It's certainly the case that the board as a whole is quiet. You know it - you just need to do something about it. You know it, I know it. Time for you guys to do something about it.

So we're going to try something. If you're committed to the board - show it! I'm not talking about the old faithfuls, the old guard in the behemoth that is The Valthor Chronicles. You posters that want to have some fun.

I'm going to start a game. I'll be updating once a day, every day. Quick-fire, we're going to have fun, kick ass, take names. Ready?

----------------------------------

THE HELL-HIVE

You're all young gangers deep in Hive Tempestora on Ork-infested Armageddon. The Arbites have been calling for "volunteers" and guess what -- you were volunteered. Squad 1, Delta Company, 88th Tempestora Hive Militia is now raised, armed with what simple weapons they have brought from home or picked up in the wreckage of the devastated Underhive.

Take a few short lines to describe your character. The chosen squad leader will be someone who keeps a close eye on the storyline.

Anything available to basic Hive Militia troopers (but not gang leaders) is OK (shotguns, laspistols, ccws, etc.). If you want something special (like a flamer) you'd better describe how your character scrounged or converted it (like, say, stealing an arc-welder from the docks). Cool stuff is hard to come by in a warzone.

Don't take the p*ss! This is an attempt to rejuvenate the board, so put effort in! :)

Here's an example of an NPC that'll be in your party:

---------

Name: Gideon Castlebeck
Height: 6'4''
Hair & Eyes: brown & brown
Armament: Shotgun, autopistol, Flak Armour, knife
Notes: An orphan from an early age, Castlebeck joined a particularly large and dangerous group of hivers called "The Desperados"

He became adept at fighting in the conditions of the hive, and eventually worked his way up to Gang Lieutenant. He was a trusted and respected (as far as you can be respected) member of the Desperados, and was tipped to inherit leadership when the Leader died...

When the jack-booted foot of Gazghkull Thraka descended upon Armageddon, Proud Hive Tempestora turned into a seething warzone - filled with the remnants of Imperial Guard companies, a few Space Marine squads, Orks... and the Hivers themselves, some of the most brutal killers in the Imperium. Yet they were unprepared for the sheer ferocity of the Orkish horde.

Castlebeck's gang was nearly totally destroyed during the defense of their local settlement. Castlebeck left, and became a loner and when the Arbites began to "volunteer" people for the Hive Militia, Castlebeck was unique in that he was one of the few that actually *did* volunteer. The Orks will pay for destroying his gang, his life... He's ready to fight for house and hive.

He wears practical clothing, and around his neck he wears a new shiny set of dog-tags, proclaiming his membership of the hive militia. Part of him welcomes the metal, it could be traded later... but surely the metal could be better used to make more bullets for the war effort.

Castlbeck hefts a shotgun, loaded with Solid, Scatter and Man-Stopper rounds. They're called "Man"-Stoppers, but he hopes like hell they're capable of stopping a charging Ork. He has an autopistol in a well-worn leather holster, there for easy access, and a vicious knife strapped to his thigh... but what self-respecting hiver *doesn't* have a knife?

IDEAS FOR CHARACTERS INCLUDE: The nimble and light scout or the heavy weapons guy. Go crazy!

*****

I'll be updating in approximately twelve hours. Get to it!

Name: "Crazy" Callum Gridh
Height: 6'4"
Hair & Eyes: Red & Green
Armament: Flak armour, knife, two-handed axe, triplex-pattern lasgun
Notes:

"Crazy" Callum Gridh is, well, crazy. And he's something of an enigma in the Underhive. No-one is sure where he came from, only that he showed up the better part of ten years ago and has been busting heads across the Underhive. Some claim he's an Imperial Navy or Guard deserter, a claim backed up by his precious triplex-pattern lasgun "Molly", with "her" stupidly high rate of fire. Others say he's from Uphive, but was exiled down for being crazy, and they point to the Tempestora ganger tattoos that have always covered him from neck to wrist and waist, and the fact that "Molly" has the Tempestora PDF glyph.

Whatever the case, and where ever Gridh is from, he's been a free agent for most of a decade, fighting for whatever gangs were in the biggest scraps and could pay the best. Gridh mostly uses his earnings for drinking, and drinking for starting fights, and starting fights for earning money. He's a big man, taller than most, and built like a giant fist, all bone and sinew and lean muscle.

