The vessel was little more than a ramshackle collection of parts being held together through sheer grit and determination as if the smiths were imposing their very will upon the vessel to keep it from falling apart. As the inertial dampeners struggled to keep the ship, crew, and passengers alike from becoming little more than a greasy twisted mass of scrap metal and crimson as they descended through the atmosphere. The planet they were currently attempting descent on was what seemed to be a temperate world-lacking polar ice caps and almost uniform in terms of environment-temperate forests with the odd subtropical swamp located along the quarter. Gravity was the standard human norm, though the atmosphere had a slightly higher nitrogen content than what was safe to breathe.
Damned pointy ears would probably love it.
At least the Veilspawn weren't on their tail-a cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. As the ship touched down in, at least what seemed to be a relatively clear area; you could never really tell with these worlds the boarding ramp descended and its occupants descended. Armored boots thumped loudly as they quickly descended, twenty-two in total, and a formed rough perimeter-the men were clad in dark blue and grey heavy suits of interlocking plates, forming an intricate, shifting layer of protection-masterfully crafted yet secular in design. This design, seemingly artisan in nature, was disrupted by the helmet-half domed in nature and lacking any visible features aside from their filters and several hoses connected to a heavy oxygen tank strapped to their backs. Despite its unusual craftsmanship, the armor they wore was little more than a glorified hard suit capable of withstanding all but the heaviest of fire. Their rifles, a large, high-caliber design meant to stop monstrous xenofauna dead in their tracks panned around-expecting trouble. The lead man, a short stocky fellow toggled the comm in helmet and spoke in a harsh, almost eldritch sound tongue. The ignorant would say they were speaking one of the queer tounges of magic-those who had knowledge of them would inform you that this was not the case, for they in fact were quite resilient to this and other supernatural threats. In reality, he was currently inquiring into the pilot's choice of such a destination.
("Look,") Came one of the pilot's reply as he assisted with powering down the vessel, ("Unless you've got a better idea, Knight Seamus, we needed to touch down somewhere so we can try and get some repairs done the ship-even a little jury-rigging.") Seamus growled, he really didn't, but at the same time they aside from the most cursorary of scans they had no clue where they'd landed, let alone if it even had the remotest trace of civilization for them to even affect even the most rudimentary of repairs. ("Alright, ye win Mike; just-") The sound of a motor from behind him made him turn as heavy footsteps on the ramp sounded through the clearing-dismounting from the vessel were two addition yeomen coming down-each man clad in a barrel-chested, bulky, humpbacked suit of armor; with black smoked bellowing from twin exaust ports from the powerful combustion engines in their suits. Each man carried a large hand-held 40mm belt fed autocannons and from their belts hung heavy flanged bar with a hilt that had leather wrapped around-bar maces-quarter ton solid steel bludgoning instruments capable of crushing most anything it was swung at.
("We've got Mules?") Seamus was bit surprised to see them-Mules were originally industrial loaders, but had been repurposed when it was found that a machine that could carry several tons of cargo could also put that great strength to use, albiet awkwardly in close combat-up-armored all to hell and given proper armorment it was a half decent machine all and all. ("Yea Seamus, we've got Mules-got separated from their cohort during the bugout from the Expanse-anyways-it'll be probably an hour, maybe two before we can get airborne again. Best keep watch.") No kidding-at least the suits would be useful.
("Alright, defensive peremeter.") What was left unsaid was the hope that any natives would be content to ignore them until they got the hell off this rock.
Yeah, and the way the Company's luck ran they'd be up to their necks in it by sundown.
Damned pointy ears would probably love it.
At least the Veilspawn weren't on their tail-a cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. As the ship touched down in, at least what seemed to be a relatively clear area; you could never really tell with these worlds the boarding ramp descended and its occupants descended. Armored boots thumped loudly as they quickly descended, twenty-two in total, and a formed rough perimeter-the men were clad in dark blue and grey heavy suits of interlocking plates, forming an intricate, shifting layer of protection-masterfully crafted yet secular in design. This design, seemingly artisan in nature, was disrupted by the helmet-half domed in nature and lacking any visible features aside from their filters and several hoses connected to a heavy oxygen tank strapped to their backs. Despite its unusual craftsmanship, the armor they wore was little more than a glorified hard suit capable of withstanding all but the heaviest of fire. Their rifles, a large, high-caliber design meant to stop monstrous xenofauna dead in their tracks panned around-expecting trouble. The lead man, a short stocky fellow toggled the comm in helmet and spoke in a harsh, almost eldritch sound tongue. The ignorant would say they were speaking one of the queer tounges of magic-those who had knowledge of them would inform you that this was not the case, for they in fact were quite resilient to this and other supernatural threats. In reality, he was currently inquiring into the pilot's choice of such a destination.
("Look,") Came one of the pilot's reply as he assisted with powering down the vessel, ("Unless you've got a better idea, Knight Seamus, we needed to touch down somewhere so we can try and get some repairs done the ship-even a little jury-rigging.") Seamus growled, he really didn't, but at the same time they aside from the most cursorary of scans they had no clue where they'd landed, let alone if it even had the remotest trace of civilization for them to even affect even the most rudimentary of repairs. ("Alright, ye win Mike; just-") The sound of a motor from behind him made him turn as heavy footsteps on the ramp sounded through the clearing-dismounting from the vessel were two addition yeomen coming down-each man clad in a barrel-chested, bulky, humpbacked suit of armor; with black smoked bellowing from twin exaust ports from the powerful combustion engines in their suits. Each man carried a large hand-held 40mm belt fed autocannons and from their belts hung heavy flanged bar with a hilt that had leather wrapped around-bar maces-quarter ton solid steel bludgoning instruments capable of crushing most anything it was swung at.
("We've got Mules?") Seamus was bit surprised to see them-Mules were originally industrial loaders, but had been repurposed when it was found that a machine that could carry several tons of cargo could also put that great strength to use, albiet awkwardly in close combat-up-armored all to hell and given proper armorment it was a half decent machine all and all. ("Yea Seamus, we've got Mules-got separated from their cohort during the bugout from the Expanse-anyways-it'll be probably an hour, maybe two before we can get airborne again. Best keep watch.") No kidding-at least the suits would be useful.
("Alright, defensive peremeter.") What was left unsaid was the hope that any natives would be content to ignore them until they got the hell off this rock.
Yeah, and the way the Company's luck ran they'd be up to their necks in it by sundown.