Walker couldn't necessarily claim surprise when gypsy woke up, grabbing the formally dressed one, and barking some madness about having been left behind, allying with some nightmare, and the subsequent back and forth between her and her current hostage. Frankly, Walker was too bloody tired for this, but he still forced himself up to his feet, though he didn't do anything brash like charge forward, try to disarm, or otherwise risk some sort of murder happening. He had not, literally, hauled her ass all this way just to have her murder another person that could be of use to him. "Yes, you have the long and short of it. Different places indeed..."
Once Kaath had said her piece, and mentioned how that puke of Keepa's had likely tilted and befuddled gypsy's mind, and considered the situation at hand. Considering what had been said, and given the nightmare visions that she had experienced, his tone was surprisingly even, and one with sharp eyes for the sort of thing could see he had, once again, locked down and begun damage control, putting off his own for later. "As unpleasant as those waking nightmares sound, humor me and consider the following. Do any of us look like we've the skill or ability to heal the kind of damage you were forced to imagine? Believe it or not, we all woke up here after the plague surgeon looking one pulled...some sort of stunt while we were fleeing that dumped us here. She was there when I came to, so found us rather than us finding her. Also, would we have bothered bringing that crystal ball of yours along if we only planned to mock and taunt you? I personally hauled you out of there, with your crystal ball as well."
Given her antics, Walker had pragmatic reasons for helping as well as the more easily flaunted heroic ones. Between the accusations and responses from Kaath, who, given his first gut instincts, could butcher them all in a heartbeat, well, last thing he needed was to provoke her enough to step in. "Look at it this way, if we were planning to enslave or otherwise use you as some sort of trophy or toy, why would you be unbound? Especially if she was in on it too? Not saying 'oh, just blind trust', that's madness. How about just sitting down, catching your breath, and taking a minute to think clearly, aye? Before we continue with all this hostage nonsense..."
Unlike others present, Sgt. Cestarn was relieved to maintain custody of his old equipment, uniform included, though he still would likely need to restock on munitions and other general supplies, something that he could do once released. The command squad seemed to be an odd mixture of people he'd seen the prior night, and notably their company had received the relative short end of the stick when it came to supplies, since it seemed no one in this part of his new tribe had been given the same garb and kit as the rest of the tribe carried. Still, it seemed they were going to be receiving orders as his new commanding officer turned to face them, and dispatched orders. Forty five minutes, then report to the training yard to assess the present skills. Smart, better to know what each person could do before the next conflict arrived. Or, they arrived at it, but regardless, the Sergeant had his marching orders.
First off, he needed to restock, and a quick run to the kit master would see to that. Since he wasn't angling for new kit, it wasn't hard to resupply, just replacing lost ammo and managing to talk the man into enough basic supplies to last for a reasonable amount of time. Beyond that, he'd have to scavenge, but that was common enough practice for the man. After all, his own current armor and supply of explosives was pretty much salvaged and repainted kit from the dead. Not like any of them needed it anymore, after all, so no sense leaving it about to be wasted or spend Father knows how long wasting away in some storage building before maybe, eventually, ending up reissued to another tribe. Wasteful, so Rojack and others of his old tribe would salvage what they could get their hands on and make good use of it for the Father's sake.
Shaking the thoughts from his head, the Sergeant figured he would head for the training yard early, shake some of the stiffness out of his limbs before everyone else arrived. Wouldn't hurt, and wouldn't do to be flat footed when being tested by a new tribe leader. Upon his arrival he would set his kit within quick reach, before going about stretching and working off any previous stiffness or rust from last night's festivities. Would be poor form to get out of practice so soon, when they were being sent to war in another part of Father's realm. He may not enjoy the sky ships, but he went where called. With that, he'd focus on his drills, mostly in close quarters, demonstrating a mix of well drilled, and the feral savagery, of a tribe world guardsman.
Once the mechanic was left alone in the engine room, he paused for a few, scant moments to ensure there was no sudden turn around, then wearily leaned against the nearest sturdy piece of machinery that wasn't going to scald him and groaned under his breath. He ached all over, more so where the insulated clothing had been impacted by sparking equipment as it had been breaking down, and he desperately needed this scant few minutes of catching his breath. With a grunt he forced himself back to work, expression resettling to his usual, almost eternally semi irritated look that he had been wearing as of late. With the engines at full stop, he could at least implement some emergency patches and reworking, grumbling under his breath the whole time. First was patching the god forsaken electrical system that had nearly burnt out from that merry hell he'd done to it from the shield emergency, working on live wires was dangerous, but they really couldn't bring them offline right now. Not without risking pirates again.
