Time for another class spotlight! In case you missed the earlier class spotlights, here are the Zealot: Preacher and Veteran: Sharpshooter spotlights.
Today’s class spotlight focuses on the Ogryn: Skullbreaker - big, strong, and unstoppable.
THE OGRYN
"If you want to win, you send for the biggest, meanest, and angriest you’ve got. That’s me. Not these runts. They can’t hold a proper gun. Can’t hold a proper knife. Scream in pain all the time. Or just because it’s fun. Or because they’re bored. Idiots. Not good enough. Not gonna win. Not without me. Everyone agrees. Everyone I talk to, anyways. And people like talking to me. If they know what’s good for them. Not polite to ignore me, now is it?"
Ogryns are abhumans, a subspecies of humanity deemed useful enough to protect it from the sanction of purgation. Stronger and tougher than ordinary humans, Ogryns excel at work that requires extra muscle or indifference to pain and often serve as laborers, manufactorum workers … or, in the Astra Militarum, shock troops, and bodyguards, using their brawny bodies to shield their comrades and immense strength to smash their enemies.
To date, only male Ogryns have been seen on the battlefields of the Moebian Domain. If an inquisitive soul is brave (or stupid) enough to inquire an Ogryn about such matters, it’s a toss-up whether they’d get an annoyed low rumble in response, or an over-sized fist to the face. They are (mostly) loyal, and slow-witted, thriving on simple, direct commands. Anything nuanced is likely to be ignored, or boiled down to a brief, joyful act of violence …
Pictured: Early concept art of the Ogryn: Skullbreaker
OGRYN KEEP YOU SAFE
Being bigger than everyone, most Ogryns see themselves as being better … which isn’t always the case. They value strength above all else and thrive in situations where their straightforward approach to life (fetch, carry, shoot, smash) is likely to earn praise, reward, or food from their teammates and superiors.
Ogryns particularly admire Veterans, who they dimly recognize as proper soldiers and people to impress. They’re less keen on Zealots, who are often loud enough to be Ogryns themselves but are generally speaking too squishy to be respected. As for Psykers? Ogryns don’t know what to make of those Spark ‘Eads. Sure, they seem nice enough, but the air’s always all tingly around them, and sometimes they explode (and Ogryns only like things to explode after they’ve been shot – preferably by an Ogryn, BOOM!).
A Skullbreaker leans into the Ogryn’s foremost attribute: its prodigious strength. He loves nothing more than to charge into the thick of the fighting, shouldering aside any “punies” that get in his path to deliver punishing, shattering blows against his chosen target. Often while laughing as the tiny, tiny foes tire themselves out flailing at him in return.
It’s not subtle, but it’s definitely effective.
More importantly, it’s fun. Ogryns like having fun.
Pictured: Snapshot of the Ogryn: Skullbreaker's Progression Gear
OGRYN GAMEPLAY
Large and brutally strong, what ogryns lack in wit and strategic ability, they make up with sheer strength. Slow but reliable, their immense toughness grants them great survivability, serving well to take the brunt force of their enemies' assault in the place of their comrades.
The Skullbreaker charges headfirst into danger, excelling in melee combat against particularly tough and armored foes. When you play as the skullbreaker, be ready to always be in the very center of attention - if not for always being the first in the thick of battle, then certainly for your size. Take care not to block your comrades line of sight, lest you long to perish alongside the masses of enemies.
Naturally, it would be difficult for an Ogryn to handle human weapons with those massive slabs of hands they have.
For this reason, they have their own arsenal of weapons - such as the starter weapons Ogryn Pipe Club, or the Ogryn Thumper, a massive, break-action shotgun.
OGRYN: SKULLBREAKER FACT SHEET
[table] [tr] [th]Key Features[/th] [th]- Good vs. hordes - Effective stagger/suppression - Melee combat focus [/th]
[/tr] [tr] [td]Starting Loadout[/td] [td]- Melee: Club - Ranged: Thumper Shotgun [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Tactical Action[/td] [td]- Box of Grenades[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Passive[/td] [td]- Increased melee heavy attack damage - Increased toughness from melee kills - Tough skin - Greatly reduces toughness damage taken. Also reduces damage taken - Increased revive and assist speed [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Class Ability[/td] [td]“Bull Rush” - The Ogryn charges forward and knocks enemies back. After Bull Rush, the Ogryn has increased movement and attack speed for a limited time.[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td] Coherency Bonus [/td] [td]Increased melee damage[/td] [/tr] [/table]
Darktide Closed Beta: Thank You, and What’s Next?
This past week, we hosted a Closed Beta of Darktide to help test some of our in-game systems, scale our servers and give you a taste of what to expect with Darktide.
Many of you participated, and for that - THANK YOU! The feedback you provided will help us make an even better game. I assure you, The Emperor noticed!
So, for those looking to fine-tune their mouse sensitivity, the ability to call out a “Sniper” in the chat, or those having general performance, frame rate, or crash issues - know that the team is focused on addressing these along with other issues we uncovered in the Beta in advance of launch.
This past week has been fun for many of us, especially as we had a chance to sift through the stacks of feedback and data. And as a way of bringing you along the journey, we also wanted to share a few of our favorite insights. Enjoy!
But. That’s not all. We have an Ogryn-sized surprise for you.
Many of you have joined us in the technical tests and closed beta. We have found these early tests extremely helpful in addressing issues and helping make our game better.
So, with that in mind, we want to invite anyone who pre-orders or has already pre-ordered the game an opportunity to play Warhammer 40,000: Darktide as part of a pre-launch Beta period starting November 17th.
This is a chance to start playing the game early, but it will also be critical to helping us fine-tune the game before launch on November 30th.
