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

[Reyner]

"The plan is sound. Scorching this world will have repercussions across the system and beyond as we will destroy a main food source for billions of mortals but the Tyranids would do the same thing if they consume this biomass and scour the system. It is better that the Imperium denies the enemy rather than let them use it against us.

 

Though I would prefer to settle this in the void using the Sector Battlefleet, the Xenocide and a few supply ships filled with nuclear weapons as battering rams. That way we would deny the aliens time to mass their forces against us. But I will agree to whatever action the Librarian suggests."

 

His point made Vorr steps back waiting for his Killteam Leader to speak.

[Nineswords]

THE STRATEGIUM REMAINED quiet as the assembled kill-teams evaluated the proposals, accompanied by the quiet static hum of the hololithic display. The Iron Hand stalked away from the group, intent on refining the thermobaric shield proposals. Both Tyber and Akkad had also taken their leave, their disgust apparent as the consequences of Greysight's proposal became evident.

 

His heart hardened. Provide a fighting chance or no chance at all. The Great Devourer cares not of consequences, nor the lives it consumes in its unyielding appetite.

 

Greysight thought back again to Vârvost's words. 'If we are to win, then we cannot fight alone. We need every capable body within this city to take up arms. Encourage these people to defend their world.' 

 

'We must also refine conventional strategies to defend the city in the wake of the siege to come. Brother Atratus, Vârvost and I have spent weeks flushing out the lairs of the enemy. They have given us a welcome gift, brothers. Hidden holdfasts that we can repurpose to shelter non-combatants from what comes, and block access coming from outside the city,' said Greysight.

 

'Agreed, brother. I wi–'

 

Greysight held up a hand to signal he had not finished. 'With respect, Watch-Sergeant,' continued the Storm Son, 'Brother Vârvost's earlier statement is not without merit. We cannot encourage the common folk of this world to fight without someone to lead them.'

 

Before the Watch-Sergeant could reply, Greysight pressed a recessed button on the hololithic diplay's bronze control panel, cycling through schematics, orbital scans and pict-logs until he found what he was looking for: a live pict-cast depicting an enormous statue of the Great Angel Sanguinius, carved in bacsilite just outside the templum of Caltaire, fourteen hundred miles south of Beregar. 

 

The Plaza of Angels could barely contain the thousands of common citizens who had flocked to the statues to pay their respects and pray for deliverance. Below the effigy of the primarch, a group of Syndallan artisans had installed a smaller statue of the Crimson Knight in the same decorative stone, surrounded by freshly cut flowers, trinkets and other votive offerings. The unhelmed sculpted face barely resembled the Watch-Sergeant, but the classic traits of the primarch's physiognomy were recognisable enough, as was the noble sigil of the Crimson Knights. 

 

'The Angel of Syndalla. That is what they call you, whether not you like it or not,' said Greysight, in a tone that was earnest, rather than mocking. The brothers of the Deathwatch looked towards the slightly confused apothecary.

 

'For the good of the people, accept your role, Watch-Sergeant.'

 

+++

Edited March 6, 2019 by Nineswords

[Commissar Molotov]

"Hnf," said Vârvost, a sound somewhere between a contemptuous snort and a laugh. "His words have merit though. Give the people an inspirational figure to rally behind, and it may well have a huge influence on them."

 

Although the lenses of his helm give nothing away regarding the Eradicator's emotions, his gaze does seem to linger over the grainy hololithic projection of the Primarch's beatific visage.

 

+ + +

 

Akkad:

 

As the Chimera's hatch closes and red lights flicker on within the compartments, the newly-promoted Colonel Haas turns to you.

 

"My lord," he says, his voice raised over the roar of the engine. "General Wrex has sent several messages requesting to be kept apprised of our operations. I believe he is growing increasingly concerned."

 

The tone of the Colonel's voice makes it clear that the General's requests are anything but.

 

"How should I respond?"

[Dosjetka]

+[Placeholder: Ghent will agree with Greysight's plan and will request permission from Albikus to leave so he can help reinforce the outer defences and train the rampart defenders in repelling foes/man-eating bugs.]+

[Commissar Molotov]

Deathwatch Strike Vessel 'Xenocide'

Orbiting Syndalla

Taurelian Expanse

Outer Swordpoint Stars

c.918.M41

 

When the Stormraven Spearcast had touched down in the Xenocide's hangar bay, the twelve of you - Brother Akkad noticeably absent - had been met by the stiff-backed Captain of the vessel, Siskus Rubio. After a crisp salute, the Captain had welcomed you aboard the Xenocide and offered you free rein aboard the vessel - a formality, perhaps, but you quickly see that Rubio is a man of rules and principles.

 

The Governor had blanched upon realising that the Space Marines were departing Syndalla, even if it was only temporarily. For the brothers of Blackthorn, to see Syndalla from orbit again for the first time since the death of the Voice of Thunder was to be reminded of the scale of the planet and of the destruction that was due to come.

 

Now, aboard the vessel, surrounded by the trappings of the Astartes, there is an opportunity for the brothers of these two Kill-Teams to rest and reunite. Tomorrow, the defense of Syndalla would begin in earnest.

 

 

GM:

I have discussed in the OOC thread some of my ideas regarding what the Space Marines might get up to in what is left of this first day, and I would encourage you to collaborate in the OOC to set up some 'scenes'.

 

I would also like you to ensure that you have settled your Requisition:

 

All Marines (Blackthorn and Swordhand) should have 40 Requisition available to them. Blackthorn Marines will have to return anything they do not spend requisition for this time. Please pay attention to the Errata for any altered requisition costs.

 

As per the DW rulebook, you may pool your requisition to purchase any expensive items. Your renown is still at "Initiated", however.

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad considered the response to Colonel Haas.  The truth would be best.

+Patch me in to your command network Colonel.+

 

He heard the vox operator adjust the frequencies to match the sigils and runes indicated by the Marine.

