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

[Steel Company]

The word had been cast by a brother of the joined kill teams, no, the squad that had been formed from Sword Hand and Blackthorn. Traitor, that word rolled around in Tyber’s head, Akkad shown Tyber nothing but friendship, been a mentor to him much had Advan been. Tyber’s grip tightened on his arming sword as he looked over his shoulder to watch his brother by choice place his forehead against the bore of the bolt pistol.

 

Tyber had heard Akkad speak lowly of the one that took over his chapter, often ending such talks with a spit, how he’d been banished to the Death Watch for refusing to bend the knee to the new lord of his chapter.

 

Cowards; this is what the legacy of the Dreadwing has become. He thought to himself, he knew what they intended to do, likely execute Akkad as soon as  the ramp closed, yet Tyber knew that Akkad was no traitor, no coward, switching to squad level vox, Tyber pleaded with his brother by choice, +Let me to challenge their champion for you Tuakana, this is not justice.+

Edited February 8, 2021 by Steel Company

[Mazer Rackham]

++Tuakana, this is not justice.++

 

Akkad's feet were nearly on the gunship ramp as the vox channel bit into his ear.  He searched for the Big Marine and saw him, standing tall, erect.  His every angle was a vibration of harnessed violence - outrage even - his hands ready on the hilt of either blade, a powerhouse of destruction awaiting the word to be unleashed.  The Astral Claw realised that it was his word Tyber was waiting for.

 

++It is justice for you, my Ahu.  It will keep you safe from their lunacy.  The deaths of these fools would serve no purpose other than to stain your honour.  My Waka must go downriver my friend.  We will meet one day on the still waters of the glittering bay, and laugh at our trials.  For now, what was mine is yours.++

 

He slammed his fist to his breast.

 

++I will make them work for their justice.  Farewell, My Champion.++

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

END OF EPISODE II

 

 

 

PLEASE DO NOT POST IN THIS THREAD UNTIL THE START OF EPISODE III (FRIDAY, 12TH FEBRUARY)

Edited February 8, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Commissar Molotov]

Episode III - The Sundered House

 

 

If you are new to the ever-evolving story of Kill-Teams Blackthorn and Swordhand, please check out the Story So Far… posts in the Data-Slate thread.

 

 

Brethren of Blackthorn and Swordhand

 

Tyber, Atratus, Sabaan, Greysight, Solastion, Thorvald, Varvost, Vorr, Yeng, Teralil, Montesa

 

As the Strike Cruiser Xenocide churned through the black void-waters of the sunless sea, few aboard could have truly considered the mood to be celebratory. Syndalla, and the lives of millions of Syndallans, had been saved; the Genestealer Cult utterly shattered; the Tyranid incursion destroyed by bolt and blade - and yet.

 

 

And yet.

 

 

It has now been nine long weeks since your return to Watch-Station Azurea. The Forgemaster of Azurea ordered your armour and weaponry taken away from you. Whilst Teralil and Sabaan had worked hard to keep your wargear in a serviceable condition, the Watch-Station’s serfs painstakingly repaired and reconsecrated your equipment before returning it to you, now bearing honour-badges and kill-markings depicting your deeds in the service of Syndalla.

 

 

You were all carefully screened for any sign of contamination by microscopic Tyranid creatures. The Apothecaries administered contra-septics and xenocidal unguents to your bodies. Your wounds - your physical injuries, at least - have been tended to and allowed to heal. Your psyches, however, need more careful ministrations.

 

 

Over the nine weeks many of you have, at one time or another, visited Azurea’s shrine, overseen by Chaplain Helgrim of the Doom Eagles. It is a modest affair compared to the grand cathedra of the Ecclesiarchy; after all, it would be rare for Azurea to host more than forty Astartes at the same time. There, amongst the incense-smoke and before the carved representations of your various Primarchs, you have had the opportunity to reflect on your experiences at Syndalla and the difficult news you have received since.