Finally, let me say that we’re blown away by your positive response to Darktide. Thank you for the support and for being part of our journey!
Now, back to finishing Darktide. Tertium Awaits!
Martin Wahlund and the rest of the Sharks
Short story: The Ogryn
Direct Orders
by Sarah Cawkwell
Two night cycles previously – at best guess – half of the strike team seated at a table playing a semi-serious game of Darktown Whist. Others were cleaning and maintaining their weapons, some sleeping, but at least it was all of them. Still together. A unit. A squad. A team. Friends.
Now?
Now only four remained and the circumstances were most definitely not conducive to playing games. Strafing gunfire ripped through the ruins of the hab block in which they were taking shelter. Everywhere the sounds of death and dying echoed throughout the blasted streets like a ghastly opera playing to a very small, select audience. The traitors of the Moebian 6th were hammering Chasm Station, but then it felt as though everywhere in Tertium was being hammered. Maybe everywhere on Atoma.
Vox communication with the other strike teams scattered throughout the sector - and worse, with the orbiting Mourningstar - had broken down after a heavy stubber shell had punched through the equipment as well as the man carrying it and they were running out of places to take cover in the long reaches of Ironside Alley.
“Odds not so good this time, Sarge,” muttered Alusha, the team’s demolitions expert. Her long black hair, usually wound up tightly beneath her cap, had come loose and hung in strands around her harassed face. She propped her lasgun on the ground before her and frantically took stock of what explosives she had left in her arsenal.
Not many.
Sergeant Taril groaned softly, running his hands through his thinning hair. His helmet was long since gone, thrown off by the blast that had scattered the strike team in all directions, apart from Kerrin, whose luck ran out when he’d been too close to the impact to be able to escape the fire and spinning shrapnel. What remained of Kerrin when the smoke and dust had cleared had not been a pretty sight. An even less pretty sight was that of the big Ogryn, Tig, as he had cradled his best friend’s torso in his arms, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.
Kerrin and Tig formed an instant bond from the moment the Ogryn had arrived, newly assigned to the strike team: a big, clumsy mountain of muscle with the flat, blocky features and overly-hirsute body of his kind. He’d come to them comparatively recently. Young for an Ogryn, what he lacked in knowledge and social grace – and by the Throne, he had precious little of either – Tig made up for with single-minded determination, unwavering loyalty and boundless energy. At first the team had only reluctantly accepted his company, but his endless child-like enthusiasm and relentless optimism had quickly worn them down. Within days they had warmed to him, within a week none of them could recall the team without him.
Overhead, a squadron of blunt-nosed, ramshackle attack craft banked sharply to their left with a scream of tortured plasma jets, peeling off in pursuit of the remaining thunderbolt fighters.
Tig hunkered down beside Taril. The Ogryn’s face was distorted more than usual; the heavy brow twisted into an expression of abject misery. He had grown close to Kerrin, a man whose sardonic humour and sharp tongue had savaged the pride of many. Tig was immune to sarcasm and took everything so much to heart that they’d all learned to be careful what they told him to do. He would quite literally follow an order to the letter.
“Fight now, Sarge?”
The bass rumble of his voice began somewhere deep in the barrel chest, making its way through vocal chords far more used to shouting battle cries. He was the brute strength of the squad and little more: not smart enough to be trusted with a firearm, he brandished his serrated-edged war maul with immense pride, hefting the heavy weapon with practiced ease. On the occasions the maul had not been to hand, he snatched up any heavy object and did what he referred to as ‘makin’ do’.
“Rest for a bit, Tig. We need to get our breath back.”
“Yeah,” agreed the Ogryn, nodding solemnly. “Breath gone. Kerrin gone. Bed… gone. Is very sad, yeah? Chasm Station broken. Tig fight now while you get breath back.” He patted his sergeant on the shoulder awkwardly. Taril winced at the heavy-handed gesture but couldn’t hide the tired smile that flickered over his face.
“Stay where you are Tig, that’s an order.” If the Ogryn moved out of cover now, he would attract the attention of recon teams. Even if there were no enemies on the ground within sight, Tig was large enough that he’d be an obvious target for the traitor aerocraft. The Ogryn may have been as tough as a Commissar’s boot, but he was not immortal.
Tig scratched at the back of his neck, dislodging a clod of dirt clinging there from an earlier trip into the mud. “Tig fight,” he repeated, then his face darkened. “Is all Tig can do now. No bed, no Kerrin, no squad if Tig not fight.” His muscles were bunched beneath the surface and his posture suggested that he was ready to burst from cover there and then but Taril put a restraining hand – for what little good it would do – on the Ogryn’s arm.
“No,” he said sharply. “Tig stay.” He loathed talking to the Ogryn like an animal, but it was sometimes necessary. The abhuman understood and obeyed simple commands and it was how most people spoke to him when they deigned to speak to him at all. Even Taril had spoken to him like that in the start. Then he had come to realise that the Ogryn wasn’t stupid, not exactly, he simply processessed the world around him in a different way, and at a different speed. Maybe it shouldn’t have come as a shock, but it had. Over time, that realisation had deepened into understanding to the point that he knew he could rely on Tig as much as any member of the squad. Maybe more so, were he brutally honest.
Fresh explosions rocked the shell of the hab block in the ruins of which they were hiding. Debris rained down on their heads. Sergeant Taril looked over at Alusha and Gorek, the other remaining squad members. They were hunkered down, frantically scooping out foxholes in the debris and making themselves as small as they could in an effort to minimise the chances of being hit by fallen masonry and stray rounds. A spinning chunk of plascrete glanced off Tig’s shoulder. The Ogryn didn’t even flinch.
