Flammoria, a veteran soldier, lost in the world without a war, desperately chasing it, because she is nothing without it. She is trying to become something more than a murderer, but fails and despairs based on it. She is severely on the spectrum and can’t see faces, so she lacks in the understanding of others.
I wrote a quick narrative report, based on my last game. I finally broke my 20+ lose streak!
The day was fading over the accursed planet. Beta-Garmon — bastion of the Imperium, bleeding out in the flames of fratricidal war. Our cohort was tasked with escorting a convoy through the ruins, and command reinforced us with a tank group in support of the artillery batteries.
We saw them too late. The White Scars had melted into the debris like ghosts of Chogoris and waited. Every crack in the ferrocrete, every shell of a burned-out building breathed threat.
The air forces were the first to engage. Assault shuttles slashed across the crimson sky, deploying warriors straight into the heart of enemy positions. On the right flank, our flamers stepped into immortality: a storm of fire consumed them, but the enemy's forward detachment drowned in a promethium tempest. The right flank drowned in blood in a different way — the drop troops failed to intercept the transport carrying melta cannons, whose barrels promised death to any armour.
Our guns spoke — and the ground convulsed. Enemies fell one after another; suppressive fire nailed the survivors to the stones, shattering bone and rending flesh. But the enemy artillery did not stay silent either. Their shells found our transports. The commander had hoped both would survive, but fate pardons no mistakes: one should have been held in tactical reserve. Now the convoy stood frozen, defenceless, awaiting its escort.
The Tech-priests toiled in a frenzy, knowing no fatigue. Binary prayers merged with the roar of overstrained engines; power coils blazed white-hot; weapon mechanisms groaned under the overload. Every shot now was an act of pure will, sustained by machines.
The tank cohort entered into a duel with the enemy's heavy infantry and the implacable Dreadnought "Saturnine." This walking tomb, spawn of ancient forges, endured the onslaught with monstrous indifference — shells ricocheted, las-beams scattered across its blessed armour. Its frightful weapons — matter disintegrators — scythed through our infantry, turning warriors into clouds of bloody mist. It seemed death itself averted its gaze from this monstrosity. But when the siege guns spoke, their shells cracking the very fabric of reality, even the "Saturnine" wavered. Its armour split, its innards ignited, and the ancient warrior collapsed, ploughing into the scorched earth. The Dreadnought fell, but it took too many with it.
The scales were tipping, and not in favour of the Warmaster's adherents. On one flank our tank erupted into flames, then an artillery battery. Burning promethium spilled across the positions. And then they descended upon the battlefield — Terminators in Tactical Dreadnought armour, nightmares made manifest, striding through the hail of fire to sow death. Their terrifying weapons mowed down infantry, and their armour deflected shells. Our squads melted away before our eyes.
But even Terminators are not immortal. The guns fired without respite, and one by one they fell, buried beneath tons of churned earth and superheated metal. Only their commander, as if driven by the inferno itself, kept advancing. His thunder hammer crashed against our vehicles time and again — but in vain. The armour held firm; the crews manoeuvred, pulling their machines out of the deadly arc. Weakened by his wounds, his strength fading, he fought to the very end, yet failed to destroy a single vehicle before concentrated fire finally stopped him. Alone, deep in the enemy's rear.
We suffered horrific losses. And the enemy bled alongside us. Infantry advanced wave after wave, stumbling into craters, tripping over the bodies of the fallen, yet inexorably pushing the convoy forward. One step. Another step. Every metre was paid for in lives.
And yet our firepower did its work. The resistance was broken, shattered, trampled into the bloody mud. Only a handful of enemies survived, dissolving back into the ruins from which they emerged.
The convoy reached its destination. The forward troops will receive their supplies. The advance will continue.
This day was paid for in blood. In full. But we prevailed.
I kept having a lose streak, so today was wonderful. Was able to win against White Scars. Felt good. Lost almost all of my infantry, but was able to out score the opponent!
Artillery and demolisher cannons are
MVPs
I kept having a lose streak, so today was wonderful. Was able to win against White Scars. Felt good. Lost almost all of my infantry, but was able to out score the opponent!
Artillery and demolisher cannons are
MVPs
Auroxes are going to help me score, hopefully.
And tech priests to remove statuses from my fragile tanks.
Auroxes are going to help me score, hopefully.
And tech priests to remove statuses from my fragile tanks.
I come from 40K and it’s strange to me, but I can’t join command squads to las rifle sections or other units?
How am I supposed to keep them alive in this case..?