Where wild things dare not tread (Imperials/Invite/PM)

[Aleksander Tarkov]

OOC:
https://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?57167-Aleksander-Tarkov
Please see above link for a general overview of plot


IC:

Glacier_mountain_range.jpg

Wayland, Mid-Rim
Mid-winter

The sun was beginning to set over the mountains of Wayland, bringing a bitter chill made worse by the lack of cloud cover. The howls of animals heralded the coming night, breaking the stillness of the air. It was beautiful, in a terrifying manner. Not much could survive out here, but soon another sound broke through, one that seemed almost absurdly out of place. It was the sound of laughter.

The source of the laughter was a group of men, twenty of them to be precise, setting up their camp for the evening. These men were the Wayland Irregulars and, without any hint of irony, 'Irregular' summed them up quite aptly. Clad in mismatched armor from bygone times, furs and cloaks and armed with weaponry that the larger galaxy might consider antiques, they were a strange band indeed. Coupled with this strange attire, they were all no shorter than six feet tall; a byproduct of their breeding and the environment in which they had been born. Only the strongest men survived up in these mountains and, much to their pride, the Irregulars were the strongest of those.

A fire now roared in the centre of the camp, to which some of them huddled, cooking their rations. The sled-dogs, as they always did when freed from their traces, had already dug their nests into the snow, curling up to rest. These beasts were as impressive as their masters, turned hard from their months of toil and scarred by their borderline feral internal disputes. It was not unheard of for the lead dog to be challenged by another, a violent contest that always ended in death for the loser, if their masters did not intervene.

This was the way of things out here, kill or be killed. The Irregulars all knew it and had proved it time and time again. Marauders, more feral than their dogs, would often make their way through the mountains, raiding settlements for food and supplies. It was the Irregulars job to intercept and eliminate them, which was what had brought them into the wilderness once more.

"Tarkov!" A voice shouted, interrupting the merrymaking of the group.

Aleksander Tarkov, who held the rank of Sergeant within the unit, had been hacking up a fallen tree to fuel the fire. The six foot two blonde was the third youngest of the group, but held the respect of many as a survivor and a vicious fighter.

"Yes Captain?"

"I want you to take first watch tonight, save your energy."

"Sir," Tarkov replied with a nod, grinning beneath his helmet.

The muscled twenty-four year old slipped his axe back into the loop on his belt, retrieving his DC-15A rifle and doing a quick inspection of it. The Captain only ever made him take first watch when he thought they were close to their enemy, which pleased Aleksander greatly. The elation was replaced quickly by surprise, however, when the Captain joined him on the short walk to the perimeter.

"What's going on, Jakob?" Alek said, quite bluntly, once they were out of earshot of the camp.

"I'm getting strange interference on the comm-link. Like there's someone on a frequency close to ours. I get the odd word here and there but it's so distorted I can't make it out."

"No-one in these mountains uses comms but us. Those Marauders are too backward to figure it out. Radio silence?"

"You got it. I've sent a runner to the other teams, we're all making for the rendezvous point before first light."

Aleksander shook his head.

"The dogs are exhausted, Jakob, we've been out here a month. We keep pushing them they're going to start dying or tearing eachother apart. Then we're really fucked."

Jakob, who was only a few years older than Alek, sighed deeply.

"We've no choice, Alek, for the first time in my career I have no idea what we're facing. We need to regroup with the rest of the teams."

"Fuck... alright... get me Iggar and Fredrik. We're going to need more eyes on the perimeter."

"They're already on it."

Alek nodded. It seemed that this was going to be an interesting end to their most recent tour...

[Jezekel]

Jezekel sat within the cramped confines of the shuttle as their pilot expertly guided the sleek craft over the treetops, bobbing up and down as the artificial gravity tried it's best to keep up with the maneuvering. Adorned in the traditional white Stormtrooper armor of the Imperial elite, the Mandalorian's mind drifted like a bird from home as she imagined herself flying. A predator seeking it's prey as they had been told by their commander that this mission was to re-establish contact with an old Imperial ally. But, as all things in the galaxy seemed to go, diplomacy would have to win out in the halls while the soldiers helped improve on that first impression in the field.

"One minute," the pilot stated over the shuttle's internal comm.

