The constant thrumming pulse of engines, the flashing images from an ever adjusting pict-screen, the sickly green glow of a holo-emitter that showed a three-dimensional model of the battlefield, all were things as familiar to Van Deer as his own breath; here, deep in the bowels of his Capitol Imperialis - a vast and slow moving vehicle the size of a city -  rightly named the [i]Imperator Ira[/i], or Emperor's Wrath, the highest ranking member if the Vernum theatre of war enjoyed some hot food and the good company of his aides and advisors. The only thing that put him off, ever-so-slightly, were the servitors...he hated servitors, with their blank and mind-wiped faces and expressions, the way they moved so unnaturally beneath the glaring red lighting of the dimly lit command room, it made his still human skin crawl.

"How goes the battle?" He casually enquired of a Cadian Major, the other man turning back from studying the progress of the final battle of the decades long campaign, a man who had been young when it all began, "have we won yet?"

Major Erstos smirked a little and pondered inwardly on the disgust which he felt for his superior - this gaunt, lank, and uninspiring butcher who now sat in his military finery and expected almost immediate results - his expression hidden by the shadow in which he stood.

"Not yet, sir - it appears that a number of regiments have reached the breaches and are attempting to push in, the Third Endorans are the furthest," both eyes re-checked the floating hologram just to be certain, "they seem to be surrounded near the central intersection of the city."

"Pffft!" Gasped Van Deer in exacerbation, "when I took the last settlement on Keller Nova, we had it cleaned out and secured within three hours. Three hours, gentlemen!"

There were sage nods from the younger members of the staff, as well as eyes being rolled from the more senior - some who had even fought at Keller Nova themselves - for it was a tale that the Lord Militant loved to regale them with as often as possible, especially when they were all sat around the command table watching him eat.

In front of them all was a replica of the entire city, down to the last building which was no longer there, the regiments represented by numbered tokens. The token marked with the number and insignia of the Third Endorans was lithely plucked up by a servitor, then dropped on their current position. It had only been a couple of hours, but already the KIA/MIA reader was getting ever higher, the Third needed to be relieved quickly or they would cease to exist as a regiment at all...not that there would be much left of them after this anyway, or indeed of any of the other regiments either.

"It appears that they ran into an ambush," continued the Major with all the tact he could muster, "the other formations have split between the two breaches, the Fifty-Ninth Brontians and Eighth Xenonian now moving to help secure the left opening, while the Cadian Nine-Seven-Eight head to help those on the right. We'll send the Albakin to the...right?"

This last suggestion was a question, and Van Deer nodded his acceptance, those men from Alba were more like the Orks they were fighting than the Guardsmen he was familiar with, but they could fight.

"Yes, give it an hour or so and then send in the second wave; I think that should sort out our 'Ork problem'. Now, where is my next course?"


[hr]


Colour-Sergeant Jacob Bourne, a soldier formerly of the Praetorian DLXVIII, watched as the other regiments sprung over the top and made their differing ways forward into battle. He looked on as the Cadian Eighty-Eighth lost their vehicles and their lives, how the regiment know as the 'Raiders' moved in to support them, and how the Tushiena Lizards and their Hirisit comrades-in-arms were casually hacked apart or gunned down by their brutal adversaries. Running a hand over his mutton-chops, a motion that always helped him think, he could not help but imagine that the Endorans - who had hauled arse forward before the signal was given - were probably dead, while he and the commanders of two other regiments now prepared to get forward with their own commands.

The Seventy-Second Albakin, well, what could one say about these Feral Worlders that did not make them seem like trouble?

Closely related to the inhabitants of both Drook and Finreht (perhaps a shared heritage?), they shared the formers penchant for body-art of the swirling and blue variety, as well as the traditional chequered garment of wool - apparently known as a 'kilt' on Ancient Terra - which they generally wore everywhere. 

Yet the intergration with a Praetorian regiment had not been a one-way process! 

Like himself, the officers, NCOs, and veterans of the regiment were actually all survivors of the DLXVIII - most who had settled on Alba Fortis as colonists and now helped lead the headstrong natives into battle - remaining in the crimson jackets of their homeworld and wearing their iconic pith-helmets upon their heads, although most had chosen to don the kilt in order to fit into their new regiment; Bourne was one such man, with the pale skin and curled brown hair of a Praetorian hive-dweller, but the tartan garment of an [i]Albanach[/i] chief wrapped around his waist.

Perhaps the oddest thing was that the [i]Albanach[/i] - the native men and women of Alba Fortis that made up the majority of the regiment - had chosen to adopt the red jackets and pith-helmets of their neighbours; what they now wore was a curious mix of native dress and imported Praetorian regimental fashion. It was said that something about the crimson of the jackets really appealed to them, something possibly about blood. Others commented that they believed wearing Praetorian clothing would help infuse them with a greater regimental discipline and spirit of camaraderie, both of which seemed to be true to an extent. 

