#machine gun emplacement

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“FRENCH COLONIALS FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,” Montreal Gazette. August 8, 1942. Page 14. ---- Fighting France Photo. ---- Under the command of General de Larminat and General Koenig, of Bir Hacheim fame, a Fighting French Brigade on service in the Middle East comprises Foreign Legion, French Colonial troops and other units. Here is a machine gun post in the forward part of the line manned by colonial troops reported to be among the most courageous of fighters.

[ross-hollander]

An insightful engineer once said...

...that there are exactly five archetypes of custom 'mechs in the galaxy, and every new and novel design falls under at least one of them:

The You Are In My Way and I Have The Money To Alter That, the over-armored monstrosities decked out in more firepower than both sides of the FedCom Civil War put together and with so much extra gear tacked on that Theseus might ask "hey, are you sure that's my 'mech?"

The You Can't Hit What Isn't there, the latest in the extremely long line of attempts to create a dodge-based 'mech, about half of which tend to circle back around to re-inventing battle armor because that's about as close as you can get.

The Ares Convention Violatinator 10,000, which would constitute an atrocity just by idling in the hangar (flamethrowers are practically a necessity).

The I'm Going To Make A Better Rifleman This Time Just You Watch, forever succumbing to the Rifleman Curse (which is that nobody can make a better Rifleman). You really can't improve on...well, mediocrity, at least.

The I Do Not Want To Pilot A BattleMech, the ones that are quite clearly an attempt to put legs on what is tactically an artillery piece, missile silo, fortified machine-gun emplacement or similar, wholly sans any consideration for what 'mechs are meant to do on the battlefield.

There are also the demi-archetypes of "Atlases Are Scary But This Is Scarier", the person trying to create an intimidation-based 'mech, and the "The Technicians Will Smack You After They Finish Reloading", also known as the "Itano Circus Ringmaster".

[that-house]

December 3rd, 2031 – Sixty degrees, clear skies, and a nice southeasterly breeze. It was a beautiful day to lay siege to Dallas. It was a good thing the weather was nice, because everything else about the operation looked rough. Marian couldn’t wait.

Dallas was a classic Texan fortress-city, two rings of forty foot tall concrete walls with a killing field in between, bristling with anti-aircraft cannon. The ground-facing defenses were a little less thorough, but a few machine guns would make quick work of any infantry charge and Dallas had more than a few machine guns.

“We aren’t being paid enough,” Suzy griped. She was crouching in the shade, alternatingly blowing a bubble of gum and taking swigs out of a bottle whose contents were hidden by a paper bag.

“We’re mercenaries. Get used to it.” Marian hoisted her gun onto her shoulder. “Besides, they don’t exactly expect us to succeed.”

“Oh, are we leading a suicide charge? I wasn’t paying attention to the Duke.” Suzy was never paying attention, but the benefits of having her around outweighed the drawbacks. Most days, at least.

“Pretty much.”

“Did the guys we’re with know this was a suicide charge?”

Marion looked around at the Jeep the Duke of Austin had hastily assigned the duo to. The soldiers suddenly all looked a bit green around the gills. “I’m guessing not. Chin up, boys! Auntie Marian won’t let any harm come to you.”

One of the men, a lieutenant, managed to find his voice. “Why are we here?”

“The Duke hopes that we’ll die loud enough that Dallas won’t notice his bombers taking out the emplaced guns. Doesn’t strike me as very sound tactics, but hey, he’s got manpower to make up for what he lacks in brains.”

Silence in the back of the Jeep.

Marian continued, mostly to fuck with them. “And don’t think the tanks’ll be any help. See those big fancy guns up on the wall? Those are lonestar guns. You boys seen lonestar guns?”

“Yeah.”

“So you get the idea. But hey, cheer up! It’s not every day you get to storm the best-defended city in the state!”

The man slowly came to a revelation a long time coming. “You’re insane,” he said.

“Insane was my father’s name. Please, call me Marian Typhoon.”

Suzy cackled. “That was terrible.”

The soldiers looked between the two women, now realizing they were both mad. “How are you two so calm?”

Marian didn’t answer for a moment, looking out at the slowly-approaching walls of Dallas. The lonestar guns’ targeting algorithms would start flagging the vehicles soon. “Suzy, how far out are we?”

“About a mile and a half.” Suzy busied herself checking over her rifle.

“Now, boys, I’m gonna explain two concepts very quickly, so you’d best pay attention. The KL-90 fully automatic sniper rifle, sometimes called “Le Papillon,” was something of a failure, because for some reason those glorious Frenchmen decided to make it fire 1200 rounds per minute, giving it a tendency to dump the entire mag into one poor fucker. Only six were ever made, and nowadays they’re just museum pieces. In 2026, the American military plunged into the deep end of bioweaponry and concocted a little something known as the ‘vampire virus,’ which proved pretty damn lethal in 99.99% of cases. The 0.01% that survived were problematic enough that the program shut down, and all information about it was expunged from the record.”

Marion patted Suzy affectionately on the head. “Now you might be wondering how those two disparate pieces of information might happen to overlap, and if you boys just sit pretty for a moment I reckon you’ll be able to connect the dots. Suzy?”

The last surviving vampire, Suzy Nines, slotted the magazine into her KL-90 fully automatic sniper rifle, and squinted out at the Dallas walls. She squeezed the trigger, the barrel swinging into a wild blur of motion as the sound of gunfire filled the air. “Machine gunners down. Reloading.”

Marian patted the hapless lieutenant on the shoulder. “Come along, boys. Auntie Marian’s got a city to take.”

[kremlin]

what did he mean self propelled gun vs tank ??

oh, yeah, so let me preface this by saying that the whole "what is and isn't a tank" is somewhat of a meme in the same very annoying vein as "is a hamburger a sandwich". especially so because the army is doing something very silly i'll talk about later.

what is and is not a tank really doesn't really matter to someone who isn't really into tanks and the annoyance comes from all the tiny odd details the differentiate them. the following completely different vehicles could all be mistaken for the same thing:

light/medium/heavy tank

main battle tank

infantry fighting vehicle

tank destroyer

armored personnel carrier

self propelled gun

self propelled howitzer

the vehicle i mentioned, the taran, looks exactly like a tank.

but it isn't. it's exactly as described, a self propelled gun, a gun that you don't have to tow around on a truck or something. it's meant to shoot tanks in an ambush situation or more likely just blast down emplacements from a safe distance

it doesn't have any armor. it has enough to stop stray .50 cals fired from afar, but nothing more, and this isn't a dealbreaker, nobody said tanks have to be armored, the modern type 10 (japan's latest+greatest tank) is famously unarmored due to the fact the efficacy of tank ammunition has rapidly outpaced armor's efficacy in modern times. not a dealbreaker, but not exactly supportive of "being a tank".

the more relevant fact here is the enormous goddamn gun. 153mm, not that bore diameter is the be-all-end-all, but its good for rough estimations. especially in this case. 150ish mm is as big as they go. that is way bigger than any tank today, that is around where only the largest artillery sits. but not all 150mm's are made the same, and brother, this one is nuts. look how friggen long the barrel is. that mofo would be so hard to maneuver around. and the ammo suits it, it's dual-component, meaning you load in the warhead first and then the (perhaps multiple to adjust for range) propellant rounds behind it. and the HE shells for the taran were something like over 80lbs individually. the single loader's job sucked ass, and this type of configuration does not make for an effective tank. fine for a SPG though.

the thing that stands out to me is the lack of machine gun. tanks need MGs. no pintle mounted .50 cal, no coaxial .30 cal, nothing. if it was there, it would never have anything to shoot. unlike a tank. and the precious interior space in the hull and turret is occupied by the enormously sized main gun ammo.

[mesetacadre]

The makeup of every International Brigade

XI Brigade: Battalions Edgar André (German), Paris Commune (Franco-Belgian), Dombrovski (Polish-Balkan & Paraguayan), formed in late October 1936, and first experienced combat the 8th of November

XII Brigade: Battalions Garibaldi (Italian), André Marty (Franco-Belgian), Thaelmann (German). Formed in early November, 1936, and first experienced combat the 13th of November (other sources say it was the 9th of November)

XIII Brigade: Battalions Chapaiev (Balkan), Mickiewicz (Polish, Jews, and a few dozen survivors from Makhno's army), Henri Guellemin (Franco-Belgian). Formed between December 1936 and January 1937, and first experienced combat in mid-late January.

XIV Brigade: Henry Barbuse (French), Ralph Fox (Franco-British), Domingo Germinal (Spanish anarchists), Number 9 or 9 Nations (Multinational, including Spaniards). Formed between December 1936 and January 1937, and first experienced combat in mid-late January.

