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

[Mazer Rackham]

"Tell me, Brothers. Why on the cusp of a Tyranid invasion are you so interested in a stolen piece of artwork? Surely we have more urgent things to concern ourselves with?" 

 

+That is so My Headsman, it was the attitude of Captain Desiato that aggrieved me, but as you say.  We have bigger bugs to fry.+  He regarded Tyber a moment, tilting his head, the poise of his head and shoulders matching the raised eyebrow underneath.

 

+I am sorry if I have disrupted council with this matter Kill Team Leader, but the security of our position concerned me.  By your leave I will return to the 303rd and begin re-trenching?+ He added with an undercurrent of humility, a deferential nod to Solastion's status.  He looked for Sabaan next.

 

+My Savant, with your permission I will retrieve Sergeant Vaidan's Flamer for use, unless another requires it.+

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

The Kill-Team busies itself in preparation for the defense. Several hours pass before you receive an urgent summons back to the ballroom.

 

Once more you see the hololithic display above the glossy surface of theplotter, casting a stark light that folds dark shadows and bleaches everything of colour. You see the tight arrowhead formation of Fleet-Captain Locke's squadron, engines burning hard against the void toward the outer edges of the system. You see the symbols that demarcate the defense flotilla bumbling, struggling to comply with the Navy's tightly-coded instructions. 

 

++We have reports of an imminent warp-translation. Moving to intercept.++ Locke's voice is rendered harsh by the static, but still as terse and cold as ever. 

 

"Warp translation?" Governor Vortis turns to you. "Have the Tyranids arrived sooner than we thought?"

 

There is a burst of colour on the hololith as the simple machine-spirits of the display attempt to render something as unnatural and illogical as the wound in reality caused by a vessel tearing its way out of the immaterium and into reality. And then, finally, you see it. Screeds of information-runes cluster around the new interloper as data-thieves interrogate transponder beacons. 

 

It takes the Space Marines in the room mere seconds to absorb the data. A rapid strike vessel of the Astartes, its name a clear statement of intent. 

 

The Xenocide. The Deathwatch are here.

 

 

+++

 

 

Blackthorn: 

 

You gather in a large courtyard within the Grand Estates, dominated now by the ungainly form of a Stormraven gunship in the black of the Deathwatch. As the ramp at the front of the descends, you see a group of five Astartes. They are led by a Librarian; you see also an Apothecary, a Techmarine, a brother with a missile launcher and a final brother with a bolter and chainsword.

 

 

Swordhand: 

 

You step off the Stormraven and into the midday sun of Syndalla. The ticking of metal can be heard as the ship cools from its landing, and the smell of promethium and the fumes of ship fuel permeate the air. As the five of you descend the ramp and out into the courtyard, you see a cluster of seven Astartes, clad in the ebon armour of the Deathwatch. You are able to identify an Apothecary at their head; behind you see a Devastator with a heavy bolter, a Techmarine, three Assault Marines and a Brother with a bolter.

 

 

GM: The Deathwatch are an uneasy brotherhood, and just because you all wear the black does not mean you will be familiar. Two Kill-Teams interacting is bound to be a strange process!

 

Noctus / Guillermo:

You note that Brother Thorvald, a one-time comrade of yours, is not with the Kill-Team as you might expect.

Edited February 24, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Dosjetka]

Gripping his boltgun in one hand, the Rodrik Ghent of the Invaders Chapter used the other to remove his beak-shaped helm. He drew in a deep breath, seemingly unaware of or not willing to acknowledge the other party just yet. Despite the usual cocktail of smells wafting off a recently-arrived orbital ship and the smell of raging fires that Swordhand had spotted on their way down to Syndalla's surface, the stench of death cut through it all like a ragged blade. The relief of breathing in anything other than the stale recylced air of their power armour or the Xenocide's air systems was mixed with a degree of distaste as the Invader took in the surrounding scenery; his position on the edge of the group and a gap between buildings gave him an unobstructed view over a section of an industrial quarter. What previously would have been towering cooling towers and silos or chemical tanks had been cast down or blasted apart by what the Invader assumed had been many weeks if not months of conflict.

 

"What new hell hole is this?"

 

Rodrik's lips barely moved and his voice was low, as if the utterance was more for himself than anyone else.

 

Turning away from the war-torn cityscape, his steely gaze ignored the mortals that had gathered and instead rested upon the loose group of ebon-clad warriors opposite Swordhand in their midst. The Astartes' silver left arms and shoulder pads mirrored his own, down to the visibile damage they had endured.

 

Hidden Content

Rolls to recognise the Chapters constituting Kill Team Blackthorn. Skill used: Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes).

 

Raptors -> Target: 45 | Roll: 20 (2 DoS)

Astral Claws -> Target: 55 | Roll: 05 (5 DoS)

Storm Sons -> Target: 45 | Roll: 81 (Fail)

Dragons of Caliban -> Target: 45 | Roll: 43 (Simple success)

Crimson Knights -> Target: 45 | Roll: 16 (2 DoS)

Iron Hands -> Target: 75 | Roll: 69 (Simple success)

Eradicator-> Target: 45 | Roll: 44 (Simple success)

 

The closest Space Marine to Swordhand was what Ghent assumed to be their leader, an Apothecary of the Crimson Knights Chapter. The expertly-wrought, and entirely unnecessary in the Invaders' opinion, decorations on his armour and weaponry made his gene-lineage clear. To his right stood a tall figure even by Astartes standards, his Chapter shoulder pad indicating he was a scion of the Dragons of Caliban. Both of these Chapters were known to Rodrik through texts he had read long ago.

 

Further to the right stood an Astral Claw, defenders of the Maelstrom. "And right prideful bastards, too" Ghent thought. A Skull Bearer with whom the Invader had the opportunity to bond with during a gruelling six-month campaign against a well-entrenched and fiercely determined force of heretics aided by a splinter-band of the traitorous Steel Brethren on Raveg Prime had told him much about the Astral Claws, having served alongside them in the Lycanthos system. Ghent himself, many years later, had been part of an Invader force that relieved an almost destroyed Astral Claw strike force in their war against a band of void-corsairs. Both Rodrik and his brothers had expected a warm welcome but instead were met with cold resentment almost bordering on hate. The Invader commander at the time kept his interactions with the Claws brief and the thankfully short campaign was tense throughout. Ghent already knew his interactions with the Devastator would be as short as he could make them.

 

On the opposite side of the Apothecary stood three figures, one of whose the livery Rodrik did not recognise. The other two were drawn from the Iron Hands and Eradicators Chapter. Both looked unpleasant in their own way: one exuded an air of savage and blood-filled brutality that was only barely contained, while the other gave off a bone-gnawing chill that Ghent could only associate with the void. "At least they will not be the ones to chew my ear off with any chatter" thought the Invader, a grim smile spreading across his lips. He let loose a brief bark of laughter.

