[DW] Blackthorn/Swordhand: Episode III - The Sundered House

[Noctus Cornix]

He was drowning.

 

 

His world was the red wash of a crackling retinal display, warning runes and data-feeds blotted by a thick spatter of congealed crimson smeared over the inside of his helm. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, a dimming drumbeat that seemed slow in his mind without the second heart to join. 

 

Against the black chitin plate flooring his boots stamped in their graceless run, a rancid film of sticky mucus clinging to his feet as though the ground itself clawed for him to fall with the heavy weight he carried over his shoulder. Yet still he ran, killing while he did, hacking and cutting and stabbing with a burning fury born from pain and desperation. Down the passage they ran, his brothers close beside him as they committed to their murderous craft in turn, though of which remained he could not tell by sight alone for that was a fading smear of colors and shapes along his eyes. 

 

He was drowning. 

 

With his body senses failing, he relied on his own unique talents, allowing caution to fall from his mind as he let wrath flow through his blood and fury to vent from his soul. His brothers were the faint candles just before him, each a different hue, a different composition that approximated into essence of his Astartes kin. He knew the fallen by the soul-fires he could not sense. All else was the enemy. It was a single entity, a psychic oneness stretched thin across countless bodies that moved with the unity of a forgotten Terran tide. And each swing of his force blade or bark of his bolt pistol was like striking at the sea. 

 

And still, he was drowning.

 

He was drowning in the press their tyrannic bodies pushed against he and his brothers. He was drowning in the weighted veil of of the hivemind crushing at his skull. But most of all, he was drowning in his own blood. His lungs, whatever ruined mess remained of them, were filling with arterial crimson.  Every ragged breath, every retching cough was met with the choking vomit of blood spilling into his helm. It was almost impossible to breathe, swallowing his own life-fluid with an agonized burn just to keep it from pooling in his helm. Pain was his world, bio-plasma still eating at his chest, a single blast that had torn his chest cavity into a charred crater. He wanted to scream. But it would never leave his lips. Not for the stubborn stoicism of Dorn's blood flowing through his veins, nor for that very same blood filling his ragged lungs. That voice of suffering would never escape for he no longer had a voice to speak at all. 

 

== Get back to the Ship == 

 

Even with his vocal cords still burning in his throat, he gave his command. It was an unrestrained pulse from his mind, forcing it into the very brain-matter of his battle brothers. He saw the flare of a soulfire as one of his brothers shifted with hesitation at the command, yearning to fight, burningto avenge his brothers. He knew Ghent's stubborn protest, but he would not have it. Not even from fellow son of Dorn. 

 

== Go. NOW! ==

 

It was a blow of exerted psychic force into the Invader's mind, forcing him back down the path while perma-frost creeped on the codicier's hands, a slow drain on his bones and soul. It tasking just to do that, but he would brook no contest. Not now. To hell with his' brother's pride. He would not lose another  of his kin for this! 

 

A burbling, wet sigh of relief escaped his bloody lips as they reached the Thunderhawk, stepping to the gang-ramp and carefully unloading the burden he had carried on his shoulder into one of the seats before he turned his cracked eye-lens to their pilot. 

 

== Start the ship. We will cover you. ==

 

With witchfire burning through his helm, Codicier Guillermo Montessa turned from the Thunderhawk to raise his blade into both hands and stepped forward into the mass of slavering xenos.

 

And Sergeant Calumnus Jor marched with him.

 

Together they laid into the xenos, blades at the ready and tearing into the press of gaunt xenos, with burning fury. It raged through the swarm of gaunts. An inferno waved across the warp flames crosscutting around  Guillermo as it wrenched from his hands and through his soul, but not Calumnus. 

 

Sergeant Calumnus Jor was slumped lifeless in the Thunderhawk seat where his brother had left him, the burning specter of the Watch-Sergeant's memory wrenched from Guillermo's heart as an avenging avatar born from purest pain and loss. For the barest moment Guillermo looked through his flickering retinal feed as he looked to the burning memory of Calumnus Jor, heart sinking when he saw the smallest nod of resignation from his brother's ghost. 

 

And with the deepest bitter sorrow welling in him, Guillermo's soul roared in the veil beyond reality.

 

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Memories fade.

 

Codicier Guillermo Montessa's eyes to the pale light of strip-lumens that illuminated the arming room. The chamber felt empty, only five souls remaining in a hall that was meant to house ten brother Astartes... and Guillermo was not meant to be one of them. Among the five, the Codicier remained at one knee in his broken battleplate, his force-blade 'Mariana' held loosely in one hand with the tip pressed against the cool metal floor. He had remained this way for the past seven hours in silent meditation, alone until he had made the call in requesting his brothers to join him. Now he slipped from his lucid memories and stared upon his brother's shade.

 

Without his helmet on, the codicier could see with his own eyes, no longer blinded by fractured data-feeds of smears of blood. His crystal blue eyes looked up, first upon the black ceremite boots mag-locked into place upon the armour rack. Watch-Sergeant Jor's power armour had been left in  the arming chamber along with the other fallen marines, each one meticulously stripped from the bodies of the fallen and arranged in their housing pods as mortuary statues. Six blackened and scarred warplates circled the outline of the chamber, four from the fallen kin and two from those whose fate remained uncertain. Among the six 

 

For eleven years Guillermo and Calumnus had been brothers, a shared bond that fostered amidst the first weeks since their vow to the long-watch. To be one of the vocation to the librarium was an honour that only few were able to make, but none ever spoke of the solitude such a commitment required. To be a weapon made for brotherhood and stripped of that kinship, it was a silent burden that he was not prepared for. Since his induction into his own Chapter's psychic brotherhood, Calumnus and Throvald Hammerhand were perhaps the only souls he could call his friends. Now Jor was gone. 

 

In truth, Guillermo remembered little of what happened in the last hours of their failed mission. 

His memory was a haze, only flashes of pained visions that swim in his mind, lost when he succumbed to his wounds. As a son of Dorn, his Sus-an Membrane was a non-functioning organ, so he was incapable or falling into suspended animation to retain his life. He had been in critical condition, so Brother-Apothecary Yeng had explained to him, having explained that Guillermo had fallen unconscious amidst the xenos horde and his brothers had to drag him out of the melee and back onto the Thunderhawk when they had been able to depart. It had been a foolish thing to try and stand as a bulwark against the swarm in his condition, yet the Apothecary had made no move to chastise him, leaving the Codicier to remain in his guilt. Going out there was nothing but suicidal.. Perhaps that had been the point...