XV Brigade: Lincoln (US Americans, Canadians, Cubans, Argentinians, and the Connolly Column, made up of a few Irishmen), Dimitrov (Yugoslavs and Bulgarians), February 6th (Franco-Belgian), British (British and Irish), Voluntario 24 (Spaniards). Formed between December 1936 and January 1937, and first experienced combat in mid-late January.

129th Brigade: Dimitrov (Balkans), Massaryk (Czechoslovaks), Djakiquiek (Yugoslavs and Bulgarians). Formed in late 1937

150th Brigade: Dombrovski (Polish), André Marty (Franco-Belgian), Rakosi (Polish-Hungarian). Formed between June and July of 1937

The 86th Spanish Brigade also had an international battalion within it

These are just how each Brigade was formed. As the war progressed, losses were suffered and battalions had to be recomposed, newer battalions were created and existing ones shifted around. The battalion compositions are somewhat simplified, because they were extremely heterogeneous, as 52 nationalities heeded the call of the Third International. For example, there was a Swedish core within the Thaelmann Battalion in charge of the machine gun emplacements.

The Brigades were, generally, composed of three battalions each, made up of a single nationality, or ones with similar languages, to ease communication. Each battalion had three riflemen companies and 1 machine gun company. Aside from the military leader, each battalion also had a commissar in charge of the brigadiers' political education and morale, in many cases leading charges by rallying demoralized brigadiers. Instruction generally lasted between three weeks and two months, although in the first year of the war, in the case of the XI and XII Brigades especially, it had to be rushed. Quite often due to shortages, instruction had to be done without actual weapons.

[cast-you-dxwn]

For the first time in countless millennia, smoke rises against the skyline of the City of God.

Not the wispy white that would normally rise this day, from pyres in honor of the parentage of Mother Mary. It is thick, black, flattening against the stratosphere into foreboding clouds that cast long shadows upon the realm, plunging entire districts into dim twilight.

For the first time since the Fall, Heaven burns.

The normally peaceful streets sound with chaos, shrill screams, the rumble of explosions, the sharp staccato of gunfire. Tracers scythe into the sky, criss-crossing the streets, street to street and building to building. The Council District has been abandoned, but still pockets of resistance flare within the most ancient buildings that served as the seats of the Holy Realms governance.

A perimeter has been established, in accordance with plans set forth long before any of those who man it were born. A wall of iron and angelic steel, but meant to protect the Council district from outward threat, never those from within. Defensive Line Alpha, where the mortal soldiers of Legio Mortalis 778 hold the line.

Checkpoint Theta, a hastily constructed barricade on 3rd street, on the intersection where the Council District melts into the Commercial District. Four Contubernium stationed at this foothold, a dam against the flood. Thirty-two men and women to hold the line.

————

“GET SOME! FUCKING GET SOME!”

Legionnaire Salterns strained voice can scarcely be heard over the deafening booms of his weapon, the Model 19 heavy machine gun behind the checkpoints barricade throwing out a steady, withering stream of fire. Empty shell casings already form a brass carpet around Albert’s feet, and the rounds tear into the street, into buildings, massive chunks of gold and marble flung into the air and pulverized into dust.

Its primary effect is keeping the advancing Exorcists from doing so any further, suppressing them, forcing them into cover in alleyways, behind cars, giving the rest of the checkpoint time to set up their firing positions. That said, the effect it has when some unlucky heretic is caught out in the open is no less spectacular. One particularly brave Exorcist catches the 12.7x108mm SMRB round directly through her chestplate, throwing her to the ground, dead even before the mass-reactive charge detonates, bursting her torso and riddling the street with golden blood and chunks of flesh.

“AIN’T SO FUN WHEN THEY FIGHT BACK? HUH? COME AND GET SOME, YOU SKINNY BITCHES! IVE GOT FUCKING PLENTY- FUCK!”

His tirade is cut as a round catches him full in the stomach between his plates, twisting him sideways and stumbling off of the small raised platform that holds the gun emplacement. He hits the ground hard, the golden cobblestones and unrelenting spot to land, turning onto his side and pressing both hands to the wound, hoping to stanch the flow of ichor that now seeps through the gaps in his fingers.

“Shit- fucking…AGH! SOMEONE GET ON THAT GOD-DAMNED M.G!” He cries out, kicking a booted foot towards the now-vacant emplacement, his hands too preoccupied with holding his guts in to gesture properly as the Exorcists begin to advance without the threat of the heavy weapon.

——————

“Medic! Attend to Saltern!”

Decanus Von Licht’s voice, ever calm and collected, cuts through the chaos of the battlefield even as the rest of the checkpoints garrison sets up at the barricade, taking cover, their rifles chattering in unison bursts as they do their level best to maintain their hold on their position. Alistair does not bother to confirm his order, he knows that it has been received, and so he turns his attention elsewhere.

His gaze lands upon another, Legionnaire Kyrkos, currently squatting over the constituent pieces of a Model 98 mortar, the technical journal open by one of her feet, yanking with all of her might on the release mechanism of the weapons stability bracer.

“Adalia!” Alistair barks, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the barricade before returning his attention to the woman before him. “I kindly ask you what is prohibiting you from getting our mortar emplacement operational!”

Kyrkos flinches, looking up at the Decanus, then back down at the manual, her hands shaking as she stammers out. “I-I don’t know sir! The retaining pin is stuck, and the sighting mechanism won’t depress any further!”

The Decanus makes a displeased grunt, and seems to move to speak, before he is interrupted by a pair of black-clad figures dropping from the sky upon him. He is barely able to draw his blade in time to parry a strike meant to take his head from his shoulders from one, striking out with a boot into the stomach of the second, forcing her back to give himself room to breathe.

“Exorcists, within the perimeter! We are in danger of being overrun!” He calls out, gripping the hilt of his blade in two hands, his movements fluid and quick, fending off the assault from the two masked angels as best he can.

But though he is not overcome, he is being pushed back, forced to give ground.

——————

“Oh shit, oh, fuck-“

Legionnaire Kyrkos mutters under her breath as the Decanus is forced away by a pair of exorcists, her gaze flickering between the fight and the technical manual at her feet. She thinks to rise and assist Alistair, but her orders are to return the mortar to working order at all costs. She knows what she must do. She turns her full attention to the manual.

“Subsection 13.6.2-A, field maintenance- I wouldn’t have to fucking DO field maintenance if the Fabricators actually did their jobs, sons of bitches-“

Her personal tirade is interrupted by the force of a body hitting her from above. The force knocks her onto her back, keenly aware of the new weight pressing upon her chest plate as she stares up into the grinning, L.E.D visage of an exorcist perched upon her supine form.

Adalia curses, her hand moving to her hip, hoping to reach her sidearm, but a heeled boot comes down upon her wrist, and she barely has time to react as the Trueborn warrior moves to plunge her spear downward. Adalia’s free hand snaps up, armored fingers catching the haft of the spear and halting the cruel steel tip only a few inches away from her unhelmeted face.

“Your boots are fucking tacky.” She hisses, as the servos in her armor whirr louder and louder the longer and harder the Exorcist presses downward, the two both straining for supremacy as the battle rages around them.

—————

The line is in danger of collapsing. Giving ground to the Insurrectionists may be the only option. But here, and now, the Loyalist soldiers of Checkpoint Theta are in grave danger of being overrun.

[samspicturesandwords]

In school we would learn about the heroics of Canadian soldiers in the first world war, and every story in our textbooks was like:

"The Germans held the small town of Notre Dame d'Alsace Champignon, but the Canadian soldiers knew it by a more descriptive knickname: Mudhole Farm. This was due to the terrain being drenched in four feet of viscous slop, as is European tradition. The Germans needed to hold the farm, as it lay beside a road that transported vital barley rations to the front lines.

On April fifth of 1917, Rear Admiral Sir John Chelmsford Angelsy ordered his troops to rush headfirst into the Germans' seven machine gun emplacements.

The men were granted an extra ration of sawdust, and their full bellies seemed to dull the aches caused by trenchfoot. Low on ammunition, and having discovered the hard way that compressed pellets of fleas were not a viable substiute for bullets, they would need to rely on their bayonettes.

As they charged through the waist-deep mud, the Canadians feared the bites of the large rats floating alongside them just as much as the tens of thousands of bullets raining upon their loose formation.

The Canadians suffered 86,000 losses, approximately one third of which were caused by poorly-aimed artillery from their own side, but as the sun set, Mudhole Farm was firmly under Commonwealth control. It would remain that way for nearly 36 hours, until a German counteroffensive killed 7,400 more Canadians and recaptured the site. In spite of this, and despite the fact that it turned out the German barley reserves had actually been travelling by a different road, the Battle of Mudhole Farm remians an enduring example of Canadians' heroism".

(My point is that it was a really stupid war).

[jhlcolorizing]

Early on November 30, 1939, the USSR launched a massive attack against Finland, the Winter War had started. Soviet planners assumed an easy victory. Stalin planned to capture Helsinki within two weeks.

