Hank

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

We have a Legion that fields 5,000 Knight Titans. You can't go over the top, @ClocktowerEchos.

New to roleplaying!

A sixteen year old with that much talent? Impressive, @zaehl. Welcome to the Guild!

A new face, among many other faces!

You did fine.

01001111 01101100 01100100 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01110011 00100000 01010110 00100000 01010011 01110000 01100001 01101101

oh it's these newfags again

01001111 01101100 01100100 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01110011 00100000 01010110 00100000 01010011 01110000 01100001 01101101

oh it's these newfags again

RP Tag Requests

And here are some I don't understand:

- Psychological?
- WorldBuilding? I see this a lot but I'm not quite sure what it means
as a tag. Does is mean the participants are going to all develop the
world together?

@Mahz

Psychological refers to the idea that the RP will focus on the psyches of the characters and their development more than the actual events of the roleplay, or the plot itself. Frequently combined with horror, the supernatural and mystery.

You're right about World-building. Sometimes the GM has the whole world figured out already, or a pre-existing setting is used, and the players only contribute the characters they play. An RP in which the GM invites World-building gives players an opportunity to create (part of) the world themselves, often expressed through their character's history and origins.

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

_{Collab between myself and the beautiful @Culluket.}

Early M31
Adrift in the Ullanor system

Caught in one of his sorrowful moods, Gorseval stared at the large holo-map suspended in front of his wrought-iron captain's chair with disinterest. The bridge of the Eclipse was quiet. Most of the personnel was asleep and only a skeleton crew remained, and all of the Void Masters were aboard their own ships. Gorseval had dimmed the lights and idly flicked through various pict-screens, holo-maps and vox-channels.The entire fleet of the Void Stalkers drifted lazily through space, like a hibernating bear, waiting for their Primarch's command. Gorseval's advisors, the Black Guard, had learned long ago not to bother their master while he was thinking... and yet, the hours ticked by slowly. They could be fighting somewhere right now. A massive war was being waged on Ullanor Prime, several skirmishes were taking place in the rest of the system, and even more battles were being fought in other, nearby systems.

All of it meant more surface fighting. Gorseval hated fighting Orks. The green runts seemed incapable of producing a large, meaningful fleet of space ships. Gorseval despised the Eldar too, but at least they proved interesting opponents, out here in the eternal darkness. He'd vaguely caught wind of a few of his brothers tackling an Eldar Craftworld, but that was in another segmentus of the galaxy.

Before the assault on the shipyards, Gorseval had received a telepathic communication from Lydia Magaera, the Lady of Victory, and Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, the Kindly Ones. This wasn't unusual -- Gorseval and Lydia frequently communicated that way, being two of the few psychic Primarchs. It had been an image of a planet, Harkonnen IV, with some strategic information attached to it. Large planetary assault, three different Ork forces, collaboration with the Fifteenth -- it had looked like a good scrap. Brooding, Gorseval sent Lydia a few mental images of the shipyard battle and Farrah, the Shield of the Imperium, smashing an Ork Weirdboy with her enormous war-mace, along with a general mood of dissatisfaction.

It was a moment before there was any response.

But then, slowly, gradually, it was as though Gorseval could see the old balcony in the back of his mind's eye, a great edifice of white, pillared marble jutting out over a vast, grey ocean which lapped against its cliffs beneath a canopy of stars. A thousand miles distant and yet as clear as if it had been within his arm's reach. Warm firelight flickered from within, a beacon he could always find when he chose to. Frequently Magaera would come to meet him there, on that phantom ledge, but now he felt her presence beckoning from within.

As he had done so often before, Gorseval stepped out of the dark, technology-ridden bridge of the Eclipse and into the beautiful, marble scene of the mind-temple. Back on the ship, Gorseval's eyes closed and he seemed to fall asleep in his chair. Lights winked softly in the bridge and servos whirred, but nothing would disturb him there.

The temple was wide, open and radiant, set with flickering braziers and opulent decoration. The impression lingered of warm summer air, fresh with the scent of salt and the cry of sea-birds echoing distantly through the colonnades from without. Against one wall hung the lifeless head of Habdab Swiftfingerz, with two further hooks to either side awaiting their trophies. The stone nearby was adorned with a red-figure painting depicting Fu Xia's conquest of the beast. There was yet plenty of room to spare.

