protects."

Once that well-used phrase had been echoed by every man, woman and Abhuman present, the Colonel left the podium and boarded one of nearly three dozen chimera transports - each one patterned in the same black, white and blue scheme as the infantry - the vehicle heading toward the landing site, not three miles away, where tomorrow they would embark for future conflicts in yet another warzone.

With loud yells and cries each company was dismissed, to do as they would for the time being, turned out back to their billet areas and the recommendation of preparing themselves not seeming like a bad idea at all.

As Mordecai stood in formation with the rest of C Company, the foreboding sense of dread carved a pit in his stomach large enough to rival the old Eye of Terror. The full brunt of bad news had hit him just before he'd bunked for the night the day before, and even now it still had him spinning head over heels. He'd been the only one transferred out of his home artillery regiment, and he'd been folded as one of many into a freshly minted combined infantry regiment, specifically into the command squad of C Company.

C Company were evidently the lucky ones selected to get the shaft when it came to new gear issues, as when he'd arrived at the Munitorum attache for the regiment, he'd been told that his assignment to C Company meant his selection of replacement gear was limited at best, and that only by virtue of being appointed a member of the command squad would he have much of a selection at all.

Though a mix of this knowlege, some 'off-the-record' bartering, and sheer blind luck, Mordecai had managed to both replenish his assorted toiletries and utility supplies, but also secure some more appropriate combat gear that hopefully wouldn't leave him sticking out as much in the eys of his new footslogging comrades.

He had succeeded in replacing his disheveled tanker's uniform with a fresh set of Cadian-issue infantry fatigues, though for proper armor he was still confined to the light flak gear from his tanker days now recolored to the appropriate patterns, and had gotten his hands on a flakweave field cap matching the new uniform's color scheme as well, given proper helmets were something of a hot commodity at the moment. He'd also succeeded in exchanging the cut-down Cadian M36 Kantrael Pattern lasgun standard of his old regiment in favor of the similar Cadian MG Kantrael "Short" Pattern lasgun, which was light enough for him to tolerate holding regularly without giving up too many of the benefits of a full-size lasgun, or at least that's what Mordecai hoped.

With this new-ish look, Mordecai seemed a fair bit less conspicuous, though anyone with eyes could still tell he was a fair cry from your average infantryman. After the parade formation and regimental display ceremony, Mordecai worked to give a wide berth to anyone who didn't similarly stick out as being underequipped, figuring that C Company were as likely to be treated by their contemporaries as well as they had been by the munitorum shipments.

---

@Rhea

---

She had, to put it in plain terms, been screwed. Sure, she was rateful that such a muck-up allowed her to continue to wear the colours of her regiment and of her country, as was right and proper, but she knew that such a start was not the sort of thing that boded well for her and her squads' time as part of this force.

When the announcements were done, she would check her watch. The cold bit into her but she minded little, instead more annoyed that she hadn't had a chance to rouse herself with a proper mug of recaff. That was something she would have to remedy immediately, but before that... "I anticipated us to have longer before we were needed to gather here," she admitted this freely to her men. "All of you in my command squad have fourty-five minutes to yourselves. Get yourselves presentable. We will be assembling in the training yard so that I can get a proper assessment of your abilities and talents." She would look around.

"Private McDinny," she said at last, folding her hands behind her back. "You have fifteen minutes. I was intending on punishing you for much longer, but I suppose I'll have to split it into two parts. Consider yourself lucky." She would purse her lips ever so slightly, then clap her hands together once, the noise as loud as any autogun shot. "Dismissed."

---

Fifteen minutes later, and she would be striding back out towards the training field, piping hot cup of recaff in her hands. The local brew for Vernum was unpleasantly sweet she had found, but by cutting it with the sharp taste of kien juice and, of course, the recaffinated packets that gave the ununiform drink its rather uniform name, it was not only quite palatable, but had enough of a kick to it on its own that the caffiene was hardly needed.

She was, of course, waiting for Pvt. McDinny, and when the woman arrived would look at her without emotion. "McDinny. I will let you know one thing. Normally, someone who lied to a superior officer, imitated a fellow soldier, then tried to get out of their lies by saying even more lies would have my boot rammed so far up their backside that they'd be polishing it with their tongues. I want you to understand that this punishment is my lenience."

"I do not have large reserves of such a thing."