Readying their gear and weapons, Jezekel unbuckled herself from the chair and rose with the rest, turning right and soon moving toward the rampway. Forty in each vessel, they would no doubt make quite the impression on this world of less advanced people. But, even Jezekel knew that back home, Mandalorians may seem that way to the casual observer, but their own history demanded respect nonetheless and she had a feeling these people would as well.

Amid the noise of the engines straining to slow their descent and the servos of the lowering ramp, the platoon surged forward, exiting the shuttle as it touched down. Unsure of what to expect, the forested hills of the area were quite picturesque as she rushed out, firing into the small enclave of Marauders who scrambled for cover. Rushing to a large boulder, Jezekel raised her sniper rifle and began selecting targets, squeezing the trigger as explosions from grenades lit up the early morning sky.

[Aleksander Tarkov]

The Marauders were outmatched man to man by the force of Stormtroopers that had made landfall on Wayland, thanks to the Imperial's training and superior weaponry. Their advantage, however, was numbers. They came in seemingly endless waves, appearing from the trees like ghosts. This was the largest raiding party that had been mustered in many years, it seemed.

A large contingent of the Marauders broke off from the main group, using a shallow depression in the landscape carved by a fast-flowing stream, in an attempted to flank the Imperials. Dozens of them flooded down the gulch, eager to loot the corpses of their foes. Their eagerness was short-lived, however, as a chorus of howls rang through the early morning air. The Marauders turned en-masse, in time to see the Irregulars, now re-grouped and totalling around eighty men, appear over the top of the embankment. The fell howling on their foes with blasters, axes and ice-picks alike, turning the stream a dark crimson in a matter of minutes.

Aleksander was one of the first over the top, descending on their hated enemies with near-feral fury. His axe immediately claimed its first victim, sinking deep into the neck. Rather than retrieve the embedded weapon, he opted to raise his rifle, spraying a hail of blaster fire down the gulch.

"TARKOV!"

It was Jakob, his Captain, who cried out. He had been knocked to the floor by a Marauder and now both were wrestling for control of the Marauder's knife. Unable to get a clean shot, he snatched his ice-pick from his belt and sprinted to his friend's aid, slamming the improvised weapon into the attacker's eye socket. A moment later, the gasping Captain was on his feet again, grabbing Alek by the shoulder.

"Get to the Imperials, tell them we'll hold the flank!"

"Yes, sir!," Alek replied, still quite unable to believe that Imperial Stormtroopers were actually here after all this time.

After retrieving his weapons, Alek prepared himself to run the deadly gauntlet between the two positions.

"Here goes..." He muttered, clambering up the embankment and breaking into a sprint, hoping with all his might the Imperials wouldn't mistake him for an enemy.

[Blacktung]

The sun was falling below the horizon, and with it's passing came the freezing darkness. Already his breath was visible in the fading light. The fading of the light was hardly noticeable as the hilltops and valleys became embroiled in flashes of light. The reds and greens of exchanged laser fire punctuated with orange blooms of fire. The screams of the dead and dying filled the air; drowning out the snapping twigs under hoof, the falling of snow from the treetops, and the last calls of the birds screaming at the fading of the light. As if their voices could stop it's passage.

He was here on a mission. The Empire wanted to find a lost colony here on the planet Wayland. It's undeveloped surface had proven difficult to map, and the colony undetected from space. They needed someone on the ground to find it, and their army of clumsy bucket soldiers were hardly qualified to do so. All their technology was useless on such a harsh world. They would wander for eons before they picked up even the simplest of trails. And so they came to him. As a member of the Bounty Hunters Guild he was sanctioned by the Empire to carry out bounties in their space. An independent contractor, of sorts.

It took three days of trudging through snow on foot and speeder bike before he found a trail. Tracks in the snow. Invisible to the average eye. Whomever had left them had tried to cover them up, but in doing so they had left other markers. Snow knocked loose from limbs, scratches in the bark, and patterns that no animal would leave behind. Finally he found them, just as the day was beginning to wane. Not the colonists. The others. They were a surly and dangerous looking lot. And where there is smoke there is fire. A detachment of colonists. Scouts, no doubt, had made camp. They had no idea they were about to be set upon by wolves.

