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

[Mazer Rackham]

Once again harnessed in his plate, helmet at his waist, Akkad scooped Cadence into his arms and marched down to the Armourium where he hoped to speak to Sabaan or Teralil.  He saw the  Storm Son approach, features dark and taut with purpose, his entire body was a hunting spear thrown, cast to the mark.  Akkad nodded to him cordially, but stood aside all the same, whatever plagued the hunter's dark mien, it would be satisfied - of that he had no doubt - and the path was his to follow alone.  The Nakarene flashed a thin smile of greeting, but did not stop, his humours dark with quiet anger, the way deep waters rumbled without sound at the footments of a bridge, right before toppling it.

 

The impostor Ryken had built a bridge of lies and the deluge was walking down the hall.  He hoped that his brother would resolve the torment the false-interrogator caused.  They would all need the balanced Hunter for the Hive-ship slaughter.

 

Akkad's wandering took him near to the Apothecarion, but he didn't want to see the Wolf just yet, the Medicae informed him that the Fenrisian lingered in the Long Sleep, and so it would be best to let the warrior to his dreams.  The joy of recovery would be all the better when Akkad could see the Wolf smile, that was when his heart would release the sorrow, but not yet.  Now it was time to kill.

 

His footsteps echoed in the passageways, up ahead he could hear the hammer and clank of armour being repaired, the sharp chemical stink of ceramite and sealant wafted down to him.  Servo-mechanics purring, drowning the tramp of his boots the nearer he got to the workshop and armoury.  He stepped through the sturdy bulkhead door, careful not to trip as he handled his heavy bolter through the gap.

 

The armoury contained the single, angular figure of the Techmarine Teralil.  His Servo-arm arched over his shoulder, a spider-like appendage that clasped a cuirass with the familiar Chapter iconography of the Space Wolves.  Of course, as Solastion and Yeng attended the body of the Savage, it made sense for the Martian Cohort to attend to the soul of his armour.  The short movement of the Marine's head showed his enhanced senses had detected the Badabian and he ceased his ministrations and he turned, sizing up the weapon cradled in his arms.

 

++Brother Akkad.  The spirit of this war-engine is vexed?++ his servo-arm gently laid the breastplate down and returned to gesture towards Cadence.

"Not exactly, My Techwright.  I seek to bolster it further."

++Extrapolate.++

"I know you to have experience in these matters," Akkad called upon what Teralil had shared, the past of the Obsidian Glaives, their ingenuity and invention from terrible necessity, "I want to augment the killing power available to me," he laid Cadence reverently on the technician bench, the surface smocked with thick synth-hide, a heat and oil proof material that would protect the resting components as they were being manipulated.

 

He strode to the wall of the armoury, replete with weapons and the tools of war, selecting the bulky, canister-fuelled heavy flamers.  His fingers dallied over the first, then another, searching.  He was sensing a war spirit both benevolent and rich, one to complement the anger and raw hunger of the heavy bolter he'd rescued from a Chimera all those moons ago in the light of the Maelstrom's eye.  His hands grasped the body of one of the weapons that was cared for but had been overlooked for service many times, the dust and oil not quite fresh enough.  An old warrior, lacking employment.

 

"I know we will be swarmed by many different xenoforms," Akkad nodded to the Techmarine, "and need to be able to kill at any range with a single trigger."

Teralil waited, drawing up to full height as the heavy flamer was laid next to Cadence, the two sitting regimented, yet close enough to touch.

 

"I know this weapon better than myself.  Can we merge the two soldiers here into a single veteran?"

 

MR.

Edited May 21, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Commissar Molotov]

Deathwatch Strike Cruiser 'Xenocide'

Strategium Chamber

 

“Time will be an important factor,” Desiato says. The Rogue Trader has lost a measure of his debonair swagger in the fighting. He eyes Montesa and Ghent warily; after all, their previous encounter did not go well. “Even if the enemy is weakened, our fleet can only stand for so long against their firepower. You will have to proceed as swiftly as possible.”

 

Rubio keys in another sequence, and the hololith narrows, showing the Hive Ship itself. As you study the giant creature, it is overlaid with inset vid-captures from Swordhand's abortive assault on the ship - you see static-laden images of moist artery-like tunnels, blown-out by the bright muzzle flare of bolter-fire.

 

"The hive ship's connection to the Hive Mind must be your target," the Shipmaster says. "Reach the Synapse Chamber, destroy it, and throw the swarm into confusion. Once the xenos are no longer acting in unison, we will have the opportunity to destroy them piecemeal."

[Xin Ceithan]

Spearcast and Sabaan had undergone post deployment rituals and the required rites of cleansing together. Facing the bow of the gunship, the Techmarine kneeled, chanting binharic benediction, purifying the spirits of both the Stormraven and his own warplate while servitors hosed them down with a blessed amalgam of xenoseptic, then applied scented salves and oils. Spearcast had seen them safe and successful through the decaying skies of Vichov. It deserved nothing less.