 

It had been five weeks since the Xenocide had disengaged from the hive bio-ship. Of that time, Guillermo had been unconscious and under intensive care for four weeks. When he had awoken, amidst the raw pain of his still-healing wounds and the extensive repairs made to his chest, the Crimson Fist had wasted little to return to duty. He had stubbornly forsaken recuperation, conceding to certain restrictions made by Brother-Apothecary Yeng so long as he cold see to his tasks. It was not a disregard for the Apothecary's expertise or any foolish notion that he was fully recovered.. But some things simply required priority. He was still of the Librarium vocation, regardless of his vow to the long watch, and the recorded deeds and deaths of his brothers fell to him. 

 

Now, what remained was gathered: Rodrik Ghent of the Invaders, Morthas Teralil of the Obsidian Glaives, Oto Yeng of the Gatebreakers, and Brakan Vorr of the Red Talons. These were his remaining brothers and, for now at least, they were his responsibility.

 

With a quiet grunt the Librarian slowly rose from his kneeling repose, biting through the pain in relative silence beneath the whining grind of his damaged servos. He stood, mag-locked to the floor as though he held some subconscious concern that he might fall over at any moment. But a Crimson Fist never bows to pain. That same gore-painted gauntlet to which he bore his Chapter's name clenched tighter along the handle of Mariana, using her as a support to lift him up and ensure he remained standing. He turned to address the remaining four, at a loss for words even now. 

 

== I... == 

 

He began, having resorted to silent speech without thought at first, a brief impart of sound in the back of his mind before he stalled himself in momentary chastisement.  

 

He sucked in a breath of air, pain burning through his nerves, raw and still adjusting to the reconstructed augemtics that had replaced his windpipe. 

 

"Forgive me, I am still adjusting." he said with the smallest smile in a voice that sounded so much like it had before his vocal cords had been ripped out. For a moment he paused to look over his shoulder, staring quietly at Jor's silent armour before continuing. 

 

"As bitter a truth to swallow, we have failed in our mission. The Tyrannic hive ship was not killed, nor the primus bio-weapon that lashes the horde's mind to it. Four of our Brothers have fallen in the long watch and two more might lay beside them, but that remains unknown. For now, we are all that remain. With our numbers depleted by half, and damaged as we all are, a second assault on the hive ship would be a suicidal mission but, more importantly, a waste of your lives. Without reinforcements we cannot continue this mission in the state that we are in. 

 

That is the reality of where we stand, brothers..."

 

He paused, allowing for the matter to sink in, simply voicing what they all knew to be real over the last five weeks, even if most of them were unwilling to admit it. Failure was the greatest shame among the Astartes.

[Dosjetka]

In the five weeks since the raid Ghent had kept himself occupied by focusing on repairs to both ship and his own body. For the former he coordinated with the ship's voidmaster, Rubio, and his crew of serfs and servitors. The Xenocide had been restored to full fighting capacity in four-and-a-half weeks which, given the circumstances, was admirable. The Invader communicated his satisfaction with a curt nod to Rubio after the voidsmaster had announced the completion of repairs.

Ghent's own repairs were mostly centered on his bionic arm and leg. The fighting in the Tyranid bio-ship had affected the synchronisation of Ghent's cybernetic limbs and required a full re-calibration. This allowed the Invader to spend time in the simulation halls, training his way back up to optimal battle efficiency, and the ship's medical bay where an oft-unavailable Apothecary Yeng and Techmarine Teralil assisted Rodrik in the re-sync process. The pain from the procedure was a welcome focal point for Ghent's tempest of thoughts from the battle and its aftermath.

 

The Invader looked up and stood straight the moment he heard the angry whine of damaged servos. The Librarian rose from his kneeling position on the arming chamber floor. Visible just behind the gorget of his power armour, Guillermo's savaged neck still looked raw despite the extensive ministrations of both the Apothecary and the Techmarine. When the psyker used mind-speak it had lost much of its usual strength, yet another sign of how damaged he still was. Ghent peered into the blue eyes of the Kill-Team's de-facto leader as he spoke and saw only pain and deep sorrow. The Invader scowled.

 

"I see you have let your emotions cloud your thoughts, Guillermo. We have suffered defeat, yes, but your melancholy brings shame upon you. We are gods of war, not sniveling mortals who brood over the loss of brothers-in-arms. From the moment we ascend to become Astartes we know that only in death does duty end. Their deaths have allowed us to live to fight again. Now that we are healed and re-armed, we should hasten to meet the Tyranids in battle once more and repay our debt to our deceased brothers. Standing around like frail old men will achieve nothing."

 

As the echo of his words died out, the arming chamber was once more as silent as a crypt save for the low thrum of the Xenocide's plasma drives that coursed through its structure.

Edited February 14, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[apologist]

Twenty-two days after the failed assault

 

His eyes squinting in concentration as he restitched the flap of synthskin, the apothecary suddenly became aware he was holding his breath. The skin on the Codicier's neck was raw, pink, and beaded with sweat. A good omen; particularly given the improvisation forced upon them. The tendons of Guillermo's neck – some that had been salvageable, others forcibly scavenged from a vox-servitor; still others entirely artificial – stood out; though he gave little other sign of the considerable pain he must be under. 

 

Yeng wore a wry expression. 

 

"In some places I have visited, heavy scarring is the mark of bravery," he mentioned, in an off-hand way, as the bone needle slipped in and out rhythmically. Out the corner of his natural eye, he saw the watching techmarine shift position, though the Obsidian Glaive made no sign he had heard Yeng's words. The Librarian also kept his counsel – but that was, given the circumstances, unsurprising.

 

Yeng's stitches were small, and tight, and neat. The Gatebreakers' Apothecarion prided itself on its art; but Yeng was sceptical that the pitting and discoloration of the surrounding skin would ever truly fade. "There is just... one... more... There." Drawing the final stitch tight, he finished with a satisfied nod. Using a practised flick of the ringblade on his little finger to cut the trailing suture, Yeng stood back, absently wiping his hands. Assessing his work, he squinted and pushed his lower lip out. 

 

Teralil leaned forward to inspect, too, his armoured bulk humming. Like their bodies; their warplate had also suffered. Just as the Apothecary had been overwhelmed, so had the Techmarine enjoyed little time to attend to his own wargear. The Obsidian Glaive's custom armour was as chipped and pitted and scarred as the flesh of the Librarian.

 

As Yeng rubbed his hands clean with a cloth, he listened with half an ear as Teralil made his own adjustments to the Librarian's augmetics, the hard whine of a microdriver cutting through the expectant atmosphere. They were, in many ways, a wonder. The Xenocide was well-equipped, and Voidmaster Rubio generous with its stocks; but bionics required inherent personalisation and a careful joining of mechanical and biomantic crafts. 