At his hip was the customary basket-hilted 'power claymore' of the chieftains, a las-pistol holstered on the other side, both weapons to which he would trust his life. This was good, since the flak armour he wore beneath his red coat would protect him from barely anything!

"Sergeant!" Yelled Operator MacRae from nearby, the slight woman squatting down in the trench behind his officer, "it seems that they're calling us up to the right breach. Two minutes."

Bourne, who's title of Colour-Sergeant was pretty much void in this regiment that carried no 'colours' of their own, slipped the chin-strap of his helmet over his head and made sure that the message was swiftly and efficiently passed down the line.

The Seventy-Second Albakin had suffered a lot during this campaign, only a handful of the original officers left alive, the NCOs and junior officers doing their utmost to lead their dwindling number of fighters ever onward in the Emperor's service, and now they were to hurl themselves into yet another meat-grinder to support two rather green regiments.

When the brass bugle sounded, the distinctive legato skirl of the native Alban bagpipes starting up for the sprint to the city walls and the right-hand breach, the Sergeant hauled himself up the ladder and made sure that his las-pistol was in his hand. Next to him jogged MacRae, her unkempt locks of fiery red hair peaking out from beneath her helmet, and to either side of them spread out the crimson and tartan lines of what remained of the Seventy-Second.

Far to their left, in support of both they and the already engaged formations, came the Cadian Nine-Seventy-Eighth - soldiers born and raised on perhaps the most hellish planet in the Imperium, dressed in their dull beige and green flak that was as distinctive as it was inspiring to 'lesser' regiments. They were a 'line regiment', some heavy weapon support among them, but without armour backing them up.

Now both regiments sprinted as swiftly as they could toward the assigned breach and, as he drew closer, the keen eyes of the Colour-Sergeant picked out milling figures in two variations of uniform - one in green and grey camouflage fatigues of an urban pattern, the others dressed in cream with odd flashes of ochre in amongst them. Here and there he could pick out officers or Commissars motivating their charges to dig into the rubble and softened earth of the inner breach, green corpses far fewer but still there. He was amazed that any of these young soldiers - for they were young, most probably just out of basic training a few months before - had survived at all.

It was the Cadians that reached the combined Tushiena-Hirisit first, all barking orders and disdain, moving forward through the already bloodied Guardsmen and disappearing into a street leading to the left of the breach, off to some objective that only they knew of without asking for so much as a scrap of help.

Albans on the other hand were far happier to slow their pace as they approached, noting the digging, the bodies and the fact that the Orks could attack again at any time; it was only when they reached the remnants of both regiments that they completely stopped, with his own commander, Major Lenox, risking his life by stepping atop the crest of the breach and demanding in a rather loud voice "who is in command here? I'd like to speak to them."

The pipes had now fallen silent, and Bourne was only too happy to join his regiment - the few hundred that remained after years abroad in this campaign - in getting their own hands dirty by moving to help their fellow Imperials in digging and assembling a form of 'beachhead' that could well save their lives.

[@agentmanatee][@Bright_Ops]


[hr]


While this was happening the Brontians and Xenobanians, two regiments that were not as different as might be thought, advanced toward the Cadians and Stratchona's Raiders with all speed. 

Although the Brontians were as most thought, large with an assortment of knives and daggers and a spattering of flamethrowers, the Xenonians were an all-female regiment commonly known as the 'Amazons' and sometimes it was hard to tell them apart from their male comrades in other military units. Now, while they might not have [i]looked[/i] like men, on average they were at least six-foot tall and as muscled as any Guardsman that had undertaken the process to join the Guard in the first place. In place of knives they used straight-bladed swords, but like the Brontians they too had a penchant for flamethrowers, the ignited fuel usually reflecting from the breastplates and helmets that were customarily worn by the regiment.

As they neared the fighting, the right breach filled with flames and explosions for a moment or more, they let out their signature roars and undulations - the warcry of the Xenonians sounding not unlike the continuous cry of the Tallarn Desert Raiders - preparing what weapons they had to take the fight to their green skinned foes and drive them back into the city.


[@Lord Coake][@Sarpedon]


[hr]


Somewhere far above the field, Valkyrie engines roaring and clouds swirling past, the soldiers of the Thirty-Third Harakoni and Twelfth and Thirteenth Elysian Drop-Troopers took care of everything as they made ready to leap from their transports.

Their mission was seemingly a simple one; help the Third Endorans in any way they could to break free from the encircling Orks, before joining up with the rest of the first wave and heading toward the Governor's Palace and the headquarters of the leader of the green infestation.

Gesturing to his comm-man, the Harakoni Captain attempted to contact the Endorans, "Endoran Third, Endoran Third, this is Captain Idro Keris of the Harakoni Thirty-Third! Do you read me? What is your situation?"

[@Vahir]


[hider=PLEASE READ!]

Righto then! 

Everyone is now supported by the second half of the First Wave. 

Please feel free to control the Brontians and the Xenonians, to push forward into the city if you like, and just generally to carry on. I've not much to say at this moment...everyones doing really well, and I'm really enjoying the writing so far.[/hider]