Given his reputation and skill, it was inevitable that Gridh would be drafted into the militia, thought it's doubtful anyone had to do much to convince him. He and Molly love to put the hurt on people, and fighting Orks has got to be more fun than fighting gangers, right?

Name: Bradley "Brad" Colmes
Height: 5' 10''
Hair: black
Eyes: blue
Equipment: Grenade launcher, stubgun, Flak Armour, knife
Notes: Brad's parents were killed as the refugee group they were a part of was caught in the crossfire during an Ork attack. Caked in mud and blood, with no one to speak for him, the orphan was assigned to the care of the PDF; in essence, he was conscripted.

This was a fortunate state of affairs, however, as the youngster was forever scarred by his experience and wanted nothing more than to have his revenge against the greenskins; being drafted was a step towards granting his wish.

When the jack-booted foot of Gazghkull Thraka descended upon Armageddon, Brad was one of the unbalanced few who welcomed the invasion (though he was a far cry from the doom-and-gloom fanatics obsessed with the endtimes), seeing in it the culmination of his training and burning desire to kill Orkoid kind.

He wears old military clothing, the camouflage colors faded, but otherwise serviceable. His dog-tags are wrapped in a piece of cloth and tucked away, so they don't make any sound as he moves.

Colmes carries a single-shot, breech-loading grenade launcher. It doesn't have the rate-of-fire of one of the automatic types, but Brad figures it's an acceptable trade-off, as it's slightly more accurate and the slimmer design allows him better maneuverability. He also carries a heavy stubgun in a relatively new, synth-leather holster on his flak vest, in easy reach, and a knife sheathed at the small of his back, hidden under the untucked back of his uniform shirt.

EDIT

Name: Marcus Meaney
Height: 5' 9''
Hair: brown
Eyes: green
Equipment: Heavy rifle, ammo, helmet, knife
Notes: Meaney was only recently transferred into the stockade for petty pilfering of supplies. He'd felt guilty, but there was a war on and could he be faulted for looking out for his own survival? But things were looking up, because almost as soon as he got to the stockade, he was drafted into the PDF. He'd always been enamoured of the Imperial Guard, and while the PDF wasn't exactly the Guard, the military was military, so what did it matter?

His "initial issue" equipment was a scrounged up bundle dumped into his hands. As soon as he put it on the ground to sling his rifle, someone rushed by and his webbing was gone. A second later, his flak vest. The third person who tried to grab his meager gear was whacked across the top of the head with the top of his helmet. Suddenly, stealing didn't seem as easily rationalized as it once did.

Name: Nd'aka "Squirmy" Nielhund

Age: 26

Height: 5'4

Weight: 142 lbs

Hair: None

Eyes: Brown

Equipment: Most of the bog-standard PDF equipment, nothing designed for long deployments. Every thing's camo, either by design, or through painting. Even the eating utensils, of which there's one, a Spoon.

Armament: Long sharp piece of rebar, grip tape wrapped around one end, wide enough for both hands to grip.
Standard pattern lasgun, modified with the stock having been hacked off, a pistol grip crudely taped to the front piccatinny rail, and a nice pair of iron sights.
Single use zip gun, essentially a 1 foot piece of pipe with a scrounged bolter shell in the end. Stab someone with the open end, slide the plunger, bang. Big hole.
Short knife.

Notes: Nd'aka (pronounced Endakka) is the point man. The little scout, seemed almost from birth to have been bred for scurrying through the tunnels of the underhive. indeed, he has members of his family who were gymnasts in the uphive, before being banished downward for failing to perform perfectly at a performance. The family proved more resourceful than thought, and soon began a fruitful relationship with the various gangs, staying carefully neutral in their dealings.

Nd'aka has a bit of a quirk though. While most underhivers know only their immediate surroundings, Nd'aka knows the majority of the underhive. not every nook and cranny, but enough to have some escape routes available from most locales. Although, the orks have sharted that up a little bit. However, this still makes him invaluable in his role as the lead scout of his unit, as well as a general lookout.

This, unfortunately has stamped the mark of the Wyrd on him, and has kept him somewhat apart from the others, which suits him perfectly. He knows that when the Shart hits the fan, he can melt into the shadows and be long gone, while the others fumble in the dark.


ETA: Age

Name: Gustov Penske
Age: 28
Height: 6'0
Weight: 200lbs
Hair: Bald
Eyes: Brown
Build : Pear Like
Loadout: Pump action shotgun, Mini-Sledge hammer, laspistol.