 

Adding the current events to the data shrines of it's combat grimoire and actualizing the noospheric victory banners, Sabaan felt something amiss. On a hunch, he strode over to where a group of servitors was carefully removing pieces of bone and chitin from damaged armour plates. These would be cleansed and reworked before being returned to the hull. Clear tubes of armaplas contained the remains of the xenos in milky fluids. Runes of warding ran along the glass. Sabaan watched as a dagger like teeth drifted, collided within as he raised one up for inspection. Spearcast had vanquished this foe, something like a beast of legend. Shouldn't it..

 

>>Ah. You Vurgaan and your trophies. You'd think the Sorrgol would have removed that from you already .<<

 

The Vurgaan and their mortal kin had hunted the beasts of the shadowed lands since before the coming of the Primarch. There was strength in that.

 

Sabaan took the canister and made his way into the armour servicing the hangar bay.

He prepared vials and bowls with sacred ingredient and carved technomantic runes in the teeth and scales he removed, one by one, from the canister. These rituals had been observed by the Medusan tribes for generations and while Nycax hardly had any memory of his mortal kin left, these rotes had ensured his survival in the dark lands and were as such as hard wired into his being as any other blessing of the Omnissiah. Incense drifted through the bay as he worked, finally grinding the vile remains into a fine bony powder.

 

>>Thus perish all of our enemies.<< Was there a notion of approval in this?

 

Now, following the traditions of sacred Mars, the Techmarine worked the powder into the base ingredients of what would become a new set of physical marks of honour.

Tooth and bone, now ground down, boiled in acids and would serve as glue in forming the vellum of the battle honoured, the stamping of waxen seals. Micro lasers etched scriptures in High Gothic.

 

Finally, the Iron Hand placed the rolls and seals on the casings of the Stormraven's machine Spirit as well as among those already present along the control shrines in the the Gunship's cockpit and turret.

 

Honour was served. Spearcast deserved nothing less,

 

It also gave Sabaan a welcome excuse to postpone the cleansing of his own flesh and facing his brothers-by-circumstance outside his armour.

 

Time was a major factor, of course. While not -yet- as extensively augmented as some of the more experienced Warriors of his Chapter, the process of removing and disconnecting him from his warplate - already a time consuming process not unlike the ritual post flight rites he had just administered to the Stormraven several hours ago - still required a much wider range of blessings and benedictions than the armour of his more organic brethren. That was true especially in the case of the more ...unorthodox modifications he had underwent during and after the Incident at Cumbria.

 

But most of all, the Iron Hand did not want to be in a such a vulnerable state in the presence of others. It went against everything in his nature. The current issues that came with the revelations about the inquisitorial Envoys to their mission had not helped the issue.

 

To his relief, the Crimson Knight had been rather forthcoming when Sabaan had approached him, even as he focused on the timeframe and relevance of performing the necessary rituals. If this had come from an Apothecary's experience of perceiving the needs of his charges, the strategic issue of returning the rest of their squad to duty as fast as possible or a deeper, unspoken understanding about some things that were meant to kept private , Sabaan did not know. In the end, he also did not care.

Outcome was all.

 

Floating in the antiseptic fluids of the purification tank, Sabaan found his thoughts drifting. They had passed the body of Thorvald on their way through the Apothecarium. The recovery of the Space Wolf's body could be seen as audacious, if one believed in such things, even if Sabaan doubted that the Devastator would be capable of actively rejoining the killteam anytime soon. Still, it spoke of the resiliency of the works of the Omnissiah, and the Emperor, that the Fenrisian had survived the fall.

Unbidden, thoughts and simulus fragments from his own experiences at Cumbria made their way into his mind. The heat. The noise. The smell, as he being cooked alive inside his warplate. The shadow of the Ancient, looming over him. The voice in thoughtstream, calming him, insisting that it could be done, as an Iron Hand, he could endure, would endure.

 

Sabaan focused on that voice now, pushing the other thoughts down, away, into the past following that calm, mechanical voice, refocusing until he could replace it with the racing beeping of a medical auspex outside his purification tank. He forced himself to slow his breathing, his heart rate. The beep followed.

 

He had survived Cumbria and Clan Sorrgol had prevailed. Thorvald had survived Syndalla. The Deathwatch would prevail. Sabaan felt an odd sense of connection. In their own way, the had mimicked the experience of their Primarchs, falling from the heavens.

 

>> Is that Hubris, Brother? Or worse, Poetry?<<

 

Sabaan almost smiled. He allowed himself a moment of uncharacteristically quiet.

He felt ready.