Early morning. More speeches. Unnecessary. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka knew already that it was his duty to fight and die in the Emperor's name. That was his lot. That was their lot, and somehow they didn't know better yet. Weakness.

Moreover, their company had not been issued proper vestments. All others dressed in black and white camouflage. Fewer than half of C Company shared this outfitting. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka had not been asked to redress. He found he did not wish to. Weakness, failure to integrate? Strength, preserving expected standards? Uncertain. Individuality, either way, that ought to be intolerable. He could not see any other survivors from his regiment. No rebreathers were present. Foolishness. An intolerable atmosphere left no room for glory in death.

Perhaps leniency was the merit of veterancy. He ought to have died on Vernum. He would likely die elsewhere anyway. Death alongside strangers was hardly acceptable. But it would have to do. As benefits of the Company's laxity, he retained his melta gun and bayonet. They would serve well in taking the Imperium's enemies with him.

Dismissal from ordered lines. New orders: meeting forty five minutes, not eight hours. Time to address needs, and to ensure proper form. Not much longer.

...time, perhaps, to sneak a chapter of reading in. The words he had halted at previously came to mind unbidden. "You are as beautiful and pungent as the corpse of a burning heretic," Krieg Unit 69-42 Model 0 announced to his lover, who stood up slightly straighter at the compliment to her smell. He could reserve his energy, briefly. For the assessment. That would make sense, yes. With that decided, he marched to his quarters, keeping his own shoulders as straight as he could. He would need sustenance too, naturally.

Unlike others present, Sgt. Cestarn was relieved to maintain custody of his old equipment, uniform included, though he still would likely need to restock on munitions and other general supplies, something that he could do once released. The command squad seemed to be an odd mixture of people he'd seen the prior night, and notably their company had received the relative short end of the stick when it came to supplies, since it seemed no one in this part of his new tribe had been given the same garb and kit as the rest of the tribe carried. Still, it seemed they were going to be receiving orders as his new commanding officer turned to face them, and dispatched orders. Forty five minutes, then report to the training yard to assess the present skills. Smart, better to know what each person could do before the next conflict arrived. Or, they arrived at it, but regardless, the Sergeant had his marching orders.

First off, he needed to restock, and a quick run to the kit master would see to that. Since he wasn't angling for new kit, it wasn't hard to resupply, just replacing lost ammo and managing to talk the man into enough basic supplies to last for a reasonable amount of time. Beyond that, he'd have to scavenge, but that was common enough practice for the man. After all, his own current armor and supply of explosives was pretty much salvaged and repainted kit from the dead. Not like any of them needed it anymore, after all, so no sense leaving it about to be wasted or spend Father knows how long wasting away in some storage building before maybe, eventually, ending up reissued to another tribe. Wasteful, so Rojack and others of his old tribe would salvage what they could get their hands on and make good use of it for the Father's sake.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, the Sergeant figured he would head for the training yard early, shake some of the stiffness out of his limbs before everyone else arrived. Wouldn't hurt, and wouldn't do to be flat footed when being tested by a new tribe leader. Upon his arrival he would set his kit within quick reach, before going about stretching and working off any previous stiffness or rust from last night's festivities. Would be poor form to get out of practice so soon, when they were being sent to war in another part of Father's realm. He may not enjoy the sky ships, but he went where called. With that, he'd focus on his drills, mostly in close quarters, demonstrating a mix of well drilled, and the feral savagery, of a tribe world guardsman.

@Lady Selune@ReedeThe23rd@BCTheEntity@CleanBreeze@Eisenhorn@Irredeemable@Reia

Time: 2 AM Location: The skies above Ventirest city, Vocintis, Weather and Temperature: Stormy, temperature unknown.

Moving from one warzone to another was never a swift procedure, especially when it came to the labyrinthe structure that was the Departmento Munitorum - matched with the military dedication of the Astra Militarum, and the religious fervour of the Adeptus Ministorum, it took nearly a month for everything to be sorted on Vernum and the various regiments assigned and shipped off to their newest posting.

The 87th 'Expeditio Vernum' Combined Regiment, C Company under Captain Di Fieroccu (much to the chagrine and annoyance of Colonel Vyacheslav) included, were marched raggedly onto the transport vessel Askellon and billeted aboard with at least four other regiments of the Imperial Guard, their whole journey to their new deployment taking seven months in realspace and a two week trip through the immaterium.

