The Old Enemy Clash Again

Will the Imperium ever find a way of taming the great, green threat that is Orkdom?  Here’s hoping not, otherwise your humble reporter would be struggling to come up with violent, desperate struggles that pit the finest warriors of humanity against the green tide of xenos filth.  That’s just a simple fact, gentle reader because, as you know, the Comet stands for completely unbiased reporting. 

So, having only partially recovered from the Bloody Flux, Goatherds’ Dropsy and some below-par cooking and superior ales, you reporter was thrown right in at the deep end with a veritable feast of combats.  These succulent sweetmeats of a treat happened very quickly, in fact, in just the one day.  The first was the combat detailed below, where your reporter had arranged a brief sinecure as a chef de partie for the Space Wolves’ ancillaries.  Charged with the preparation of blood sausage – this reporter’s signature dish – your reporter was only slightly ill in the process.  But blood sausage is forgiving, and much can be hidden within its strange ingredients.

However, I digress from the subject matter.  Again, a call to arms was issued, which the Space Wolves responded to in a most impressively prompt fashion.  A warband of Orks had been spotted making slow, almost leisurely process towards the encampment, located on the edge of an abandoned manufactorium.  In fact, the Orks were so slow to arrive that the Space Wolves were able to ensconce themselves in very favourable positions and await their prey.  Sporting some new additions to their forces, the Wolves were supremely confident of victory.  No finesse was required on this day, no recovery of artefacts; this was a straight fight to the death.

Early to the battlefield for once, the Wolves were eager to enter the fray.  Many were the life threads they threatened to sever on this day.

With no objectives to secure, the Wolves could concentrate on killing their enemy.  This would be a battle pitching two of the galaxy's most dangerous warriors against each other.  And some Gretchin.

The Orks came late to the field.  Headed, as ever, by the mighty Battlewagon.  Well, a different one to the previous one wrecked by an errant bomb squig.  But a Warboss needs to arrive in style, so no teef were spared in its construction.  Flanked by a Deffdread and herds of Gretchin, and fuelled by copious amounts of fungus brew, the greenskins threw themselves straight into the fray.

With the exhausts belching out thick, black smoke (apparently the sign of "well-chooned gubbins"), the Warboss made his entry in fine, Orky style.  Your reporter had been caught short, with the after affects of the Bloody Flux...

Rebuilt after the disastrous last outing, the Deffdread had been selected yet again to accompany the boyz.  However, it's pilot had been told, with the generous application of a large fist to emphasise the tactics, not to go rushing straight off into battle.  

Marines spotted!  The Warboss and his Nobz pile out of the Battlewagon.  Hiding in a trukk is for pansy Eldar!

Charged with simply standing around and making up the numbers, the Gretchin seriously thought they would get out of this battle unscathed.

A large number of Gretchin had been brought along to scavenge the battlefield.  But there were no pickings to be had, so they were told to keep out of trouble and not steal anything.  But their natural curiosity led them slowly forward, towards danger...

The Space Wolves decided that the time had come...

 A few, desultory long-range shots were made, but the battle quickly became a brutal melee in the centre of the field.  Grey Hunters and Nobz clashed.  The squeal of chainsword on armour and bone was almost drowned out by the war cries of both sides.  This single combat might decide the whole of the battle, such was the fury of the combatants.  If the Grey Hunters could take down the Warboss here, the Orks would be leaderless and vulnerable.

Greenskin and human clash.  The Marines were the superior fighters, but the Orks proved to be simply too stupid to die easily.

Clearly there was a psychic discharge from the Rune Priest, but the effects seemed only to affect the pict-grabber.  Your reporter was unharmed.  The Nobz were gaining the upper hand, as they proved tougher than the marines.  The Grey Hunters simply could not match the savagery of the Orks in hand-to-hand.  Reinforcements were needed.

Wounded by the Tank Bustas, the Lone Wolf went looking for greenskins. 

  

As an aside, dear readers, your reporter discovered that his exposure to various debilitating sicknesses appeared to have affected his artistic side.  His pict-grabber appeared to be malfunctioning worse than his bowels in the days beforehand.  Your reporter hopes this doesn’t spoil the enjoyment of his musings.  And fear not, the chances of contracting Goatherds’ Dropsy from these picts is only about 1 in 10.

More Grey Hunters joined the battle, but the Ork Painboy was able to keep the Nobz going.  The Warboss was slaughtering all in his path with his massive power klaw.  It was going to take something powerful to break this mob.

Amazingly, the tactics talk had worked on the Deffdread.  It provided covering fire as instructed.  However, it only lasted a couple of shots until, angered by missing completely, it burst through the wall and charged towards the Wolves.

The burna boyz were in a race to aid the Warboss and his Nobz as the Space Wolves swamped them.  The burny dance was performed by many Marines this day...

Battered by rokkits, the Rhino tried to avoid being destroyed by staying in cover.

The Dreadnought was also a rokkit-magnet, but nothing penetrated.  Utilising the cover of smoke, it prepared to unleash an fusillade of anti-personnel fire.  It just needed a few more seconds.

Perhaps training the bomb squigs using a battlewagon wasn't such a brilliant idea.  They learn quickly, except that there is always one that will rush towards the big red wagon, instead of towards the enemy.  Luckily, this one exploded harmlessly on the front ram.  The only casualties were Gretchin who were covered in exploded squig - which if eaten warm is quite tasty.  It just needs a garlic sauce to make it perfect...

But the Dreadnought fared less well.  Two squigs disappeared into the smoke cloud hiding it.  Two large explosions were seen, clearing the smoke.  The Dreadnought was left a mangled ruin.  The Wolves had lost their heavy support.  Now it would be down to chainswords and bolters.

Sneaking up from behind on the Grey Hunters still fighting the Warboss and the Nobz, the Burna Boyz set their burnas to the "Do The Burny Dance" setting...

Crashing down from the sky amongst a herd of startled Gretchin, the Wolves' fast attack arrived.  The gretchin were no match.

The arrival of the Burna Boyz saw the end of the Grey Hunters.  Suddenly, there were very few Wolves on the battlefield.

The Gretchin saw the opportunity to win some trophies.  They opened fire with everything they had on the remaining Wolves.

Irritated by the Gretchin scratching their armour, the Wolves slaughtered them.  The destruction of these mobs gave the Wolves the victory points they desperately needed.

Another psychic wave affects the pict grabber.  Your reporter was most perplexed by the phenomena.

Seeking a victory, the Iron Priest flung a melta bomb at the Battlewagon.

It worked - the Battlewagon was wrecked.  But it also had an unexpected bonus...

The Deffdread was unable to force its way through the gap between the tower and the wrecked Battlewagon.  Three sets of power klaws snapped together furiously as a chance to crush the Iron Priest was denied.

And so the battle ended in a surprising draw.  The Wolves had very few troops left on the table, but the slaughter of the Gretchin had brought them level on Victory points.

Your reporter was impressed with the fortitude of the Orks in defeating the Marines.  But it is worth wondering how they would have performed with a dose of the Dropsy to slow them down.  

A good battle and a worthy draw.  It seems that these two forces have very much the measure of each other, and it is a rare day when one forces a convincing scoreline off the other.