Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Annihilus Manaroth - Veteran Sergeant, Dark Angels
Like his brothers before him, Jonathan joined in service to the Emperor and to Mankind as a Guardsman. However, it took several attempts before the corps would accept him. It wasn’t his psych evaluations nor his physicals that prevented his acceptance, but rather, his age. While many young men went to great lengths to avoid being drafted into the Emperor’s Army Legion, Jonathan began showing up to recruitment centers as soon as he thought he could pass himself off as a man; as early as 13 years old. Sometimes he would travel for days to nearby towns and cities with groups of other recruit hopefuls for the chance that he would be accepted. Of course he habitually lied about his age to increase his odds. It wasn’t until he was 15 before he was finally accepted and began his career as a Guardsman.
Jonathan excelled at the physical and mental aspects of being an Imperial Guardsman, but failed miserably when it came to discipline and following orders; a carryover from his childhood growing up with a mostly absent father. As such, Jonathan found himself in constant hot water with his superiors, so much so, that after 5 years of service he never once qualified for a promotion, keeping his recruitment rank as a standard Guardsman grunt from the start. If it weren’t for his unnerving courage under the most extreme battlefield conditions, and his competence to successfully complete assignments that no one else would dare take on, Jonathan would have long been imprisoned, executed, or worse. Instead, his superiors endured his shortcomings as best they could by sending him on dead-man walking assignments, transferring him to the front lines, or to other units that had the highest casualty rates. Each time, the commanding officer would use and abuse Jonathan until they grew tired of him before shipping him off into the hands of another unsuspecting officer to deal with.
His raw tenacity and iron will served him well on the battlefield, and in one particular case, changed his life forever.
After spending some time on Morwen VI in the Calixis sector, a proving ground for Brontian Longknives Imperial Guard Regiment, Jonathan was sent to Protasia to assist in fighting the rebellion star system uprising there. Jonathan had just been reassigned to a small, understaffed, underequipped detachment stationed in the inner reaches of heavy Rebel forces. Their mission, as it appeared to Jonathan, was to wallow in hell-like conditions until they were put out of their misery by a stray Rebel cannon round or artillery fire, which they endured nearly on a daily bases. In truth, the sparse detachment was tasked with a seemingly impossible mission of holding their ground until the order was given to take Manaroth, a key stronghold of the Rebel forces.
On the fateful day when those orders finally came, a grim aura enveloped the entire regiment. There was no question many would die that day. Whether any would survive to fight again was another question entirely. After a relatively small reinforcement force had arrived with fresh supplies and fresh cannon fodder, Colonel Franz Muchek led his men into battle. The 8th Regiment made good gains early in the fight, taking the Rebels by surprise, but by the 3rd day of the attack, Colonel Muchek’s encroachment had ground to screeching halt and began taking heavy losses - men and machine. Many detachments across the battle lines began to wane, and several were routed, Jonathan’s detachment included. Colonel Muchek, seeing no end in sight to the massacre, reluctantly gave orders for a full-out retreat.
Jonathan Luther would have nothing of the sort. Shortly before the retreat orders were given, the men in Jonathan’s detachment turned tail and ran as far and as fast as their feet would carry them, all except for Jonathan. Taking heavy fire, he found a disabled tank, hopped into the gunner’s seat and began laying waste to the heretic Rebels. Not only did he hold off their advance for several hours, but he was able to tear a gaping hole in their lines. When the heavy gun was destroyed by incoming fire, Jonathan found another abandoned tank, only this one had no working guns. So Jonathan, as any able bodied solider should do, improvised. Taking advantage of the broken lines, he went on a tank shock rampage, plowing into the scattered Rebel troops with reckless abandon.
With the Rebel forces in disarray, Jonathan bulldozed his way straight into their main encampment, but not before jumping out moments before leaving a pair of live frag grenades in the tanks armory depot. The massive explosion started off a chain reaction of more explosions that left an array of out of control fires and destroyed bunkers. The event killed nearly a hundred Rebel men and knocked out their communications station. Those that didn’t die or retreat were systematically killed by a lone courageous Guardsman: Jonathan Luther.
Hell had been redefined by the looks of what remained of the Manaroth stronghold, and Jonathan Luther was its gate keeper. When a squad of Dark Angels arrived they found a bloodied and battle-torn Jonathan with a fully discharged Lasgun and a heavy slugger pistol with three rounds remaining in its chambers.
