Burning Skies: Glory unto the Pact (TG for Entry)

[Holy Altmoran Empire]

Just as they always have, the Wheels of War are driven forward by two Great Empires in their Thirst for Gold, Power and Blood. Gloriam Imperia, ad gloriæ atque victoria et foedus!

---

Captain Fionnbarra intently eyed the Cyan and Emerald shining bead as it floated static in the void of space from one of the portholes of the Officer's quarters. In 15 minutes he was to leave this bulk of precisely-shaped metal onto a much smaller bulk of precisely shaped metal and plummet towards green folds of land, with vegetation woven finely like a piece of linen under a microscope. As he stood idle, he could hear chatting in the background...Germanic and Gaelic, with Byzantine Slang laid neatly on top of the dialogue. However, one shout was much more captivating than the others. "OÞSTANDAN! (Stand to)" was like the dreaded alarm clock for a teenager. As soon as the syllables had rolled off of Major Hartnell's tongue, bounced around the room and damn near burst every eardrum in the Battalion, men that bore the mark of the Hǣðstapa (Wolf) dashed in each direction, leaving unattended beverages and any collective peacefulness in the living quarters.

However, Fionnbarra knew better than to add to the tiresome drill. It was his job to lock every door up to the wing, as he was the only one that didn't fear Hartnell enough to stroll up to his Shieldwall, when he had already spewed 5 minutes of a needlessly sentimental mission brief upon Company of martially-programmed lumps of flesh that had been slapped into a metal frame. "The look" was always the same. Hartnell's seemingly-permanent sneer coupled with his bloodshot eyes contorted at the mere sight of Captain Fionnbarra's Baby Blue eyes that were notoriously recognisable. His playful smile that had been carved out of the thin, dilute red pieces of flesh that formed his lips seemed to make Hartnell seethe as if he were about to dive onto him like a lion upon a gazelle. Hartnell hated Fionnbarra and no one quite knew why. He had hated Fionnbarra ever since he made the famous utterance "I hate that son of a bitch" in the painfully monotone hues that made up the 4 walls of the Officer's quarters.

After he trudged to his side, feet together and back straight as a lampost, Fionbarra held his fist to his heart before striking his arm out, hand straight, palm facing the floor, at an angle that made him seem as if he was pointing out his evident height superiority over his commanding officer "Fáiltigh Roimh, Hildewīsa!", he shouted, having wiped the smile off of his face, lest he lose it altogether. Hartnell simply nodded and Fionnbarra hastily walked to his drill post, in front of his Cohort.

Upon turning his head, Fionbarra inspected the Ostrogothic Soldiers in their own drill. He seemed to like the way their officers conducted themselves much more than he liked listening to Hartnell. He stared for a few seconds more before his concentration returned, just in time to shout "TIOCFAD HILDEWĪSA!" before boarding the crafts that were to introduce them to the brave new world. Fionnbarra gave one last glance to his soon-to-be Brothers in Arms across the Hangar, curious as to when he may pick the brains of their officers.

[Eisarn-Ara]

Doux Hilderic Arigernssunus of the 'LVII Laus Waithja| I Kaurus Fanthja' (57th Void-Huntsman Legion, 1st Heavy Infantry) PCF Battalion (Pact Colonial Forces) clicked his tongue hearing those strict, yet unfaltering polite platitudes, even in times of stress (he found it unnerving) being spoken once again. If it weren't for the pact being signed in the 1850s, and some random bit of good grace or potentially horrible misfortune from the Pact's victims, his people would not be all that familiar with the strange mixture of hybrid of Celtic & Anglo-Saxon the Altmorans' called a dialect. Hilderic cocked his head to the right listened to the ruckus his Altmoran colleagues were raising then swiftly signaled signaled to his four Ilarch (Tagma/Company Commanders) to get the men into order. Seeing as the Void Forces are entirely volunteer, the guttural, swift shout of "GADRAUHTS, STANDAN-GA GARWON!" echoing through-out the rather spacious bay seemed to catch the Legionaries by ear and beat them across the proverbial brow in regard to the sheer levels of haste that these capable men went about their business. Hilderic's upper lip curled in an almost predatory way, the men knew what was on the way, they knew what was just around the corner. Many of them were preparing Weigsahs (War-Knives) for their harnesses, knowing what the probes picked up about the natives, a chance for savagery in the same sense that their ancestors used to conquer half the known world filled most of them with an almost savage glee as they were checking their equipment, preparing bits of harness, making sure machinery was where it should be.

