Ordinis Sancti Percute: A True Accounting of World War 2.

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    @Brovo @Goldmarble @Snakey @Seba @Limeypanda @Slade

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    Ordinis Sancti Percute:
    Time: 23:55
    Time to Mission Prosecution:
    5 Minutes
    Location:
    Giza Plateau


    The night was oppressive for the small group of infiltrators being sent after the Book of the Dead, that critical first step in the supernatural war against the Thule Society, Bill Fullerton and Julia Matrovka were both present to supervise, advise and aid in this particular mission, it being of such importance that little could be left to chance. They had been smuggled into the country and moved out towards the Giza Plateau late in the night by truck, a truck that had been hidden a couple miles back as they made the final advance on the Pyramids.

    But what light there was came from the near-full moon and drenched the world in an ethereal half-light as light was reflected and refracted off of the desert sands. Julia stopped and turned to them doing a head-count,

    "Gaul," The asian man from Canada was an unusual member of the group, but his talents would help against more supernatural elements

    "Walters," an obnoxious American, but weren't they all? However he seemed to inspire the people around him.

    "Ituha," The potentially invaluable american-indian member of the unit, Julia suspected that her quiet confidence would make her someone worth knowing.

    "MacMahon," She counted off next, what an odd fellow Julia concluded it would be interesting to see if he was actually useful for more than grossing out people in the barracks by guzzling gasoline.

    "Siofra," Another valuable member of the unit, her talents may very well allow the Ordinis Sancti to get into places the would not otherwise be able to, but on the other side of the coin, she seemed perpetually very pretty, and people tended to remember that.

    "Popescu," A fairly normal werewolf, if larger than the base animals, and that charm of his could get him into things he shouldn't, including women for whom the word 'virtue' was like arsenic.

    "Vorster," Special orders were in place to keep eyes on him, the Brits practically foamed at the mouth over his inclusion, and he was not trusted by any stretch of the imagination, however he seemed to have an intense dislike for the Nazis, and so his experience could not be turned down at this early stage."

    She relaxed back into a dune. "As you all know, we're here to stop the Thule Society from getting their hands on the Egyptian Book of the Dead. According to our intelligence, they have managed to discover the means to opening up a secret passage beneath the Sphinx of Khafre. Unfortunately, the Covenant has been unable to provide us with plans of the complex or they'd have entered and removed the book long ago. So now our job is to prevent the Nazis from getting it. Any questions?
     
  2. The near-full moon light of the Egyptian sands was as bright as a fully attended stage for Victor. He had spent the majority of the trip thumbing idly at the beads he wore on his neck; wondering just which of these people would prove worth their salts, and who would be as useful as dumbbells in a diving contest.

    Truth be told, he’d been watching the people because at some point they might end up saving his life, or ending it, with the decisions they made tonight. He spent a moment eyeing up each of them, judging them by their covers to try and pick out who he might need to eat a bullet for: The Asian looking fella seemed out of place, he had the trimmings of a soldier with his rifle and his stocky frame, but he just sorta whispered promises of something else. The obvious Yank of the group stood out like a sore thumb. He oozed a sort of confidence that was almost unique to Americans; a confidence given to a people who’d never lost. The Indjun seemed like a strange contrast to most of the others; a sort of beacon of calm that made Victor feel a little too relaxed, considering he was about to be given the chance to kill some Krauts. The other contrast was the other pretty woman in the procession. He honestly couldn’t remember seeing her before, and that was strange because she was damn fine. It was rare for him to forget a face. Speaking of a face he couldn’t forget: the …uh distinct face of Rhett was a bit of a shock to. He looked almost as fuzzy and almost as dirty as Victor on a bad night. Last of all was the man in the pilot’s uniform; he looked out of place in his fuzzy little jacket, but he was probably here for more than just fun.

    Settling into the dune, Victor listened with interest to the words of the Russian woman, Julia. He’d heard about the woman being a bit of a hard-ass, and he didn’t feel like getting shot or chewed out this early on. The mission objective sounded pretty simple: Keep the Kraut’s grubby little mitts off of some book. When Julia asked for questions, he was the first to speak up. “Are we looking to keep quiet, or are we going after scalps?” He paused for a moment, before adding a belated “Ma’am.” Victor wasn’t stupid enough to disrespect the woman in charge. That was the easiest way to walk straight into hell on earth.
     