Making sure he was grounded and properly dressed, Ansgar ducked back under the deckplates with a non conductive set of tools, grumbling and cursing amidst the sounds of sparks and other general indications that both electrical and mechanical systems were not in a good state of repair right now. They would remain functional, but functional and good repair were two completely different things. Anyone coming into the engine room looking for the mechanic would likely have to track the sounds of improvised repairs, cursing, and the like to wherever he was beneath the deck plates of the engine room floor. For the time being, that was the priority, then he would begin working from there. And that didn't even include the necessary repairs and such that would be required for the last leg of getting into port. Once there, then the real sleepless nights would begin.
Whether or not Walker ever dignified the Keepah with a response would be lost to the past as things shifted and faded, throwing them headlong into oblivion. Something that the man would never get used to, never be able to fathom or even grow accustomed to, was this nothingness that happened, beholding the depths that stretched out so far, so impossibly far, the man would give himself a few moments, mentally, to finally freak out. Facing ever grinning monsters, impossible depths, strange visions and concepts cutting reality, this was beyond him to a degree that he could never fathom or even admit, even if he wanted to. Coming to finally, to the familiar smell of cooked fish, and accented voice, and he wheezed as he came to, the ranger captain forcing himself upright just enough to see who was talking. Still...something, and he coughed, falling back onto his back long enough to blink, and take a deep breath. No, no rest for the wicked, he couldn't afford it, there was work to be done.
"Finally, someone who looks halfway reasonable! No rest for the wicked lass, I've got things to do..." Walker rolled off the slab he was on, grunting pain as he hit the ground with absolutely no dignity or ceremony what so ever. His shoulder still had a bolt in it, and he grimaced as he picked himself up, seeing he was the first up and moving, and he grabbed the bolt embedded in his shoulder, closing his eyes and wrenching it loose with a hiss of pain. Panting, he composed himself and stuffed some loose, spare fabric into the wound to keep it from bleeding as he stuffed the bolt back into his quiver. Picking himself up, his stomach screaming complaints and unpleasantness at being jostled so soon, he had to do an inventory. The gypsy, plague surgeon, and ms. fire shooter were all present and not awake yet either, meant he was the first. Great. The one least equipped to handle or fathom what was going on, from what he'd seen at least, was first up and moving. God's spite indeed.
"Right, questions, sure. Pain is enough proof I ain't dead, where in god's spite have we ended up now? I'd say the thing we dealt with was beyond description, but you seem to be rehearsed in all this. Why?" Despite, or perhaps in spite of, the borderline sleep paralysis feeling, Walker was forcing himself to move and act, one step at a time, first, checking on the gypsy. Goop was gone, hopefully that meant whatever in spite's name had her screaming like that was gone too. Last thing he needed was a delusional mad woman with a flaming crystal ball making life difficult. The other two, beyond looking far too still for comfort, had not sustained any overt, attention needing events that he had been aware of, and hopefully would come to on their own. The man was moving deliberately, given the recent events, he had to either do that, or just collapse again, and he wouldn't afford himself that kind of luxury.
"Names Walker, by the by. Only fair I offer my own before asking for your name. Doesn't seem to be any quick way out of here, does it?" The lack of panic or even concern over the horned woman was indicative of his own home, where such traits in those born from Church experiments was not unheard of. Such a degree was rare in and of itself, and the ranger captain had always treated their kind well. Hell, even bailed one of em out of a death sentence at least once, hopefully that karma would come back to repay him at least a little bit. Assuming karma even worked in wherever the hell they were, and it was probably obvious he was forcing himself to stay on his feet, at least for now, until he could ascertain how the others were fairing. Old habits died hard, one would reckon.
