Location: Hoth -
Outpost Veers - Improvised Imperial Trenches.
Allies: The First Order, The Galactic Empire, [member="TK-4261 Strain"], [member="Shaydae Desmaris"], [member="Chron Terix"], [member="Rexus Wenck"], [member="Hatori Ikari"]
Enemies: The Galactic Alliance, [member="Sol Stazi"], [member="Aver Brand"], [member="Tomas Yarrow"]. [member="Siobhan Kerrigan"], [member="HK-36"], [member="Naomi Carolina"], [member="Ryan Korr"], [member="Xel"]
Personal Loadout: See Signature and Squad Loadout Below.
Squad Loadout: FO-02 Stormtrooper Armour - Snowtrooper Variant,
Z6 Riot Control Baton,
SE-44c Blaster Pistol,
Charric/
Maser Rifle,
FWMB-10 Repeating Blaster,
MPL-23 Missile Launcher,
Concussion Grenade(s),
Bio-Metric Thermal Detonator(s),
G-20 Glop Grenade(s), Combat Vibroknives.
"Though my guards may sleep and ships may rest at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire."
- Lufgt Huron, Tyrant of Badab. Attributed, Second Edition Rulebook. Pg. 48
With the order given to hold their fire until the enemy had gained their ground, Torian listened and watched from out of the corner of his eye as the encrypted BattleNet erupted into a tirade of shouted orders, and measured responses. A flurry of reports had scrolled across the circuitry impregnated visor of his helmet, drawing his attention away from the advancing forces of the enemy. The first was that the Anti-Air Emplacements were filling the skies above the Outpost with a myriad of furious munitions, be it pulsating tracks of laser fire, the sudden heat wash of rocketing missiles, or the threatening black clouds of nigh-archaic flak weaponry. Enemy fighters and Dropships that sought to skirt close towards the entrenched Imperial lines would find themselves bracketed by overlapping fields of aerial-bound fire. Many of the enemy craft that attempted to dive head first into the fray were shot down, as their approach vectors ran across intersecting lines of aerial cannonade. It was either their wings were clipped, and they were sent down in a spiraling earthward arc, billowing a twinned trail of smoke and fire behind them. Or they were gutted by the intensity of the projected violence, spilling their precious innards across the surface of Hoth before passing into whatever afterlife awaited those within their newfound coffins.
He couldn’t tell how many enemy vessels were struck from the sky, but it was certain that those in the Outpost and at the heavily fortified Naval Yard after that would be able to tell. It was their jobs to account for and record the losses on both sides, to understand their enemies strategy and ensure their counters were effectively disseminated throughout the ranks. Given that he had received nothing as of yet from his Commanders, or Central Command, they believed that the Outpost would hold until Reinforcements would arrive. That was entirely comforting; the Sergeant thought as his eyes refocused on the advancing Alliance forces. It was more than likely, that assets would be diverted from other, well-defended bulwarks across the planet and rifled towards this very Outpost. That would take time, however, time that with a combined force of Gods and Monsters smashing aside their improvised gates, that the Imperials may not have.
Torian gritted his teeth. He swore, just under his breath, that should his commander’s leave him and his men to die at this critical junction, he would fight his way free from the underworld and set upon them like the ashen ghost of Damocles, from the ancient Rilforian Myths. Which the lives of his Squad in the uncaring hands of fate, the Sergeant knew that no matter what would happen, they’d get through this. Though, the option of getting through this alive was obviously a preferable choice. He had plenty of grudges to settle, and many battles needed to be fought in the Order’s name. Be damned if he died on some gods-forsaken while there was a war on.
That was when his attention from the frontline was stolen, yet again. Reports had come in regarding a new development. A pair of enemy Fighters had managed to evade the overlapping fields of bracketing Anti-Aerial fire, and both had laid several emplacements low with their projected fury. Their consummate skill behind the flight stick had betrayed their identities as those that sworn themselves to the Jedi oaths or were at least gifted enough to keep their path’s unpredictable so as to skirt aside from whatever danger they encountered gracefully. That was the only logical explanation as to how and why these nimble
‘Pointers' as the Starfighter Corps called them, were able to reap a bloody toll amongst the Imperial lines and dash away unscathed. The first had fired a proton torpedo at an entrenched artillery gun lobbing plasmatic bolts of coalesced lightning at the distant Alliance lines. The way it was reportedly rocketed had made it seem as if the weapon was dumb-fired - which given the implacability and unmoving nature of their target was a better route to take. Who knew how many seconds would’ve been lost if the Pilot had relied on the targeting computer? Hell, they might’ve been shot down and triggered an avalanche within the Outpost.
The other caused more of a disruption in the overlapping fields of fire than the former. The sensors within the base had difficulties locking onto the stark obsidian vessel barreling towards them, but through visual sighters on the ground - an effort was made to combat this partially veiled threat. Not the greatest effort, mind you, as the enemy fighter still skirted through the mess of aerial-bound munitions and fired something that many believed was no longer in use. They had heard stories of a Jedi Shadow Bomb, and it’s destructive power. Funny, the things you could get away with when committing murder, Torian thought as his eyes glanced across the screed of data. No matter. The First Order would find vindication in victory. Be it today, when they repulsed these vile invaders from the Anoat Sector or years from now when the Order crushed the military might of the Alliance under their pseudo-plastoid boots.