Edited May 26, 2020 by Xin Ceithan

[Steel Company]

+++

One day ago

+++

 

News of the Wolf being found had made it to Tyber, a bright spot to say the least. Since learning of the Wolf being found, he set about dealing with the tooth from the brood lord he had for Thorvald, putting a hole through it to string it on to some wire along with a small head plate from one of the lesser beasts. Though with the plate he had taken the time to carve in a crude outline of a boat like the one his father had.

 

Holding the two item necklace in one of his massive hands, he slipped into the med-bay, to sand over the wolf. Tilting his head to the left he over looked the frame tanned and tattooed, much like his own father had been, Tyber remember that Greysight had the wolf’s necklace. Holding tightly to the one in his hand for a moment before placing it down on Throvald’s chest, he spoke softly to the other Astartes, “Perhaps this way you can keep a boat with you.”

 

Pulling his hand away as he turned to leave the room, Tyber paused and spoke over his shoulder, “Your presence has been missed Thorvald, get better soon… we need you with us.”

 

 

+++

Current day

+++

 

Tyber listened to the extrapolation and refinement of his musings, noting the lack of the old Wolf with them still, he did his best to hide his disappointment, before turning his attention to the wreaked passages of the beast as he asked more to himself than the room, “Perhaps those passages could be our way to the target unnoticed…”

[Morovir]

Teralil cocked his head quizzically, looking at the two weapons laid out in front of him. As he did so, his servo-arm bent backwards and gently laid the cuirass he had been working on back down onto the workbench.

 

++Curiouser and curiouser++ he muttered, running his hands along both weapons, taking mental notes on the modifications that he would need to make, 

 

Straightening, he looked at Akkad, and gave a single, curt nod.

 

++It can be done. Significant alterations will need to be made, and there will be no guarantees that your weapon will still have optimum function after the transformation is complete. In addition, it will be significantly heavier, even accounting for the necessary adjustments. But you have my word it will be done by the time that we go to assault the hive ship. It will be good to apply myself to something other than the restoration of the Wolf's armour.++

 

As he returned to his labours, he turned back once again to Akkad, his scarred visage looking him straight in the eye.

 

++And it will be good to see the bastards burn++

[Mazer Rackham]

Though an adept of both Astartes and Mechanicus, there was something still terribly human in the Glaives' reply.

 

Akkad held his gaze and nodded slowly.  "For what they have done, for their very existence they will be punished.  They will die by fire and shell."

 

He smoothed his hands over Cadence.  "Shall I begin disassembly, My Techwright?  I can do it without having to ask you every five minutes."  he gave the Techmarine a slow smile.

 

MR.

[Nineswords]

+++

THE DESCENT HAD taken the better half of a day. From Xenocide, Greysight had stowed himself aboard an intra-fleet supply transport bound for Glory Be, one of the Navy’s flagships locked in geostationary orbit over Beregar. He had waited in silence, completely still for nearly an hour, before slipping into the shadows; avoiding the serfs allocating the latest supply manifest into the transporter’s hold.

Accessing one of Glory Be's data-terminals, the Storm Son quickly located the next departing ship-to-surface vessels making a scheduled run planetside. Twice, he was forced to evade the naval ratings on patrol, combing through the ship to eliminate any tyranid creatures that may have infested the ship.

It was refreshing to be out of his armour for a change. Whilst he had grown accustomed to it in the long weeks of campaigning, Greysight had relished the simple pleasure of being clad in nothing more than an Ordo issue worksuit, swathed in a worn black cloak with a large hood. The rest, including his sulde, he had left to the armourers for repair and decontamination. Greysight had contented himself with his borrowed combat knife and a compact bolt pistol liberated from the practice ranges, strapped tightly to his thigh in a synth-leather holster.

The Storm Son concluded he had been amongst his war-brothers for too long. Concealing himself in a cavity between access bulkheads on the dropship, the astartes listened to the trivial conversation of the two pilots; a curious mix of memorised alpha-numeric transponder sequences, followed by a heated debate on the consistency of rehydrated rations issued to them over the last few weeks. Despite the horror making its way through the system, humanity had a penchant for emphasising trivial details as a coping mechanism.

It had taken little effort to navigate through the space port and past the local inspection patrols, blending in with the masses of vat-grown hauling servitors by simply adopting a stumbling gait and attaching himself to one of the supply caravans, making its way into the city across the Avenue of the Primarchs.

Across the river, Beregar gleamed dully in the afternoon light. To the north, the Fallows still burned, belching grey and black smoke across the city, obscuring the great dome of the Grand Templum. Approaching the gigantic gateway of Portica, Greysight contemplated Ryken, speculating and assessing the false interrogator's whereabouts since Vinov. The where, however, was simply the first step to figuring out the why. Various motives, from a rival inquisitorial faction to an agent of the Great Enemy had been considered, but ultimately dismissed as conjecture.