The stink of chemicals announced the approaching man well before anything else might have. Not an inch of exposed skin, easy breathing mask, covered in armor. Another tribes Grenadier, if Rojack was to hazard a guess, and from a far more somber, far less pleasant one. Not all soldiers approached war like his own tribe, the Sergeant mentally reminded himself, but he found himself listening closely to the interaction between the officer and this newcomer, silently gauging the response and what to expect. The sharp salute and sharper uniform spoke volumes, this one's tribe valued appearances and protocol, whether that translated well to warfare or not, he couldn't say. It wasn't his own soldier's way, but he was silently appreciative of the fact the officer effectively said no, leave them to their own devices, and apparently she was tasking him with meeting her elsewhere tomorrow, forming a new regiment, so on and so on. He refocused when her attention returned to him, the one who had all but shoulder checked the officer getting off relatively light, though he wasn't familiar at all with the game being played, or at least the name made no sense. Still, the man got a friendly nod from the Sergeant, a rather far cry from the officer's response. The extended hand was given a firm, even handshake. None of that 'crusher grip' nonsense, he never saw the point.
"A pleasure m'um, Sergeant Rojack Cestarn, 222nd Edrastian Shock. The lads aren't quite as, call it, adjusted? That might be the word, but they mean well all the same. Follow me m'um, the lads aren't too far off." Rojack turned and started off, not taking terribly long to approach where the remaining survivors of the 222nd were gathered, one poking his head up at the sight of their Sergeant returning, an important looking hat following in tow, and a few nudges between them got them at least on their feet, more heavily inebriated than Rojack, since they'd been sitting, drinking, and gambling while the man had been walking and talking. Similar uniforms, including the patchwork salvaged armor, though to a lesser degree than Rojack's own kitbashed kit. If any of the surviving rank and file were too inebriated to stand, it didn't readily show since they would hold each other upright.
"M'um, this is the last surviving combat unit in the 222nd. The command squad is Father knows where, but there were no fighting men among them." Rojack's tone had shifted, and while one could not quite call it disrespectful, his mood and thoughts on the off world regimental command squad were plain as day. They'd hid behind medics, far speakers, and Edrastians while barking orders and had been showered with the majority of the accolades during the parade prior to this evening's festivities. Once Captain Fier...fire.... fire rocko....Fieroccu had put them at ease again, they'd return to their drinking and miscellaneous activities, be it gambling or chatter, though sideways glances were readily apparent. The surviving soldiers were evaluating the officer, leery due to their experiences with the regimental command squad of the 222nd, and while the Sergeant caught a glimpse of that mousy one, who'd been able to piece together what the other fellow had been saying, skulking off, he said nothing. Given her offers before, well, doubtful she had any interest in dealing with commissar looking officers.
The arrival of more people was a welcome thing indeed, though the tribal soldiers glanced at each other when the man with the borderline unintelligible accent came asking about, or they assumed asking about, something or another. One of them recognized the last word of his speaking, but the Father interceded on their behalf by bringing forth another who seemed to actually understand what the fellow had been saying, and translated in a far more understandable manner. She also proceeded to offer supplies, likely procured in less than up and up methods. The surviving soldiers of the 222nd would go about seeing what wares she had on her, and what they had of value to trade. Too pragmatic to turn down an opportunity to potentially pad their kits, though Rojack would pass on the offer itself, letting the other Edrastian's do as they pleased however. "Making his word's understandable is appreciated. I need to stretch my legs, otherwise I would deal cards. Play nice with the other tribes, lads, and don't spend your entire Father given pay on your lack of gambling ability."
Getting a chuckle of amusement out of his lads, Rojack would stand, taking a bottle with him as he left the tribe soldiers to their own devices. They were pleasant and welcoming even without the sergeant around, likely it was natural behavior instilled in them prior to departing their home world. Rojack, for what it was worth, trusted them to at least be civil, since polite would probably go out the window once the games started properly, be it cards or otherwise. The man took the odd swig from the bottle, wandering around and checking in at various spots, chatting with various other tribes survivors, and moving on to talk to the next. His walking would end up crossing paths with a very stern, almost Commissar looking woman. Commissar's were one of two positions filled by off worlders that had gotten any genuine respect from the Edrastian rank and file, mainly since they had a habit of leading and fighting from the front. Yes it was to ensure there was no cowardice, poor conduct, and the like, but it was respected more than how the off world officers acted all the same. Closer inspection as he came to attention revealed this woman was merely an officer, though he had no idea what tribe paraded around in a easily spotted uniform. Regardless, as the commissars had put it, respect the rank, not the wearer. That, and perhaps not all off worlder officers hid behind the lines barking orders. The salute was, in spite of the increasing inebriation, in good form, perhaps not to Mordian standards, but proper all the same.