+General Wrex, it is Akkad, of Blackthorn.  My Brothers have ascended to the Deathwatch vessel the Xenocide.  From there they will retrieve resupply for us.  After that, the techno-savans prepare a shield of chemical flame to lay over the city, to protect it from assault above.  I go now to the fallows to bolster our forces with a levy from the refugees.  They require a shepherd he broke off to draw a breath and smile, +I will liaise with you through Colonel Haas from now on, but thought you would appreciate the facts.+

 

Tired of talking to the officer, he signed off with a Pax Imperialis Personem and moved to the rear of the Chimera as it slewed into position after a couple of hours of travel.  Haas got out with his command squad.  Akkad motioned them to stay put, watching him quizzically as he thumbed open the paint tins.  The large city gate was a vaulted frame behind him as he watched as the people, assessing them.  A riot broke out over a loaf of bread.  In the squabble he could see the bigger men, the healthy were beating the weaker through sheer advantage of better feeding.

 

A blur of black and silver he caved in two skulls and was among them, a knot of people falling back even as they realised his presence, some stood there stunned.

+Cease your foolishness!  You are men, not dogs!+  Cowed, the rabble made to move, but he grabbed them, pulled them back.  Even his helm looked at them coldly, sternly, as a parent would.  He saw what they had to eat, groups of them, sat around small fires, roasting rats, game animals, boiling broth.

 

He had their full attention and slowly he took one of his ration bars from a pouch.  The length of a single finger and two-wide, it was segmented into three squares.  He broke one off and held it up, doing this all very deliberately.

+See this.  That is all I have to eat.  And which one of your bellies would it fill?+  He cast a glance around, some could meet his eyes.  He pointed to the fires. +And how many of your pots and snares would catch enough animals and grain to fill mine?+  He snarked at himself.  So honest with the General, so devious to the people, but, a lesson was need here, not facts.  More of them looked around sheepishly.

 

+And rightly you should feel shame.  You who have lived all your lives on the land, reaping it's fat and sending the real wealth to this city.+  He paused for dramatic effect. +And now you come here seeking solace, seeking protection.  These things do not come freely, but with sacrifice.+  More faces turned back to him, lectures and preachings from the pulpit had prepared them for such a moment as this, and Akkad guessed, had they known, those priests would have been torn down and fed to the pigs.

 

+In nine days, the enemy comes and you sqaubble at the gates - take food from each other,+ he pointed damningly in several directions, even going as far to grab one of the more burly men and haul him in front of the others, +but there is hope.  We will attempt to evacuate as many people as we can.  Make no mistake, the hope is slim,+ he warned them, +but any man or woman, young or old, who has courage, who can hold their complaint, who would prefer,+ here he broke off and took a lasgun held by Haas, +to silence the ache of your bellies with the thunder of guns...+  He slammed the weapon into the hands of the burly man, +shall be given a rifle, some rations and a place to stand on the wall beside me.+

 

He walked back to the paint. +Those of you who wish to do so need sign no paper, but you will swear an oath.  You will swear the oath of vengeance and death, like this!+  He took a brush and swiped the paint over his battered armour, hiding some of the silver scratches and the wrath of the gene-mutants.

 

+Who will be first to swear, to eat and to live for hatred and death and to put their mark onto one of the Emperor's Own Angels?+  he did not shout.  His words were a challenge, sturdy on the wind.  The burly man gulped, moved forward and daubed a splash on Akkad's armour.  He nodded at him.  +In my own power I forgive your sins, for the Emperor watches.+  Another came and another and he granted them the same absolution.  To pray and scour the soul before battle and death was good.

 

The camp had emptied of the strongest, who had marched - although marched may have been optimistic he chided himself - into the city.  He stood with the rest, his armour now staunchly sable. On his instruction only his pauldrons remained free of the daub. +Collect your elderly, the infirm, the sick and those who cannot move under their own power.  Then gather all your food and take it with you.+  One of them, a woman with the faded tattoo of an Imperial winged skull on her forehead rested her tiny hand on his massive arm.

"My lord, what will become of them?"  His face hardened and he slowly drew his helm back on, stepping away from her as they began to do as he asked, fingers dallying on the hilt of his combat knife.

 

+I will pray with them.+

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

Solastion and Yeng

 

The Apothecarion of the Xenocide is a cold vault-like place, the air thick with the actinic scent of contra-septics and the pall of incense. It is here that the bodies of the fallen rest, their progenoid glands already taken and stored safely with assiduous care by Yeng. Here also that those of Swordhand too gravely injured to fight are swathed within the hazy film of stasis fields, awaiting the medical care of the Watch-Station in the hope that they might one day fight again for the Imperium and for the Deathwatch.

 

And also here that Watch-Sergeant Vaidan's incapacitsted body is to be secured. His form is recumbent, upon a marbled slab and quietly tended to by gowned and masked Serfs, those trusted with tending to the transhuman biologies of the Adeptus Astartes. They work quietly on the Novamarine's form, somehow reduced now he has been freed from his power armour. The wounds caused by the Broodlord are livid against his pale flesh, even against the knotwork of scars, implant-jacks and injuries that all of you bear.

 

The two of you are alone, in the chill air, and perhaps a shared moment of understanding passes between the two of you - so unalike, and yet so tightly bound by your shared bonds.

 

 

Montesa

 

Meeting Blackthorn had been a failure.

 

To the outward eye, to the civilians and citizens of Syndalla who could barely tell one Astartes apart from another, perhaps not. Perhaps not even to your Brothers within Swordhand, those who fought and died on the hive ship and who stood by you during your recovery. But you know that this critical test, this opportunity to take decisive action and to forge a bond with the Brothers of Blackthorn, was a failure.

 

Your voice had cracked - a fitting metaphor for the accursed weakness you still feel in your frame, the lingering artefacts of this surgery. For the bionics and augmetics that you can feel when you breathe, when you speak or swallow. Psychosomatic perhaps, but you feel it.

 

Yeng had smoothly stepped forward to introduce the Kill-Team; Ghent and Vorr and Teralil had all spoken in your stead. But this is a status quo that you must alter, lest your weakness affect the rest of this brotherhood.

 

Within your cell aboard the Xenocide, you are alone again - lost within your thoughts and your self-recrimination.

 

You must act.