Once space was split open and the small armada of Imperial vessels, the Askellon along with them, reappeared in reality they were several days from their objective on thrusters alone.

In this time it was revealed to the officers, and through them the lower downs (though maybe not as low down as the rank-and-file), that they were heading for a civilised world called Vocintis - technologically as advanced as the rest of the Imperium, but still somewhat of a backwater near the Eastern Fringe - a planet that had become swamped in corruption during the coming of the Great Rift, but a strategically important one that the overstretched Imperium wanted back.

---

Sergeant... no, Lieutenant Sithech now, he had to remind himself, moved to-and-fro in the same manner as every other one of the soldiers of C Company gathered about him; each one of them was strapped into a harness inside the Valkyrie gunship, their weapons either clutched in hands or securely locked against the wall within reach.

Like his comrades-in-arms he was clothed in a mismatch of his own traditional uniform and the regiments own - a white and black pattern flak jacket and forearm armour covered by his usual tartan plaid, no helmet visible anywhere - his lasgun, bayonet already stuck on the lug, held softly in his experienced hands.

God-Emperor he hated the waiting, more so even than the way the gunship juddered and shook all around them, the sound of flak loud and clear outside the armoured plating, soon to turn into a lurching descent onto their objective.

Their objective...

From what he had been told, which had been somewhat more than the rest of the grunts in C Companies command squad, they were being dropped at the edge of Ventirest city with a company of Noctan Strike troopers - elite guerilla and stealth experts - as well as another company from the 24th Rigan Rilfes, all charged with securing the north-eastern city edge for further Imperial forces.

"ETA t-minus 5 minutes," crackled the voice from the cockpit, the side-gunner sliding open his doorway near the front of the gunship, the sound of flak and smaller calibres of weapons reaching the veterans ears with as much familiarity as the voice of his own dearly-departed mother.

"Well," he said with a chuckle to no-one in particular, "here we gae agin."

415633-983223-17-Zhatka had observed the rest of the Command Squad over the weeks spent in their company. He was not impressed.

Lieutenant Sithech. Elderly. Weak, and weakening further. A superior- in absence of the Captain, the squad's presiding officer- but not important enough for life extension. Inappropriately jovial. Willing to die for the Emperor, at least.

Trooper Charlene. Undisciplined. Unmotivated. Feckless. Lazy if not compelled. Unacceptable weakness. At least the Captain was willing to do so.

Trooper Telaci. Nearly incomprehensible. Undisciplined. Untrustworthy. Jittery. Likely the sort to shoot those who couldn't shoot him back, if he decided to do so unjustly. Weakness. Such traits were incompatible with cohesion in a command squad.

Trooper Richard. Heavy gunner. Strong. Focused. Arrogant, however. Inefficient use of a heavy bolter. It was designed to kill large numbers of enemies. It was not designed for precise shooting. Foolishness.

Trooper Deacon. Gunner's mate. Improper focus. Too keen on survival. Attempted to spread his cult at any opportunity. Not interested. The Emperor asks that you die in his name. This would not include gathering supposed holy trinkets. Weakness.

Corporal Tharn. Slow for a corporal. Partially deaf. Undisciplined. Unmotivated. Talked too much. Poor etiquette. Barely able to hold his lasgun properly. Weakness.

It was hard to tell which of these was worst. Only Captain Di Fieroccu and Sergeant Cestarn seemed anywhere close to competent. The former was Mordian. Too intent on drama. Insistent that he not "walk to his death" on the battlefield. Nonetheless, disciplined. Willing to die for the Emperor. Firm leadership skills. Did not allow incompetence. Any Watchmaster would be proud, but for her failure to punish sufficiently. The latter was put together. Veteran. Still too jovial, but intelligent in his approaches. Fearless, as a grenadier ought to be. Neither was perfect, but they were impressive compared to the rest.

The rest of the company were neither green nor veteran, mostly. Their training was impersonal. Their attitude was lax. Weakness. Training progressed too slowly, not harsh enough, albeit firmer for the command squad. It was necessary. It was appreciated. Still, too much time passed. One month before redeployment; two weeks in the Warp, a much greater span of months in realspace; days more moving to the destination in realspace. Incompetency. Much too slow. Vocintis might well have been gone by the time they arrived.