The call was made, and like the war axes of Tyth the Imperials came raining from the sky like the wrath of Gods. Their shuttles hit ground and disgorged soldiers by the dozens. The battle began immediately. Blacktung continued to watch from the distance. He was a warrior, but not a soldier. His job had been to locate the colony. He had done enough. Still he watched, from his perch, as the battle continued below. His blood boiled within his veins, demanding tribute to Izax. No. The Gods would have to be sated another day.

Movement caught his eyes. The last rays of light revealing another party of Marauders exiting a cave hidden in the trees. They ran up the hill that separated them not just from their foes, but from sight. An ambush. Planned for the colonists, no doubt. His comm was raised to his mouth once more.

"This is Agent Seven. There is an ambush party approaching from the south-west. Behind the shuttles."

His voice was calm. He did not wait for a reply. Instead he steadied his footing. The metal spikes in his boots digging into the tree bark. The ambush party was too far away. He would never hit them, but he picked up his bow from where it hid in the snow covered branches. Dusting it clean he stood up tall, specifically selected an arrow from his quiver, lifted the bow over head, and drew the string as he lowered it into position. The Sakiyan compound bow was a mighty weapon, and from it he fired a long arrow. It cleaved through the darkening sky, flowing with the wind, and landed among the advancing party. The arrowhead exploded on contact with the frozen earth. The bright bloom of light was eye catching in the least.

It may just catch the Imperials' attention, hopefully before they are routed from behind. He did not know. He did not even wait to see it land. Already he was descending from the tree as fast as he could. Perhaps he would spill blood today after all.

[Jezekel]

Marauders seemed to fall by the score, though as Imperial technology won out in most areas, the tenacity and numbers showed that these mercenaries weren't going to give up that easily. Explosions continued brightening the area, catapulting snow and earth into the sky along with the bodies of the leather and fur-clothed men. Moans and cries to their gods lifted up with the detritus of war as the cacophony of blaster fire continued. Targets falling or pitched sideways remained in cover or dead amid their companions or the remaining flora as Jezekel soon noticed a figure running at her, full tilt. Swinging her rifle to the left she aimed center mass though the longer she gazed into the man's eyes, there wasn't hate for an enemy, but desperation and a bit of concern.

Voices continued filling her ears from notifications from various sergeants to their own lieutenant, giving orders as the Imperial company shifted with the tide of battle.

"Lead, TK Eight Twelve, possible friendly sprinting to me," she informed.

"Copy that," the lieutenant replied. "We do have friendlies here, so use caution."

Her mind dancing between downing the approaching blonde mass of muscle and giving him a chance to plead his case continued until she noticed two marauders leap from behind a large boulder and charge him. Shifting her aim, she fired a snap shot into the chest of the nearest, then aimed the small, red reticle to the second.....

"Explosion to the northwest," another trooper stated amid the tumult. "Flanking enemy! Shift fire from shuttle guns," the sergeant commanded and immediately after, the heavy repeater located at a rooftop cupola opened up on the Marauders now rushing up from a dry riverbed, lances of blaster fire dancing back and forth in a Z pattern, catching the invaders who didn't invite fire from the nearby squad now turning to meet the new threat.

[Aleksander Tarkov]

Aleksander felt a blaster bolt skim his shoulder plate, sending him spinning to the floor in a burst of snow. He was lucky that the shot had sent him to the floor, because the hail of repeater fire shredding the second Marauder who had been been bearing down on him. Scrambling to his feet, he broke into a sprint once more and quickly skidded into cover behind the bolder. He held up his helmet, slapping the side of it.

"What frequency??" He shouted over the noise of the battle raging around them, waiting for her response before slamming the bucket back on his head, sending a message to the Irregulars and tuning to the frequency she gave him.

"All Imperial Forces, this is Sergeant Aleksander Tarkov of the Wayland Irregulars, we are eighty strong and currently holding the your right flank. We are switching to your comm-frequency and will follow your instructions."

"Copy that, Sergeant, thanks for the assist," came the Lieutenant's response, "Hold position. Your Captain is on the line and will liase with me from this point. Request you hold your current position, your access route back to the Irregulars is no longer safe."

"Solid copy, holding position."

Closing the comm, he inspected his smoldering shoulder plate and laughed, looking back to the sniper.

"Wasn't safe the first time!" He shouted, accented voice tinged with amusement, "I'm Alek, pleasure to meet you, comrade!"

Raising his rifle, he flicked up the iron sights and started taking pot-shots at the marauders who had attempted to close the gap. The line would have to hold, or the Imperials and Irregulars would have a much harder time repelling the Horde.

