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

[Commissar Molotov]

[Placeholder]

 

For any last minute details you guys want edited in! 

Edited February 1, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Commissar Molotov]

A Moment of Triumph

Two Weeks Later…
Governor’s Manse, Beregar City

The last vestiges of the thermobaric shield have finally burnt off, and daybreak across Beregar City is heralded by church bells and the roaring sound of cheers. It sounds like the far-off rumble of an ocean tide. Celebratory prayers and hymnals resound from laud-hailers mounted on every street corner, the noise echoing and reverberating until it merges into a solid wall of sound.

Civilians that have for so long huddled in makeshift shelters and emptied granaries flood into the streets in their hundreds of thousands. Enforcer patrols have done their best to keep order, turning back the multitudes to witness the day’s events on hololithic screens elsewhere within the city.

You stand within the Governor’s Manse. It was here that the brothers of Blackthorn turned back a Genestealer ambush, and first met the Broodlord Patriarch of the cult. It was here that both Kill-Teams oversaw the defense of the city, and the entire solar system. In the two months you have been on Syndalla, it has grown familiar to you all.

In the last two weeks the Deathwatch have been at the forefront of Syndalla’s defense, refusing to allow the injuries sustained in the Hive Ship assault to slow them. Your time has been consumed by a series of purges carried out to eliminate any Tyranids lurking aboard the naval vessels. Some of you were dispatched to oversee roving patrols across the surface of Syndalla, working alongside the Levy PDF to burn the last survivors out of their nests. That Greysight, Atratus and Thorvald were able to find and eradicate the Lictor that evaded you once before only increases the esteem in which the people of Syndalla hold you.

Overseen by Teralil, the serfs assigned to the Xenocide have worked veritable miracles on your wargear. The ceramite is freshly-lacquered, polished and oiled to a sable shine. Purity seals have been affixed to your armour and you all look every inch the Astartes hero of legend. Your weaponry is holstered and sheathed, but several among your number bear a far greater burden. In your arms, you carry the helms of those that cannot be with you. Vaidan. Echion. Jor. Alderax. Cathar. Ghent. Boros. Embe. They deserve to participate in today’s celebrations.

At a nod from one of your number, a pair of PDF troopers open the double-doors to the Manse. You cannot fail to spot the smiles upon their faces. As daylight streams in, you are dazzled for the merest second, before finding yourselves buffeted by a wall of noise. A city cheering for you all. It is so loud that your auto-senses begin to compensate as though you were under bombardment, filtering it to a more acceptable volume.

You feel it in your diaphragm as Imperial Navy fighters fly low above, dipping their wing-tips in deference to you. As your gaze travels up, you see the vessels of the Imperial Navy in low orbit. The heat-haze ripples in the air, but you can still make out the details of their hulls clear enough. Fighter groups ring their mother-ships, leaving hazy white contrails, whilst the far-off sonic booms that filter down to you only add to the sense of celebration.

It takes you the greater part of two hours to travel on foot from the Governor’s palace to the great Cathedral at the city’s centre. Syndallan citizens line the way, cheering, applauding, waving banners and Imperial flags. Flowers and cut-out paper tokens stream from upper-floor windows like a snowstorm, raining down upon you and bouncing from your warplate to land on the roadways.

When you finally reach the steps of the Cathedra you see that a viewing platform has been constructed. PDF troopers politely point the way and you ascend the steps to see Lord Vortis, the Governor of Syndalla, along with Interrogator Haldane. The Governor smiles broadly at you, seeming more comfortable with both his rank and your presence than when you first pulled him, covered in blood, from the genestealer ambush. Despite being thrust into leadership, he has prospered over the last months. For her part, Interrogator Haldane has donned more ornate garb than the combat armour you saw her in last; her hair is braided in an intricate style, with her Mistress’s rosette pinned at her throat.

Before you, the roadway is dominated by rolling ranks of massed Leman Russ Battle Tanks hailing from the Syndallan Levies, cloaked in a haze of exhaust fumes that hang heavily in the summer air. Some of the tanks’ upper hatches are open, the tank commanders waving to the populace.