Interview by Pekka Tiilikainen, a radio broadcaster :

"The Russians tried to attack, but were bloodily beaten back. Some of the enemy were able to advance in the gloom right up to the machine-gun emplacement, but a merciless hail of bullets beat the Ivans back. The first attack was repulsed… and the cradle of Karelia drank up the blood of the enemy. The snowdrifts were painted red."

A Finnish soldier passing rows of dead Soviet troops after the destruction of the Western Lemetti motti, February 2, 1940. •••••••• Aamulla 30. marraskuuta 1939 Neuvostoliitto käynnisti hyökkäyksen Suomeen koko itärajan pituudelta, talvisota oli alkanut. Neuvostoliiton tavoitteena oli lyödä suomalaiset nopeasti ja Stalin uskoi valloittavansa Helsingin kahdessa viikossa.

Radiokuuluttaja Pekka Tiilikaisen haastattelu :

"Ryssät koettivat hyökät��, mutta lyötiin verisesti takaisin. Osa vihollisista onnistui etenemään hämärässä ihan konekivääripesäkkeille saakka, mutta armoton kuulasade löi iivanat takaisin. Ensimmäinen hyökkäys torjuttiin… ja Karjalan kunnaat imivät vihollisverta. Kinokset oli värjäytyneet punaiseksi."

Suomalainen sotilas ohittamassa neuvostojoukkojen ruumiskasoja Länsi-Lemetin motin tuhoamisen jälkeen, 2.2.1940. ••••••••

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Soldiers From Winnipeg Sent to Western Penitentiaries,” Winnipeg Tribune. November 9, 1932. Page 3. ---- PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE ONLY, AUTHORITIES SAY --- Detachments Leave For Stony Mountain and Prince Albert -- OTTAWA ORDERS SECRET MOVEMENT OF TROOPS --- No Trouble Exists at Either Institution, Prison Officials Declare. --- Two detachments of infantry from the permanent forces stationed at Tuxedo barracks left Winnipeg on Tuesday night for Stony Mountain and Prince Albert penitentiaries. Authorities will give no details of the movement beyond stating it is a ‘precautionary measure.’

Orders for the move came from the department of national defence at Ottawa and were kept secret except from the officers and men concerned. No information about the matter could be obtained from headquarters of Military District 10, which includes all troops here. It is known that the men drafted for duty at the penitentiary were armed both rifles and machine guns.

Prison officials are equally silent about the matter beyond insisting that no trouble has yet occurred at either institution, But it is believed the soldiers will be kept on guard duty until such time as there seems no likelihood of further rioting, such as has occurred recently in the penitentiaries at Portsmouth, Ont., and St. Vincent de Paul, Que.

Authorities have discovered that prisoners in the western institutions somehow heard about the riots in the east and this was one of the reasons extra precautions to be taken.

There have been no rumors of disorder brewing at Stony Mountain, but a prisoner recently released from Prince Albert penitentiary told a newspaperman that the place was a ‘hotbed of discontent.’ Prison officials admit the penitentiary is overcrowded but deny there is any cause for alarm about riots.

Troops Arrive At Prince Albert (BY Canadian Press) OTTAWA, Nov. 9. – The troops from the Winnipeg garrison who were last night to Prince Albert as a precautionary measure against any possible outbreak in the penitentiary arrived at their destination, according to officials of the department of national defence.

Reports that other troops had been sent to Stony Mountain penitentiary in Manitoba were not confirmed, beyond the force sent to the Saskatchewan institution, no soldiers had been despatched elsewhere, officials said.

[the-abyssal-lord]

The Sundering of Stones

Summary: The Abyss Chasers warband invade an inconsequential mining world for a forgotten artifact. Introductory to major characters.

CW: extreme violence, as you would expect from the universe of Warhammer 40,000

++

It was the thundering cracks of artillery-fire that awoke Zech, his body giving under his own weight and sliding from the standing position he had drifted in, landing in the upturned earth and wretched mud of the narrow trench. Blearily he struggled in the mulch and rose to his feet. While he canted his head left and right to re-acquire his lasgun, his wake-deafened ears were already picking up the shouting of his fellow squadmate Herren.

“…Come on… Zech! Come on! The line is moving ahead, the barrage cleared a path!”

Zech groaned, slinging his weapon over his shoulder and started to trudge behind Herren. The pair made their way through the trench, ducking under haphazard beams and supports that criss-crossed throughout the squalid divet in the dirt. They passed a few others that fell in with them, sensing the intent. The air felt hot and cold at the same time to Zech, as he blinked away the last of his impromptu doze. Finally the assembled squad reached the semi-circular clearing where makeshift ladders rose to disappear over the edge of the trench. Lasguns and stubbers were checked, and the group clambered up.

Herren was first, and he was the first to be reduced to a smoking, molten husk as a burst of white-hot plasmic energy collided with what little armour he had. The charred chunks falling away off the ladder. Zech cursed as he waved behind himself, signaling the others to get off the ladder as fast as they could. It was too late.

Zech saw the man behind him pulled off the ladder like a child’s doll, and then torn in two by armoured hands, the others in similar states, strewn about the mud of the clearing. The figure that had committed the man’s murder was a towering, nightmarish giant. Black armour twisted into something horrific, growths of bone and flesh mixing with metal. Burning violet lenses met Zech’s eyes, and then the giant’s hand reached.

++

All was still in the void, the carnage on the planet below might have seemed like flickers of a distant fire, and in the blackness there was a spark of its own. The small mote then quickly grew, ripping its way across like a baleful grin. Incorporeal spirit-things lashed tendrils and tried to bite down with great teeth upon the vessel that emerged from the warp translation. It seemed to stretch impossibly for a moment before its entirety touched real-space and almost snapped back to its true shape.

A great ship, once, long ago, one could have identified it as an Imperial strike cruiser. Now it appeared twisted and marred by the very energies it had just departed from. The warp-rift closed behind the ship, and it slowly adjusted itself to fall into orbit above the war-torn planet.

With the light of the planet’s sun glinting off the side of the cruiser, its wicked form was clearer. Bristling with gun-batteries and modified over centuries of conflict, it hung as a monument to the great and terrible conflict of the Long War. The Echo of Ecstasy would send a message to the small collection of guarding ships that orbited between the planet and its moons.

Quickly the other ships belonging to the dread forces invading the world fell in line with the larger, and in a spearhead formation they lit thrusters to approach the emplaced enemy.

The emptiness was alight with fire in the next moment, long range batteries thundering from the Imperial fleet. The dark forces met in kind with lance cannons, void shields of each collection illuminating the hulls with colours akin to an oil-splash.

Within the bridge of the flagship the mistress of the vessel shot orders to the twisted crew, her body shunted into the command-throne with countless cables. As her voice rang out, her cybernetic enhanced mind interfaced with the bloodthirsty machine-spirit of the ship. Like a caged beast and likely teetering the line of possession, he growled in her thoughts for carnage and destruction. Again, this time strained, more of her orders were bellowed to the wretched deck-slaves.

Her name was Cecilia. Captain Cecilia Varo. Once the ship-mistress of an Imperial frigate under the Navis Nobilite, she now served this vile warband. Along with her was the Navigator of her former post, who was likely even further gone than she.

“Begin maneouvre to bring our broadside to bear!” Cecilia shouted, wincing as the neural feedback of the machine-spirit roared.

Like the ocean predators of ancient Terra, the Chaos fleet turned to their sides, circling around the embattled Imperials, and let loose the hellfire of their main cannons.

The great mag-lock doors of the bridge hissed open. Captain Cecilia heard it but was too preoccupied with the barrage against the weakening shields. She felt a trickle of blood from her lip, she must have been grimacing too hard. What followed the bridge doors opening was the immensely heavy clang of footsteps.

“All is well… Captain?” A voice said from just out of her periphery. A voice that was almost too low to be human, ragged and corrupt, the words rumbling out halfway between a hiss and a growl.

She recognized it immediately, of course. She replied, “of course, my lord. They cannot hold for much longer. Augurs estimate their void shields will last mere moments further.”

The figure looming behind her command-throne gave a grunt of approval. The closest she has ever gotten to praise from the true master of the ship.

“See to it. My brothers and I await the turmoil below. We cannot embark until those ships are eliminated,” the voice said.

She nodded, cabling extending from the back of her head, snaking out from under her hair, shaking along with the movement. The figure then moved to the side, stepping towards the guard-rail of the helm.

Many in the Imperium had heard the tales of the Emperor’s angels of death. Legends and glories of the gene-wrought ideal warriors that descended upon worlds to bring ruin to His enemies. Few had ever actually seen one. Fewer still have spoken to one. Captain Cecilia would never have expected to encounter such a being, and she surely never would have known it to be one not serving the Emperor.