 

Sabaan and Teralil

 

The Watch-Sergeant's armour lies before you on the workbenches, velvet cushioning the blessed warplate and preventing it from being further damaged. It bears great rents and runnels from the Broodlord's claws, and you know that the machine spirits are in great distress. It falls to you to repair the ceramite, to bond and secure the armour. Either Vaidan will rise to reclaim what is his, or it will be returned to the Novamarines with all appropriate honours, to be worn by a neophyte with a head full of glorious promise.

 

It falls to you.

 

 

Tyber and Ghent

 

In the light, the twelve-pointed starburst of the Novamarines Chapter gleams. Tilting the bolt pistol one way or another gives the skull within the icon a leering expression, as though it is winking at you, eager to slay and kill in Vaidan's name. You know you will give it an opportunity.

 

You look up as the illumination from the lum-globes dims to see the bulk of the Invader, Ghent standing in the arming chamber. His expression is perhaps pensive, and in it you see a shared understanding of loss.

 

 

Vârvost and Vorr

 

The Eradicator is forthright as he stops you, his tone confrontational even as his words are questioning.

 

"I would know more of this Hive Ship. If we're to tear the guts out of the thing, I want to know how. Tell me more of what you faced."

 

 

Greysight and Atratus

 

At last, a chapel dedicated to the Astartes, and an opportunity for you to reconnect with the Khuu Arga, your fallen brethren. In your hands is the sulde, taken from you by the Patriarch-beast. As you murmur to yourself the appropriate rituals in Korchin, you are aware of a prickle at the back of your neck, and the unmistakable sense that you are being watched.

 

The Raptor.

Edited March 7, 2019 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

In the reflection of the lenses of his helm sitting beside Vaidan’s, without looking up Tyber could see Ghent standing as ridged as one would expect from a son of the Seventh Legion. Taking his time to reassemble the pistol and start running through the motions to check the wear on the slides of the bolt pistol, Tyber spoke to Ghent, openly and honestly; “I do not pretend to know what you or your chapter have seen and faced, but I have seen losses through both inaction and the universe’s way of balancing itself. My way is to carry items of fallen friends with me to honor them. My black sword belonged to the one that trained me, now this bolt pistol I carry for Vaidan. We did not always agree on actions, but I respected him.”

 

Slamming home a fresh clip for the pistol, pulling back the slide to chamber a round before placing it into a second holster on his right thigh, looking up to meet Ghent’s gaze, “If you have questions for me, now would be the time.” He said, his words and tone giving away nothing, his mind still trying to place Ghent into a box of ally, friend or foe.

Edited March 8, 2019 by Steel Company

[A.T.]

Atratus had eagerly taken opportunity to travel to the Xenocide, the ships augers perhaps their best chance of assessing the oncoming threat and making appropriate response.

 

As he studied the ships reports a thought that had troubled him since their earliest battles with the xenos here, but not until now given form, caused him to seek out Greysight. The trophy taken and recovered, the words of the astropath, the telepathic signal that called the approaching ship.

 

Seeing his brother occupied with matters of his chapter Atratus waited for acknowledgement. What had been dismissed as the curiosity of the leader-beast could perhaps have been the distant eyes of the hive fleet, and with that their actions now might still be seen by the remnants of its brood.

[Slips]

++Prior++

 

 

"THE ANGEL OF SYNDALLA"

 

Solastion hated it. "I hate it." he said at the mention.

 

Though he had immense pride in being on of his sons, his ego was not such that he would even entertain the thought of being so readily compared to his Genesire in such a direct manner let alone being given the title of Angel; he failed his Chapter after all.

 

Clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth in such a way as to be audible to the Astartes that remained, "In the name of duty, I will do what I must but I will not countenance the statue remaining in place once we depart."

 

With barely disguised contempt he shut off the hololithic display before it could finish panning around the Monument to Sanguinius and zoom down to the smaller statue made in his likeness.

 

"Well then, Brothers, if that is all, lets see to our tasks. I have an inkling as to where Brother Akkad may have gone but otherwise, feel free to acquaint yourselves with the Mortal Command Structure." And Solastion formally concludes the briefing. 

 

++Now++

 

As Solastion disembarked from the Stormraven with the rest of the squad, a perfunctory nod was all that was given before he split off from them and fell in behind Apothecary Yeng. "If you would, please lead the way to the Apothecarion, Brother Yeng." he says as he makes sure the serfs pushing the hover-sled carrying Watch-Sergeant Vaidan were properly following.

 

Walking in almost complete silence, Solastion beckons another serf to him as they walk down the passageways and puts his hand out for their Datapad. Once proffered, the Sanguinary Priest takes it and starts populating a list of extra equipment he would require for their return to the surface. Before handing it off, he does the polite thing and asks Yeng "Brother-Apothecary, would you require anything of note from the Armory before we return to the surface? I would have us save some time and only hand off a singular requisition from for the both of us."

 

++Later++

 

Entering the Vessels Apothecarion and seeing to Vaidan being situated within, Solastion can't help but look over the various Stasis pods containing the yet-living members of Swordhand. 

 

Well, it seems a bloody and painful lesson was learned...now, lets make sure its one they get to learn from...

 

"Let us not waste any time, Brother Yeng." he says as he grabs a datapad and begins transcribing all of  Vaidans injuries onto it.

"Brother Vaidan has suffered or is currently afflicted by the following:

• Multiple punctures and lacerations to lungs
• Blunt force trauma to head, torso-and-internal organs, left arm and both legs.
• Puncture would and lacerations to secondary heart
• Fractures to the following bones: Skull, Clavicle, Ulna, Sternum, Rib Cage, Radius, Humerus, Mandible, Scapula, Left Carpals, Metacarpals and Phalanges; Both Femurs, right Fibula and both Tibia.
• Shrapnel from power armor shattering at entry-and-exit wound locations

Detected no signs of Tyranid bio-phages or bio-acids present though cannot discount them as of this time." and he puts down the datapad next to Vaidan upon his slab as the serf continue gingerly removing his damaged Power Armor, and look up at the Gatebreaker for his assessment.

