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

[Commissar Molotov]

It takes only a few moments for the Deathwatch to ready themselves for the journey out of the Synapse node. Weapons are reloaded, rents and tears in power armour are sealed as best as possible, and whispered benedictions are said for Ghent's sacrifice. The bisected corpse of the Invader is carried, along with his wargear and weaponry. Even Montesa and Varvost are ready to progress.

 

Following the Astral Claw's auspex signals and the keen instincts of the Raptor, the Kill-Team must progress to the beast's outer layers, closer to the skin.

 

I'm fine with players describing anything they wish as you escape. Your will see the same arterial tunnels, the same sphincter-portals, but the Bio-Ship's death means that things that once beat to alien heartbeats now twitch spasmodically or hang open lifelessly. Any Tyranids you discover (Gaunts, etc.) are scattered and confused, more like wild animals than extensions of the Hive Mind (and easily killed.) Have fun!

Edited January 21, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mazer Rackham]

Exfiltration.  Extraction.  Escape.

 

The words shortened in tandem with the time remaining to abandon the colossal hulk, now ploughing through the void unpowered.

 

The blue light from the auspex screen painted the Invader's viscera purple as it bobbed and slapped against Akkad's armour.  Rents and pitting from bio-acid, and the claws of enemy warriors, marred his warplate and the sparks of snapped techno-conduits were a constant irritation.  He came to a halt, a few yards behind the skulking shape of the Raptor, who held up a warning hand, then inverted it in Astartes Battle Sign for 'enemy'.

 

A pulsing return marked the exit and this was merely another delay.  No room for finesse here, they could not go around.  Tunnels, which were more like oversized trachea were crumpled and twisted - no longer vibrating with the obnoxious wheezing Akkad encountered before.  The mucus leaking from the fleshy pores was no longer purple or vibrant reds, it was grey and black where the ship coughed up it's innards and spat them out.  To apportion human emotion to the beast was folly as Akkad knew, and yet so many dying men spat putrid catarrh at him in accusation over the centuries of his service, he could not abandon the notion entirely.

 

You killed me.

 

It could have been a whisper from his shoulder, from the Invader's corpse, but Akkad knew what triggered it, even as he hefted Ghent's bolter in his fist and opened fire as the Kill Team came into battle-line and murdered the creatures within the chamber beyond.  Impulse flashes from their weapons pounded off the walls, to make his body shake with the concussion, and the Invader's weapon was keen to dispense death, repaying blood for blood, bullet for blade.  Murder for murder.

 

His feet ploughed through some kind of hissing slurry, the half-broken and digested bodies of the Tyranids' own beasts floating in it, bumping his greaves and crunching horribly under his cleats.  Like a well-oiled machine, even a battered and bruised one, the Kill Team slaughtered the directionless monstrosities small and great, blazing through ammunition or notching their blades with the sheer ferocity of their strikes, sparks showering from chitin strong enough to resist mag-forged steel.

 

It wasn't a rout, for Astartes do not fall back in such disorder, but if anything could cleave close to it, for Akkad, Hellsiris did.

 

And that was where the needle was coming from.

 

Did he not half-carry the bier upon which Rovik Blake, his Chapter Master, breathed his last?  He was one of many hands, admittedly, but the rich  blood slicking him was the same colour. The Ork Dread-Rokk was no different to this, albeit excavated instead of...birthed.  His attention was split between so many things, but that was the cognitive power of a Marine.  Nothing was missed.

 

Until it nearly was.

 

Vorr moved to the front by instinct and placing in the line, his automatic combat shotgun poised to bark at anything which presented itself for his vengeance.  He moved to run up a sloping tunnel, the floor of which was more ribcage than deck.

 

++No, this way!++ Akkad called to the team.  He brandished his auspex, hoping they would understand.

 

++Astral Claw, that leads down,++ the Red Talon didn't quite growl.

 

He nodded, but beyond was a passage unblocked.  With a grunt, he shifted Rodrik Ghent's body on his shoulder, forcing himself to remember who he carried, before he led off, arm outstretched with the bolter going forwards, hoping the team would trust to instinct and the machine spirit of the device.  A quick look at their Crimson Fist Librarian showed Montesa was spent, and unable to guide them beyond placing one foot in front of the other down an alien throat.

