Sergeant Rojack wrenched the tribal warsword from the Ork corpse, sending a spiteful spray of las fire at the backs of the retreating Orks, watching a few remaining mortars fire into the retreating greenskins as well. The man, standing tall and proud at the edge of the trenches that he and his men counter assaulted out of, turned to address the men of his squad, ready to raise his voice to issue orders. The call caught in his throat, he was effectively alone. A few dying men laid about the field, a handful that had stayed in the trench with their heavy weapons, otherwise, he was alone. The few men who had been crewing weapons crawled out of the trench, looking at their Sergeant, waiting for orders. They were good soldiers, good warriors, almost as good as the dead and dying that remained scattered about the field, their weapons lodged into orkish corpses and smashed down in retribution. Still, the orks were on the retreat again, though it was unlikely they could repel another assault.

	"Right lads, grab anything useful off the dead an' dig in. Any of you fine boys got a working far speaker? No? I'll walk back to the officers and see what they order." The surviving men of his trenchline began picking through the remains, some grabbing the better made explosives or better surviving ones off the dead, ork and guard alike, those that couldn't be saved being put out of their misery after prayers, and stocking the supplies in the trenches while the Sergeant marched briskly back towards the 222nd's standard. It still stood, blowing in the hot wind, riddled with holes from stray Ork weapons fire, damaged but unbroken. Underneath it was the command staff of the regiment, off worlders put in charge of managing and leading the feral world troops since it was decided they would not be able to lead themselves, not while being able to interact with other regiments. They had survived other regiments dying, much the same way as they did now. They were the last position, issuing orders surrounded by medics, vox operators, and the like, leading from afar. The Edrastian natives had no respect for them, but they followed orders all the same. The major in charge noted the approaching sergeant, and once Rojack saluted, returned it and dispatched orders.

	[i]"Sergeant, by my estimate, the 222nd is beneath minimal numbers for combat effectiveness. Relief forces are arriving now, rally the survivors and prepare to return to the muster positions. Our part has been played. You have your orders, Sergeant."[/i] Looking past the major, Rojack could see the trails of dust that the Guard transports kicked up, their replacements would be here before the Orks could rally and attack again. Saluting again, the Sergeant turned and started slogging back to the front trench, where the surviving men were already digging in. They looked up when the Sergeant returned, Rojack was the last of the Grenadiers, best examples of the Edrastian way of warfare, and by extension, the unofficial and, sometimes, official leaders of the tribal warriors in their Shock Regiments.

	"Right, pack yer kits lads, command says we're too few to hold off another assault. Orders are to withdraw, let another tribe hold the hill. I know, we ain't done with the greenskin bastards, but we've done our bit all the same. Everyone got their kit sorted? Let's walk lads, can't hog all the glory." Rojack hopped down to help the survivors pack up their kit, everything they could carry, and fell back to the command squad, who was briefing the fresh regiment that had arrived to secure the hill for good. The major turned and visibly paused, having expected at least more than what was present. There wasn't even a platoon left of the regiment, including the entire command staff, and the relieving regiment also noted this, a mixed look of shock and awe that they had lasted this long against the Orks when left at such little remaining effective strength. Custody of the hill was exchanged, and the excess transports were redirected to other uses while the surviving Edrastian's mounted up and rode back to the reserves.

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	The Edrastian 222nd Shock Regiment stood with their tattered, battle damaged banner at attention while the speech had been given, medals handed out, the Edrastian's receiving more than some, but not as many as others, and notably not being given leave to settle on the planet. The Father called for their service still, then, so the tribal soldiers would answer the call. Still, that was another day, they still had this night to live through first. The command staff would have retired to other, nicer berthing they privately acquired, likely already doing paperwork on where they would be transferred next, to whichever regiment needed foreign leadership. They had no interest in warning or debriefing the tribal soldiers, who had taken to walking and drinking, stretching their legs under a strangely peaceful night. Well, maybe not walking, but they much preferred to be under open sky than inside the barracks, the tribesman starting a small fire to sit around, drinking and reminiscing on the dead and gone.

	"Aye lads, Father above still has work for us. Now, reckon they'll scatter us, given how few of us there are. Father'll watch over each of us, and those who've taken his hand and now rest by his side. To those that passed, and those that yet live!" A cheer, strong and clear, before the handful of men took a heavy swig from their bottles, laughing and the sound of dice being broken out were made clear. The men would gamble on dice, chuckling and jostling each other as they made bets and rolled in the light of the campfire, while their sergeant looked on. He then drew his boot knife, and gathering some of the scrap wood they had gotten together before beginning the small campfire, and started carving and whittling while the men played.

	Rojack could hear other regiment's survivors drinking and making noise, and any who would find their way to the Edrastian's little campfire would find warm welcomes. Such was the tribes way to welcome fellow warriors and survivors, and would quickly encompass any that cared to join in the dice games, drinking, and reminiscing on the recent events. Rojack was at the edge of the small fire's light, leaning against a wall, whittling and carving away while making remarks towards those present, keeping an eye on the approaches just in case an officer came investigating the commotion. One who was familiar with the game would recognize the wooden carvings matched regicide figures, it was something that the Sergeant did in his free time, well, one of the things he did when he had down time. The towering, looming Edrastian's would cut an intimidating figure until one heard the laughing, easy going nature they currently had while drinking, and gambling, and enjoying a rare moment of downtime before being thrown into war in the Father's name once again.