The Seventy-Eighth been holding their section of the encirclement trenches, placed around the city in case some Greenskins attempted to slip away after what was sure to be an Imperial victory, for over two months now; in that time there had been numerous break out attempts, and each time the regiment had been whittled down until, as it stood, there were no more than a few platoons left. It was in fourth platoon, second company, seventy-eighth Finreht Highlanders that Sergeant Greig Sithech now found himself. Being in the Guard was not the life that the sixty-eight year old would have chosen for himself, no, he had actually wished to be a simple cattle-raider and farmer on his home planet! Sitting here against one of the trench walls, waiting for the order to withdraw behind the lines or the next attack to wash over them, he was at least thankful that he had kept himself and his gear in the best condition he could. With a shake of his shaggy head, his mane of dirty grey hair giving him a feral aspect which went well with his bearded visage and general demenour, Greig stood and rolled back his broad shoulders; he may not be the largest of men, but he had the posture, poise, and lean musculature of a true 'hard man' nonetheless. "Whaur urr ye gaun, Greig?" Questioned the platoons vox operator, Wee Lachlan, the swirling markings about his arms and face not too dissimilar from Greigs own, showing that both were from the clans of the wide, deep, glens but not of the same groups. "A'm aff tae tak' a keek ower th' tap, aren't ah?" This was not to be though, the vox crackling to life before Greig could reach the other side. [i]"Seventy-Third, Seventy-Third, this is HQ, please respond."[/i] "HQ, this is Seventy-Third, orders?" [i]"Escapees incoming, prepare to repel, ETA ten minutes. Over and out."[/i] "Ye 'aw heard tha', git up an fix bayonets," bellowed the kilt-clad Finrehter, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that for many of them this would be their last charge. Long strides took him along the readying lines, forearm grasps and oaths exchanged with familiar faces, before Greig came to the officers dug-out. Sure enough there was their Captain, the poor Offworlder continuing to shake and mutter, his mind broken by constant shelling from both sides. "Time fur annur charge, captain darlin', ye rest easy noo 'n' dinnae fret." Spoke Greig softly, knowing that once this was all over he would be recieving a Commissars bolt. When the time finally came, fluidly slipping his ever-sharp bayonet onto the lug of his lasgun, the Sergeant prepared to spring... eight... seven... six... five... four... three... two... There was the klaxon, there were the men and women, and all along the trench section the banshee screeches of Finrehters soon mingled with the bass roars of those Orks that had managed to flee the city - and no doubt would regroup later, if not stopped here. "FINREHT GU BRATH!" Bellowed Greig, his bare legs hurtling over the uneven ground and carrying him into the fray, his bayonet plunging into the ribcage of the first monster he met, several squeezes of the trigger burning neat holes through the brutes torso and sending it to the ground with a beastial groan. The battle-craze was on him now, the red haze that seemed to be an in-built part of every Finrehter, his vision narrowing as if in a tunnel and his heart loud in his ears, bayonet plunging into flesh time after time and before long his breathing became laboured and he began to slow... it was this time, and this time alone that he was struck from behind, and all was darkness. [hr] “Those that have not been selected for resettlement will report to the Departmento Munitorum headquarters immediately. May the God-Emperor bless you all.” Greig, along with the dozen or so survivors of what he liked to call 'the final charge', stood stiff-backed and to attention as the final words of the speech were read out. After being found and patched up by the medicae, them hosed down by Munitorum disinfectant, he stood and stared off into the distance (or at least at the back of another soldiers head) as he had done oh so many times before. His thoughts, as they had before, turned to the pyres of bodies and the burning corpses that would never see the rugged hills or mountains of Finreht again, breath the pure air or see the red hawk-eagle swooping high. It nearly bought him to tears. [hr] Evening and the chill of it were soon setting in, darkness coming with it, as the bonfires were lit and the what could reasonably be considered a 'party' began - alcohol flowing freely, food even provided to the victorious warriors of the God-Emperor - but for Greig and the dozen-or-so other Finreht of the Seventy-Third that remained it was one of loss and mourning. "Urram do na thuit, gum faigh iad fois còmhla ris na sinnsearan." Intoned the highest ranking officer left, raising a silver [i]quaich[/i] to his lips and swallowing the fiery liquid, smiling behind his beard as it burned down his gullet. "Honour to the fallen, may they rest with their ancestors!" Eleven more silver items glinted in the firelight as the rest drank, before descending into murmured conversation and low-scale boasting. Greig could not currently keep any company but his own, plucking off the brooch bearing his clan crest and unwrapping the top half of his plaid, wrapping it's chequered material about his shoulders and walking some way away from his own fire to lean against a hab-block wall, one hand yet resting gently on the hilt of his dirk. "Bloody weel survived again, haven't ye auldjin?" He muttered to himself, peering up at the sky and the moving stars of the Imperial Navy, watching his hot breath rise toward them, "a' they brassic wee jimmies 'n' lassies... Weel... Whit wull become o' ye now?" With as much leisurely surety as slotting in his bayonet, he reached into his sporran and plucked a hip-flask from it, and with military efficiency popped the unscrewed top into his mouth. "Bugger it." More liquid, what the Finrehters called 'life water', warmed him as a fire or a billet bed could not and, just for the moment, he was content.