Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25684606-20180802153703/@comment-25684606-20190312173128

The team had been forced into a small circle by the initial impact of the orkish attack, but now they resisted fervently against the Xenos' assault.

The crude pieces of slab metal were no match for Volprecht's power field, but his swings left him open. Even though it was for mere fractions of a second, it was enough for an Ork or two to lunge forward and make an attack of its own. Despite most of them falling inevitably prey to Volprecht's weapon, they would eventually break through his armor by sheer law of propability and numbers unless eradicated quickly enough.

By his side, Kellen was hardly less successful, only the use of the Narthecium cost him precious time, as its mechanism had not been built for combat actions. Regardless, with the two Marines up front, assisting their Captain, few Orks made it past to the less martially apt Brothers.

Suddenly, the minds of everyone were occupied by a vision of victory, supremely so, their images lined against a rising sun, towering over incountable numbers of slain Xenos. The image faded as quickly as it came, but the feeling of absolute certainty regarding the outcome remained.

Despite the triumvirate of Ciaran, Volprecht and Kellen stemming the tide of Greenskins, a few managed to slip around them and assail Dax, only to find themselves staring down the muzzle of his Plasma Cannon for a brief moment before being vaporized instantly. Regardless of its efficiency, Dax would have to gamble, as the weapon slowly but surely heated up under such frequent usage.

Ciaran became a swirling tornado of silver death, leaving traces of crackling lightning and fountaining Ork blood behind. His back was covered by Tyberion, who wielded the massive Eviscerator with the ease a Neophyte would handle a practice sword.

Quickly, the Marines were stained in gore and ichor, entrails and crushed skulls at their feet. For every Ork they cut down, another seemed to take its place and worst of all, another, deeper, louder roar announced the arrival of a new enemy.

From the swirling dust that laid over the plaza emerged an Ork, taller than all of his brethren. His armor was patched together from scrap metal, salvaged bits of Flak and even what seemed like parts ripped from a tank. Freshly severed heads stuck on a pole strapped to its back and several of the teeth in its gaping maw had been replaced by shards of steel..

Tyberion recognized the Ork instantly, for it was none other than Gutsmasha. Despite the new trophies the Alien had claimed, Tyberion could identify him by missing two fingers on his right hand and the crude scar running from its bald forehead back to its right ear.

It was surrounded by a guard of similarly broad Orks, each of them easily standing at an Astartes height, with their leader towering even beyond that. Instead of guns, they carried massive, twin-headed Chainaxes, each of them surely able to cut easily through the armor of a light tank. They beelined for the Astartes, simply hacking down any of their underlings that were not fast enough to get out of the way.