[Blacktung]

Thank Izax the call made it through. As he cleared the treeline he could see return fire scouring the earth beneath the feet of the ambushing Marauders. They dived for cover behind stumps and boulders, returning fire. They were routed and pinned but hardly powerless. The battlefield had become a chaos bed of laser fire. In the fading sunlight and the darkness that was fast approaching it would become more difficult to tell friend from foe. Reaching to his side, he grabbed the small black cube that hung from his leather belt and flipped the switch; activating his IFF beacon to mark him as a friendly soldier in the HUDs of the Stormtroopers.

Skipping down the snow bank, he headed for the backs of the ambush team. They were pinned down, but to him their backs were exposed. He slipped in unnoticed. With leather and fur, and only sparse armor plating, and primitive weaponry, he looked more like a Marauder than an Imperial agent. They paid him no attention even if they saw him. Taking refuge behind a crop of rocks he peeked over the top at his enemies. They were scattered, divided, but fighting back relentlessly. So focused on the Imperials before them that they never noticed him drawing back his bow.

"Aivela, Lady of Passion, give me grace. I am unafraid."

The bowstring was released, snapping closed, scraping along his wrist guard, and propelling the arrow with all the power of the mighty Sakiyan bow. His aim was true, and compensated for wind and temperature. It struck the Marauder in his back, off center, right through the heart. The man clutched his chest, feeling for the arrow head that had pushed through his chest; feeling the point, trying to contain his blood, before his body failed him and his soul was banished into the ether. To be consumed by Izax. As all things will be.

His fingers continued to pull by the string. His few exposed fingers burned in the cold air. One after another the arrows were released, felling foe after foe with consistent precision. Not so difficult at this range. Each defeated foe was counted under his breath, the number ever mounting higher. Someone must have spotted him, for while he was focused on his next victim, bowstring taunt, blaster fire began to skip off his rock barrier. His arrow went wide and was lost in a tree as he dropped down behind his cover. Clutching his bow to his chest, he smiled devilishly as fire continued to thump the rocks behind him and scorch the earth about him.

They couldn't make a move on him without suffering fire from the Imperial weapon placements. He was incapable of returning fire, but they had become useless in the process. Now to let the Imperials do what they do best. Ruin worlds and their inhabitants.

[Rolth Wygraant]

In the thin blue sky of the Wayland arctic, a speck of grey appeared out of nothing in the time it took for one to blink. It wasn't a trick of the eye. In the seconds that passed, the speck became a shape, gradually coalescing into view as a broad-faceted wedge, hanging impossibly in the air.

* * *

"We're in attack position now, sir."

Captain Wygraant turned from his forward deck vantage point as Commander Belgen delivered the status update. The Captain of the Star Destroyer Decimator wore a pinched expression, somewhat irritated at the news.

"That's a bit much, isn't it, Commander? A ship of the line against a few score of morrt-bitten savages? Next I expect you'll advise us to raise the shields on account of incoming spears."

For Belgen's part, he swallowed enough of his smile to simply express a smirk. He toed the line parallel to the Captain, watching the hazy blue of Wayland's upper atmosphere achieve clarity the lower they descended.

"The turn of phrase dies hard."

"Indeed. It's a good Navy tradition."

"Wing Commander Karnel reports Esk Squadron is ready to deploy, but..."

"...our shore parties and local irregulars have engaged too close for ordnance." Wygraant completed Belgen's thought, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand.

"Quite, sir. At this rate, it may literally become a spear fight."

"You know, in the good old days, this would be acceptable collateral damage."

"I heartily agree."

"Lord Vader had his faults, but that wasn't one of them. A proper quick end. Staunch the bleeding."

Wygraant sighed.

"On the other hand, bombs are expensive. Provincials are cheap."

The Captain glanced back to the tactical overlay table situated at the rear of the bridge. Wing Commander Karnel was engaged in a pointed discussion with Captain Orgern of the Army.

"Best not to keep those two waiting. Greenlight Cresh squadron's TIE Strikers. Should be accurate enough for close air support. And give Captain Orgern the go-ahead to land his armor."

Commander Belgen responded with a curt nod.

"At once, sir."