As the story is told, Colonel Muchek’s 8th Regiment was never expected to take the strong hold. They were simply expendable cannon fodder, with a mission designed solely to entertain the Rebel forces until the Emperor’s finest arrived to finish the job and recover an ancient Imperial artifact that the Rebels had no idea they possessed.
The memories of that day and the days before have long escaped the memory of Annihilus Manaroth – the given name of Jonathan Luther once he became a Dark Angel of death – an Adeptus Astartes. Normally the most prestigious and loyal servants of the Emperor do not recruit from the ranks of the Imperial Guard, but the unbridled tenacity of Jonathan’s actions that day inspired Master Chaplain Caleb Anaxius to reconsider.
These days, some of Annihilus’ superiors regret, and some even disdain, Master Chaplain Anaxius decision. They suggest Annihilus would have been better suited as a Blood Angel or Space Wolf. Others suggested he should have been left on the battlefield to rot. Regardless, the decision was made, and like it or not, Annihilus Manaroth is a full blooded Dark Angel Space Marine.
While the persona of Jonathan Luther was somewhat tempered during the conversion process, the root of the man that made him a tenacious, strong willed death-dealer still remains. As such, those empowering the Emperor’s grand wisdom suggested he be promoted to Sergeant to lead a small consignment of men on a “special assignment.” If Annihilus was able to conjure up the memories of his past, he might have experienced déjà vu; being reassigned to a shat mission in hopes that he would just go away or be destroyed in the process.
So here he stands, Sgt. Annihilus Manaroth, gathered with his men, a dispatch of tenacious rejects and misfits much like himself - Malak, Vitus, Bandon, Glovac, Revan, Nihilus, Desolous, Baras, and Angral – to serve the Emperor with honor and death.
Rotgor Badgut - Ork Warband Nob
Stomping mightily through the encampment, Nob Rotgor Badgut inspected the progress being made on his orders. From every hut, hall, and dark corner, the sounds of a hard labor could be heard. Clanking hammers, hissing torches, and clattering air ratchets worked relentlessly to ready Rotgor’s Boyz for war. The acrid smell of gunpowder and solder filled the Nob leader’s nostrils, and he grinned widely in approval. Walking past a Gobbo who accidently dropped a wrench, Rotgor kicked the poor sod twenty feet into a blast furnace, laughing mightily at the sound of blistering, popping Goblin flesh and high-pitched wailing. Everything was proceeding as planned. Shootas and sluggas were made ready; wheels were affixed to trukks and buggies; armored plates welded onto lumbering war machines. Soon, Rotgor thought as he absent mindedly picked his teeth. Very soon.
The Nob leader walked further down through the encampment to a large clearing at the center of the fort. Here lay the ultimate prize, without which all other efforts were pointless. Sitting in a crater in pieces was the wrecked hull of an Imperial light destroyer. Not a particularly large craft, by any means, but big enough for Rotgor and his Boyz, and most importantly with the capability to travel through warp space. Grots scrambled over the hull like ants in a kicked over anthill. Over every inch they clambered, riveting plates in place, patching holes and making the great flying machine ready.
Rotgor walked up to another Ork, this one larger than the others and clearly someone the Nob had great respect for. This Ork directed the Gretchin effort, pointing and bellowing orders, flipping through page after page of blueprints and notes, inspecting pieces of machinery as they were brought to him. This was a Mekboy, and Rotgor’s working foreman. “Will it fly?” grumbled Rotgor, skeptical given the ship’s state of disrepair. “It will fly”, muttered the Mekboy, still pointing and kicking the occasional gobbo for good measure. “We may need a few things to make it work better”, the Mekboy added. The Nob looked at his foreman sideways, his brow furrowed, then looked back at the ship. “Tell Rotgor wat ya need”, he said without emotion. Then, scowling, he raised a great muscled green fist at the tail of the vessel. Pointed at the Dark Angels heraldry painted on it, he continued, “’And paint over dat. Dem ‘oomies will not beat da Boyz annuva time!”
40K Campaign Rules
Experience All units will accumulate experience as per the WH40K4.0 rule book. Non-independent character units will gain levels exactly as outlined in the core rules, with every 1000 experience resulting in an additional ability slot unlocked. Independent characters will gain levels as indicated below, with each level not only affecting their own promotions but also the army slots available to each player.