Lydia herself in her white chiton and golden clasps stood pacing slowly around the circular mosaic that had dominated the center of her temple. But where once had been an elaborate map of her homeworld now showed the surface of forge world Harkonnen, bristling with miniature tokens and figurines, attack vectors drawn out with strings of red twine. The southern end of the battlefield had apparently been claimed as a successful beachhead, and the game-pieces of the Kindly Ones and the Sons of the Storm now flowed upstream in a two-pronged invasion.

With the butt of her fabled spear, Lydia pushed two of the tokens to an altered course and at last turned to her brother, lifting her chin high in her old aspect of pride, but smiling in silent welcome. She tilted her head in a mild expression of sympathy, raised a questioning eyebrow and gestured back the way he had come.

In here, Gorseval was dressed in long, featureless robes of black. They were what he had worn as the Silent King of the Reach, before the Emperor found him, and even after thirty years his mind would dress him as such. He took a few seconds to take in the appearance of his sister before him, resplendent in white, her eyes like blue fire. Gorseval had always fostered a quiet appreciation for her hard beauty, and an even more quiet envy of her expressive eyes.

Gorseval's bare feet moved soundlessly over the marble floor and he walked closer to the mosaic, hands clasped behind his back, and he looked down at the map. Harkonnen IV. He met her gaze when she raised an eyebrow, and Gorseval shrugged. "Too easy. The shipyards were... ah, I wouldn't say poorly defended, but Farrah is very good at what she does. Ullanor Secundus had a few Ork kroozers defending it, but nothing spectacular," Gorseval explained. His long black hair fell like curtains around his face as he looked down again, his eyes studying the pieces and the mosaic. "Looks like your tactic worked."

The Lady's head tilted back again, her expression thoughtful. There was a feeling of acknowledgement, of understanding, but then the image of a half-finished tapestry, of a bowl slowly filled to overflowing, of a pair of scales, one side weighed heavily with golden coins, the other lightly with crude stones. Slowly, more stones began to fall, then more, and gradually, inexorably, the scales began to tip until they were almost even.

She lifted her spear and thumped the floor of the temple with its shaft, once. Abruptly the tiles around the mosaic were cluttered with a second host of figures and statuettes -- the beautifully-carved shapes of Imperial battleships, twisted barbarian vessels in crude copper, and an unusually great number of large stones, all connected to points on the map by hundreds of long red threads.

No. Not stones.

Rocks.

She shared the tactical data, opening herself, the detections and predictions of her augurs and her own prognostications spanning out in his mind's eye. The assault would succeed. She would not accept anything less. But the incoming rok-ships alone were too great in number to be stopped entirely by the 13th and 15th fleets, and their landings, and the reinforcements they would bring with them, had a narrow predictablility. There would be prices to pay for victory.

Lydia's gift for visualization made it easy for Gorseval to understand what he was looking at. The Orks hadn't actually finished gathering on Harkonnen IV and a great stream of reinforcements was still pouring in. Gorseval fell silent for a minute while he compared his own precognitions and estimations with Lydia's and found them to mostly overlap -- should nobody intervene, the switft and decisive strike of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth would turn into a long, drawn-out war of attrition.

Like the movements of a dream, the map and the figures were gone, and the Lady of Victory now sat sidesaddle at one end of a great wooden banquet table, set with a lavish feast. She radiated invitation, welcome, a tantalizing glimpse of challenge, the filling of an empty belly accustomed to better meals than the ones so recently taken. Lydia smiled, warmly, and held a wide carving-knife by its tip over the top of a huge shank of cooked meat, offering the handle to Gorseval.

Amused, Gorseval accepted the blade. The wooden banquet table vanished and Gorseval and Lydia found themselves standing on opposite sides of a large, three-dimensional representation of the space around Harkonnen IV. Lydia was a master of terrestrial war, and it showed in her two-dimensional mosaic. Now it was Gorseval's turn to show her something, and that required a Z-axis.