For 14 years, Gus has been a ganger. One with a bad reputation at that. Gus has a twisted form of compassion when it comes to other beings. For instance, he found himself locked up for two years before the orks invaded for crushing someones left scapula with a hammer - well, and the guy's arm too. When asked why he did such crippling damage to the other person, Gus merely replied "He lived, didn't he?"

It was in that dank cell that he would be beaten and left to rot had he not joined the militia. Sure, it was cozy, and talking to himself was fun, but he needed an escape, a way to connect with his fellow man again.

That, and the dogtags they promised him were shiny, and they told him he could have his hammer back.

Before entering prison, the man was built like a brick, but after two years of nearly solitary confinement - he bit another inmate - his physique is oddly lacking. Now, he resembles a very angry pear, complete with a ponch that just won't go away. Out of twisted pride, the man still wears his beaten up prison shirt beneath his flak jacket, the tattered orange a stark contrast to the drab olive green.

In a manner, Gus volunteered for the fight against orks - mostly he volunteered to leave prison. His motives were never altruistic. Life has changed outside the bars though, and he finds himself oddly amused. Caught in a fight he doesn't particularily care about, the only thing that occupies his mind is what colour is ork blood. He's heard that it's green, but he's a skeptic.

Name: Nestor “Nessy” Tix
Height: 6’8”
Hair & Eyes: blond & blue

Armament: Nestor’s most prized possession is his “chainsword”, made from small chainsaw it was modelled to be wielded as a sword. It runs on almost anything that is liquid en flameable, at least that is what it’s creator said before being torn apart by it’s own creation. Next to his chainsword he carries a stubber found on a dead Ganger some and a knife that was stuck in the man’s back. The stubber is a standard Guard weapon, though the Ganger was definitely not a member of the Guard, and the knife is a homemade one. A piece of sharp metal with a handle pushed on it.
When he ‘volunteered’ for the he was given a Flak Armour. But he soon lost his pants somewhere. Just as he lost both arms of the vest, somewhere.

Background: Nestor’s mother was a whore, one who wasn’t really good at her job as they never had money, what he had was 12 brothers and sisters. He was born third or fourth, his mother couldn’t remember, and he didn’t care about it. When he was around 6 years old, his mother forgot when he was born exactly, he joined a small local gang in the hive that was ‘protecting’ their neighbourhood. It didn’t last long before he was in charge of the group.

He was smart, not anyone in the neighbourhood could say he wasn’t, but he was sadistic too. Somehow he loved the sight of people dieing slowly, he enjoyed ripping several pieces out of them too. His cold-blooded nature caused that none dared to oppose to him. So also the technician he asked to create a chainsword. The man did it and died when Nessy had a test run on the man.

He lived happily, maiming some people and enjoying the power he had, that was until the ork invasions began. Most of his gang volunteered for the guard, finally seeing a chance to get away from Nestor. It wasn’t something he appreciated, but things went even worse, he had to volunteer too according to some guardsmen. The 88th Tempestora Hive Militia would be his new home.

Name: Josh "Mushy" Mator

Height: 5' 9

Hair and Eyes: Black and Hazel

Build: Stubby

Armament: Autogun, meat cleaver, large gutting knife, grenade

Tattoos: Tribal looking tattoos on both arms and a tattoo of a bear on his chest

Josh is in his 30's, being one of the oldest members in the militia. He used to be in one of the biggest gangs in Tempestora but no one is quite sure which. His tattoo's are generic, not betraying his old gang's identity. A couple of things are known about him. He was born in a different hiveIn the old gang he was a member of, he ran a butcher's shop which doubled as a safe house for over 7 years, a testimony to his cautiousness and his gang's prestige... He refuses to talk about his old life, rebutting any inquiries with a laugh and a casual shrug. This apparent casualness is betrayed by his odd habit of finding out what gang every member of his unit is from. Such caution much have a reason and it can only be linked to the past and why he volunteered for the militia.