Unit Availability Chart L0: 0-999 exp
Troops, HQ (1 character only), Dedicated Transports (after Mission 2)
L1: 1000-1999 exp
1 Elite, 1 Fast, 1 Heavy Support. IG may mix/match vehicle selection from different slots
Unit Availability Chart L0: 0-999 exp
Troops, HQ (1 character only), Dedicated Transports (after Mission 2)
L1: 1000-1999 exp
1 Elite, 1 Fast, 1 Heavy Support. IG may mix/match vehicle selection from different slots
L2: 2000-2999 exp
2 Elite, 2 Fast, 2 Heavy Support. HQ 2nd slot unlocked
L3: 3000+ exp
3 Elite, 3 Fast, 3 Heavy Support
2 Elite, 2 Fast, 2 Heavy Support. HQ 2nd slot unlocked
L3: 3000+ exp
3 Elite, 3 Fast, 3 Heavy Support
* Note: Troop choices must equal or exceed total elite, fast, and heavy support choices.
Secret Objectives In each mission, it will be clear what participating generals must accomplish to gain victory. However, each general will also have a secret objective known only to them. Objectives may be specific to a mission, or transfer from one mission to another. Fulfilling secret objectives will win you special bonus items, abilities, or upgrades. An important note is that goodies secured in this way do not count against your army list point limit! Thus, they are incredibly valuable in providing an edge against your competition.
Campaign Points The length of the campaign will vary based on the progression of the story itself. At the conclusion of the final mission (you will know it as we approach it) the winner of the campaign will be the player with the most campaign points. Campaign points are different than experience points. Typically, one campaign point will be awarded to the winner of each given mission. However, as additional experience points and secret objectives will unlock new weapon and unit options, it is essential that each player aggressively work to gain them all. One other note – there will be no “ties” for campaign winner. There can be only one…
Character Death If a character is reduced to 0 wounds, there will be severe consequences. Should this occur, players must roll on the Character injury chart to determine the outcome. Only the GM will have access to this chart. If the character is permanently killed, a new character must be chosen. Any unit slots previously unlocked will remain unlocked and the new character will pick up at the same experience level minus any upgrades (i.e campaign progress is transferrable but special items are not). This is not a joke – your character can die.
Scaling for Balance In order to ensure missions remain competitive, the GM reserves the right to substitute players and scale army experience in order to provide a continued challenge for all participants. This may mean that a stand-in (even the GM himself) may proxy for participating players, or that infrequent players’ experience levels may be subsidized. However, one rule is firm: Only an actively participating player can ever gain campaign points, in other words even if a stand-in fulfills objectives and gains experience, they can never gain campaign points for you.
Intel Rolls Intel is a behind-the-scenes dynamic that will help determine how much information you have about the upcoming mission. The GM will roll secretly for you before the mission and the amount of intelligence you receive will be based on the outcome of this roll. Factors affecting intel rolls are: Army type (1 dice per number below), character level (0-3), and bonuses or penalties based on special items/accomplishments/enemy activity. The sum total is the number of die you get to roll. Optionally, before the roll occurs, you may elect any number of die to use to subtract from your opponents total (counter-intel).
Secret Objectives In each mission, it will be clear what participating generals must accomplish to gain victory. However, each general will also have a secret objective known only to them. Objectives may be specific to a mission, or transfer from one mission to another. Fulfilling secret objectives will win you special bonus items, abilities, or upgrades. An important note is that goodies secured in this way do not count against your army list point limit! Thus, they are incredibly valuable in providing an edge against your competition.
Campaign Points The length of the campaign will vary based on the progression of the story itself. At the conclusion of the final mission (you will know it as we approach it) the winner of the campaign will be the player with the most campaign points. Campaign points are different than experience points. Typically, one campaign point will be awarded to the winner of each given mission. However, as additional experience points and secret objectives will unlock new weapon and unit options, it is essential that each player aggressively work to gain them all. One other note – there will be no “ties” for campaign winner. There can be only one…
Character Death If a character is reduced to 0 wounds, there will be severe consequences. Should this occur, players must roll on the Character injury chart to determine the outcome. Only the GM will have access to this chart. If the character is permanently killed, a new character must be chosen. Any unit slots previously unlocked will remain unlocked and the new character will pick up at the same experience level minus any upgrades (i.e campaign progress is transferrable but special items are not). This is not a joke – your character can die.
Scaling for Balance In order to ensure missions remain competitive, the GM reserves the right to substitute players and scale army experience in order to provide a continued challenge for all participants. This may mean that a stand-in (even the GM himself) may proxy for participating players, or that infrequent players’ experience levels may be subsidized. However, one rule is firm: Only an actively participating player can ever gain campaign points, in other words even if a stand-in fulfills objectives and gains experience, they can never gain campaign points for you.
