If the pre-Imperial 'Hell', or a version of it thought up by any one of the multitudes of civilisations, actually existed, well, the Guardsmen and women trying their utmost to hold the cathedral may believe that they were experiencing it, or even that they were actually there; it was a scene that had taken place, and continued to take place, on a billion worlds with a billion combatants, and as always the entire thing stank of desperation. Ammo was running dry, the green horde seemed numberless, and once the Xenos finally breached the trenches, barricades and wire, it would be over all too soon for the valiant defenders of Man.

Colour-Sergeant Bourne stood over the ruined body of Lieutenant Greyson, the entire front of his face missing and his body twisted like a fallen rag doll, the Albakin - unlike many of the more mingled and confused regiments - generally having kept themselves together as a coherent formation. Currently, they had positioned themselves at one of the larger breaches caused by a looted basilisk in three lines, a common enough deployment in the Praetorian Guard but something which the men and women of Alba continued to find unnatural, and poured volley after volley into the mass of rampaging alien fiends. More than once in the last few minutes, after clambering to within bayonet distance of the red-coated line, the Orks had nearly managed to close with their adversaries but each time had been thrown back! It could not last though, ammo was beginning to run low and every casualty was another blow to the regiment and their very survival...but help was coming.

Thrakta was somewhere out there in the sea of lumbering beasts and cunning Grots, a beast nearly as large as an Astartes Terminator - and that was without armour! - who sent wave after wave forward to meet their demise or victory; some may wonder why the Orks followed such suicidal commands, or why they went to meet death so willingly, but these were Human thoughts and to an Ork such things were meaningless in the extreme. They lived for war, they thirsted for it, and if it meant dying in combat then all the better.

What the Warboss didn't realise, as skilled as he was in warfare when compared to other Greenskins, was that he and his remaining forces had not long ago been encircled by multiple vengeful regiments of the grim-faced Krieg as well as others, slowly but surely marching their way into battle for the Emperor and for Mankind as a whole.

At first it seemed that all hope was lost, but when the horde began to slacken somewhat, something even Bourne could see but did not entirely understand, black outlines started appearing on each road leading toward the centre of the city. With them came rumbling vehicles, flame and las-fire spitting death at the larger Greenskins, the bayonet and las-gun of the humble infantryman seeing to others, and Warboss Thrakta even helping by decapitating those unlucky enough to be within reach as he watched his chances of victory slipping from his grasp.

"Albakin!" Yelled the Sergeant over the sounds of battle, hardly able to hear himself but doing his darnedest anyway, "give them another volley, then ready bayonets and prepare to charge. We'll see these abominations from the field."

[B]This[/b] was how the children of Alba liked to fight, up close to their enemy and with twelve-inches or more of razor-sharp metal, the blood of the kilt-clad soldiers hot and bought nearly to boiling point by their static position.

So they fired off another volley, then waited...and waited...and waited...

"Albakin, for the clan, for the regiment, for the Emperor! Charge!"

Bourne gave a practice swing of his sword as he ran, the dimly glowing energy field crackling around the blade and humming with power, the more-or-less empty las-pistol thrown at the head of a bellowing Orkoid as he ran, all around him the shrill warcry of his adopted regiment and the renewed sound of an Alban reel upon the pipes causing him to forget everything but this fight and this moment in time.