Groups of PDF troopers march in lock-step behind, saluting you. The badges and buttons of their uniforms gleam in the sunlight, as do the bayonets affixed to their lasrifles. You recognise some of them as veterans of the ground war to hold the planet.

Delegations formed from the crew of Imperial Navy vessels follow, in rigid formation. Fleet-Captain Locke, austere as ever in her dress uniform, leads them, saluting you all as she passes.

Deputations of the Mechanicus comprised of red-robed skitarii chitter like insects as they move in perfect mechanical unison, led by Tech-Priests whose mechanical enhancements glitter in the sun.

On and on, the parade continues. The noise of the crowd seems to vibrate the very air around you and the ground beneath you; you can feel it in your legbones. From somewhere in the city, fireworks bang and fizz, staining the sky with quick blooms of colour and light.

This is a moment of triumph. And it is richly deserved.

Edited February 1, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

Tyber knew that time was growing short before he needed to be in the square for the ceremony, but there was something he needed to do first. Making his way to the grave markers that had been set up for those that fell. He was looking for the name of the girl that had given him soup that first night on this world before she was killed in the shower by one of the smarter beasts.

 

Once he came to the name, Tyber unbound her dog-tags from the hilt of his arming sword before hanging them from the marker. Once he’d done that he kneeled before the marker and spoke, “I did not manage the catch the beast. When I found it, it bested me. But I carried you with me when we faced down the leader beast, you delivered the killing blow to that beast with me.”

 

He paused and dug in a pouch to take out a splinter of the exoskeleton of the Overlord and placed it at the base of the marker as he continued, “We each took a trophy from that beast, I bring you yours so that you may show your ancestors your deed.”

 

As he stood to his full height again and replaced his helm and started to walk away he said more to himself than those around him, +I will not forget the kindness you showed me. But for now, I must depart as I am needed elsewhere.+

 

++++

 

He stood with his brothers, silently as they were greeted by the people and he could not help but wonder if the family of that woman that had given him soup was here some where, if they knew how she died or if they were told some lie about it. That was neither here nor there how ever, for now he kept to required motions, listing to the speeches by the mortals, the praise being lauded over to him and his brothers. Yet this felt so empty, a feeling that it was both empty of earned at the same time. From his position he could see the statue of Solastion that had been erected and he felt both envy and relief of not being the one chosen for it.

 

His eyes drifted back to Locke and he wondered if she would take the offer he had given her, a place to go should the fleet seek to punish her for doing the right thing.

 

The right thing Tyber thought, since coming here he had started to question what the right thing was, he had killed an Imperial Navy Officer that was to stupid to see what was going on around him, he had killed a mortal girl only hours after saving her from the beasts. He had come to the Death Watch for what he thought was the right reason, but had seen his true path shown to him, a path that will lead him deeper into his host rather than away from it like he had wanted. All he needed to do now, was wait till they returned to the watch station and he could seek out the watch captain to see if there is a way for him to take the next step on his path.

Edited February 2, 2021 by Steel Company

[Nineswords]

[ Post Purged ]

Edited February 9, 2021 by Nineswords

[Slips]

[ Placeholder - Solastion feels the weight of what they just got through crashing down on him]

[Xin Ceithan]

...

The lumen globe is dim, casting long shadows. Everything seems  dimmer now, the adept muses. 
A hooded figure gestures for him, interrupting his gloom. The adept crosses the room swiftly , then  places the data spool tabernaculum along a row of similar bronze vessels already lined on the glassy surface of the lectern.

“My Lord. We have managed to recover some more transcript residues from the Xenocide site. We even have several minutes of vox and pic captures from the victory parade of the Syndallian Repulsion. We believe they were recorded by one of the Techmarine battle brothers involved in that assignment. There is a rather detailed examination of the vehicle formations on parade, along with streams of STC  patterns involved. Weight. Armaments.  Cross references to assignments earlier in the Repulse. There is short pan that may be genuine footage of the Angel of Syndalla. Even the Saint of Blades. The Archeologi will be engaged  for months.”