In the seconds that followed the all too familiar silhouette of that devastating projectile, had rippled through the mountainside, cratering an entire section of the defensive barricade. It was likely that such a blast was felt within the Outpost as well, probably knocking free chunks of laser-cut snow, or collapsing alusteel barriers meant to brace the ceiling from collapsing. Nearly two squads of Stormtroopers were vaporized in the blast, despite their armour being able to withstand the heat of a foundry's furnace, it adhered to the side of a rocky crater like melted paste. Twice that number, from the Imperial Army and the Auxiliary were reduced to carbon shadows amidst the wreckage of their myriad emplacements. The sight was gruesome, and as orbital imaging had shown the Snowtrooper it’s aftermath, was forced to bite his tongue lest he paint the interior of his helmet with the contents of his stomach. Others on the line weren’t so fortunate and were forced to claw at their helmets and tear them from their heads.
The scent of bile was palpable and had once again churned his stomach.
Fighting against the urge, Torian pulled himself together and stepped away from the improvised firing slit. He had to be the foundations atop which his Squad would stand. He needed to be their one source of stability in this maddened world. With a gauntleted hand, the Sergeant slapped his gloved palm against one of the nearest Snowtrooper’s pauldrons and pulled the woman to her feet. Her features were patrician, much like his own, and bore a small resemblance to the Grand Moff herself. A kinsman, newly transferred to his unit after the debacle of Skor II.
“Listen here, Trooper.” The Bakuran said as the faceplate of his helmet parted, revealing his russet brown features beneath the shield of Glasteel.
“Pull yourself together!”
“But sir!” She nearly shrieked.
“What can we do against such weapons? They’re tearing us to shreds!”
The beast within his breast started to uncoil. He could feel the rising tides of anger flowing throughout his veins. A part of him wanted to knock some sense into his subordinate. Her despair would affect the lives of his squad and would cause morale to plummet - sharply. He wanted to smack her back down to the platform and - No. That would only backfire. He needed to get a grip. What use would submitting to his rage suffice? The Alliance would only find his section of the defensive barrier all the easier to assail. He couldn’t have that. Clenching his teeth, and letting the simmering tides of anger boil his blood, Torian nearly gnashed his teeth as he responded.
“Those men and women, before they were atomized, their last transmission was that of laughter. They questioned themselves if the Alliance X-wing’s had X-Foils or S-Foils. They knew they were going to die. All of us do!” Spittle started flecking the edges of his visor, as the Sergeant’s voice began rising in pitch.
“So, I ask you. Why do our Helmet’s grin?” She stammered at first, trying to find the words to answer her Squad’s Sergeant. As the improvised bunker was rocked by yet another percussive wave of blossoming detonations, Torian shook the woman’s shoulder, attempting to draw her focus back to his pale, seafoam green eyes.
“O-our Helmets gri-in, because when w-we die, we gre-eet death wi-ith a grin.”
The Sergeant nodded.
“Yer damn right,” His snarl had faded and was swiftly replaced by the armoured plates of his helmet.
”Now pick up your bloody rifle and hold the line. We’ve got a battle to fight and a war to win!”
Wordless cries had risen in response to his words, causing several spiked heartbeats throughout his unit. Perhaps they had taken his words as encouragement, that they’d be safe in the knowledge that they would die alone, or that their Sergeant would stand beside them. Shoulder to Shoulder. He couldn’t tell, and truthfully, he didn’t care. As they did their duties and obeyed his authority, that’s all that mattered in the end. Pushing aside their murmurs, and whispered oaths and litanies, the Snowtrooper watched in the distance as their foes came ever closer. It seemed they were conflicted and acted strangely out in the wastes. The way that one of their enemies had reacted was very… Odd. It looked as if this person was mounting some form of invisible vehicle, and tearing it apart with wrenching force. He found himself wondering if the Alliance was combat-testing a new variant of Combat stims, and this may have been one of the unknown side effects. There was no tank. Hell, there was no Tanks at Outpost Veers for that matter. There were only Walkers. It seemed a bit foolish to grab at the snow like that, but if this was what the Alliance had reduced themselves to - the Sergeant couldn’t judge. They had their uses in the field but were usually supposed to be tested in a safe environment. Guess this is what the Alliance considers a safe environment, Torian surmised with a soft chuckle.
That bout of laughter soon came to a head, as the Force-cursed soul from earlier had delved into her mystical reserves of power and smote the cockpit of a nearby crouching Walker with calculated ease. He could hear the pilots within scream in agony as they perished beneath the crumbled curtain of their once protective housing. It was a shame. Torian was starting to like those people. He remembered playing a few dice games against them as they dug out the trenches a few days prior. They still owed him their ration packs. Figures they’d die long before they could fork them over. He’d have to beg the Quartermaster to see if she’d honour their deal. Considering what he said earlier to one of her Specialists? That was doubtful. He’d probably be stuck with hardtack again.
“Come on you motherless naves!’ He shouted off his improvised parapet, hoping that the enemy would hear his taunting words.
“Come at me and fight like you’ve got spines!” Though, as the coiled necks of the surviving AT-AT’s turned towards the advancing Alliance forces and filled the air with a deafening cannonade of coalesced lightning, it was doubtful they’d hear anything shouted from the entrenched Imperials. Those prone walkers there were reduced to ruins spoke louder than the shouting Sergeant ever could, their death's echoing across the line with crackling, ashen grace.
Well.
At least he tried.