Arrive they did, however. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka remained utterly silent in the straps of his harness, patiently awaiting the gunship's touchdown. His weapon was attached to the ship's wall; one strap of his pack remained over a free shoulder, firmly held in place; his outfit remained unchanged, down to the rebreather, but for nine squares of checker patterning placed upon the topmost segment of his breastplate. This latter idiosyncracy had been insisted upon by several squad members for identification purposes. Sensible enough. It was nonetheless undesirable. It marked him as an individual. That wasn't his purpose. None of this ought to have been his purpose. He was to die for the Emperor. This position, placement within Captain Di Fieroccu's command squad and her instructions to him, ran counter to this.

He had tried to content himself. As long as he died doing the Emperor's will, he would ablate Krieg's shame but marginally. Yet it seemed insufficient, especially given... the rest of the command squad.

'It's been too long. In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement.' This was his response to the Lieutenant. He had not needed to steel himself. He was ever-steeled.

He had been off of a planet. He had felt at home, at peace... But then he had discovered that as a guardsman, he couldn't just part ways and rejoin the crew, and that there were armsmen actively monitering him. Him! A voidsman himself by trade, being monitored by his own bred'ren to make sure he behaved and kept to the ship! Even when he had talked to them, tried to explain his situation, they had been hardened, turned away from him. So it was, that in grim dissapointment he had gone through the motions of military life, stirring his inner flame only to ensure it didn't die enirely.

But then it had been time to fight again. He had taken out his old shotgun and set to work. Cleaning out the barrel for the umpteenth time. Then he had slowly gone about fixing the elements to it. The stock, screwed in and secured. The foregrip, slid down and secured. Sight secured. He checked it, double checked it, triple checked it, and then took his lighter out, held it to the purity seal he had been handed by a red-robed man, then when the wax had melted just enough to become 'tacky,' he would press it against the side.

"Right den, machin bred'ren. We gon' be workin' together 'gain, so no funny business, eh?" That was as good as his machine spirit prayers got really. When the call had came to sit down in he gunship, he had followed without comment, wrapping first the bandana around his head, and then placing the helmet down, tightening the strap. He strapped his FUBAR to his backpack, slid his knife into its sheath, and then slung his gun over his shoulder, walking towards the dropship.

Once there, eyes darting about, he would remove his pack, strap himself in, and get ready for seeing a sky again. Looking towards the krieger, he would raise an eyebrow, shaking his head as he did so. He had quickly learned there was little to gain by asking him why he was so suicidal. "Would prefer t'be up 'ere directin' cannons den down on de ground, but, ifi gotta be doin' dis, den at least I be gettin' paid fi it."

A song drifted through the dropship as it rattled through space and to a hot insertion. It was a mournful song, a song in High Gothic, but accented with the flavours of Mordia.

"Era una notte che pioveva
e che tirava un forte vento
immaginatevi che grande tormento
per un Mordino che stava a vegliàr."

She looked about, knowing that there were none of her planetmen around her to sing with her. It was the sort of song that would normally be sung on the march, but she had turned it into almost a dirge, reluctantly admitting that her death was hurtling towards her faster than she could comprehend.

"A mezzanotte arriva il cambio
accompagnato dal capoposto
ohi, sentinella, ritorna al tuo posto
sotto la tenda a riposàr."

The next verse came and went, but before she had finished the song she would note what the Krieger had said, and how she would need to be a Captain, not a Mordian. "Zhatka, I will not have you be throwing the Emperor's currency away as if it held no value. If you so much as think about hurling yourself headfirst into the first heretic or xenos we see, I will personally drag you back to your barracks in disgrace." She had rapidly learned that there was very little threatening a krieger with physical violence accomplished but this? This generally seemed to work quite well.

"Right then ladies and gentlemen. Our duty as a command squad is to ensure that the soldiers under our banner are working in an orderly and efficient fashion. I will have no dereliction of duty, no recklessness, no cowardice and absolutely no splitting away from the squad, is that understood?"

