Stiff resistance was stepping out and letting loose with their ordnance on Brand's uphill assault, but the Goliaths were still able to return fire and further their collective attempt to reach the top, and thick swarms of warriors, vehicles and weapons of all design were being hurled at the re-attaching mass of mechanised armour in answer. Everything was beginning to make sense to the otherwise highly-stressed brigade, and before long, their rate of fire would begin to increase with the intensity of the fight, even as the lines eventually clashed to slow both advances down; and though the Mawites pushing back had the high-ground advantage, along with that of momentum over the Blue-Heart, there was something savage about the unhinged abandon in which the defenders' line was treated, driving their wide mass into the most dense gathering of opponents. With all the crazed warriors then attempting to use the loss in momentum to their advantage, the LMG-gunners atop the Galidraani turrets would be forgiven for closing the hatches on their foes, but they didn't, electing to hold their own and let loose with the weapons they were paired with instead.
The infantry had two differing choices of deathly predicament, and though they were all willing to fight and die like true soldiers of the New Order, their outlook appeared very bleak whichever way they decided to turn; on one hand, they could've moved alongside and behind the vehicles to cover as best as they could, and on the other, they were free to face the marauder threat as they sat atop the same vehicles their rifle-toting colleagues were using as cover. Bleak were the circumstances, dire straits indeed to slog their way through, but the men of Blue-Heart Battalion would fight on, no matter what brutal hands their fates had dealt them; such resolve would make none prouder than Lord Erskine himself, but the Stormchaser wasn't there to see such resolve in action. Their charismatic leader would have quieter, seemingly-more important matters to attend to as the subordinates fought and died amongst the steel, fire, blood and snowfall, with their fresh-legged foes screaming bloody-murder in their faces every step of the way.
'All units, this is Brand! Keep fighting with everything you are, and the Maw's mountaintop fortress will be ours before long! THROW - EVERYTHING - AT WHOEVER, OR WHATEVER, STANDS IN OUR WAY!!! I DON'T CARE IF YOU 'AVE TO USE A BLOODY TRENCH-SHOVEL TO DOME 'EM, JUS' CLENCH YOUR JAWS AN' GET STUCK IN!!! AFV One out!'
Not knowing whether the words of encouragement were working for the Blue-Hearts or not, Brand had no choice but to trust the process as the depleted brigade pushed ever so aggressively towards their enemies' second trenchline, and to an extent that everyone looking up towards it could see the clear artificially-dug line in in the nearest plateau's horizon. Fewer than three-hundred metres away, with defenders at the barbed-wire perimeter doing their best to provide covering fire with distance and the elements working against the overall accuracy of their shots, more Marauders prepared to make their move, though whether they were opting to push downhill at a sprint (like the Athysians had just minutes before them) or not still remained to be seen.
Between the Commonwealth contingent or that of the Marauders, something, or rather - some-one had to give eventually, and Brand was determined that his advantage in armour (and in rear-engine repulsorlift momentum also) would see them safely to the second trenchline. Every smoothbore, LMG and blaster onboard the 2nd Brigade's vehicles were aiming uphill at differing targets that would otherwise present a whole array of challenges for the Blue-Hearts in their eastward ascent. With the crewmen focusing on the opposition they'd be facing eventually, all the riflemen, Quartermasters, medics and the general momentum of the vehicles they relied on would be the sole element attempting to push their foes back uphill in disarray; a harsh truth the unfortunate infantrymen had known long before landing on Ilum's surface, though it still enraged them enough to take all their anger out on those who were howling bloody-murder in their faces.
'GOD SAVE GALIDRAAAAAAAAAN!!!!!'
Crashing through the center of the Athysian line would come at a cost, though it was a cost that every surviving member of the Blue-Hearts was willing to pay with their lives, even in the face of opposing heavy-ordnance, Moon-Children and Branchlurkers. The third wave of sallying enemies would be their hardest, spilling over the second-trenchline's dirt-mounds with unquenchable wrath spurring them down at their ascending foes. The brave men below did not know if they'd survive the encounter or not, but all were resolute in the will to drag as many abominations to the afterlife with them; a grim outlook to instil in themselves, but deathly determination was what they needed in those testing moments in the run up to the impending clashing of the lines, so all who would dare look uphill would smile knowing these hideous beasts, (and all the modified vehicles that drove astride them) were in for the fright of a lifetime.
Another Ideal Battlefield X - Allowing Violent-Little-Dances
'I'm here.'
The recognisable, hoarse voice from the Kellas' recordings of their encounter on Csilla had spoken, making himself easier for the Stormchaser to locate and approach him; warily watching his foe as the Mongrel stepped out with arms held out wide, the Lord-Commander stepped forth to meet him in the middle, with naked steel still bared, gazing on as the highly-skilled marauder's facial features steadily became more pronounced with each metre of distance closed between each other. On one side, a depleted force of bloodlusting maniacs poised in wait, calmly anticipating reprisals for the losses inflicted on their contingent, and on the other, a wildly-outnumbered ACV crew had their weapons drawn with similar grievances against their killer-counterparts. If push came to shove, the Saga's crewmen were all calmly willing to drag as many foes as possible to Hell with them, something the Mongrel could see for himself, though all who were present knew how futile their deathly resolve could be in such circumstances.
'If you know my name, you know that I have little patience for words alone. Speak quickly. Glory comes from battles, not parlays.'
He's not wrong, an' he'll find plenty o' that in the footage on Birrell's black-box. An' by God, when all is said an' done the-day, I hope they do!
'Quite right, Mongrel.', the Brigadier-General started, pausing only to draw the marauder's attention to the ornate basket-hilted Vibrosword, singing nakedly in the freezing Ilum winds as it cut through snow and smoke in it's downward facing position. With eyes darting back to his opponent, Erskine found himself pleasantly surprised to see avarice in the Mongrel's eyes; not fear, disdain, not even a hint of concern for what Barran was capable doing with it in his grip. Adopting a more polite tone than before, the Stormchaser would relent, knowing the Mongrel could just as easily indulge in his silent offer to duel as he continued,
'My apologies, but I'm sure you know the rule of the blade; can't exactly sheathe this beauty until I let her taste blood first, eh? Speaking of which, I've decided to let Gowrie fight you after all. Congratulations.'
Staring down the flat of his blade as it pointed to the brutal struggle uphill, Lord Erskine smirked as he took notice of the progress made since his last glance, then dropped it down to face the still-greedy gaze of the Mongrel as he marvelled at the craftsmanship of the basket-hilt, with gaze occasionally drifting to the ornate scabbard at his hip on occasion. It was almost as if the gifted marauder was imagining what he would do with it in his own hands, but the Lord-Commander didn't mind one bit, seeing it purely as a complement to his taste in rare Vibroswords, as both could tell without so much as a second-gander that this particular Basket-Hilted Claymore was something of an anomaly to the battlefields of the ninth-century ABY.
Aye, if ye can pry it fae mah cauld, deid hands, you're more than welcome to it.
'You fight very well for one with no formal training in Jedi-assassination methods, extremely well! The footage my men were able to record came in handy, especially in our sparring-gym on Archais.... Gowrie's suggestion, not mine. You see, my colleague & I fight very differently to each other, would ya believe it? Obviously you would, he's actually a very-powerful nobleman in his own right, but one with a very different breed of upbringing to my own. Woads are wild, but Tuaths are wilder, an' your opponent has the blood of the latter. Fights that way as well, but you'll be findin' that out for yourself soon enough, eh?'
Auteme
//
Janos Sovv