Edited March 10, 2019 by Slips

[Nineswords]

THE CHAPEL WAS located amidship onboard the Xenocide. Modest in size, the hall contained ranks of finely carved steel-reinforced wooden pews, scaled to the proportions of the Astartes that used them. Between fluted columns of black marble hung ornamental banners depicting hard won victories by the kill-teams of Deathwatch Ordo Taurelius. A simple altar of polished steel caught the pale light of Syndalla behind it, filtered through a stained crytal-flex mosaic that bathed the chapel in a kaleidoscope of colour.

 

Clad in the simple black shift of the ordos, Greysight stood behind the altar upon which was placed a large silver bowl. He appeared to be washing something within it. The Storm Son looked up.

 

'There should be no secrets between brothers,' Greysight announced, unbidden. His voice rang loud and clear in the silence of the chapel. 'Come, and let me indulge your curiosity.'

 

Atratus stepped out from an alcove towards the back of the chapel, a silhouette that resolved into the hulking form of an Astartes as he padded across the chapel. Like a great felid, stalking its prey, thought Greysight. The Raptor approached the raised dais and peered into the bowl.

 

Soaking in the water contained within the mirror-polished vessel was a large tuft of hair. It was once black, but was now the colour of gunmetal or straw, as if it was shorn from someone whose long hair had begun to turn grey with age. Comically, it almost resembled an expensive wig or hairpiece that was being conditioned by a beautician, but for the reverence Greysight handled it. Atratus couldn't be sure, but he sensed that the hair was somehow sentient.

 

'We call it a sulde,' began Greysight, cleaning and straightening out the hair with an expert hand, wringing out the last of the broodlord's ichor, which spoiled the purity of the water. 'It is hard to explain, but I will try. The Stormseers of the Khuu Arga imbue the finest tail hair of our steeds with a portion of the chapter's collective gestalt consciousness. The hair is psychically resonant and acts as a form of protection. It may also help one commune with our ancestors for counsel when in a deep meditative state. In battle, we believe the spirit of the Emperor and our Ancestors guides and judges us through our sulde. In the same way our genetic legacy is matured in the progenoid, the sulde performs a similar function.'

 

Atratus regarded the hair more closely. He pointed at a particular clump.

 

'Well spotted, brother,' said Greysight, pleased with the Raptor's observation. 'I have recovered the sulde's of my brothers, now lost to the hain on Deluge. It is my sacred duty to eventually return them all to my chapter's homeworld, in time so they can be held to account and join our ancestor's living memory.'

 

Greysight's face darkened. 'It took it from me, you know. The Beast defiled its purity and now I must reconsecrate it. The water has been blessed by the head Ecclesiarch at the Grand Templum.'

 

The Storm Son carefully draped the hair over the altar, before placing the silver bowl on a stall behind him. Returning once more to the altar, Greysight produced his combat knife, and handed it to Atratus. Clutching the hair, which curiously had already dried, Greysight offered an open palm to Atratus. The cut was expertly rendered, and deep enough to draw a measure of blood onto the hair before Greysight's transhuman physiology closed the wound. Not a single drop of his blood spilled onto the altar. It appeared as if the hair had absorbed it all. 

 

Greysight gently took his knife back from Atratus.

 

'Just as my brother's protect me, as they did when I took the Beast on myself, so they shall protect you. As I have reconsecrated this sulde with my blood, I think it would be appropriate to add yours. You are now my brother, after all,' Greysight said, holding the blade up, and offering the sulde towards him.

 

 

+++

Edited March 7, 2019 by Nineswords

[Commissar Molotov]

Akkad:

 

This section of the Fallows has been cleared of able men and women, though there are many more within the shanties that are still to hear your message. You have a busy day ahead of you trying to organise what amounts to a refugee camp into something useful for the defense of Beregar.

 

The Colonel approaches you once more, data-slate in hand.

 

"The General has requested your presence tomorrow morning," he says, "at the Levy Fields."

 

Your perfunctory message has clearly had an impact.

[apologist]

Things are moving apace. Frowning, he completed his thought. And not entirely smoothly. Pausing at the arched entranceway to the apothecarion, Yeng reached out to the benediction plate of the door, which pulsed. The embedded servo-skull looked him up and down, then withdrew the barrier.

 

Lights out, in deference to the injured – and interred – he thought darkly, the Gatebreaker waited as the attendants wordlessly lit the surgical candelabra. The tallow spat and guttered, and the tang of spincense arose. 

 

He dismissed the staff, waiting for the door to silently cycle closed behind them. Only then did he remove his gauntlets and forearm plates, placing them carefully on a side table. His thoughts remained black as he dutifully used the scourfont, cleansing his hands and arms of potential contagion. He suppressed a tremor in his left hand.

 

+++

 

Attending to Swordhand's casualties took mere minutes. The movements had become familiar – almost rote. The stasis-seals of the honoured dead were intact, the lifesigns of the others consistent with the unfamiliar sleep of the sus-an membrance. 

 

It was quiet. Accustomed to solitude, he was surprised to find it had become loneliness. The pressure of post-battlefield care had eased over the last weeks; and he missed the – admittedly brusque – companionship of Teralil, with whom he had spent much time. Guillermo, too. He was disappointed. He was familiar with the command of his Chapter's Librarius. He respected their diligence; and felt reassured by the breadth and depth of the office's hard-won knowledge. On finding both Watch-sergeants incapacitated, he had hoped Montesa would step up to lead; assuming command. He did not see it as an apothecary's place to lead; but to support. 

 

Of course, could the Priest truly be called an apothecary? How were such duties divided? Cleansing his hands once again, he muttered an imprecation to the Emperor-of-all for the binding of infections and clarity of thought.

 

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. A smirk twitched his lip as something occurred to him, and he chided himself inwardly: Of course, Oto, one does not assess the potter on his cooking; nor the weaver on his dancing. He turned to the recumbent form of Khyber Vaidan.

 

The body – the Sergeant, he corrected himself – livid with bruises and welts, purple-black and unhealed. Around the dressings of the most grievous wounds were traces of the surgical clay used to pack them out. The Watch-sergeant's breathing was indetectible; secondary heartbeat a minimal feather-thrum, and the primary heart stopped utterly. Yeng placed his hands on the figure. Cold. Cold as death. 