Ilarch Gripas Isakssunus was walking by each barracks-porthole in the bay, checking to see how quickly the Legionaries were at "snapping to" under orders. He turned back to his almost weirdly omnipresent Superior Officer and nodded; he thanked Himinsfadar (Sky-Father/Odin) quietly on the inside that Doux Hilderic didn't seem provoked on disappointed in consideration for what happened three deployments prior. Having made a mental checklist of the more "enthusiastic" Gadrauhts, he knew who he and his fellow Ilarchs would be reporting to Hilderic as having the honor of being put into the Landing Party. Gripas walked over to the one of the engineers checking some of the cargo in the middle of the bay and called "Ho', Tetrarch Totilassunus, the inventory is safe, nothing stolen, nothing misplaced. It's all there, correct?" Totilassunus ran a hand up to the back of his neck, cracked it swiftly and breathed a sigh of relief and cocked a thumb back to where Hilderic was standing fifteen minutes ago on the deck's balcony, overlooking the GÞR PCF Battalion's quarters and non-mission vital storage bay; "Don't worry Sir, the Steppe Wolf will not be feasting upon our hides and souls this night; as long as the Jânitsjarer Cohort does it's job keeping any potential heat off the Thiadw, landfall ought to proceed as the briefing specified." Gripas wiped some sweat off of his brow, "Thanks be to Himinsfadar, shit, alright; carry on then Tetrarch." Gripas continued his pre-deployment prep checklist, like the rest of his fellow Ilarch, knowing full well what was next and almost honestly rocking a hardy at the thrill of conquest and subjugation of 'Lessers'; it was going to be one hell of a landfall, Gripas actually began to hum a tune while continuing with his duties.

[Holy Altmoran Empire]

The interior of the somewhat bloated and bulky-looking craft went dark for a second or so until the dim red light illuminated the 12 men that sat in its belly. Fionnbarra’s “idiot smirk” was being perfectly illuminated. His eyes danced around the faces of his fellow Soldier Lads, from Lieutenant Mac Riada at the far end, then Lathurna , then, Stiùbhart , then Cathaláin, then Connacháin, then...Fionbarra’s internal Roll Call was cut short when he noticed Miadhacháin staring at that crumpled piece of paper again with those sad puppy eyes of his, like he had been doing often ever since they were on-board HMS Godwinson. Clasping his hands together and once again, removing a smile from his mug, Fionnbarra spoke up “Middy. What’s that you got there?” The sulking Corporal glanced up. “Me Troubles”, he grunted. Miadhacháin was notorious for his interest in the Opposite Sex. He was by no means a pervert, but companionship from a female was something he never shut up about, even at the most inappropriate of times. The particular Lady that Miadhacháin had graced with his interest was, just by his luck, only barely aware of his existence. Miadhacháin liked the idea of being away from her in order to move on, but he simply complained more, to the point where Fionnbarra attempted to Barter him away in exchange for Corporal Baines of Fireteam Magpie. In fact, upon thinking about it, Fionnbarra wasn’t sure he’d have wanted him either...And with even more thought came the revelation that he’d be happier in any other Regiment than the 49th Royal Marines (2nd Achencolm).

Fionbarra would’ve stared out of the window in order to gauge how long it would be before he got something to do, but there were none. He instead took the sudden jolt and the first words out of Lathurna’s mouth to determine that the craft had “Peeled out hard as hell”. The men were uncontrollably adhering to the metal restraints that had come down over their heads to stop them from flying about whilst the planet pulled them in. If it weren’t for their Power Armour, they’d have said bye-bye to their ribcages. “JUST LIKE THE SARDINE TIN, BOYS”, yelled Fionbarra whilst giggling like a child. The G-forces of entry seemed like nothing compared to the rapid deceleration that followed. The clanging of metal against metal was enough to make your ears ring, nevermind the good slap-around you got bouncing inside the big, metal, flying box. If it wasn’t for the flexi-armour around the necks of the soldiers, they’d have been killed by the G-Forces instantly.

However, soon enough, things calmed down and cruising speed was reached. The designated landing zone was about 5 minutes away and the boys once again had some time for banter. Miadhacháin was no longer holding onto his little piece of paper and so Fionnbarra decided not to pester him anymore. Instead, Fionnbarra turned his attention to the new face in the flying machine. An awkward mutual stare ensued in which Fionnbarra scanned the stranger with narrowed eyes. “So, which Unit has damned you to the Colonies, chuck?” was the first smart-arsed comment Fionnbarra could come up with. The Stranger leaned back and exhaled. The markings on his Armour didn’t match those of a Marine. He looked more ISG than anything else. "The one you haven’t heard of”, he shot back, igniting some high-pitched “Oooooooo”’s from the chimps Fionnbarra called Soldiers. Fionnbarra’s mischievous grin once again took hold of his face, as if he’d been inclined to not just kick the hornet’s nest, but body slam it afterwards. “Alright, Alright”, said the Captain. ”If you wanna be that way, that’s fine by me. It’s Hartnell that’ll pull that stick out of your arse and beat you with it”. Fionnbarra leaned back, still grinning, looking over to his left at his subordinates to see if they were satisfied with his comeback. The sporadic smirk was confirmation enough for him that he was still the Alpha male. The stranger simply stared for a second or so before the craft stopped moving and the doors opened to reveal a sudden bright light into the interior.

Fionnbarra had his Lads grab their helmets and their rifles before jumping onto the green grass of the plains. The place was scorching hot. 31 degrees Celsius at this part of the planet. The Men simply stood around and watched the other transports drop off the rest of the task force whilst stretching or hitting each other, waiting for further orders and for the group to become organised enough to do anything significant.