[Jezekel]

As the large man ducked behind the large boulder with her, Jezekel kept her eyes down range. "Eighteen Four One Eight," she relayed, then noticed his own rifle as he lined up a shot, then listened to the exchange between he and their lieutenant. Now that the allies had been established, it became easier to fire on the enemy as they continued coming. His greeting and amusement at the very close shot amused the Mandalorian. "He was right behind you, so," the sniper replied amid the tumult of battle around them. Nodding at his introduction, "TK Eight Twelve," her own name would have to wait, especially since everyone else was listening to their conversation. "Pleasure's mine."

As the Marauders closed, using the terrain to their advantage, several troopers began using more grenades and flamethrowers, bathing the ground in fire and death and though Jezekel would've rather the land of their new allies survive the fight, she had no qualms about hearing the enemy scream in agony as their bodies burned. Avoiding shooting those now aflame, she instead targeted those running for cover, firing smoothly at two targets before they reached their destination only to gain another grenade for their efforts. The explosion erupted, sending body parts and rock into the air which all soon peppered the ground in blackened bits.

"All units," their commander's voice cut in over the noise. "Armor and air support on it's way, push the enemy back as far as you can, use smoke to mark our lines."

Within moments, several Imperial troops tossed out smoke grenades which soon began seeping red plumes which drifted with the gentle breeze as the captain then notified the incoming TiE's on which side the enemy was.

Jezekel glanced over to the Aleksander. "Make this boulder your new best friend, things are about to get loud." Reciting a line from back home, "Jorso'ran kando a tome." Keeping her eyes downrange, she continued seeking out targets of opportunity and soon noticed a Marauder shouting at a group of his men, pointing at their line. Moving the reticle to his face, she concentrated and waited for the right moment as those in front of him moved around, one directly in her path soon ducked and she squeezed the trigger, a clean black hole now where his upper lip had been and dropped the leader out of sight.

[Aleksander Tarkov]

Alek ducked back behind the boulder, ejecting the rifle's now-spent fuel cell and reaching for another.

"Reloa-" he began to shout, but the word caught in his throat as his eyes locked with those of a Marauder who had his weapon raised and aimed at the two soldiers hiding behind the bolder.

This was it. Time seemed to freeze as the Marauder pulled the trigger. Alek felt his heart stop for the briefest of moments, only for it to start pounding with renewed vigor as no shots came. The Marauder cursed, frantically fumbling with his weapon. Alek dropped his rifle and pulled his axe from his belt as he scrambled to his feet, closing the distance between them rapidly. With his shoulder low, he felt the heat from a blaster bolt fly past him as his foe finally got his weapon to work a few seconds too late to be able to aim properly.

The huge Irregular collided with the man with what must have felt like the force of a speeder, bringing both men crashing down into the snow. They grappled for what seemed like an age, until Alek felt a white-hot burning pain in his abdomen. Looking down, he saw a jagged knife protruding from his flesh, the snow turning crimson beneath the struggling pair. He screamed with rage, slamming his helmeted head downward into the man's face; once, twice, thrice. The sudden and unexpected assault was enough for Alek to wrench his weapon free from his foe's hand, his cry of pain and rage continuing as he raised it high.

A soft crunch signaled the Marauder's death, the axe splitting his face in two. Even though the first had killed him, the blows continued to fall. Over and over again Alek struck, before he collapsed sideways, landing in the blood red snow, knife still jutting from his gut. He lay there for a few moments, gasping for air, until he had regained enough composure and strength to begin to crawl back to the relative safety of the boulder.

[Reikkel Orgern]

"We're green for descent. Cresh squadron is forward deploying for close air support. Dropping flares for the staging area now."

Captain Orgern tapped his helmet, clearing some of the static from the audio feed linking him to the cockpit of the Sentinel shuttle ferrying him planetside. Sealed within the mechanized deployment hold, the only view Orgern was afforded was that of the sealed deployment ramp, now bathed in red light from the hold's interior. That would soon change.

"I read you, Omicron Leader. Bonecrusher troop, stand by for deployment signal."

Outside, four sentinel landers flew in a box formation, each dispensing a green flare which growled to life once it hit the snowy terrain, three hundred meters behind the point where the irregulars assembled. As the sentinels swooped back to land, a Gozanti cruiser deployed from the main bay of the Decimator. Underslung at each side of the support lander's hull, two All Terrain Attack Transports hung suspended from reinforced mag clamps, their long legs nearly dragging the deck until they descended free from the mother ship.