 

Finally, standing in the shadow of the group stood a member of the Raptors Chapter, half-hidden despite the broad daylight shining down upon them. Having heard of this Chapter's usually dour demeanour Ghent knew this one wouldn't talk much either, which suited him perfectly. The less talking there was the quicker they could all deal with the imminent threat of the Tyranid fleet en-route to the war-torn world of Syndalla, the planet they were now on, who's atmosphere they were now breathing.

 

"But for how long?"

 

Ghent let that thought linger for a while before crushing with the utter certainty that they would prevail or die doing their duty to the Emperor. No other option would be considered. When confronted by a ravenous swarm of Tyranids, no other option existed.

Edited February 24, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka

[Commissar Molotov]

Per Dosjetka's request:

 

Swordhand Players: 

You may at this time roll a Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) test (using your INT stat) to identify the Chapters from which the Blackthorn members hail: 

 

You have: 

 

Atratus of the RAPTORS

Daon Akkad of the ASTRAL CLAWS

Greysight of the STORM SONS 

Tyber of the DRAGONS OF CALIBAN

Solastion Albikus of the CRIMSON KNIGHTS

Nycax Sabaan of the IRON HANDS 

Varvost of the ERADICATORS

 

I will place the difficulty for this at +0 (Challenging) with the exception of the Astral Claws (+10) who will have gained some recognition for their stewardship of the Maelstrom and the Iron Hands (+40) who are obviously famed as one of the First Founding Legions - I believe that would carry some weight for most Marines. A success means you know of the Chapter, whilst 2 of more degrees of success might mean that you can recall some facts about a famous campaign or a hero of note. A fail doesn't necessarily mean you know nothing - you may well be able to reasonably infer some details about which Primarch the Marine descends from. 

 

Vorr will immediately recognise the Iron Hands. 

 

+++

 

Blackthorn Players: 

 

Ahead, you see: 

 

Codicier Guillermo Montesa of the CRIMSON FISTS

Rodrik Ghent of the INVADERS

Brakan Vorr of the RED TALONS

Morthas Teralil of the OBSIDIAN GLAIVES

Oto Yeng of the GATEBREAKERS

 

These Chapters may also be taken at a +0 difficulty, aside from the Crimson Fists at (+30) and the Gatebreakers at (-20) due to their respective prominence and obscurity. For Sabaan, recognition of the Red Talons will be instantaneous.

[Xin Ceithan]

Sabaan had watched the final approach with customary caution. They had been ambushed among the halls of the Governor`s palace before.

On his way to the landing pad, the Iron Hand had passed the site where they had broken the assault of the defiled creatures just days before. Now,  Votive candles burned where the floor had been ruptured during the demise of one of those beasts. PDF troopers and menials from around the Palace quietly sought the guidance and protection of the God Emperor where His Angels had banished the xenos. A PDF soldier stood guard, for all purposes intent on discouraging flocks of faithful clogging the spot and thus delaying the fortification efforts. Yet Sabaan strongly suspected a less mundane calling involved in those chosen to watch where the high and mighty of Syndalla had been spared from the claws of the alien by His divine servants. Whispers about the sacrifice of Vaidan, the Valiant had reached his enhanced hearing as he had striven to improve the planetary defenses. The Iron Hand ignored it where ever possible. Given the situation the Syndallan defenders found themselves in, it was little wonder that they took refuge in something so flimsy. If nothing else, it would hopefully keep morale up to point where the skies would darken with the bodies of the approaching enemies. It would fall to boltshell, lasgun and holy promethium then to bring light to the humans cowering among the walls then, not fawning over some piece of damaged architecture.

 

But it would indeed require nothing short of divine intervention to deliver the agriworld from the devouring swarm it was soon to face. It was little wonder then that word had already spread that in this, their darkest hour, the God Emperor had seen fit to bless Syndalla with the arrival of yet more of his chosen warriors. Their prayers had been answered.

 

 

>> There are no miracles. There are only men<<

 

The thought thundered through his stream. For once, Sabaan pushed it aside.

 

The Storm Raven made it's final approach. The Heat of atmospheric re entry still rolled off it's armoured hull. The Roar of it's ram jets tuned out everything for a moment.

While his targeting Array sought out weak spots and projected firing trajectories, Nycax Sabaan allowed himself a moment of rapture. If there was one of the blessings of the Great Work he unashamedly marveled at in something approaching petty organic glee, it was the miracle of flight. And if there was any true regret on his mind following the events on Cumbria, it was that it had forced him to leave his initiation into the ranks of a fully ordained pilot adept unfinished. For now. He cast another, longing gaze over the Assault craft. Sabaan admired how it 's blunt shape sang only the most rudimentary praise to the sacred laws of aerodynamics. It defied the universal law of gravity and sought to bring fiery destruction to it's enemies by sheer stubbornness and excessive, overbearing strength of brute force. It had all the lethality and seriousness of a block of bricks launched at an unsuspecting sack of meat by mass driver and in Sabaan's Martian trained, professional opinion, no true Iron Hand could deny the beauty of that.

 

At for once, just once, no voice rose from his thoughtstream in mockery or disagreement.

 

The Astartes that emerged from the Storm Raven were a different matter.

 

A sequence of hisses emerged from the Iron Hand's respirator as his Autosenses picked out the tell tale signs of a battle psyker on the warrior leading them. Almost unconsciously, Sabaan uttered curses and warding in his native Jukeet under his breath. The inhabitants of Medusa rejected the works of witchery almost instinctively and with a zeal that would have made any zealot of the Black Templars proud. Few lived to an age where induction into the Clan Companies could even be considered.

He felt an acidic sting in the ruin of his oral cavity.

>> If there is was one thing our Primarch did right, it was distrusting and disproving the use of those witches<<

Deep, arterial red targetingg brackets outlined the descending form of the Codicier, mirroring the colour of the closed fist on the newcomer's right shoulder. Sabaan nearly missed the azure surrounding the emblem among the ritual blue markings of the sanctioned witch-warrior. One of the line of Dorn. >>Crimson Fist<<. He could dimly recall that some of that Chapter had fought in the theatre of war where he himself had first fought as lowly scout initiate of Clan Dorrvok. The scout claves had not been exactly encouraged to make friends.

 

Another one of Dorn's get halted his step briefly on the ramp, taking his bearings.

Sabaan's enhanced hearing picked out his muttered comment. Or contempt.

Nycax recognized the insignia.