 

 

Betrayal is a deeper wound than any blade could cause, a vacuous hole within the soul of the Astartes. The news brought to Azurea by the Star Phantoms has hung heavily over all of you. For all of you, Daon Akkad’s quiet humour and decisive leadership were a comfort and source of strength during the campaign to purge the Tyranid menace. But the tight-knit bonds of brotherhood forged upon Syndalla have been strained - shattered, even.

 

 

That the Astral Claws fought against the Imperium is astounding. That other Chapters stood alongside Huron the Tyrant seems to beggar belief. And yet the evidence is before you, in the various data-slates and missives brought to Azurea by the Librarian, Parmenion. It was further confirmed as the closest Deathwatch stations and facilities respond to Watch-Captain Diocles’ urgent communiques. Even as the serfs recalibrate and synchronise the Station’s chronometers to account for spatial drift and temporal distortion, you are given access to information from across the Segmentum.

 

 

Of Akkad himself, there has been no sign. The Star Phantoms’ Battle Barge, Clepsydra, has remained at anchor off Station Azurea since your return, spanning over five miles of adamantium, painted a stark white. Spires and crenellations run down her spine, bristling with weapons batteries. Its weapon batteries are shuttered in a show of deference to the Deathwatch, but it is still a weapon of grim intent.

 

 

Watch-Captain Diocles has refused to discuss the matter with you, dismissing your questions; you have instead been ordered to attend to yourselves, to train and ready yourselves for your next assignment in service to the Deathwatch.

 

 

GM:This is an opportunity to develop your character, to return to roleplaying, or to justify the development of your purchased skills. How has your character spent the last three months, both on the Xenocide, and on Watch-Station Azurea? How has the news of the Badab War affected you, and your feelings of Daon Akkad?

 

 

Brethren of Swordhand: Montesa, Teralil, Vorr and Yeng will shortly be called to the Apothecarion for the revivification of your squad-mates, Castor Boros and Chaka Embe. You should end your post(s) with your summons, or arriving at the Apothecarion. Yeng may have been spending his time in the Apothecarion.

 

 

Atratus: As Captain Diocles told you when Akkad was first apprehended, there are missives from the Master of the Raptors, Lias Issodon himself. It brings the grim news that almost half of the Chapter’s fighting force committed to the Maelstrom in order to bring the Badabian Secessionists to heel. You are given access to detailed tactical reports of the Chapter’s successful campaigns at Surngraad and Gargathea. You are also given the news that nearly two-thirds of the Raptors’ forces were lost, along with the Strike Cruiser Arias Vex.

 

 

Brethren of Blackthorn: Word reaches you that new recruits to the Watch are due to be initiated, in the Watch-Station’s Chapel. Should you wish to attend and oversee this ceremony (and glimpse the new recruits) then you are welcome to do so, and you could end your post with your arrival at the Chapel.

 

 

The Injured Brethren of Swordhand

 

Boros and Embe

 

 

GM: You served in Kill-Team Swordhand under Watch-Sergeant Calumnus Jor of the Libators. You served alongside and formed firm friendships with veteran warriors from many different Chapters. You participated in an abortive assault upon the Syndallan bio-ship that resulted in your sustaining serious injuries and being placed in stasis by Apothecary Yeng.

 

 

You dreamed.

 

 

Echion, Alderax and Cathar all fell, one-by-one, as you fought your way back to your extraction point. You remember being caught in arterial tunnels that seemed to turn back on themselves endlessly. The atmosphere was dank and humid; as the staccato bolter-fire lit up the darkness you saw the glint of chitinous carapace, gleaming blade-limbs and impossibly dark eyes.

 

 

You can remember Jor fighting with the hereditary skill of Macragge’s Warrior-Kings. Echion’s Heavy Bolter roaring; Witch-fire bursting forth from Montesa’s outstretched hands, his force sword Mariana flashing in the dark even as the Librarian took bio-plasma to the throat.