Harkonnen IV hung between them like the projection from a holo-map, translucent and softly flickering. Gorseval's mind placed the red dots of the incoming Ork fleet with swift strokes -- no beautiful carvings or marble figurines, but abstract markings. He was a starfleet commander, not an artisan. Lydia's own fleet was represented by white dots and Fu Xia's in navy blue. While his mind worked to finish the projection, Gorseval changed the angle of the view a few times, rotating Harkonnen IV this way and that, and moving the dots until it satisfied him. The Roks and kroozers were coming in like a stream from above, towards the Astartes fleets that covered Harkonnen IV like a shroud. With a wave of his left hand, Gorseval changed the positioning of Lydia's and Fu Xia's fleets to form a bowl instead, its edges curving away from Harkonnen IV and towards the incoming Ork fleet. With another wave from his right hand, Gorseval painted a purple streak through the air that ended just behind the influx of red dots. Little pixelated portals opened and purple dots streamed out, trapping the Ork fleet inside a tri-color trap.

Lydia watched the display with cool attentiveness, and nodded once, firmly. There was a distant sound, like the chiming of a bronze bell, soon followed by the low thrum of distant engines. Ghost-images appeared between the luminous icons of the Imperial ships, charting the vectors and progress of the new positions. There was a sense of rightness, correctness, and a flood of images: Some base substance being ground in a mortar and pestle; distant ships drawing nearer over an endless blue sea; the two of them drinking from the same wide goblet; a sword through the neck of a great, dead serpent. Anticipation, respect and satisfaction.

The war goddess smiled, gently, and was gone.

When Lydia left, Gorseval found himself alone with his thoughts. The balcony overlooking the sea faded away and the Dark Star was surrounded by the void that suffused his very being. Gorseval steeled himself and looked into the darkness, staring down the two bright points of eternal screamlight that always seemed to be there waiting for him. "Soon," he whispered, and forced his eyes open.

---

One week later
Early M31
640,500km above the surface of Harkonnen IV

The calculations and predictions of Gorseval and his Void Masters had been perfect. The fleet of the Void Stalkers exited the Warp right behind the advancing Ork procession -- and just in time, too. The relatively slow-moving Roks were mere hours from hurling themselves into the blockade of Imperial spaceships that now hung in front of Harkonnen IV like a large net. Hundreds upon hundreds of black battleships, cruisers and frigates flung themselves out of the monstrous Warp portals. Chief among them was the Eclipse, unparalleled in size, its Lance batteries already powering up for the first salvo.

Gorseval sent a short telepathic ping to Lydia to let her know that they'd arrived. At once he felt her response, like a blinding white radiance from the Furies' capital ship.

From the vantage point of his captain's chair, looking through the enormous void-windows, Gorseval could see the entire Ork fleet spread out before him. It stretched out seemingly forever, growing ever smaller into the distance. Forming the backdrop was the planet, still so far away that it was barely any bigger than a volleyball, and a whole host of small lights blinking in the darkness -- the Astartes ships he had come to support.

"No time to waste," Gorseval spoke into his vox-mic. "Cataclysm-pattern formation. Proceed to target-marking." Immediately, his display lit up with Void Masters and other captains designating which enemy ship (or Rok) they were going to open fire at. The biggest priority during a void ambush was to ensure that not a single shot was wasted. Efficiency was key.

Once every ship had marked their target, a process that didn't take more than thirty seconds, Gorseval spoke again. His voice was flat and emotionless, little more than a whisper, completely indifferent to the fact that he was consigning hundreds of thousands -- if not millions -- of Orks to their deaths. "Death." As one, the Void Masters repeated the hushed word over the vox-link. It was the closest thing to a battlecry that the Void Stalkers had.

The barrage was tremendous. Every single ship in the Legion's fleet lit up, unleashing a veritable hailstorm of tornadoes, blinding flashes of light and heat, pulsing salvos of plasma and a myriad other weaponries. The whole affair was certainly bright enough to be seen from the surface of Harkonnen IV with the naked eye. The Eclipse had its targeting-vectors trained on a particularly massive Ork Battlekroozer that was hastily trying to turn around. Too late, Gorseval thought. "Redirect all energy to the Lance batteries," he commanded. Until the Ork ships had turned around there was no return fire to protect themselves from, so why bother?