Josh is built like a barrel and about as strong. He has taken well to the militia life and has shown unseen devotion to the Emperor for an uneducated ganger. His friendly, favourite-uncle manner has mostly gone down well with most of the gangers, even if some of them treat him with contempt. Those that have seen past this manner have found out a little about his past. He still weilds the cleaver and long gutting knife of his old trade and has now added an autogun to his weaponry. The scant practice that the militia has done has revealed his familiarity with firearms. This has not gone unnoticed with the rest of his squad. He has accepted what he is doing and ready to help fight the Orks off Armegeddon.....as long as it benefits him

EDIT

Name: Kenny

Height: 6' 1"

Hair and Eyes: Blald and Hazel

Build: Emancipated

Armament: Chains and autogun

History: Kenny served in the PDF in Armeggedon. During his service, he was unlucky enough to be captured by gretchin. He has been their slave for approximately 4 weeks in which time he has nearly become a walking skeleton due to very little food and their petty torture. He is barely sane and all he wants now is to get away from the gretchin. Strangely enough, he isn't that afraid of orks, it's the little ones that scare him....

Name: Eric "Stubs" Statten
Height: 6’4”
Hair & Eyes: Bald and brown eyes


Eric is pretty much a standard hive ganger, not to bright, follows orders without thinking much about them, and has pretty much no morale.

Eric was born into the ganglife since both his parents were members of the same gang, though Eric has always known that he was a "accident" which not even a abortion managed to remove. Knowing this had made Eric cynical and emotionless, and the only joy he manages to find is in death and destruction.

Eric likes BIG guns, and has gotten a hold of a heavy stubber from the arms of a dead offworld PDF'er. It makes lots of noise when it fires, it tends to put out a lot of damage in a short time, so its pretty much perfect for Eric, whose accuracy is less then perfect, but anything who can pour out lots of fire doesn't need accuracy anyways!
For close combat Eric has made his own twohanded "Battlehammer" as he calls it, its essentially spikes welded on to a iron ball, with a handle attatched to it.

Eric "joined" the PDF when a recruitement gang visited his neighbourhood, and smashed his face into a bloody pulp since he resisted, his nose is still just a smear and Eric earned the nickname "Stubs" from the recruitement gang since a stubber was what was used to give him his less the pretty apperance.

Eric didn't really care, a gang is a gang, wheter its PDF or lower level gangs.

Our story starts at the small underhive settlement of Tox City. It's a stockade with maybe two thousand people inside. Orks have over-run the entire hive, they say. Even the Adeptus Astartes have been forced backwards. The PDF and the Hive Militia is the last line of defense. Gangers who until yesterday would've killed eachother on sight are now forced together and have to cooperate if they're going to survive.

A harassed-looking PDF Sergeant reads your names off a data-slate as his unit rushes to build the defenses around Tox City. They say a big attack is coming.

"Castlebeck, Colmes, Gridh, Mator, Nielhund, Penske, Statten and Tix, right?" He says, looking at the eight of you. He glances at your faces, peering into your eyes like a Ministorum Adept searching for wrongdoing.

"Gridh, you're squad leader. Hear that gunfire? That's the greenskins. Last we heard they're about three miles thataway." He thumbs to the west, towards a dark, complicated warren of holes and tunnels. The entrances are blocked from view by frenzied activity as soldiers go one way and refugees another. All are burdened with tools, packs, weapons and personal belongings.

"You boys are our first line of defence. Patrol out to the west, and support any other PDF'ers you meet. If the horde becomes too much for you, fall back." He shrugs. "That's about all I can tell you; communications are bad and we've no idea of the situation out there. Just get to it, and good luck!"

Castleback stood with the rag-tag bunch of hive scum he supposed he would come to know as his "comrades". Judging from the in depth analysis provided by this Sergeant they were being pointed in the general direction of the enemy and told to go kill, it was simple, just the way he liked it.

As the sergeant finished his address Castleback could not help but wonder how much those PDF boots would fetch on the black market, being as inflated as it was. Maybe this little venture into no-mans land could net him the two things he yearned for above all others, profit and revenge.

Grinning widely, Gridh shoulders his oversized lasgun and steps in front of the raggedy 'squad'. "Oi, yeh there, Squirmy, and yeh, old guy," he says in his bizarre accent, pointing at Nielhund and Mator, "Yez two byes take point. And don' let the little bugge' outta ye sight, Mator." As he continues to sort out the marching order, Gridh pulls out his knife and starts carving sergeant's stripes into his bulging bicep. "Yez two big-toy boys," he continues, motioning to Colmes and Statton, "yeh byes stay wit' me and Molly sos we can' shoot stuff. Yeh, and yeh," Penske and Castleback, "Take t' flanks, and yeh," Tix, "Yez is rearguard. If'n yez shoots me in the back, bye, I'll shove Molly so far up yer arse, you'll be snottin' laser."