 

He set to work cleaning, re-dressing and replacing the numerous tubules and intravenous drips that studded the figure; losing himself in his work. In places, he screwed his face up at stitching he judged loose, or a bruised intubation; in others he raised his eyebrows in mute admiration of the fineness of the battlefield surgery. 

 

Once more, he silently praised the Xenocide's medical facilities. Preparing the comatose figure for medinternment offered him the best chance of survival, and the facilities here allowed the precocious talents of the Gatebreaker's Gentle to come to the fore. 

+++

 

As he drew close to completion, Yeng looked left and right, then leaned close to Vaidan's face. He used a thumb and forefinger to open the recumbent figure's bruised left eye; flicking an additional lens down to peer closely at the Novamarine's bloodshot eye. Noting the way the occulobe tissue had been integrated, he slowly lifted his other hand. An avaricious thought slowly billowed up his spine.

 

He dismissed it, and let Vaidan's bruised eye close. Then again...

 

His attention was absolute.

 

"Brother Yeng." The voice was low, but clear. To his credit, Oto slowly stood up, and turned, his face masking the surprise. His pearly bionic eye made light work of the silhouetting, and he forced an awkward smile. 

 

"Priest." He nodded, respectfully. Turning away again, he strode quickly to the side table, keeping his bare arms in shadow, and replaced his armour without cleansing his hands. "You find the rites near-complete." Solastion, who had taken the greeting as permission to enter, looked about him.

 

There was nothing base about the Priest. His pulchrous face radiated serenity, broken only with a subtle undertone of concern.

 

"I felt it most... pragmatic to take over your secondary duties; where I could. As the odes say, No man can drive two grox-teams at once." The Gatebreaker went on, his eyes searching the Priest's face. He gestured to the form of Vaidan, still and cold on the slab. "To assuage any doubts, I am quite used to operating alone. It is a necessity of our Chapter's way that I now unhappily learn is not universal." He spread his hands. "For that,  I hope you will forgive me. As the Sixth Divine Prince said; The path, once walked, is easier to walk again; until no other path exists."

 

To his credit, Solastion's face registered none of his thoughts on that. Yeng went on: "Happily, I can report that the Watch-sergeant remains, if not well, then safe and stable. My compliments on what I assume is your field-work, too. He would not have lived without it."

 

The two stood for a moment, Solastion looking down at Yeng, before the Gatebreaker turned away, back to Vaidan. "If I may impress upon you; however, I feel it would be right for you to make the final rites for the honoured Watch-sergeant's stasis-internment."

 

"And then," he said, turning back, "I would have your thoughts on leadership; and on the chain of command."

+++

Edited March 12, 2019 by Apologist

[Morovir]

Teralil looked down at the ruined suit of armour that lay before him. Brushing the lightning bolt on his gauntlet gently against the Novamarines heraldry on the right pauldron, he whispered to it:

 

"Worry not, armour of Corvo's son. You will endure, and serve anew."

 

One way or another, he added silently to himself.

 

Looking up at Sabaan, he set out his intentions for the armour's maintenance:

 

"This was a fine suit of armour, with a proud history befitting that of the Primogenitors. We should seek to appease its machine spirit before beginning physical repairs."

 

Finally, he addressed the question that had burned at him since their first meeting.

 

"Forgive me cousin, I do not understand the intricacies of the Iron Hands'...unique Chapter structure. You are one of their Iron Fathers, yes? What sets you apart from other Chapters?"

Edited March 8, 2019 by Morovir

[Mazer Rackham]

He strolled amongst them, merely trying his best to understand the nature of what could be done.  He watched them attend to their elders, putting them in the shacks and huts, as the more mobile and scrawny turned away, hefting their sacks and little belongings they had.  Akkad dissuaded the heavier, bulkier loads and gathered some of them together.

+Bring as many shovels as you can.+ He told them, reaching for his combat knife he drew some patterns in the dirt, pointing at them, assigning a soldier of the 303rd to make sure his instructions were carried out.

 

They needed a distraction, so they would dig a ditch to shield the fallows - as much as they could.  Then put stakes in it to slow the Tyranids down.  Then he called the Earthshaker batteries and got them sighted in on agreed co-ordinates with smoke rounds.  Now anyone would just have to give the coded number for the co-ordinates and they could rain down fire.  He would have to do it for the other places around the walls as well.

 

Colonel Haas proffered the Dataslate.

+Thank you Pieter.  Advise General Wrex I will attend him.  Round up all our volunteers.+  The bastions and walls needed to be filled.  He glanced over the hard, towering stone rebutments.

 

There was so much of it.  What he wouldn't give for the Legion.

 

The day was still young and many more hands could be had.  As those who could not serve on the firing line were turned to the defense of Beregar, he found more willing volunteers.  He changed tack, citing piety for some, challenging others, blessing more.  He found his role odd, his armour becoming solidly sable.  As he moved from area to area he could see they had retired from their make-work and chores and had clustered around fires in big groups.  CHildren ran in front of the recruiting party, laughing, chattering and then hiding in hushed awe as the Marine came past.  The Colonel and his squad were relaxed, talking quietly and carrying tins of paint from camp to camp, the evening clear and warm as the star which bathed Syndalla broke through the clouds in a lavender sky and the scent and sound of grasses rushed in on the breeze.

 

Several hundreds of volunteers or those persuaded, near conscripted some of them he admitted, had been rounded up to go to the Levy Fields in the morning.  He approached one of the few camps left that he could reach that day.  He looked over his shoulder and noticed he had gathered a trail of hangers-on.  One of them the older woman with her tattoo of service.

 

"Who comes there?" A man spoke, umbrage firing in his heart, Akkad relented as he realised the old man sitting on the ground by the fire was there to be warmed, his eyes long gone to blindness, his clothes unkempt, but a strange scarf lay underneath.

"Shh Jarod, it is the Emperor's Angel."  A curse sliced the air.