 

== It is time. == The Librarian's mindvoice brooked no argument. As a psyker, Guillermo had never needed to be silent; but he had taken Yeng's warning that the likelihood of successful vocalisation would be compromised if he bypassed the problem and came to rely too heavily on his psychic abilities. Successful integration of bionics required time and attention; but more than that, they required the recipient to accept them mentally, to see them as a continuation of their old limb, or organ, rather than as replacement. For something as inherent as a person's voice, and given the trauma of the battle, Yeng was sceptical even that would be successful.

 

He had kept his own counsel.

 

Nevertheless, the Crimson Fist Librarian was right: it was time. It was more than a month since the abortive assault. More than three weeks since the surgery had begun. More than twenty of the Xenocide's hard, inflexible day/night cycles since the apothecary had been able to adreno-spike Guillermo back to consiciousness, and responsilbity, and loss.

 

The squad needed leadership; and Codicier Guillermo Montesa needed a voice. 

 

Yeng took another deep breath, and turned back. Both of his brethren were looking at him expectantly. The psyker perched on the medical bench expectantly, his bare feet on the cold floor, his acid-scorched hands gripping the bench. The armoured techmarine stood, feet apart, hand behind his back. Both were looking at him. 

 

Yeng took a knee, bringing his head level with the sitting Librarian. Guillermo's tight gaze bored into his blunt face; the librarian's cobwebbed blue eyes meeting the narrow and mismatched warm brown and pearl of the apothecary. Yeng spoke, softly and clearly.

 

"This voice," here Yeng punctuated his words with a jab towards Guillermo's ravaged neck, "This voice is just as much yours as your armour." He paused. "At first, it may not respond as you wish. This will come in time." He left a pause, then continued. 

 

"It is written in the odes that the seventh divine prince pronounced that some men wear masks; because they seek to share the true self beneath with a select few. The sage Hinn disagreed. He said that there is nothing beneath the mask except another mask." 

 

Guillermo narrowed his eyes, but held the apothecary's gaze. Another heavy pause. Yeng rose and stepped back, in line with the expectant techmarine. The apothecary's face split into a tight, but encouraging smile. "Now. Speak."

 

It was Guillermo's turn to pause. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth. 

 

A series of ticcing, static blurts emerged. Teralil stepped forward almost immediately, but Yeng held out his arm to stop him. Guillermo's face tightened, and the mechanistic burps resolved into a hard electronic burring. "Calm. Patience." Yeng said, as encouragingly as his scepticism would allow. "It will–"

 

The Librarian interrupted him. 

 

"It – rrh – has." 

 

+++

 

Today

 

As was his chapter's preference, the Gatebreaker had armoured in his cell. The Apothecary had dismissed the arming servants at the first opportunity. He found the rhythm of armouring – locking the chest piece in place; servo-driving the seals; mounting the plates – meditative, lit dimly by oil lamp. It had been a busy few weeks, and he had appreciated the solitude; though still the unfamiliar black unnerved him somewhat. He missed the grass green and sun yellow of his brotherhood, and was glad to touch the familiar uncovered vambrace that contained the honorific names of his predecessors.

 

Still, he was here now. His compatriots were ranged around the small chamber, bound up in their own thoughts or rituals, mostly avoiding each others' gaze. Leaving his weapons under their felt dust-veil in the locker, Yeng settled onto a jet-lumber bench, marked and dented by generations of armoured posteriors. It creaked heavily as he settled, like an old feral cat, into a predatory slouch. 

 

It was not a large room, but it felt cavernous with just the five survivors. Toying with his prayer beads, his head bowed, Yeng's thoughts turned to the armaglass capsules in his backpack. Mortal remnants. The rest had gone to dust now; their spirits returning to their patron princes. Their sacred progenoids had been preserved – one complete and one partial from their fallen Sergeant; two intact from Echion, though Yeng had been forced to harvest them so hastily that the capsule also contained a ragged chunk of the Storm Giant's flesh and bone. Yeng had decanted the bloody lump into another preservational vial, along with a stump of Echion's multilung. From the other two casualties; only one progenoid each had been salvageable. 

 

Two of their companions rested in shipsleep. Yeng was loath to admit that they were beyond his ken to save, but they would certainly die without additional supplies and support beyond that of the Xenocide's meagre medical facilities. Stabilising the acting commander had taken everything he and Teralil could do; and the others' wounds were far from minor. Yeng had been forced to scoop out great chunks of both the Red Talon's and the Invader's flesh to dig out the malignant ammunition of these strange aliens; and he was quietly relieved that both had acceded to their post-surgical check-ups with a minimum of talk. None of them had felt much like talking.

 

Still, he could take comfort in duty. The future of the four honoured dead was secure; and the two might yet walk again. His narthecium pack also contained signs of success. Another compartment contained the dregs of the Crimson Fist's ruined primary heart, along with tiny samples of the Librarian's withered and non-functional Betcher's gland. Their guilty presence hadn't come up during their talks over the past weeks: Guillermo Montesa had been laser-focussed on practising his new fleshvoice; his rehabilition sessions with Yeng helping to iron out and fine-tune the vocaliser.

 

Yeng gave no outward sign of his satisfaction – the mood was still sombre and tense – but he was pleased to see Guillermo re-assuming command. The past few days had been more satisfying – and his words made it clear Ghent's defiance and vigour was as strong as ever. It gave a sense that that the tide was turning; that a new rhythm could be found. 

Edited February 13, 2019 by Apologist

[Reyner]

The strike against the Hive Ship had failed and Vorr had spent the last five weeks since assisting the ships crews in bringing the gun decks back up to maximum efficiency, the dorsal macrocannon had taken some damage in the fighting but the crew and Vorr had recalibrated it well enough. He spent some time in the armoury repairing his arms and armour. But the majority of the time he was in quiet contemplation running through the raid in his find trying to figure out what went so badly wrong. He had examined helmet camera footage and vox recordings but he had found nothing to explain what had happened and again his mind start replaying it all again.