>> You'd think someone from a lot named the "Invaders" would not hesitate before touching down on another "hellhole"<<

The Techmarine suppressed another phantom grin. He remembered serving with one of their Chapter during his time as as an Aspirant on Mars. Norek Otis had been a sour, miserable bastard. Sabaan had almost instantly, and almost despite himself, liked the other Astartes. He death had not been quiet and far from peaceful.

 

 

The Iron Hand could not place the origin of the third newcomer. Something about his bearing reminded him of Greysight, though he could not quite place it. The overcoat and beads brought an uncommon shock of colour to the pre-eminent blackness of their shared warplate. While it's origins remained obscure, the tools of the trade marked this one as an Apothecary. >> May be there is some unspoken oath among their Order to go not without a Helmet. But may be this one will throw himself headlong into the fray for once."

 

The ritual markings and war gear of a fellow Techmarine greeted Sabaan as he continued his inspection of the new arrivals. He canted the Invocation upon meeting a fellow Traveller on the Road to Understanding as demanded by the Rulings of the Synode of Mars. Noospheric salutations and blessings were exchanged over four beats of their twin hearts. The two Adepts eyed each other warily, measuring the other over nanofractuals. Like all seekers of knowledge from the onset of time, meeting a fellow initiated soul meant meeting a potential rival. From somewhere in his mind, he linked the label of >>Obsidian Glaives<< to an otherwise obscure insignia. Another Son of Dorn. Nycax briefly wondered where he took those information from when his visual receptors fell on the last member of Swordhand.

 

A Red Talon! There was an achingly familiar sense of connection to the way of movement and the aura of suppressed hostility as the Devastator moved down the Assault ramp even before the Techmarine could perceive the Chapter markings of his opposite. It reminded Sabaan of encounters with Chapter members outside the interlink of a Clan Company clave. Yet it felt ... wrong..somehow. Different. A sense of burning heat that had not come from the rapidly cooling plating of the landing craft.

"The descendants of the Maimed.<< Sabaan was unsure how his stray thought managed to sneer. But there was no other way to describe it.>>All the fury of Ferrus. Without the cold Iron of Medusa to harness and direct it. This will be interesting. Unless your new brother answers the call to his own fury first<< A burst of white noise followed. Almost a chuckle.

 

As if on a cue, Varvost's voice cracked over the vox. " We could take them."

 

Sabaan silently agreed to himself. Much like their own warplate, the new arrivals bore the signs of recent encounters with laws and bioacid. Their wargear was patched up but functional. They were Astartes. They were veterans on their own right. But the Iron Hand detected something else about them , something he found hard to place.

There was a ..weariness ...to their movements. Was that the right word?

They certainly did not look like rested, well supplied reinforcements. They looked like ... survivors.

Edited March 4, 2019 by Xin Ceithan

[Steel Company]

OOC:

Rolls for Chapter checks:

Codicier Guillermo Montesa of the CRIMSON FISTS

TN:89 (Int 49 +10 Common Lore Astartes +10, +30 Difficulty)

Chapter Check: 1d100 16 pass with 7 DoS

 

Rodrik Ghent of the INVADERS

TN: 59 (Int 49 +10 Common Lore Astartes +10)

Chapter Check: 1d100 28 pass with 3 DoS

 

Brakan Vorr of the RED TALONS

TN: 59 (Int 49 +10 Common Lore Astartes +10)

Chapter Check: 1d100 11 pass with 3DoS

 

Morthas Teralil of the OBSIDIAN GLAIVES

TN: 59 (Int 49 +10 Common Lore Astartes +10)

Chapter Check: 1d100 12 pass with 3DoS

 

Oto Yeng of the GATEBREAKERS

TN: 39 (Int 49 +10 Common Lore Astartes +10 -20 Difficulty)

Chapter Check: 1d100 16 pass with 2DoS

 

Nice to see Tyber is keeping his track record with everyone that isn’t a son of the Kahn!

 

As the five Astartes descended the ramp Tyber’s eyes darted to the crest of each of them, relaxing as he knew at least something about each of them, over the Blackthorn squad vox network he spoke +Interesting, sees we may have a stubborn lot, I see two from the Seventh Legion blood.+

 

It was the Gatebreaker that he kept one eye on, what little he knew of them, it seemed very strange to see such an elusive chapter sending a member to the Death Watch, while his other was on the Invader. He was tall, though still a bit shorter than himself, he carried himself with a degree of confidence that spoke volumes to experience, meaning he was someone to watch, now with the issue of an invasion in bound, a questionable ally that maybe working against the Imperium’s interests and now new brothers to get to know.

 

 

His mind rewound back to the conversation with Varvost, his face a maze of scars and annoyance after he had posed his question to Tyber and Akkad, for his part Akkad had spoken well, but it was Tyber’s words that had left the room with a touch of a chill, “Varvost, I do not care about the painting. I care about two things; first and foremost I worry about knowing if we can count on that second Imperial Cruiser that is under command of Desiato to be where and when we need it to be. The second thing I worry about is that Desiato may be chasing something that may be worse than the immediate threat, a threat from our own history.”

 

For his part Tyber had put a heavy emphasis on the last few words to leave little doubt that he referenced the traitor legions, before placing his helm back on and leaving to his armoured company to make sure that they were ready.

 

Ooc:

Insert Picture of “Drive me closer, I want to hit it with my sword!”

 

Forcing his mind back to the present, Tyber shifted stance a little to be both relaxed and on guard with these new brothers.

[Commissar Molotov]

Tyber's words acquire a click of acknowledgement over the vox-channel.

++We could take them.++ Varvost says.

His eyes trace the battered armour of this new Kill-Team. He nods to himself - though whether confirming his confrontational boast to himself, or in some mark of approval for the scars they bear, none could say.


OOC: Varvost doesn't roll. He doesn't care too much about heritage and fancy titles. Your deeds will speak for you.

Edited February 24, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

Tyber cannot help but laugh at Varvost's words, reaching across to thump on his pauldron, while his own would rise and fall with his laughter.

[Slips]

Who does Solastion Recognize?

Crimson Fists: INT 50 + 30 = 80 Common Lore: 1d100 69 he thankfully does only 1 DoS

Invaders: INT 50 Common Lore: 1d100 33 He does too, 1 DoS

Red Talons: INT 50 Common Lore: 1d100 29 He does, 2 DoS

Obsidian Glaives: INT 50 Common Lore: 1d100 1 He extra does; 4 DoS

Gatebreakers: INT 50 - 20 = 30 Common Lore: 1d100 46 He does not.

 

As the Storm Ravens ramp opened and the marines within filed out, Solastion was glad to have some reinforcements that he could...reliably...count on being able to get the job done. It also confirmed that the Astropathic message they sent out had at least gotten to another Kill-Team.

 

Picking up on the dour murmurings of the Invader - now finding it curious that he would be in the company of two after having hoped for the presence of one multiple times - Solastions brow furrowed a bit, before he steps forward to address the newly-arrived brethren.

