As he surveyed the carnage set out before him, Winstanley simply sighed before averting his gaze from that most gruesome sight as the crashed aircraft and the lost souls that had died upon it. Lowering his head, Winstanley muttered an oath of justice for those lost, he would not let their sacrifice be in vain. Reverting his gaze back to those remaining survivors, he made a mental note to get transitioned back in with his own regiment, such was the shell-shocked and motley assortment of misfits and freaks he saw before him,. He'd worked with worse, and he'd forge them into the true fighting men and women that the Imperial Guard needed so dearly. Marshalling what was left of himself, he raised his sword to the heavens and said to all those about himself. “If you should live to fight once more, rally besides me! There is work to be done and by the Emperor we will do it!” His voice echoed about the abandoned street corner they were on, discarded refuse and raw sewage littered the area due to the repeated shelling it had likely received from both sides of this war, the miasma of putridity stretched as far as the senses allowed, filling all with a potent concoction of human waste and burning wreckage from their former transport. Try as he may, Winstanley tried to distance himself as much as humanly possible from the Commissar, there was something about the man that made him uneasy in the very pit of his stomach, some unnatural compulsion that brought his senses to rebel against the Commissar's very existence as a person. Yet the Valhallan he found to be a good laugh, and so stayed ever beside. “From here, the nearest regimental command is up past the Hades sector, and through the 'wall of flesh'...best you don't ask why it's called that.” In truth his words were uneasy even mentioning the name of that blighted area, the sight of the world's first demonic incursion and also the sight were multiple hundreds of men were shot by the Inquisition for heinous acts of “Incompetence” as it was so carelessly put. In truth those men didn't deserve death for fleeing a threat so unnatural it caused men to weep blood and fill their minds with doubt. “As such, gentlemen. We are to travel there, and perhaps reunite with any guardsmen we can on the way there! I believe even our acting, leader, shall agree upon that, yes? Commissar?” Despite his worry he still found the soul to face the man to some degree. “If we stand here without objection then I do assume we shall proceed...” As he spoke, Winstanley remembered something most vital, he walked with purpose up to the wrecked cockpit of the crashed aircraft and pried open the hatches leading inside of it. Inside was dark, without light due to most of it being nose-first into the brick of a manufactorium. Reaching inside, Winstanley felt about for the pilot's dog tags, he would see to it that the man was commended most greatly for his actions in the field of war, in allowing even the faintest elements of his cargo to survive. A hand grabbed Winstaley's wrist however, a dirt and blood smeared thing from which a croaking pilot did breathe out his final words. “I...did it, I did...it... your here. Go, p-please. Do what you came here...for. Emp. Emperor, g-guide you a-all...” Even as he spoke his final words the pilot smiled while blood dripped in long lines down from his reddened lips. The man was spent in his time upon the mortal plane, yet even he took solace is knowing that his job in life was done. A smile crept across his face as his smile grew wide before fading into nothingness as he perished. “Godspeed...” Winstanley whispered, taking the man's tags and sighing away the grief that came from all this. He clambered back out of the aircraft, to once more face the squad about himself. “We shall move. Remain vigilant, and, all that...” Despite his best efforts soon his mask of courage would soon show cracks... ---------------------------------------------------------- The nearest Imperial Guard soldiers were several streets away, they had been embroiled in intense combat for weeks in that particular area, and the men there often didn't return. Those who did did so with tales of face's silently screaming from the walls, and a soft whispering promising untold happiness beyond all mortal cares. The actual camp was barely holding on, it was only due to their overwhelmingly superior firepower that the place stood at all, a vile testament to the sheer ignorance of the commanders that led the sector. You all continue forth, down several streets and twisting alleyways down crumbling tunnels and through ruins of once proud buildings. Everywhere you look, death and destruction rein supreme. However, from the rouble, you do spot something. The flash of grey mixed with other colours, and the dulled chatter that is so familiar to the accent of Low Gothic spoken in this world. They are soldiers of this world's Imperial Guard Regiment, not a particularly legendary one, but yet still a force far above common rabble. Their Sargent, you assume this due to his broad and loud nature, mixed somewhat with the Macharius Cross that he wears on his right breast. He marches up to you, his heavy black boots crumpling debris below them, and with an authoritarian voice he shouts. “Hold yourselves right there! We were not informed of other patrols in this area? Tell me, why are good soldiers of the guard not out there following their damn orders?!” His voice was horrible to behold, a shouted array of violent, ear-assailing words that, when mixed with his worlds native accent made it even worse. Behind him, several more soldiers showed themselves. One was a skinny, pale man with cracked glasses that wore a heavy vox-unit on his back. Two others were quite plain, and you didn't much see their faces. They looked...oddly shifty. And the final was a big huge bear of a man, with a massive beard and shaggy red hair. He carried a flamer like a man might so easily lift a small pistol, and his voice was warming, a soothing syrup in this world of torture. He spoke these words. “Leave them! They're alright as th'e are! Ain't causin' no one no trouble!” Despite an...actual lack of symbols showing rank, you all feel a deep sense that this man is a superior in some way like he hold the actual power here... Something most troubling grabs your instincts however. ---------------------------------------- Winstanley was initially worried by the openness of the other guardsmen, yet a relief at their number and the relative amount of having not survived a helicopter crash... He addressed them formally, however. “Greetings, gentlemen. We are...well, we have no name. May you have seen a Valkyrie crash? That was...our vehicle... We are the remnants. Do, take us to the post nearby, if you kindly...”