 

The path to their had been difficult with constant attacking swarms of Tyranids but it wasn't until they reached what they thought was their objective that the odds were completely turned against the Killteam. They breached into the chamber expecting to find the Hive Node but instead it was some kind of Brood Chamber filled with large Warrior organisms who immediately counter attacked and Watch Sergeant Jor and another Brother were killed outright, Yeng did his duty recovering geneseed from both of the fallen Marines. The Librarian was also severely injured but somehow he carried on and took command of the team without hesitation - Vorr immensely respected him in that moment seeing the bio-plasma still eating into Guillermos chest and neck armour yet he continued the fight with his flaming sword and pistol blasting fist sized holes in screeching monsters. Something else had entered the battle tearing itself out of a massive birthing pod in a spray of viscera and began firing its monstrous bioweapon and two more squad members go down - one had died instantly and the other critically wounded. They couldn't win this fight Vorr could see the mission unravel before his eyes with three of his comrades killed  and another quickly slipping away, Guillermo must have seen it too and with his psychic voice he ordered the squad to retreat. Vorr had recoiled from the psychic intrusion witchcraft was a useful tool in the endsless war against the enemies of the Imperium but he didn't like being exposed to it. Flesh trying to outdo the purity of the machine. The retreat had been chaotic and Vorr held back covering the Killteam with furious blasts from his missile launcher and bolt pistol blazing on full auto he saw his battle brother Echion of the Storm Giants rush forward into the mass of Tyranids his bolter blazing he hauled marine onto his wide shoulder and joined the retreat.

 

Echion and Vorr had joined the Deathwatch at the same time and despite their differences they had both become good friends and worked together seamlessly like they had both been fighting together for decades. When the team got back to the Thunderhawk they formed a strongpoint to get enough time to load the wounded and start the ship but in that moment one of the severely injured Marines opened fire and Vorr saw Echions rune flash and fade to black, he didn't see how his friend died but he turned round to see the Storm Giant on the ground with his chest blasted open and Vorr knew there was nothing Yeng could do to save Echion - both of his hearts had been destroyed. With a roar of fury and anguish Vorr spun back towards the Tyranid swarm closing in around the Thunderhawk and fired his missile launcher as quickly as the reloading arm on his backpack would allow him, a storm of missiles exploding across the swarm driving it back with waves of flame and shrapnel as he roared his fury the rest of the killteam unleashed their wrath into the Tyranids - Ghent loosed storms of bolts into them, Yeng and Teralil also blazing away then the Librarian unleashed his psychic might and witchflame burst through the chittering horde of xenos destroying their chitinous bodies and flaying their very souls. The team fell back one by one into the Thunderhawk now its engines were screaming ready to leave - someone moved to grab Echion but without registering who it was Vorr stopped them and hauled Echion up.

 

"I've got him."

 

Vorr stomped up the ramp of the Thunderhawk firing snap shots from his pistol as another marine covered him. The ramp closed and the ship roared back out of the Hive Ship towards the Xenocide. He would find out why Echion had died.

 

--------

 

Snapping back to the present Vorr was standing with the other survivors in the arming chamber watching Guillermo listening to his words and nodding his head, he chuckled at what Ghent had to say not in derision because he did agree with him but the team as it was couldn't attack that same Hive Ship again and the Xenocide would not be able to stand up to it in a prolonged void engagement.

 

"We do need to regroup and assess the enemy to see where we can strike, we cannot throw our lives away so recklessly not without a worthy target. We will have our vengeance and the Xenos will pay for the lives of our Brothers and I will have answers on how Echion died."

 

With that Vorr tapped the bolt pistol on his hip. It had belonged to Echion and he had carved a small Storm Giants chapter sigil into the casing.

[Dosjetka]

Ghent was silent for a moment after the Red Talon spoke. The logic in his words was clear and yet it seemed like the Invader had trouble accepting them.

"Indeed, it would be... foolish."

Ghent's expression was not unlike that of a person who had bitten into a piece of bitter fruit.
Silence set in once more. The ambient mood remained sombre. Unlike that of the ship's crew, morale amongst the team was still low. Rodrik hated it. His next words shattered the stillness like glass.

"As much as I despise turning away from our foe, one option could be to return to Watch-Station Azurea and petition for reinforcements. Given the scale of the threat we face I am certain Watch-Captain Diocles will sanction the deployment of a fully-armed and operational battle force."

The Invader turned to face Guillermo who had remained silent so far.

"What is your decree, Brother-Librarian? We cannot afford to waste any more time."

Edited February 14, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Morovir]

Failure. Penance. Endurance. Each of these concepts had been ingrained into him for as long as he could remember, but as he looked down onto the ruin of the brother before him, he could not feel a time when they had been more appropriate.

 

"Endure, Brother-Codicier of the Crimson Fists. Your penance is not yet complete."

 

He stepped away from the body lying on the slab, his ministrations complete. The Omnissiah willing, his functionality would be restored soon. It would have been a waste of valuable time if the Librarian did not recover.

 

During the voyage, he visited Brother Ghent's chambers. Entering without invitation, he walked up to his brother and examined his bionics.

 

"Invader. Are you satisfied with the condition of your enhancements, or do they require further retuning?"

 

The next time he saw his brothers was when they gathered in the arming chamber. As he listened to the Librarian's words, his left hand went subconsciously to the lightning bolt embossed on his right gauntlet. Though the rest of his armour remained pitted and scarred by the tribulations of the recent weeks, the lightning bolt shone as good as new, the singular mark of honour on his plate.

 

"We endured. Though our brothers did not, this is no reason to turn tail and run. The Emperor will have his due, whether it be in our blood or the xenos'. We shall atone for our failures in fire and hatred."

[Noctus Cornix]

There was a minute flinch in the Codicier's expression as the Invader spoke to him, biting back behind his lips while his teeth slowly ground together. The tension in his jaw was enough to burst a fresh wave of pain through his raw nerves, but that was not why he flinched. It was a subtle shift, but noticeable for one among the Astartes.

 

Though they shared blood, the Invader never appeared to be willing to act on amicable terms with Guillermo. Many sons of Dorn were less than trustworthy of those with psychic talents. it was far from the intense loathing of his oldest kindred, the scions of Sigismund, his blackened Templars, but it was still a palpable disgust. Guillermo knew of the intractable nature that the Invaders upheld, at least in reputation if nothing else. He had limited experience in meeting those of Ghent's brothers before, only once several decades ago when he was permitted by his Masters to attend audience to the Feast of Blades. The emerald Invaders were of an unwavering sort.. and failure was simply not in their blood. 

 

Yet still, the wound cut deep. In a way, he knew what Ghent said was to be true. He lamented the loss of his kin, but mourning was not the way of the Astartes, nor was this palpable melancholy that hung over his head. It had always been overlooked in a silent disapproval of his masters, a luxury permitted in the common solitude of his responsibility and office. But he was not locked away in the chambers of the Librarium, standing before his brothers that, for better or worse, looked to him for guidance. And he hated it...

 

Endure, Brother-Codicier of the Crimson Fists. Your penance is not yet complete.

 

Even in his lucid memories, half-sedated on that surgical slab, the words had seemed to linger in the back of his mind. There was a cold comfort to his soul in those words, but still it was a comfort in the most bitter of ways. 