[Eisarn-Ara]

Doux Hilderic roared out an order to the engineering crews, of whom half were power armor technicians, "Come on, the clock is ticking, and the gods wait for no man!". Ilarch Gripas moved his hands forward in a sweeping gesture followed by "Teiws curse the lazy, come on, with haste; get those Auto-prefab Construction kits prepped for drop!" towards the driven, yet highly precise engineering Cohortarch as the seventh deployment team had finished stepping into their Powered Exoskeletal Combat-Suits. Watching the plates rattle and lock back into place was always mesmerizing, 25 years of solid service to the GÞR and it was still amazing to see; the first of the heavy infantrymen picked up his colossal dual-propulsion ETC-15mm machine gun, checked the action and clicked it into his suits electro-magnetic bracket system on the side of the rear-mounted power pack. Many of his squadmates were doing the same as the deployment rack of suits began to unfurl and clank them onto the center of the troop-bay. everyone else was securing their plating, environment suits, pack-rig of equipment & life-support systems. squads were doing comms checks, synchronizing helmet data and video feeds then being funneled along by officers to the rapidly departing and returning drop ships.

Ilarch Gripas stepped into the foot bolsters on his suit and let the loud hydraulic rumble of the suit roll over his body, counting each decibel thump and grumble as a sign the technicians did their thrice-cursed jobs; the suit rattled and clanked shut, with the plating clanking and hissing into place, his ears popped as the internal suit pressure stabilized, he sighed as it's digital systems synchronized with his enviro-suit (similar to the Marine corp Suit from Space: Above & Beyond, just with Aliens flair). The HUD flickered on, and he tested the fold-down command optic, if they had to call down fire support, by Teiws missing hand, the designator and range finder was going to work. Gripas called over the built in loudspeaker in his suit "Alright, II Hansa we deploy now, get to the drop ships. And by the Lords of the Sky, don't start a hymn without me.". Tetrarch Totilassunus ran up and saluted, "Sir, the prefab assemblies in all four cargo bays are prepared to drop, secure it and give the order." Gripas snorted, and waved an arm over his head, line after line of men in heavy powered Gd12 Theihwo-Brunjo suits (Model of 2012 Thunder-Plate), getting into the rapidly returning drop ships.

Gripas cackled as he secured his Ball-Lightning carbine into the bulkhead's rack, just above his "seat" in the drop ship's passenger section; by the Anses was he glad it's capacitor cartridges still fit snuggly into his somewhat beaten & worn brass lined ammo harness. Doux Hilderic's voice crackled over the communication's network "The honor of command over the honorary I Spadiggan (1st Swordsmen, a brevet-unit comprised of those enthusiastic troops mentioned prior) has been transferred to Dekarch Alareiks Hluþaweigssunus, may he take many trophies, and the right of hunsljan (sacrifice) falls to him for victory." Gripas nodded to his men, having to shout over the incredibly loud mechanical roaring, and clunking coming from the drop vessels; "You hear that, that axe-kissing, scalping psychopath gets right of command over a unit of his own likemind & likeheart." "Fráujinôn af þata Himins guide him!". They all cheered, he forgot the PCF Battalion comms were open, so the cheer was carried over by a large number of his fellow Ostrogoths, he shrugged, then chuckled; he turned to the Hekatonarch to his right as the ship was crashing through orbit "Harken to me lads; ‘Thata Un-diwans Maeg af Himinsfadar’ must roar out, c'mon, let's get a song going!" he shouted. A few minutes later the roaring chorus came to a close as atmospheric burn finished up and a couple hundred voices started laughing it up over helmet radios, Ilarch Wulfilassunus ordered radio silence on levels outside of direct unit command and senior operational command levels; the ship shuddered to hit the landing zone, adjusting to a smooth and level cruising speed. Gripas's drop-harness clanked and ratcheted open, he stood up, grabbed his colossal "carbine" and thumbed it on. The non power armored troops in the vessel cracked their backs, and made silent thanks their enviro-suits were built for this type of scenario. One of them, a Tetrarch checked his sword, thumbed the edge lightly, made a "hmm" noise, then shouted "Alright you thrice-cursed barrow-born, snot-nosed twits, mount up and get off this over-glorified crotch-rocket in ORDER!" while doing a legitimate knife-hand gesture in a way that caused several men to instinctively duck. Gripas did something similar and prepared to meet up with his Andronican colleagues at the designated rendezvous point. He saw Fionnbarra in his significantly less heavy, yet highly advanced suit of P-40 APOLLO Mk.III Powered Combat Armor and pulled off his helmet, feeling the coarse, gritty native air wash over his head.