 

Beneath his feet the leviathan shuddered as it continued to die by inches.

 

We killed you, he told it.  May all your kind suffer the same fate.

 

++My Marksman,++ he voxed to Atratus, ++lead on, brother.++

 

Exfiltration.  Extraction.  Extinction.

 

MR.

[A.T.]

The floor beneath them shifted, a distant thunder audiable. These were not the death throes of the ship but the guns of the Imperial vessels falling upon their prey as the spore clouds and swarming intercept-beasts were compromised by the severed link. Beneath them somewhere the Voice of Thunder too prepared its final blow against the xenos.

 

More thunder, Atratus closed his eyes and knelt as he listed to the echoes through the ship, the delay and form of each as it reached the kill team from multiple directions, the distortion of the impact against carapace and flesh.

 

Rising he indicates a nearby passage to Akkad, away from that shown by the auspex, "the wrath of the navy calls out to us, we will not have atmosphere for much longer."

[Morovir]

Looking down at the fallen form of Ghent, Teralil thudded his gauntlet across his chest in the traditional Ultramarian salute:

 

++Your punishment is over now, brother. Go to the Emperor's side redeemed.++

 

Despite the grievous mauling their two kill teams had taken, Teralil had emerged relatively - shamefully - unscathed - a failing that be added to his already long list of crimes to atone for. But now was not the time to ponder such matters. They had slain the hive ship, yes, but they still needed to effect their exit. Perishing in the death throes of an already-slain foe was no way to die for a son of Guilliman.

 

Returning to their present situation, Teralil thudded along the corridors of the hive ship, bringing up the rear of the column and ensuring that no xenos fell upon them from the rear. It was a task without honour, but he deserved no more than that.

[Commissar Molotov]

The devilish ingenuity of the Hive Mind knows no bounds.

 

Even now, it boggles the mind how bone and chitin can be grown and shaped into echoes of recognisable forms; bulkheads, decking, corridors and accessways all rendered in flesh. But here the Iron Hand might be proven right - the flesh is weak, and iron eternal. All the ingenuity of the Tyranids is as nought before the might of the Imperium. All of you can feel the sustained bombardment from whatever remains of the Imperial fleet, and it only grows louder and more violent as you near the upper dermal layers.

 

When Akkad's auspex finally pulses into life with a locator beacon that pulses Deathwatch identifiers, it is a blessed relief. You see the runic markers of Spearcast, the venerable Storm Raven that has so reliably conveyed you to conflict after conflict.

 

++-thers, do you read me? Brothe-++

 

The static renders Thorvald Hammerhand's voice harsh and metallic, but it is still a sound all of you welcome warmly.

 

It is confirmation that the end is near.

 

 

 

* * * * *

Forgive the abruptness of the transition, but it is all for the best!

 

Deathwatch Strike Vessel Xenocide

Launch Deck

 

As Spearcast’s ramp lowers, you are able to exit the Storm Raven and stand upon the Xenocide’s launch deck once more.

 

As you descend, you are greeted by Siskus Rubio, life-bonded serf of the Deathwatch and Void-Master of the Strike Cruiser Xenocide. His face belies the strain of the void-war he has been conducting. And even as your armoured boots touch the deck, you feel it too - a wave of tiredness and exhaustion that threatens to overtake you. Your over-worked physiologies and chem-stimulated brains have been pushed to the limits of their endurance during the deployment to Syndalla. Many of you have survived the past weeks with just minutes of slumber at a time, ignoring the chafings of your armour’s invasive neural plugs and the heavy pull of sleep. Now, as the Hive Ship burns in space, you wonder whether rest can truly be possible.

 

Each of you have accumulated scores of wounds during the assault on the Hive Ship. Your armour’s flat-black lacquer is scorched by bio-acids and abraded away in places down to the steel-grey of ceramite. Your Chapter’s iconographies are marred by xenos blades and claws; gouges and impact craters are slathered with a thick crust of blood and other foul liquids that crack and crumble as you move on snarling servo-joints.

 

“My lords,” Rubio is characteristically direct, “it is good to see you again.” The moment of silence that follows the Void-Master’s words is heavy with unspoken meaning: It is good that you survived, somehow, even when the odds seemed entirely against you.