 

"No angel there, like all his a kin a monster in flesh!"  Jarod's words were bitter, hateful and menaced with spite, the way the head of Yeng's Claviger was crenellated with flanges.  Akkad smiled under his helm.  Although blind, this one saw all to clearly.  Akkad crouched in a squat, near the man, hulking over him.

 

+I have torn the tongues from cult members before.+ Akkad warned, his voice dangerously low.

"I am no cultist!" Spat the wizened man and the family huddled around him recoiled, looked away as though Akkad may smite them all.

 

+Then what are you, blind old fool?+ A slow smiling growl issued from his warplate.  Akkad smiled at the chained beast in his harness.  Suddenly the old man was sincere, his bitterness quenched.  He struggled to stand, shrugged off his gown.  Not a cultist, but some kind of holy man, Akkad recognised the symbols of the Ecclesiarchy.

 

"How long do we have, Angel of Death?"  Akkad matched him bark for bark.

+Nine days My Preacher.+  At these words he reached for Akkad's hand and deposited a string of prayer beads.

"You will need these when you pray with me tonight.  Rebka, take the children to the city, do as this one commands as you did for me."  She bowed and gathered the smaller humans about her, who gawped at Akkad with wide eyes in dirt and tear-stained faces, safe from behind her skirts.  He followed the old man into his shack and he lay on his old cot.

 

"How many have you prayed with Angel of Death?" Akkad saw no reason to lie.

+269 souls have gone to the Emperor.  Pax Domini sit super cor tuum ad imperatorem, mortem non timent, in suo nomine.+  Akkad waited, watched the old man smile, admired him for it.

"Will you protect them?  The little ones?"

+I do not know, but I will not raise my hand against them.+

"Then I forgive you." Jarod said as the knife stabbed down.

 

MR.

Edited March 8, 2019 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Atratus looked down at the offered blade and hair. It was not in his nor his chapters nature to be superstitious but the capabilities of the librarium were beyond his teachings, and he saw no reason to cause friction with his brother.

 

With practised care he began to release the coupling harness on his gauntlet, a patchwork of seemingly mismatched connectors. Though Greysight had seen the armour many times it only now became apparent that gauntlets structure more closely resembled that of the mark 3, likely an early prototype.

 

"A protective device?" questioned Atratus, removing his gauntlet, "Perhaps it is why the beast sought it." Mimicking Greysights cut he ventured his own thoughts on the matter, "We do not have such a thing amongst the Raptors. Death is our end, what victory we bring before it our judgement.", a single drop. Handing the sulde back, "but we do not seek death, and so I thank your for your ancestors protection. I believe it will soon be more sorely tested".

[Dosjetka]

+[Placeholder]+

[Xin Ceithan]

"Forgive me, Cousin.  I do not understand the intricacies of  the Iron Hands`.. unique Chapter structure. You are one of their Iron Fathers, yes? What sets you apart from other Chapters?”

 

Amidst the preparation rites, the question caught Sabaan off guard. An.. Iron Father?! The Techmarine found the question confusing on several levels. Something like a chuckle ghosted through his thoughtstream. Data remained inconclusive if the amusement would be contrived at the idea of him serving in a such a capacity or the thought of what would happen if one of those ancient cyborged warriors lowered himself to serve among the Deathwatch.  Again his experience was limited. It was safe to project that some had over their lifetime of service indeed served in the Deathwatch, but certainly not assuming a place among the Iron Council.

 

>> They hardly tolerate each other. They would burn this place down within minutes. <<

 

There was the chuckle again.  

 

Of course,  he had very little practical knowledge of proceedings among the Ordo Militant either. Did other chapters send their command elements when the ancient Oaths of support were invoked?

 

Then, there was that tiring interactive element. The question might just be an attempt to ease further personal interactions. Or genuine curiosity. Or a more profund threat assessment. An attempt at humor.

 

Sabaan sighed inwardly. He had  just begun  to formulate a working personality response projection for the Battel-Brothers of Blackthorn.  Now, he would need to update that to include the members of Swordhand. He looked up and scanned the Techmarine facing him for visual cues.

 

Time passed. The other Techmarine was still looking at him.

 

He concluded that the question was not a rhetorical one. Apparently, an answer was indeed expected. The Iron Hand decided on a neutral approach.

 

“No”.

 

He returned his attention to the remains of the Watch Sergeant`s armour.  While their orders were to return the war plate to functionality, Sabaan already selected  which parts could be used to repair and enhance the warplate of his still active compatriots. >> If Vaidan had been an Iron Hand, we would be distributing this among our clave now. It is no use to him at the moment and if we fail, he won`t need it again anyway.<<

 

He found that the Obsidian Glaive  had not moved and was still looking at him. Sabaan held the gaze in silence. More time passed.

“I am an ordained Techmarine”, Sabaan said finally.

He fought the urge to point at the Opus Mechanicum on his Shoulder Guard. The chuckle. >> And this. This is a plasma torch. It is quite hot<<.

He fought that thought down, too. He then took another breath. The next words he canted in binharic, enveloped in noospheric reminders of the oaths  they had both sworn as Adepts of the Machine God. The Iron Hands did not share their secrets lightly, either.

 

++ I cannot and would not claim myself to be an Iron Father. I ham but a warrior. Just as not every follower of the Omnissiah is a Magos, not every Techmarine of the Iron Hand is an Iron Father.  The closest analogy for purposes of comparison might be to liken an Iron Father to a Magos Dominus. They convene in that which we call the Council of Iron, much like a synod of the ruling Magos on a Forge World. ++

He paused, considering his next cant.

++Given your vocation, I assume that you are privy to the failings of my genefather at Istvaan. ++ A snort blurred from the respirator.

++ After the Heresy, it was decided that the Iron Hands would not repeat the failings of the past. The Council was instigated so that no single leader could lead the Clans of Medusa to the brink of destruction again, especially not by following ill advised emotional responses. We of Medusa are a fractious,  bellicose lot by nature. Have you served with that Devastator of the Red Talons for some time? Then you might have some experience with that. And he just shares the essence of our Primarch.