Notes:

"Thata Un-diwans Maeg af Himinsfadar" = "The Immortal Sons of Sky-Father": (These men are effectively singing a take on Manowar's "The Sons of Odin" with heavy emphasis upon battle on the steppe: https://youtu.be/PIrFQuC4C50 )

"Fráujinôn af þata Himins" = "Lords of the Sky", an Eisarn-Aran term for the ancient Germanic pantheon of gods, godesses & deific entities

GÞR/Eisarn-Aran' Power Armor & PA deployment is closer to this by the way (just without the stupid walkers and quasi-mechs): http://i.imgur.com/xbU7503.jpg , just with actual helmets, some of them in traditional germanic animal motiffs on the helmets (The emperor's guard regiment actually bear the 1st Emperor's death mask upon the face of their helmets)

Traditional Dekarch sword: http://i.imgur.com/p3IHgEJ.png

[Holy Altmoran Empire]

Fionnbarra stood in the sun-soaked expanses of the grass that grew in tussocks and flattened in waves with each gust of wind, only to spring up as fresh as a bunch of flowers right after. It was nothing like the uniform green of the meadow back home that almost looked combed. Each tuft was wild and slightly yellowing under the sun and between each there was bare soil, baked and powdery. The Captain seemed to be lost in the machinations of his own mind whilst Cathaláin and Lathurna sat not far behind him, inspecting the sparse and wispy white masses in the atmosphere, noting that they contrasted well with the uniformity of the Azure sky. By this point, most dropships had already cascaded down from the heavens and regurgitated it's small group of Imperialist man-children onto the planet's surface. The sea of Warm Grey didn't go well with the earthy colours of the planet, to say the least, nor did the terrible ruckus caused by the shouting, chattering and the occasional Marching song go well with the once quaint sound of the wind in symphony with the chirping of native animals, that had been scared off by the new Overlords of the land.

Eventually, it was difficult not to notice the equally-noisy bunch of Imperialists, headed for the PCF-Designated Rally Point. 500 Altmorans and 500 Ostrogoths. 2 very "opinionated" and quite destructive peoples, Fionnbarra thought to himself, as he pondered his first words to his new allies. Having not put on his helmet, but rather strapped it to his shoulder, his facial expressions were clear. The light of the star in the sky caused his face to wrinkle and his eyes squint whilst he fiddled with the rifle he was holding, trying to look as if he was doing something important, as opposed to just standing around like a tool. The Captain eyed his Firearm earnestly, from the KM-27 Insignia on it's side to it's serial code upon its stock. The weapon was nowhere near as bulky, or admittedly as powerful as the ones the Ostrogoths had brought along, but he liked the mobility and low-supply requirement of his standard-issue Railrifle. It packed a hell of a punch for something it's size. It was a Lazy man's gun.

Fionnbarra had been gawking like an idiot at his weapon for enough time to make it look as if he had no idea what it was, as opposed to looking like he was calibrating it. However, a new priority soon took over the mind of Fionnbarra. He really did want to speak with his Colleagues, despite their Social Rhetoric coming off as somewhat sociopathic to the overly Gentleman-like Altmorans. Being in any Pact-Organisation, he did know the Rank Markings of Ostrogothic forces. Soon enough, Ilarch Gripas had caught Fionnbarra's not-so-keen eye. It seemed as if he himself had already been noticed by the Stalwart-looking officer, however. Being in Conversational range, Fionnbarra blurted out "Fægere Gemēted, Eaxlgestealla!" (Well-met Comrade), whilst performing another one of those outstretched-arm salutes, hoping he hadn't made himself seem too incompetent. In truth, Fionnbarra had always been somewhat desperate to impress anybody he hadn't met before.

[Eisarn-Ara]

“Hails Jah Hailags! Meins Godo Ga-Hlaiba!” (‘Hail and Make-Holy! My Good Comrade!’ - Common Greeting amongst GÞR Citizens) whilst making the customary salute of clanking his suits heels in a positively Prussian fashion followed by the snapping of his right-arm up near his brow, giving a slightly traditional open-handed, gentleman’s salute in the way of the Gutiska Harjis. The method with which the Andronican officer snapped off a salute seemed somewhat nervous, yet not in a wholly unacceptable manner due to the aura of ever-present professionalism that seemed to permeate every waking action these “Altmoraniska” seemed to carry on with. Gripas walked up to the fellow and outstretched one of his rather large, armored gauntlets to his fellow PCF member, of whom, oddly enough, he did not encounter all that much of during the voyage out. Gripas cracked a slight smile and said “Good to see you made landfall without error, no landing craft problems I assume?” Fionnbarra nodded following a firm, heavy handshake and replied with: “None at all, Sir”, Fionnbarra then leaned in, flashing his eyes to the left as he did so “Although I do appear to have been stuck with a rather unfamiliar and peculiar Lad...Not a Marine. Maybe not even PCF. Not much of a conversationalist, either. Haven’t seen stubbornness of his Calibre since the March through Guangdong.” Fionnbarra fixed his almost clueless gaze into the eyes of his Comrade before straightening his posture. Gripas did a slow measured nod, with an equally measured, muttered “ahuh…….”; he proceeded to place a hand on his comrade’s other shoulder and say somewhat louder “Time to either break this world apart and devour the spoils in the immediate, or burn it & rebuild it in a way we can exploit in the long term.”. This got a hearty set of chuckles & words of approval from both Andronicans and Ostrogoths, he said under his breath to Fionnbarra “Tread careful with that new fellow, my gut tells me to be cautious; if he isn’t one of mine, or one of yours, there may be a greater game of sorts in the works.”.