 

"Brothers, welcome... to Syndalla." he said as he appraised the assemblage of marines before him.

 

Beyond the two sons of Dorn he recognized, as well as the Iron Hand successor. The inmate drew a curious raise of the eyebrow but, seeing as he was fundamentally a scion of the 13th Legion, Solastion ultimately wasn't all that concerned...for now. The last of the bunch, however, he drew a blank on.

 

Still, the presence of another Apothecary and Techmarine meant that they would now be able to spread the burden of duty which was a relief since there was yet much to be done. While still fundamentally weary of witches, he was at least happy to have one with them for the coming storm.

 

When Varvost interjected over their squad vox Solastion decided to say nothing; its was true though, the Marines that just arrived to join them were definitely more beat up than they were...curious but not out of the ordinary for marines in the field.

 

"We have a lot of preparations to get underway or complete and time is of the essence. If you would follow me to our Strategium, there we could introduce ourselves properly." he said in response as the assemblage of marines fully stepped of the Ravens ramp.

[Reyner]

Rolls:

Raptors int 37 +10  common lore astartes (47)d100 24 - pass with 2 dos
Astral Claws int 37 +10 common lore astartes + 10 (57) d100 81 - fail
Storm Sons int 37 +10 common lore astartes (47) d100 43 - pass
Dragons of Caliban 37 + 10 common lore astartes (47) d100 73 - fail
Crimson Knights 37 + 10 common lore astartes (47) d100 37 - pass
Iron Hands instant recognise founding Chapter
Eradicators 37 + 10 common lore astartes (47) d100 25 - pass with 2 dos

 

Vorr looked across the landing pad at the other Killteam he recognised most of the Chapters they represented. One of the Assault Marines was a Raptor with a specialised rifle an odd choice for what the Codex Astartes stated to be a primarily melee focused role but from what Vorr knew of the Raptors they were excellent shots and very capable infiltrators, some whispered they had outgrown their primogenitor Chapter in that regard. Next he examined the Devastator but Vorr couldn't place his Chapter but it looked familiar to him as long as he could wield that Heavy Bolter with the skill Vorr expected from a Devastator he didn't truly care what Chapter the marine was from. His eyes saw the Tactical Marine was one of the mysterious Storm Sons scions of the Khan, beyond that he didn't really know much about them. The big Assault Marine was also unknown to Vorr but judging by his size he would be useful in a fight, the Apothecary was clearly a son of Sanguinius with his finely wrought armour and golden decorations - it seemed pointless to Vorr armour was for protection not art although the Apothecarys armour was gouged and cracked in places so at least the marine wasn't shy about getting up close with his chainsword but that was pretty much a requirement for one of the Angels stock.

 

Vorr instantly recognised the Techmarine as an Iron Hand the Chapter the Red Talons had been created from in the Second Founding, it was said that the Red Talons were the outcasts of the Iron Hands Legion who were deemed too brutal and too unpredictable for Ferrus Manus to rely on but Autek Morr changed all that and moulded the Morragul Clan into one of the deadliest strike forces in the Heresy. Vorr grinned under his Mk6 Corvus helmet, the Red Talons were literally the red armoured step children of their kind having embraced the Codex Astartes and dropping the Clan structure. The great Autek Mor had seen the benefits Guilliman had outlined and done away with the old ways in one last obscene gesture to his father. Last he looked upon the battered armour of the Eradicator the other son of the Angel in the other killteam and wondered to himself how different some tried to be but beneath it all they were exactly the same. He had seen both sides of the Blood Angels in combat and knew that as much as some tried to look like walking works of art they really were brutal killing machines constantly on the edge of madness. Vorr liked them.

 

Vorr looked across at the Iron Hand and banged his fist to his chestplate and nodded in salute.

Edited February 25, 2019 by Reyner

[apologist]

+++

 

Oto stood up as the Storm Raven began its atmospheric descent, earning a quizzical look from Vorr. The Gatebreaker made a show of freeing his claviger – his ceremonial short staff-mace – from the beaded belt-sling, and the Red Talon went back to drumming his fingers patiently on the part of his missile launcher projecting from stowage. Satisfied, Yeng grimaced as he shifted his weight to his other hip, the heavy plates and hoops of Iron armour grating behind his surgical robe. He flexed the fingers of his hand, and surreptitiously worked through the motions of the reductor; projecting and withdrawing the carnifex-mechanism, checking the sub-skin needles and cycling the medi-stimm tubules.

 

He remained standing as the craft continued its journey. He reached up to a ceiling strap, letting it take some of his weight as he leaned to one side. His helm's machine-spirit lacked the tongue to talk with the aircraft, so Yeng couldn't use his armour's hood to see the planet below. The datascreed on the overhead monitor was meaningless to him, but he fixed his helm toward it, then looked sidelong at the rest of the squad. 

 

Teralil, the techmarine, was hunched over, intent on something in his gauntlet. The Librarian, meanwhile, sat upright, hands resting on his knees. His head was fixed forward, eyes closed. Were it not for the slight delay between the buffeting movement of the Storm Raven and the figure, he would look like a statue. The Invader, in contrast, looked pensive. His mark VI helm tracked back and forth, and he rolled his shoulders every so often; his movements filled with repressed menace. The Red Talon was leaning forward, his fingers moving absently on the missile launcher. He looked lost in thought.

 

Yeng smiled to himself, hidden behind the mask of his helm. He suddenly realised that he was – quite unexpectedly – looking forward to meeting more of them. So distant were the Gatebreakers' domains that he was quite unused to seeing Space Marines of other Chapters. The Patterns he knew from the Tenets of Warfare from the Ten Divine Princes, of course, and others he knew by renown. Indeed, he had once recovered a Stellar Steed vessel in one of the interminable void wars that made up his life; but besides their mangled remains, he had never met a marine of another Chapter face-to-face prior to service with the Deathwatch. He had never imagined the Astartes to be such a diverse group. 

 

+++

 

It came with a roar of retro-thrusters, a heavy feeling in the gut, and a heavy clunk of landing gear on rockcrete. Groundfall. It never felt quite right to him. Standing on planets was something from childhood; something to be avoided – and yet, somehow freeing, too. 

 

A band of white light broke his reverie, as heavy pistons pushed the landing ramp open. They squealed in protest at the forced slowness: he wondered if the slowness of the ramp was some Codex-encouraged diplomatic protocol that he had not yet read about, or an illness in the machine-spirit. He would ask Teralil later. Still half-hanging by one hand, his eyes darted behind his mask, his lounging posture at odds with the eagerness with which he took in his surroundings. The others stood, taking up their weapons, and waited as the light slowly illuminated them. Yeng winced slightly as he became aware of the tops of broken buildings, and trails of smoke. War had touched here – and remained. 