He headed east, avoiding the Templum district, flitting through the throngs of ordinary citizens going about their daily business. The Commercia loomed ahead, an amalgamation of ordered piazzas interspersed by tightly crammed bazaars. Greysight ignored the cries of opportunistic merchants and shop owners plying their wares at inflated prices. As he shuffled through the maze of shops, the warrior considered yet another aspect of the humanity he had left behind in his ascension: price gouging during a crises was about as ubiquitous as the aquila which united the species. Sometimes Greysight stooped to disguise his height, hobbling along to deflect attention away from him; just another overworked labourer taking a scheduled break.

+++

The premises did not announce itself. No signs or advertisements adorned its worn, wooden doors: Just one of thousands of small businesses operating out of a family compound on the fringes of official regulation, the lifeblood of Beregar's continued existence in the shadow of annihilation.

Greysight knocked.

For a moment, silence greeted the Storm Son, alone on the empty street. Then, the quiet squeal of an old bolt being pulled and the creak of the door. The astartes squeezed through the gap, gently bowing to the man who opened it. He was in late middle age, by human standards. Sixty, sixty-five perhaps, with a shock of salt and pepper hair.

A broad, smiling face, tanned and creased with age greeted him. He bowed back. 'I am honoured by your presence once again, my Khan.'

'I lead no one, Otgon. My war-brothers call me Greysight,' replied the astartes. 'Who else is here?'

'Nima, my boy.' the man beckoned. 'In the workshop.'

Otgon led Greysight across the small courtyard, through a metal gate leading to a small forge. An array of cast or forged items lined the racks, everything from cooking knives to power couplings were hung or displayed on long wooden shelves. The work of an honest trader. Occupying an automated hammer forge inside the chamber was a powerfully built man in his prime. Seeing the astartes warrior, the man finished his work quickly, powering down the machine and taking off his mask.

He bowed. 'I knew you would come back.'

'I was called away,' replied Greysight.

The young man did not press for details. Instead, he beckoned, motioning his father and the cloaked warrior to follow him to an adjoining room, cast in a dull, orange glow by sodium lumens on their lowest settings.

Greysight approached the large object silhouetted in the centre of the room, which hung on large chains. He cast an appreciative eye over its contours. 'This is fine work, Nima.'

'I cannot take all the credit, Lord,' replied the man. 'My Khorchin is poor compared to father's. He won't admit it, but he spent six days tracing out the script before applying the scrimshaw. We're a long way from Chogoris.'

Otgon sheepishly looked at the floor, avoiding Greysight's gaze.

'What did you use in the end?' asked Greysight.

'Spent artillery shells for the most part. The children collect them for the black market, or if they're feeling brave, the Mechanicus enclave.'

'You have both done me a great honour. Thank you,' said Greysight, simply. 'How long before I can retrieve it?'

'Tomorrow, by nightrise I should think,' replied Nima. 'I have a few more lines of Gothic inscription to add, based on your instructions,' he explained.

'Very good. I will arrange renumeration upon delivery then.'

'There is no need, Lord. No amount of work would compensate for all you have done for us here,' announced Otgon, waving his gnarled hands. 'Perhaps, if you allow it, we can enjoy a pot of tea.'

Greysight nodded, satisfied. 'Very well.' He cast his eyes over the object once again, admiring Otgon's cursive script. It rivalled even the very best work from the artisans in Sunsitai.

Nima switched off the lights, leaving the enormous, gilded skull of the broodlord suspended in the darkness.

+++

Edited May 23, 2020 by Nineswords

[Noctus Cornix]

This had been the first time in some since Guillermo had stood among his brothers. The weight of that shame was heavy on his shoulders, of that there would be no doubt. 

 

However, it was a bruise to his pride that he was bear without complaint. Whatever had transpired in the morgue, speaking with the Crimson Knight amidst his fallen brothers, it had certainly altered the Codicier's perspective. The Librarian stood in the full, proud regalia of MK IV armour that had been his birthright and his burden. The cerulean robes of his vocation flowed over his warplate, Bolter trapped to one side while his force blade hunt at the other. One hand hand remained at the pommel of Mariana, the other brushing idly along the split-half of his helmet still strapped to his belt. The bottom section of that slanted, MK IV helm still covered the codicier's face, crystal eyes scanning idly across the visual feed. 

 

For a moment, the Codicier caught a weary glance from the corner of his eye and turned back to stare casually at the Rogue Trader. The Librarian offered a curt nod of deference towards Desiato, but the cold look of hound that caught the scent of blood was unmistakable. 

 

== Perhaps we should pay the good Captain Desiato another visit when we are done spilling the Xenos blood and we no longer require his vessel to repel this threat. == 

 

Montesa's words slowly filtered into Ghent's mind through the Codicier's silent speech, obtrusive, but as polite as he could possibly be. He was well aware his blood-kin was not very fond of the intrusions into his mind. 