Fionnbarra receded his faint smile from the Ilarch’s Imperialist Rally. He proceeded to clear his throat in order to once again, shout to the Sergeant Major of the Company. A rather tiresome post held by none other than Connacháin. Since he was essentially the mule of a Captain, Fionnbarra saw fit that the Sergeant Major should give the Oþstandan order, as he himself would rather not trouble his windpipe with the task. After the unpleasant acoustic experience of listening to “Oi, Sáirsint-Maor, sort the Lads out, would you?” in none other than Fionnbarra’s Patronising, nothing-but-the-finest Queen’s Hēahænglisc tone over the Comms system of his Apollo Series Powered Combat Armour, Connacháin trudged to some form of frontal position before the noisy swarm of Celtic-Limey Nazis. The dreaded order not only permeated the air but also the Comms Systems of every Altmoran Soldier, in case some were too busy carving obscenities into the ground to notice. The change in Atmosphere was remarkable. The obnoxious smile stretched across Stiùbhart’s face had flatlined in almost an instant before he scurried into the ant-like stampede towards his Position amongst the 20 lines being formed in front of Connacháin. As an acting Sergeant, he would be either at the front or behind all but a few Officers, depending on which of his Platoon's Lieutenant Mac Riada wanted to stand in front of. In the short space of about another 25 or so seconds before the Company had formed a Rectangle, Fionnbarra fixed his gaze just behind the shimmering formation. The vast expanse of Green and Blue. He recalled Sub-Lieutenant Diarmada informing him of the Reconnaissance effort’s findings with a deep void in his pupils. Several Neolithic Populations had been identified. Anthropomorphic but far from the Homo Genus. He knew that neither Altmoran nor the allies he knew as the “Ēastrīgotce” cultures or foreign policies tolerated such creatures. At the same time, he cast his mind back to his first experience with Genocide. After bullying the Australians into allowing Altmoran Boots on their...Uhhh...Sand, a Southernly Force swept up towards Asia, bearing the Altmoran flag. He remembered all too well the Ruins of Manilla and the Massacre of Kobe.

Fionnbarra cleared his throat once more, having realised the now troublingly solemn frown his face had moulded itself into. He then turned once more to his Ostrogothic Compatriot and after a brief exhale began his farewell “Well then, Noble Cempa (Warrior, Champion, etc) I must part ways with you temporarily. Those Boys won’t command themselves” Fionnbarra let out an awkward chuckle. “Still, Siferth Wisian þu (Siferth Guide you. A Folklore-ish saying, wishing victory and safety in battle for another Warrior)”. At that, Fionnbarra performed a much slower and seemingly a bit more relaxed Salute, in the same style as he did with his greeting. He then proceeded to stroll, with one arm bent behind his back, towards his Sergeant Major and his motley crew of Marines. Gripas snapped a respectful salute, then said “Yes Captain, I have much of the same to do, these Gadrauhts will not lead themselves.” then turned about-face and marched off to deal with his own unit, adjusting his helmet in the crook of his arm before marching off to shout off a smattering of orders to his men about forming up for a headcount and equipment check before being set off for perimeter patrol and assisting the engineering units in heavy lifting and construction of base assets alongside equivalently assigned Altmoran units.

[Holy Altmoran Empire]

The rows of Altmoran Units were primarily geared towards mobility, scouting and securing supply lines, hence why they had brought lighter guns and less toys than the Ostrogoths, who were going to be the main effort behind fortification. By this point, Fionnbarra found himself awkwardly disposed, arms behind his back, leaned slightly toward his Sergeant Major, furrowing his brow at the Cohort. However, it was not the static ranks of Fresh Conscripts that occupied his poor attention span, but rather that stranger from back on the Dropship...Almost mirroring the Captain’s stance up on the gently sloped hill, not 200 metres away, alongside Major Hartnell. Both of the figures remained unnervingly still, making Fionnbarra somewhat uneasy. He didn’t just feel watched. He felt somewhat violated by the two men he disliked most. After a low grumble and an unshakable melancholy of fear and annoyance settled in his heart, Fionnbarra peeled his gaze from the observers and bellowed to the 100 Men stood before him ”Cohort! The Colonel wants Fireteams scouting in all directions! I will be forming Magodryhte (Sections/Bands of Warriors) at Squad Level. Sergeant Leocháin, Sergeant Meára and Sergeant Cárthaigh are now in command of Squads Red-1, Red-2 and Red-3. Sergeant MacBhríde shall lead Blue-1. Red squads are on Recon. Lieutenant Mac Riada is to command Red-1 and Red-2, Lieutenant Cathaláin will lead Red-3 and I shall assume command of Blue-1. Red-1 shall advance Eastwards, Red-2 Southwards and Red-3 Eastwards. Blue-1 is to be assigned the task of constructing basic dug-outs along the Northern Flank of our position in coordination with Ostrogothic Units as well as preparing the land for organised Air-Ground Operations. If one of their Officers gives you an order, you are expected to carry it out, unless it contradicts Dumah’s Law. UNDERSTOOD!?”. Upon completion of his speech, the Imperial Servicemen stood before him let out a resounding "TIOCFAD HILDEWĪSA!", whilst the thumping of their hands on their hearts created a booming symphony that contrasted with the whoosing sound the air made when struck with the outstretched metal mesh encasing the arm of an Altmoran Marine. The organisation of the men quickly fractured as they half-heartedly reformed their positions. Red squads swarmed in 3 directions, lazily walking behind their Sergeants in Sporadic Fashion whilst Blue-1 waited for its engineers to finish their designs for the Construction work via Neural upload. Whilst the Wrench Monkeys pondered the dimensions of their constructs, a mesh of glowing lime green formed in their eyes. Holographic Projection onto the Retina from the Apollo Powered Exoskeleton. Wonderful Technology. As the Ribbons of Neurons were surged with Electrical Impulses, Sodium Ions and Potassium Ions, they danced their ever so intricate patterns within the mind, those very thoughts could be translated by the Machines Mankind had birthed in the Workshops of War. The Holograms could be shared to other Apollo Series Armour units, allowing other Minds to form a network of ingenuity, hence why Altmoran units were so capable of coordinating abstruse and impressive operations with speed and ease. The Beams of light morphed as the neural consensus birthed new ideas. A visualisation of Sapience. In order to translate this to their Ostogothic colleagues, the Hologram could be projected outwardly, in real time onto any surface to any size. Going against standard procedure, the Altmoran Engineering Unit decided to simply project what they were doing on a 1:1 scale exactly where they were doing it, despite how easily it would attract attention. Suggestions could be taken verbally and more minds could be indirectly patched through to the melding of ideas.