 

Of course, what lit Swordhand also threw those waiting into silhouette. Across a landing field of rockcrete, dotted with patches of dead, brown grasses where the plate had broken, stood seven figures in a semi-circle. The Gatebreaker's Mark III plate took a moment to adjust, but as his vision resolved itself, Yeng released his hold and took his place besides his brothers. He waited, respectfully, for Guillermo to lead them out.

 

Ghent stooped under the lip of the hatch, while the Codicier walked under it. Yeng followed on after the others, hanging back a little. He lifted his helm away, detaching the two air pipes with a practised movement, and looked out at the squad arranged before them. The air felt cold, and still. He tried to dispel a sense of sudden wariness.

 

Most of the symbols he could see meant nothing to him. The central figure – oddly dominant, despite his shorter stature – bore a pauldron with a golden lion's head on astral blue. It sparked no recognition with the Gatebreaker, and he looked away as the grill-faced helm turned to appraise him. Nor did he recognise the next; who bore armour as battered as Yeng's own. Where his own was heavy-plated and utilitarian, the studded and cabled surface of this marine's armour radiated an aura of brooding menace. Yeng peered with interest at the beaten-copper pauldron, which bore a studded circle bisected by a lightning flash. He darted a look at the grimacing, heavy-browed helm belted to the figure's waist, then looked away.

 

He overheard Rodrik murmuring, "What new hell hole is this?", and suppressed a grin. He couldn't help agree with the Invader – whatever had been happening here, it was clear that Blackthorn had not had collateral damage at the forefront of their cares. 

 

The next figure was immense. Wearing a grey tabard that mirrored Yeng's own green-and-yellow Apothecarion overall, he was a good head taller than his brethren; an impression strengthened by his upright posture. The helm, which jutted out, was non-standard; as far as Yeng could tell, and as they approached, he realised he recognised the heraldry. Yeng's little free time had been spent reading the Codex, and flicking through Deathwatch records to help with his notes. A Dragon of Caliban. He knew little enough of them, but the name itself had struck a chord; Kali-buhn, first of the Divine Princes. It seemed Ghent had also recognised the Dragon, for the two locked eyes as the Invader gave a brief, barking laugh.

 

Standing slightly behind the Dragon was another jump-pack equipped marine, clutching a heavy chain axe. Again, the symbol on the heavy studded plate was unknown to him. So many Chapters, he thought. Who would have thought the web of Imperium would be so tightly-wound here?

 

Yeng's eyes widened in surprise at the figure to the Dragon's left – could it be? That steely hand on black was the mark of Pattern. Did they still walk the stars? Yes; the figure's gauntlet was silver, and steely augmetics replaced one glowering eye and one arm. Yeng shook his head in partial disbelief. He had glossed over the Patterns for expediency, assuming they had all long since faded into memory, but here was living history: an Iron Hand.

 

The final Astartes was tall and upright. His narthecium and reductor marked him as an apothecary, but any similarity to Yeng ended there. Where the Gatebreaker's gait was rolling and stiff, the figure stood still and imposing. His armour, though marked by war, seemed somehow to gleam; the effect heightened by an auric icon. Yeng could not completely mask a smile at the incongruity between their appearance, and he reached up with his free hand to scratch at his chin to hide it. 

 

The smile slid off his face as a thought forced itself into his mind. Was that the final figure? He narrowed his eyes. There had been – he shook his head; there were – seven. He looked again. How had he missed the figure with the olive green pad? A white Eagle's head betrayed no identity to the Gatebreaker, and Yeng felt his gaze sliding off the marine again, even as the marine turned an impassive helm to him. 

 

+++

 

"Brothers, welcome... to Syndalla." 

 

It was the strange apothecary who spoke; and as he appraised Swordhand, Yeng caught the heraldry. Ah; that was why he seemed familiar. A Crimson Knight. One of the Qi'guay. It was happenstance, really. The long voyage to Azurea had given him much time to study, and the Crimson Knights had caught his interest. He tried to remember their Captain – Mordecai? – that had liberated Solace. The clean-faced apothecary broke his chain of thought as he continued. "We have a lot of preparations to get underway or complete and time is of the essence. If you would follow me to our Strategium, there we could introduce ourselves properly."

 

It surprised him that the apothecary was in charge. From his confident stance, Yeng had assumed the marine with the gold and blue lion to be the Watch-Sergeant. The Gatebreaker looked at his four comrades, stood at the base of the ramp, eyes up and determined. Ghent had his chin up and jaw set almost provocatively. The marine with the blue-and-gold pad looked at his devastator counterpart, Vorr, and tapped his forehead. A salute? An insult? If the latter, Vorr gave little sign, but a palpable sense of tension hung in the air. The marines opposite looked as ready to fight as to welcome them; each squad eyeing the other. He had seen it a hundred times amongst his own Chapter, as ships passed in their patrols and exchanged insults and oaths – for the most part, in good humour. Brothers, however close, loved competition. 

 

Here, though; he rubbed his hand over his head, ruefully. There is much at stake here. He addressed the Crimson Knight, his voice clear; practised.

 

"It is good for warriors to meet with eyes clear, and hands open," here, he raised the claviger in two upturned hands, bowing his head. It became clear to Blackthorn that the unfamiliar gesture was meant as a salute. "Still, it is better to meet with swords sheathed and hearts open."

 

Lowering the claviger to his side, he smiled, warmly. "At least, so I have seen it written."

 

The strange apothecary looked down at him, his clean alabaster face contrasting with the Gatebreakers' own lined and red-copper visage. "I am Oto Yeng, of Swordhand. My brothers – " he waved to take them in, one by one, "Codicier Montesa; honoured-Techmarine Teralil; and Brothers Vorr and Ghent." 

 

He paused, looking up at his opposite number.

 

"You are Watch-Sergeant Vaidan?"

 

The idling wind seemed suddenly chillier.

Edited February 25, 2019 by Apologist

[Mazer Rackham]

An Invader.

 

He regarded the others, from the unknown Brother in heavy Boarding Plate, who wielded a mace so handily, inscrutable, almost as much as Greysight, yet the delineations were there.  The heraldry gave nothing to him.  He removed his helm and searched the ground and air around him, not in familiarisation but perhaps more in curiosity.  His final step from the ramp was hesitant, only a fraction of a second, but it was there, almost as if the ground beneath his feet could have been false, or not to be trusted.  Perhaps this one was more used to service aboard a fleet vessel, his sea legs sturdy, but the non-movement of the ground strange.  Another voidfarer Chapter maybe.  His eyes slid over the others stepping out.

 

But an Invader...