Intel Rolls Intel is a behind-the-scenes dynamic that will help determine how much information you have about the upcoming mission. The GM will roll secretly for you before the mission and the amount of intelligence you receive will be based on the outcome of this roll. Factors affecting intel rolls are: Army type (1 dice per number below), character level (0-3), and bonuses or penalties based on special items/accomplishments/enemy activity. The sum total is the number of die you get to roll. Optionally, before the roll occurs, you may elect any number of die to use to subtract from your opponents total (counter-intel).
Base Intel Die
Dark Angels – 2
Orks – 1
Chaos – 2
IG – 2
Orks – 1
Chaos – 2
IG – 2
Intel Roll Chart - Score..... False Information!
0-6........... Basic Mission Information
7-12.......... As 2 above, but told which specific army(s) faced
13-18........ As 3 above, but includes specific mission objectives and recon
19-24........ As 4 above, but includes enemy forces overview
25+ ...........As 5 above, but includes enemy army list and secret objective information
0-6........... Basic Mission Information
7-12.......... As 2 above, but told which specific army(s) faced
13-18........ As 3 above, but includes specific mission objectives and recon
19-24........ As 4 above, but includes enemy forces overview
25+ ...........As 5 above, but includes enemy army list and secret objective information
Mission Assignments Before game time, you will be given a brief write-up stating the mission and secret objectives. The amount of detail you get is based on the intel roll as indicated above.
Creating Army Lists For the first two missions in which each army competes, your core army list will be created for you. After that, you will be required to create your only army list for each mission as outlined in the 40K 4.0 standard mission rules, within the limitations of your character’s current level. It is an important note that you will not have full access to the standard force organization chart until your character reaches level 3. For those less familiar with this process, the GM is happy to help.
Alliances In some cases, there will be options for some players to ally with others during the course of the campaign. As unlikely as some alliances may be, it may represent the only opportunity to take on a more powerful opponent. Here are the options available:
Dark Angels – Will not ally with anyone
Orks – Will ally with anyone except Dark Angels (for the right price…)
Chaos – Will ally with anyone except Dark Angels or loyal IG
IG – Will ally only with Orks. Will ally with Chaos if no longer loyal.
Orks – Will ally with anyone except Dark Angels (for the right price…)
Chaos – Will ally with anyone except Dark Angels or loyal IG
IG – Will ally only with Orks. Will ally with Chaos if no longer loyal.
Maelderon Bloodspiller - Chaos Space Marine
His blood-stained bare chest still heaving, Maelderon stood victorious over the piled bodies of friend and foe alike. His great broad sword, Deathbringer, still dark with gore, reflected the many fires of battle. A giant of a man, Maelderon surveyed the scene, the place where he had led his tribe to victory and avenged the death of his people at the hands of a rival tribe. The corpses were too many to count. He felt himself flushed with power, oblivious to his own wounds. His heart pounded in his chest and his soul burned with great intensity. The visions he had been having had all come true; even now, he was almost in a dreamlike state. The strength within him was heightened by these waking dreams – of an all-powerful Blood God upon his throne of skulls; of immortal warriors who crushed all in their path in the Blood God’s name. It was this vision which inspired him – no, drove him. With every fiber of his being he strove to better himself, to seek glory – to bring death. When the rival tribe attacked Maelderon’s village and killed his women and children, the barbarian leader’s single ambition was to destroy every last man, woman, and child in the enemy encampment. As Deathbringer claimed skull after skull for the Blood God, Maelderon could hear the howls of satisfaction in his mind…his eyes burned with wicked fury, and he became a force no man could stop. That is, until none were left living.
With no tribesmen or enemies left, Maelderon sat upon a pile of bodies to contemplate his next move, but he did not have to wait long. From the fire and smoke of the battle, a vision emerged. Three great warriors, clad in blued steel, their armour hung with skulls and blades, emerged from the darkness, eyes glowing in the night. These were the warriors from Maelderon’s visions, the ones who had been watching him from afar. Their leader removed his great horned helmet and looked upon Maelderon, his own face scarred and burned from a thousand battles. When the strange warrior’s lips finally parted, an unearthly voice emanated from within. Maelderon was granted a one-time offer to accompany these death knights; promised a chance for power and glory beyond all comprehension – even a chance at immortality. Without Pause, Maelderon stood, bringing only Deathbringer with him as he left to begin the trials on the Chaos Battlecruiser Bringer of Pain.