"M'um, nothing unusual to report. Restless legs as well?" The Edrastian accent, while not as pronounced or unintelligible as some, did mangle certain words all the same. The man had returned to a more relaxed, but upright position all the same, after saluting, having done as instructed by his own regimental standards for officers. He'd no idea the standards Mordian forces would operate at, mainly since most Edrastian's had no idea about the existence of the Mordian tribe at all, so it was with guarded curiosity that he was regarding the uniform still. Wearing the colors of the natural sky were usually reserved for either formal funerals, sending the deceased their bodies after the Father accepted their souls by his side, or the extremely rare case it would provide adequate ability to be difficult to detect by sight. The man also had no inkling that this was to be his future commanding officer, perhaps the pseudo commissar attire made it easier to interact with than a formal, proper officer. After all, the only officer's that he'd dealt with were the ones who hid behind the shock troops proper, using far speakers and medics to ensure their own well being.
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.
"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." 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.
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.
Appearance: The men and women of Edrastia are well built, sturdy, and hardy, and Rojack is of no exception. In spite of the wasteland world's higher gravity, Rojack and other Edrastians remain taller than average humans, while retaining the sturdy, built look a high gravity world might create after generations of life there. A rather noteworthy scar runs along his jawline from a close brush with hostile fire, leaving an off line in the ever present stubble that keeps stubbornly coming in despite daily, sometimes several times daily, attempts to shave it. Said stubble matches the dull red hair that is kept trimmed and short, emerald green eyes peering out at the world, unfortunate circumstances giving him an almost eternally irritated look.
If one were to observe him in any state of undress, one would found countless devotional tattoos intermingling with the scar tissue, the latter a consequence of being part of a shock regiment, the former from the borderline fanaticism that Edrastians have in their service. While normally obscured, the various tattoos recall everything from scripture and prayers to holy iconography and imagery, the transient pain in undertaking these ritualistic measures a blending of old tribal traditions with Ecclesiarchy dogma. Such markings are worn with pride, and a sense of honor, and receiving such markings are seen as a right of passage.
Uniform: The uniforms of the 222nd Shock Regiment are a dusty color, designed to blend in with barren wastes and built sturdily and thickly enough to weather the elements in such inhospitably barren climates. Sturdy all weather cloaks are issued as well, to aid in protection against the elements and conceal their wearers, though they are not of any sort of special material or manufacture beyond simple foul weather gear. As a shock grenadier, Rojack has been able to survive long enough to realize that flak armor isn't quite good enough, and has salvaged a few pieces of carapace from the dead of other regiments, repainting and marking it to match their own regimental colors. The breastplate, forearms, and upper legs have carapace, the rest having to rely on standard issue Flak armor that is issued to the regimental troops. Regimental markings are on the left shoulder, under the cloak as to prevent identification at significant range by hostile elements.
Armament: Grenadiers within the 222nd carry the same lasgun as their peers, a local forgeworld copy of the Merovech Pattern Assault Lasgun, and while not quite as sturdy as the real things, they serve well for the sudden lightning strikes the shock troopers are well versed in. Rojack is no different, though he has a cut down shotgun that he carries, and outside of its lack of stock or unnecessary barrel length beyond the magazine tube, is a perfectly standard shotgun. What stands out is the pride and joy of the Edrastians, and a give away of the slowly changing feral world status, a large, borderline two handed sword, modernized with mono edge and blessed by the local Ecclesiarchy prior to each regiment's departure for service in the Emperor's name. Rojack carries a handful of frag grenades, and has a large boot knife as well, rounding out his combat tools and giving him the means to serve in the Emperor's name.
Besides his weapons, Rojack carries a small, well worn book, issued to each Edrastian upon volunteering to serve, and is a Ecclesiarchy prepared book of prayers and the like, something for the faith driven men and women to reference and review if they should ever find either their allies, or even their own, faith wavering. He also has a few hand made regicide pieces, having heard of the game and been fascinated by it, but never having the chance to learn or even play it.