“We need to move out of Ironside Alley,” said Taril, making a decision. “If we can get to the next enclavum, maybe we can contact the Mourningstar. We just need an opening. If we can hit Burnside, we can keep moving. We just need those traitorous scum to stop raining death down on us for five minutes.”
Tig brightened. “Tig fight now?” His brow unfurled and the slightly off-centre smile suggested how excited the idea made him. Such devotion was in no small way, utterly heartbreaking. His willingness to die in service to the Emperor was commendable of course, but Taril was old-fashioned in wanting to very much keep as many of his squad alive as he could.
But things were as bleak as they had ever been; the Emperor would understand.
Sergeant Taril reached out and clapped Tig on the shoulder. “In a minute, Tig. Just wait a minute. Alusha, Gorek, when we get an opening we’re falling back, double time, for the Deadside Drop and we do not look back. Is that clear? Whatever else happens, keep moving.”
Gorek nodded. Alusha murmured her understanding. Tig was already getting to his feet, showering Taril in particulate dust. Not for the first time, the sergeant felt the guilt and shame of the way some treated abhumans. Like idiots. Like fools. Expendable. They were not. They were both more and less than the common soldiery and there was purity in their service.
“Tig fight?” The big Ogryn beamed happily at Taril who, in that instant, hated him for it. Just for a moment he considered giving different orders, but strategic options were limited and half-remembered regulations from before his time aboard the Mourningstar gave clear direction for such scenarios. He released his hand on Tig’s shoulder and nodded sharply. Any sorrow would have to wait. It would probably have to wait a very long time.
“Yes, Tig. You fight, my friend. If you can, meet us in Enclavum Baross. But now… get out there and make those karking traitors hurt. That’s a direct order. Emperor be with you.” Tig’s rumbling, infectious laughter slowly grew softer as he set off at a loping run towards the enemy. Taril knew there was no way in all the Imperium’s million worlds that he’d ever see the Ogryn again.
“Emperor be with you,” he repeated in a low, grim voice.
And may he forgive me.
~END~
Classes in Darktide
Let’s talk about Classes in Darktide.
As many of you know, we just started dropping our class spotlights, and with that came a wave of feedback, thoughts, and questions. It quickly became apparent that we must clear up some of the confusion and better answer your questions.
So, here we go. While we won’t be able to address everything (still in development and working through things), we hope this is a start.
First, Classes are a new thing in Darktide and something we are really excited about. They are perfectly suited for the 40k universe and allow us to extend the play experiences in a better way than previous games like Vermintide’s careers.
While similar, classes are not the same as careers (in Vermintide). Some of this will become clearer as you jump into our Closed beta this weekend, but most of it won’t show up until the full play experience closer to launch. More specifically, you can expect a deeper narrative experience, greater range, and more options in character customization. There’s also a more profound and wider progression in weapons.
We will start with 4 classes and 70+ weapons available at launch. We really wanted to focus on quality, depth, and differentiation first - and less on the number of classes. Each class has a personality that affects your character’s development in the narrative, what cosmetics you can attain, and how they interact with teammates on their strike team. Weapons are more robust, each with their individual stats and traits specifically designed for that weapon.
While we are not ready to announce specific dates, it is safe to say that we aim to release one new class every quarter.
We haven’t fully decided if we will charge for new and upcoming classes, but that is an option we are discussing. This isn’t our way of trying to bait and switch anyone. Fatshark has always prided itself on being very player-centric. We want to stay true to that in our monetization practices. We never intend to split our player base - you can expect in-game content, such as new areas, game modes, and missions, to remain free. We’ve learned a lot, and we think we have done a good job in Vermintide with our monetization of cosmetics and careers, and we are looking to that and other areas of feedback before we make a final decision.
We hope this clears things up a little, and look forward to your feedback!
Final call for sign-ups for the Closed Beta Test
Congrats to all the Rejects who have already been chosen to lay down their lives for the Emperor. We’re certain you’ll accomplish great things in Tertium this weekend.
As we all know, the Emperor provides - so we have now opened up for sign-ups via Steam as well. Navigate to our Steam page and click the “Request Access" button for another chance to be included in this weekend’s Closed Beta Test.
Selection is based on the same criteria as the website sign-ups were - we’re looking for a broad range of different systems/specs to test the game, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll get access by signing up.
Last week, we talked about the Zealot: Preacher class. This time we’re shifting gears to an anticipated fan favorite: The Veteran: Sharpshooter class - inspired by the soldiers of the Astra Militarum – perhaps better known as the Imperial Guard.
This blog marks the halfway point for our class spotlights, exploring each of the 4 classes that will be available at launch.
THE VETERAN
“Just another day in the Imperial Guard. Official name’s the Astra Militarum, but you know what? I can’t even fragging spell that one on the regular, and my mother - Throne rest her foul-mouthed soul - told me never to use words that I couldn’t paint in the blood of my enemies. It’s good manners, ain’t it? Thing is, I’m not even part of the Guard any longer, not since that business with the commissar, the court-martial, and the holding cell.
Now I’m part of Inquisitor Grendyl’s merry band of maniacs, for better or worse. Still figuring out what that means, exactly, but most of it seems to be putting the boot in on the Emperor’s enemies and not getting summarily executed for meeting the wrong stare funny, so I guess I’m better off. At least, so long as the ammo and grub don’t run out.”
The battle-hardened soldiers of the Astra Militarum are the foremost defenders of the Imperium. They are the Hammer of the Emperor, an unstoppable mass of bodies and war machines that overwhelm the enemy with combat discipline, tenacity … and most of all, sheer weight of numbers. Life in the Imperial Guard is lived in trenches, behind bastion walls, and in the teeth of a bayonet charge. Only the very best - or luckiest - of their number survive long enough to become Veterans.