Already a great warrior on his home planet, after he had completed the trials, Maelderon became a god among men. He endured countless procedures to enhance his abilities, slowly destroying his humanity and replacing it with something altogether different. His eyes and several organs were removed, replaced with superior, genetically and bionically enhanced devices. His blood was transfused with an artificial, high oxygen mix with microscopic organisms designed to enhance regenerative properties. His immune system was enhanced, as well as all of his senses. Maelderon could now see as well as a bird of prey, even at night, and had hearing and olfactory senses superior to any mortal man. His muscular and skeletal system was enhanced as well; another bio-genetic marvel which laced his bones with molybedenium and gave him superhuman strength. And finally, in a procedure that would kill nearly any man, he was bonded to the black carapace, a microscopically thin full body suit that attaches permanently to the skin and allows for seamless integration to space marine power armour. When this happened, Maelderon the man died and Maelderon Bloodspiller, Chaos Space Marine was born. A perfect warrior. A bringer of death.
For six months, Maelderon endured a punishing cycle of enhancements and training, learning the ways of the Chaos Marines; their structure and weapons; their strategy and tactics. Finally, the day came when Maelderon was summoned before the Lord of the Chaos Marines, and commander of Bringer of Pain – Ferrus Khane. Even seated upon his great throne, it was clear that Khane was some 12 feet tall and something more than man and machine. His great two-handed blade writhed with the silent, tormented faces of the thousands of souls Khane had slain over the millennia. It was not clear where the great Lord’s Terminator armour ended and where he began, as the two seemed fused in some twisted way, tendrils of energy crackling from every rivet, chain, and spike. Khane did not speak, for he no longer had a mouth. His twisted, misshapen face was devoid of emotion, but his eyes…those eyes stared deeply in Maelderon’s…into what remained of his soul. The aspiring Chaos Champion could hear his Lord’s words in his mind…the feeling as if a thousand burning blades had been thrust into his skull. Maelderon fell to his knees, hearing his master’s orders. Finally released to carry out his mission, Maelderon left the Lord’s chambers, his eyes, ears and nose bleeding as his head throbbed. But mighty Maelderon grinned widely, his blood-stained teeth glimmering as he strode with confidence into the battle hall. He had gained Khane’s favor, and was giving his first chance at command. Bringer of Pain was headed to a nearby planet, and Maelderon was being sent to investigate. The time for glory was finally upon him.
With no tribesmen or enemies left, Maelderon sat upon a pile of bodies to contemplate his next move, but he did not have to wait long. From the fire and smoke of the battle, a vision emerged. Three great warriors, clad in blued steel, their armour hung with skulls and blades, emerged from the darkness, eyes glowing in the night. These were the warriors from Maelderon’s visions, the ones who had been watching him from afar. Their leader removed his great horned helmet and looked upon Maelderon, his own face scarred and burned from a thousand battles. When the strange warrior’s lips finally parted, an unearthly voice emanated from within. Maelderon was granted a one-time offer to accompany these death knights; promised a chance for power and glory beyond all comprehension – even a chance at immortality. Without Pause, Maelderon stood, bringing only Deathbringer with him as he left to begin the trials on the Chaos Battlecruiser Bringer of Pain.
Already a great warrior on his home planet, after he had completed the trials, Maelderon became a god among men. He endured countless procedures to enhance his abilities, slowly destroying his humanity and replacing it with something altogether different. His eyes and several organs were removed, replaced with superior, genetically and bionically enhanced devices. His blood was transfused with an artificial, high oxygen mix with microscopic organisms designed to enhance regenerative properties. His immune system was enhanced, as well as all of his senses. Maelderon could now see as well as a bird of prey, even at night, and had hearing and olfactory senses superior to any mortal man. His muscular and skeletal system was enhanced as well; another bio-genetic marvel which laced his bones with molybedenium and gave him superhuman strength. And finally, in a procedure that would kill nearly any man, he was bonded to the black carapace, a microscopically thin full body suit that attaches permanently to the skin and allows for seamless integration to space marine power armour. When this happened, Maelderon the man died and Maelderon Bloodspiller, Chaos Space Marine was born. A perfect warrior. A bringer of death.