 

The hooded figure at the lectern nods absent minded. 
 

“There is even a fragment of something of an audio comment. The Audiorestorators are still going over it, but it may be an authentic piece, maybe an offhand  comment from the battle brother.”

 

The ruffling of heavy cloth as the  hood turns. A questing glance.

 

”Umm, we do not have restored enough to verify this, my Lord.” The Adept swallows nervously.

 

”But apparently the Iron Hand was wondering why they were wasting all those resources and time there, when they could be used elsewhere, destroying  the enemies of the Imperium”

 

....

[Reyner]

Vorr gently held the Mark 8 Errant pattern helmet that Echion had worn during his tour of the Deathwatch. He looked down at it and nodded approvingly at the restoration work Teralil had done it was flawless - the gouge across the mouthpiece was gone and it was as if had never happened. The red lightning motif shone bright red in the sun with a ruby glow. Damn fine work.

 

He had disabled the output vox of his helmet so noone could hear him speak.

 

"You should have been here Brother, should have been with us as we gutted the hive ship and destroyed the Tyrant . I thank you for your bolt pistol and I will carry it for as long as I serve the Deathwatch."

 

He paused mulling his next words they felt like he was confessing failure.

 

"Your death was a poor one, but at least it was quick, I kept going through the armour cameras and finally saw it wasn't one of our own that killed you. You were avenged we killed them all."

 

The procession droned on and on so many strategic resources that could have been used elsewhere securing the system. They should throw all of this into the campaign for the system, drive the Xenos out of their homes, then they could celebrate. The flesh was weak but it was capable if fury directed it properly.

 

He opened a private vox to the other space marines so the mortals wouldn't hear.

 

++We are wasted here we should be leading a purge of the system as the speartip. We are Astartes. We cannot rest whilst the alien yet draws breath.++

[A.T.]

As the battle brothers assembled for the parade Atratus took his position as last among them. Not a slight against him nor indicative of his junior status but a choice, simple pragmatism.

 

Against the xenos that had struck this world he moved with ease ahead of the killteam but in matters of humanity his vision had been poor - he had not forseen the intrigue surrounding the assault, not suspected the hand of the witch-xenos upon the fleet, nor even the machinations of a simple saboteur that had almost taken his life and that of Brother Tyber. The parade would be long and exposed... though having walked amongst the people here when the world was believed lost he felt a certain understanding of its need.

 

The signal to begin was given and the kill team moved in lock step. Around them the govenors staff had been assigned to carry banners denoting their deeds and past victories, and with each the banner of the Syndalla campaign symbolisting the xenos trapped between a world shielded by fire below and the blades of the Astartes above - one blade for each standing here and one wreath of flame for each fallen.

 

The sound of distant fire caught his attention as the first of the fireworks was launched into the sky. Atratus turned his eyes back to the crowd, the parade would be long and exposed.

[Commissar Molotov]

"Hrm."

Varvost's customary response, it seems. Each of you have heard it enough over the last months. He swats at a vid-skull floating near you like one might bat away an insect. Who knows what footage it captured, or who might come to view it.

The Eradicator's right leg has been replaced with a bionic, fitted by Yeng. It gives him an awkward stomping gait, like a Warlord Titan crushing all before it. The lost eye, however, requires more delicate surgery that will need to be conducted at Watch-Station Azurea. With his patchwork face hidden by his helm, his injury is not obvious. Indeed, his armour is in better condition than any of you have seen before. It is still dented and battered, but the damage inflicted by the Tyrant Overlord has been repaired.  It occurs to you that Teralil likely seized the opportunity of Varvost's sedation to go to work.

Edited February 4, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[apologist]

The others picked it up before him. He knew, of course, that there was a celebration, but in the most abstracted sense. He had no idea whatsoever of what to expect.