 

 

And then - impossibly - you fell, too. In your lives, you have felt all manner of pain - from the earliest memories, through to the initiation rites of your Chapter. Service in the Deathwatch has been defined by pain. But not like this. Not like this.

 

 

You remember seeing Apothecary Yeng’s grill-fronted Mark III helm above you, hearing the grinding of his tools; and then the icy chill grasping you, surging through your veins as Sus-An sleep clutched at you and pulled you down into darkness.

 

 

And then you dreamed.

 

 

GM: What did you dream? You can use this as an opportunity to reflect upon your character’s history - perhaps an important memory that defines them, such as their childhood, their service in the Chapter or something entirely different. You can use it to inform us how your character was injured, or what their last thoughts were.

 

 

You may end your post with waking, but do not describe any experiences after that.

 

 

 

Returning Brethren of Gallowbane

 

Kol, Titus and Thire

 

 

The Orks, of all the Imperium’s myriad enemies, are perhaps the most endemic. Desecration is in their nature; given time, they will infest and defile any space in the name of their debased Gods . There are no Ork philosophers, or artists. Their mongrel culture comes from tearing down that of the Imperium, salvaging and repurposing sanctified technologies for their own ends. They are bred for war; they thrive upon it. They worship it.

 

 

Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than among the Delvis Rifts. They are a hell-pit, a series of Ork-held worlds so densely populated that the Imperium cannot hope to successfully prosecute a campaign of extermination. Periodically, one of the Ork warrior-kings will unite the squabbling tribes into something resembling a crusade force, unleashing his wrath upon the surrounding Imperial systems. The Imperium, for its part, is equally predictable: a campaign is raised to drive the Orks back. More lives lost, more material devoted to purging the Greenskin menace and pushing them back to their strongholds. So on and so forth, over and over again.

 

 

It fell to you, Kill-Team Gallowbane, to break this cycle of destruction. For the last twenty-seven months, sidereal, you have brought war to the Greenskin tribes of the Rifts. Your Deathwatch service has been far from the glorious massed battles one might expect from the Astartes; you have operated independently, without supply, for months on end. You and your brethren worked to identify the dominant Warlords, those who might possess the intelligence, the strength and the ambition to unite the tribes and pose a threat to the Imperium. Therefore, it was reasoned, the Ork tribes would remain at each others’ throats, too focused on petty rivalries to wage war against Humanity.

 

 

Upon your return to the Watch-Station, your wargear and equipment were taken to be re-sanctified and repaired, before being returned to you. Your brethren have dispersed across the Watch-Station; some attend the station’s shrine to give thanks for a safe return and pay tribute to their Primarchs. Others are already training for the next deployment.

 

 

You have seen the brethren of other Kill-Teams from a distance, heard of their victories against the Tyranid threat. You have also heard the grim news of what is now being called the Badab War - the news that three Chapters of the Astartes chose to stand against the Imperium. It is dark news indeed.

 

 

GM: How did you take to the operations in the Delvis Rifts?

 

How do you feel now being back in some semblance of Imperial civilisation?

 

What do you do, now you have returned to Azurea?

 

What do you think or feel, hearing the news of the Badab War?

 

 

This is a situation where vagueness and ambiguity works in all our favours. There are other members of Kill-Team Gallowbane who served alongside you - the Kill-Team was not wiped out and is not being disbanded - but over the course of the early stages of this storyline, Watch-Captain Diocles will reassign you to fill the gaps in other Kill-Teams. At least you will know one another, and have a bond of fraternity. You do not need to name these brothers - the open space lets us slot in new player characters or NPCs at a later date. I am happy for you to work together to rough out an operation that you went on together, which you can use in your joint backstories.

 

 

You will also be aware that new recruits are arriving to Azurea - you may wish to attend the initiation ceremony, and if you do, end your post with you departing for it.