The forward-facing Lance batteries lining the broadsides of the Eclipse all opened fire simultaneously. The unbearably bright deathray blotted out Gorseval's view of the battle and he had to rely on his instruments and his powers to tell him how his other ships were faring. After ten seconds, the Lance batteries stopped abruptly. The Ork Battlekroozer had been rend open along the spine of the vessel and its mechanical guts were spilling out into the hard vacuum. By now, more of the Ork vessels had managed to face their sudden attackers and Gorseval had power redirected to the Eclipse's shields.

He watched in satisfaction as the Event Horizon spearheaded the charge a few hundred miles in front of him, ramming an Ork kroozer while simultaneously angling its broadsides towards a Rok -- a single salvo was enough to reduce the asteroid to a thousand thousand pieces of space rubble. Void Master Balthasith was once again proving his unparallelled bravado. The Phantom, utilizing its experimental cloaking field, suddenly appeared inside a formation of Ork ships and fired out in all directions, and the Void Maw took advantage of the situation by firing its devastating Nova cannon. Two of the Ork ships were disemboweled by the high-speed projectile and almost turned inside-out.

In order to stop the Orks from fleeing, Gorseval had the faster cruisers and escorts of the fleet advance down the length of the battle to link up with the edges of the 'bowl' that the fleet of the Kindly Ones and the Sons of the Storm formed, like an enormous double-sided Lotus-pattern formation that Fu Xia was so fond of. Caught between two centralized pits of firepower and kept in place by the agile cruisers, the Orks had nowhere left to run.

Gorseval sent another short telepathic message to Lydia, conveying a sense of satisfaction and pride. This was beautiful.

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

Based on @BCTheEntity's estimation, I've placed Gorseval's discovery at 975.M30. Given that he was found thirty years before the Ullanor campaign, that makes the current date 005.M31. Are we all okay with that?

Chronicles of The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP Side Thread]

_{Below is the entirety of the flashback I wrote with @Savage, describing the second meeting of Erron Khaal and Gorseval.}

Location: Aboard the Eclipse, at the edge of the Forridien System.
Date: 980.M30
Parties Involved: The Great Chief and the Dark Star.

The bridge of the Eclipse, as befitted any Apocalypse-class battleship, was an enormous and ostentatious affair. The captain's chair, elevated on a raised platform, much like the iron throne in Gorseval's old throne room, dominated the space. It was surrounded by rows upon rows of cogitator banks, crewed by dozens of helmsmen, ensigns and servitors. Large, void-shielded windows, almost forty feet high, allowed anyone on the bridge to pensively stare into space. This was exactly what Gorseval, Primarch of the Void Stalkers, was currently doing. They had been waiting at the edge of the Forridien system for the arrival of the Wild Blades and its primarch Erron Khaal, known as the Great Chief. It had been a little over five years since Gorseval had last seen Erron -- a meeting that had not exactly gone smoothly. It was when the Emperor, accompanied by Erron and Mon-Kal of the Bloody Host, had finally retrieved Gorseval, the last of his lost children. There had been a short, but brutal war between the Imperial forces and Gorseval's armies, and Gorseval wasn't sure if the Great Chief would have forgiven him by now. 

By now, the Wild Blades' fleet had arrived, and Gorseval had extended an invitation to Erron to join him on the bridge of the Eclipse. One of the many screens on the cogitator bank of the captain's great chair started blinking, and Gorseval glanced at it -- Erron had arrived. With a wave of his hand, Gorseval ordered the chair to descend to the floor, and the Dark Star got to his feet. By now, he was dressed in the finest power armor the Imperial forces could forge; colored a deep shade of purple and coated in pearlescent paint, the armor bespoke of a regal elegance. Gorseval's force sword, Darkness, was sheathed at his waist and an iron halo was attached to the armor's torso. Gorseval straightened his black cape and looked up as the great, adamantium blast-doors opened and Erron Khaal stepped onto the bridge. 

When the invitation had reached Erron upon his flagship, he had to admit that there was a bit of surprise that accompanied it. His brother Gorseval, while now fully and completely loyal to their Fathers charge, was still not the most outgoing of his siblings. Thus, when he recieved the request, he took it on a sign of very good faith that his brother Gorseval meant to try and reach out after what had happened five years ago.

Of those days, Erron never speaks. He has made it a standing order among his Seers to never retell the stories of brothers fallen within the rocks of Reach. While unpopular, he sees it as a necessary transgression against the culture of his people. If Erron could ever hope to try and bridge the rift between Wild Blades and Void Stalkers, some legends were better left forgotten.