 

Most of the grubby little wars he'd fought amongst the Edgeworlds were in the Wilderness Space pickets – no grateful crowds there. Even the planetside battles more often ended with the downcast survivors of a village all but razed to the ground, or ash-coated waifs, glancing about with the nervous fear of the newly-homeless. 

 

Gratitude was a thin thread out there.

 

Not always, of course. Yeng cast his mind back to Bremmel, where the spear-wielding, fur-clad warriors had moved in a curiously syncopated, rigidly controlled dance. Alternately lit and silhouetted by the victory-fires, it was hypnotic. Rhythmic jumps and stamps, all punctuated by the beat of immense drums and the skirling of pipes. The fourteen Gatebreakers there to witness it had worn broad smiles on their varied faces – all save Dynson, the sour bekpt, of course – Yeng thought, with a fond grin.

 

It was one of his fonder memories, prior to his evacuation into the Dark. He recalled the warmth cast on his faces; a warmth matched by the wine and meat in his belly and the glow of pride in his heart.

 

This wasn't like that. As the doors were thrown open, the wall of noise – already loud enough to feel through his boots – broke upon them. Immediately, his body reacted as though to combat; his secondary heart starting up, his narrow eyes widening; nostrils flaring. 

 

It lasted but a moment, but Yeng was utterly bewildered. His mouth hung open for a moment, before he caught himself. He almost laughed; but contented himself with a small smile. Straightening himself, he turned, first to Tyber, then to Greysight. 

 

"On Edge, victories are smaller. I see now why you find the Core so much appealing." He caught a glimmer in Greysight's eye. Unwilling to hang back, he stepped forward, that naval roll further pronounced by the barely-healed injuries. Yeng was a mass of clots and scar tissue beneath the plate; but as he had come to understand in his short time with the others; here, a Space Marine was his armour.

 

"On Edge, victories are smaller. As the Sages say; a beggar is often hungry – but at a feast, no-one appreciate the food more. Come!"

 

Edging forward, in line with those at the front, he lifted his hand in a salute to the crowd. Waving his hand broadly, his face was split in a grin so genuine, so happy, that he felt for a moment that he could live forever.

Edited February 3, 2021 by apologist

[Noctus Cornix]

He stood with his brothers, the radiance of Syndalla's distant sun bathing his reforged warplate in its gleaming light. The Mk IV power armour purred with a feline apeasement, far quieter than the active thrum of most his brethren's power armour. Its antiquity shone beautifully in the light, the gilded filigree of his ancestral warplate glinting in the sunlight while the imperial eagle stretched proudly across the surface of his breast. It looked every bit the part of the gathered display, as though it had been made for just such a ceremonial parade. 

 

Yet, two of a kind, a survivor felt ill-at ease in the presence of such undeserved praise. Some scars were simply far deeper than the surface, and some simply lasted for millennia. He could feel the unease of his armour's machine spirit, the barest edge of a sluggish response to his movements, as though shrinking away inside itself from the light of Syndalla's sun. It forced the barest hint of a somber smile to play across his lips, his free hand reaching up quietly to press upon the roaring eagle at his chest as the flash of a dreadnought's sarcophagi edged into memory.

 

Be at peace. It is our guilt to bear. Let us not curse our kin with our own dour humours... 

 

Slowly, his hand receded from his breastplate, coming to rest rest on the pommel of Mariana sheathed at his side. 

 

In his other hand, he carried a helmet, not his own but one of comparable antiquity. The Mk VI Corvus helm felt heavier than it was, its crimson eye lenses darkened with its inactive state. Just beneath, threaded through his fingers, hung the ossified talisman of Aeldari bones. Both had belonged to Rodrik Ghent of the Invaders chapter, loyal son of Dorn to the very end. 

 

His thumb idly caressed the conical protrusion of the helm's faceplate, another weary smile playing upon his lips.

 

 

Rest, blood-kin. I will join you in the Feast-Halls of the Emperor soon enough...