I believe the Sons of Dorn are not strangers to the fury of anger themselves.   The Council regulates and controls the fury of the Clan Companies as a whole and the Iron Creed controls the fury of the forces within us.

You ask what set`s us apart? The Imperium looks to the past and to the failings of their founders for inspiration. We of the Iron Hands have chosen to do penance for our failings and evolve from then.

We stand apart among ourselves so that we can not be brought down. We stand apart so that your weakness can not bring us down. We are reforged by our failing and rise stronger. This is the essence of the Iron Creed. ++

 

Sabaan compressed the words into clean, binharic burst. No  mere verbalization, no simple   words could convey the complexity of  tenets of the Iron Creed.

He held up the chain link dangling from his waist. The clave links were covered in microscopic renderings of theInsignia of the Clan Companies and Claves he had served with thus far.

 

++ Every one of these has been forged to perfection.  There are no weak links. Nothing an enemy can exploit. If a weakness is discovered, it must be destroyed and replaced by something more stronger. We do not tolerate weakness. Not in others and especially not in ourselves, That is the essence of the Iron Hands. We are reborn and reforged from our failures. We will not rely on the weakness of others when it comes to securing our survival and ensuring the demise of our enemies. We are not "set " apart. We chose to stand apart and are stronger for it.

That is what sets us apart ++

 

He returned his attention to the assembled pieces of the warplate in front of him. He didn't wait for a reaction. None was needed. Finally. he spoke out aloud:

 

“So, let  us purge  the weakness from this warplate. It shall cleansed and reforged, emerging to be even stronger so as not to fail again in the face of the enemy.”            

Edited March 14, 2019 by Xin Ceithan

[Noctus Cornix]

I am not meant for this…

 

The silent growl of the Xenocide’s plasma core thrummed in the deep, a tepid pulse that played at the pressure of his temples. His twin hearts beat to the same, slow rhythm, controlled from decades of meditation.

 

He had failed. In his soul he had known this. Pain and doubt had dragged him to inaction, a cold reality that dug into the marrow of his bones and burned at his very core. It was the duty of the Astartes to never cease, to never doubt, to never falter.. And yet he had. 

 

The meditation chamber was sparse, bare of all furnishings, littered with dense tomes of parchment, scrolls, and a surplus of half-emptied ink vials. The lumen strips had been removed entirely, not but flickering candles to light that deep darkness. His armoured form remained in silent repose, knees pressed to the cold metal floor, hands pressed against his armoured thighs. His eyes had not opened for thirteen hours, though he had not drifted into slumber for even a moment. Mariana lay just before him, that polished blade of masterful craftsmanship glinting in the dim caress of waning light. 

 

I am not meant for this... I... 

 

                   I am Forsaken

 

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

When his eyes opened, he was no longer in the Xenocide. He was no longer kneeling within the meditation chambers of the Tyrannicide. No longer cast in black and silver, his was the deep cerulean of atmospheric skies. He was standing, feet planted upon the marbled tiles of the Arx Tyrannus's mosaic flooring. Home. Yet.. this was not simply the chamber halls of his brethren, nor even the sacrosanct lodge of his Librarius order. 

 

This was a tomb.

 

Reality and memory had melded in one. The flickering light of his meditation chamber was the same illumination of this vast catacomb. Hundreds of candles were light, dancing in the dead breeze of the Fortress Monastery's ventilation system. Yet still they barely illuminated more than pale images and half-seen shapes in the vast and unending darkness. 

 

 

== Is that.. you... Cal?==

 

In that distant dream he stood before the place he knew all too well. As was his duty, Guillermo has spent many years down in this ancient tomb, the Hallowed Sepulcher of Fallen Heroes. As was his burden, his was to put to parchment the ancient tales and memories of their failed champions, legends and paladins of old with whom the Emperor had not seen fit to allow passage into the halls of heroes beyond the Gates of Eternity. These were the sarcophagi of the dead who had been denied the death they so yearned for and rightly deserved. This was the tomb of the Dreadnoughts.

 

Among the Adeptus Astartes, many such chapters venerate these ancient heroes who still yet cling to life in their stubborn will and valor. That only in true death does duty end, and even in this half-life they still might serve the Holy Emperor and his immutable will. And yet, for all the legends, the honour and adoration placed upon these entombed champions, what was Guillermo to find in the darkness but the lingering, silent endurance of the broken, the agonized, and those who simply wished to die.

 

Duty is a mask, a shadow of courage that sees fit to offer some... answer for one's suffering, but why must these great heroes of old continue to endure? Was their death not enough? Few spoke of their pain, such was their molding as Astartes, but he could feel it bleeding from their tombs, immeasurable hulks of iron and ceramite, walking engines war that silently wept in the dark. 

 

== Cal.... Calatrava.. My kin.==

 

This tomb was no different from the others, for how could one hero stand apart from the hundreds, thousands of the dead and slowly dying? The Sarcophagi hung from great chains and cables from the rafters, its ancient casket polished and oiled with every intricate curve and detail. Despite its immense bulk, without its chassis the massive coffin seemed little more than just take... a coffin. 

 

== Where are you Cal?... Please.. I can't..==

 

Though not gifted with the psychic touch, the occupant of the tomb was beyond any sense of guarded consciousness. His thoughts bled freely into the void beyond, wading in the air for one of Guillermo's kind to sense with little effort at all. Despite no sound coming from the hanging coffin, it was as though the long maddened hero was speaking to him.

 

With his eyes easing shut for but a moment,Guillermo pulsed his thoughts into the mind of that addled spirit.

 

== Be at peace, ancestor.. I am here==

 

Yet, as always, that had done little to sooth the slowly panicking spirit before his withered form would drift back into unconsciousness.

 

==I can't... I cannot see.... Brother, I can't feel my legs... Cal..==

 

In silent understanding, the Codicier slowly peered up with his eyes opening once more, seeing the ancient scripture upon the Dreadnought's coffin-slab. 

 

Master of the Gates Eternal

Last of His Kin

Venerable Santiago of Montesa

 

== Calatrava I....==

 

Was this really duty's last reward?