 

With another, deep and pained breath, Guillermo bit through the pain and intense yearning to use his silent speech. 

 

"And avenge our brothers we shall, but now will not be that time. The Xenocide is still in need of repairs and we lost half of our fighting strength without a confirmed level of damage that might give us solace. We must assume that the bio-ship is still at full fighting capacity regardless of the damage we wrought. We must return to Watch-Station Azurea. We will repair and rearm, and petition for more brothers to replace our... losses. "

 

"It will not be this day, brothers... but we will have our vengeance. You will have my oath of hate." 

And now there was something else in the Codicier's eyes, a burning light with the faintest flicker of with-fire that blended so potently with the weakness of his sorrow. Hate. Raw and unmitigated, slowly boiling in his blood with every pained breath. 
 

[apologist]

Yeng leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then stood with a quiet grunt. With measured steps, he walked away from his brethren, approaching the armouring racks ranged around the edges of the room. Five were still occupied; the battered suits of armour like mute sentinels. They seemed accusing.

 

As he passed the black and broken suit of their lost Watch-sergeant, he reached out, gently laying his gauntlet on the torso. Two of his fingers curled round one of the gaping holes blasted in the ceramite. 

 

"Honour the battle gear of the dead," he murmured.

 

Teralil turned to look at the Gatebreaker. 

 

"You have a comment, Brother-Apothecary?"

 

Yeng looked round, his face expressionless. He kept his hand where it was.

 

"The Codex. I have been studying it." A wry smile threatened to break on his face. "Reading it. In my spare time. It says 'Honour the battle gear of the dead'." 

 

The others chorussed the reply to the catechism; Ghent and Vorr's voices the loudest. It had been drummed into all of the gathered Astartes, regardless of their world of origin or their way of war:

 

"We ask only to serve."

 

The apothecary walked on. The saline drip suspended on one of the narthecium's poles swung gently as he rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles stiffened with exertion. He kept his face turned to the armour of the next fallen warrior; a gleaming mark VII suit – seemingly unmarked but for a series of large, neat holes in the helmet. Yeng stood in front of it for a moment, clasping his hands behind his back. The apothecary looked oddly small next to the hollow suit.

 

"It is also written in the Tenets of War from the Ten Divine Princes." Ghent stifled a derisive snort, which Yeng ignored.

 

The Codicier's voice was ragged, but not impatient. "What is your point, Oto?" 

 

The apothecary turned around to face them all. He held his armoured hands up, fingertips together.

"In the death of our watch-brethren, the xenos drive in a wedge. Pushes us apart." He drew his hands away from each other to illustrate. "The wounded animal returns to its lair to lick its wounds. If its family approaches, it drives them away with snarls and roars. It is in pain."

 

He dropped his hands, but kept his face up, his eyes flicking between Vorr and Ghent.

 

"It is written: the wise plains-cat roars not before its feast; but after the kill. It roars to celebrate its strength and triumph; not to warn rivals of its hunger." A shy smile broadened across his face; and a slow sweep of his hand took in all of the survivors. "Perhaps the Tenets seem odd to you. I understand. The Codex is foreign to me; too." he paused for effect. "But I learn." 

 

Finally, Yeng pointed to the Watch-sergeant's empty armour. It loomed in the underlighting, black and hard and forbidding.

 

"Jor – we remember him. Echion, too. The others. We honour them not by following old orders; but by withdrawing. Healing for a time. Then – return!" He slapped the blade of his right hand into the flat of his left, grinning broadly at Vorr, who could not help but smile.

 

He pointed two fingers at Teralil, who bristled slightly. "You. You understand the strength in alloy. I have never visited Obstiria, but what you tell me of your homeworld is very different to what I hear of Mars. Here it is the same. Microcosm. I study the Codex and I see that there is much to bind us together. Much in common that makes us strong."

 

Yeng strode over to Guillermo, who raised an eyebrow. The two were of similar height; Yeng slightly broader, the Codicier standing straighter. The apothecary nodded, in deference to Librarian. 

 

"Brother Ghent is right; there is little time." He turned to look at the Invader, who cocked his head and folded his arms, sceptical but listening. Yeng raised a hand, palm upwards, as though weighing his thoughts. "We have not yet made our kill, and we are whole and ready to return." Here, he nodded his thanks to the techmarine, then raised his other hand. "We have strength in our arms and hunger in our hearts for vengeance." Vorr stood straighter as Yeng turned to him. The Apothecary dropped his hands to his sides. "By returning to our lair, we lose our quarry. But by striking while weak, we risk failure. As the Codex says, 'Losses are acceptable. Failure is not.'" He paused, but as Teralil opened his mouth to cut in, he continued.

 

"But we are not a plains-cat. We are thinking men. And we do not have to choose between retreat and self-sacrifice. Let us follow words in Codex: '"The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy's will to be imposed on him.'" Here, he turned back to the Librarian. "The sword is in your hand now; and you must wield it. But this damaged sword does not need to be wielded alone. We do not need to return to the Watch-fortress; instead we can be the shadow and follow the foe. We can find other weapons – other Deathwatch – and strike together."

 

He turned back to the rest of the squad, resting a hand on Guillermo's forearm. "I have talked much; and I thank you for your patience. Now we owe the commander his time; and he owes us his decision. We honour the dead by following the living. "

Edited February 14, 2019 by Apologist

[Dosjetka]

The Invader remained skeptical. His gaze remained fixed on the Apothecary's impassive features.

 

"Your knowledge of the Codex is commendable, Brother Yeng. But what weapon do you expect to find out here? We have encountered nought but void debris in five weeks. And now with the impenetrable veil of our alien foe no doubt all around us, we are no doubt cut off from the Sea of Souls."

 

He turned and pointed with his silver arm at the Librarian.

 

"Our brother here is weakened and we only have a single Astropath at our disposal. If it were a congregation of Librarians or an Astropathic choir then perhaps we would have a chance and even then I have my doubts."

 

Ghent paused again before continuing. It was as if the words he was now speaking caused him discomfort.

 

"No, we should return to Azurea and submit a formal request to Captain Diocles. We will find nothing out here but death."

Edited February 14, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Commissar Molotov]

The conference between the gathered Astartes is interrupted by a chime at the chamber's entranceway, an appropriately dolorous tone that reverberates through you all. The doors part to admit Siskus Rubio, Voidsmaster and Chapter serf, nominal Commander of the Xenocide.