 

His attention pulled away from the past soon enough, turning his gaze to look at the most animated of his brothers, and one of the last remaining members of Swordhand. 

 

"You look every bit the part of the joyous hero they sing of in bardic poems, Brother." Gullermo said to Yeng, watching as the Apothecary waved and smiled to the crowd.

 

Such sincerity and warmth brought the first genuine smile to Guillermo's lips in a long time.

Edited February 4, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

Finally, the parade reaches its climax. For some of you, the experience has been a joyful reminder of the Imperium you fight for, of the people whose lives your actions have saved. For others, it is an interminable waste of resources. The square before the Cathedral - the site of Blackthorn's first battle after crashing down to Syndalla's surface - is now packed full of people cheering for you all.

 

Governor Vortis stands, waving his arms for silence. Finally, he speaks, his amplified voice echoing around the square.

 

"Syndalla stands!"

 

The noise is overwhelming, a full-throated roar like an ocean wave that surges over you. In the distance, you hear the same from far away, as the Governor's words are picked up and transmitted across the city - across the world.

 

"Syndalla stands," the Governor repeats, "on the bodies of the fallen. We have sacrificed much, lost much. But we have endured. The alien threat within our midst has been crushed. We will rebuild. The crops that have been trampled will stand again. That which has been scythed down will grow tall, once again. These are truths that we know from hard-won experience."

 

Vortis turns slightly and motions. Two servants come forward, carrying a large, heavy wooden box between them. The Governor presses his thumb against the box's lock, and the lid opens. Inside the case, couched in velvet, you see a beautiful sword. A power sword, stretched to Astartes proportions. The blade is long and straight and worked with faint swirling designs along the length of the blade that bring to mind the sheaves of wheat you have all seen across Syndalla's seemingly endless fields. Its grip is wrapped in black leather, inlaid with fine gold thread. Its crossguard is plain, but even that highlights the level of craftsmanship inherent in its construction.

 

The Governor motions to Solastion, the Angel of Syndalla.

 

"This blade is named Harvest," he smiles ruefully. "We are an agri-world, after all. Our craftsmen are adept, if lacking in imagination. Please, Brother Solastion, take this as a token of our appreciation for all you have done for us."

 

The Crimson Knight reaches down into the velvet-lined case, picking up the Power Sword. He holds it up, admiring the play of the light on its unpowered blade.

 

"Governor, you do me great honour," Solastion says, his vox-emitters loud enough to be picked up by the crowd, "but a blade this fine should be wielded by the warrior who ended the threat to your world."

 

With that, the Sanguinary Priest turns, his hands outstretched.

 

"Brother Tyber, the Syndallan Sword should be yours to wield."

 

The Sanguinary Priest's next words come over a private channel.

 

"Take it. And address the crowd. The people of Syndalla need to have faith in their champions."

 

GM:

 

Harvest, the Syndallan Sword: Harvest is a Master-Crafted Power Sword (see p.147 of the Core Rulebook)

Class: Melee | Damage: 1D10+8 E | Pen: 6 | Special: Balanced, Power Field, Master-Crafted (+2 Damage [included], +10 to WS), Felling (1) (against Tyranids)

 

For narrative, when its blade is ignited, it is the golden yellow of Syndallan wheat.

Edited February 4, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

Tyber looked at the offered blade before he removed his helm and attached it to his belt, if nothing else this was used to stall for time, was he actually worthy of such an honor he wondered. After a moment he extended his hands palms skyward to accept the weight of the blade into them. The blade weighed little, but the weight was still heavy to him, this blade was ever so fine, exceptional, but it was the weight of those that had fallen against these beasts, this would be their legacy.