 

His eyes returned back to the hololithic display and visibly twitched at the sight of the playback feed of visual records from his and his brothers aboard that Xenos vessel. The Codicier breathed deep as his hands slowly clenched into balled fists. A palpable aura of sorrow and anger permeated from his core as energy crackled along the knuckles of his clenched fist. 

 

There it was... That old familiar rage.. 

 

How he had missed it...

 

But now was not the time for rage. Spite was to be kept in check, released only upon the enemy in the purifying fires of genocide. Now was not that moment. 

 

"The Tyrannic Xenos function on an interweaving web of synaptic consciousness. The Hive Mind exists on a cosmic level that functions, albeit crudely, at a level not dissimilar to the Astronomican. Every one of their foul, xenos breed is little more than a mindless beast without it and can be easily cleansed in the coming weeks. Unfortunately, the synaptic web is structured upon contingencies. While destroying the synaptic chamber may send the wider breadth of the Tyranid threat in the region into disarray, there will likely be a number highly capable apex sub-species amidst the swarm that function as their own, smaller beacon for the Hive Mind. It is possible for even one of these creatures to enter into rampant adaptation that transform it into a replacement for the synaptic chamber, if given the time. It will likely be necessary to hunt down and purge each of these apex sub-species before one of them is able to adapt into another synaptic beacon for the fleet. "

[Slips]

++Indeed, Brother Montessa, and now that we know that the pathogen is affecting the hive fleet as we had hoped, your gifts will be all the more potent against them now.++

 

++Before we continue further, Brothers, I wish to be informed of any activity I may have not been appraised of as having occurred during my absence or when I was otherwise occupied that way we do not proceed without any lingering matters that might distract you on our mission.++

Edited May 26, 2020 by Slips

[Steel Company]

Tyber felt a chill run down his spine as Solastion asked what they had all been up to, how would he explain the issue with the former captain of the Adamant and Captain Locke. This was a conversation he was not looking forward to. When Solastion looked to Tyber, expecting his answer, his mind raced to scramble together an answer that would be acceptable, “My time was uneventful, until the Adamant arrived in system. After an in person discussion with the command crew of the Adamant we came to an understanding of priorities and we were able to add her to our defense fleet.”

 

Inwardly he sighed; it was not a complete fabrication of the events, just a selective retelling of the events. Another inward sigh, the more time he was spending outside and away from his home chapter, the more he was finding himself questioning where he started and where the Legion ended.

 

Tyber felt another chill run down his spine, in the last few days he had invoked the name of the Inquisition more times and finding it easier to do it every time, it forced him to think about something that Adavan had told him so long ago.

 

+++

 

A younger Tyber, somewhere between child and man was standing over the broken body of a man, a bloody short sword in one hand, barley held as his chest heaved in and out. He almost didn’t even register the paw of the Astartes that stood with him, his voice calm but with little of its normal gentleness, “Do you know why we task our squires with ending the failed?”

 

The man-boy shook his head from side to side, his grey-blue eyes still locked on the body before him. Again the Astartes with him sighed before continuing, “It is so that they know how hard it is to kill one of us, to know that they may have to fight one of us. But most importantly, to get the first kill out of the way.”

 

The large armoured frame of the Adavan kneeled before Tyber to try and look him in the face as he continued by placing a hand on each of Tyber’s shoulders, “The first time is always the hardest Tyber, but I promise you, every time you must kill after this will get easier. We do these things under a controlled environment so that we can evaluate those that we take in. You are doing well, one day you will surpass even me.”

 

+++++

 

Tyber closed his eyes and let out a slow deep breath before opening them again, readying his mind to race for more plausible answers for Solastion should he press for them.

[Morovir]

Gesturing with one hand, Teralil replied:

 

++By all means. The machine spirit will be acquiesced knowing that it is a familiar hand that works on it++

 

He would not be able to continue with the modifications to the heavy flamer until the heavy bolter had been disassembled, and he could see more clearly how the two could be fused, so he returned his attention to Thorvald's armour.

 

The passage of days had seen the suit of armour restored to much of its previous functionality, a feat that Teralil begrudgingly prided himself on, owing to the ruined state it had arrived in. The majority of the work he was now engaged in was aesthetic more than anything else, which was no small feat when regarding the Wolves of Fenris. He could only hope that none of what he had restored had been intentionally left by its wearer,

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad prepared his tools.  Two small, shallow bowl of unguents of differing humours, a hammer and bolt ratchets.  It had been along time since he had done anything other than expedient deconstruction.  It would be a pleasure.

 

His hands moved over the heavy bolter by rote.  Both were veterans of wars far and wide in the hellish Maelstrom Sector and their war-spirits were aligned.

