The impact of the lander into the blighted soil of Molov was akin to being kicked in the chest by a particularly angry horse, while another was kicking you in the back as if sandwiching you between them, and a third was kicking you in the head just for good measure. So to say it was a violent landing was an understatement.
Artyom didn’t know how long he was dazed. At some point he had clearly released his harness and dropped to his hands and knees on the tilted floor. Struggling to keep himself from tumbling as his sense of balance and self-awareness tried to re-assert itself.
“Sergeant….. Sergeant!” He screamed. Pushing himself to his knees as he surveyed the damage around him. Everything was chaos, everywhere he looked there were injuries and confusion. Bones were broken, necks snapped, men and woman rendered unconscious from the impact and the chemical stench of electrical fires and burning wiring insulation was filling the confined space with toxins that would surely kill them all if something wasn’t done.
“Get the ramp open! Open all emergency hatches, Do it now!” He was shouting to everyone around him, not just his NCOs. Artyom was not going to let this metal monstrosity be his tomb, machine spirit be damned. He attempted to rise, nearly slipping off of a wet tongue that was severed by someone unfortunate enough to have had their mouth open during the crash.
Struggling to get any other officers on the vox but the forward sections of the lander seemed to have suffered far more than the stern. He had no idea how many of the company survived the crash, but the first priority was to get out of the lander before it was blown away by whatever artillery the enemy possessed.
When the company did earn its freedom and the emergency release handles were cranked until arms were ready to pop out of their sockets, Artyom began giving orders and his platoon piled out of the lander in a far less organized fashion than when they originally marched in. Stumbling out into the open battlescape first and what greeted him was a site from hell.
Chaos had warped the planet, All around the lander was blighted wasteland of twisted iron and a stench so horrible it had Artoym scrambling for his rebreather. Coughing all the while as his lungs protested as they inflated with fetid air. It was almost pure poison and the smell was one of the most foul things he had ever experienced. The very ground itself was blighted with a mixture of genuine industrial waste, haphazardly dumped where the masters of the dark factoriums willed, and chaos taint.
“Masks! Masks!” He called to the troops crawling out of the lander after him.
As he fumbled his own mask into place and breathed a few easier breaths of relief, he surveyed his sorroundings. The battle was definitely still being raged around them. Some landers had managed to land close to the city while others carrying the most valuable war machines and cargo landed father out, in the extreme ranges of the anti-aircraft guns which brought their, and apparently several other landers down too. Their wrecked frames belching black smoke that did nothing to improve the already rank and polluted air. Artyom could see the hull of at least one other lander covered in tiny shapes, likely playing out a scene mirroring his company's own desperate crash and escape. He had no idea where the other lander's for their regiment were however, and how far the crash put them off course from their original landing zone.
And the lander..... holy throne the lander. It frankly was a miracle they landed at all. The entire front half was a crumpled mess of steel and the broken cockpit was one raging inferno. Artyom wasn't an expert but it probably took a direct hit, which would explain about their descent. If anyone was alive from the first and second platoons they were probably trapped under several tons of broken iron, Bodies pinned or mangled by the impact. Artyom wasn't sure if he could to anything to dig them out even if he wanted to.
Elsewhere there were signs of proper war being waged. Lines of light and heavy armour had already touched down, unloaded and were now making their way towards the dark city. Their hulls attracting the aim of the yet un-fired ground artillery and other heretic defenses. The Imperial infantry were slower to mass but also seemed to be collecting themselves as best they could and readying to march through the wastelands to support the armour. It was an all out invasion, the Imperium didn't want to establish some wasteland toehold and be bombarded with artillery and sorcery all while they tried to assemble something approaching an invasion force. They wanted to overwhelm the enemy in one blitz invasion, at least here. To take an entire city to establish their firm, un-removable presence on the world and demoralize the heretics.
Cannons roared, flame belched and explosives tossed up tonnes of tainted earth every few minutes. So far the enemy artillery hadn't taken much notice in their battered and fairly isolated company.
“All squads take cover behind the lander and report. Sergeant Kinsely! I want a headcount. How many survived the crash? And are there any officers? And we we have a damn vox caster?!” Artyom really, reaaaaaally hoped he wasn't the last one alive right now. He had no idea what to do next or if a vox unit was or could be salvaged from inside. Without it he was blind. And had no idea where his regiment might be or which direction he should lead this shattered mess of a company. Towards the city? Away from it? Would he be shot for cowardice if he tried to lead them away? His gut told him 'probably' They Guard tended to have a narrow and unforgiving view on these things.
Artyom tried not to betray his own mental freak-out as he nearly tore himself apart from the inside trying to determine what was best to do. Being an officer wasn't his job. It wasn't supposed to be his job. He was a fucking corporal, a field medic. He had no idea how to lead these people or what to possibly say to them after that shit-show of a crash.
A piercing howl, one sharp enough to cut through the thunder of cannon fire and loud enough to betray it's nearness reached his ears, and the ears of everyone else around the lander. The noise was definitely animalistic but also.... not from an animal. At least no animal Artyom was familiar with. Whatever produced that noise was almost human, it sounded pained and angry and.... sad? Mournful? Soon it could be heard again, and was followed by a second, shriller but still inhuman shriek.
Looking out among the battlefield again he saw one of the crashed landers, the one like his own that survivors were trying to crawl their way out of. Only now there were other shadows crawling over and around it. These shadows were much less human in their appearance though it was hard to tell from here. They seemed to be a pack of some kind, like predators only more hunched, gangly and misshapen. The small flashes of las-light told him that the Imperial soldiers did not appreciated the creature's presence whoever they were. The noises of war hid the cracking of ionizing air and the shouts of terrified men, but they were clearly under attack by whatever it was those creatures were.
“Uh, lieutenant! LIEUTENANT!” One terrified Valhallan trooper shouted to Artyom in their native tongue. If it wasn't for that jolt of recognition Artyom may have been to engrossed with the scene across the wastes to pay it much heed. “What?!” Artyom spun around, genuinely pissed at off the trooper's tone. “Speak Gothic you *******” He chided the trooper. Not knowing where the offender was at first he eventually found him, climbing up the side of the lander in an effort to get a better view. Artyom almost ordered him dragged down and beaten for being such an idiot without proper permission.
“Well, what is it?” He shouted up. “Mutants.” The man called out eventually, his attention apparently focused rather intently on something only he could see from his angle. “I think their mutants! Coming towards the lander.” He called back. Artyom swore, packs of mutants would make sense. Much more than mere animals roaming loose in the chemical wastes. Probably seeing these landers as a perfect opportunity for potential fresh meat.
Looking around at the survivors he had Artyom knew it may not be enough depending on the size of the pack approaching. Some survivors were still being hauled out, as was valuable equipment. Artyom swore again and asked for confirmation from the trooper. Numbers, direction, anything But little was forthcoming.
“Fourth Company!” Artyom bellowed in his best and least accented low gothic. Making the decision to fight, after all they could hardly go back inside the lander and hide, and after being shot down from the sky and tossed about like a child's doll during a tantrum the Valhallan felt like venting his anger on something or someone. And a mutant was as good an opportunity as any. “Prepare to receive!” This was at least something he was would be able to take control of. Whether they all survived it or not was another matter.
"Form circle and Fix Bayonets!" One mustached mordian sergeant shouted out in the typically impeccable parade ground snap his people had perfect over the millennia.
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