 

Another moment passed before he turned to face the crowd, searching his mind for the words to say to them before he let his hearts speak, “Though this world has shown us all pain, it has shown us warmth, kindness, and the resolve of the people of this world. Though it had been my muscles that delivered the killing blow, I did not do it myself, nor was it just my brothers. I carried one of your own with me into that engagement, if in spirit rather than in body. On the night that we arrived, a young woman offered me some of what little rations she had…” he paused to gesture to the tin-roofed shed on the side of the cathedral before he continued, “right there. I had not expected such generosity, such kindness from a people I did not know. She fell in the fighting that came after, but I carried her identification tags with me, from the fight with the leader of the cult to ending of the hive tyrant, one of your own stood with us, fought with us.”

 

He paused again, looking over the crowd thinking on what to add before saying, “I am both honored and humbled that you would gift us with this blade…” he paused again to activate the power field, sheathing the blade in a golden glow as he continued, “Just as I carried her with me, I will carry this to bring all of you honor until I fall and a new brother takes up this task. I thank you, for this gift and I will not forget this world or its people.”

 

Tyber deactivated the blade and stepped back into line, placing the blade tip down and resting both hands on the pommel of the blade.

Edited February 4, 2021 by Steel Company

[Slips]

++And that, Brother Tyber, is why you are worthy.++ Solastion privately voxed back.

[Noctus Cornix]

The Codicier watched with his assembled brothers, unhelmed as he stood amidst his brothers of Swordhand. He smiled again, another expression of genuine worth. 

 

Twice in one day. Will wonders never cease to surprise...

 

With his helm detached, Guillermo leaned quietly towards his kin, muttering to Yeng and Vorr so as to not disturb the continued procession. 

 

"He is young, but he has already achieved much. Mark my words, brothers, this one will go far.."

 

Then, he returned back to his regal posture, standing straighter with his armoured shoulders squared. He looked every bit the part of a marble statue as Dorn's sons were so often compared to.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Triumph was over, and the sun fell, as if culled from the sky with a clawed hand of dark clouds.

 

It dipped below the horizon and Beregar city began to settle.  The darkness brought peace first, as those citizens who thought it all over took shelter in their hovels, but others knew better.  Akkad stood by the gate, a group of veterans manning it, waiting for the night procession, that of the secret dead, the quietly mourned.  He took a long handled torch and lit it from the brazier at the city gates - the wind a chill companion to the summer night.

 

Above, the walls of Beregar towered, the fire which man first used to hold back the darkness springing up across the battlements.  Higher still, the clouds duelled with the moon to allow the silver light to pierce the umbrella hiding the stars and the shining spearheads of battleships.  They looked glorious still from below, despite Akkad’s memories of gouged hull plating and the innards torn to shreds, almost gutted by savage beasts.

 

The soldiers of the 303rd gathered round, each dressed in uniform, eyes hard in the light.  The bier containing General Wrex's body was on the back of a military truck, the canvas sides removed to allow al to see the medals and sword that lay across the casket.  Akkad took position beside the carriage and without a word, they began a long trek uphill, far from the city.  No brothers accompanied him, and the Emperor did not dwell upon his shoulders.

 

This was personal business.

 

The mourners came from a day's hard marching during the Triumph, their loyalty to the General was forged in fires that forbade complaint, their feet and bodies hardened by the war for their world.  The broad-shouldered General fell at the last, where he should always have been, amongst his men, destroying their enemies.  The march took him past fields that a few short weeks ago held golden wheat.  He closed his eyes and put his free hand out, expectant, remembering the sound of stalks tapping against his armoured palm and fingers.

 

Upon Badab, it would be harvest time soon, the golden sheaves matching Tyber's new blade, but the silence of his hand striking nothing and the scent of scorched earth surrounding his bare head told him of the great price paid by the people, by the world.

 

He hoped Badab would never suffer the same fate.

 

As they continued to climb, the graveyard came into view.  It lay at the base of one of the foothills bordering the city-state limits, filled with plascrete tombs and statues, burned and crumbled.  Marble smashed into power and reduced to molten rock slurry.  The grave for the General was marked by an Ecclesiarch, one from another town far to the East of Beregar.  His servants held glowlamps that he might discharge his duty.  The wind cut and blew at the thick book of psalms and tugged at the deep purple stole around the preacher's neck.