 

 

Brother-Codicier Achillion

 

 

We do not stand idle.

 

 

It is a core tenet of your Chapter. It - quite literally - surges through your bloodstream. These last months the warp has roiled and seethed, as though holding up an oil-slicked mirror to the turbulence and uncertainty experienced by the Imperium. You need not be a psyker of prodigious power in order to feel how distempered the brethren around you are. You feel it yourself, as your body thirsts for combat - and perhaps something else entirely.

 

 

We do not stand idle.

 

 

The Watch-Captain has refused your persistent petitioning for deployment. This despite the troubling news brought by your fellow Librarian, Montesa of the Crimson Fists. He has spoken of mysterious tomes with psychic provenance, of the meddling of the Aledari in the defense of Syndalla against the Tyranid Hive Fleet. This despite many of the Marines aboard the Watch-Station reporting strange and troubling dreams.

 

 

We do not stand idle.

 

 

Azurea may be among the Deathwatch’s more modest outposts, but it still boasts the necessary equipment to ensure the Marines stationed there are honed into a weapon of pure intent and deadly execution. The station’s fighting cages allow you to test your skills against other Brothers and - more typically - against servitors and combat drones that can be configured to simulate any number of xenos species. Your force axe, Libra, takes its name from an ancient figure of balance and justice. It serves as a potent reminder of the sheer savage destruction you are capable of - and the careful balance of humours that all the sons of Sanguinius must struggle to maintain.

 

 

We do not stand idle.

 

 

 

What has Achillion been doing in this enforced period of idleness? How has he reacted?

 

How has he reacted to the news of the Badab War, and the betrayal of Huron?

 

Are there any brothers of the Watch that Achillion has taken a particular interest in, and is looking to spar with?

 

Additionally, Achillion will have heard that a number of new recruits will be assembling shortly, to swear the solemn and binding oaths that will induct them into the Watch. If you wish to attend the ceremony, you can end your post with your arrival at the Chapel.

 

 

 

Brother-Chaplain Helgrim

 

 

To be a Chaplain of the Deathwatch is a curious thing; you must tend to the spiritual needs of Brethren from many diverse Chapters, administering to those who pay reverence to many of the Primarchs, or all, or none. The brethren around you are far from their Chapters and must be forged, alloyed into a singular weapon of purpose.

 

 

The time you have spent in Azurea’s modest Chapel has afforded you time to reflect on your role. It is a modest and sparse facility, but such is to be expected. The brethren of the Deathwatch are in constant need, and so it is customary for them to range across space as needed, staying at the Watch-Station for the shortest time possible. Still, you have worked hard to ensure it is serviceable. Your attendant serfs have replaced tallow candles, trimming the wicks; have filled censers with ceremonial incense. You yourself tended to the carvings of each of the Primarchs. Some of them stand above offerings left by the more observant Marines stationed here.

 

 

In dark times such as these, spiritual succour is a necessary, important thing. Azurea has received news of the now-concluded secession of the Astral Claws. The Badab War was an ugly, cankerous thing - hatred and resentment left to fester until it burst open and oozed forth. You know that many of the Marines here are distempered, uncertain.

 

 

You are surprised when Watch-Captain Diocles enters your shrine. He foregoes his helm, as is customary - better for the Primarchs to see their sons. You know little about the Captain; you know he hails from a Chapter of Guilliman’s lineage that style themselves the Servants of the Throne; his pauldron depicts the Emperor of Man upon the Golden Throne, the light of the Astronomican issuing forth in a corona of light. In the candle-light, the artificer-work seems all the more radiant. True to his Chapter’s name, you have come to know Diocles as a man defined by his duties.

 

 

The Captain kneels before Guilliman’s figure, two gauntleted fingers touching the Primarch’s feet. The servos in his armour growl reflexively at such abject submission. When he stands, he turns to you, his bow smaller but no less respectful.