For six months, Maelderon endured a punishing cycle of enhancements and training, learning the ways of the Chaos Marines; their structure and weapons; their strategy and tactics. Finally, the day came when Maelderon was summoned before the Lord of the Chaos Marines, and commander of Bringer of Pain – Ferrus Khane. Even seated upon his great throne, it was clear that Khane was some 12 feet tall and something more than man and machine. His great two-handed blade writhed with the silent, tormented faces of the thousands of souls Khane had slain over the millennia. It was not clear where the great Lord’s Terminator armour ended and where he began, as the two seemed fused in some twisted way, tendrils of energy crackling from every rivet, chain, and spike. Khane did not speak, for he no longer had a mouth. His twisted, misshapen face was devoid of emotion, but his eyes…those eyes stared deeply in Maelderon’s…into what remained of his soul. The aspiring Chaos Champion could hear his Lord’s words in his mind…the feeling as if a thousand burning blades had been thrust into his skull. Maelderon fell to his knees, hearing his master’s orders. Finally released to carry out his mission, Maelderon left the Lord’s chambers, his eyes, ears and nose bleeding as his head throbbed. But mighty Maelderon grinned widely, his blood-stained teeth glimmering as he strode with confidence into the battle hall. He had gained Khane’s favor, and was giving his first chance at command. Bringer of Pain was headed to a nearby planet, and Maelderon was being sent to investigate. The time for glory was finally upon him.
Lieutenant Wolodimir Zhukov - Imperial Guard 406th Valhallans
“It is under the most dire of circumstances that true leaders are born”. The words of his father rang in the mind of young Lieutenant Wolodimir Zhukhov as he and his platoon endured their sixth month of bombardment from Ork Big Gunz. The Valhallan 406th regiment on Terosa had been pounded relentlessly during that time, with pauses only to allow Orks to charge through the no-man’s land, test the Imperial defenses, and kill even more guardsmen in hand to hand combat. Ammunition and supplies were in bad shape, and morale was worse. Lt. Zhukov received intermittent word from his commander to ‘hold defenses’; that ‘reinforcements were on the way’, but Zhukov knew better. Terosa was little more than a listening post, not an Imperial garrison. As such, it was expendable, and Zhukov’s commander knew it. The young officer walked the line, speaking to each of his men in turn, but he knew that the best they could hope for was to honor themselves in what was soon to be certain death. It was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make, a steadfastly devout officer of the Imperium whose family had served for 10 generations.
In the dark of night, as Zhukov stared across the battle lines through the smoke of the no-man’s land, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, a faint crackling came over the voxcaster. Zhukov’s commander was announcing a counter-offensive against the green skins. The young lieutenant knew that the day of reckoning was finally at hand. His commander, whose courage he had privately questioned on many occasions, was finally shining through. This would be the Valhallan’s final stand. Zhukov grinned at the thought, ready to fight and die for the Imperium, gaining glory in the eyes of his forbears. He readied his men for battle and awaited the assault force.
As Zhukov and his men readied to charge the Ork lines, they waited for the main force to catch up to them before the attack commenced. The din of heavy bolter and shootas rang out in the night, a veritable cacophony of gunfire and screams. As Zhukov ordered his men to rise up from the trenches, he looked back toward his Imperial reinforcements and his heart sank. Crawling resolutely toward his trench from behind his line, Zhukov saw mighty Imperial war machines, re-painted with Chaos colors and hung with traitorous embellishments. Beside them, Chaos Space Marines strode alongside his commander’s command squad, the lot of them firing at the Orks. Zhukov stood bewildered, unable to fathom what he was seeing. His jaw dropped in horror at the sight before him – his fellow guardsmen turned had traitor and were working with Chaos forces.
The young Lieutenant abruptly snapped out of his state when the mighty Waaaaagh! of a charging Ork mob came upon him and his men. Greenskins charged into the lines, leaping with reckless abandon into the trenches, choppas high overhead as they smashed into the Imperial column. Zhukhov and his men fired point blank down the trench corridors, blasting their way through their attackers. The air was thick with smoke and the smells of gore and burnt flesh. The battle raged on all night and all day, the ashes and smoke blocking out the sun. In the end, the Orks were broken and defeated. The small Imperial post at Terosa was but a shattered remnant of what it once was, yet it endured. Their new Chaos masters had departed back to their Battlecruiser, sated with their new unholy alliance.
Zhukov and his men, covered in blood, reported to the command headquarters as instructed to debrief the commander. As they walked through the main depot, the guardsmen stared wide-eyed at the vehicles in the motor pool, sporting the colors of the Iron Warrior Cobalt Legion. Fellow guardsmen continued to work on the vehicles, their faces ashen at the turn of events, but most happy just to be alive. The depot was lined with hundreds of corpses, the infirmary tent teeming with screaming guardsmen who would likely join them soon. Zhukov stared ahead intently on the command tend, striding ahead. The tension in the courtyard was palpable.
