Behind Pedetia's defensive lines, inside a recently reinforced trench shelter.
A dozen or so Death Seekers, covered in mud and grease, huddled together, catching their breath during a rare lull in the fighting. The air was thick with Nurgle's distinctive sickly-sweet stench of decay, which even helmets fitted with air filters could not completely keep out.
Artillery still thundered outside, but the players' thoughts were on a more immediate question-just how much longer could their precarious position hold?
"The terrain looks pretty good to me. We've got high ground behind us. As long as the ammunition keeps coming, holding for seven days shouldn't be a problem," said a player who had only recently logged in, optimistically wiping down his Lasgun.
"Seven days? You're dreaming." A veteran player beside him shook his head. "Who do you think we're facing? That's the Death Guard! And look how strong that poison gas is. My gas mask's filter durability is dropping like crazy. If you ask me, lasting three days would take Comrade Living Saint coming over to give us a buff."
"Even three days is a stretch," a player responsible for heavy weapons sighed pessimistically from the corner. "Didn't you see what happened just now? With that endless tide of corpses and elite Adeptus Astartes hitting us from both sides, holding for a single day would already exceed the mission requirements."
The mood grew somber for a moment. Everyone knew they could respawn after dying, but this was a major faction campaign. Watching a position they had painstakingly dug out get swallowed by rotting monsters still felt awful.
Just then, the company commander responsible for directing this platoon walked over. He looked around before his gaze finally settled on a figure leaning against the trench wall, staring blankly up at the gray sky.