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  3. The ride into the desert was near silent, but still intriguing. She kept to the back of the transport, a shawl covering her hair and most of her face. Her currently caramel eyes darted around the vehicle, memorizing each face and trying to figure out what use they could be to the mission. When she heard the group being addressed she rose to attention, tucking a black lock back into her covering. What their leader described seemed simple enough, yet a group this large had been sent.

    "Yes ma'am. Do we have any further details?" It would be nice to know just how many they were against, and if the enemy was entirely male. That would make matters far easier. Her eyes bounced along the gazes of the males in her own company, trying to figure out which ones would need a little surveillance to make sure her tent went unmolested. At least this mission she wasn't the only female... She tilted her head slightly then grinned beneath the fabric and willed her skin to turn the same tone as her companion's. Her goal was to blend in with the locals currently, but that could change in an instant.
     
  4. During the long transport into the country, while being smuggled, Kazumasa had worn fairly normal, everyday clothing. Nothing particularly identifying, however that changed to his current attire of mixed military and civilian garb. He had forgone his helmet, for the sake of being smuggled into the country. Wearing a light weight checked shirt of various shades of light brown, gave him somewhat useful camouflage, while his trousers were perhaps, out of place; military pattern Canadian trousers, that looked as though they had been made for a man at least twice Kazu's size, leaving excess material neatly folded at the front, under his belt. His boots again, seemingly styled after Canadian military equipment, but with bent metal hooks riveted where eyelets should have been, making it easy to rapidly undo the laces. At his feet, in an organized bundle, was his web hardness, which had four pouches attached for ammunition, canteen over the sheath for his entrenching tool, and the bayonet for his SMLE Mo.1 Mk III rifle. Along with that, was a shoulder bag of full grain leather, aged with use. Inside that bag, was something wrapped in fine silk, and several grenades. Infantry love grenades.

    While driving to the sphinx, Kazumasa napped somewhat easily, despite the tension of heading into combat with people he had never fought with before, and barely had time to say hello to previously. Although he was somewhat lacking in height, he was broad shouldered, and carried a stocky appears of a man who had worked hard labour for several years already. His naturally darker skin was further tanned from his outdoors work, and from the past few months, of being a soldier. He kept his jet black hair close cut, and his face clean shaven.

    As Julia did the head count, Kazumasa took a knee in the sand, and swung the Enfield over his shoulder, to rifle through his leather shoulder bag; in a moment, he drew out a children's book, worn and tired, about a decade old, about the Great Expeditions to the pyramids. He caught the edge of a dog eared page, and flicked it open to reveal a map of the area, carefully glued into the book, to avoid suspicions. The map was a cropped section of what must have been a much larger topographical, with the locations of the current excavations, known pyramids, sketched out by hand, but lacking any military assets. "Had a researcher get me this, before I left Italy," he quietly passed it to Julia, along with a pencil, with the faceted look of one sharpened by a knife. "Troop concentrations? Numbers?"
     
  5. It been a very long time since Rhett had been in Egypt, just about 15 years though he had only been in the country for a few months to...cause problems. Mainly to help destabilize the local agriculture; burning crops, releasing vermin into farmlands, salting the soil, that kind of stuff. He recalled the original plan had him stay for about two years but he had to leave after only a few months when the Brits had caught his scent and began hunting him down. He barely crossed the border into Italian Libya with his life and even then the Brits still had the tenacity to keep tracking him. An incident that proved to be quite the scandal when the Italians complained at the Geneva summit and thoroughly made the Limey gits look like buffoons. Rhett had gotten a good laugh out of that little diplomatic farce. Which was nice since at the time he was going through a nasty case of Dysentery. Absolutely awful.

    He found it ironic and quite distasteful that he would be coming back to indirectly help the British bend over his former Employers: Good ol' Hans & Friends.


