Post by Overread on Jun 21, 2020 9:56:21 GMT
Report from the siege of Hive Tower Epsion of Cronus 3 - Day 34 of Tyranid Invasion.
As the twin suns rose in the west they came once again toward the towering Hive City and its sprawling shanties. A vast cloud of thick spore thrust into the air by large Tyranids as they ran in time with a teeming mass of lesser gaunts. Hoofed food and clawed talon churning the ground into a roiling dust cloud that further hazed the air like a thick mist around them. No cries of screams; no battle charge of defiance like orks. Just a droning thunder of the advancing storm.
The ground is a dry wasteland of craters. The continual rise and fall of mounds and trenches. A testament to the artillery of the 43rd Regiment and their continual staunch defence of the Hive City. Indeed all that holds back their fire is awaiting the command; waiting for spotters to ensure that the advancing swarm is a true swarm and not a faint. Once spy-lenses set far into the path of the enemy spot the approaching swarm from under the thick bed of the cloud, the vox casters scream into life as orders fly from command. The great guns angle, pitch and spew out fire and black smoke. Roaring their defiance into the air and thrusting forth a vast wall of shells that arch into the air. Tearing through the thick spore before erupting as they strike the ground. Bodies, bone, blood, chitchin and earth are throw into the air. Vast plumes of fire as the shells explode and tear into the swarm. They are not enough to stop the swarm, but they are enough to shatter the wall of bodies; to tear into the biggest and leave the swarm splintered into smaller tendrils of charging gaunts. All the easier for guardsmen in the trenches to open fire. The crack of lasguns lighting the air with red beams; of auto guns thudding and tanks unleashing their bolters. The main cannon and rocket launchers wait for the hints of larger spore spewing creatures to emerge before picking them out from the swarm. Focusing on those giants to shatter what remaining unity there is for the swarm.
The line holds. Whilst some make it to the first line of staggered trenches, they do not make it past. Guardsmen are lost, heroes are born and cowards die. The line holds and as the twin suns vanish behind the great shadow of the Spire the swarm retreats. Or rather the tide ceases to be reinforced and the last stragglers continue their futile charge against the Imperium's guns. Though its only a respite the guard lick their wounds, distribute ammunition and rotate in fresh troops. Bold scouts risk venturing into the abused landscape, setting fresh traps and spycams to watch for the next swarm.
Day 35
A day that starts like any other during the defence of the Spire. The air thickens with spore; the ground shakes with hooves and the whole battlefield shakes with the thunder of artillery.
But today there's something different; today a new horror approaches. Something that strides just tall enough for its spires to be seen above the low haze of the dust and spores. Spires overgrown with thick armour so much so that they no longer spew forth spores into the air. The ground pounded under thick hoof as the beast ploughs forward heedless of falling shells or the undulating terrain beneath it. The great beast draws further and further forward; advancing beyond the reach of the main body of the cloud. Great artillery guns try first. Their shells screaming down. The beast shrugs off the first shell that strikes home on its thick plated back. Armoured chitchin scorched and scratched, yet refusing to yield. After the first strike the beast changes its behaviour as it digs its scythes into the ground. Throwing its body to the side in lighting fast dodges that defy its great bulk.
As it closes with the trenches the artillery are forced to relent their pounding. A leman russ turns its turret and fires a shell, the cone shaped tip hurtling forward only to glance on a fore section of armour; bouncing off to thud wastefully into gaunts. A second shot strikes home, a chunk of armour is dented but nothing more; whilst desperate guardsmen fire their lasguns, the light not even scorching the beasts hide. Up close one can see the strain on this great body put on it by the charge; its armoured underbelly exposing thick corded muscles stretched painfully thin as they are forced to move the great bulk forward.
Closer and closer it comes, its body ploughing through ever more panicked fire to bring it down. A tank direct in its path readies; the valiant crew taking careful aim for the beasts back; the turret holding fire until the last possible moment; hoping that a point blank shot will have enough force to finally penetrate the armour.
As the beast strides over the trenches as if they were not there the tank unleashes a shot, milliseconds after its barrel is reduced to slag as acid spews forth from the beast. The shell never leaves the tank. Instead it erupts within in a deafening blast that takes the rest of the magazine and the tank along with it. A huge fireball that sends out a powerful shockwave into the air around it.
For a few moments dust and ash are all that can be seen whilst crimson flames burn in the heart where the tank once stood. Then striding forth; fire licking at its form, the beast emerges. It's armour black, its belly scorched and muscles burned; but its body works still. It's pace is unchanged and its great scything arms swing.
Tanks, walls, sandbags, wire, guardsmen. All are swept aside by its blades; ground under hoof or crushed by its vast jaws. It's great weapon spewing acid and bathing anything it touches in a toxic sludge.
The line is broken and in its wake the swarm spills into the trenches. Running along their length unopposed. No more the regimented lines can hold them back. No more can the artillery shatter the swarm. Today the tide will not change; today it will not relent. Today the tide comes ever more to flood the shanties and lower levels. To run up against the great walls of the spire. And thus begins the long drowning and devouring of the Spire.