All of these slow-moving targets were conspicuous to any infantry intent on a pot-shot. That is, until the TIE Strikers of Cresh squadron put an end to that. The spade-shaped air supremacy fighters banked on a dime, their adaptive ailerons proving more nimble in atmosphere than their space-faring cousins. It allowed the Strikers to accelerate at low altitude to nearly their full atmospheric speed before knifing sharply to the side like fighter kites. They flew parallel to the line of engagement, stitching the rear of the marauder lines with suppressing fire intended more to keep the enemy's heads' down than anything else. As the Strikers peeled off at full burn, the last of the Sentinel shuttles folded up their wings as they touched down. At nearly the same time, the forward compartment bay gangplanks fell to the snow, allowing two All Terrain Scout Walkers and an entire company of Stormtroopers to debark at once.

The red-illuminated walls gave way before Captain Orgern's eyes immediately to a field of white and evergreen. He squinted against the glare.

"Ahead at half drive!"

The AT-ST's surged forward, their crew compartments traversing the battlefield as the main cannons barked to life, picking apart concentrated enemy troop positions for any clean kills in view.

Between the barrages, Orgern could hear and feel the heavy thump-thumps behind him. The AT-ATs were in play.

"Heavy walkers report deployed."

"Push the center. Target their rear lines."

Overhead, a pair of bolts speared the sky with a piercing KRR-TOWW, splintering a stand of trees atop a knob of rocky terrain the Marauders were using as a vantage. The enemy infantry's momentary tactical advantage had been dashed with the squeeze of a trigger.

"Driver, fan out to the flank. Trample opportunity targets in the open."

Captain Orgern slid the goggles perched atop his helmet over his eyes, to deal with the snow glare. He tapped the comm terminal at his station.

"This is Captain Reikkel Orgern of the Imperial Army to Imperial Irregular command."

[Blacktung]

Pot shots continued to wiz past his head. Returning fire was a risk he was unwilling to partake in. Instead he kept his bow close to his chest, an arrow notched, ready to fire should they make the mistake of coming around his cover. True, they could spring him from the sides and top at the same time, but he was comfortable in the knowledge that such a flank would open them up to enemy fire. Above them, at the top of the hill, the Lambdas and their crews were raining down fire and damnation upon these raiders. Like the wrath of Tyth. Swift and absolute.

The firing quieted, and in the moment of respite, he heard a sound. A metallic screaming from the sky. Scrambling to his feet, his voice became a mix of swears and prayers for swiftness as he half ran, half rolled further down the hill. A shot or three followed him, wide and half-hearted. Judging by the matching voices behind him, his enemies were also knew what was coming. A TIE strafing run. Green light flashed from behind, but Blacktung did not dare look back. Instead he kept running, and only when the explosions quieted and debris ceased pinging off his coat, only then did he pulled his face out of a snow bank and look back at the slope he had just stood on. A smoking crater now dominated it's features.

Laughing loudly, his breath was visible with each deep breath. "Blood and thunder!" His scream echoed among the trees as he congratulated his comrades in the air. There was little time for revelry. Picking himself up, he headed back up the slope intent on rejoining the conflict. This was not his war, and perhaps he would stay out of it, but he could hardly sit back and not watch the battle. Adrenaline and excitement spurred him on until he finally crested the hill. Those he passed double checked to make sure he was not an enemy. Without the IFF beacon he would have been shot first and asked never. Moving past the now secured landing area and past the support crews, he could see the battle in the distance. More ships were landing. Like mighty birds of prey vomiting soldiers into the waiting mouths of the enemy.

A painful gasp pulled his attention away, and in the near distance he saw two soldiers behind a stone shield. One of them was a local dressed in leather and fur. The handle of a knife jutted out from where it did not belong. Picking up his pace Blacktung headed over to the pair. The other person, an Imperial Soldier, was reaching for a medkit. "Bah!" Blacktung swapped the small case away and knelt down next to the man. From his belt a pouch was produced. Once rich leather that was scored black around it's tied mouth. Without another word he eased the local down on his back. From the pouch he produced a poultice made of herbs and, quite possibly, dirt. It smelled rancid.