Blood running down his arm, his slides the knife back into his sheath across his chest, pulls the lasgun off his shoulder and points at their destination. "C'mon, byes! Let's go gets shot!"

Nd'aka nods to Gridh, "Yussir."

Shouldering his light pack, he makes a few adjustments to the strap, before pulling his length of rebar out, he starts moving against the press of the crowd, occasionally thumping anyone who gets in his way for too long.

The crowd seems to swallow his slight frame as he goes forward, almost disappearing. Only the odd yelp of pain highlights his position to the others.

((OOC: Once he's outside of the press, he'll wait for the others so they can plan their advance.))

Penske licked his teeth as their new sergeant Girdh adressed em. The Alpha dog barks He mused to himself, cocking his shotgun with the tell tale shack ack, sound.

For a moment he stood, digging through his flak jacket, his hands finally fumbling across the shiny dog tags. Without breaking sight from them he took his place in the formation. Alpha dog said flank, so he would flank.

It's what all good mutts do. He grinned, seemingly to himself. "Now the mutts are to learn to fetch" His voice low but clear, addressing no one with any certainty - save himself.

It took him a second longer to release his dog-tags, letting them jingle against his armour as he took up vigil. Play time

Nestor looked at the bunch of soldiers around him. "rearguard huh, well i'll shove something up yours if you even point that fething thing at me okay?" He turned around and prepared for the walk, taking place a little back from the group. "Ordering me around allready, the bastard," he muttered, "i'm the one who should be leading this bunch of sicko's." He grabbed his stubber thightly in his hands and ensured his Chainsword was ready to use. "So we going or what?!"

Mator aknowledged the order with a nod and a smile. He started to follow the smaller scout into the human mob but lost him fairly quickly. Mator cursed the mother that had born him so short. He started bulling his way toward where he had last glimpsed the smaller man. The crowd parted with a few grumbles but a glance at the autogun cradled in his arms stopped anything developing further. Still surging forward, Mator continued looking for the lithe little man.

"Yez two big-toy boys," he continues, motioning to Colmes and Statton, "yeh byes stay wit' me and Molly sos we can' shoot stuff. "

Stubbs looked at Gridh, then took up his place

"Yeah yeah, I'll do dat"

You push your way through the pressing masses of people until you're at the entrance to the tunnels. It's dark, dank and dripping with condensation. The main tunnel stretches to the westward; with side passages and hideyholes poking away everywhere you look. One of the PDF guards at the main entrance hands most of you makeshift torches; they're just metal pipes wrapped in oily rags at one end, but those of you who take them feel both grateful and wary of the shimmering shadows.

A half-mile further on, you seem to have left the noise and chaos of the Tox City stockade well behind. Sound has an eerie effect down here; it bounces off bulkheads and through pipes and into every opening you pass so that, despite the small city you just left, you can't hear it anymore. Ahead and all around, you do hear cries, roars, scratches and squeaks; they could be miles away or around the corner, for all you can tell.

The passage is cluttered with fallen beams and heaps of refuse. You step over -- and into -- steaming compost heaps. Moss and fungus leaps off the walls around you, in bright colors that hurt your eyes. Sometimes you spot the gleaming hard carapaces of enormous black beetles as they stake out their homes in the ruins of the underhive.

Rats scuttle down the passage past you. They're scraggly and fat; you wonder what they've been eating, then realize that you know. A big one, about a foot long, stands boldly in the passage before you, lashing its tail and baring its teeth, red eyes blazing in the torchlight. Then it shivers at a noise in the ceiling and dashes off ahead of you.

You peer into the gloom as it disappears; then you hear a squeak, a crack, and a yelp of pain. Something scrabbles loudly in the passage ahead, and the faint scent of warm blood reaches your nostrils as a cold wind sweeps down the passage...you can just barely see a gap in the passageway ahead, off to the right, about a hundred feet away.

Castlebeck had seen enough rat infested holes to feel quite at home in this dark, dank tunnel, the prospect of a violent death lingering around each and every corner only adding to the nostalgia. The giant rat would probably have provided enough raw proteins to feed his gang for at least a single meal, that's if he could keep the immense apetite of Galvanger at bay.

Galvanger, he was gone now too, like most of the rest of the Deperados, torn to shreds in the brutal combats where he had grown to hate the greenskins more than he had hated anything before in his so far short and violent life. He ached to get to grips with the enemy, hoping that the abrupt end to the rat was indeed their foul work. Peering into the gloom he tried to make out something ahead. anything that would give away a sign that would spur him to action, however with the make shift torches flying about in the others hands, his night vision didn't stand a chance. He raked the slide on his shotgun, ensuring the man-stopper rounds he had brought along were loaded. This could be fun.