Sergeant Rojack was fairly uncomfortable, by all accounts. Travailing the black skies between worlds was always unsettling, especially when passing into, well, he didn't have a good word for it in the Father's tongue. But it shortened passage between places, he'd heard others refer to it as the Warp, and he supposed that was as close of a word as he would get. Still, the worst of it was always setting off into, and back from, the black skies. Violent, shuddering, and thoroughly alien to anything that the feral worlder could have ever imagined before departing his home. It was something he never got used to, and he had to do his level best to keep a straight, even face as they descended into the oncoming fire. What was interesting to the man was how others had handled this so far.

The masked one, a Krieg Man as he was told, muttered grim prayers to the, he assumed, Father as a response to the one having said something about here we go again. The one that spoke in such a thick manner that he went completely understood also replied something in return, lost between the sounds of flak and anti sky fire, and the descending sky ship. Lastly was the Captain singing and then telling off the Krieg Man about not marching simply off to death. Blind death wishes didn't make sense to the Sergeant, but he didn't question it either. Different tribes had different beliefs, but this was their new tribe, so new traditions had to be respected. It seemed this tribe leader, the Captain, was not having any of that death seeking attitude.

"Aye m'um, though sooner we're off this sky ship, the better." Rojack was worried about this whole 'command squad' thing that was being talked about. He was hoping that didn't mean sitting in some far speaker hut, staring at the fighting while the Captain barked orders into the far speakers. He suspected that the woman was not that sort of officer, given the explanation of their task, one couldn't really do that thing from a far speaker hut. Not effectively, at any rate, but there was only one way to find out. Find out and that meant sitting here, waiting for the sky ship to actually land so they could actually go about their job in the Father's name. So he mostly listened and waited, trying to quell the nerves over being stuck in a metal box loosely hurtling to the ground to disgorge its cargo.

As far as travelling in one of the God-Emperor's weapon-coated hulking machines of death went, Mordecai had always considered ship travel one of the better prospects to be stuck with. It wasn't all great, of course, what with the constant sense of tension in the air whenever there was the slightest bit of Warp turbulence. But for the most part, it reminded him of being in a basilisk tank. The constant background noise was relaxing, kept him at ease, and gave him plenty of time to think.

Shifted from the tank crew he'd been practically raised with to an infantry regiment full of people from all over. Well, at least he'd been graced with the pleasure of assignment to a Command Squad, even if it was under the command of a Captain who may as well have been a human icepop for how cold she was and how far that stick up her ass went.

The others were a bit of a mixed bag, some good some bad. Mordecai figured the voidsman, Telaci, was a well enough man, if a bit indecipherable at times. The feralworlder Sergeant Rojack was in a similar boat, a fine man for the most part, but his accent and words were a bit thick for Mordecai's taste.

And then there's the Krieger. Mordecai honestly wasn't even sure if he was human. If the Captain was a stick in the mud, this man WAS the mud. At least the Captain understood human emotion and conversation.

As for their duties, being a junior NCO in a Command Squad definitely wasn't the worst place to end up in an infantry regiment. He didn't have any idea what the Captain would have him doing, but at least it was vaguely similar to when he led his tank.

The Captain was talking now. Between the perpetual ringing in his ears, his own thoughts, and the noises of the ship, it was a bit of a struggle to hear completely. The gist of it was about the Command Squad's job to maintain discipline and control over the Company.

"Understood. Keep the lads in line, make sure everything goes down as it should."

@Lady Selune@ReedeThe23rd@BCTheEntity@CleanBreeze@Eisenhorn@Irredeemable@Reia

Time: 3:15 AM

Location: Eastern Fringe Sector of Ventirest City, Vocintis.

Weather and Temperature: Stormy, temperature 12 degrees Celsius and 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

Sithech had been holding his breath for almost the whole journey now, but as they neared the landing zone - the strip lumens in the troop compartment of the gunship changing from red to an amber colour - he began to slowly allow air to slip from between his teeth... that was until a sudden jolt forced it all out in one large gasp, the Lieutenant giving a grunt of annoyance as another hammer blow from without caused him to rail against his harness.

"Emperor's baws! Ah didnae expect thaim nae tae shoot us, bit cuid thay nae hae waited a bawherr bit langer!?"

The other Finrehters began to laugh, quickly silenced by a scathing glance, Greig checking his weapon one last time before a crackling voice came over the internal vox.

"We've run into some flak, so we're going to have to do a hovering bailout," by which the pilot meant they would have to leap and a roll a fair distance from above the ground, something that no foot-slogger relished but that may save their lives.