With the poultice in one hand and his other grabbed the handle of the knife, he smiled and looked into the face of the man. "Rejoice, you will have a glorious scar!" and then it was jerked free and tossed into the bush. Without missing a moment the poultice was jammed into the hole and then his hand was clamped over the opening, pressing hard as if the wound could be willed shut. Looking upward, into the laser lit sky, he called loudly. "Scyva! Oh Mother of Sorrows, you shall not weep this day. Let your heart beat upon this noble warrior so that he may rise again and bring glory to the Gods! Nahut will not lead him away. No! Let your light shine down upon the faithful so that we may rejoin Tyth and Aivela upon the eternal battlefield!"

His chin dropped, his eyes closed as he focused on his hand, and the wound beneath. He could feel it, the flesh quivering. That familiar warmth washed over him. The power of the Gods. It filled him and held him, like a mother's hold, and it passed through him and into the man. A dull heat that radiated from his palm like the waves of the ocean; dousing the flames of pain. Breathing deeply, he finally pulled his hand away to reveal the wound was closed, but gooey and wet with blood still. It smelled of the poultice. "Ha!" Blacktung clapped the man's shoulder before helping him back up to a sitting position. "The Gods have found value in your soul. You may yet live."

[Jezekel]

In her peripheral, Jezekel noticed that the large, blonde warrior had been wounded as he crawled back toward her. Glancing quickly for targets bearing down on them, she was secure in the boulder's protection and moved to help the local. As she noticed the knife in his gut, she immediately moved to grab a medpac from her belt, but was surprised by another who stepped in instead. Local remedies were always chosen over foreigner's medicine, and she kept her attention split now between the field surgery and their enemy. Chuckling within the helmet as the icy blue eyed medic commented on the scar, Jezekel knew that Mandalorians felt the same way, then listened to the medic's prayer to their deities above. Though her Imperial training wouldn't ever make her forget about where she came from and what she believed, her opinions on the matter were kept silent.

Allowing the newly arrived local to tend to the wound, she turned her attention back to the fight still raging around them and then turned her attention back to the TIE's now making their first run, blazing green lances of death on the enemy. Eruptions of ground, foliage and bodies in a long, explosive line across the battlefield made her wish that she could've been more a part of that swath. It wasn't her moment, she knew.

Instead of cowering or running, Jezekel noticed instead that the Marauders knew their chances were better in the midst of their enemy instead of out in the open, so charged. "Now, that's a sight," she laughed, took aim and began laying into the charging men in furs along with the Imperial's line. A renewed round of blaster fire and explosions from grenades began again in earnest. Behind them, the AT-AT's chased the enemy into the gunfire, flamethrowers and grenades of the stormtroopers and Regulars.

Glancing back momentarily to the two locals behind her, "Last chance for some more glory!" Even as they fell, Jezekel knew this was about to be hand-to-hand any moment with the remainder.

[Aleksander Tarkov]

Aleksander couldn't help but grin, or perhaps grimace, he knew not which. He heard the call to these unfamiliar gods, initially not expecting this man's prayers to be answered. Then, which great surprise and relief, he noted the warmth flowing into the wound that felt vastly dissimilar to the warmth of his escaping blood. Adrenaline pounded through his veins as he witnessed the now closed wound and, though the pain was still great, it was lessened enough that he could bring himself back to a crouch.

"Thank you, my friend, and thank your gods! We may have more need of them yet!" He shouted over the cacophony that rang out across the normally peaceful mountains, his blood-splattered face showing a grin of amusement, "Tarkov, Wayland Irregulars. This is TK Eight Twelve. Welcome to our little slice of heaven!"

Turning to survey the battle, he was momentarily awed by the sight. He nodded in solid agreement with TK's assessment, smiling to himself. This was the strength of the Empire, he mused, watching scenes that he had only ever seen in holo-films. His reverie was interrupted by a call over the comm.

"This is Captain Reikkel Orgern of the Imperial Army to Imperial Irregular command."

The message repeated twice before Aleksander felt his heart grow heavy.

"Captain Orgern, this is Sergeant Aleksander Tarkov, Wayland Irregulars. Captain Ivarsson is missing, presumed dead. Transmitting my current co-ordinates. I am cut off from the rest of my unit, repeat, I am cut off from from the rest of my unit and the enemy is closing, hand to hand combat immanent. What are your orders, sir?"