Fionnbarra took a gander at the Ostrogothic Engineering teams, many of them were utilizing machinery to began the excavation of a colossal set of earthworks while Hansa officers were beginning the work of laying out a Colonia gridwork of enormous size, almost like planning the layout of a small-city, not just a reconnaissance Revetment. He narrowed his gaze, taking in the work being plotted and started based upon the orbital-observation maps; lightly startled by the loud ‘BANG’, evidenced by the slight wince that his face assumed whilst is assaulted his senses. Fionnbarra had grown to dislike explosions greatly, and the one that tore through the air as one of the engineering units began to do demolition works was no exception. The serfs the Ostrogoths brought with them were prodded into action, filling every work-related niche that machinery could not, under watch by what his Pact member compatriots called “Jânitsjarer”, a word that he had significant difficulty rolling off of his tongue in many ways, for it was not conversational Gothic, in as much as it was purely a subjunctive or titular designation. Fionnbarra reflected upon the Order of Battle he had created, wondering how his Reconnaissance missions were going along, purely as a means to distract his brain from the ruckus of the base operations. Fionnbarra lazily raised his right arm, bent at around a 45 degree angle, as if to poke something. Without any apparent signalling, more of that holographic light shot forth, seemingly from Fionnbarra’s left eye. Drop-down tabs of diluted blue detailed the whereabouts and composition of the scouting parties sent out...Nothing new...No reports.

Slowly, the basic groundwork of the earthwork layout, duracrete structures, carbide-rebar latices for bunkers and basic fortifications were being churned out and jammed into the soil following blasting charges in many cases for breaking through rock, and the use of colossal excavation equipment crewed by Fionnbarra’s countrymen in many cases. It dawned on him, almost immediately what it was the Ostrogoths were constructing, it was almost like a significantly updated take upon a traditional settlement from classical antiquity, the idea was staggering, an-almost to-scale improvement and update on the millenia old concepts of a Castra or fortified Colonia built by a Legion in Dacia or Pannonia from eons past. “My god, it’s like a diagram from an old textbook.” Gripas’s superior officer finally got off one of the last drop ships at the designated landing point, it was rather blatantly obvious who this man was, even with his helmet sealed; Doux Hilderic’s helmet was a strange one, apparently it was either his father’s before him, or something left from a prior unit he served in according to one of the more chatty Ostrogothic NCOs. It was segmented, and showed what honestly looked like an ancient “Death Mask” belonging to a prior ruler; this was sign enough of some terrifying prior service, seeing as it was spoken of by some of the Ostrogothic PCF members standing near the readily established command station (around 50 feet away from the equally readily established logistics ‘officer’) as “Aírmanareiks Greima” in the most bizarrely honorific if not almost religious tone. Hilderic began rattling off orders to Gripas and the rest of the Ilarch to get “A move on or suffer the price for laxity befitting those who dare disgrace the uniform!” The words almost felt like nails grinding on the soul due to the sheer amount of vindictive malice that seemed to course through them. The small crowd of piddling Gadrauhts behaved almost as if they had been hit with a lash, the ran off to their collective Tagmas’ with due haste; Fionnbarra shuddered, and muttered in a low tone “No wonder they call him The Steppe Wolf, God help us all if that man loses his wits out here in the expanse.” Fionnbarra had been so disturbed by the Ostrogothic Officer because of the stark mirroring between “The Steppe Wolf” and his own Commanding officer. He saw many similarities between Hilderic and Hartnell. The Alliteration of their congregated epithets make him chuckle. He then shook his head, sighed quietly then got moving.