 

 

“Brother-Chaplain,” Diocles says. “It is good to see you. Is all well? Are the preparations made for the Initiation ceremony?”

 

 

GM: Who was the Chaplain who served as your mentor? Why were you selected as a candidate for the role of Chaplain? What has happened to you (and your worldview) since your elevation to your rank?

 

 

How has the news of the Badab War affected you?

 

Do you wish to say anything specific to the Watch-Captain, or ask him anything?

 

Your shrine is to host the new recruits to Watch-Station Azurea as they swear their service to the Deathwatch. Do you have any thoughts, feelings or reactions to these new brethren?

 

 

End your post with any final preparations for the initiation ceremony.

 

 

Ekieo Solza

 

 

Are you lost?

 

 

You are far from Watch-Fortress Erioch, now. Far from the last of your crusading brethren. Far from Cyclopia, from Goddeth Hive. Far from anything you have ever known in this dark millennium, this galaxy of eternal war.

 

 

Your rational brain knows that entering the service of the Deathwatch can be no easy feat for any of the Astartes. It means leaving your brethren behind and accepting the fact that you may never return to your Chapter alive. Such notions are not strange to the Black Consuls, scattered to the solar winds by tragedy heaped upon betrayal. But some part of you wonders whether you will ever truly stop running.

 

 

After tumultuous warp-passage you have arrived at Azurea. It is a modest Watch-Station, barely able to contain more than forty Marines at any one time. You are already a sworn veteran of the Deathwatch, and Watch-Captain Diocles was grateful indeed to welcome you aboard. You are still waiting to hear what your assignment will be. Until then, you have had an opportunity to familiarise yourself with the station’s facilities.

 

 

In your travel across the Segmentum, you have heard the grim news of the Badab War - of how the Tyrant of Badab, Lufgt Huron, has fallen from his position as one of the greatest commanders of the Imperium to become a hunted heretic. These are dark days indeed.

 

 

You have received news that a crop of new arrivals are to be inducted into the Watch today, at a ceremony in Chaplain Helgrim’s shrine.

 

 

GM: Why have you travelled from Erioch to Azurea?

 

What is the memory or moment you will treasure from your service in the Jericho Reach?

 

What have you done whilst on Azurea?

 

What are your thoughts and feelings about the Badab War?

 

Will you attend the ceremony? What are your thoughts about this new brotherhood?

 

 

Severix Pyke

 

 

Brotherhood. Loyalty. Duty.

 

 

These are the pillars upon which your life as an Astartes warrior rests. Perhaps all the more so during your long service in the Deathwatch.

 

 

The most ancient legends of the Watch attribute the order’s creation to the Master of the Imperial Fists, Koorland. Fitting, then, that you have continued the legacy of the sons of Dorn, taking upon yourself the duty of defending the Imperium from the enemy without.

 

 

Now your duty has brought you to this Watch-Station, Azurea. The station itself is small, with only a handful of Kill-Teams based there. It is far from the first station you have served upon; each time you have transferred, you have repeated the same process. Familiarising yourself with the diverse mix of warriors you will fight among and adjusting your stance as necessary. It is a delicate process, akin to a blacksmith adjusting the metals in an alloy to craft the strongest blade.

 

 

But you have never experienced the discontent that thickens the air of Azurea. News of the Badab War and the betrayal of the Astral Claws has reached this facility, like an incoming tide washing over the shore, bringing shattered flotsam along with it. In your days here, as you have readed your weaponry and your warplate, you have heard rumours that one of the Badabians had been serving here. It makes sense that such news will have your fellow brethren looking at one another in a new light.

 

 

You have received word that a new crop of recruits to the Watch are to be initiated today, at the station’s shrine. A welcome opportunity for you to see the warriors you will soon be fighting alongside.

 

 

GM:

 

When you are alone, what memories do you reflect upon?

 

How do you feel about your long tenure in the Watch?