The Astartes standing only a few metres from her was clad in black armour, the jagged edges corrupt and damaged from centuries of war and the touch of the warp. A single pauldron, the right, was a deep and faded purple, the insignia upon the great pauldron, a curled, clawed hand of white. His towering form hunched slightly from the great jump-pack that seemed fused to the rest of his war-plate. Just as the bare flesh of his neck seemed to melt away into the mechanics. In place of natural legs he seemed to have cybernetic replacements, terminating in claw machine-feet like that of a bird of prey. His head turned just enough for him to side-eye the ship-mistress.

Once his features might have been described as handsome, long white hair, shaved to his pale skin around the sides and back, billowing over one side. Half his face seemed like that of one subject to burns, both sagging and pulled in areas, little corruptions of the flesh. His good eye, his left eye, was a bold violet. Glimmering with sadistic cunning.

“You seem distressed, captain.” The Chaos marine said plainly.

Cecilia furrowed her brow, eyes darting, observing both her Lord, and the battle playing out.

“It shan’t be long… Now!” She exclaimed.

The enemy shields had finally given, shimmering across the ships and blinking out. The Chaos fleet unleashed another barrage, hammering into the hulls of the Imperial fleet. Some vessels were torn apart in the flurry, others began to turn and flee as fast as their engines would take them. The Astartes face pulled into a grin.

++

Thrusters roared as the Thunderhawk gunship broke into the atmosphere of the war-torn planet. Flak bursts only enhancing the turbulence. Its hull was black as the rest of the vessels belonging to this warband, little dashes of faded purple on the wings. A banking turn and it rocketed lower.

Cresting one of the foothills of the region it landed not too far from where the dirge of battle could be heard, a trench-line broken mere days before, and yet the Imperials didn’t abandon it. The landing ramp lowered, hydraulics hissing as it thudded into the damp earth. Following it was the clamour of massive boots.

A squad of five heretic Astartes stepped onto the planet’s surface. A few surveying their immediate surroundings. Final to emerge was the hunched form of their leader. His hair beginning to whip against the wind.

He flexed his left hand, which had long since been encased in the mechanical casing of a lightning claw. The bladed ends of the fingers sliding over one another.

“Isn’t this a wretched rock… Get moving, we must make for the fire-base, quick as possible,” he ordered his battle-brothers.

The other Chaos marines began to trudge on. First was a brutish creature who seemed to twitch slightly in any moment of idling. The sides of his helm soaring up in the manner of those that served the Blood God. A massive chainaxe was mag-locked to his power-pack. In place of the purple arms that uniformed the small team, he retained the crimson of his former allegiance.

Second was a hooded Astartes, using a great metal staff like a walking stick. His features hidden away despite the gloom not being so immense that it would shadow his face entirely.

Third, an Astartes carrying an impressive bolter that seemed modified for long range engagements. Unlike the others with him, his armour was seemingly untouched by the ravages of the Empyrean. Small serpentine scale patterns etched into his greaves and bracers.

Fourth, a bare-headed marine with wild features, greying, black hair left loose and unkempt, with an equally in disarray beard that brushed over the gorget of his war-plate.

And finally, fifth; an Astartes with the trappings of an Apothecary, though it was rare to see among the forces of Chaos. Small dashes of white standing out against the black armour. Implements upon his bracer and cresting his power-pack.

This squad marched up and over the hill in a loose formation, a mere shadow of the discipline shown by their Imperial counterparts.

The silent march was broken after a few moments by the wild-looking brother, “what was this world called again?” He inquired of the hooded marine.

“Emancha V. Not near our usual haunts but ‘twould seem that our Lord has interests here,” he answered.

The bearded one huffed. “I see. Has he graced us with… what exactly that would be?”

“A relic,” the marine with the stalker bolter replied. “Something belonging to his old Legion.”

“When did they ever come here? It seems hardly the place I’d catch them visiting,” the wild one said.

The serpentine marine shrugged. “Matters little. I’d assume we’ll know more when we reach the rest of our forces.”

The squad continued on, eyes and helm optics trained for any surprise movements from their surroundings. After quite the trek, seeing the blooms of light in the distance from the clash, they saw the edges of the Chaos line.

Countless of their mortal servants had made work of digging trenches of their own that weaved into pre-established ones recently captured. The Astartes saw pikes with bloodied corpses raised high and tattered banners with their claw emblem flapping away. Mutants and beastmen dragging dismembered bodies into hulking piles at the bases of the great war-banners. Looming over a great gathering of them was a dread machine, a Chaos knight, its mechanical head shifting slightly to the left and right, keeping watch.

The squad descended the hillside into the encampment. Their leader making the thrum of mortals bow heads and part like a tide. He approached the only thing that could be conceived of as a tent, the rest more like scraps hung over rusted metal beams.

At its entrance he stood, a curtain gently flowing against the wind.

“Emerge. We have much to discuss,” he said.

A bit of a rustle and from the tent came a mortal woman, long well-kept obsidian-black hair and traditionally beautiful features. She wore a robe the colours of the warband, with a mantle of armoured plates that donned the claw insignia upon one pauldron.

With a bow of her head, “my lord Silas. Welcome to the conflict.”

The Chaos Lord Silas Decurin hissed, “indeed, a conflict. Tell me, how did this start exactly? Emancha wasn’t supposed to have any Loyalist presence from what your gleanings entailed.”

The mortal witch, Lucina, met his gaze. “Simply put, they tracked us. This is no mere token force of the enemy, my lord. All reports seem to say an Inquisitor is leading this force. Even with the break of their fleet you achieved, more are on the way.”

Silas bristled with rage at the mention of the Imperial Inquisition. He knew full well there was only one of their numbers so keen on following his movements beyond the Eye.

“Speak this inquisitor’s name, Lucina.” He demanded.

Lucina dipped her head again, “Roslyn Jesenia.”

Lord Decurin barked a grim laugh, “as I suspected. I wonder if this planet has more to it than I thought, even she would not come to some useless rock just for me.”

He turned to his squad, “I suppose now marks a good time to explain why we came here.”

++

A short time later, the heretic Astartes departed the witch’s tent.

“Really? A daemon blade, here on this rock?” The feral-looking marine, Jormund Helsson, asked Lord Decurin.

Silas nodded, cabling and wires protruding from his head swaying with the motion, “Aye.”

The hooded sorcerer hummed in thought, “I haven’t sensed such a thing.”

“Perhaps ‘tis not a thing that can be sensed so easily, Vezeral.” The serpentine marine replied.

The Berzerker amongst them grunted, turning his helmeted head between his gathered fellows. “We seek it out then?”

Silas made a pointed look, “once we know more, Tyrax.”

Another dissatisfied grunt came from the blood-hungry marine.

The Chaos Lord then turned to another, “Naethar, have your augurs caught anything?”

The marine whose armour is marked by scales shakes his head, red helm optics scanning through countless displays of visual and auditory pickups. “Jamming. Interference, maybe. Could be the loyalists, could be something else.”

Silas lets out a ragged sigh, gesturing for the squad to follow him. They move through the lines back up of where the chaos witch Lucina’s tent lies, where there is a makeshift structure set-up a stone’s throw behind it for the Astartes. More a shack than anything, but it would serve well enough while the damned brothers organized their plans, and thoughts.

Within, the apothecary Celtrian works on the remains of some form of the local wildlife of the planet. He tilts his head up upon the entry of his team, before just as quickly returning to his study.

“We cannot afford to stay here for long, regardless of my desires. If the witch spoke true to us, and she knows the cost of lying, there are far more loyalists in transit to this heap,” Silas began, his eyes scanning the group.

“I do not know what the corpse-emperor’s inquisition is bringing to bear, but we do not have the full might of the Abyss Chasers with us here. A token force, even with a knight.”

The baleful squad goes over simplistic plans to reach behind the curtain of fire that the Imperials have emplaced. From what the reports show the force that has met the Chasers is merely an Astra Militarum detachment, re-routed from their original destination. Damn their eyes! Thought Silas. if it was not for the variable whimsy of the warp, they could have arrived at this pitiful world days earlier.

The chaos marines would need to go the long way around, for as glorious and damned as they are, even Astartes would not survive wading head-long into the dug-in firing lines of the Imperial Guard. More of their brothers aboard the Echo would also be eager to engage their hated foes. The plan was laid; the command squad would begin an advance around the edge of a nearby forest, the majority of which had been scoured away by the initial assaults. Under cover of the foliage, and the Echo of Ecstasy in orbit above launching drop-pods full of heretic Astartes, Silas and his men could reach the rearguard of the Imperials.

Silas grinned, and gods willing, find the Inquisitor.