 

By now, the various machine-spirits of your warplate have established noospheric connections to the Xenocide’s systems, affording you access to the wider situation. Your vision clutters with runic signifiers and ident-tags marking the last scattered remnants of the Tyranid swarm, harried by what is left of the Imperial fleet. It is clear to see that the defenders of Syndalla have paid a heavy price indeed; most of the system defense vessels are smouldering wrecks, void-flooded and listing. Hundreds of thousands of Syndallans are dead; Beregar City lies in ruins, and it will be many years before every Tyranid creature is hunted down and destroyed.

 

All of you remember those who stand with you no longer - those whose bodies lie cold within the Apothecarion, dead or in the near-death of stasis.

 

But the assembled brethren of Kill-Teams Blackthorn and Swordhand have returned from the belly of the beast, earning a glorious victory for the Deathwatch and demonstrating the peerless battle-skill of the Adeptus Astartes.

 

 

 

 

Some of you will by necessity leave to tend to the injured, but Rubio is available for you to answer any of your questions - and you should have some!

This scene will run until next Monday the 1st, until we transition to Syndalla's surface.

 

After the initial scene in the docking bay, the Voice of Thunder is due to detonate - Sabaan or Teralil can easily confirm this - and will do so just as soon as one of you can get to a viewport to watch the fireworks! It won't destroy the vessel totally, but it will gut it, allowing the Naval vessels to finish the job.

Edited January 24, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad pulls his sparking helm off.  The snapping of circuits in his ears ceases as the war-spirits of his bellicose armour cool, soothed by the ritual stroking of the main brow of his faceplate.  He maglocks the battered lid at his waist and steadily lowers Ghent to the bier borne by the Apothecarion serfs and their chirurgeon servitors.  He looked at the electroplated hand slicked with blood, admiring the lions claw's machined into the fingertips, a savage tool in unarmed combat.  He had plucked eyes and torn out throats with it.

 

Now he bent his battered arm, bruised with the pummelling of ferocious enemies and delicately, exceedingly delicately, scratched his nose.

 

"Throne, that's better."

 

He risked a glimpse at Tyber, his brother by choice.  The huge Marine constrained by his borrowed warplate was flexing his muscles.  Akkad's lips twitched with a hint of mischief.  His secondary heart was still pounding, stealing the full volume of his breath as his genhanced physiology closed nicks and gouges, repaired the deep intrusions of alien flesh.  His green eyes slid across the battered company of Blackthorn and Swordhand.

 

"Honoured Shipmaster," he nodded to Rubio, "what is the condition and placement of The Dark Lantern?"

 

MR.

[Steel Company]

As his boots touched down on the deck, Tyber removed his helm, turning it to face him as he brought it to his forehead as his left hand reached up to touch his right pauldron while he whispered, “Akuanei ka ora ano koe e taku hoa.”

 

Maori for:

 

Soon you will be whole again my friend.

 

As he continued his walk towards the armory to refill his depleted ammo, his left hand slipped to his arming sword as he thought on how it was more like a club against the hides of the beasts, how fine a weapon it is and he began to wonder how the weapon could be made more effective. But that would have to wait, the Dark Lantern called to him, there were answers to questions he had there. Tyber was but three strides away from the exit of the bay when he heard the voice of his brother by choice, "Honoured Shipmaster, what is the condition and placement of The Dark Lantern?"

 

Halting his stride, he turned, for the answer, all but ready to declare the squad ready to embark again to board the vessel, it was too important to let it vanish into the aether.  Tyber’s eyes landed on the members of his squad, being carried from their transport and his mind is sent back, back to the return from the first operation he had been on.

 

++++

 

Holding the second company banner folded under an arm, Tyber turned in his battered Mk. IV plate after exiting the Stormbird Lance of Reason that had returned him to the Herald of Imperial Truth. Part of him was furious, of the one hundred and fifty five Astartes of the second company that had gone down to bring that world into compliance, less than forty were walking off of their transports. The rest being carried either bound for the med bay or in little vials for the next generation.

 

His attention snapped to the Company Captain as he stood with the chapter master, insisting that they are ready for another deployment, and how foolish that sounded to his ears. Tyber looked to the banner under his arm and he whispered to it, “I will not make that mistake.”