Tarkov watched as the Marauders made contact with the front line of the Imperials. The Irregulars were already beginning to push the first wave back, axes and picks claiming many a savage's life, but they were still outnumbered. They were warriors, they would hold the line or die trying. If it was the latter, they would take as many of those bastards with them as possible. He turned to look at his new-found allies, putting his helmet back on his head and picking up his axe again, along with the long knife that the stranger had pulled free from his gut.

"For Wayland and for the Empire."

He was ready for another fight.

[Blacktung]

"That's the spirit!" Blacktung exclaimed as he offered the wounded soldier a hand and pulled him to his feet. There was no gentleness in the motion, no ease for the wounded. There was no time for comforts or pity. Only for battle. Once righted he patted the man on the shoulder before bending down to grab his bow from where it had fallen in the snow. Dusting it off, he checked the sight, and then grabbed an arrow. It seemed so pitiful a weapon compared to the blaster rifles that made of the bulk of the combat. It had not lead him astray yet, and he would continue to use it until he ran out of arrows. Which, judging my the lightness of his quiver, would be soon.

"For Izax!"

He took point, running out from around the stone barrier without so much as a peek. The center of the battle had moved past them, further into the valley. The Marauders were being pushed back by the overwhelming force of the Empire. With air support above and armor in play on the ground, there was little the attackers could do but retreat to fight another day. "You'll have to run faster if you wish to join the battle!" He called over his shoulder as he raced toward the front line. He picked his path carefully through the snow, moving through the lines already made by those who pushed through the fresh powder. No sense in showing up to battle exhausted.

The noise of battle was getting closer, and the front line was coming into focus. Laser fire was now coming their way. Not aimed at them, but wild trajectories could prove fatal. A blast nearly consumed his leg, turning the slow into super heated liquid that splashed his pants. Dropping behind a tree, he patted the area with cold snow until the burning subsided. Nearby an AT-AT stomped through the snow, knocking over trees and destroying swathes of land with every volley. "Verily, that is is a mighty beast!"

[Jezekel]

In her peripheral, the healer moved downslope into the fray and Jezekel did her best not to hit him as she chose her own targets, firing center mass as the Marauders charged, dropping by the scores from blaster fire and explosions. Though she knew it was a waste of manpower, their tenacity in the face of certain doom was admirable and the Mandalorian could almost see the same spirit in them that she had been raised to admire. Amid the cacophony of chaos, she continued breathing, squeezing the trigger and finding more targets, then noticed in the scope as Blacktung went down. Though he seemed uninjured, the sniper sought out targets now focused on his area, mostly to escape the AT-AT's now bearing down on them.

Rounding a cluster of trees, a large, dark haired Marauder charged with axe in hand toward the healer. Firing once, she watched the blaster bolt slam into his left shoulder, spinning his torso slightly. Carefully leading him on, she fired a second time and this time hit him in the chest as two more emerged to either side of Blacktung, watching their comrade fall and apparently not noticing the hidden Imperial ally yet....

[Reikkel Orgern]

"Captain Orgern, this is Sergeant Aleksander Tarkov, Wayland Irregulars. Captain Ivarsson is missing, presumed dead. Transmitting my current co-ordinates. I am cut off from the rest of my unit, repeat, I am cut off from from the rest of my unit and the enemy is closing, hand to hand combat immanent. What are your orders, sir?"

The signal was strong, but the noise in the background nearly made Tarkov's report unintelligible. Blaster fire, explosions, and the close sound of screaming men that came from a fight that was now at arm's length. Captain Orgern frowned as the cabin of his AT-ST traversed towards the signal source. He could see the closing wave of marauders pressing towards the weary line of irregulars, even as the advance platoon of the stormtrooper company cleared the escarpment giving them line of sight. Orgern's gunner marked out four easy targets in the open, thumping a concussion grenade that sailed over the heads of the line of contact to detonate in a snow drift, sending enemy bodies in opposite directions with a spray of white.

"We're putting covering fire down ahead of your position, Sergeant. Keep your head down, fall back, and regroup with the stormtrooper column."

The sky glowed in a flash as another barrage from one of the rear-positioned AT-ATs hammered another group of marauders breaking for open ground.

"Light armor is moving to flank. We will cut off their reinforcements to give you room to disengage."

A marauder dug in behind a fallen log was too late in pulling back, and the AT-ST stomped him into the ground as it picked up speed.