Personality/Demeanour: Rojack, despite appearances, is a fairly pleasant, easy going man whenever outside of active danger. Jovial and joking, he often was referred to as the squad father figure, being one of the oldest men to volunteer for that tithe cycle, and treats his fellow comrades like a family, as was taught by both his peers and the preachers who aided in the training of the Edrastian regiments. A man of firm faith, he might not be the most overtly disciplined in terms of Guard rules and regulations, but fanatical in the execution of the Emperor's will, no matter where that calling might take him. Often found fiddling with cards or paging through his worn book during off times, he also takes the time to seek out allies having trouble, and has been reprimanded for being too blunt towards officers and senior ranking personnel.
When on the field of battle, Rojack typifies the Edrastian approach to warfare, getting as close to the enemy as possible without detection before launching the assault with grenades, gratuitous las fire, and a roaring battle cry as the shock troops slam into the enemy position with a fury comparable to religious zealots, and first in are the Grenadiers. Rojack is always moving to the forefront of any attack or combat action, putting his nominally better armor and faith in the Emperor to use protecting his less armored, or more vital, allies. He sees it as his duty to protect and lead those under his command, and took to joint operations rather well, all but adopting men and women from other regiments into his own group, though again, reprimands for not treating officers appropriately were necessary.
Greatest Ambition: For all the zeal and willingness to go the farthest into harms way, Rojack actually has aspirations to retire and help set up and run a church to guide others to the Emperor's glorious light, with the Ecclesiarchies blessings of course.
Greatest Hatred: It is a toss up between Orks, who routinely plagued his homeworld, and the traitor forces of Chaos, who are the antithesis of everything that Rojack believes in. Deserters fall into this category as well, even if it wasn't their decision to be Guardsmen, it was their calling in the Emperor's plan.
Skills: First and foremost, close quarters combat is where Rojack shines the most. Every Edrastian who volunteers is drilled and honed to a razor's edge for fighting close up, and Rojack to a shine to it, fighting with a zeal and capability that earned him further scrutiny and drilling to form the Grenadier core of the 222nd Shock Regiment. Be it city fighting, working through trenches, or just simply being that close to the enemy, Rojack prefers to be within full automatic range of the enemies of Man, and if the chance to use his blade arises, all the better.
Rojack also has a knack for explosives, seeming to have an innate understanding of them, when to throw them, where to aim them, and how to best exploit them. Useful for a man who would lead his squad into the mouth of hell, what better way to soften them up than with some well aimed explosives? The man has also taken to studying approved religious texts when the chance arises, and is surprisingly well versed in Ecclesiarchy dogma, at least well for a borderline feral worlder.
History: Edrastia is a fringe feral world, unremarkable as far as most who do not live on it are concerned. The only civilized settlers on it were Ecclesiarchal missionaries who saw it as their Emperor given mission to civilize and bring these savages into the folds of the faith. Considering the tribal faith already worshipped a single, central figure who resembled the God Emperor already, this was the easier of the two steps, and countless generations have slowly been bringing the feral tribes together as civilized men and women of the Imperium. Of course, the Ork infestation was thought to be a setback when discovered, but having a common foe united the disparate tribes, and gave a constant source of training for those chosen to fill the tithes placed upon this rock by the Imperium.
Rojack was a man from a smaller tribe, though being the tribe chieftains son gave him status all the same, training under the best warriors within the tribe to one day succeed his father as chieftain. It was when the routine visit by the missionaries of the Imperial Cult that this desire changed. Preaching the belief in the God Emperor, and also quietly selecting those who would do well as servants of his will abroad, the chieftain's son quickly volunteered, at an early age of sixteen, and began undergoing training with soldiers brought in to assist in raising and preparing the most civilized of these feral worlders for war abroad.