 

++++

 

The memory left him just as fast as it came and he felt shame for wanting to push his squad to deploy already, lest he make the same folly of Captain Rexis.

Edited January 25, 2021 by Steel Company

[Commissar Molotov]

Rubio's gloved hands unclasp; in them, he clutches a data-slate. It is clear that he has been anticipating your question. He taps a few runes, and the three-dimensional strategic maps on your helm-displays update to show the Xenocide's auspex recordings of the mysterious battleship. All of you watched as the vessel tore through the veil of realspace, detonating the Saint Orestes - but your assault of the Tyranid bio-ship meant that you lost sight of it.

 

"The vessel translated from the warp far too close to the centre of the Syndallan system. No sane Navigator would allow such a translation; the risk of catastrophe would be too high," Rubio's voice is grim. "The Saint Orestes was torn apart by gravitic shear as it appeared."

 

You follow dotted paths showing the Battleship's course, icons showing massive clouds of ordnance resolving as red-marked Tyranid craft swarm around this unexpected interloper, only to be wiped clean from the void by massed broadside batteries. You see Imperial vessels scatter before it, attempting to avoid the same threat.

 

"It concentrated its fire on the Bio-ship. My lords..." There is a moment's hesitation. Nothing more. You can forgive the Captain that. "My lords, it appeared to prioritise the Tyranid swarm-creatures that were targeting your boarding torpedo. Its gunnery patterns were coordinated to allow your Kill-Team egress. Once you had completed insertion, it disengaged entirely from combat and returned to the warp."

 

You see the truth of the Captain's words, as the dotted line terminates abruptly, leaving as quickly and mysteriously as it arrived.

Edited January 24, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad grinned, but it was reckless and didn't match the gleam in his narrowed eyes, the skip of harsh, cold water over emeralds.

 

"Much appreciated, Siskus," he offered the same expression to the Ahu, canting his head.   His hands stationed themselves on his hips.  "Such a shame we couldn't thank them in person."

 

MR

[Nineswords]

THE VIEW FROM the Xenocide's armour-plex port is like watching the death cycle of a Nakarene ibex through a microscope, its recently deceased husk entering the first stages of decay. Shoals of Fury Interceptors buzz in lazy arcs around it, resembling dust-vultures inspecting a kill to make sure it is truly dead. The remaining capital ships of the Imperial Navy linger above Syndalla's orbit, their broadsides aimed squarely at the bio-ship.

Rubio’s casual mention of the Dark Lantern interrupts Greysight's reverie, and a diaspora of images suddenly cascade into his mind: the Dragon of Caliban standing in an ornate room, his brow furrowed in concentration studying a book. The ink scrawl on its pages is heavy handed, yet utterly illegible at the same time. The Beast of Syndalla, long dead, rears back to life in unnatural defiance. The image of the Librarian Montesa, wreathed in a pall of smoke grasping an identical tome to Tyber's, unable to unlock its secrets. Pain. The shadow curls, its black smoke dripping until it finally pools and coalesces into the unmistakable form of an ancient ship rendered in oils. It shimmers and dances across the horizon of Greysight's perception before exploding in a violent blaze of light. In its shadow lies the bladed peaks of Sunsitai, the Storm Son's fortress-monastery on distant Nakaris. Tyber and Montesa scream in silence. A great maw tears the heavens open, beckoning the dawn of a greater darkness.

Greysight staggers, clutching a guard rail. The words he speaks are ringed with certainty. ‘The ship. This Dark Lantern, it bears ill tidings. Where is it going?’

Edited January 27, 2021 by Nineswords

[Commissar Molotov]

"The astropaths cannot say, my lord," Rubio answers. "The sheer psychic presence of the Xenos hive-mind confounded their abilities. In truth, it should have prevented the battleship from doing half of what it did with such accuracy."

 

The Captain looks past you all, at the shattered hulk of the bio-ship.

 

"Now the warp-shadow is clearing, but I am told that tracking the route the vessel took will be almost impossible."

Edited January 24, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Reyner]

Vorr couldn't keep the malice from his voice and in truth he didn't even try. Swordhand had been battling through the void whilst Blackthorn had been on the ground when mention of this ship had first cropped up.