 

Akkad moved to the back of the bier and handing his torch to one of his men, he pulled the casket towards him smoothly, with the ample sincerity and dignity a Space Marine could muster.  The weight was nothing, as he handled the coffin, gently placing it down, taking the chains to lower it before the mourners shovelled the burned and desecrated earth over it.  As they left, Akkad still stood, thinking of Vaidan, of Ghent.  The others he did not know.

 

He reflected upon the crusade that brought him here, had changed him so much.  He was alone, with just the burning lights, the snapping wind.  He stooped over the mound of soil, removing a prepared object, softly and deftly filling the heavy bolter shell case with grave-spoil, before sealing it and placing it at his waist.  The loneliness of the place and the act moved him powerfully, and he began to recite a song-poem as he looked up the heavens.

 

Ia ulu-na-me Zal-ni,

Zal-ni Ta’mi Dar’i,

Gissu’lal, An’zakar-Gian’na.

 

An-nissig, Gin-ge’si,

Barim-kas’ma, Ab-Abzu.

Gur’aa Kusum, Sa’Ki-aga'El,

Ia lu’ru-gu-da, Ni’g-zu ZI-sa’Gal.

 

Kibadr’a Kir Abzu, Mal’al-ah,

Kibadr’a Am-o Guki’n,

Azbu Enlil-am, Ia, Nam-mul.

 

Once finished, he dropped the torch onto the grave, and without looking back, left his shame buried there and marched back to the city.

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

[Placeholder] 

 

(For any post-parade, pre-reinforcement background you guys want edited in...) 

[Commissar Molotov]

One Week Later

Syndallan Orbit

 

By your armour

[Noctus Cornix]

A long breath drew in through the Codicier's lips as he watched the Captain step down from the Thunderhawk's forward ramps, the breath leaving him in the same moment as he began to step forward from his assembled brothers in order to approach Watch Captain Diocles. 

 

As the most senior member of the remnants from Swordhand and Blackthorn, it fell to him to report to their Lord on the victory on Syndalla, and its great cost. 

 

These thoughts slid across his mind in a reluctant sense of duty as he approached, yet it seemed to slip away the moment he saw the chalk-white warriors moving from behind the Captain, their unfamiliar heraldry and crimson eye lenses staring back at him as they formed a loose pack behind Diocles. Their posture was what made his skin crawl, the ever-so-slight edge of a forward hunch, like predatory animals looking for prey. This was not the demeanor of brothers who had come looking to aid their kin. The targeting reticule instinctively flitted across his vision, the monochrome red  flickering across the bolters and weapons in clenched fists, repeating the same word in eye-aching white text. 

 

Threat.

Threat.

Threat.

Threat.

Threat. 

 

It was almost enough to give him pause, his foot stalling for a fraction of a heartbeat mid-stride. He swallowed down the unease and pressed on, regaining his momentum with measured practice as he came to stand before his Watch Captain. 

 

The continued flicker of Threat. Threat. Thre- continued to flicker across his vision  until his thumbs unclasped the pressurized seals of his helm, lifting it from his gaze so that he might face his Commander. Holding the Mk IV helm under the crook of his right arm, the Codicier used the left to offer Diocles a half-aquillian salute in unison with a curt bow. 

 

"My Lord." He said, briefly looking over the Captain's shoulder to stare at the assembled Star Phatoms before returning his attention to the Captain. With his gesture of respect done, the Librarian's hand instinctively rested upon the pommel of Mariana sheathed at his side. 

 

"We were not expecting to see you before our return to the Watch Fortress." With this, he offered Diocles a momentary flash of a smile, a somber expression the Captain was likely already used to seeing from the Codicier. 

 

"Syndalla safely returns to the Emperor's embrace once more, my Lord. By Blackthorn's hand, the cultists were purged from the world's surface, and the combined efforts of Blackthorn and Swordhand saw the Hivefleet's Synaptic Mothership slain. Xenos life has been all but expunged for the system... "

 

There was a momentary pause, the next few words were the ones he did not wish he had to speak.