The 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment was raised and armed in a way that would allow them to mimic the tactics they were most used to, creeping as close to enemy positions as possible before a blistering lightning strike, assaults being opened with a barrage of grenades, weapons fire, and savage hand to hand combat. Vehicle use was limited, being predominately an infantry regiment, but were familiarized with the interiors of common transports so they were not in complete shock should the situation arise. Utilizing the ever present Orks as training fodder, the 222nd would train with modern weapons and equipment against a culturally ancient enemy, a hatred all but ingrained into their DNA. Upon his birthday, days before departure, Rojack would receive his family heirloom, the large sword that typified the wasteland ferals, having a two handed grip in case one could not wield it with a single hand, modernized by the forge tasked with arming the Edrastian regiments, and blessed by the very same Ecclesiarchal figure that inspired him to serve in the Guard.
As experienced as the regiment was with orks already, it was decided by the powers that be that, while they were already in transit to another location, to be sent to the crusade for the Vernum system in opposition to the Waaagh of Mug Thrakta. The chance to face their ancestral enemy in the Emperor's name was like a dream come true for the soldiers, and they eagerly awaited for the strange, uncomfortable transports to arrive at the Vernum system. Transit took nearly a year in real space, though once they arrived the command staff the regiment was assigned to was skeptical of these barely civilized Guardsman, though assigned them to lead assault operations in offensives against the Ork threat. They feral worlders would quickly prove themselves when leading assault operations or blunting attacks with counter assaults of their own, the ferocity and savagery they fought with garnering a reputation among the Orks, these "Wastah Gits" being right proper fightey when they showed up.
Near the end of the Crusade, The 222nd were tasked with taking a vital position that had been overlooking several avenues of approach and had been instrumental in Orkish counter attacks, being a common regrouping point for the routed greenskins that were threatening to break the outer encirclement. In the early hours, just as the sun was about to begin rising, the 222nd had begun their creeping approach. Clad in the colors of their homeworld, the blasted no mans land approaching the hill was natural terrain, Sgt. Rojack leading the Grenadier detachment he had been put in charge of by the command staff after observing the man's routine rallying of his comrades during assaults when other leadership positions had been killed. By this point the 222nd were dangerously close to being under strength, but every last guardsmen in the regiment had been gathered for this operation.
Just as the sun crested behind them, the orks would be alerted to the assaulting Guardsmen by the sound of fragmentation grenades, blistering levels of indiscriminate las fire, and a unified, bellowing war cry that shook the ground as the Grenadiers led the charge, Sgt. Rojack holding his tribal sword in one hand, and the Merovach lasgun in the other, using the sling to loosely aim towards the Orks as they descended in a hatred that comes from generations of fighting such a foe. The salvaged carapace the Grenadiers wore, and was really the best indicator of who was such an elite among the troops, gave them the staying power to hold the line and route the Ork menace from the hill. With that task done, it fell to them to dig in and hold the hill long enough for other allied elements to advance.
Assaults in other sectors would begin, and Orks surged forward towards the hill that they always gathered on to attack from, only to see the standard of the 222nd planted firmly where their effigies to Gork, or Mork, would have been. Enraged, they came as a tide, and rather than sit and wait, the 222nd counterassaulted, as was their tactic, volleys of grenades staggering the approaching assault with sheer volume, clashing melee being brutal and bloody. Several times this pattern would play out throughout the day, and when relief forces arrived, they found a shattered, but still standing, 222nd having just repulsed the latest, and as history would show, last assault on the hill.
With not even a full platoon left, the 222nd would have to be disbanded and folded into other regiments, Sgt. Rojack solemnly swearing that he would continue to serve no matter where the Emperor would send him, though it was noted he spent some time in the company of Priests attached to the regiment before the dissolution and merging into other regiments would begin. Whether seeking consolation and guidance in the face of such loss of friends and comrades, or perhaps praying for the fallen, Rojack remained tight lipped on the matter. No matter where he was called, he would answer, even if he was no longer among those he knew. They would report and muster with their remaining command staff and troopers, as ordered, to meet the future one more time as a regiment.
Miscellaneous: Rojack enjoys carving Regicide figures out of whatever materials he can find, and would love to learn the game sometime, even if he doesn't precisely have a brain for the complex strategies it might entail. He is also a scavenger, of sorts, picking through battlefields after the fighting is done, looking to improve his kit wherever possible.
I'm currently working on someone who'll be an up close and personal type of fellow, expect him done within the next day or so and submitted for review.
Much obliged for having this tipped off to me, definitely relevant to my interests. About to head into work, but I'll be brainstorming character ideas from there and then begin work on my CS afterwords.
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