Zhukov flipped open the door to the tent and entered alone, his first sergeant remaining outside with the rest of his men. Looking around cautiously, the sergeant noted that the colours of the the 406th had been taken down and replaced with Cobalt Legion heraldry. He swore to himself and bit his lip in disgust. Slowly, guardsmen started emerging from tents and between vehicles, all eyes on Zhukov’s men. Another sergeant emerged from the armory, a Cobalt-coloured sash around his waist. He unslung his Las-rifle slowly and let it hang at his side, casually flicking the safety off as Zhukov’s first sergeant stared at him.
The commander sat at a large desk looking over a map, his executive officer standing beside him, the nub of a cigar clenched between yellowed teeth. The grizzled commander looked up grimly and sighed, knowing that Zhukov would demand some kind of explanation. He was working on the right way to explain that this alliance was the only way to prevent the annihilation of the 406th, that it was better to live to fight another day. Zhukov strode coolly before his commander, drew his las-pistol, and shot the old man in the face three times. The commander dropped like a ragdoll, wisps of smoke where he had once stood trailing from the scorched holes in his face. The XO stood abruptly, drawing his pistol. Zhukov rushed the man, grappling with him as the two fought to gain the upper hand. The two wrestled mightily, falling on the floor together, their pistols skittering across the floor. The XO lost the advantage and soon found Zhukov straddling him, punching him in the face as he fought to fend off the attack. The XO finally found Zhukov’s neck, choking him hard, his nails digging deeply into the Lieutenant’s neck. Zhukov pounded the XO in the face again and again, breaking his nose and several teeth as his face became an unrecognizable, bloody mess. As the XO’s grip relaxed, Zhukov leaned back abruptly, withdrew his combat dagger from his boot, and jabbed it forward quickly, shoving it in just past the man’s chin, up through his beard, through his mouth and tongue, all the way to the hilt. The XO flailed uncontrollably for a few seconds, his eyes rolling back in his head as he screamed through his clenched teeth, blood gurgling from his nose and lips. Zhukov held the man down until he moved no more, finally standing, out of breath as the XO’s blood pooled around his head and shoulders.
Emerging from the tent wild-eyed and with his dripping combat blade still in hand, Zhukov addressed the men. “The Commander and XO were traitors to the Imperium and have been relieved of duty. I am assuming command of the 406th effective immediately. Any man who wishes to affirm their loyalty to the Emperor and regiment, remove your traitor colours and stand with me.” Without pause, every man wearing Cobalt colors removed them and cast them down, taking stance in Imperial formation. All but one. The sergeant continued to eye Zhukov’s first sergeant, his Cobalt sash still tied around his waist. In an instant, the sergeant raised his Las-Rifle toward Zhukov to fire. At the same time, the first sergeant drew two bolt pistols and fired shot after shot, 10mm armor piercing rounds shattering the traitorous guardsman’s ribcage and skull as he slumped to the ground, a pile of raw meat. Zhukov nodded with approval as the first sergeant looked around, scouting for any other would-be challengers. Satisfied that there were none, he wiped his blade clean, slipped it back into its scabbard, and called out “let’s get to work!”
In the dark of night, as Zhukov stared across the battle lines through the smoke of the no-man’s land, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, a faint crackling came over the voxcaster. Zhukov’s commander was announcing a counter-offensive against the green skins. The young lieutenant knew that the day of reckoning was finally at hand. His commander, whose courage he had privately questioned on many occasions, was finally shining through. This would be the Valhallan’s final stand. Zhukov grinned at the thought, ready to fight and die for the Imperium, gaining glory in the eyes of his forbears. He readied his men for battle and awaited the assault force.
As Zhukov and his men readied to charge the Ork lines, they waited for the main force to catch up to them before the attack commenced. The din of heavy bolter and shootas rang out in the night, a veritable cacophony of gunfire and screams. As Zhukov ordered his men to rise up from the trenches, he looked back toward his Imperial reinforcements and his heart sank. Crawling resolutely toward his trench from behind his line, Zhukov saw mighty Imperial war machines, re-painted with Chaos colors and hung with traitorous embellishments. Beside them, Chaos Space Marines strode alongside his commander’s command squad, the lot of them firing at the Orks. Zhukov stood bewildered, unable to fathom what he was seeing. His jaw dropped in horror at the sight before him – his fellow guardsmen turned had traitor and were working with Chaos forces.