Nestor was calm and confident on the outside, but this tunnel gave him the creeps on the inside. "[i]Fething darkness, in the emperor's fething name, why are we defending this. If those bloody greenskins want to have it, let them." He waved a bit around to see if there where any signs of recent combat, and dead people with stuff he could 'borrow'. He didn't see anything. This was getting boring.

Spurning the torches given by the gateguards, Nd'aka turns to the others.

"If'n y'want tae spotlight yursulves, gae right aheed. But I'm goin ahead of y'uns, an any attention y'all bring 'pon yursulves is goin havetae pass me. Which I mae jes let em do. Sae guv it toime an letcher oiyes adjest taethe dark. We'll be quieter, an less broight tha'way."

Having said his piece, Nd'aka quickly applys the camo paint to his face and bare arms. Hefting his lasgun, he slowly moves forward, melting into the gloom.

Gridh hisses in irritation as the wyrdling scout moves into the darkness, and motions Mator after him, and moves towards the source of the noise, torch doused. With quick gestures, he points the heavy stubber-carrying Stubs to watch the tunnel further down, and Penske and Castleback to join him. Nielhund and Tix to cover the opening in the passageway.

Orders given, Gridh slinks forwards through the muck and murk, grinning and murmuring, quietly, to Molly, who is switched over to auto-fire mode with an ominious "ssh-click". If there was anything threatening, or at least moving, in that tunnel, it was going to be sporting a lot of holes in a minute....

Stubbs grinned, this was what life was all about, bloody deadly combat! it gave a rush of adrenaline and a feeling of being VERY alive, though it could end with you being very dead.

When Gridh points down the tunnel Stubbs find a place with at least some cover where he lay down and point the heavy stubber down the tunnel, anything going through there would have to eat lead first.

Colmes had barely listened to the gruff sergeant earlier, his attention enraptured with the thought of killing greenskins, his heart was racing in anticipation. It didn't matter to Colmes who was in charge, or how they led.

He was so focused, he didn't bother to take a torch from the Guardsman at the tunnel entrance, didn't even register the man's existence. The refugees pouring from the tunnels were merely a wave of inconvenience, a bothersome obstruction in his way, that made almost pitiable sounds as he shouldered his way through.

He glanced around the tunnel, staying alert. Without waiting for orders, Colmes heads for the gap in the passageway.

Penske's tags jingled faintly through the clamour of war. His seregant barked something but his eyes transfixed on the bloody mess that alpha called his sergeant badge.

I wonder if the green things can smell the mutt blood. He smirked as he walked by, shotgun held at the ready, no torch to light his way.

Like many of the underhivers, Gustov had long since been accustomed to the dark, finding it more of a friend and ally than the light. So, in the chaos of torch lights from well behind, Penske knelt beside the mutt named stubs. Heel! Stay... gooood boys

Mator had taken a torch earlier but he didn't use it, following the little scouts advice. He slinked forward, keeping across the other side from the little scout, both of them covering the tunnel. He ignored the faint smell of warm blood. He had smelt much worst, both as a ganger and as a butcher. He had keep his head down so far in the group. The other scout was pissing the leader off though and Mator hoped he wouldn't do something stupid just to get rid of the little man. He wouldn't put it past the psycho.

Nd'aka reaches the passageway. Well, it isn't exactly a side passageway; it's more a hole in the side of the main one. Something big must've rammed into the side of the corridor and bashed the wall in. The wyrdling scout pokes his head round the corner, half-expecting to see slavering Orks. What he gets instead is a mundane, empty hole, yawning away into the blackness. From what you can see, there looks to be nothing but dust and debris inside. But then, you can't see farther than about ten feet in, and the "cave" looks to be larger than that...

By contrast, the passageway you're currently in - or what you can see of it - seems to be just more of the same; broken beams, fungus that glows in the dark...

Which way to go? Which way does the gunfire sound loudest in these echoing tunnels? Do you continue down the passageway, or take the side tunnel?

Nd'aka looks down the tunnel, jerking his head back to look at Mator. Quickly, he begins signing in the gutterlanguage most of them knew.

"Tunnel, short, poss. Cave beyond. Large."