 

He pulled the bolt to the rear and locked it firmly into place and even though Cadence was empty, he checked the feed link and chamber.  Gripping the weapon, he got behind it and pulling the trigger slowly allowed the working parts inside to go forward.  He lifted a armourers's hammer, the tip enclosed in a rubber cap and struck the stout pins holding the pistol grip and trigger assembly in place.  Cautiously, lest the inner rods and levers be vexed, he drew the grip free.  Cadence did not protest.

 

Dipping the tips of his right index and middle fingers in the Sacred Unguents of Appeasement, he slid his hand in and withdrew the heavy recoil block, which protected the ejection mechanism and bolt carrier from smashing themselves to pieces as the weapon spat her holy wrath.  Next, he twisted the inner locking tabs which retained the firing spirit and piezo-induction capsules, which detonated the bolt rounds as they sat in Cadence's grip, awaiting the target to be consumed.

 

This too, slid free easily.

 

And finally the bolt and recoil sled.  He handled this gingerly, with utmost respect, for it was the heart of the weapon and the greatest of her striking power, the destruction of his enemies.  He bathed this with the Second Unguent of Cleansing and the carbon scoring fell away from it.  He gently buffed all pieces with a soft cloth, carefully re-applying the light working oils.  Cadence had not defied him, she lay open and exposed - trusting to him and the scion of Mars who would merge her with another old campaigner.

 

Finally he removed the four pins affixing her feed link and used the ratchet to remove the sighting augur cover, withdrawing the fragile sensoria cylinder.

 

"It is done, Noble Techwright," he beckoned to a servitor and incense stained the air in preparation, "may the lore of Mars bring death from near and far."

 

+++ An Hour Later +++

 

The round-table questions passed between the fraternity and Akkad awaited the Angel's gaze. Tyber gave his account, but the sword of his tongue did not cut entirely truthfully...the lack of detail was common amongst younger Astartes, they saw such things as trivia and the large Marine was no different in that. He understood he was a tool of war and that in battle he was most alive, the rest of the world dull.

How many falsehoods had he, Akkad, heard in his time as a Sergeant? Tyber was also introspective and he'd seen the way the 'lad' had rifled through the books at the Governor's Manse. If Atratus had said it...then Akkad would have believed him, but, the big Marine was not adept at camouflage, unlike the Raptor's shadowy step.

However, that was Tyber's business. He trusted him, what did it matter?

The eyes alighted, sapphire matching emerald and the urge to be solemn stole over his demeanour. "The Techmarine, Teralil slaves to build a formidable weapon of war, Iazu. By bolt and flame, the enemy will die."

 

MR

Edited May 26, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Slips]

++Good that they have their priorities aligned with ours then, Tyber, good work. I will still want to meet with their command staff to formally introduce myself as well as debrief them on the situation. The Emperor is most certainly looking out for us that we should receive such timely reinforcements.++ He nodded at the marine.

 

++Under normal circumstances I would have to bring this to the attention of a Forge Master so that he may adjudicate on whether or not such a modification should be allowed but we have neither the time nor the personnel at hand to and we need all the firepower we can get. You will have to have to speak to the Forge Masters back at the Watch Station and submit yourself to any inquiries they may have. Am I clear?++

[apologist]

In another world, a another time, it might have been the swell of an ocean beneath their feet. Here, the thrum of the ship's distant engine – that incandescent trapped sun – created micro-tremors through the deck. 

 

Yeng hung back from the conversation, helm in place. Rubbing his left wrist idly, as if loosening the joint, he shifted his position, the hooped plates of his leg armour scraping slightly. He looked around again. It felt good to be in the void once more. Space Marines – or Gatebreakers, at least, he mused – fought best in space. 

 

He had learned a lot in a short time; and smiled inwardly that they had returned to the start. Cycles within cycles, he thought. An assault on the hiveship – but in greater strength, with lessons learned, and with anger in their hearts. 

 

Hm. But with the return of Guillermo, will our attack be a double-ended blade, or one that bears a hidden fracture?

 

The Angel and the Librarian. Yeng leaned back to appraise them once together, silhouetted against the light.

[Dosjetka]

Placeholder.

[Commissar Molotov]

 

The hololithic display shows the sheer scale of the Hive Ship compared to the Xenocide. Targeting reticules bracket an area in the enormous creature's flank, revealing the boarding torpedo's optimal insertion point as calculated by the Xenocide's cogitators and lex-mechanics in the crew. Such a deployment will drastically reduce the time needed to traverse the Hive Ship's anatomy and reach the Synapse Chamber.

 

"The fleet can be in position within a matter of hours," Fleet-Captain Locke says, addressing Solastion. "If there are any final arrangements you wish to make, you should do so now."

[Commissar Molotov]

DAY 35

 

Deathwatch Strike Cruiser ‘Xenocide’

Command Bridge

(Solastion)

 

The time has finally come. With the Hive Ship weakened, the Imperial defenders are finally ready to commit to open battle against the Tyranid invaders. Weeks of preparation have come to this.