 

What have you been doing since arriving upon Azurea?

 

What are your thoughts and feelings about the Badab War?

 

Will you attend the ceremony? What are your thoughts about this new brotherhood?

 

 

Lycus Artemios

 

 

From the arched window of the spartan cell allocated to you, you can see the mighty Battle-Barge of your Chapter, Clepsydra. It is a strange feeling of dislocation to be so close to your brethren, and yet so utterly alone. When you look down at the battle-plate that has sustained you so faithfully through countless campaigns, it is not the familiar pure white of the Star Phantoms; it is a strange ebon-black that seems to swallow light whole.

 

 

You are soon to swear your oaths of loyalty and servitude to the Deathwatch. You know that it means you might never return to your Chapter - alive at least. But you, at least, know the value of such an oath. The last few years of conflict have shown you that honour is not a virtue held equally among all Chapters.

 

 

You have had a few days aboard Azurea, enabling you the opportunity to familiarise yourself with the Station and its inhabitants. Watching Astartes - you hesitate to call them brothers - from other Chapters at such close quarters is curious indeed. The aura of difference is a palpable thing, a wall that seems to separate you from others.

 

 

GM: What are your feelings on joining the Deathwatch? How have the events of the Badab War marked you? Is there perhaps a fragment of memory from those dark days that you could think about?

 

 

What piece of advice did your Company Captain give you before your departure?

 

How have you spent the last few days?

 

What will you do in preparation for the initiation ceremony?

 

You should end your post with your summons to the ceremony.

 

 

New Arrivals to Watch-Station Azurea

 

Arcost, Argus, Atreus, Incariel

 

 

There are myriad reasons an Astartes warrior might join the Deathwatch. Some ache for glory, desperate to carve out a lasting legacy for themselves that will echo throughout the centuries. Others harbour notions of unity and brotherhood, seeking to pay tribute to the origins of this most unusual of Chapters. There are those seeking solace in the only place that will welcome them.

 

 

Each of you are newly-arrived to the Watch-Station. You travelled across the Segmentum on Imperial Navy vessels where the crew refused to talk to you out of a mixture of fear and superstition; on chartist vessels filled with praying pilgrims that venerated you as a living icon of their God-Emperor; on rapid-strike vessels crewed by your Chapter’s serfs. However you reached Azurea, the journey has - without exception - been torturous; the warp has been unsettled, as though responding to the discontent across the Imperium. All of you, by now, will have received word of the Badab War. Your Chapter’s histories may well talk of dark times such as the Nova Terra Interregnum, the Age of Apostasy or the War of the False Primarch. But this is the most grievous wound to the Imperium in living memory. For the Astral Claws to have led so many of their brother-Chapters astray is troubling indeed.

 

 

Perhaps, more than ever, the bonds of Brotherhood between Chapters need to be reaffirmed.

 

 

You arrived here still wearing your armour’s original colours. Some of you came alone, with only your weapons and the smallest tokens from your Chapter; others might have perhaps brought traditional and ceremonial gifts to strengthen the armouries of the Watch. Your warplate was taken from you by Chapter serfs; when it returned it was the midnight-black of the Deathwatch. It is a shade different from that of the Black Consuls, or the Consecrators. It is different to that worn by the Chaplains of many Chapters’ creeds. It is the soulless black of the void, cold and full of terrors. Just like that, something that has been an integral part of your existence has been rendered entirely unfamiliar. A potent metaphor for service in the Watch.

 

 

You have been afforded a spartan cell in which to rest, to pray and to reflect upon the choices that have led you here. You have had opportunities to visit the Watch-Station’s training cages, firing ranges, libraries and its shrine. You may have had limited interactions with other Astartes warriors, or with the serfs of this new order.

 

 

When the eventide bells ring through the Watch-Station, you know that you are being summoned to the Watch-Station’s shrine, so that Watch-Captain Diocles can administer the solemn and binding oaths that will confirm your initiation into your new brotherhood.