 

The Captain is a dark-skinned man with a shaven head that reveals cranial input-jacks and a tattoo of the skull-and-crossbones surmounting the thrice-barred sigil of the Deathwatch. His uniform is high-collared, heavily starched and reminiscent of those worn by the Imperial Navy. In one gloved hand he holds a data-slate. This is a man who has given his entire life over to the Chapter, that its warriors might prosecute their campaigns against the xenos races infesting the galaxy. His face is dour, a closely-cropped beard framing a downturned mouth.

 

"My lords," he nods curtly at you all, showing you due deference and respect. "We have received an astropathic communique." All of you know that during your combat with the Tyranid xenoforms the astropaths had found their second senses smothered by the oppressive psychic interference of the Hive Fleets. To finally have received a message from your brethren is a blessed relief. The Voidsman, however, seems to pre-empty your unspoken questions. "Not from Azurea, my lords. Sigil-identifiers indicate a Kill-Team codified as Blackthorn, under the command of a Watch-Sergeant named Khyber Vaidan."

 

He hands the data-slate to the Codicier, as the de facto leader of your band. It tells of a remote agri-world named Syndalla, currently under threat from a Genestealer Cult infestation. The message indicates that the world is likely soon to face the brunt of a Tyranid Hive Fleet, that the Deathwatch forces had suffered losses, and that they were engaging in an operation to hunt and kill the xenos Patriarch-creature in the hopes of destabilising the cult's wider forces.

 

"They have requested aid," the Void-Captain states, "and I would wish to know your orders."

Edited February 14, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Dosjetka]

At the back of his mind, Ghent was amused at how quickly a situation and priorities could change.

 

"Another facet of this alien threat rears its head. How fortunate."

 

The edges of his mouth curled ever so slightly upwards.

 

"How much time would it take for us to be in position to bring aid to our brothers, Rubio?"

Edited February 14, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Commissar Molotov]

The Voidmaster turns to acknowledge the Invader, the white star surmounted on his emerald-green pauldron sparkling.

 

"Syndalla is a backwater in the Expanse, but close. With favourable conditions in the Immaterium, we could be there within four standard days."

[Dosjetka]

The Invader nodded in appreciation.

 

"And how long would it take for us to make the voyage to Watch-Station Azurea?"

 

Ghent already had an idea of what the answer would be but was lucid enough to know that the others would need to hear the information from the Captain's mouth to be convinced that travelling to Syndalla was the better option.

 

The most honourable one, he thought.

Edited February 14, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Commissar Molotov]

"Azurea is coreward, towards Far Dalthus and the Inner Swordpoint Stars. Most of two weeks, I'd venture." The Captain's posture is ramrod-straight, giving nothing away regarding his opinions.

[apologist]

As the Captain answered the Invader's questions, Yeng looked to Ghent; then to Montesa. He shrugged, lightly, then moved back to the jet-lumber bench to retrieve his helm.

 

While the Voidmaster was speaking, the apothecary sat down and drew a gauntleted hand over his head. His armour was old, its haptic-spirits far too brutish to allow him to feel much, but he knew his scrubby hair was greasy. He scratched at his scalp. His mouth felt gritty, too. 

 

Drawing his hand down over his face to dispel the tiredness, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands. 

 

Raising his eyebrows questioningly, he looked again to Montesa, then to Ghent. "Two blades are better than one; brothers," he said, mildly.

[Noctus Cornix]

Guillermo was surprised to find Captain Rubio joining them in their arming chamber. He had admittedly never seen the captain outside of the command bridge. He soaked in the details, listening to the information while scanning the data-slate. It was far from a difficult task, but the Codicier could not help but look up with a perplexed look on his face towards the Apothecary for a moment as Oto Yeng moved to sit once more upon a bench. To his shame, Guillermo furrowed his brow, sixth-sense tempted to reach out and sift through the Apothecary's soul for a flicker of psychic potential. He restrained himself, but the coincidence was almost too close to even be hilarious. 

 

He returned to the data-slate for a time, listening to Ghent question the naval captain while a silver finger flipped through the data. Of course he could hear the joy in Ghent's voice, the satisfaction to throw himself headlong into battle once more. But, he would be lying to himself if he did not feel the same way. 

 

"Very well."

 

The Codicier said as he completed his summary reading, handing it out in case any of his brothers so wished to see for themselves. 

 

"We will endure our wounds then, brothers. Let them remain fresh so we might remember the pain and return it in kind to the enemy... If there are no objections, we will leave immediately for Syndalla. Our brothers call for aid and we shall answer." 

[Commissar Molotov]

The Captain nods at your instructions. There is a respect there, in his eyes, but silent appraisal as well.

 

"Very well, my lord. I will make the arrangements for immediate warp-transit. Unless you require anything else?"

Edited February 15, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Morovir]

Teralil first looked to Yeng, shaking his head. "Obstiria is a hateful world. It makes bitter that which is most beautiful. It teaches us to endure, yet takes that endurance from those most precious to us. Mars makes it strong once again."

 

He then turned to the Codicier and nodded. "We must go to aid our brothers. Together, we shall endure against the swarm"

[Commissar Molotov]

GM: Just as a note, Swordhanders, please if possible don't italicise speech - that convention is usually for thoughts. If you wish to put it in bold, that's up to you.

[Commissar Molotov]

[DELETED] Edited February 15, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[apologist]

If Yeng caught the Codicier's querulous glance, he made no sign. He blank face similarly showed none of the turbulent mix of cheer and relief he had to see the Codicier start to assert his command; and to sense the squad start – however slowly – to find its new shape in the wake of the failed assault. Warriors needed an objective – and they needed to know their group was one.

 

"You find me lacking objections, Bahdoh," he said to the Librarian, in an easy manner. The Gatebreaker scratched at his chin, ruminating. There remained much to do. Four days was little time to prepare for deployment to a war-torn world.

 

Addressing the Captain, he spoke softly. "Master of the void; I have made many requests of you. Your forbearance would honour the Anchorite-Sage Xu herself." In the pause, Rubio's face remained as impassive as Yeng's own. "I fear, however, we have yet more to ask. Though the Xenocide is a fine craft, we would not ask her to face a fleet alone. Does Watch-sergeant Vaidan's missive contain intelligence on the beastfleet's disposition?"

 

He turned then to address the other Astartes. "It is for minds more steeped in strategy than mine to decide whether this is a mission of retrieval, or of resisting conquest." His eyes, narrow and hooded, lingered on the Invader and the Crimson Fist, flicking between one and the other. "I beg to offer, however, illumination on the dilemma we face, in what meagre manner I may." Eyes roaming across the squad at large, he continued to speak. "It is written that Bhang of Ujar-bel, in aid of his besieged men, found the only route over the river to be a rope-bridge, already aflame. Here then, the prince should not hesitate. Nor, once he has made the other bank, should he seek to return by the same path."