The young Lieutenant abruptly snapped out of his state when the mighty Waaaaagh! of a charging Ork mob came upon him and his men. Greenskins charged into the lines, leaping with reckless abandon into the trenches, choppas high overhead as they smashed into the Imperial column. Zhukhov and his men fired point blank down the trench corridors, blasting their way through their attackers. The air was thick with smoke and the smells of gore and burnt flesh. The battle raged on all night and all day, the ashes and smoke blocking out the sun. In the end, the Orks were broken and defeated. The small Imperial post at Terosa was but a shattered remnant of what it once was, yet it endured. Their new Chaos masters had departed back to their Battlecruiser, sated with their new unholy alliance.
Zhukov and his men, covered in blood, reported to the command headquarters as instructed to debrief the commander. As they walked through the main depot, the guardsmen stared wide-eyed at the vehicles in the motor pool, sporting the colors of the Iron Warrior Cobalt Legion. Fellow guardsmen continued to work on the vehicles, their faces ashen at the turn of events, but most happy just to be alive. The depot was lined with hundreds of corpses, the infirmary tent teeming with screaming guardsmen who would likely join them soon. Zhukov stared ahead intently on the command tend, striding ahead. The tension in the courtyard was palpable.
Zhukov flipped open the door to the tent and entered alone, his first sergeant remaining outside with the rest of his men. Looking around cautiously, the sergeant noted that the colours of the the 406th had been taken down and replaced with Cobalt Legion heraldry. He swore to himself and bit his lip in disgust. Slowly, guardsmen started emerging from tents and between vehicles, all eyes on Zhukov’s men. Another sergeant emerged from the armory, a Cobalt-coloured sash around his waist. He unslung his Las-rifle slowly and let it hang at his side, casually flicking the safety off as Zhukov’s first sergeant stared at him.
The commander sat at a large desk looking over a map, his executive officer standing beside him, the nub of a cigar clenched between yellowed teeth. The grizzled commander looked up grimly and sighed, knowing that Zhukov would demand some kind of explanation. He was working on the right way to explain that this alliance was the only way to prevent the annihilation of the 406th, that it was better to live to fight another day. Zhukov strode coolly before his commander, drew his las-pistol, and shot the old man in the face three times. The commander dropped like a ragdoll, wisps of smoke where he had once stood trailing from the scorched holes in his face. The XO stood abruptly, drawing his pistol. Zhukov rushed the man, grappling with him as the two fought to gain the upper hand. The two wrestled mightily, falling on the floor together, their pistols skittering across the floor. The XO lost the advantage and soon found Zhukov straddling him, punching him in the face as he fought to fend off the attack. The XO finally found Zhukov’s neck, choking him hard, his nails digging deeply into the Lieutenant’s neck. Zhukov pounded the XO in the face again and again, breaking his nose and several teeth as his face became an unrecognizable, bloody mess. As the XO’s grip relaxed, Zhukov leaned back abruptly, withdrew his combat dagger from his boot, and jabbed it forward quickly, shoving it in just past the man’s chin, up through his beard, through his mouth and tongue, all the way to the hilt. The XO flailed uncontrollably for a few seconds, his eyes rolling back in his head as he screamed through his clenched teeth, blood gurgling from his nose and lips. Zhukov held the man down until he moved no more, finally standing, out of breath as the XO’s blood pooled around his head and shoulders.
Emerging from the tent wild-eyed and with his dripping combat blade still in hand, Zhukov addressed the men. “The Commander and XO were traitors to the Imperium and have been relieved of duty. I am assuming command of the 406th effective immediately. Any man who wishes to affirm their loyalty to the Emperor and regiment, remove your traitor colours and stand with me.” Without pause, every man wearing Cobalt colors removed them and cast them down, taking stance in Imperial formation. All but one. The sergeant continued to eye Zhukov’s first sergeant, his Cobalt sash still tied around his waist. In an instant, the sergeant raised his Las-Rifle toward Zhukov to fire. At the same time, the first sergeant drew two bolt pistols and fired shot after shot, 10mm armor piercing rounds shattering the traitorous guardsman’s ribcage and skull as he slumped to the ground, a pile of raw meat. Zhukov nodded with approval as the first sergeant looked around, scouting for any other would-be challengers. Satisfied that there were none, he wiped his blade clean, slipped it back into its scabbard, and called out “let’s get to work!”
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