He entered the ship with only his four Apexa Predatoris, even though it was a compromise to even bring them. His Thanes, especially Ballor of the 1st, had wanted a fully armed and armored honor guard to accompany their Primarch. As much a show of strength as protection. Erron staunchly refused, wanting to go alone, but accepted to take along his body guards to appease his Thanes. All five were dressed in resplendent Artificer armor, deep emerald in color and riddled with gold designs and details. They all went helmet-less, again a demand from Erron. He wanted nothing about this meeting to appear martial or abbrasive. This was a meeting of brothers, not a time to reopen old war wounds. As such, he left his own sword behind, carrying only the smaller of the two Sisters, each of his guards replacing their typical two-handed blades for smaller knives as well. As much as he could see it bristling the most elite of his sons to be without their weapons, he spoke reassuring words as the giant doors to the Eclipse's bridge opened. He saw his brother, regal in deep violet armor, and stepped forward with his arms outstretched wide, a smile on his bronzed face, green eyes bright. 

"Brother, good to see you again!" he said, trying to break any possible awkwardness outright by being as open and accepting as possible.

Gorseval had assumed that Erron would have brought a larger retinue with him, and was pleasantly surprised that the Great Chief apparently placed enough faith in him now to only bring four bodyguards. An even bigger surprise, and great relief, was Erron's magnanimous smile and open arms. Gorseval hesitated for a few seconds, eyebrows raised, unable to fully conceal his emotions, before stepping forward with great strides and clasping his brother by the arm. "Erron," he said, and returned the Great Chief's smile with a faint curling of his lips -- something any one of the Black Guard could have attested was a very rare sight. "Thank you for coming." 

Much like their during their first meeting, Gorseval had dismissed all of his bodyguards and close advisors, and the bridge was only filled with the low-ranking crewmembers essential to keeping the Eclipse running. They all stared with wide eyes -- it was not every day that they got to witness the meeting of two Primarchs, even though they were accustomed to Gorseval's presence by now. 

"I have to admit I was not sure what to expect," Gorseval continued in a soft voice. The melancholic look had returned to his face by now, and he met his brother's emerald gaze with a slight hint of shame. "I have learned a lot, these past five years. Our Father's cause is righteous and I was blinded to it by my own ambition." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Either way, it is good that you are here. How was your journey?" 

Erron continued to smile, and at the sight of an empty bridge, and no apparent hostilities, even his guards relaxed. Erron turned to them and waved them off, "Go off and find your cousins, I have business to attend to here," he said dismissively. "Chief?" One of them said and Erron gave the man a hard look, and he merely nodded and turned, taking the other three with him. No doubt they would simply stay close by, but at least they would not be hovering over his shoulder like an overly protective hen. He turned back to his brother, again smiling broadly and clasping his other hand on the mans shoulder, still grasping his wrist. 

"Well space travel pales in comparison to feeling the wind in your hair and the sun on your face, but I cannot complain too much," he said chuckling. "As for the past," Erron shook his head from side to side, "think none of it my friend. Time heals all things, and though we are perfectly made in our Fathers image of man, does that not make us all inherently as imperfect as all mankind is?" His smile grew again, and he slapped Gorsevals shoulder, the ceramite plates clacking loudly. "Come now, you must have something aboard this giant boat to drink!"

The Dark Star's pride flared slightly at being called imperfect, and the grave expression on his face flickered briefly. He shoved the feeling aside and couldn't help but smile again and shake his head at Erron's apparent thirst. "Honestly, I wouldn't know. I assume so." Gorseval turned to one of the armsmen standing guard by the bridge's doors and spoke: "Fetch Asmodal for me. Tell him to bring something to drink. The... strong stuff? I take it he will know what I mean." Gorseval turned back to Erron and continued: "I have to say I don't partake myself, but I know some of my Legionnaires do. Asmodal has been with me from the start. The men of the Reach are not as strict as my own geneseed commands, it seems." 

Letting go of Erron's arm, Gorseval motioned for them to walk to the window, maneuvering between the cogitators and holo-screens that told of the ship's status. Gorseval glanced at them briefly in passing, and saw to his satisfaction that all was well. In front of them lay the sprawling Forridien system, its star only a wan point of light, its planets merely pinpricks. "I understand the Bloody Host is to join us," Gorseval said with a certain hardness to his voice. If he had been worried Erron might not have forgiven him, he was almost positive that Mon-Kal would not have. 