Pictured: Early concept art of the Veteran: Sharpshooter
IN GOOD COMPANY
More than anything else, Veterans are survivors. Some persevere through discipline and strict adherence to the regs. Others beg the Emperor of Mankind to see them safely through their battles. Yet more are just plain lucky. But most live on their wits and comradeship. Service in the Imperial Guard teaches you to trust the soldier standing next to you, and a Veteran - more than any - understands the benefits of teamwork.
Though they won’t always admit it, Veterans are happiest in battle, where “kill or be killed” is the only rule. They’ll stand the line with anyone who can point a gun in the right direction … though, of course, given a choice, they’d prefer to work with others of their kind. Failing that, most Veterans love fighting alongside Ogryns, who often have enough military training to grasp the idea of following orders and are invariably keen to prove themselves. Zealots are mostly welcome, though a true Veteran often becomes irritated by these holy “warriors” pretensions to martial ability.
And Psykers? Well, you can trust them for a while, but you never know when one’s going to turn …
Sharpshooters epitomize the Astra Militarum’s combat doctrine: overwhelming firepower honed through training and delivered unflinchingly in the heat of battle.
The Sharpshooter specializes in ranged combat drills, keeping the foe at a distance while bringing firepower to bear against high-priority targets. Though they can spray and pray with the best of them, the Sharpshooters are at their most dangerous when they take the time to place their shots where the enemy is vulnerable. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blow them away.
Pictured: Snapshot of the Veteran: Sharpshooter's Progression Gear
LOCKED & LOADED
Drawing from extensive military experience, Veterans fight tirelessly to defend the Imperium from any heretical foes that may threaten it. The Sharpshooter, in particular, has trained long and hard in ranged combat, drawing preference for longer-range weapons such as the lasgun or autogun.
Upon activating their ability, their movement is slowed in a trade for increased weak spot damage, accuracy, and handling. It also sharpens the senses of the Veteran, helping them identify non-ogryn elites and special enemies in a crowd or from afar.
Their Frag Grenade is all about area of effect; it is a heavy impact explosive that is used to establish control in dire situations - tearing through hordes of clumped-up foes, and disrupting dug-in enemy positions. It has a fuse timer and those that master the Frag Grenade with tactical placement and proper timing will be well-rewarded when a huge horde of heretics is turned into a bloody pulp in an instant.
The Sharpshooter class may be a good fit for those previously unfamiliar with the Tides-franchise, as it leans heavily into the standard shooter trope.
VETERAN: SHARPSHOOTER FACT SHEET
[table] [tr] [th]Key Features[/th] [th]- Ranged Combat - Headshots - Good vs. Elites & Specials [/th]
[/tr] [tr] [td]Starting Loadout[/td] [td]- Melee: Standard-issue Munitorum Sapper Shovel - Ranged: Kantrael Mk VII Lasgun [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Tactical Action[/td] [td]Frag Grenade[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Passive[/td] [td]- Increased weak spot damage - Increased ammo capacity [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Class Ability[/td] [td]The Sharpshooter slows down their movement to take careful aim, increasing weak spot damage as well as accuracy and handling[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Coherency Bonus[/td] [td]Increased chance of not using any ammo[/td] [/tr] [/table]
Short story: The Veteran
Veteran
By John French
The past was waiting when the soldier closed her eyes.
Flash…
A blink of white just above the trench. Then the blast wave. Sound so loud it became silence. Then the world turning over and over, blurring, shivering in orange and red before she hit the trench wall. A long sliding second. Ears ringing.
‘Medicae! Medicae!’
Shouting.
The buzz-zip of rounds and las bolts.
Another flash in the air, red, orange, smoke billowing up to smother the dying sun. The air shivering and then the ground rolling like an ocean wave as the shockwave ripped through it. Red mud bubbling up between seams in the trench plating as the blood soaked earth liquified. And the shouting went on, louder than the roar as another blastwave spilled over the trench lip. She could not feel her lasgun in her hands. She needed her gun, needed to get up, needed to stand.
'Medicae!'
There was a hand in front of her. It was red.
'Medicae…' Quieter. 'Medic…'
Why could she hear that voice?
Then she realised that the red hand in front of her eyes was hers ___________________________________________________________________
'Closing in on the drop zone! Two minutes!' The pilot's voice cut the memory away.
She opened her eyes. The amber light of the gunship's crew compartment replaced the remembered blood. The gunship was shaking. She could feel the engines fighting gravity as it cut down through Atoma's thickening atmosphere.
'Pleasant dreams?' The witch smiled at her from across the compartment. The psyker's pupils are ragged bullet holes in yellow irises.
'We have a visual of the drop zone,' came the pilot's voice over the cabin vox. 'Standby for depressurisation.'
The soldier fastened her rebreather mask, hands moving smoothly over buckles and catches. Two of the others were doing the same: the priest fumbling with the catches, the psyker's thin fingers moving like spider legs as they settled the mask over their mouth. Only the ogryn didn't bother.
'You're just going to hold your breath?' asked the witch. The ogryn nodded. The psyker shook his head. 'Amateurs… A miracle if we survive five seconds' The witch looked at the soldier again. 'Cadian, right?' There was mockery dancing in his eyes.
'Depressurise in Three,' said the pilot. 'Two… One.'
The light in the compartment blinked red. ___________________________________________________________________
Red.
Her hands were red.
She did not have her gun.