 

The air of the Xenocide’s bridge is thick with tension. Shipmaster Rubio stands apart from his command throne, set upon a pier projected high over the work pits and instrument banks crewed by robed tech-adepts and uniformed chapter serfs going about their duty with the customary efficiency expected of those in service to the Deathwatch. One of the serfs addresses you:

 

“We are receiving a missive from the King of Kings.”

 

The central oculus screen that dominates the command bridge resolves into the visage of Fleet-Captain Locke.

 

“All vessels,” she says, “your targets are being uplinked now. Be ready to attack on my mark.”

 

Rubio points from station to station beneath him, dispensing orders.

 

“Acknowledge compliance. Bring us to quarter speed and increase reactor output to maximal. Turn seventy-five degrees and present our port flank to the enemy vessel. Activate void shields.”

 

The vibrations at the core of the vessel increase in frequency - a subtle change, but one you feel in your feet.

 

Locke speaks to you.

 

"Brother Solastion, do you wish to address the fleet?"

 

 

Deathwatch Strike Cruiser ‘Xenocide’

Boarding Torpedo

 

You lift your helms into place with practiced familiarity. They seal with a pressurised hiss, your senses enlivening as readouts of vital signs, communication runes, vox-channels and lens options . Three-dimensional hololithics of the battle as relayed through Xenocide’s auspex arrays play across your helms, each vessel signified by an identifier of red or white as the Imperial fleet closes on their Tyranid foe.

 

To begin with, the Imperials exchange long-range lance and battery fire with the Hive Ship, moving steadily closer. As they approach, the swarm begins to stir, moving like a single giant beast. Sluggishly, it begins to hurl bio-matter and ordnance into the void, like a thousand splinters falling away from the living battleship.

 

Finally, like a storm crashing over the shore, the fleet is rocked with the first impacts - even in your harnesses, you can feel the Xenocide’s armour taking a beating.

 

As the torpedo's engines flare to life and begin to thrum beneath your boots, you make your final reverent checks to your weaponry, honouring your wargear with prayer and muttered ritual.

 

If there is anything to be said before you launch, now is the time to do it.

 

GM: This is an opportunity for you to do any final checks, to say anything to your brothers or to focus on your weaponry or equipment (particularly if you have requisitioned anything new. I am targeting an update on Thursday 29th.

[Steel Company]

Boarding Torpedo

 

Tyber closed his eyes to center his mind, like this he could almost pretend he was in a Stormbird rather than a glorified coffin with a motor on the back.

 

‘Breath’. He told himself, ‘You are, were… are second company. You are the armoured fist of the Emperor and the First. When that door drops, rush forward and crush those that would dare defy the Emperor’s will.’

 

He opened his eyes and looked around as his mind asked, ‘What is the Emperor’s will now?’

 

Another deep breath and eyes shutting to focus again, ‘I am his sword against the darkness of ignorance, I am his shield against the alien!’ he told himself.

 

A small part of his mind asked yet again, ‘Are you? You act for those that claim to speak for him…’

 

His eyes opened again, gritting his teeth together before closing them again, this time seeing Adavan, sitting on that chair in his chambers, smiling at him the way he had when Tyber had done something worthy in Adavan’s eyes, this time Tyber whispered, “Give me guidance Teina e kore o toku toto (ooc: Means: Brother not of my blood), how should I shine in this darkness….”

 

When no answer came, Tyber activated the link to Akkad and spoke, +My mind is troubled Ahu, Solastion has not pressed me for details with the Adamant, for that I am thankful. Yet I find myself questioning my own actions… My own thoughts… I feel adrift, for the first time in my life there is no guiding force directing me towards some unknown objective I must complete.+

 

He paused for a moment before back tracking his words, +I do not mean to disturb Ahu, I understand if you need to be focused on the up coming operation.+

[Mazer Rackham]

Boarding Torpedo

 

Akkad fixed his eyes ahead as the restraining clamps came down, pressing him into place and keeping him upright, all the better to withstand the gravitational forces about to be thrashed against his body.  A normal man would be turned into slime, a smear on the hull.  There were Astartes who deserved such a fate, egotistical idiots that had besmirched the honour of the Chapter, brought it - 

 

+My mind is troubled Ahu, Solastion has not pressed me for details with the Adamant, for that I am thankful. Yet I find myself questioning my own actions… My own thoughts… I feel adrift, for the first time in my life there is no guiding force directing me towards some unknown objective I must complete.+

 

- low.