Looking back down the tunnel, he waves back anybody approaching with a torch, before waving the seargent forward.

"T'luks clair fr'mere, but Ah cannae sae mech further. The choice in darecshuns uptae y'sir."

Gridh hisses through his teeth, looking back and forth between the two passages. "Righ'," he finally says, waving the squad over. "We'll be after goin' do'n this 'un," he points down the side passage, "Yez two, Squirmy and Mator stay on point, and ye bye, Colmes, yez go wit' 'em, if'n yez is so eager ta gets shot." He waves the advance guard down the tunnel. "Penske, Castleback, Tix, yez byes is next. Stubs, yez an' me an' Molly're bringing up th' rear." As the squad moves down the tunnel, he hisses through the darkness, "An' keep it quiet! Molly and I want ta get a least a couple o' greenskins 'fore we all get shot."

Psnske stretched slightly as he stood once more, shotgun held loosely in his hands. It was strange, he had always thought he was crazy, maybe he was. But the one time he actually listened to the sarge bark his orders, he didn't understand him.

A part of him wanted to sew the mans lips together. Be a good little mutt and bark propper... Gus's thoughts rattled on as he moved to his place beside Castleback.

Aroiund the stock of his shotgun, his grip tightened slightly, and he breathed deep, savouring the musty aroma of the cave - it's just too much like home to pass up.

"Byth'bye, any of y'fuckeads carries a torch near me, I'll be introducin ya's tae shirley. Stay behind me, th'both of yes."

Turning, Nd'aka melts into the darkness, his lascarbine held at the ready, his eyes flitting back and forth as he scans the darkness.

Colmes peers into the dark passageway, shrugs his shoulders and proceeds down the tunnel, in the direction they were originally heading. He didn't really care if anyone followed him, he figured he'd encounter some greenskins soon enough. He held the grenade launcher tucked up against his shoulder, pointed slightly up. He didn't trust the ground under his feet being dense enough to set off the projectile, instead, he had decided to shoot at the reinforced ceiling. If all else fails, there'll be a rain of shrapnel within the the tunnel, upon detonation.

Castlebeck would normally be quite happy in the middle of the group, not in a position to have to take a slug in the chest being the first rounding a corner, or a knife slash to the throat from behind. This time was different, he was out for revenge. His blood was up, probably from the scent of the recently expired giant rat, either that or the familiarity of creeping into a dark void with the lowest of the low, being expected to die.

For once he actually wanted to be the first to get to grips with the Orkoid scum, so much so that he takes off almost on the heels of Squirmy, Mator and Colmes, forgetting all sense of tactical patrolling, simply quickly and quietly following, watching and hoping for a contact.

You go down the side passageway. It's dark, and it stinks in here. It's also slippery; outside the spidery tracing of hive corridors, there are no floors and not much of a ceiling or wall, just rocks and seeping groundwater. You splash through dirty puddles and blink in the light reflected from the water. Beetles scuttle away from your feet as you march into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

The passage is widening as you go deeper in; you're perhaps two hundred yards from your starting point, and the passage is wide enough for all of you to walk abreast. Piles of cracked stone, enormous girders and puddles of water dot the passage, at times partially barring your way. Ahead, you spot another opening.

The edges are shining, as if backlit, and you can hear guttural voices on the other side. Gridh points at Nd'aka, and then at the opening. The squad of gangers ready their weapons and prepare, taking covering positions behind broken girders and pieces of rubble.

Low to the ground, Nd'aka cautiously makes his way toward the backlit hole in the wall. As he reaches it, crouching low, he quickly glances round the corner to get a good look. He spies at least four orks during his quick glance. Hulking in the light of their own dim torches, they are festooned with crude grenades and knives. The room is relatively small, about the size of a large bedroom, and there is a pile of what might be supplies of some sort at the back.

Finally, greenskins to kill!

Colmes smiles briefly, his heart racing, kneeling down before firing his grenade launcher at the ceiling, at a point he believes is a bit behind the big, hulking Orks.

Stubbs wait untill the rocket detonates in the celing at which point he simply sprays the room with bullets (or at least where the greenskins were)

Although not at all subtle, Penske is not at all stupid either. At this range, a shotgun will do nothing but annoy even a civilian. So, unlike thr est of his pack, this mutt keeps his chotgun silent and aimed, Ready to cut down any orks that may actually venture towards the stubber gunfire.