'A Cadian without a gun is a traitor to their training!' shouted the remembered voice of her sergeant at the back of her skull. She had been ten. One of hundreds standing on the drill ground while the ice wind spiralled snow from the grey sky. 'A Cadian is a soldier! A soldier is their weapon!'
First lessons, first truths, learned long ago…
But she could not see her weapon, just the wet red of her fingers and the strobing blink of explosions above the trench lip.
'Medicae…' she tried to shout, but the word came out as a gurgle of pink froth. This was it. No rifle. No strength to stand. Pathetic. Loathsome. Weak. Not a Cadian. Cadia had died fighting. A whole world with its death grip still on the trigger, and she… She had survived that only to die here without a weapon, calling for a medic that would not come.
She had been born to fight on a world that existed for war, another daughter in generations of billions who stood on the edge of Hel and said to its horde come no further. People talked about the Emperor's Angels, the Space Marines who brought death like divine lightning, about how they were humanity's shield. They were real, and terrible, and beyond human, but for all their strength they could not shield mankind; mankind had to be its own shield. Armies of flesh and blood and iron and fire. Armies that could shake worlds with their tread and the voice of their guns. Armies that failed in their purpose only because of weakness… the weakness of a last soldier bleeding out in a trench without even a gun in her hand.
Bits of body and armour lay in the red mud around her. A blink before there had been a platoon in that space, orders snapping the air, gear harnesses clinking, message runners trying to force through the press. Now everything was unmoving beneath the churning sky. unmoving and torn and glossed crimson.
She felt something tapping her on the shoulder, slow, insistent. She forced her gaze up. A hand hung from the rung of a trench ladder above her. She could see the numerals tattooed on the digits and the prayer beads still twined in its grip. Blood was dripping from the curled ring finger to tap her on the head.
She saw the enemy then. They were on the lip of the trench above, ragged shapes in mismatched armour, dark and barbed, faces hidden by curtains of chain mail, finger bones tied to gunstocks. They moved quietly, carefully, ghosting down into the trench. She could see the markings of Imperial units under the eight pointed stars scratched and burnt onto their armour.
Weakness… in the end that was the real enemy. Weakness that let a soldier think that they had a purpose other than to fight and die. Weakness that let treachery become betrayal. Weakness that kept her down here in the red mud…
One of the enemy troopers was just two steps away from her. She could see the rust pocks on the shin plate of his armour. Strange… the rust was almost a pattern. The trooper took another step. It had a flamer. Drops of burning, green liquid drooled from the weapon's muzzle. The weapon and the enemy's gaze turned toward her…
She came up off the ground. She did not try to hit the enemy. She went for the flamer. The enemy squeezed the weapon's trigger. Liquid flame joshed down the trench. The rest of the enemy troops were shouting now. The trooper tried to rip the flamer free from her grip. She held on, then rammed the crown of her helmet into the enemy' face. Bone shattered behind chainmail mask. She struck again, and now the enemy was falling and she wrenched the flamer from their grip.
The other troopers were just three paces away, guns aimed, fingers pulling triggers. She looked at them for an instant, saw the tight press of figures in rusted armour and tattered fatigues. Weakness… despair and false hope and the promises of false gods. She triggered the flamer, and the world became bright. ___________________________________________________________________
The gunship's assault ramp opened. Air hissed out as sunlight poured in. The Soldier heard the Ogryn gulp a breath of air. Blue sky filled the widening gap. The gunship banked.
'Enjoy the view…' came the pilot's voice. 'Emperor's blessed and most valued world of Atoma. You get to see its best before you get to meet its worst.' Fog lay in a golden shroud across the curve of the ground below. Huge needle hive structures rose from the murk. Each one was the size of a mountain. 'That one just on our left as we come round – that's our girl.'
The hive was suddenly there, close enough that she could see the broken pylons and exhaust chimneys dotting its flanks. Rust and corrosion glittered on its skin.
'Lovely isn’t it?' chuckled the pilot. 'Grand and glorious and rotten in ways it doesn't even know.'
The Valkyrie banked hard. The priest lurched and made a sound as though they were trying not to throw up. Their grip on the grabrail slipped. The ogryn's hand caught the priest’s shoulder and yanked them back from the open door.
'Blessings of the Throne be on you,' gasped the priest. The ogryn nodded. The big-man's face was reddening as he held his breath. The gunship slammed into a spiral and dived. The side of the hive loomed close.
Then the Soldier was down the assault ramp, running through the cloud of rust dust billowing up from the downdraft, gun in hand. Above the light of the sun was clear in the blue sky. Ahead the needle of the hive spire rose to stab the heavens. The gunship rose into the sky. The ogryn drew a breath. The psyker shifted, the priest straightened. The spire rose above them, a crooked finger of metal beckoning. A hatch once used to maintain the hive exterior, sat open just a few paces away. Rust clumped its hinges. For a second the Soldier thought she saw a pattern in the corrosion, three irregular dots, whirling and repeating across the metal. Then she blinked and could not see it anymore.
'Doesn't look much like the frontline of a warzone does it?' said the psyker.
'This is the Imperium of man,' she said, and shrugged. 'Everywhere is the frontline.' She moved forwards
Class Spotlight - Zealot: Preacher
When creating your reject, you choose between 4 Archetypes: Zealot, Veteran, Psyker and Ogryn. Each Archetype has its own unique characteristics, allowing you to match your reject to your own particular playstyle.
This week we’re talking about those fanatical adherents to the Imperial Creed: the Zealots.