++

Hours later, when the light of the planet’s sun had become a dim haze, the Abyss Chasers enacted their plan. On foot Lord Decurin and his squad broke for the tree-line, while the main force began a forward push towards the Imperial Guard lines. In orbit, the strike cruiser maneuvered to let loose drop-pods containing additional squads to reinforce the mortals. The warband was an eclectic mixture of the traitor Legions, and that versatility is what allowed them such strikes despite their small numbers. They were raiders above all, prolonged conflict was best left to the renegade mortals and mutants.

Silas and the squad watched on their brisk trek as spears of light careened into the trenches of the loyalist scum. They were just mortals, Silas mused. Barely worth the bolt shells. The chaos lord almost wished to face his loyalist cousins in a worthy fight, but he knew it was for the best that such things did not occur. Losing numbers in the name of vain glory was not on the agenda, not this time.

“These woods are sparse, and silent,” growled Jormund.

“Would you prefer we be beset upon by wretched rock-chippers? See how a rusted pickax stands up to your war-plate?” Teased Vezeral.

Jormund huffed, “just desiring more than a prowl with no prey.”

“Silence,” said Silas. “We still have a-ways to go till we reach the back-lines.”

The chatter halted at his order, and the chaos marines continued on.

It wasn’t much longer until they reached the next clearing. Just at the edge of sight was the mining complex in this region. A massive opening into the earth of the planet, lined with machinery of immense size. Emancha V was noted for its exportation of simple resources, granite and other materials for structural production. In the grand scheme of the Imperium, ultimately minor in importance. Which only made all the Astartes, Silas included, wonder why such a prized artifact would be interred here.

Tyrax was the first to charge into the lonesome trench that buffered the area between the mine entrance and the battle-lines. It was unlikely the guardsmen defending it, who were half-asleep at their posts, even had time to react. The Berzerker of the blood god tore them to pieces. Jormund, in his own rash fury, joined quickly after. In bloody moments the line was cleared. The command squad all looked towards the great shadowed entrance into the below. In the distance, chaos marines and cultist forces engaged the Imperial Guard. A backdrop of carnage for the chase to begin.

++

The descent was just as quiet as the forested trudge. Voids of darkness sparsely illuminated by hanging portable lumens at regular intervals. Of course the plunging blackness was nothing to the creatures that walked through it. Helm lenses cycled through displays of night-sight and heat detection, and gene-enhanced eyes pierced the gloom with ease. The heretic Astartes under Lord Decurin walked with purpose, as Naethar’s auspex already mapped out the winding corridors of the first 50 levels of the mine.

This scanning also revealed a chamber about 5 levels down that was the likely location of their target. The array revealed connections to the surface for communication, if anything it indicated where the leadership of the Guard was, and that was enough for now.

“Mapping concluded,” chimed Naethar.

Silas nodded, reaching to his belt to procure his own helm. He rarely wore it, but it was one of the few things not fused to his form through warp energies. With an airy hiss the helmet clicked into place, and the lenses flared to life as his display kicked in. Sure enough, the entire mine complex was laid out for the squad. Silas could see the room they were heading for pinged in particular with a secondary colouration.

“Keep formation close, watch all entries,” the chaos lord ordered.

The squad reached the area indicated in little time, following a great bite into the earth that wound down like a spiral. The level they reached was different, more constructed. Wrought metal walls and a large enough for their forms mag-lock door. Wasting no time Silas simply kicked it in with a cybernetically enhanced blow, and the Astartes funneled in.

A large hall, rail-tracks in the centre with a cart of stone slabs. It was at this sight that something clicked for Silas.

“By the dark gods. That’s what this is for!” He exclaimed, turning to the squad.

Naethar inclined his head, “aye my lord. The mapping made clear that the very base of this sprawling complex has a far older structure buried below. It almost appeared to be a ship, lanced into the planet’s crust, and then twisted and compressed over centuries of burial.”

Silas sneered, “the location of the relic. This warp-damned inquisitor discovered it as well.”

“Why would she seek it?” Vezeral interjected. “She serves the corpse-Emperor does she not? What use would an artifact of the gods be?”

“Many uses,” Silas said. “The false Emperor’s lackeys often seek to ‘confiscate’ objects of power to us. Either to destroy, or utilize for themselves.”

“A daemon blade? Wonder if she plans to hoist it and stab you, lord Decurin.” Tyrax poked.

Silas gave a smirk within his helm, “perhaps. Would be a sight, a fragile mortal attempting such a feat.”

The squad reached the doors to what the mapping said would be the room of interest. A keypad kept the entry locked, and in this case the chaos lord wanted a subtler approach. So Naethar went to work.

It didn’t take very long for the former Alpha Legionnaire to break the code of the door, and with a hiss it slid open. The room was grimly lit, a handful of lumens upon the walls. In the centre was a large hololithic display table, the graphics fizzing in and out of focus. On the far side stood three individuals, two were garbed in the finely made armour of the Tempestus Scions, stormtroopers of the Inquisition. The third in the middle was dressed darkly, a heavy tailed jacket hanging over a black armoured bodyglove, and a silver chain hanging around the neck, ending with the I-shaped emblem of the Emperor’s holy Inquisition.

“Lady Inquisitor Jesenia. It’s been some time,” Silas greeted.

The raven-haired Inquisitor glared at the chaos marine, leveling a stub revolver. “Traitor.”

“Come now,” Silas spoke with a sickly sweet tone. “You really expect that to harm us?”

She made no movement that Silas could detect, perhaps fear had gripped her soul?

“You know why we have come here. Give me the relic, and your death will be swift.”

The scions then raised their hellguns in tandem with the Inquisitor. Those posed a greater threat than the meekly pistol, but an enclosed space, six chaos marines against three mortals? It was a foolish gesture.

“Where. Is. The blade.” Silas snarled.

A door flew open behind Jesenia, she popped off a shot and made a break for it, the scions lighting up the gloom with red flashes from their hellguns. The troopers were dead in seconds, Tyrax and Jormund charging around the display table and eviscerating the mortals in gore-filled fashion. Silas roared in anger, pulling his plasma pistol and letting off a shot into the doorway, it hit the back wall in a sizzling bloom. A moment later a new figure filled the passage, standing as tall as the heretics, and aiming a bolter.

“Primaris!” Naethar shouted, quickly finding whatever cover he could.

The room filled with the bark of a Cawl-pattern bolt rifle, the traitors scrambling behind cogitator blocks that filled the room. Already the machinery was being blown apart, they had little time. Tyrax bellowed a cry and bull-rushed the Primaris, the loyalist had little time to react, pulling a combat knife. The former World Eater tackled the loyalist, snarling and screaming like a wild beast. The Primaris tried to find purchase with his combat knife but to no avail as Tyrax pinned one arm, with animalistic fervour he pulled, ripping the ribbed under-armour, and then the flesh, and finally tearing away the bone.

Jormund came from the other side, hiking his chainsword over his head and bringing it down, the rev of the teeth mixing with a grotesque gurgle and ripping sound as the corrupt wolf beheaded the loyalist.

The body slumped and went still, for all the enhancement of the new breed, two veterans of the Long War were still more than enough to take down a Primaris marine.

When the cacophony of fighting went quiet, Silas stalked to the bloodied corpse, and looked down. White armour, with an arm of royal purple. He laughed, it was like a mockery of their own war-plate. The foe’s angel to their daemon.

“What Chapter is this, Naethar? This is bad comedy,” Silas said.

Naethar came to Silas’s side, “ident tag… Sons of the Phoenix. Successors of the Imperial Fists, scions of Rogal Dorn.”

Lord Decurin’s laugh barked louder, “Phoenix? Dorn? By the gods, loyalist scum grows more deluded with every century.”

Naethar nodded, “indeed my lord. Shall we track the inquisitor?”

Silas turned to the group, “find the blade. She surely is heading that way as well.”

++

After a further trek of the hall, the Chaser's command squad reached the end, where the area opened fully into a free fall into the depths. A rickety looking lift was the only thing bolted to the side of the chasm. The marines carefully stepped onto it, testing their immense weight against the cables that held the platform aloft. Despite appearances, it seemed sturdy enough for all six to stand on.

“She came through here. Likely descending this very lift. Aren’t you all excited to see what lies at the bottom?” Silas hissed.

Naethar hit the cogitation pad, and with a squeal of grinding machinery, the elevator dropped.

When they reached the base of the towering bore, at least three local minutes had passed. The chaos marines fanned out as the surroundings were natural cave formations instead of the carved passages of the mine. Silas looked about, his auspex clicking through displays. Eventually his eyes trained on a tunnel, he signaled for the team to follow his lead, and in they went.

Further walking, they reached what was likely the side hull of a ship, just barely peering out from the rock face it was lodged into. A terrible ripped gash in the metal was their entrance, a single lantern hung off a spear of metal, the only illumination in the absolute darkness of the pit. The chaos marines entered, doubly cautious as it was not out of the realm of possibility they encountered further loyalist marines.