Admist the firing weapons, Penske has an overwhelming urge to whistle. The song, though a childrens song, lolls from his lips slower and deeper than normal, making the otherwise cheerful song macabre.

With a whooping warcry, Gridh lurches to his feet and starts moving forwards, spraying Molly's lasfire into the Orks ahead. "Castleback, Kolli, Tix with me, byes! Stubs, Colmes, make 'em hurt. The rest o' yez, covering fire!" Still firing on full auto from the hip at the shadowy Orks, Gridh unlimbers his axe with the other hand and hurls himself at the nearest Ork. The axe comes down in a whirring arc and black blood sprays. Hard to tell how much damage done in the dark, though. "Yez mothers was ugly, yez greenskin bastards!"

The flashing lights, the horrible noises, and the neverending crusade of calamities force Nd'aka back into the somewhat slightly safer tunnel. Crouching once he reaches it, he turns and begins watching the tunnel for any oncoming reinforcements.

Occasionally he turns and sprays covering fire into the room. And by covering fire, I mean plinking shots at the orks every five or so seconds.

Only a madman would consider hand-to-hand combat with the Orks. But these are no ordinary madmen! These were Hive-gangers, perhaps some of the most psychotic individuals in the entire planet.

Colmes' Grenade detonates above and behind the Orks, showering them with hot shrapnel. There is a roar of pain - and anger. There are splashes of blood spattering the rocky walls of the crevice, but they're still standing. And they're PISSED. One of the Orks shakes his head, annoyed; the others dive for their weapons, yelling.

Statten does what he can to keep their heads down with a blistering hail of fire, but inevitably, it has to come to an end sooner or later. These Orks are bigger than anything you could've imagined. They're taller, broader and they look stronger than even the nastiest heavy you've seen.

Oh, and they're charging your way whilst roaring bestial warcries!

One of them raises his shoota and fires a blast as he charges. He hits Colmes. A grossly oversized Orkoid bullet smashes into his face, exploding out of the back of his head and spattering Statten with brains and blood. He won't be getting up.

Before they reach the heavy, Gridh leads a counter-charge, whooping and hollering. The psycho doesn't seem to even care how big the Orks are; he'll still try to take 'em on!

He hefts his giant axe and manages to decapitate one of the Orks with a stupendously lucky swing. Even the Ork is suprised! It takes the brute a few moments before the headless corpse collapses to the ground.

Tix hurls himself at another of the Orks, but is met by the monster's massive blade as it spins to meet him. The axe rips through his shoulder and nearly cleaves the man in half... the Ork roars, only to be cut down by Statten's heavy stubber.

Castlebeck takes one down with a shotgun blast to the face. It seems Man stoppers really do work on the Greenskins!

The Last Ork roars defiance. If he's goin' down, he'll do what he can to make you guys hurt. He slams a huge, meaty fist into Gridh's face, smashing his nose into a bloody mess and throwing him into the rubble. Mator peppers the Ork with autogun fire; the rifle blasts chunks of flesh away from the Ork but does little more than annoy him.

He's after blood.

Marcus Meaney had no choice but to follow the handful of other recently released members of the "platoon," the momentum carrying him to a confusing mass of refugees moving the opposite direction. In the second it took for him to turn his head to follow the progress of a single refugee, Meaney realized he'd lost his unit. In a warzone, against an seemingly endless wave of Orks, it took very little to whittle away at his confidence. In seconds, he was almost in tears, before noticing the lone Guardsman at the entrance to one of the tunnels. His spirits bouyed, Meaney made a beeline, forcing his way through the crowd as best he could, often getting jostled and a couple of times forced back by sudden surges of people before finally reaching the hollow-eyed man with torches in hand. Before Meaney can even get a word out, the Guardsman thrusts one of the torches into his hands. Assuming that the rest of his unit is already inside the tunnel, he activates the torsh, reassured by it's soft glow as he presses further into the tunnel. As he progresses, the echoing sounds of gunfire on the surface recedes, only to be replaced by the sound of panicked refugees as another surge of humanity sweeps down the tunnel. He desperately tries to wedge himself against the wall, so as not to be trampled. After they have passed, Meaney heads further along, when suddenly, he hears a thunderous blast. He quickly races down the tunnel, unslinging the heavy-caliber longrifle he carried. It was old, it was bolt-action, and it only held five rounds internally (he carried extra rounds, but they were fed into the rifle from the top, via metal strips), but they were big rounds, enough to drop a Ork (he hoped).