THE ZEALOT
“What I cannot rouse by example, I’ll instill through spilt blood. For is it not said that if ten thousand feckless souls burn in the flames of perdition to awaken the fervor of one righteous man, then the Emperor rejoices? Aye, it is. And with good reason, for life without faith is mere existence beneath the all-consuming shadow of heresy, without so much as a candle to hold that darkness at bay. It is the fate of some to pass from this life as mere kindling, whereas mine is to light the flame. And I see that I am needed in this place, at this hour.”
Zealots are unyielding in their faith and dedicated to lifelong service to the Emperor of Mankind – whom they hold to be not only the ruler of the galaxy-spanning Imperium, but a living god who guides and protects humanity.
Fuelled by an unyielding desire to serve their Master, these holy warriors fight in the thick of the foe, smiting the heretical foe with thunder hammers, chain axes, and power mauls.
Pictured: Early concept art of the Zealot Archetype
HOLY WARRIORS
Zealots heed only the word of the God-Emperor, be it delivered through scripture, sermon or prayer. They care little for mortal laws, and disdain those who offer anything less than complete devotion to their divine master. They are unsullied champions in a galaxy seething with corruption, commanded to purge the heretic, the apostate and the mutant.
Accordingly, Zealots make for effective team mates, if not companionable ones. Ever alert for the taint of heresy, they judge their allies by their own high standards, and invariably find them worthy of rebuke, chastisement … or outright threat.
Ogryns, they deride as easily led simpletons and Psykers as freaks forever teetering on the brink of heresy and madness (not necessarily without reason). Veterans might find themselves spared a tongue-lashing … at least, so long as they prove themselves faithful and determined. Only a fellow Zealot can be expected to understand the weight of one’s burdens and, more importantly, can be trusted to remain righteous and unswerving in the face of the enemy.
You can further refine your Archetype’s playstyle by choosing a Class, gaining a unique range of skills and abilities. The Preacher is the Class for the Zealot Archetype.
Preachers yearn for the release of death and arrival before the Golden Throne. Alas, it seems the Emperor yet has need of them in the mortal world and so they fight on, blows emboldened by pious rage as their lifeforce ebbs, and fury heightened by the knowledge that each scrap of pain brings them closer to reward.
Preachers care not if they live or die, so long as the foe is vanquished. Their faith hardens as they suffer injury, empowering attacks with holy wrath and strengthening their will to fight on! Pictured: Snapshot of the Preacher’s Progression Gear
PURGING HERETICS
With their passive effect of increased melee attack speed, these unyielding fanatics opt for a more practical, close-quarters confrontation as opposed to fighting at a distance. The Preacher’s affinity for close-range combat is also reflected in their starting loadout, which is an Autopistol and a Combat Axe.
Players who prefer a more aggressive, in-your-face type of playstyle may find the Preacher to be a good fit. It is important that you learn how and when to quickly switch between ranged and melee combat, since the flow of combat can be particularly hectic when you actively put yourself in the thick of it.
When the team finds itself overwhelmed, the Preacher’s class ability sends them charging into the thick of the fray, rushing their chosen target and quickly locking them in melee. It may also be particularly useful in times when they need to swiftly move out of harm's way or reach an ally in need.
In short, as a Preacher you’ll do well against swathes of enemies as well as deal significant damage to sturdier, more armored enemies. It is crucial however to keep an eye on your health - the lower the health, the greater the damage... But if you reach zero health you will, unfortunately, die (most of the time).
PREACHER FACT SHEET
[table] [tr] [th]Key Features[/th] [th]- Health Management - High Damage Melee Attacks - Good vs Armor [/th]
[/tr] [tr] [td]Starting Loadout[/td] [td]- Melee: Combat Axe - Ranged: Autopistol [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Tactical Action[/td] [td]Stumm Grenade[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Passive[/td] [td]- Melee damage is increased based on missing health. - Resists death on taking lethal damage - Increased melee attack speed [/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Class Ability[/td] [td]The Preacher dashes forward, locking their target in melee.[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Coherency Bonus[/td] [td]Decreases Toughness damage taken[/td] [/tr] [/table]
Short story: The Zealot
Aqua Vitae
By Jude Reid
The heat was stifling.
It was Brona Norvok’s first time inside the water reclamatorium, and if she had her way, it would be her last. The air burned her throat with each breath, the metal plating scalding even through the thick soles of her work boots. In the last ten minutes, sweat had soaked her bodyglove to salt every inch of her skin. It seemed impossible that anyone could work in these conditions, let alone the capering, scrawny fool at her side.
Brona wiped the stinging sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Exactly how much longer do you expect this wild grox-chase to take?”
“Only a little further.” The labourer flashed a toothless, apologetic smile. “Patience, I beg you, honoured enforcer.”
“For the last time, I’m not an enforcer,” Brona muttered. Proper enforcers — not lowly factorum guards, hired by the overseer to keep the labourers in order on their journeys between their work and the sprawling downhive hab blocks — had better things to do than investigate spurious rumours of stolen rations. “What exactly do you need to show me?”
The labourer nodded, almost grovelling in his eagerness to please. Brona wasn’t a tall woman — no one downhive was — but Hannek barely reached her shoulder, the bones beneath his synthweave robes as fine as a bird’s. If what he had said when he had brought his complaint to the overseer was to be believed, he was a shift supervisor with ten years of experience. Not many labourers made it to a full decade of service in the reclamatorium, which made his wild allegations come as even more of a surprise.
“Look.” Hannek pointed a scrawny finger down the passageway, his other hand tugging at Brona’s sleeve. “There.”
“Touch me again and I swear by the Throne I will end you.”
“Forgive me.” The labourer bowed his head, his rheumy eyes still fixed on the darkness. “But you do see them?”