 

He re-focused, thinking to answer Tyber in a moment.  He listened to his hearts, thumping in rhythm, the pulsing of blood coursing through his enhanced veins, the humours of a true Astral Claw, an inheritor of the Hellscape, a shield against the darkness, a warrior born, trained, then made in the fire of the harmony - the Song Of Battle, the Dance of-

 

+I do not mean to disturb Ahu, I understand if you need to be focused on the up coming operation.+

 

- war.

 

Akkad couldn't help but stop and smile.  Cadence was harnessed around him, with her new addition of the heavy flamer and box feed.  He'd already loaded the first box of Kraken rounds.  She was as keen as the big Marine up ahead.  He could see the large shoulders prominent in the line of brothers.  In the centre of the deployment stick, this side of the torpedo, he could see the back of the Iazu's head.

 

So, his suspicions were correct then.  Now was not the time to press it.  If Solastion was satisfied - if ever that truly occurred - then he would not pry.  The lad would come to him on his own.

 

++How could I focus with you shuffling about up there, my Kin?++ he let the smile slide down the vox, trussed up in the restraints, none of them could move, save for their arms from the elbow down.  He wasn't vexed in the slightest, Kada'lil was the same in a boarding torpedo.  He hated being confined.  ++This is but a small waka and you are rocking it when you tap your feet like that.++

 

He waited a breath, gathering his thoughts.  Over a hundred years worth was a lot of thoughts to collect.

 

++You only disturb me from dark thoughts, there is no need to apologise, Ahu.  Do not worry about your destination, or how and where to choose it.  The universe has a way of putting you where it wants you,++ was he trying to convince himself? ++Focus on the moment, focus on your Brothers.  When that door blows open, go forth and kill everything.  Kill them for you, kill them for me and I shall do likewise.  That for today, will be more than purpose enough.++

 

MR.

Edited May 27, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[Steel Company]

Tyber’s mind caught on that word, purpose, ‘What is mine now?’ he asked himself, forcing his mind to Akkad, he spoke more freely than he felt, +Purpose is a funny thing, I used to think it was my purpose to lead my brothers from the front… yet the short time I had the killteam under my command taught me that it was not something that was right for me.+

 

He paused, thinking on how he had been shaped, cast, molded every day of his life on his home world, how everything had been made clear in that first fight on that little marble behind them, +This adventure from my Chapter has shown me the path I should walk… the path I think those forces had been trying to place me on.+

 

The big marine sighed, his shoulders drooping a little, +I will do my task, there is no question of that… but why did it have to be a coffin with an engine to deliver us…. I would prefer to ride as I am used too.+ he finished with some levity to his voice.

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad listened, let the giant talk.  Sometimes it was necessary just to hear your own thoughts providing the answer.  A small sliver of light peeked out from Tyber's wandering demeanour and Akkad seized it.

 

++Coffin?  Not so Ahu.  This a chariot.  A ramshackle chariot, put together by mortals with no idea of the right end of a torque-ratchet, but a chariot all the same.  Besides, if we fired you at that thing, you would kill it with a single blow and lose consciousness.  Swordhand wants vengeance - let them have it.++

 

MR.

[Steel Company]

Tyber laughed, a deep and honest laugh as he said, ++Coffin this is, a chariot is a Stormbrid!++

[Dosjetka]

Placeholder.

[Morovir]

<<INSERT PLACEHOLDER HERE>>

[Slips]

BEFORE

 

"Brother Solastion, do you wish to address the fleet?"

 

Solastions torso heaved in what was otherwise a silent sigh for Captain Locke for Solastion had just replaced his helmet. He was becoming weary of being in a makeshift command position he was not truly meant for - at least, not one he thought he was meant for.

 

++Yes, Captain, I do.++

 

==Defenders on Syndalla, this is Solastion of  the Cr-Deathwatch. We are now on the eve of the battle that will decide the fate of the System. It will be a deadly fight and, I will not lie, I expect a majority of us to not survive the ensuing combats. However, we do so in the name of the Emperor and in defense of His Domain so that those who remain may continue his great work and add us to the annals of those who willingly gave their lives in service to Him. As I speak, my Brothers and I prepare ourselves to physically enter the malign xenos abomination that plagues the System so that we may destroy it once and for all. For those who we have served with, it has been an honor. May the Emperor bless us all.== he transmits to the fleet, motioning the Aquila to those gathered before him in person and possibly any who may have a live pict-feed of him in this moment and bows lightly to all in gratitude for their service.

 

"And may Sanguinius look down upon me favorably and bless me with his guidance so that I may honor him to the fullest extent of my being..." he prayed to himself aloud underneath his helmet, silent to all but himself, the Red Angel and the Emperor.

 

+++

 

NOW

 

++Well, Brothers, it seems to me that the first time we are to all act in concert as a singular, cohesive Kill-Team is to be boarding a Tyranid Hive Ship. Let us make it a tale the Chaplains will tell for millennia to come. Brother Tyber, if you so desire, the Honor of being First in is yours.++