It as fortunate that, at least in these eastern regions, the enemy didn't seem to possess any actual flak guns and instead were relying on smaller arms fire to bring down the incoming transports.

Mere moments later and the amber lights running down the length of the troop compartment began to shimmer from that brownish-yellow and into a much more glaring green, so bright it actually hurt the eyes to look at it, the co-pilot taking the vox this time, even as the gunship lurched and the thrusters took them into a hovering position – the gunship may have ceased it's movement, but the ping and whizz against the armoured vessel had not.

“Harness release in three... two... one,” a slight hiss and the restraints were razed, Sithech slipping from his seat with a fluidity that belied his age, simultaneously bringing his lasgun across his chest in preparation for a drop and roll landing, “lights are green, lights are green, everyone out and God-Emperor protect you all.”

Indeed the light had turned green, the Finreht contingent of the squad mustering about the open side-door and Greig narrowing his eyes as he watched tracer rounds move through the dim morning light, this was no time to be pausing in ones departure however and it was barely an instant later that the Highlander had disappeared out the door and was falling to the churned earth of the planet below.

A grunt and forced expulsion of breath, followed by the flutter of material and ending in the sudden filling of his senses by those of the battlefield; first to reach him was the firing of munitions, the distinct rapid fire of an autogun, the whump of a cannon... soon after that the other sounds filtered in, the screams of the wounded and dying, war cries of bitter enemies, mud and blood and piss and shit all rolled in to one hellish cacophony.

Adrenaline flushed his system now, the Lieutenant rolling over onto his belly and bringing his weapon up in front of him, the landscape around him most amenable to his needs for cover at least!

It had once been part of a series of agricultural fields dotted around the fringes of the city they had been planted to feed, nothing growing there now except for corpses, the twisted ruins of farming machinery visible by there hulking outlines – the scoops and whatever blades they may have had being taken by the insurrectionists to forge rudimentary armour and blades for the war effort.

Said enemy wasn't visible from where he now lay, having forgotten completely about the Valkyrie overhead for the moment in spite of himself, his bare legs scraping and scratching against dried dirt and stones as he found his way into a small crater, clearly the site of some shelling earlier in the tussle for planetary control, and only then did he raise his eyes from the concave side of the depression to watch and wait for the remainder of his squad.

Sergeant Rojack was only being given more and more confirmation that treading the skies was not a great idea, though he forced himself to keep his face level and focused. At least he hoped he was, feeling the incoming fire against their transport as they hurtled further downwards towards the surface. His eyes half closed as he offered up a prayer to the Sky Father, continuing to wait to be released from the harness and to be free to get down to blessed ground. As much as he didn't like the idea of throwing himself from the transport into a brief free fall to the ground, but it beat getting shot into pieces before the transport could ever simply touch down properly and let the cargo walk off the transport as if it were a stroll into a sky port. The count down to the harnesses being released was a relief, a brief moment of respite in the face of the impending warfare. Rising when the harness released, heading for the nearest available exit and, the moment he could, throwing himself out of the transport almost eagerly.

Adrenaline pumping as he plummeted downwards, hitting the ground with a tumble and a roll, he didn't immediately throw himself upright, keeping to a knee and not simply throwing himself upwards into the line of potential fire. The classical sounds of warfare, the screams of dying, the rage of weapons fire, battle cries and incoherent noises that one could not simply piece apart without risking their own well being. He snapped the Lasgun to his shoulder, familiar weight of his cut down shotgun and large sword on his hip a reminder he hadn't lost his kit on the landing. The first he spotted was the Lieutenant, as others were landing, he barked out, the loud, booming voice capable of overriding the sounds of warfare and weapons fire. "This way! We regroup over here!"

The sergeant was quick to move, joining the Lieutenant in cover, hopefully having rallied the others who were landing and giving them a location to rally to, a direction to go instead of simply wallowing in a hole, getting shot at and waiting for an unlucky weapon to strike them down. There was issues with sitting put, even if it was in a solid spot, eventually someone would find something to hit the position with that would end up wasting the Father's soldiers. Still, per the Captain's orders, no splitting the squad, so he took cover and waited by the Lieutenant for the rest to rally so they could advance towards actual objectives and do the Sky Father's bidding.