    He squinted his eyes and glared at his new "pals" and he honestly wasn't very impressed. The Yankee seemed like he was in that awkward position of not being new to shooting but nothing special. Or as Rhett would say "He's just a few days older than fresh veal". Other than that Rhett had nothing against Yanks, he never fought them in The Great War, just a bunch of Limey Cunts and Belgians. Then there was also that other American, the Indian. He wondered what the hell some red-skinned bitch was doing in a war zone. Rhett had always believed that women made for some pathetic soldiers with very few exceptions. Still, Rhett knew that she had some weird magic thing going on; maybe she would do some damn rain dance and get Hans & Friends slightly wet!

    Then there was the whacko who mixed guns and magic. Rhett couldn't tell if he was a Yank or a Brit. Either way, he looked like a shithead. Rhett just hoped he could shoot the gun in case his "magic" turned out to be a pile of drivel.

    Then there was the little pretty woman. He scoffed. His low opinion of women prevalent; sure she was Irish (not much better than British but it's a start) but he saw her as just another dumb woman who would get in his way. Soft on the eyes but he figured she was one of those uppity high maintenance women. Some plain looking girl at a Brothel probably got the job done better anyhow.

    He also noticed the werewolf. He had heard rumors of some SS being Werewolves but he never saw it in person, not even during his time spent in Spain. He heard the guy was from Eastern Europe so he probably had quite the grudge against the Nazis; Rhett knew they weren't very kind to Slavs or Gypsies. He figured he would find out whether or not this guy was the real deal.

    Then the Chink; fucking great. These fucks down south, along with the rest of the Coolies (Punjab and Chang he'd call them) were such a pain in the ass. They were the first ones to talk to the Brits when Rhett came around and were almost always the reason he had to flee. Now he was working with one, he'd have to make sure this one didn't try to shoot him in the back.

    Well to be honest he had to make sure none of them tried any dirty tricks. Despite the French and the Americans vouching for Rhett he knew the Brits methods and they had a habit of stabbing you in the throat while they were still shaking your damn hand. Rhett remained silent when the Russian girl spoke. The questions being thrown at her by the rest of the comrades would answer any questions he had. For now he just casually placed his hand on the wooden handle of his machete and waited for the operation to begin. Though not before snickering at the Chinaman's questions; little slant-eyes was trying to feel important, how cute.
     
    #5 Slade, Apr 4, 2016
    Last edited: Apr 4, 2016
  6. The journey had been long, and largely uncomfortable for Ituha, who had stayed silent throughout. Yet, with every step she took, the wind seemed to be at her back, as though pushing her onward. It supported her movement, and to those who looked, a hint of green could sometimes be seen flowing through the air beside her. Julia asked a question? Others asked for tactical information. Useful, she supposed, for those who possessed a keen mind on warfare, though hers was nothing like that.

    Her eyes fly toward the first to speak: Brutish, was perhaps an unfair description. The wolf man seemed to have much in common with her own Misha, and yet, instead of wisdom, he seemed to find only violence with his talents. Such talent seemed to put Misha at unease, and yet Ituha found herself uncannily comfortable around the man. His manners, though brash, were charming, and yet she could not put a finger on why. Such comfort was, ironically, disquieting, and so she kept her distance, though more confused with her own mixed feelings, than out of straight aversion.

    Next, the other woman of nature's calling, though far less human than she let on. Her own people would be wary of such things as shape changers, they were not far from the description of Wendigo from the Algonquian tribes, or Ithaqua from a fictional author's works... Though, perhaps they were not as fictional as she imagined. Nonetheless, the way she drew the eyes of some of the men made Ituha wonder if her magic was similar to that of the wolf man. Perhaps there was no magic involved at all, and this profession merely drew the unnaturally attractive... Much like American cinema?

    Then there was Kazumasa. He seemed to come from a past as trouble as her own, discrimination must have been just as ferocious for him. Yet, he was still not one of her own people... Still, he was quiet, and calming most of the time, and his people were not oppressors to her own. So it came as no surprise to her that among the group, she stayed closest to him.

    Finally, there was Rhett. He was the very embodiment of everything she feared in the white man, and yet, he was born in a land far, far away from that of her own people. The way his eyes looked at her was not a new sight, though it was certainly unwelcome. Misha didn't like the man much either, and every time she stood near him, she could feel a slight breeze; Misha telling her to stay away from him.