 

++Dragon remind me why we even care about this mystery ship, it fought the Tyranids and apparently gave us cover fire. It is not our mission to chase down Rogue Traders.++

 

Vorr turns around following Rubio's gaze.

 

++How is the void war going? Have you got any transmissions from the surface?++

Edited January 25, 2021 by Reyner

[Commissar Molotov]

The Captain of the Xenocide taps more rune-keys on his data-slate. You see lists showing the various Imperial vessels fighting in the defence of Syndalla. Damage reports, casualty reports, details of Tyranid boarding actions and ammunition expenditures spiral away, on and on into nothingness.

 

Captain Locke's vessel, the King of Kings is still leading the charge, running down the last fleeing elements of the Tyranid swarm. Much like the confused, disoriented animals you fought in your extraction from the bio-ship, the last void-vessels lack communication, fighting on what passes for animal instinct. The Glory Be to Him-on-Earth, Captain Desiato's heavily-modified cruiser, is also still intact, though it has suffered damage in the assault. The Adamant, the vessel whose Captain was executed by Tyber is still in the fight, having contributed to the void-war. Many of the Levy system monitor vessels have sustained heavy damage, though this was always anticipated in the initial projections of the war.

 

The void-war is in hand, and will be an Imperial victory. It will just require further payment in the twin currencies of blood and sacrifice.

Edited January 25, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

His breathing was slow, each intake of air a labour that scorched his lungs and sent a new wave of pain to sear his nerves. His armour had all but emptied itself of any pain-inhibitor narcotic. Even the concoction Yeng had offered him now did little to ease the savagery that wracked inside his body. 

 

Still... he stood. 

 

The hours that had led up to this moment had all seemed to bleed in together, the oppressive weight of the hive's shadow weighing heavy on his mind. Even as it had finally dissipated with the great leviathan's death, the physical agony of the flesh was there to replace it. 

 

Still... he stood.

 

And yet his mind was elsewhere. Throughout the blur, the haze of pain-addled memory that tugged at his thoughts, he could still see with perfect clarity when Ghent fell. To see another brother, another son of Dorn fall to the beast while he still lived was... maddening. The fury had some come after, the lapse of judgment that came with the blinding rage. It had been his downfall, the reason he too had been laid low.

 

Still... he stood. 

 

Like the rest, Ghent would be returned to his Chapter, his pauldron placed in the sanctum of memories and his bones stripped to be carried in battle by those who would call him brother. Montessa would likely be one of those. The macabre tradition was one practiced by many of Dorn's sons. His mourning would continue with each day in prayer, and the rattle of bones would aide to remind him of those he called kin, and those who no longer stood at his side. The pangs of melancholy tugged at his soul once more, urging for the Codicier to once more fall into a respite of silence and solitude away from those he would call his brother. Part of him wanted to.. to excuse himself and simply depart for his meditation chambers and let the pain of his wounds wash over him in penance that no flagellation could imitate.

 

Still... he stood.

 

With the proud heraldry of his antique armour ruined and marred by the battles won, Montesa stood with the rest. His shoulders were level, but it was only because he silently used Mariana  as a  crutch to keep him standing, the sword's point pressed into the ship's floor to let the Codicier rest his weight upon the blade. 

 

His helmet had finally been removed, the first breath of the Xenocide's recycled air a blessing to his lungs, despite the agony that came with it. Dried blood plastered his mouth and chin, the coppery tang still rich on his tongue with each mouthful of sticky saliva he swallowed. Part of him felt as though he was truly dying... He would not die. Yeng had forbade it. 

 

The talk of the Dark Lantern had brought the Codicier's attention to the conversation, a momentary recollection passing through his mind as he recalled his visions with the blasphemous thing.. He wanted to spit, but restrained himself of the gesture. Besides. It wouldn't have same resonant comfort that it would were one of his brothers to do it. Dorn's sons could not spit acid. 

 

Word of the Glory Be to Him-on-Earth was perhaps a more fascinating subject, one that dredged up the memory of his time with Ghent on the Rogue Trader's vessel and the strange psychic resonance he sensed on the vessel. 

 

"What of the Captain Desiato? Did his ship report any internal contact with the Tyranids?" 

