"Scum!," shouted the large man in fatigues. "Degenerates! Heretics! Filth! All of you are mine now!" The lieutennant stopped to spit in the ashy dust. A small puff of dust picked up where the phlegm landed. He looked out from underneath his soft forage cap. His men, his Scumdogs, were lined up in the sweltering heat. Sweating, glistening, they cooked while he enjoyed the comfort brough by his shaded podium. Surveying the scene, he noted with pleasure that every single one of them, new and old, were relatively at attention. They should be, his enforcer Altan was out patrolling the crowd. Lieutennant Balsac idly noted there were about 60 of the condemned. He grinned as Altan paused to club one of them with his cudgel. Obviously the brute had noticed the man wasn't totally in regimental formation. He remembered detachedly that it was the sniper he had requested transfer into his Penal regiment. Good, thought the Lieutennant. Better they learn nice and early they don't matter anymore. Balsac chuckled as he noted the furious gleam on the snipers face, but then watched him back down as he noted the armed guards manning the compound walls.

"Each and every one of you are here because you have been deemed unworthy in the eyes of the Emperor!" he shouted, as he resumed his speech. "Your salvation is not my concern. Some believe as long as you die in the Service of the Emperor, you are saved. I do not. You are here to die for ME. You are here, to die, so that a worthy soldier does not have to! You are here to be used as one might use a hunting hound. If the hound suits, reward it and it shall be good to you. However, should the hound not suit, take it outside and have it shot. There is no use here for any of you who expect anything other than blood and death."

The Lieutennant paused, and gestured to a figure standing with him. "This is Imperial Commisar Raphael Grit. He shall be your compass. Should you be found wanting, He has Ultimate Authority over all of you." Balsac nodded to the commisar. Grit paced down the steps, off of the podium, and into the crowd. He began patrolling the group, much as Altan was doing. However, where Altan was whipping the troops into formation, correcting mistakes, Grit was going down the lines, staring each and every trooper in the face. He was making his judgements upon the troops.

GM: This is a small Imperial compound, roughly 50 miles outside Hive Tertius. "Savior's Roost," as it is termed, is roughly about a quarter mile long, and three quarters wide. There are high walls surrounding the interior, 15 feet high. They have a walkway around the top for gunners to fire down, both outside the wall and inside. It resembles a prison yard inside, mostly empty except for barracks, the motor pool, the Munitorium building and a couple other facilities. All buildings but the barracks are heavily fortified and guarded by Imperial Guard of the Chelonian 42nd. They wear dark blue combat fatiges, and black flak armor over it. They have reflective visors on their helmets, so that you can't see their faces. A high tech guard regiment, their average soldiers are about as well equipped as standard Imperial Stormtroopers. Their suits are made out of a fabric that easily resists the desert heat, despite the color of their armor.

Savior's Roost is pentagonal shaped, and is situated in the middle of evaporated salt flats. It is used as a rally point for the Penal Legionares, because if they escape there is nowhere to run to.

Your current situation: Everyone is in formation and unarmed. The orks are on their way, but nobody knows that yet. Post thoughts and reactions, but do not break formation until after Commisar Grit gives his speech, and I say so.