 

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Of course; Bhang was just a man, and the river just a river. Nevertheless; if we are to ride the Xenocide to Syndalla World, our Captain may find his route choked. When we are deployed; we may find our route to return occluded or absent. We should prepare to be down there a long time – and ensure we can bring succour and supplies to Khyber and his Blackthorn." He looked pointedly at the damaged armour still hanging in the nooks.

 

His mind played on the precious cargo in his backpack. To take the immortal essence of four with him was to risk being stranded on the planet; to leave them here was to entrust a sacred duty to those outside the brotherhood. No, he could not abandon them. What then? To request to remain behind? Unthinkable.

 

Grunting distractedly, he turned to Teralil. "I can prepare the unguents and elixirs to steady the body; but I have not your wit to resolve the riddles of machine. I would hear you on what supplies are most pressing; and whether you are satisfied with our preparations and repair." He rapped two knuckles on his pauldron, out of respect to the machine-spirit of his armour, then reached down briefly to touch the deck-plating. Looking back up, he addressed the Captain once more. "Has the Xenocide sufficient materiel to spare for my brother and me? How long can our steed offer us, before she is forced to withdraw?"

Edited February 15, 2019 by Apologist

[Commissar Molotov]

Rubio listens carefully to the Apothecary's questions.

 

"You have everything that we do, my lord. My understanding is that Blackthorn encountered vanguard organisms of the fleet, smaller creatures than the one we faced. However, they will be merely a harbinger of the greater force to come. As the conflict grows, more void-beasts will be drawn to Syndalla, like flies to an open wound."

 

GM: On a successful Forbidden Lore (Xenos) roll, you may consider what remains unspoken in Rubio's words - that the hive-ship you failed to destroy may be descending upon Syndalla.

 

"Xenocide is a tough vessel with a furious spirit at her core. A void-war is not her strongest suit, but she'll give the Xenos as good as she got before. Our armouries are well-stocked, and we have supplies and materiel enough to sustain both Kill-Teams if necessary." The Xenocide could comfortably hold a Demi-Company of Astartes.

 

The Captain scratches at the neck of his collar; as impassive as he is, to spend time with the Astartes in their territory is a tall order for any mortal.

 

"Will that be all, my lords?"

[Dosjetka]

The Invader's silver hand moves up to scratch his chin as he ponders the information shared by Rubio and mentally cross-checks it the extensive knowledge the Deathwatch imparted to Kill-Team Swordhand before they left Azurea on their mission.

 

Forbidden Lore test -> Int 45, roll: 6.

 

"Since what we encountered and boarded was hive-ship, and what Blackthorn have attempted to destroy is a vanguard infestation of the same organism, I would wager my talisman we will cross paths with that cursed ship again."

 

He pauses again, his armoured fingers absentmindedly toying with the bone-coloured shard attached to a small-linked chain around his neck.

 

"Our foe will believe it knows us and believe us weakened by our previous encounter."

 

A grim half-smile settles on Ghent's features as both hands drop down to seize the boltgun mag-locked to his thigh. A loud metallic clack-clack resonates loudly in the arming chamber.

 

"Fulmen Mors rejoices to show this alien blight its mistake. And so do I."

Edited February 15, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Commissar Molotov]

SWORDHAND PLAYERS: PLEASE DO NOT POST FOR THE TIME BEING

 

 

Skill Check Explanation:

When the game returns to Syndalla, 15 days will have passed since the destruction of the slaughterhouse sanctum. In an effort to represent the interval of time between Episode 1 and Episode 2 and to help craft the narrative, the survivors of Kill-Team Blackthorn can use their skills or characteristics to bolster the situation in Beregar City. When the Battle-Brother makes the Skill Test, successes or failures will determine the situation Beregar is in when we return.

 

The following are some suggestions for Skill Tests the Battle-Brothers might make, but I will allow creative ideas on your part:

 

Ballistic Skill / Weapon Skill: The Battle-Brother takes the fight to the alien, flushing out remaining Cult forces using skill at arms.

Intelligence: The Battle-Brother is able to anticipate likely ambush locations, stymying the efforts of the cult to sabotage PDF operations.

Command: Through leadership and personal inspiration, the Battle-Brother takes charge of a location, issuing orders, directing troops, and giving instructions to subordinates.

Charm: The Battle-Brother boosts morale with his charisma, wit and personal bravery, inspiring those around him to ever-greater feats of bravery.

Common Lore (War): The Battle-Brother’s personal experiences with combat and warfare allow him to impart a veteran’s insight on the conflicts, helping the scattered PDF forces to fight like veteran warriors.

Forbidden Lore (Xenos): Knowing the habits of the vile alien, the Battle-Brother instructs forces to set traps and ambushes that anticipate their schemes.

Tech-Use: The Battle-Brother sets up defences using war-systems such as automated Tarantula sentry turrets, minefields, jamming beacons and localised void-shields.

 

Each Battle-Brother may only use each skill or characteristic once across the 15 days.

 

Each week requires 5 successful skill tests (in other words, you keep testing and failing until you accumulate enough passes.) The tests get successively harder as you progress. Through the three weeks.

 

Week 1 (Days 1-5)

5 successful Skill Checks needed - Tests at +0

Week 2 (Days 6-10)

5 successful Skill Checks needed - Tests at -10

Week 3 (Days 11-15)

5 successful Skill Checks needed - Tests at -20

 

You will have to work together to determine when to use which skills - so there is some strategy in it!

 

Week One (Day 1-5)

The cult's strength was their ability to move unseen amongst the imperial forces, both amongst their ranks and through the shadows of the war torn city. Attempts to teach the guard such things was ultimately fruitless, thwarted at every turn by the brood telepathy and mutant senses of the enemy, until Atratus and Greysight were able to operate alone, scouting ahead to plot out the strongholds of the enemy.

Atratus: Tactics (Recon and Stealth): 85 (FAIL)

Greysight: Tracking: 42 (FAIL)

Greysight: Search: 39 (PASS)

Atratus: Concealment: 56 (PASS)

 

The Kill-Team goes on the offensive, leading assaults on known Cult positions. Akkad leads house-to-house fighting in the Fabrica District, mop up operations and decimation. He leads squads into buildings and comes out covered in the gore of friends and foe alike. Cadence goes hungry, but Sonnet speaks at length. Some surprise attacks set back the cleansing, but his squadmates in Blackthorn make it up elsewhere. Brother Varvost is able to lend his experience of eradication campaigns, leaving the Cultists no hole in which to hide. Brother Tyber is able to impart his knowledge to the PDF of combined-arms tactics.