Erron sighed, walking alongside his brother and looking up at the huge, vaulted ceiling of the bridge. "As our fathers commands, so shall it be," he said, then started chuckling. "This will be a grand reunion to be sure, for our brother has been known to have a bit of a nasty temper," Erron continued. He heard the change in his brothers voice, decades of diplomatic meetings teaching him to pick up on certain cues in body language. "Don't worry about Mon-Kal Gorseval, he may still harbor some rage from the old days but his anger is unlike that of our sister Lydia. He is quick to anger, and it burns fast and hot but extinguishes itself quickly. Plus," he said shrugging, "He won't want to fight you since he will be up to his chin in Greenskin filth."

The armsman then returned, bearing a tray laden with a bottle of dark, almost black, liquid and two iron cups. Looking at the beverage Erron smiled and looked at his brother with a side ways glance, "Brother, do you really have to make everything black?" he said with a teasing laugh as he poured himself and his brother a cup and held out the iron mug. 

He raised his own, "To victory, and brotherhood," he said.

His face unreadable, Gorseval looked at the offered cup, then back up at Erron. "This," he said pointedly while lifting his arm, "is purple. And I am not responsible for this," he added before gingerly taking the mug. "To victory and brotherhood," Gorseval echoed, touched his cup to Erron's, and took a sip. He stared out into space and swilled the black liquor in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. Still pensive, he tilted his head and looked at the cup again. "Not as bad as I was expecting. It seems Asmodal knows what he's doing. But I have been told you are the expert; what do you make of it?" he asked Erron. 

Erron, unlike his brother, downed the entire mug and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Gah! Tastes like Tauroch piss and burns worse than plasma fire," he said, laughing, "which means its better than most of the filth any of the Imperial Army brews." He said with a wink, pouring himself another mug and drinking it more slowly. "One day you'll have to visit Varnis, and I'll have you up on the tables of the longhouse singing and fighting in no time like the warriors of legend," Erron said as he clapped Gorseval on the back again. 

"So now," he began, "not to jump right into business, but I assume you did ask me here for more than just a social call brother? Although if thats the case, I recommend we get more of this," he nodded to the bottle with a smile. 

"I highly doubt that," Gorseval said with the slightest hint of amusement to his voice, "but I shall come to Varnis all the same. That said, you are right, I did not just invite you to exchange pleasantries. Scans of the planets ahead of us indicate that we are facing a very significant host of Greenskins. I have not fought them before, but my advisors tell me they are ferocious and straightforward warriors. What do you know of them?" Gorseval asked with a sidelong glance at his brother, resting his hand on the pommel of his force sword. 

"I've faced their kind before, on Roma when I helped our brother Maximus," Erron said. "They were big, dumb, and aggressive, but almost completely unorganized and lacked any kind of command structure that I could see. We butchered them fairly easily, once we softened their overwhelming numbers with a barrage from space that opened up enough holes for my Legion to insert and divide up the green tide into more manageable pieces." He took another drink, looking at the various panels and blinking lights of the ships controls. 

"Our father however," he continued, "Seems to think this is more than just a pack of ravenous animals if he is to send three Legions in order to combat it." 

"Or perhaps he believes an easy campaign and flawless victory will soothe old tensions," Gorseval offered as a contrarian opinion. "One never knows with Father. Honestly, though, I think you are right. Based on preliminary reports it seems like the Greenskins are using the system's asteroids for something. To me, this indicates a higher level of organization and cooperation than what you describe. Tell me, Erron," Gorseval continued, and took another cautious sip of the black liquor, "how does your Legion fight?" 

His dark eyebrows furrowed at the mention of asteroids, thinking about the possible applications of the Greenskins for harvesting them. Whatever it was, the simple fact that they managed to reach past the upper atmosphere meant that they had higher levels of sophistication than the Orks he had seen already. 

"Well, typically we stay mobile. Outrider bikes and Stormbirds being prefered, moving quickly as soon as planetfall has been achieved to surround and strike at the enemy in order to end the battle as efficently as possible," he said. "Heavy vehicles take too long to prepare, and are too prone to getting bogged down. Aerial insertions are much more reliable." He finished. 