15 minutes had went by and Sergeant Meára’s Recon Sortie was the only one without it’s Lieutenant, practically paving the way for Working-class mishap. By this point, the 25 Men were but a series of speckles that twinkled in the sunlight. Anything they did would likely have less than serious consequences. As the Lads trudged in no particular order, conversations ranged from Consaidín’s irrational fear of his Aunt to Miadhacháin’s eternal bellyaching of the oh-so-famous Woman from Brisbane. Fecking hell, Meára had heard her name with an obnoxiously reflective sigh so many times by now, however Miadhacháin’s incredible ability to make a lot of noise without actually saying anything of merit had resulted in that moniker refraining from adhering to his memory. It was going to be a long journey for all involved. The landscape was a tiringly mundane melancholy of depleted lime with dimming grey forming ranks in the skies. Aside from the odd Deciduous-looking cluster of trees, there was simply the pathetic peaks of curved terra one would almost refrain from referring to as a hill and it appeared as if the sun was growing tired. These features just seemed to just loop over and over again. In fact, Argadáin had made the point multiple times that he swore the same bird was just circling them, as opposed to any new creatures making themselves known to the squad.

Having already gotten bored of his Engineers and sick of the constructive explosions, Fionnbarra went off on a wander, soon to come across a body of water, not far from where Major Hartnell and the stranger had been stood not half an hour ago. Fionnbarra stared deeply into the soft ripples of the lake. Besides the frantic flashes of white that bounced up from the surface, he only really noticed one thing. The slender curves that formed his face. His eyes drifted across the somewhat protruded yet gentle, almost sculpted bumps that were his cheekbones, down his converging jawline that had a proud descending gradient, ending at a relatively flat but somewhat chiselled chin. His gaze drifted up once more, scanning the thin flesh that composed his lips and had a dull rosy hue, speckles of black stubble growing like sparse cornfields around his mouth. The Captain’s eyes stopped to gorge upon his nose; a proud 90 degree formation that thinned out somewhat towards the tip, which didn’t go particularly far. The Bridge of his nose was concave and smooth, leading him to his proudest feature…The Sapphires of his Iris. Those bold, piercing and wide biological constructs with pupils that always seemed diluted. Above them were the black arcs that guarded them…Streamlined and luscious. The forehead was nothing to write home about, mostly being brushed by the blonde tufts that whipped in the wind, interfering annoyingly with the parting in his hair that went the other way. However this failed to so much as phase Fionnbarra. He gazed into his eyes once more and took solace in his vanity. Fionnbarra had always been somewhat narcissistic and assuming he was alone, he allowed his lips to curl upwards ever so slightly whilst examining his gleaming mug. However, the rest of his face remained static. The smile he had produced was empty and almost portrayed his very soul to be paralysed.

[Eisarn-Ara]

Tetrarch Marcosendus ‘Marco’ Totilassunus was probably one of the most well trained pioneers of his Hansa, it didn’t hurt that the man had pursued “Traditionalist Architecture” at the Academy as an elective before gaining his engineering certification; Tetrarch Totilassunus found a significant reason to be so thorough and expeditious in regard to the nature of his work, the Steppe Wolf was on the prowl, and that monster of a man was checking every single minor detail the landing teams had taken care of, with heavy emphasis upon the idea of “first run” construction setting the framework for larger-scale, permanent construction. Very much so in the same vein as that of his predecessors, and old saying of the Gutsika Harjis rang very true “Behind the army, come the city planners.”; as such, his compatriots were directing the rather well trained Altmoran excavator teams, and manning their own equipment, while he was coordinating most of the effort from the logistics tent just a hop and a skip down the way from the command tent where Andronican & Ostrogothic officers were figuring out how to get this damndable first-landing fully underway. Totilassunus was a practical man at heart, like many of his countrymen, as such, the concept of operational “benchmarks” for progress was a major thing for him; seeing the Jânitsjarer and their unit Faura-standan (Overseer) managing all the Thiadw or Serfs at the toil of filling in the niches of labor that the machinery & trained crews couldn’t do, or wasn’t fit for “Free Men” brought a smile to his face; seeing people who knew their place do as they were told tickled his ethical & moral philosophy fancy in a manner of speaking.

One of the former siege engineers on his team ran through the open tent flap and slapped a document on his desk and console table, he flipped it open, checked a few pages, nodded, then mouthed through clenched teeth firmly holding a pipe in place “Alright, Þunraz smash em’ if they can’t abide the idea, but setting in concrete foundations for a gun battery is a good idea, a disciplinary ergastulum can wait; those Andronican fuckers on patrol will want fire support if something gets shitty out in the wilds.” The siege engineer, a man named Marbodid sighed, snapped a salute, grabbed the altered form and ran back out of the tent. He heard shouting a minute later, and one of the Andronican officers ran into the tent with a scowl on his face backed by two Ostrogothic Hekatonarch with a notable stick up their arses. “And who might you people be, what do you want?” “Major Sigewulf Hartnell, acting Commander of PCF-Altmora; now who died and made you God?” Totilassunus would’ve choked on his drink if he had one. “What, did one of the construction crews mess something up? It can be rectified and a disciplinary plan can be under way within an hour.” Major Hartnell looked as if a gasket were about to be blown, he quickly rattled off a response “I must ask you, good sir, when the grand might of the Carrier Air Wings of HMS Godwinson are available for supporting our Lads on the ground, must you insist upon a stationary installation for such a purpose? That time and those resources could be better spent elsewhere.”