The interior was just as devastated as the outside, wiring, tubing, struts and other structural pieces of the ship were in disarray, making the hall look almost as haphazard as the natural tunnels the squad had just come from. Bits of the natural stone were crushing in on the hull, some ripping through. It was akin to a space hulk, but they were far from the cold embrace of the void. The Astartes emerged into a large room, turned upwards in the centre like on an axis. Folding. There Silas made out enough to identify the owners of this wreck.

“Third Legion… Emperor’s Children,” he breathed.

Banners were torn but still vaguely readable, the deep, proud purple of Lord Decurin’s parent Legion. Despite the ravages of time, a single stained-glass mosaic of the Primarch in his original form emblazoned a far wall. There was a bench with two helmets left astray. Maximus pattern, Legion colours.

“Bring back memories, sire?” Vezeral inquired.

Silas grunted, “a few. Let us continue, this at least explains what an artifact of my old brother’s would be doing here.”

The group continued, through a passage on the opposite side of the chamber. The next room was even larger, a vaulted cathedral chamber.

“Appears to be the Reclusiam,” Naethar suggested.

“What a fine place for a relic,” Jormund chuckled.

At the centre of the chapel was a plinth, the item they’d been on this hunt for was held aloft in one of the few things still functioning, a stasis field. The sword was long, wide-bladed. Similar to a common power sword. However it held a cracked surface that seemed to bleed violet light, hissing against the time-locked energy of the field. The Warp and chronology did not play well together, and it was a marvel the stasis did not fail in this ship’s long grave-bound slumber.

Silas stepped up towards it, smashing his lightning claw into the cogitation array at the plinth’s base. The stasis field gave way, and the sword clattered onto the stone. The chaos lord of the Abyss Chasers grasped the leathered hilt and lifted the blade aloft. He could hear dreadful whispers in his ears, a daemon slept within, dormant, but would be like to stir at the merest prod.

Naethar began, “Is that wise, my Lord? We still know little of—“

“Silence! We’ve gone through enough for this blasted thing.” Silas snapped, cutting off the question.

“Where is the Inquisitor?” Celtrian asked.

Tyrax replied, “does it matter? We have the relic, let us be done with this place.”

“It is curious, I imagine she fled to the surface then, instead. Abandoning the artifact for our Lord to gather, weighing the options, I understand her method. A single mortal, even an Inquisitor, against all of us?” Naethar explained.

“A coward!” Jormund bellowed with a chortle.

“Or wise enough to know when beaten,” Naethar pointed back.

“Enough,” Silas demanded. “I can hear the daemon waking. Let us leave, return to the Echo of Ecstasy.”

The command squad obliged, turning to depart.

“Halt,” a voice rang out. Deep and altered, much like the heretic’s own.

The chaos marines trained their sights. The Inquisitor stood next to another Primaris, more decorated than the previous, wearing the same colours as the dead fool in the hololithic room.

“I am Lieutenant Edriel of the Sons of the Phoenix. My squad travels with the lady Inquisitor Roslyn Jesenia. One of that squad lies dead and defiled, brother Jessian. For your crime, and all your history of treachery, you will die here.”

The Primaris inclines his helmeted head towards the Inquisitor, “go, my lady. Take it back to the ship. If I do not return in a cycle, inform my brothers of my death.”

Jesenia nods curtly, and sprints down the passage the Chaos marines came into the chamber from.

“A fucking coward!” Jormund calls out.

The loyalist marine turns his lens gaze to the wolf, “no, traitor. She simply has more tasks to honour the Emperor.”

The lieutenant draws an artificed power sword, the blade igniting with cracks of blue energy. He falls into a warrior’s stance, two hands upon the grip.

“A fine display, lapdog.” Silas states. “He is mine, the rest of you go after the Inquisitor. If I don’t return? Well good luck figuring out who’s in charge.”

The squad tears off down the hall, and Silas steps forward, his lightning claw already alight with chaotic arcs.

++

Two giants clashed in the silent, dead Reclusiam of a forgotten ship. Honour-blade against warp-tainted claw. Again and again the Lieutenant tried to make great swings towards the chaos lord, parry after parry. Silas hissed with effort, trying to grab hold of the blade with his articulate claws, but the loyalist was talented enough to pull away, dodge, or get an extra strike in to avoid having his sword locked in such a grip. It was grating on the heretic’s patience.

In the back of his mind, there was a chittering. A little voice that bid him use the blade he held tight in his off-hand. Let it drink of the loyalist’s blood, let it awaken, let it feed. It would grant him strength, such power.

Silas roared, tossing the sword to the ground. The effort to do so was immense, he felt perspiration forming on his brow, enclosed in his helm. The Primaris didn’t pay it a mind, continuing the engagement as if there was no change. With his mind cleared Silas re-doubled his effort, a slash, a swipe. Lord Decurin finally found purchase after another flurry, and snapped the power sword; there was a dulled boom as the energy field shattered.

Lieutenant Edriel staggered back, drawing his combat knife. Much like the brother in the levels above, the chaos lord didn’t allow him the moment. Four great blades of his lightning claw dug into the loyalist’s abdomen. A strangled yell emerged from the helmeted Primaris.

Silas lifted him off the ground, snarling with effort. The Son of the Phoenix gurgled in the white-hot suffering accompanied by a direct strike from the talon of the Abyssal Lord.

“F-From the fires of war… We rise…” Edriel groaned.

“You will not emerge reborn from this,” Silas said, barely above a whisper.

With the sickening sound of metal against bone and flesh, Lord Decurin stepped back, the blades of his claw leaving the Primaris. He dropped to his knees, yellow eye-lenses meeting the gaze of the chaos lord. The light flickered, and went out. The Lieutenant’s lifeless body falls forward with a thudding crash.

++

Some time later, Silas returned to the Echo of Ecstasy in orbit above the planet of Emancha V. The relic was recovered, though the chaos lord kept it under lock and key. His squad had informed him the Inquisitor made her escape, even Naethar’s auspex could not pick her out, perhaps some damnable item or tactic allowed her to slink away.

Lord Decurin paid it little mind, he knew that as surely as the gods were eternal, he would cross paths with the Lady Inquisitor again. Further augur readings informed the warband that indeed more Imperial forces were en-route to the system, and they needed to leave. With three cycles to spare they gathered what they could, forces, resources, they scoured as much as possible. The knight returned to its own ship, lost and the damned left the surface. Drop-pods reclaimed and bodies burned.

Silas also had a new trophy in addition to the artifact. A Primaris Lieutenant’s helm, and the skull within.

The Abyss Chasers gathered in the void, turning from the cold mining rock, one by one tearing back into the roiling embrace of the warp.

“Sons of the Phoenix,” Silas muttered. “I wonder if they know.”

[hackercult]

uhm can i stop carrying this emplaced machine gun now

[modern-inheritance]

Random bits of writing, #I Lost Count

Arya leaned over to her war brother, voice quiet. “When are you gonna tell him it’s just oil?”

Glenwing sighed, equally subdued. His silver brows furrowed low as he carefully peeled back the glove on his mechanical hand. He could already smell the faint wisps of grinding and under-oiled mechanics smoking up through his sleeve. “When I stop mentally panicking over what Rhunön’s going to do to me when I tell her about this.”

Arya patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I’ll work on it tonight. It’ll be good as new, I promise.” ~~~

For some reason, mostly when I'm leaving work at the end of the day, the idea of Eragon, Glen and Arya all together but seperated from Saphira, Brom, the Guards and the rest of the Varden, keeps coming to mind. It's not the Brisingr thing, but just a point where they got split off somehow/for some reason, and they're nearly discovered by a similarly cut off ragtag group of soldiers with somewhat heavy weapons. Eragon uses the invisibility spell and they lay down in a thicket, trying to be as still as possible. One of the soldiers, carrying around a heavy machine gun style tri barrel that would usually be used as a tripod type emplacement strapped across his chest, is too tired but too paranoid to let go the feeling that he saw something so he sprays a few seconds of fire into the thicket before moving on.

Thankfully, he wasn't paying all that much attentioned, because during the spray and pray, Eragon, Glen and Arya are all lined up and Eragon's eyes go fucking HUGE as Glen takes a round straight through his forearm. Glen just flicks his eyes down, stares at it, then goes back to not moving. After they're clear Eragon starts flipping out because Glen just took a heavy round to the arm without flinching, is still not screaming so obviously in shock, and there's blood gushing all over his combat jacket and Eragon rushes off to collect their things to wrap it and clear up the blood evidence of their being there and tells Arya to heal it up and takes off.

Cue this little bit of a scene.

[theythrowhimaway]

I found fanfiction of one of the scientists, Ian Garvin, (might be canon, not sure) by Dan Kois on the Slate.com. He’s one of Cameron’s fav characters so this might help your fanfics.

