Lore Written by
Featuring @Teamsteem as Sgt Guillaume.
Part 1
Images and edits by @Malicered
His legs propel him backward now, muscle memory and reflexes kicking in. Heavy bursts spitting into the mad mob, he’s doing damage, severe damage. His rounds excavating stomachs, splitting bodies in two and smashing apart limbs in a cloud of green viscera.
But there are too many and they aren’t stupid. Throwing themselves around as they try to throw off his aim. They’ve been learning. In the first months of the Astartes landing and their first skirmishes the Orks would have blindly thrown themselves at them for the pure thrill, now though, now they had become more experienced with these new foes that faced them.
They know that to come head-on is suicide, they aim to wrap around him, outmanoeuvring him and leaving him vulnerable as they close in from all sides.
The first Ork to reach him tries to bridge the distance with a savage burst of speed and a jump. It’s cut off by the bolt rifles steady spurts turning to a buzzsaw. The Ork is dead before it reaches the zenith of its jump. A ruined mess slapping onto the dirt. His rifle twists to the crowd now about to reach him.
It sends them reeling and then clicks empty. His sword comes up now and the bolt rifle is cast aside. A flare of light erupts from the other side of the forest clearing, a flash as brilliant as an exploding star. The lenses of Guillaume's visor compensates, shielding him from the worst of the glare. A full third of his foes are now nothing more than ash and bubbling puddles of green meat.
Brother Ezekial strikes again, the plasma gun in his hands flaring once again, a second beam cutting into the crowd rushing towards Guillaume.
Some of the Orks turn back, intent on taking out this new threat and now Vazquez rises from his hidden position in the tree line. His shots are pinpoint accurate. Bolt after bolt smashing into where the Orks are most vulnerable; joints and the soft flesh of the throat.
They jerk this way and that, spasming as the murderous hail fire continues, the rest of the field is littered with dead and the others of the squad are advancing from all sides now, bolt rifles rattling away as Guillaume continues to fall back, sword ready for any that might break out of the killzone. But now the trap's jaws are shut and the Orks have been herded into their grave.
Their brother squad of Aggressors now stomping into sight, great hulking beasts of steel. Their arms are pointed forward, the boltstorm gauntlets spitting out their fury as they begin to break any semblance of resistance the Orks could bring to bear.
Even the Warboss is unable to withstand their fire, his armor almost melting away in the storm of shell and shrapnel their bolts unleash.
“Guillaume it seems we have broken the last true Ork holdouts in this area.” The warm voice of Brother Petra coming over the vox as the Aggressors make their way over too Guillaume.
“Emperor willing we’ve broken them forev-“ He halts the Machine Spirits demanding his attention, the base’s vox is calling for help.
“Ah it would seem I spoke too soon,” Petra’s voice is steel now, the warmth having gone with the news. His own machine spirits now doubt also alerting him.
Guillaume is too busy to reply though, busying himself with calling down their dropship too transport them back to the new fight.
Another day upon Caldris IX, the Indomitus Crusade had been stuck liberating this planet for nigh on Three months but Guillaume had a gut feeling that whatever great machinations Gulliman had been playing with would soon be coming to fruition.
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