 

At the time, he suspected the possibility of some kind of infiltration on the captain's ship, stowaway genestealers or perhaps even a lictor breed... If there was no reports of boarding attacks from the Tyranids... something else was at play in the Rogue Trader's vessel. Decorum and more pressing matters had stayed Guillermo's hand then.. It would not be ignored now. 

Edited January 25, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

"It did, my Lord. The entire defence fleet was boarded. The fighting took place at such close range that we could do little to avoid it."

 

The data-slate proves the veracity of Captain Rubio's words. And yet still you remember the psychic tang in the air that you had sensed when visiting Desiato's vessel with Ghent. Both of you had sensed something wrong, then. If you had handled the situation differently, what might you have discovered? Ghent is no longer here; another heavy burden for you to bear in your weakened state.

 

Rubio turns back to Vorr.

 

"The ground war continues apace. Now that you have halted the bio-ship, it will not be able to land reinforcements. The PDF Levy merely have to fight the vanguard organisms and seeder-swarms. They have patrols roving across the whole planet to root out the infestation."

[Mazer Rackham]

The reckless grin turned into something different entirely.

 

"Then what are we waiting for?  Let us aid these vessels by counter-boarding, or else retake the ground upon which we first spilled our blood."

 

And finish the job.

 

MR.

[Xin Ceithan]

Sabaan nodded. There was smell of ozone and sparks still flashed from his neck guard. 

“There are still xenos elements present in significant force. Extermination protocols have not yet been completed.”

Another whirring of servos. 
“As you would put it....Let’s finish this.”

[Steel Company]

Tyber sighed at Vorr as he tried to collect his thoughts on the subject. Everything was a jumble, very little made sense about it before he settled on, “Because Brother Vorr, a painting of it was stolen from the Governor’s palace. I was given insight about it from a source that I only found by happenstance, I know I read the book that contained information on it, yet I can recall none of it. I know the vessel is of a crusade era design, that alone makes it of interest… but I know that something or someone is on that vessel that will give me answers to questions I hold.”

 

Turning his attention back to the rest of the squad Tyber offered up, “Allow me time to rearm, and I will go and end these beasts ship by ship if needed.”

[Xin Ceithan]

Sabaan moved among the team, silently listening to the exchange as he began administering some of the more complex post combat rituals  to their wargear.

 

A line of bright,  red Numbers still ran  in his lower field of vision. It was still counting down.…

 

Outside, in the void, vast mass  of the bioship still ploughed through space. It lashed out in blind fury. It‘s sheer mass presented a threat to everything around it and along it‘s path. 

 

The kill team hat fatally damaged its neural processes, a lobotomy lancet applied to critical neuronal nodes. But even with its higher functions damaged, the beast came on, literally just a mindless, wounded animal venting it‘s pain and rage blindly on everything around it, driven forward by an urge to consume everything in it’s path.

It clung to life, it‘s very nature of existence.

 

Deep inside the bowels of alien biomass,  another being  that had once been alive also clung to a  semblance of existence and was similarly focused on it’s propose. It too had been mortally wounded, crippled, blinded and lost crucial parts of itself. But shielded inside a casket of blessed adamantine, that  which formed the core of the machine spirit of the Voice of Thunder had endured. 

It did not, could not, remember the origins  of it’s mortal coil or recall the memory of the flesh from which it had been shaped. It had  harvested and then reshaped, purpose-crafted to form the very essence of a weapon  in service to Mankind and the God Emperor. A sense of duty  and obligation to the Great  Work had been hard wired into it ‘s very soul.

 

But it had been lost, maimed and broken inside the xenos abomination that has swallowed it. Digestive acids and ferrosolvent spores had eaten away at it‘s frame. It had been unable to vent it,s rage, unable to see it‘s purpose fullfilled. It had brooded in anger as it lay  crippled in the dark after the loss of it‘s crew and blinded by the deterioration of it‘s sensory augurs. 

 

Yet the light of the Omnissiah had reached it, even here, before it could be overwhelmed by anger  or driven mad in the Literal depths of it’s despair. The envoys of the Machine God had enabled it to return some  returned it to a semblance of it’s former sentience. They had reminded it of  it‘s  purpose. One  had been shaped from the essence of the storm and The other carved from the yielding heart of the Mountain. That one too hadbeen lost to the abominations. The had left, but they had left orders , had left  a purpose. They had left the numbers. 

