[QUOTE="Shephard, convMessage: 1488941, member: 511"]
He peers into the distance for a long moment, heedless of the foe's clumsy fire. His eyes narrow at the glint of rough-shodden armor plate and rusted weapon steel. Then he turns on his heel, strolling over to the lieutenant. He moves with no particular haste nor concern for the enemy, every purposeful step a statement of invincibility. "Luitenant Fritz! We have four hostiles on the right flank between one hundred and a hundred and twenty meters! Two las-locks, and what looks like two of the Unchained filth in some sort improvised armor. I see a Heavy stubber and some sort rotary cannon. The former is behind the crook of those tree roots. The cannon's set into that cavity in the bushes beside the scarred tree if you can see it." He says, careful not to point and possibly reveal they've spotted the foes.

"Lieutenant, I suggest dealing with those cowards before we scatter the main host. Let's make an example of these wretches! In the Emperor's name, let none survive!"
[/QUOTE]

"Specialist." Fritz says into her vox bead, surprisingly calm. "Take out the stubber."

A delay of perhaps ten seconds. Then a pair of Lasgun cracks, higher then the full auto of suppression fire. The Stubber gunner's head evaporates into pink mist.

"Target Primus down. Repositioning." a calm voice comes over the command line. The Platoon Sniper.

"Squad Alpha! Advance and provide supporting fire!" The Lt. indicates the direction of fire with a point of the arm. Most of the first squad pushes forward towards the Longbows, but their Stubber team unfolds a tripod, and a Guardsman with a grenade launcher pops out of cover, sights down his target, and fires a shell on an arcing trajectory. The bulky Crank cannon you'd seen before explodes, sending it's broken gunner into the treeline.

 "Platoon, advance!" Then the entire platoon is rushing forward towards the line of Longbowmen. You push forward to join the first two or three ranks. All around you, the three squads are advancing through the undergrowth, weapons in hand. A distressing number of them have only their rifles, or else sword bayonets held as long combat knives. Few enough had thought to fix bayonets.

Then there is a rapid fire series of thuds, and rounds are punching through the undergrowth, cutting through leaves and splintering branches. Another of the Rotary cannons, concealed well enough that all you can see is the on and off muzzle flash of it's surprisingly sporadic fire. A lasman next to you screams as a round punches into his flak jacket, staggers, keeps going.

The main mass of the heretics flee, grabbing their strange weapons and fleeing for the thicker forest. That was expected, and you see men around you unsure if they should keep pursuing or gun the enemy down while they still can. Behind you, a stubber is laying down fire, hopefully pinning that cannon and the laslocks in place.

What was somewhat less expected was that the enemy would countercharge.

Just eight of them, an eclectic collection in primitive looking iron mail and leather, rushing out of the forest screaming their battlecries.

"For the Eightfold gods!"

 To a man they carry vicious looking axes, swords, and long spears. They slam into the front ranks of the not rapidly enough reorganizing guardsman with a force that belies their low numbers and primitive gear. To your left, a Corporal is slammed from her feet, a huge axe burying itself in her flak jacket. To your right, a trio of vicious spear points punch into another squad, irrationally forcing guardsman back. One soldier is slammed down into the earth by a vicious strike from an iron rimmed shield and a following sword stroke to the thin flak of his patrol cap.

One of them rushes for you specifically. A large warrior clad all in mail, except his face, upon which is branded a symbol of flame, and other sigils whose meaning you hardly wish to know. Rusted iron chains dangle from his neck, and around his midsection. A heavy, wooden shield leads his way, and what looks like a Gladius held in thrusting guard lances straight for your unprotected face. Your chainsword rises fast, deflecting the blade, and the enemy redirects. There's a spike of pain in your arm as the tip of the blade cuts into the flak of your stormcoat's sleeves, barely failing to penetrate.

You step back slightly, adjusting for the ache. Your pistol arm, fortunately. Your opponent beats his blade along the edge of his shield, as if daring you to come forward. You catch your breath and observe the swirling melee around you. The Raschlanders are doing not as well as you might've hoped, as they are caught flat footed. Many men are fighting with knives or rifle butts, and you note two of the three squad sergeants were carrying rifles or shotguns instead of swords. The monoed blades do fine, and the injuries on the enemy are quickly piling up, but Rifle butts are of little use even against the enemies primitive mail.

"The Chieftain will be displeased for you to die today, Kommissare." The Cultist says, chains rattling as he squares off against you. "But he will understand, I think."

You watch as a sergeant is slammed down into the earth, catching a blow meant to finish off a wounded man. A heretic with an axe and shield fends off several blows, laughing madly. More Raschlanders are rushing into the melee, some at proper bayonet arms, others rushing their foes with rifle butts and combat knives. Other soldiers are firing into the forest, hoping to catch the fleeing longbowmen with lasbolts and a long tongue of flame that turns two of the leather clad heretics to ash and sets part of the forest alight. The Command Squad and more reinforcements bring up the rear, not quite there yet.

Unfortunately, you can't quite focus on all that yet.

"Khorne, Brass God, bless my arms with the strength to kill." He kisses the blade of his sword, which looks like a Velorum pattern Gladius, no doubt stolen off the dead.

 Your mind's eye can see how the duel will play out before it is done. If this one is a competent swordsmen, he will catch your first blow on his shield, and think you open to a counter attack through your vulnerable throat.

"Slaanesh, Prince of Perfection, bless me-" You lunge forward before the heathen can finish his crude prayer with a sideways slash. As predicted, the heretic's shield rises to catch the blow. You let the sword strike the shield, then transition into a lightning thrust while he's still committed to a shield parry. The chainsword easily chews through the wood and strikes him hard in the belly. The heretic, perhaps confused, doesn't get out of the way fast enough before the roaring chainsword's tip slams into his belly, rips open his mail tunic in a spray of links, and opens his belly like a knife carving a pig.

The heretic falls, trying to steady himself on his shield, and slips into the forest canopy, bleeding badly. You let out a battlecry of whatever words seem suitable at this time, and press forward into the melee. The lines of squads have become a muddied mess, and the heretics are fighting as hard as they can, but it seems the Raschlander's still have the upper hand for their armor and weapons. The axeman who'd been parrying half a squad doesn't see you coming, and you open him from groin to collarbone, spraying gore and more chainlinks across the caonpy and men's uniforms. A few of the Raschlander's bring themselves to cheer, and collapse in on the greataxe bearer. As he falls, a bayonet impaled in his heart, you turn to the other side of the lines.

The trio of spear men are rapidly being overwhelmed by sheer numbers of Raschlanders. They fight with uncommon skill, but in the end they are outmatched. One is born down beneath a trio of men with thrusting combat knives. Another loses his arm to the Platoon sergeant, whose roaring chainsword seems lonely beside only your own. A third, contending with a sergeant with a bayoneted shotgun, and Sergeant Rike and her machete on the other, fails to see another trooper before she sends him sprawling to the ground with a vicious rifle buttstroke.

Silence falls once more as the last of the heretics are brought down. The Longbowmen have fled, alongside the Laslocks. You cast your gaze west to see the cult heavy weapons have all been slain, the second rotary gun's operator taken out by the sniper.

A medic is finished poking at the Raschland wounded, and as he comes over to look at your own arm, it doesn't look like anyone was killed or badly wounded.

A good enough first fight.