 

One of them was obviously a Librarian, his hood dormant, but power obvious - the machine spirit in the armour growled gently.  He agreed, the Witch should be treated carefully.  He felt his hypnogogic training take over, doors, gates, locks slamming into place.  The Psyker's weapons stowed and steady pace suggested some kind of injury, a stiffness to the shoulders demonstrated something in the upper body.  His warplate was battered enough, a fist in scarlet, emblazoned on a field of sapphire signalling that he was a Son of Dorn, but he paid little heed due to his eyes slipping back again and again to the green-star pauldron. He didn't move his head.

 

A Bloody Invader!

 

He spied a representative of the Red Talons.  Good.  Someone like him that would appreciate taking a sledgehammer to crack a grain of sand.  Those Brothers knew well big guns never tired.  He gently tapped Cadence, nodded in the direction of the Missile Launcher, one appreciative specialist greeting another.  The notion of Specialists brought his attention to the Techamrine.  A strange glow about him, like any second he expected the lash - but that he would welcome it.  The way he stood told Akkad that he pondered heavily on things, even the look about his helm suggested inverted reflection.

 

Finally his gaze settled back to where it began, his attention taken instantly.  His posture firmed up ever so slightly as he witnessed the Marine remove his helm and mutter something.  Akkad's own lips and face hardened into his habitual stony set.  He had heard of them of course.  It was rough talk amongst the Astral Claws about the Marines who had arrived in the middle of a war, many good brothers dead and who had expected thanks for stepping over their corpses as they drove forward with bolters blazing.

Perhaps he would like the red carpet rolled out?  Greetings m'lord, let us toast the victory of your arrival when our brothers are being blown all to hell and going missing by the hour? His breast stirred uncomfortably.  He remembered that they had lost their Homeworld.  He would not antagonise this one for it.  Even though he had two hearts, the death of Badab would shatter them at once.

 

His attention was pulled away by the Apothecary decanting from the Storm Raven, emblazoned with the name Spearcast.

 

"You are Watch-Sergeant Vaidan?"

 

Silence.

 

MR.

[Slips]

Silence.

 

Solastion waited a beat longer than one would have expected to let the weight of the question fully sink in.

 

After a couple of dual-heartbeats he spoke "No." another pause.

 

"I've induced a Sus-An coma in Watch-Sergeant Vaidan due to injuries sustained during our combat with the Broodlord." he stated matter-of-factly. 

 

Since his seeming counterpart saw fit to introduce himself and his own squad, Solastion was not one to be rude and did so for himself and his own squad.

"I am Sanguinary Priest - and acting Watch-Sergeant - Solastion of Blackthorn. With me are Techmarine Sabaan; Brothers Tyber, Varvost and Atratus; And Brothers Greysight and Akkad." He said motioning a Silvered Arm to indicate each Kill-Team member as he introduced them, intentionally grouping them per their specialties.

 

And once the other group had acknowledged his words he turned slightly to begin leading them to the interior of the Governors Manse."So, tell me then, Brothers, I see the telltale signs of Tyranid-Induced wear on your Warplate, have you encountered the Hive Ship that currently makes its way to Syndalla?"

Edited February 25, 2019 by Slips

[A.T.]

80, 28, 2, 88, 10 vs INT 45

Atratus allowed the more senior members of the kill team to speak, remembering the barbed words and challenges for leaderships of Blackthorns first meeting and wondering if one of the newcomers would challenge Solastion for the position.

 

The son of Dorn seemed the likely choice, a lineage known for stubbornness, yet as with Blackthorns it was the apothecary that spoke first in greeting.

[Steel Company]

Everything felt still when the Gatebreaker had spoken, taking his eyes off of both the Invader and the Gatebreaker Tyber found his eyes drawn to the Stormraven that dominated the make shift landing zone. He had read about these craft, once he was been deployed to the watch station, but this was his first chance to see one up close.

 

Sitting just above the forward ramp Tyber could see the barrels of a pair of Heavy Bolters, a quartet of missiles in groups of two under each wing with a pair of multi-barreled assault cannons linked to a small turret on the dorsal section of the craft. It looks so tiny and ungainly, when I think about  it compared to our Sokar pattern Stormbrids, let alone the larger Warhawks… he thought to himself as he continued to take in the downward pointed wings and bulbous hull. Though it was the fin on the dorsal section that puzzled him the most, as the very positioning of it limited the firing arch of the dorsal turret, not to mention if it was some kind of intake, it along with the engines were in a direct path of falling brass casings to be sucked in causing damage to the craft. But what he wanted most, was for these introductions to be over with, he ached to touch it and inspect it closely, to see if it would be worth mentioning it to the Dragons once he returned so that they could seek out the plans and add it to their air-wing, much like how the Blackstar has garnered his interest.

Edited February 26, 2019 by Steel Company

[Mazer Rackham]

The big Marine was staring intently at the ugly blasphemy against aerodynamics, the Spearcast.  Oh it was a tool of Astartes war and all that came with it, but he was mildy distracted by the huge warrior gripping and steadily re-gripping the pommel of the Oathblade.  He betrayed his youthfulness, if he had been a child, Tyber would have most likely been standing on tip-toes, as it was his interest merely stretched to craning his neck up and to the side, studying the airframe.  Standing up his toes now would only serve to put half of Blackthorn and the newcomer in the shade.

 

He couldn't work out what the issue was with the thing.  A Thunderhawk it was not.  A Fire-Raptor it was not.  It looked like one of the Goopa fish from the Sapphire Sea, all boxy and front-heavy and no matter how powerful the tail, only capable of fiddling itself forward a few inches at a time, with a wont to turn in it's own space in a circle.  He sighed.  The fact it was shod in quicksilver, crimson and sable sis it no favours.  It looked like a Striped Goopa.  And the damn things were inedible.

+I hate it.+ He voxed to the big man, a wan smile in the words.

 

MR.

Edited February 26, 2019 by Mazer Rackham

[Steel Company]

Tyber couldn’t help but grin as he got Akkad’s message, +it is a curious thing Ahu, from my understanding it is far more agile than it looks in the air, but it is so tiny compared to the transports I am more familiar with.+

 

He adjusted his stance to try and hide how much he was trying to look at the craft, as he continued +It is a wonder that it has ever found a place in the air wings of some chapters… I wonder why it is used in place of Storm Eagles or Fire Raptors…+

[Mazer Rackham]

+Probably because it gets them onto the ground faster.  If some flying Tyranid bastard gets behind that thing it will shoot its own tail-boom off.+

 

He rolled his shoulders as Solastion invited the others to enter the strategium and followed behind, listening to the Brethren new to this world but obviously old to the wider war it lay in.  He could respect that.

 

MR.