Brona squinted down the narrow passageway, her eyes acclimatising to the gloom. Three robed and hooded figures were attending to the steaming copper pipes that ran along the walls. “I see diligent labourers about their business, Shift Supervisor. Surely that can’t be what you’ve brought me down here to witness.”
“But do you see them?”
There was a desperate intensity in the little man’s voice. Brona shook her head, frustrated, then stopped as one of the labourers reached overhead, causing her hood to fall back.
The contrast with Hannek’s fragile frame could hardly have been starker. Where the shift supervisor was skin and bone, the labourer at the pipes was solidly built, her wrists broad and her neck corded with muscle. Fine tattoos snaked across the big woman’s face, vanishing into close-cropped pale hair.
“They must be stealing food, honoured enforcer.” This time she let Hannek’s mistake go uncorrected. “No one could sustain such vigour on our allotted ration.”
“Should I take that as a complaint, shift supervisor?”
Hannek lifted his hands and wheedled out an apology. “No, honoured enforcer. I am grateful for the Overseer’s generosity. I wish only to see these thieves punished appropriately.”
Brona shot a glance down the corridor. The burly labourer had disconnected a section of pipe, and was holding up a heavy-looking replacement for her fellows to weld into position.
“And how do you know they’re thieves? Not just blessed by the Emperor with a sound constitution, or buying extra food in the markets?”
She knew her question was stupid before it left her mouth. No one here had the God-Emperor’s blessing, and the pittance the labourers earned each month after rations and accommodation were deducted would barely have been enough to buy a single extra meal, let alone enough to maintain the strength she had just witnessed. Either the labourers had found some way to conjure nutrition out of empty air, or the repugnant little shift supervisor was correct.
Hannek’s toothless mouth was stretched wide into a grin of triumph. “Because I’ve seen where they hide their stolen goods.”
The door didn’t look like much, just a single sheet of metal set into the plascrete walls of one of the upper gantries, the sort that might have led to an alcove for storing cleaning equipment or machine parts awaiting repair.
“They keep their stores there?” she asked.
“Yes.” Hannek was nodding hard enough that his scrawny neck looked about to snap. “In and out, in and out, all the time. They must be punished, honoured enforcer. Punished for their theft and for their lies.”
The sooner this matter was laid to rest, the sooner she could be out of the reclamatorium and out of Hannek’s loathsome company. She put a hand to the door and shoved, and it swung open with a creak of ancient hinges. The closet inside smelled damp, with an undercurrent of decay that the heavy smell of cleaning unguents couldn’t quite mask. Brona stepped inside and activated her flash-lumen, then stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Light was gleaming from an open pair of eyes, staring directly back at her from the gloom.
The flash-lumen dropped from her hand, its beam casting wild shadows across the cramped confines of the alcove. “Shit—!”
“What is it? What happened?”
“Nothing.” Brona drew a deep breath and stooped to recover her flash-lumen, her heart thudding. “Just a broken servitor and a pile of old junk. If your colleagues are storing stolen goods somewhere in the factorum, it’s not here.”
Hannek elbowed his way inside the cramped space, his face creasing with disbelief. “That’s not possible. They come here all the time. I don’t understand—”
Something in Brona snapped. “You useless little shit. I’ve got better things to do than indulge your workplace squabbles!” ” She grabbed his coveralls in both fists and shoved him into a bundle of broken mop-handles, but instead of meeting the resistance of the wall behind she encountered only a filthy plas-tek sheet hung across empty space. She thrust Hannek roughly to one side and drew back the drape.
A gust of warm, foetid air met her face, the smell rank enough to bring bile flooding into her mouth. Beyond the space beyond opened up into a cramped passageway filled with pipes and valves that led further into the darkness. She played her lumen-beam across a glistening trail of slime marked with smeary booted footprints.
“Close the door,” she said, then drew her stub-gun and squeezed herself into the narrow passageway between the pipes and the wall.
The quality of the light changed as she squeezed her way along the pipelines, turning to an oily grey that only made the shadows deeper by comparison. The heat was close to unbearable now, pressed close around her like a tangible force.
“We should go back,” Hannek murmured from behind her, his knuckles bloodless where he gripped a broken mop-handle.
Brona shook her head. “You’ve dragged me out this far. No turning back now.”
But why not turn back? It would be the easiest thing in the world to retrace their steps, for Brona to report to the Overseer that nothing had been found to substantiate Hannek’s allegations and for the shift supervisor to receive his allotted punishment. But her curiosity was piqued, and the thought of returning to the endless monotony of her shift was an unwelcome one. Here she almost felt like the enforcer that Hannek had mistaken her for. Here she could imagine her actions had meaning, something that might grant her the merest modicum of favour in the God-Emperor’s sight.
Ahead, the source of the dim light became apparent, as the passageway opened onto a grid of gantries suspended above one of the manufactorium’s enormous tank rooms. Pipes swarmed down from overhead, discharging freshly purified water into an open-topped steel tank that was large enough to hold a small hab-block. Overspill from the pipes fell in glittering waterfalls like a benediction, and she tilted her face upwards to wash the sweat from her skin.
It would have been easy to miss the little shrine. It had been placed on the gantry overhanging the very centre of the room, the glow of its candles warm and welcoming by comparison with the grey light seeping through the dirty glassine roof.
“Don’t you have a labourer’s chapel?” Brona asked.
“Of course, honoured enforcer.”
“Then why —” Brona waved a hand. “This?”
Her feet clattered on the metal gantry as she moved along the grid of hanging walkways towards the makeshift shrine. It was made of an old copper vat polished to a gleaming, iridescent shrine. She stopped close enough that she could see the gilded reliquary on top, its lid lying open. A prickle of unease ran down her back.