 

It felt neither no remorse, nor pity. They both had been built  for  one purpose  and their whole nature was to serve and to be ready to end their existence  in the service of mankind. Yet it was grateful, in a way that had not been and was not, could no longer be mortal, to have been granted the possibility to still fulfill its purpose. A last act of defiance. An act of vengeance. 

 

The numbers ran down, until finally there were no more numbers left. Somewhere in the broken thing that once been the armoured bunkers holding the final reserves of ammunition,  the numbers stopped also. Elsewhere, the ordained observation of atomantic decay was likewise observed. Magnetic clamps opened, hydrogen flushed. Gears turned, both literally and metaphysical. 

The moment had come. A mortal  might have of closed their  eyes, awaiting release, relief. The Voice  of Thunder however was no longer subject to such mortal follies. When the moment came, the machine spirit simply pulsed its final thought. 

 

 

00:00:00:00

 

 

There is brief moment of something almost like serenity as Sabaan observes the final count. 

 

>> Thus perish the enemies of the Omnissiah, the Primarch and the Emperor.<<

Edited February 1, 2021 by Xin Ceithan

[Mazer Rackham]

Akkad listened carefully to Tyber's words, understanding his friend's need to unravel the mysteries assailing his reason and logical brain.  Some Astartes were like that, but under the hateful sky of the Maelstrom, when the ghosts of battlefields long given over to carrion stirred beyond the light of the campfires, that was soon tempered.

 

And yet there were other questions to ask.  How had the Dark Lantern identified their boarding torpedo?  And how had it known to come in so close and hard, destroying a vital Throne-serving ship in the process?

 

Why had it directed fire to help the Kill-Team?

 

Who was it protecting?

 

A sudden chill fell on his shoulders.  One of them, living or dead was valuable to the crew or master of the Dark Lantern.

 

Let Tyber have his answers - for they would illuminate the shadows.

 

MR.

[A.T.]

Atratus stood more openly but no less silently than usual, stealth and deception deemed an unsuitable demenour for this return.

 

Word of the Dark Lanterns actions were of concern, was the fate of this world merely the moving of a pawn in some greater game or did the ships master intend to return when any opposition would be at its weakest?

 

The Raptor nodded affirmation at Tybers words, their work here was not yet done. Turning to Rubio, "how long until the astropaths can break through this shadow? The Deathwatch must be informed of what has transpired."

[Commissar Molotov]

At the Iron Hand's words, there is a blinding flash from the viewports outside, bright enough that your auto-senses almost immediately attempt to compensate by dimming your helmet's lenses. Those serfs not wearing protection almost immediately put their hands to their eyes or avert their gaze.

To have allowed the Voice of Thunder to suffer an end as ignominious as being slowly rendered down into gruel for the bio-ship to feast upon would have been a grave dishonour. It was a weapon of war, and its death would be that of a warrior. And so the process instigated by the two Techmarines finally reaches its explosive culmination. Those of you with some knowledge of void-warfare can well imagine the Voice of Thunder's drive-reactors reaching critical mass, boiling plasma breaching containment and roaring through what is left of the cruiser's frame.

The Hive-ship's skin ruptures, bursting forth from within in a manner akin to the bloody ruin of a bolter shell's detonation, writ large across the heavens. Actinic flame gouts and blooms in a series of chain-reactions as debris - both mechanical and organic - showers outwards, and as the shock-wave reaches the Xenocide you feel the deck vibrate under you, as if the Strike Cruiser trembles in sympathy for the Voice of Thunder's demise.

As the light clears, you see what remains of the bio-ship: the detonation has blown a vast hole in the side of the alien vessel. All of you recognise it for what it is - a death-blow, a gaping and ragged wound that could never be recovered from. The vessel wears a funereal shroud of debris - crystallised fluids, chitinous fragments and microscopic specks that could be Tyranid creatures blown into the void glisten in the distant sunlight like scattered jewels. Feeder tendrils hang limp and splayed; the bio-ship rolls lazily in the void.

"I'll ask the astropaths for an update," Captain Rubio replies.