[Noctus Cornix]

Lucid thoughts filtered through his mind and soul as one, wading amidst the murk of dreams and nightmares whispering the constant madness that he knew well was beyond the veil. Despite the melancholic sea of thoughts and the lonliness of his office and vow, it was as though he was... never alone. Not with the unintelligible whispers gnawing at the meat of his brain, begging to be allowed inside. To fail in the ever-vigilant duty of keeping his soul... This was a failure he would not forgive

 

Dios te salva, culpable...
Lleno de pecado...
El emperador está contigo...

 

The words of prayer left his lips in silence, eyes closed as he remained in meditation through the entire shuttle flight down from the strike cruiser. Spaniara was an ancient tongue, a off-dialect of extinct Terra that is rumored to have come from High Gothic itself. It was a language still retained by the Chapter from their ancient days as part of something greater, children of the Euran continents staring up to the sky to become a legion of gold and black warriors. Spaniara was rarely used among the chapter, only for certain battle cants and prayers, but it was a warm familiarity that allowed the Codicier to cleanse his mind. His brothers were but faded candles of soul light flickering amidst the darkness, a self-imposed blindness that he maintained until the vessel finally settled with an awful lurch upon the crunching earth beneath.

 

== It is time. ==

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

 

As was his responsibility, Guillermo moved at the head of his group. His brothers and he strode in loose formation, the Codicier's eyes scanning over everything for signs of ambush, though not as though he expected betrayal. Though he still bore scarring, much of the damage had been repaired to functionality, albeit crudely done with what limited resources they had at their disposal. Still, however, the ancient suit of Mk IV Power Armour was magnificent even in its battered form, a deep raven black warplate decorated with the filigree of ancient silver artistry. His robes were a resplendent blue,  much more easily repaired and cleaned for its simple fabric than the millenia old warplate. It was a stark contrast to the black and silver of his armour, flowing in the wind that raised dust from the earth in minuscule clouds. 

 

"Brothers, welcome... to Syndalla."

 

It was their apothecary who spoke first. A son of Sanguinius. Crimson Knights, as he recalled. Guillermo looked across each of the warriors assembled in their midst, knowing that they were in shorter number than whey they had been sent. 

 

So... Blackthorn has suffered as well..

 

Some amidst the gathered warriors were of origins he recognized. He almost smirked beneath his helmet at the sight of an Iron Hand, most honoured First Founding chapters. How could any not know of their kind and the many glories they have earned in the name of the Emperor. There was also the Raptors, unique children of the Raven Lord who preferred pragmatism above all else. He also spied one of the Astral claws, a chapter he knew of only in reputation. The Black Templars has spoken highly of them and their Chapter Master Luft Huron. A true hero of our age, they had called him. A living legend. They had seemed quite fond of the Astral Claws the end of their crusade into the Maelstrom. They had shown no such fondness for Guillermo. 

 

The other two he did not recognize. Though, judging from their chapter heraldry, it was easy enough to guess that they were sons of the Khan and Sanguinius. The last he had no certainty of. Perhaps a son of Vulkan. Their adoration for the draconic was... well know.  Even among their group, he did not see brother Thorvald. When the Apothecary had declared that he was the acting leader of their squad, he knew why he did not see his brother... and his heart sank once more.

 

With his weapons still in their holsters and sheathes, Guillermo's hands were free to lift up to his helmet, clicking free two locked seals just beneath his ears. With a pressurized hiss, the helmet came apart, the slid vox grill remaining fastened to his face while the eye lenses and dome of his helm came free. Guillermo lifted the top half of his helmet from his face, revealing cracked blue eyes not unlike the color of his cerulean robes while scraggly black hair whipped lightly in the wind. As he set the portion of the helm locked to his waist, the Codicier could only think of what to say.

 

"It was the mission of Watch-Sergeant Calumnus Jor and Kill-Team Swordhand to take the fight to the Tyranids and cripple the vessel within. I was attached to Swordhand's ranks at the command of Watch-Captain Diocles.... Our mission was a failure and more than half of our brothers have gone to join the Emperor's light or remain in stasis for emergency care. We are what remains of Swordhand, but we will be honored to fight at Blackthorn's side and vent our hate upon the enemy..."

 

 

Common Knowledge (Adeptus Astartes) - Intelligence 43

Raptors Roll = 22 (2DoS)

Dragons of Caliban = 73 (Fail)
Astral Claws = 14 (2DoS) +10
Storm Sons = 94 (Fail)
Iron Hands = 8 (7DoS) +40
Eradicators = 57 (Fail)

Edited February 28, 2019 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

With the Sanguinary Priest's words, the two Kill-Teams head towards Blackthorn's chambers. Here, at last, away from prying eyes, the brothers of this uneasy band may convene and truly know one another. Edited February 28, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[apologist]

The pause was a moment too long for comfort. 

 

"I've induced a Sus-An coma in Watch-Sergeant Vaidan due to injuries sustained during our combat with the Broodlord." His face gave nothing away, and Yeng winced inwardly. Words, like the wind-sparrow, are loosed easily; and taken back with difficulty. His smile faded, leaving a studiedly blank expression. Now, he suspected, would not be the time to offer a second opinion on the Watch-sergeant's condition. The moment passed as Solastion gestured to each of the unfamilar marines in turn. The Gatebreaker inclined his head respectfully to the members of Blackthorn, keeping his counsel and committing the names to memory. The tension hung as Guillermo removed his helm, and Solastion turned to address Swordhand as whole. Yeng took the opportunity to re-holster the claviger; hiding a half-step backwards.

 

"So, tell me then, Brothers, I see the telltale signs of Tyranid-Induced wear on your Warplate," Solastion's voice was clear; his gaze avoided Yeng. "Have you encountered the Hive Ship that currently makes its way to Syndalla?"

 

In response to the Priest's question, Guillermo spoke, stepping slightly past Yeng – though dismissively or protectively was unclear. His half-helm hid any visible bodily damage; and masked his mouth and nose, to boot.

 

"It was the mission of Watch-Sergeant Calumnus Jor and Kill-Team Swordhand to take the fight to the Tyranids and cripple the vessel within. I was attached to Swordhand's ranks at the command of Watch-Captain Diocles.... Our mission was a failure and more than half of our brothers have gone to join the Emperor's light or remain in stasis for emergency care. We are what remains of Swordhand, but we will be honored to fight at Blackthorn's side and vent our hate upon the enemy..."

 

As the two spoke, the remaining marines sized each other up. Some hid their appraisals; others turned to look at the newcomers more brazenly. With little pause, Solastion gestured for the Librarian's group to accompany him from the airfield. With the soft hum of powered plate, Blackthorn had fallen in besides Swordhand. The two squads walked close together – but not intermingled.