As the twin suns rose in the west they came once again toward the towering Hive City and its sprawling shanties. A vast cloud of thick spore thrust into the air by large Tyranids as they ran in time with a teeming mass of lesser gaunts. Hoofed food and clawed talon churning the ground into a roiling dust cloud that further hazed the air like a thick mist around them. No cries of screams; no battle charge of defiance like orks. Just a droning thunder of the advancing storm.
The ground is a dry wasteland of craters. The continual rise and fall of mounds and trenches. A testament to the artillery of the 43rd Regiment and their continual staunch defence of the Hive City. Indeed all that holds back their fire is awaiting the command; waiting for spotters to ensure that the advancing swarm is a true swarm and not a faint. Once spy-lenses set far into the path of the enemy spot the approaching swarm from under the thick bed of the cloud, the vox casters scream into life as orders fly from command. The great guns angle, pitch and spew out fire and black smoke. Roaring their defiance into the air and thrusting forth a vast wall of shells that arch into the air. Tearing through the thick spore before erupting as they strike the ground. Bodies, bone, blood, chitchin and earth are throw into the air. Vast plumes of fire as the shells explode and tear into the swarm. They are not enough to stop the swarm, but they are enough to shatter the wall of bodies; to tear into the biggest and leave the swarm splintered into smaller tendrils of charging gaunts. All the easier for guardsmen in the trenches to open fire. The crack of lasguns lighting the air with red beams; of auto guns thudding and tanks unleashing their bolters. The main cannon and rocket launchers wait for the hints of larger spore spewing creatures to emerge before picking them out from the swarm. Focusing on those giants to shatter what remaining unity there is for the swarm.
The line holds. Whilst some make it to the first line of staggered trenches, they do not make it past. Guardsmen are lost, heroes are born and cowards die. The line holds and as the twin suns vanish behind the great shadow of the Spire the swarm retreats. Or rather the tide ceases to be reinforced and the last stragglers continue their futile charge against the Imperium's guns. Though its only a respite the guard lick their wounds, distribute ammunition and rotate in fresh troops. Bold scouts risk venturing into the abused landscape, setting fresh traps and spycams to watch for the next swarm.
Day 35
A day that starts like any other during the defence of the Spire. The air thickens with spore; the ground shakes with hooves and the whole battlefield shakes with the thunder of artillery.
But today there's something different; today a new horror approaches. Something that strides just tall enough for its spires to be seen above the low haze of the dust and spores. Spires overgrown with thick armour so much so that they no longer spew forth spores into the air. The ground pounded under thick hoof as the beast ploughs forward heedless of falling shells or the undulating terrain beneath it. The great beast draws further and further forward; advancing beyond the reach of the main body of the cloud. Great artillery guns try first. Their shells screaming down. The beast shrugs off the first shell that strikes home on its thick plated back. Armoured chitchin scorched and scratched, yet refusing to yield. After the first strike the beast changes its behaviour as it digs its scythes into the ground. Throwing its body to the side in lighting fast dodges that defy its great bulk.
As it closes with the trenches the artillery are forced to relent their pounding. A leman russ turns its turret and fires a shell, the cone shaped tip hurtling forward only to glance on a fore section of armour; bouncing off to thud wastefully into gaunts. A second shot strikes home, a chunk of armour is dented but nothing more; whilst desperate guardsmen fire their lasguns, the light not even scorching the beasts hide. Up close one can see the strain on this great body put on it by the charge; its armoured underbelly exposing thick corded muscles stretched painfully thin as they are forced to move the great bulk forward.
Closer and closer it comes, its body ploughing through ever more panicked fire to bring it down. A tank direct in its path readies; the valiant crew taking careful aim for the beasts back; the turret holding fire until the last possible moment; hoping that a point blank shot will have enough force to finally penetrate the armour.
As the beast strides over the trenches as if they were not there the tank unleashes a shot, milliseconds after its barrel is reduced to slag as acid spews forth from the beast. The shell never leaves the tank. Instead it erupts within in a deafening blast that takes the rest of the magazine and the tank along with it. A huge fireball that sends out a powerful shockwave into the air around it.
For a few moments dust and ash are all that can be seen whilst crimson flames burn in the heart where the tank once stood. Then striding forth; fire licking at its form, the beast emerges. It's armour black, its belly scorched and muscles burned; but its body works still. It's pace is unchanged and its great scything arms swing.
Tanks, walls, sandbags, wire, guardsmen. All are swept aside by its blades; ground under hoof or crushed by its vast jaws. It's great weapon spewing acid and bathing anything it touches in a toxic sludge.
The line is broken and in its wake the swarm spills into the trenches. Running along their length unopposed. No more the regimented lines can hold them back. No more can the artillery shatter the swarm. Today the tide will not change; today it will not relent. Today the tide comes ever more to flood the shanties and lower levels. To run up against the great walls of the spire. And thus begins the long drowning and devouring of the Spire.