Dr. Ian Garvin: The Complete Letters Home From Pandora

May 24, 2168

Dear Mom and Dad,

I just can’t believe I’m here!! Yesterday the robots on the ISV woke us from cryosleep. After a quick shower and a shave—I don’t mind telling you I got a little foul after six and a half years in a pod!—I went off in search of my cabin so I could behold the majesty of Pandora. It took me a little while to find my room, which is definitely one of the smallest ones on the ship. The RDA officers and the engineers and the defense contractors and the skel-suit polishers get much bigger ones. But hey, I didn’t choose xenomarine biology—it chose me!

Anyway, once I found my cabin, I crouched on the hard steel floor in order to peek out the very small porthole. But Pandora is incredible! The water is so brilliantly blue from up here. It made me think about growing up with you two in Wellington, watching news reports about Pandora on the holotelly. I still remember what you said, Dad: “Someday, son, you’ll go to college in the United States, shed your New Zealand accent entirely, and travel to that beautiful place, to help humans understand the glory of life on another world.”

I met the guy in the cabin next to mine, a xenobotanist named Larry. We can hear each other through the walls! He mentioned something about a fire that burned down this huge tree, which seems like a real bummer. Happily, humans haven’t spent much time on Pandora’s oceans, so it sounds like I’ll have a lot of freedom to explore and learn. Before we left Earth, everyone was talking about unobtanium—I guess I’ll have to be on the lookout for some of that.

Tomorrow we go down to the surface! I’m so excited. I’ll send you another letter from there.

Love, Ian

June 15, 2168

Dear Mom and Dad,

Holy Eywa (Pandora word)! This place is more amazing than I ever dreamed. While I’m a little nervous about the impact that humans are having on the natural environment here, I have to admit it’s pretty remarkable seeing all that we’ve been able to accomplish. We settled down on the moon’s surface in a big shuttle. Larry hated that part, where we instantly incinerated over 600 hectares of forest with our reverse thrusters. “Larry,” I told him, “it’s a big jungle!” But he was inconsolable.

The SeaDragon is equipped with harpoons, machine guns, and hundreds of depth charges, which are for self-defense only. Our base, Bridgehead, is enormous, and they’re just starting to build all the armories, refineries, prisons, mining platforms, and gun emplacements necessary to fulfill our mission here, which I’ve been assured is one of peace and tolerance for all living things. Along with all my textbooks and instruments, the shuttle delivered a cool new boat. It’s called the SeaDragon. I asked if we could call it the SeaScientist, but I was outvoted. It can travel 130 knots and can even lift off and skim the waves. It’s also equipped with harpoons, machine guns, and hundreds of depth charges, which are for self-defense only. I’m taking it out on the ocean for the first time tomorrow. I can’t wait.

This is funny: No one cares about unobtanium anymore! It turns out it’s unobtainable, which no one could have predicted. All the RDA guys are really on me to find some other insanely rare and valuable material that will make everyone rich. I was like, “I just got here, guys! No one’s even explored the ocean yet! Get Larry to find you some magic weeds!” They laughed at that—I think they like me.

Love, Ian

June 28, 2168

Dear Mom and Dad,

Wow. That’s all I have to say. Wow.

As we flew across the cobalt-blue water in the SeaDragon, all I could think was how lucky I was. Lucky to live in a time in which human beings get to experience life on other worlds. Lucky to land this position as my first job after getting my Ph.D. Lucky that the RDA was willing to take a chance on me even though I failed my oral exams seventeen times. I choked up, I admit it. Our captain, an Aussie named Mick, was like, “What’re you crying about, you baby?” He’s a hard man, a man of the sea, and he enjoys gently ribbing his crew.

But that moment, touching as it was, was nothing compared to our sighting of the first pod of tulkun. It’s impossible to describe these enormous, peaceful creatures, which in their quiet majesty and deep, spiritual intelligence are like nothing I’ve ever seen, although if pressed I would say they’re basically whales. They’ve got four eyes, though.

They surfaced alongside the SeaDragon, playful and curious about this steel intruder in their waters. Captain Mick offered to perform a few experiments to see how they would respond to assorted stimuli, like him insulting them over the loudspeakers (“You’re a bunch of fat wankers!”) or shooting them with rifles. Serene and composed, the tulkun did not respond. Once Captain Mick tired of his experiments, I had the opportunity to observe their social structure and communication, which again are fully alien, unlike that of any creature on Earth, although if I had to compare them to one animal, sure, it would be whales.

After an hour or so, Captain Mick joined me on the deck to watch a mother tulkun frolic with her calf. I could tell that underneath his crusty exterior he, too, was moved. “You reckon those fuckers taste like tuna?” he asked.

Then we returned to Bridgehead, where in my closet-sized chamber I was lulled to sleep by the steady explosions caused by our attempts to communicate peacefully with the Na’vi (the mean blue guys).

Gratefully, Ian

[A beautiful tulkun leaping from the sea.]

I took this photo of a tulkun at sunset. Isn’t it awesome? I love these guys and would never do anything to harm them. They do sort of taste like tuna. Dr. Ian Garvin Feb. 3, 2169

Mom! Dad! I’m famous!!

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written, but by the time you get this letter, you’ll know what’s been keeping me so busy. I have made a discovery that will change the world—nay, the universe. Drink deep of my genius, and glimpse immortality itself!!!

Sorry, I know I’m being what my Wellington classmates would have called a “tall poppy.” I just can’t help it! I’m very excited.

A few months ago, I was out in the SeaDragon, listening once again to Captain Mick declare that we’d learn a lot more about tulkun if we just killed one of them. “What are ya, a baby?” he asked, and though I am not a baby, I was coming to see the wisdom of his argument. For did Charles Darwin merely observe the iguanas and finches of the Galápagos Islands when he was developing his theory of evolution? No, he shot a bunch of them and stuffed them and brought them back to England. Though the theory of evolution has since been disproven, erased from the literature like the Galápagos from the map, the scientific method remains sound. Our 22nd-century scanning equipment may be sensitive enough to map the interior of any living creature down to the micrometer from hundreds of miles away, a real scientist—one who is not a baby—must get his hands a little dirty.

Captain Mick was delighted, of course, and the whole crew sprang into action, inspired by their love of science. Unfortunately, the first tulkun they caught was not very useful from a research standpoint, due to them completely blowing it up with missiles (turns out the SeaDragon has missiles). But then they caught a second one with a bunch of harpoons. For several weeks afterward I drained the ever-more-pungent tulkun’s glands into whatever bottles and mugs I could cadge from the SeaDragon’s motley crew. One day, reaching for my tea, I accidentally drank deep from a mug of amrita, a viscous, golden fluid located deep in the tulkun’s brain. Well, you could have knocked me over with a Great Leonopteryx’s feather: My aging completely stopped. I was no longer aging. I saw the past and future as one, and understood that my life extended as far as the eye could see in all directions. I was, in a word, immortal.

Anyway, I told Captain Mick, and then General Ardmore called me in. I added a few drops to her coffee, and watched as she brought it to her lips with her mechanical arm. (Apparently this is the only way she drinks coffee.) Her eyes widened, and the next thing you know, we’re shipping my amrita back to Earth to be studied.

But don’t worry, guys. I told General Ardmore that I would only allow this to happen if she gave me her personal guarantee that we would harvest no more than one tulkun a year, and solely for the purpose of learning how to synthesize artificial amrita. She didn’t agree out loud, per se, but I’m pretty sure she’s as committed as me to preserving the natural beauty of Pandora’s oceans.

They threw a big party that night to celebrate my discovery. All the soldier guys were drinking a brand new kind of beer, brewed from a berry Larry discovered called the tumpasuk. Though as you know I’m not much of a drinker, I had quite a few! Larry was there, nursing a tumpasuk beer. He looked quite frazzled—he hadn’t even shaved! (You know how important it is to me to keep a clean face.) I was feeling charitable, so I told him that his delicious discovery surely rivals mine in importance. He stared at me with haunted, red-rimmed eyes, then pointed to my glass. “You’ll need that,” he said. I wonder what he meant?

Yours truly,

Dr. Ian Garvin, Discoverer of Amrita

PS I snuck a syringe of amrita into this envelope for you guys to use. If my dog’s still alive, give some to her, OK?

Nov. 24, 2169

Dear Mom,

Thanks for the shipment of new novelty T-shirts you sent. My old ones were getting pretty ratty. One thing about being immortal is that you really outlive your clothes. Another thing is that the witty slogans on novelty T-shirts no longer amuse you, although I did smile bitterly at the shirt that reads, “I’d Rather Be on Pandora.” It’s ironic, you see, because I wish I was no longer on Pandora.