 

"The cost was great. Vaidan, Boros and Embe sustained grievous wounds and are locked in status. Echion. Jor. Alderax. Cathar. Ghent. Five brothers lost, their gene-seed recovered and I will transcribe their deeds in the Halls of Remembrance. Through their sacrifice, we have seen the beast laid low. Their Watch has ended."

Edited February 5, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Nineswords]

+++ POST PURGED. AVE IMPERATOR +++

Edited December 17, 2022 by Nineswords

[Steel Company]

Tyber watched the thirty in white, the heraldry on their shoulder reminding him of what became of the Host of Bones after the coming of the Lion, much as his host became something else. Again he rolled the name of the chapter around in his mind, Star Phantoms, he had no knowledge of it, but the connection to the Host of Bones marked them as kin, did it not?

 

Tyber tried to relax as he waited for the librarian to finish speaking with the captain, yet it kept nagging at him that these white armored astartes bore their weapons openly, he couldn’t let his guard down.

[Mazer Rackham]

The brotherhood stood around at loose attention.  The Imperial Guard would have snapped into iron rods at such an entrance.

 

The warmth of Captain Diocles' greeting did not match the response given by the Crimson Fist.  He didn't have to be a witch to sense that the Librarian, who was melancholy on his best day and downright maudlin and introverted on others - even at the bosom of a parade in his honour - detected the oddness of thirty Astartes in war harness.  Who gave a damn to their panoply, there were three full squads there.

 

Three.

 

They deployed into combat formation, almost preparing to sweep the room.  Each one of his brothers was covered - albeit the barrels of the bolters toted were pointed at the deck.  They moved with Astartes precision and the gait of Astartes thunder of ceramite boots on the plasteel deck.  He noticed Greysight's Sulde twitch in the windless room.  He'd canted both helm and body for easier weapon reach.  Only one of Blackthorn would know it.

 

Tyber was on edge.  Forced patience and discipline in the face of his Watch-Captain warred with some other thing within - perhaps the keen sense of the duellist.  He sought to sooth the giant with a private jest.

 

+Throne,+ he sneered, +look at that carry on.  Do they expect applause?+

 

MR.

[Steel Company]

Using the privet vox channel, Tyber responded, +They show the mark of the wing that swallowed the Host of Bone.+

 

Tyber paused for a moment before adding, +Ahu, the Host of Bone was only used when something or someone was to be annihilated. The Captain is sending an alarming message, by having these decedents of the Host of Bone, does he seek to end us?+

[Mazer Rackham]

Tyber wasn't blind and Akkad cursed for not reading the concern of the big Marine better.

 

+Keep your balance, my Kin.  Trust our Captain and our Brothers,+ he licked his lips, liking it less and less.

 

For once, the politics were unclear.  Diocles did not ever strike Akkad as someone to kill with a smile, subterfuge was fair in love and war, but the notion was ludicrous.  Maybe it was the execution of the captain of that ship?  Maybe the massacre of civilians?  The Dark Lantern?  Trafficking with aliens?  The accusations spiralled in his mind, until the nagging at his guts registered in his conscious.

 

It didn't matter.  Ghostly in name and dress they may be, but here in front were thirty Space Marines with their safety push-throughs flush.

 

Off.

 

Carefully leaning so his hand was obscured by Tyber's bulk, his right palm slid to the butt of Sonnet, resting on the holster.

 

MR.

[Steel Company]

+I would hate to have Harvest have its first draw be against kin, but I am ready.+ Tyber spoke over the private vox channel.

 

In his mind, he started to plan how to move into engaging the Captain should he make a hostile motion to the Librarian before moving on to the other astartes. It wasn't lost on him, how in his own chapter, the head of his host was often both champion and executioner of the chapter, but he would not be named a traitor to the throne for something he simply did not do or something he simply was not.