 

With the Librarian and Priest at the heads of their respective files, Yeng found himself alongside the marine with the heraldry of the blue-and-gold Lion. After a minute or two of silence, Yeng turned his face to his companion.

 

"Diplomacy, it seems, is a virtue I must further cultivate, Brother Akkad" he said. His companion's shifting grip on the heavy bolter was a mute acknowledgement, "But I am pleased, at least, to get your name correct." 

 

As the squads stepped through into the Governor's manse, Yeng took the opportunity to look around the entrance area. Turning back to Akkad, he asked "What is this place?"

Edited February 28, 2019 by Apologist

[Commissar Molotov]

Vârvost trails behind the rest of the group. His patchwork armour snarls as he stomps through the manse's corridors, the shovel-front of his dented helm moving from side to side as he passes genuflecting servants wise enough to stand to the side of the corridor. His chainaxe is sheathed, a concession to the diplomacy favoured by his gene-brother, though his gauntleted hands are balled into fists that never stray too far from his weaponry.

 

The brothers of Swordhand see that the Governor's Manse has been marked by the fighting on this world; see the bullet-holes in plastered walls and the chunks of masonry blown away. The marks of fortification and militarisation are equally evident; Boarded windows and window-frames that bristle with gun-barrels are signs that the PDF forces have converted the mansion into a fortress with commendable efficiency.

[Mazer Rackham]

"Diplomacy, it seems, is a virtue I must further cultivate, Brother Akkad" he said. His companion's shifting grip on the heavy bolter was a mute acknowledgement, "But I am pleased, at least, to get your name correct." As the squads stepped through into the Governor's manse, Yeng took the opportunity to look around the entrance area. Turning back to Akkad, he asked "What is this place?"

 

Akkad shifted the heavy bolter now that introductions began - he had understood the message in Yeng's words, the idea of meeting with weapons, to show they were warriors, meeting with minds to show they were brethren.  Interesting.  Offer one hand...arm the other.  He locked Cadence to his backpack and reached up to unclamp his helm, speaking the first Litany of Release, revealing the light scarring of his cheeks, the short cropped brown hair and green eyes, the same shade as the lenses of his helm.  A stern face at rest, animated only by the humour of his Kin.  A thin smile arrived on his lips and was gone almost before notice as he followed the Apothecary's gaze around the Manse and attached gardens.  he sucked in the air, tasting the anticipation, the excitement and nerves coursing through the parting humanity as they strode through the once-cultured, but now embattled halls.  He made sure to access the noospheric loop and seized enough data to smooth the conversation.

 

"The last bastion, Apothecary of Swordhand." His tone carried gravitas, although it soon became his normal more mellow baritone.  A small bow of the head in deference to Yeng's status, "once the manse of the Governor and the seat of Authority on Syndalla.  Now a fist of defiance at the aliens." Their heavy wargear crushed fine tiles, mosaics that lay patchwork and broken in the halls - and the frescoes, once sublime, had been sublimated into dust and power by heavy battle.  He almost smiled as he recognised the holes made by Cadence.

 

A troop of men passed, stopped and stood at attention at his passing.  He returned their salute and turned back to the Marine at his shoulder.

"You strike me as accustomed to the shift of the void-sea, Brother Yeng, much like myself and many of my Brothers, the Astral Claws.  Tell me what you would of your Chapter - it seems the skill of diplomacy is one we must learn together."  His voice was invitational, not demanding and lacked any hint of mockery.  Once again he had become the Badabian, careful in speech, meaning what he said.  Yeng was not the only one to dress words, but he was interested in this unknown Scion, with his heavy Mk III plate and weather-beaten copper-tone skin and could see the light of curiosity in his eyes.  The questions and assessment of a seeker of knowing, that told Akkad this one would absorb new things, where Akkad, jaded, preferred the kindness of the past.

 

MR.

 

EDIT: Improved the flow.

Edited February 28, 2019 by Mazer Rackham

[Steel Company]

Tyber was torn, he wanted to inspect the Stormraven very closely, more importantly he wanted to know what happened to the rest of the Stormeagle that this craft likely came from, the nose was too similar to it not be related to that family of craft. Yet part of him knew he should follow his brothers with the new comers, while privately reflect that he was thankful for no members of the Dark Angels or others of that line were among them.

 

Sighing to himself, he uttered out +Maybe later, you tinny and funny looking thing.+ towards the landed Stormraven, a verbal promise to inspect it later, should he get the chance. Pulling his helm free and attaching it to his belt he hurried after the group as they headed into the makeshift fort.

 

Up a head of him he saw Brothers Vorr and Ghent, thinking on what he knew about the general temperaments of those from the blood of legions seven and ten, as well as his interactions with Sabaan, he made the choice to address Ghent, on the assumption he would be the friendlier of the two; “Brother Ghent, if you do not mind, may I ask about the tales of the Invaders? I will admit what I know of them is limited…”

 

 

Edit:

 

Tails vs. tales

 

bah!

Edited February 28, 2019 by Steel Company

[Dosjetka]

Visibly the mere mention of their Watch-Sergeant made Blackthorn uncomfortable.

 

"As they should be. Failing to defend your unit leader..."

 

Ghent's eyes closed briefly while he shook his head. His gauntleted hand moved over his lower face but kept the ruminations to himself, well aware they would do little good in the current situation. It didn't help that Swordhand had also failed to defend their own unit leader. The fresh lashing scars on his back were a stop-gap measure until they returned to Azurea and the Invader could repent within the Pain Glove there.

 

+ + + + +

 

As the two Kill Teams left the makeshift landing pad Ghent fell in line with the rest of Swordhand. He found himself behind Oto Yeng and the Claw, and next to the Dragon. He listened to the conversation going between the two Marines in front of him, suppressing a disdainful burst of laughter that would have been at the Badabian's expense more than once before his attention was caught by the Astartes next to him initiating a conversation with him.

 

The fact that he had to look up to see face-to-face with Tyber galled him.

 

"Tales?" A derisive snort was followed by a pause, Rodrik no doubt pondering his next words.

 

"We are descendants of Primarch Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian. We are now a fleet-bound Chapter, after the destruction of our home world, Ogrys. We seek the enemy within, without, and beyond but reserve a particular hatred for the foul Eldar."

 

The Invader spat onto the stone floor. The shard of wraithbone around Ghent's neck clinked against his armour as they continued onwards down the corridors of the governor's palace.

 

"There is not much to say beyond that."

 

He paused once again as the two Kill Teams continued their short journey towards Blackthorn's quarters. Realising he wasn't facilitating the bonding process with his soon-to-be brothers, Rodrik was about to enquire about the Dragons of Caliban when he was cut short by Apothecary Albikus.

Edited March 1, 2019 by Chaplain Dosjetka