“Honoured enforcer?” Hannek’s silhouette flickered in the corner of her vision, and she waved him irritably away.
“Wait.”
Brona leaned forward. Nestled inside the reliquary lay a skeletal finger, far too large to come from any normal mortal. Shreds of ancient, mummified skin still clung to the discoloured bone, and the stench of decay rising from the reliquary lingered in the back of her throat. A puddle of purulent fluid had collected around it and was dribbling through the reliquary’s base, down the copper of the shrine, dripping through the gantry floor and into the great open-topped vat below.
“Honoured enforcer, please!”
The gantry creaked behind her. Brona turned sharply to see a group of three labourers advancing towards her, led by the burly woman she had seen on the lower level.
“Come to worship at Grandfather’s shrine?” the woman said.
Brona took a step back and aimed her stub-pistol. “Stay back.”
The woman smiled pleasantly, and took another step forward. In the light from overhead, what had seemed like health and vigour was revealed as something unnatural, something malevolent. The woman’s flesh was doughy and pale, skin stretched tight and gleaming over swollen tissues beneath. What Brona had taken for tattoos on the woman’s face were blood vessels, a dull grey-green as though a fungal soup was running in her veins instead of blood. “I can’t let you stop what we’re doing here.”
Brona took aim at the labourer on the woman’s right, and fired. The stubber kicked in her hand, and the bullet punched a neat hole through the skin just above the man’s right eye. He dropped like a stunned grox. The big woman gave a roar of anger, lowered her head, and charged. Brona fired into the woman’s chest — once, twice — but the labourer didn’t slow. Hannek stepped forward and swung his mop-handle into the other labourer’s face, and then the big woman hit Brona like a speeding groundcar, driving her into the altar, sending the reliquary flying, and then slamming her into the ground. A brawny hand locked around Brona’s wrist and slammed her hand into the ground again and again, but she kept her fingers locked tight around the pistol.
The cultist’s weight on her chest was making it difficult to breathe. Brona shoved upwards with her free hand, and her thumb sank into something soft and yielding. The woman recoiled with a shriek, wet red jelly seeping down her pallid cheek.
“My eye! You bitch, my eye!”
The momentary distraction was enough. Brona scrambled to her feet and brought the pistol round again. “Hannek! Down!”
The scrawny labourer ducked just in time. The bullet struck his assailant in the shoulder; the man staggered back, off-balance, and the momentum was enough to take him over the hand-rail, still screaming as Brona turned her pistol back to the leader.
“How many of you are there?”
“Our name is legion, for we are—”
Brona fired again. The shot hit the woman in the thigh, and she shrieked, a high, animal shriek that almost made Brona pity her.
Almost.
“How many?”
“You’re too late.” The woman smiled, her teeth scarlet with blood. “You can kill me, destroy the holy relic, but this water is sanctified by Our Grandfather himself. Every labourer in this factorum has drunk of his essence. Soon the whole hive will know his blessings.”
The woman’s gaze darted to the side. Brona followed it to the suppurating finger bone, lying free of its reliquary on the edge of the gantry. Her finger tightened on the trigger, but the cultist was too quick. The cultist’s hand closed around the blasphemous relic, her face lighting up with triumph — then she plunged over the side into the waiting waters below.
“Shit.” Brona scrambled to her feet. Hannek was supporting himself on the hand-rail, doubled over and breathing heavily. “Where does the outflow from this tank go? What does it supply?”
“The whole factorum.” Hannek’s voice was flat. “The workers here have been drinking from it for months.”
“What about the city? Does it drain into the city’s water supply?”
He shook his head. “Not directly.”
Brona leaned her weight on the railing, the metal hot to the touch, her mouth dry. Had she drunk water since setting foot inside the reclamatorium? Uncertainty was an uncomfortable state to be in when a single drop would bring corruption.
“Honoured enforcer.” Hannek’s voice was soft, shorn of the wheedling edge she had come to expect. “I must ask you for a favour.”
“What?”
He motioned to the stub pistol in her hand. “For the Emperor’s mercy.”
Brona shook her head. “No. We take this to the Overseer. She can—”
“Honoured enforcer.” Hannek managed a resigned smile. “You know what will happen to everyone who works within this place. You and the guards outside may yet be spared, but for the labourers, only death waits. I would prefer my death now, if you would be so kind.”
He closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Brona searched her thoughts for a prayer of her own. She cleared her throat.
“God Emperor, have mercy on this man, your faithful servant.”
For a moment, she would have sworn that she saw Hannek’s face bathed in light.
The pistol’s report echoed through the vast, empty hall, and the light died.
The image on the screen was grainy and dark, but the figure sitting in the centre of the cell was visible enough. A woman, kneeling at prayer, her head so freshly shaven that the nicks and scrapes on her bare scalp were clear despite the low-quality vis-augurs.
“You’re sure this is the one you want, my Lord Interrogator?” the acolyte said, eyes flicking down to her dataslate. “Brona Norvok. She’s a simple factorum guard. If the team needs more muscle, surely one of the hive enforcers —”
The acolyte’s master raised a hand, and the acolyte fell silent. “Tenacity. Courage. A kindling spark of the true faith. She has faced damnation and emerged with her soul unstained, which is more than can be said for those luckless manufactorium workers whose pyre-smoke is filling the air with stench.” He rose to his feet and sniffed disdainfully. “Have her brought up from the Penetentium, and tell the pilot to make the gun-cutter ready to depart.”
“Yes, Lord Interrogator.”
“Our newest companion has endured her first test of faith.” The hint of a smile crept across the Interrogator’s face. “Let us waste no time in finding her a fresh challenge.”
END
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