 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

When his eyes opened, he was kneeling once more in the meditation chamber of the Xenocide, cast once more in black and silver. He knew he was no longer amidst his vivid memories for the raw pain that filtered through his throat in a dull ache. It forced the barest hint of a smile to etch along his lips, pained as it was. The smile faded as the image of that hanging coffin lingered once more in the back of his mind... but it offered some small comfort in his resolution. 

 

Ancestor, I will remember your burden, and carry the memory with me to my final breath.

 

Now as he stood, Codicier Guillermo took up his sword, and paced away from his meditation alcove.

 

I must stand... While I still have legs left to carry me.

Edited March 13, 2019 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

Vârvost and Vorr

 

Vârvost unlocks his battered, shovel-fronted helm with a hiss of escaping pressure to reveal the ruined mask of scar tissue that passes for his face. His eyes are blue, eerily similar to the Sanguinary Priest's; they bore into the eye lenses of the Red Talon's helm.

 

"You survived in the heart of the swarm," the Eradicator says, echoing his words earlier at the Governor's Manse. "You were strong enough to fight your way from the jaws of death." His eyes flicker over the bulk of your missile launcher. "Such strength will be needed in the fights to come."

[Reyner]

"I would know more of this Hive Ship. If we're to tear the guts out of the thing, I want to know how. Tell me more of what you faced."

 

Vârvosts voice was almost like a bark through his slab faced helmet as he stopped Vorr making his way to the armoury. He cast his mind back to the battle on the Hive Ship now seeing the folly of what they were doing they shouldn't have tried to destroy the control node they instead should have tried to cripple the thing and make it an easy target for a Battlefleet. There had been all sorts of xenos on the ship from mewling Gaunts to screaming Carnifexes and some other larger beasts Vorr hadn't seen before with massive cannons built into their bodies. Then he saw Echion fall in his mind his armour blasted through with a bolter - his anger rose quickly and simmered just below the surface, he had spent weeks trying to make sense of what happened but the helmet picts feeds were inconclusive and Vorr was unsure if their injured squadmate had purposefully killed Echion or his aim was ruined by his injuries.

 

"We faced many creatures in that ship Eradicator; gaunt genus, genestealers, Warriors, Carnifexes, some big grakkers I have no names for who were more bulwark and defence cannon they must have been ship guardian creatures for I have never seen them on a planet. I have fought Tyranids several times in the past in larger engagements than here though with Titan Legio support and the like, this is a totally different theatre of war. If we are to strike at the Ship again I have a different plan. This time we should make use of several bulk haulers filled with voidcraft grade explosives: torpedoes and ship mines you know the type and with them we will scatter the monsters escort craft and do some reasonable damage. After that we board the Hive Ship but we don't go for any control nexuses or anything like that but instead we take as many nuclear devices or if they aren't available for whatever ridiculous reason we can use warheads from torpedoes. We take that payload as deep as we can and blow up the bastard from the inside."

 

Vorr smiled just saying his plan out loud - it would be a momentous destruction. Vârvost nodded understanding his words.

 

Vârvost unlocks his battered, shovel-fronted helm with a hiss of escaping pressure to reveal the ruined mask of scar tissue that passes for his face. His eyes are blue, eerily similar to the Sanguinary Priest's; they bore into the eye lenses of the Red Talon's helm.

 

"You survived in the heart of the swarm," the Eradicator says, echoing his words earlier at the Governor's Manse. "You were strong enough to fight your way from the jaws of death." His eyes flicker over the bulk of your missile launcher. "Such strength will be needed in the fights to come."

 

"I look forward to it Brother the bowels of that ship did not give this weapon much room to maneuver. But with the bolt pistol of my fallen Brother Echion and this assault shotgun I will be more useful in close quarter combat. Though I wager you will fare better in that department with your chainaxe, a fine weapon that is, it almost makes me miss being in the assault companies of the Red Talons."

 

Vorr racked the slide of the bolt pistol and placed it back into the holster on his thigh, the red lightning bolt on the side of it flashed under the lights of the armoury.

[Commissar Molotov]

Vârvost nods in acceptance of Vorr's words.

 

"True enough. There is no surer victory than reducing the enemy to ash."

 

He grips his chain-axe and nods at the Red Talon before moving to depart the armoury.

[Commissar Molotov]

GM: Please see the OOC thread for the closure of the extant "scenes" - please work to backfill these once you have time!

 

Time wears on as the Brothers of Swordhand and Blackthorn spend several hours aboard the Xenocide. All of you are familiar with the distant roar of plasma drives vibrating through deck-plating, the crash of practice blades or the hurried work of Chapter Serfs. Your surroundings are simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, a strange dichotomy that punctuates your service with the Deathwatch. With each moment that speaks to your shared experiences as Astartes, you encounter another that underscores your distance from your home Chapter and its routines, its beliefs and customs.

 

Each of you prepares in your own ways for Eight Bells, when the Sanguinary Priest has requested your presence within the Xenocide's Chapel.

 

+ + +

 

Solastion

 

As you leave the Apothecarion, your bloody - and regrettably necessary - business concluded, you see the ominous presence of Vârvost making his way down the corridor. There is little pretense in his manner; it is clear to you that he has been waiting for you to emerge.

 

"You must deal with the Astral Claw," he says, plain-spoken as ever, and as direct as a chain-axe to the face. "He cannot be allowed to disobey your authority for much longer."

[Slips]

"That much has been made clear to me, Brother Varvost. He is made conspicuous in his absence and the fact that he did not deign to inform us of just what he is up to is also cause for concern. I will speak with him once we're back on the surface, but first, we have other matters to attend to, come, we convene with the others at the Chapel."

[Commissar Molotov]

Vârvost nods, satisfied if not mollified.

 

"As you say."

 

 

+ + +

As is appropriate for a vessel of its size, the Xenocide's Chapel could comfortably house a demi-company of Astartes warriors. Now, it holds the twelve of you. Solastion stands at the front, welcoming each of the Astartes as they enter, whether they hail from Blackthorn or Swordhand. The Priests of the blood are no strangers to ceremony and ritual; it binds the Chapter together, just as it now begins to bind these warriors from disparate lineages.