    Oh, and there was Calvin.

    But he was loud, and made it impossible to forget that he was there.

    Still, her tone was quiet as she spoke, standing near Kazumasa. Her input would not be that of bloodshed. "How do we escape when this battle is finished?"

    Calvin, meanwhile, stood near the front. The questions he was going to ask had been resolved by the others already, and so, he merely shrugged and double checked that his rifle was locked and loaded. He looks at Victor, and nods with a vicious grin on his face the moment scalps were mentioned. "We're gonna get to kill some Krauts either way... So keep your pants on, we got ladies around." His eyes momentarily flicker toward Síofra, only to pull away from her and look toward the sand underneath his boots. "We can get all excited later," he mutters under his breath, barely audible to anyone around him as he takes a few deep breaths. He finishes with his rifle, and grasps at a cross underneath his shirt, trying to keep his composure. After all, he had the potential to do more damage to the Krauts in one operation than he'd have ever had before.
     
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    Julia checked her weapon before turning to Victor. "Egypt is in the Kraut's hands, if we can we want to keep it quiet. We don't think that they have any heavy forces at the Sphinx and are trying to keep it hush-hush, but if it gets too loud, or worse, they get out a call for help we'll have the Fallschirmjäger climbing up our posteriors, or worse," She said plainly turning to Siofra and Kazamuza, "Details are sketchy, nobody dared to go close, we know they have some Fallschirmjäger present, at least two Necromancers, but the reports are fuzzy after that. They seemed to think something else was there, but whenever they try and recall details, they... well it's not pretty."

    Turning to Ituha, Julia smiled slightly, "There are several exit options, if all goes well we fall back to where the Truck was left and head back to the contact and get smuggled out. Second option is, if everything goes to hell, hopefully just metaphorically, LeFay will pull us out. If that isn't possible, well, we make it up as we go along."

    Checking to be sure everyone was ready Julia raised her Moisin Nagant she began heading for the Sphinx, as they closed on the Sphinx it was clear the Germans had excavated significantly, earthmoving equipment (shovels, and a tractor with dozer blade) was laying abandoned. A passage in the Sphinx's chest had been opened and generators hummed loudly as they powered the floodlights projected between the Sphinx's forepaws. Out front a half dozen Fallschirmjäger stood at attention with MP-40's cradled carefully in hand. And yet... they seemed fidgety. MacMahon and Ituha would be able to sense an almost magical agitation about them.

    The team could all feel something else about the Sphinx, some dark spirit, the Fallschirmjäger flinching now and again as if in response to a voice only they could hear.

    It was then that a howling shook the area for a moment before petering off into whimpering. A Werewolf was bound by silver chain and magical brands to the leader of the Fallschirmjäger who looked less than comfortable there. The Werewolfs eyes following something that couldn't be seen. Victor could almost sense it, almost smell it, a shadow that moved at the edge of his vision.
     
  8. Victor was mostly quiet once his question had been answered. While he would have preferred a Kraut-crushing overture to the mission, he also understood why sometimes it was best to keep quiet. If anything, being a werewolf meant that he understood the fine line between balancing carnage and civility better than most might guess at a glance.

    When they got within eyesight of the sphinx though, Victor felt himself stiffen up in response to the other Werewolf’s howl, and the strange clawing sensation that seemed to brush at the edges of his vision. The phantom heckles of the beast were raised as he felt a choking sickness in the back of his throat. The beast was banging against the metaphysical cage inside the Romanian’s mind. A part of him wanted to swing open the doors and take the beast’s hand. They’d be like dance partners, engaging in a macabre duet. Instead, he was forced to reach a hand in between the bars, and offer a gentle, apologetic hand.

    In a hushed tone, Victor whispered “Something is wrong here.” The Romanian was glaring at the Silver-shackled Werewolf with a general disdain. His eyes didn’t leave the beast as he continued. “We should break them, quickly and quietly. I can sneak closer, and then we ambush them before they can call others. I will snap that Kraut with the beast’s chains in half.
     
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