Akkad: Tactics (Assault): 34 (PASS)

Varvost: Tactics (Assault): 28 (PASS)

Tyber: Tactics (Armoured Assault): 24 (PASS)

 

Brother Solastion tends to the wounded of the PDF, testing for genetic purity to ensure there is no Cult infiltration of PDF units stationed within Beregar City.

Solastion: Medicae: 28 (PASS)

 

Sabaan attempts to commune with Mechanicus forces within the city, but the enclave of Metallica is distant and aloof, tending to its own affairs.

Forbidden Lore (Adeptus Mechanicus): 78 (FAIL)

 

Week Two (Day 6-10)

A new leader rises from the ashes of the previous, a psychically-attuned Magus. For a week Blackthorn hunts, killing many that invariably reveal themselves as decoys or distractions. With the enemy gone to ground there is only one answer - to dive in amongs the cult forces and slaughter them all.

Varvost: Intimidate (61) (-10) : 16 - PASS

Tyber: Perception: 5 (PASS)

Greysight: BS55: 22 (PASS)

Atratus: BS: 86 (FAIL)

Atratus: Awareness: 81 (FAIL)

Atratus: Weapon Skill: 19 (PASS)

 

Akkad trains troops. The militia are drilled and tested and rammed into battle with Akkad at the front. Akkad rallies defenders via vox, takes part in parades and propaganda broadcasts, improving morale and putting Badabian Steel into spines. The quality of his troops impresses him and he bonds well with them, his orders obeyed before an officer from another regiment. Akkad forms a "special division" he calls the 303rd and declares them the finest human soldiery in the Imperium. They tell each other they are ready to die for him. They do.

Akkad: Command: 15 (PASS)

 

Sabaan attempts to use his knowledge to help the PDF in assessing and bolstering their defenses.

Sabaan: Security: 22 (PASS)

 

Solastion: Command: 7 (PASS)

 

 

Week Three (Day 11-15)

Akkad maintains watch over the HQ of the 303rd Beregar Regiment, which he has formed in honour of his old Tyrant's Legion Command. In a night of vicious onslaught as the city erupts, his eyes and ears are everywhere, becoming the main command centre and taking over from Colonel Haas, a man promoted from Captain for his courage elsewhere in the campaign. Amongst the nobles of the Grand Estates and the watchful eyes of the new Governor, Akkad despatches Quick Reaction Forces composed sometimes of his own units, at other times calling on his Blackthorn brothers. Nothing gets past this wily old Veteran, who knows feints from fronts.

Akkad: Awareness: 5 (PASS)

 

Tyber will try to socialize with the PDF and locals to inspire them to put their world back together.

Tyber: Fellowship: 18 (PASS)

 

Cult forces were striking and fading before reinforcements could arrive. Hunting them from the sky proved fruitless, but they would soon learn to fear the shadows.

Atratus: Pilot (Personal) - Fail (59)

Atratus: Silent Move: PASS (48)

Varvost: WS72: 7 (PASS)

 

Solastion: Use Strength to shore up defences

Strength: 59 (PASS)

 

Governor’s Manse

Beregar City, Syndalla

Taurelian Expanse

Outer Swordpoint Stars

c.918.M41

 

It has been fifteen days since your confrontation with the Broodlord and the final bloody night of the Syndallan uprising. With the death of the Patriarch-beast and the destruction of the cult’s profane sanctum, the city was saved - for the time being - and you regrouped within the walls of the Grand Estates and the Governor’s manse.

 

You have had no communication from Watch-Station Azurea; the so-called Shadow of the Warp has descended upon the planet. For fifteen days, you have fought to repel the scattered forces of the cult. Your efforts have helped restore some measure of order to the city of Beregar; scattered PDF forces have rallied and reformed into competent fighting units, reinforced with the knowledge and presence of the Astartes. Barricades have been erected and agricultural processing plants turned over to the production of war materiel. Civilian battalions have formed, farmhands and factory-workers alike pressed into the defense of their homeworld.

 

There is little doubt among you of what will happen next: all of you have studied xenological reports on how Tyranids consume all bio-matter, rendering the planet down into nutrient gruel for the hive ships above. All of you are prepared for the sky darkening with spores and alien clouds obscuring the sun. But you are resolved to make the Tyranids pay a heavy price.

 

On the dawn of the sixteenth day a tall, bespectacled adept by the name of Hadros comes to the door of the chambers which you have occupied. His face is a familiar - if tiresome one - assigned by the new Governor to liaise with you, Hadros has been a thoroughly boring shadow in your time on Syndalla.

 

"My lords, the Governor requests your presence at the Council of War."

 

 

GM: Fifteen days is enough for all of Blackthorn to have fully healed all injuries and for all fate points to be restored. Solastion, as de facto leader of the Kill-Team, is free to determine who attends the Council of War - a wearisome conference to be sure, held within a lower floor of the manse.

Edited February 15, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

In the weeks since the fall of the broodlord, when not focusing on training the locals or scouting for more cult members, Tyber would find himself in one of two places, either on the edge of the city looking out over the horizon, furious with himself for being unable to locate Thorvald or in the study at the Governor’s Palace looking over tomes, enjoying the feel of parchment under his fingers.

 

It was on the 15^th day that a he and the squad had a mortal come looking for them, telling them that their presence had been requested by the new Governor, locking his helm down over his head, Tyber couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the mortal that addressed them, under his helm, his thoughts could not be read by his brothers, in his head he could voice his thoughts; This new mortal governor would dare think himself my master. He dares to request our presence at time of his choosing… he should be asking us for an audience at our convenience.  Snorting to himself, he squared his shoulders to follow his brothers to see the Governor, again his thoughts were sour at this mortal. No doubt he will wish us to save his hide from the swarm that is going to descend on this place. We should leave this sad excuse for a mortal to rot and get ourselves out of here and back to the Watch Station.

 

Sighing to himself, he shook his head, now was not the time for such thoughts, the Emperor had given them a task, as an Astartes it was his duty to fulfill the task of uniting the Galaxy in the name of the Emperor, it was his task to make sure that mortals knew their place in the order established by the Emperor. Lastly it was his duty to crush those that would dare turn away from the Imperium for their own selfish reasons. Again he found himself with a snarl on his lip, the thought of the current state of the Imperium, a fine example of what the Emperor had not wanted, mortals bickering and stabbing each other in the back all in the name of Emperor, but really they were doing it for their own self-interests, nothing good comes from that reminded himself. Balling his right fist, he hit the door frame, not hard enough to damage it, but enough that his frustration was caught by Akkad as Tyber left the place the squad had claimed as theirs.