"Agreed," Gorseval said. "But you fight as a single unit, then? I don't like that style, personally. What if the enemy is well-prepared and lures you into a trap?" He rapped the pommel of his sword with his fingers and put his cup back on the armsman's tray. "When on the ground, the Void Stalkers split up into companies and tactical squads and harass and demoralize the enemy until their spirit is ready to break. That way, one avoids a gratuitous bloodbath... though, as I recall, you did not exactly commend me for that style," he finished, and leaned his head back, tracing the metalwork on the bridge's ceiling with his gaze. 

"Well, while I cannot agree that fighting from the shadows is a way that my Legion would attack an enemy, I also cannot deny the success your campaigns have had," he said, completely ignoring the fact that such tactics had been used against himself not five years ago. "And while we fight always at the side of our brothers, it is not entirely as one unit as you say. Each of my Companies is able to support themselves, save for maybe my 2nd, who specialize almost exclusively in aerial assualts from Stormbirds and Jumppacks. They are perhaps the most inflexible of my children, though the fault is probably mine," he said with a smile. "You see, it was I who gave them their totem, and encouraged them to find strength and courage from it. It only seems fair that they took that to mean emulate entirely."

"That's funny, isn't it," Gorseval said. "How our sons seem to be so... how do I put this into words?" He rubbed his chin with his right hand and contemplated what he wanted to say for a few seconds. "You show them a bird and they take to the skies. I show them the darkness and they shy away from the sun. I hesitate to use such terms, but I would almost call it single-mindedness. Do you think Father made them that way deliberately?" Gorseval asked quietly, curious how his brother would react. 

"I think your answer deserves another question," Erron said, his voice now more serious, "Do you think our Father made us the same way?" He raised his eyebrows, and regarded the star-strewn voidscape within the great windows of the bridge. "Think about it, twenty children of a nearly godlike being, though he would chastise me for referring to him as such. And of us all, how many can you think of that actually meet the mark?" He held his arms out wide, "Erron Khaal, the Great Chief and Primarch of the Wild Blades, most powerful warrior of Varnis, and yet I follow his orders without a single doubt of their authenticity and rightousness. Is that not the same way that our Legions follow us brother?"

Gorseval's brows furrowed at Erron's words. "Truly?" he asked, and turned his head to look him in the eyes. "Without a single doubt?" The depthless black pools of Gorseval's eyes were inscrutable, but the expression on his face would speak volumes to someone as experienced as Erron. 

Erron looked at his brothers face, seeing the disbelief there, and perhaps the internal struggle of a man who now was facing his own doubts. He smiled, a warm, reassuring gesture. "No....not one. I have grown up around warriors all my life. Never before have I met one that follows a course as pure as I believe our Fathers is. I know that there is no such thing as pure goodness in this world, but a truely just victory is its own reward in the end." 

"That's what I thought as well," Gorseval said darkly. "Before you and Father and Mon-Kal came. I thought I was leading the people of the Reach to a higher purpose. That under my absolute authority, they would build something larger than life, larger than themselves. I fought the Eldar and believed my cause was just, and that my inevitable victory over those xenos would empower my people. When that victory was snatched away, I was not grateful. I saw the three of you as thieves and unwanted outsiders, so I turned on you. Now, of course..." Gorseval paused to take a deep breath and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, "now we know that I was wrong. But I could not see that when I was in the thick of it. How can we be sure that our Father's cause is just, and he is not as blind as I was?"

Erron merely shrugged, "Tell me, what have you seen since you have joined us? How many members of mankind lost and reclaimed? How many worlds made safer by the blood we shed as the sword of the Emperor?"

Gorseval was silent for a while and stared out into space. "Many," he admitted. "You're right. I should not worry about these things so much." Gingerly, he risked extending his mind and glancing at Erron's surface thoughts. As far as Gorseval could tell, the Great Chief believed what he said. Gorseval managed to conjure another faint smile and cleared his throat. "Now then. I think the Bloody Host will be here soon. Let's talk about how we're going to kill these Orks." 

The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

Yeah, you're probably right. I was going to add another part to my next post, but it it makes more sense to post the whole thing in the Chronicles.