Long story short, it turned out that General Ardmore was totally lying. In fact, she threatened to shut down my research laboratory unless I went tulkun hunting every week. We’ve now killed dozens of tulkun, extracted their amrita, and dumped their rotting corpses back into the ocean. Sometimes I examine their organs or whatever, but my heart’s not really in it.

Worse yet, it turns out that the tulkun are part of a whole ekosystem (sp?). We didn’t learn anything about this in xenomarine biology school, as far as I can remember, but other creatures depend on them, and the Na’vi (the blue guys) can even talk to them about what’s going on. So now I’m pretty sure that the tulkun don’t like me, on account of all the killing, and they’re probably telling the Na’vi, who already didn’t like humans very much, because of [THIS SECTION REDACTED BY REQUEST OF RDA DEPT. OF PUBLIC INFORMATION].

Anyways, it all sucks. I muddle through, thanks to my tumpasuk beer. I’ve been brewing a lot of my own, and have even worked out something like an IPA. It’s pretty good.

I’d Rather Be on Earth,

Ian

PS Thanks for telling me about Dad. I guess he won’t need the amrita you guys will receive in 2175. You didn’t mention anything about the dog, but probably she’s dead too. :(

April ??, 2170 (??)

Beloved Mother, she who brought forth life, sister of Eywa,

All I do is drink beer, kill tulkun, and cry. I’ve been reading a lot about the Na’vi (the blue guys). They’re very spiritual and cool. Did you know they believe the tulkun are their brothers & sisters? And we’re just killing themn. It super sucks. The whales have their own songs and poetry & stuff. They’re brains are like twenty times the size of a humans’s brain! Because I am immortal, I have access to all knowledge of all time, but still, it’s pretty impressive. I’m trying to be a little more Na’vi about stuff, you know? I’ve never actually talked to a Na’vi person but I like to think that we would get along. I have even got a couple of Na’vi tattoos. This one here on my arm means, like, “the great cycle of life” I think, and then this one on my lower back is more sensual.

RECOMMENDED FOR YOU My Boyfriend Keeps Stalling on the Cure-All for Our Problems in Bed Help! I Belittled a Former Co-Worker. But She Kind of Deserved It. We Opened Our Marriage. My Wife’s First Choice Freaked Me Out. Today a bunch of fake Na’vis borded the SeaDragon. I say fake because they were clearly Earth soldiers in Na’vi bodies somehow. I didn’t like it, although I did like when they yelled at Captain Mick, who’s a total jerk. We’re going outon a mission to [REDACTED]. I’m just glad we won’t be doing anything bad to any tulkun for the next couple of weeks..

Mom, being immortal is dumb. If you somehow get this letter before you use the amrita I sent, maybe don’t use the amrita. All I do is drink beer, kill tulkun, and cry. I spend a lot of time alone in my tiny cabin which is the smallest one on the SeaDragon even though I am the chief scientist and also immortal. I don’t like the person I’ve become, and now I have to be this person forever, because I no longer age. As far as I know, a tulkun could crush my boat and catapult my body into the raging sea, and even that wouldn’t kill me. Not that that would ever happen, because another thing about tulkun is that they’re total pacifists. Captain Mick calls them babies, but I think he’s the baby!!

I’ll write you when we get back from this stupid trip into the stupid ocean on this stupid moon that I hate.

Lvoe, Ian (mispelled in article)

https://slate.com/culture/2022/12/avatar-way-of-water-scientist-jemaine-clement-ian-garvin.html

[swishysword]

from last saturday's game, still in progress

Having to pair up with their rivals to pass an exam, both teams coordinate an assault on a fortified enemy position. Thanks to quick movement and hitting the scouts in the last encounter, the party's gotten a chance to scout out the enemy forces and strike while most of their machines were shutdown, which has done a great job of keeping them manageable—especially since they'll need to defend this point after any every bit of the defenses they destroy is something they won't get a chance to use later.

Design talk!

The gimmick for this (version of) the encounter is that they have control over one of their rivals each, so essentially every player has an extra activation which helps cut down on the drag from a large enemy npc contingent. This is also a decent way to sound out the idea of them controlling things other than their main characters, might be something to bring back for future scenes.

Started their rivals out near multiple enemy npcs, to soft encourage them getting into their mechanics immediately rather than putting it off and focusing solely on their mains. Extra encouragement on a secondary objective to get through this encounter without any casualties across both their teams, juuuust in case they decided to be funny and intentionally run their controlled units into hazards. I didn't really worry about that, but also I've played with players long enough to know they'll be chaos gremlins when you least expect it.

Here's the briefing:

Capture

Reserves

(X) Akashi Charges (used by Beacon in Approach)

(X) Conduction Rounds (used by Despot in Approach)

Environmental shielding

Boosted Servos

(X) Scouting (used automatically at the start of Capture)

(X) Reinforcements (used automatically at the start of Capture)

Details

Having sped through the jungle, the team arrives to coordinate with the Hurricanes for the assault on the enemy outpost. Heavily fortified, the teams are expected to coordinate and capture the designated location. Your performance will be graded.

Thanks to your elimination of faster enemy elements, your team has a chance to scout the enemy composition.

Primary Objective: Have more of the team in the Control Zone (CZ) by the end of Round 6 than the enemy.

Note: Ultras count as 4 units for the enemy, Elites as 2, and Grunts as 1/4.

Risk: Failure here ends the missions, and the party is graded on their performance.

Secondary Objective // 1: Capture the CZ while leaving at least one Gun Emplacement active.

Reward: Gun Emplacements still active will be swapped to the player's side in the next encounter.

Secondary Objective // 2: Capture the CZ while leaving the Garage intact.

Reward: You will be allowed to replenish your Health, Structure, and Stress without spending any Repair Cap.

Secondary Objective // 3: Take no casualties (including Reinforcements).

Reward: A CORE battery.

Risk: Any Reinforcements lost during this encounter will not be usable in the next.

Environmental Effects

Thick Jungle:

Numerous vines and trees fill the area, making it easy for vehicles to get caught. Passing through Jungle Difficult Terrain requires an Engineering or Hull Save or else become Immobilized until they Stabilize or destroy the Jungle Difficult Terrain. Terrain can be destroyed through any attack that deals at least 5 damage to the tile in a single attack.

Calm River:

Remove the Fast Flowing River effect of the previous encounter.

Special Conditions

Gun Emplacements: Do not take a turn, but instead may take a reaction 1/turn towards anything moving in its cone of fire. May rotate this cone by one facing per Round, at the start of a Round.

Garage: At the end of the round, may reinforce the enemy composition with up to 3 units drawn from the following list:

Type-A Scourer

Type-D Conscript

Type-U Scout

Type-A Striker

Type-S Guardian

Lightning Blitz: Due to the speed of the players, enemies may not call upon reinforcements from off map, and several units start the encounter in Shutdown. These units will activate as a Full Action starting on Round 2.

Coordinated Strike: The players will control 1 member of the Hurricanes each, excluding Sigrdrifa. They each have their own turn on the initiative.

[kiwi-kuns-art-tumb]

It is actually a bad idea to give children firearms such as handguns or rifles. Instead, give them crewed weapons, such as machine gun emplacements or Mortars. Their semi-stationary aspects means children don't have to lug them around, and their crew requirement encourages teamwork.

When you get stuck in traffic behind someone with bumper stickers that elude to some strange politics

[jian-wei-24]

Light and Shadows (Update 2.0: Setting up & Lighting)

I started by importing all my old assets and assembling them to the desired damage train station appearance.

Figure 1: Final Appearance.

"Fixed Machine Gun (Turret)" by LionBlacksmith and "Crates And Barrels" by Mateusz Wolinski from FAB were downloaded and imported into the scene to compliment the military theme.

Figure 2: Lighting, Environment and Post Processing utilised.

In figure 2, Directional light was utilised as the sun for the scene. Exponential Height fog is for simulating atmospheric fog that accumulates with distance and height. Next, Post Process Volume applies visual effects. While Sky Atmosphere simulates realistic sky and atmospheric effects, like sunlight scattering. Sky light captures ambient light from the sky and casts it into the scene. Lastly, Volumetric Clouds create realistic, 3D clouds with depth and dynamic lighting.

Settings for Post Process Volume and Cine Camera Actor were manipulated to obtain the desired appearance of natural (without colour grading or filter), warm, cold, and black and white. [Refer to Update 3.0 for more screenshots]

Figure 3: One of the final renders (without colour grading or filter).

The Cine Camera Actor was placed at a corner that could see most of the station. The Directional Light was purposely place to shine from the top window and onto the machine gun emplacement as that is one of the main focus for the image. A warm colour was set in the post processing to create the morning sunlight feeling. The godrays were achieved by slightly manipulating the directional light's volumetric scattering intensity to produce a distinct yet not overpowering lighting. The camera's focus was set to be closer to avoid drawing too much attention to the back of the train station as there is nothing much to see there.