Totilassunus took a few puffs on his pipe, letting the tobacco smoke fill his lungs before letting out a slow outgoing breath, stood up, extended a hand to Major Hartnell and said “Major, I feel the need to make something clear to you, we are alone out here, aside from each other; a support ship would be ages away, correct?”. Hartnell’s face twitched, giving an agitated vibe to his already prudish scowl. “It takes an Aniketos CAG-60 Raptor Carrier Air Group no more than 18 minutes to reach the surface of a planet this size, organise and hit a target. It’d be an insult to suggest any of our Lads couldn’t hold on that long, surely. Our Scans didn’t pick up any threat we couldn’t handle, did they?” Totilassunus lightly scratched the back of his head, then replied in a calm and procedural manner “Alright, true as that may be, our aerospace assets have limited fuel, we have an equally limited way to process new fuel, and the means to make the systems that process fuel; H3 aint cheap, neither are petro-carbon substitutes, Wurdiz eat my eyes for saying this, but if we waste those assets on anything outside of personnel extraction & EXTREMELY hazardous material transfer we’ll wind up burning a ticket before it can be passed off to the proverbial pay-clerk.” Totilassunus put a hand on the Major’s shoulder and lead him out to the mouth of the tent and pointed towards one of the four colossal & mostly conventional technology (Outside of ETC and hydraulic loading assemblies) using gun battery emplacements being constructed at the major corner emplacements of what may eventually turn out to be a fortress-city at some point in the future. He cleared his throat then said in a clear voice, much to Major Hartnell’s Indignation “You are very much so used to having everything at your immediate disposal, imagine if you didn’t have it, but needed it; this reasoning is why your superiors and mine decided Archetypal Technology Frameworks were advised for a sustainable deployment, that’s why we have four 15” gun batteries at each of the bases’ corners, and light 215mm rocket-howitzer emplacements along the perimeter and near the supply dumps we’re establishing on the network of landmarks your scouts are establishing.” Major Hartnell held a puzzled-looking stare for a split second before raising his hand, with his index finger slightly bent. “Did your Commanding Officer mention...What was it?...Petro...Carbon? Not cheap? Why, I haven’t heard such terms in the same sentence since I was a Captain. Pardon my French good sir, but my piss is of greater cost than the fuel our Wings of War thirst for”.

Tetrarch Totilassunus shook his head solemnly, sighed, then said, “Alright, here is a concept for you to wrap your head around, the systems used to refine that fuel our PCF detachment uses for its Aerospace Assets need secondary systems to keep them in check, what if something happens, what if that gets damaged due to events in-system due a roll of the cosmic dice pissing on our collective luck.” Totilassunus took another drag from his pipe, then said in a slow tone “Have you ever considered what isolation will do to you, and to your men; have you ever had to go without, mull that over and fear what can come of it, my people for a brief while nearly stopped existing because of some prats invading Sagqsarna-Thervingiaháim (Iberia/Visigothica/Greater Toulouse), we had to go without to such a point that when our kinsmen from the east took back our sacred soil they used our strife & triumph over it as an example and lesson for future generations.” Hartnell was about to interject raising a hand to garner a stopping point in the conversation when Totilassunus chuckled, then said “Have you legitimately even considered what it will take for us to establish refineries on this rock? And getting assembly lines for Radium-Engines for local vehicle production and maintenance; at all?”. Hartnell cocked his head to the side and slightly widened his eyes in shock. “May I ask, do you have to shovel coal into these Vehicles of yours? I understood the technological imbalance between us as instructed by the Colonel, but I didn’t know it was like this. Good sir, I would suggest you pick the brains of one of our Engineers. Radium Engines? My people have manipulated the hearts of fallen stars. We harvest the power of the Ion, good sir! Helthyuric Gas Plasma and Ramscoop Accelerators! Superconductors and Bacteria that piss Fuel!” Major Hartnell’s now flustered face stared at his shakespearean gestures, stringing out his hand movements as if he were conducting some form of mad orchestra. Just as it seemed like Hartnell would collapse and froth spill from his mouth, Fionnbarra waltzed up behind the Major, shouting “News from the Scouts, Hildewīsa!” in such a way that made it seem like his intention was to shock the Officer before throwing his arm up in a Salute. The Major jolted ever so slightly before turning to face the earnest Captain, who wasn’t even looking at Hartnell, but rather deliberately averting his blank stare from him. It’d be best for you to examine them in the Officer’s tent, Sir. Fionnbarra then lended a flash of the eyes and the curling of the right side of his lips to Totillassunus, whom he could tell had been grilling Major Hartnell for at least a minute straight. In all reality, it was totally unnecessary for Hartnell to do such a thing, however despite the immense pleasure Fionnbarra took in seeing his commanding officer writhe, he thought it would be in the best interests of the expedition if the Altmoran commander on the ground didn't have a stroke. Totilassunus took another drag from his pipe, walked back to his desk in a slow & leisurely manner and sat down, propped up his boots, then looked at the two officers from his Hansa “Yes, and by a thauris’s balls, what the fuck did you want?” the two just stood in stunned silence, one of them grabbed the other officer by his shoulders and pushed him out of the tent with a curt nod back towards Totilassunus.