Edited January 26, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Slips]

As Solastion stood on the docking bays plating, the rhythmic vibrations of shells being fired at the xenos enemy reminding him that their task was far from done, his hyper-adrenaline and bloodlust finally subsiding and giving him a more measured sense of control he reflexively clenched and unclenched his ha-

 

He couldn't really feel his right hand. Odd. He hadn't noticed anything wrong until this point and his diagnostics HUD showed him as being hurt but nothing was amiss. He blinked over to his suits system readouts - Ah.

 

++Brother Sabaan, if you could lend me a moment of your time, I seem to be...stuck.++ he said slightly exasperated as he waved his chainsword-clenching hand in the Techmarines direction, sparks and the grinding of ceramite visible and audible for those gathered. It seems that in his battle-fervor that he had succeeded in pushing his armor beyond its limits as he started hacking into the Tyranids moreso than cutting with his sword...He'd have to have a moment with a IXth Legion-descended Chaplain at some point...

 

++Now, Brothers, while our current mission was successful but our mission far from concluded, it is in our best interest to take time to rest and recuperate before our next action. Losing anyone else due to ill-cautioned zealotry would be a great detriment to our overall success and reflect poorly on the rest of us.++

 

++For now, we have wounds to tend to, wargear to repair and re-consecrate and the Dead to Honor. The time for action will return soon enough.++

 

++However, Brothers Tyber, Akkad, Greysight and Montessa, as well as anyone who would have come into contact with any materials regarding the subject, I wish to be brought abreast of the situation with the Dark Lantern.++

 

Once his suits vambrace is repaired or otherwise removed, he will proceed to the decontamination chambers and subsequently join Yeng, if he so desires, in the Apothecarion to aid in the Progenoid extraction process.

Edited January 26, 2021 by Slips

[Noctus Cornix]

Without his helm's sensory stabilizers to damped the searing light, Guillermo was forced to close his eyes for a fraction of a second, averting his gaze and allowing his gene-enhanced physiology to handle the new ache behind his eyes. It did little to ease the burden. 

 

To know a vessel of the Imperium had met its end was a sobering thing. Still, she had a good death. Even if her ending was ignoble, the vessel had given fine credence to her name. Though they'd not hear the explosion in the vacuum of space, the shuddering in the Xenocide's bones had a comforting resemblance to the roll of a coming storm.

 

As the ache dissipated, the Codicier once more returned his attention to the works at hand. While much of this information at play was nothing new, his knowledge of what had transpired on the surface was entirely second-hand. 

 

This Dark Lantern was a rather queer anomaly amidst the chaos of  Syndallan's defense. His thoughts lingered off to the grey-bound book that had been given to him... and the strange dreams he had along with it.

 

He considered it for a moment. There was no current explanation as to why the vessel had appeared so abruptly from the warp and came to bear upon the hive ship. Descriptions had almost seemed miraculous, something akin to the legends of the Astartes wreathed in flame, appearing from the nothingness to reap a terrible toll upon the enemies of man before simply vanishing into nothingness once more.. And yet... This was something more foul. 

 

Why would a painting of a vessel be stolen? Perhaps it was a mere matter of wealth?.. And yet, the sudden appearance of the vessel itself would argue against such a possibility. Perhaps there is some purpose to it.. a connection to this warp anomaly...

 

A connection to the warp....

 

"Brothers..." Guillermo called out to his kin before any would take their leave on Solastion's command. "I would advise we not allow the good Captain Desiato to leave system. It is... just a hypothesis, but I believe I know where we may find the painting of this Dark Lantern that was stolen."

[Commissar Molotov]

Each of you are directed to stalls where be-goggled Chapter Serfs wearing rubberised gowns and gloves are wreathed in the cloying scent of sacred incense. You are washed down with high-pressure hoses of sanctified water, laced with all manner of counter-septics and xenocidal unguents. All of you understand the threat the Tyranids pose, from the gargantuan Hive Ship to the smallest microscopic creatures. Whilst it is an annoyance, it is a necessary one.

 

The water pounds against your battle-plate like rain, and as it hammers down some of you find a moment of meditative peace. The run-off gurgles red-black down steel drains, to be shunted off into space later.

 

When the hoses shut off, you have a moment to yourselves, to decide where to go next.