He took note of the Captain's orders. Do not simply charge at the first opponent seen. This was fine.

The Death Korps marched towards its foes. When ordered to.

Clattering. Aircraft taking fire. Hovering bailout called. Sensible. Lower chance for the craft to be shot down. Lower chance for the squad to be killed.

Death outside. Just as he sought.

415633-983223-17-Zhatka was out second only to the Lieutenant, the Sergeant and scant few other soldiers, and then only because he was forced to first hook his backpack over his free shoulder and reacquire his melta gun. It was rare that the Death Korps made use of air deployment. Basic troops were not taught it beyond necessity. Grenadiers were taught it as accessory to the fastest possible means of making ground contact.

The landing and roll were executed accordingly. Weapons hot. Combat in full course. Chaotic. Dangerous. Without ordered ranks. Undisciplined. Per Captain Di Fieroccu's order, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka did not seek an opponent immediately. Lieutenant Sithech taking cover in a crater. Sergeant Rojack moving to share that cover. Unacceptable weakness.

415633-983223-17-Zhatka would be forced to join them. Chain of command. Undisciplined clumping. Natural consequence. Unfortunate. He moved in their direction at a march, his weapon primed to fire at any foes in range. None presented. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka dropped into the crater without incident. Waited for remainder of command squad. Silent. All he needed to say had been said.

The ship was taking fire. Corporal Tharn clung to his lasgun with one arm, the other hand white-knuckling the bench underneath him. The order came through. They were going to jump from the craft, a rolling bailout. It was, frankly, fething insane. Jumping from a moving air vehicle to the ground without so much as a strip of cloth to keep 'em safe? There was absolutely no way in the Warp they we-

Green light, everyone stood up. By the God-Emperor, they were actually doing it. Jumping out of a damn gunship with nothing but the clothes on their backs. This was mad. Every singe person here was absolutely mad. Mordecai clutched his rifle close as they stepped towards the gate. Surely this was a joke. Surely they'd be told to sit back down and-

And he was out. Tucked up in a rolling ball, one hand holding onto his flakweave cap, the other clutching his lasgun as close to his chest as possible. The rough jostling from the landing shook every bone in his body, and he was fairly certain he'd landed on a particularly sharp patch of dirt. Leaning up from laying on his back just enough to peer around him without exposing himself, he spotted the Krieger.

Quickly rolling over onto his stomach, Mordecai took a deep breath. And another. And another. And then he began to scrabble across the ground after the meltagunner, in a weird half-crawl half-walk, he pushed himself onward towards the rest of the command squad, scrabbling down into cover near them. He did his best to hold his rifle at the ready, though the amount of shaking coming from the Corporal was damn-near audible.

Hovering bailout. Not the first one she had ever participated in. Adjusting her cap slightly, she would give her commsbead a tap to activate it, before her hands would reach down to her thigh and triple-check her power sword was secure in its couplings. As the bay doors opened up she would straighten her back, the people seated closer to the door bailing out rapidly. She would follow. A hand on the brim of her cap, she sprinted towards the door, and just as she was about to leave, stopped and pencil dropped out.

Carapace armour was much touger than the usual flak armour, and its impact-dissipaiting properties worked especially well when pitted against blunt force trauma. Turning her knees to the ground, the captain would assess the battlefield in the brief moment of weightlessness before she made contact with the blood soaked mud, before sucking in a breath as the contact with the ground rippled through her entire body. Looking around, she spotted her squad hunkering down in a crater and nodded to herself. Good. A solid defensive position. Ripping her bolt pistol from her holster, she burst forward, boots squelching slightly in the mud, before crouching down in the middle of the crater.

"Are you cold Corporal?" She said towards Tharn, grabbing the vox's microphone from his back and wiping some of the mud away from it. "No? Then stop shaking and hold your rifle steady, by the Emperor." Shaking her head, she pressed the broadcast button- the squad's commsbeads lighting up as she did so.

"Listen up! You may have had a rough landing you may have already seen your comrades die, but now is not the time to baulk in the face of adversity. We did not cross the bloodied fields of Vernum to cower here today! Reform your squads, reestablish your chain of command and wherever you see the banner of our regiments, rally to them! Show these bastards what true servants of the Emperor can do!"

She removed her finger, head whirling around. "Where's that damn fool fake Cadian and the voidsman?"