 

 

Welcome to the game! This is your opportunity for you to introduce your character to the other players. Try to use some of the prompts I’ve given you. What is your character’s reason for joining the Watch? How did you travel to Azurea? What is your reaction to the news of the Badab War? What have you done since your arrival at the Watch-Station? How do you feel about joining the Watch?

 

 

You should end your post with your Marine arriving at the Chapel for the initiation ceremony.

Edited February 11, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Lysimachus]

Brother Titus sat, still as a stone, cross-legged on the floor of the darkened chamber. A silent giant clad in a simple robe of dark grey cloth. He did not need the lumen activated, his gene-hanced senses more than able to compensate for the low light provided by the emergency beacon positioned above the room's plasteel door. To require greater was a simple waste of power, an inefficiency.

 

Titus desired to get up, to move, but he did not act. This was a time to wait.

 

He looked around the small cabin. A narrow cot, hard and unwelcoming but entirely suitable to his minimal need for sleep, stood on one side. On the other, his armour and weapons stood upon a simple metal frame. Even in the darkness, he could clearly pick out the details of items as familiar to him as his own skin. The black and silver plate was primarily standard Mk VII Imperator-pattern, with a few pieces of Mk VI Corvus. Foremost among these was the perfectly smooth right shoulder guard that bore the insignia of the Stormbringers, quartered in obsidian black and ocean blue and bisected by the diagonal slash of a white lightning bolt. Only one element of his armour stood out as different, as unfamiliar. At his belt, a long, yellowed Orkoid tooth hung from a short loop of rappelling wire. The gruesome trophy was a gift of sorts from one of his Gallowbane squadmates. He, Vorkys and Gideon had brought down the massive leader beast with their combat blades, and Kol had paused after the fight to rip the incisors from its nearly severed head. Titus had been surprised when the Reviler later presented one of them to him. The Stormbringers did not usually carry such trinkets, viewing them as needless sentimentality, but he could not deny a glow of cold pleasure when he looked at the tooth and remembered the fury of the shared kill.

 

Perhaps he should rise and check the armour again? No, his warplate was already in as good a condition as he could personally achieve, functional if a little scratched and battered after the long months in the Delvis Rifts. Any deeper issues requiring a more skillful hand would have to be cared for by the Armorium when the cruiser arrived at Azurea.

 

Perhaps his weapon? No. His boltgun, a weapon that had served him well for more than a century and had ended enemies in numbers beyond even his ability to recall, was likewise ready. He had stripped, cleaned and oiled the bolter's various mechanisms and recalibrated the sight's connection to the autosenses within his helm. All had been cared for and it was now time to wait.

 

His body wanted to rise, but he remained perfectly still. Titus knew what affected him. The gift of the Khagan to all his sons, a genetic legacy that made him want to move, to race, to tear and rend, to do, to act, to be! Many scions of the White Scars Legion, brothers of the Stormbringers Chapter included, lived and died by these feelings and it made them truly terrifying warriors. But a Hunter could not. A Hunter was an efficient machine, performing his reconnaissance duties with cold precision. Titus remembered the rasping words of the venerable Brother Lucio, who had trained him.

 

"A Hunter learns patience, boy. A Hunter knows there is a time for action and a time to be still. A time to be silent. Running around, gloryhounding and grandstanding? A waste of energy, a waste of the power the Emperor has given you. The Warhawk knew how to hold himself in check and strike when it was time to strike. A clean kill is all the glory a Hunter needs."

 

Titus frowned and took in a deep breath, his gaunt features suddenly made even more fearsome, his pale eyes intense. He eagerly looked forward to another clean kill. He forced the breath back out. He would follow his training… and wait.

 

*****

[ashlander47]

I recalled the words that had been spoken once again.

 

A loyalty left untested is a loyalty left in question.

 

The voice echoed around the fortress of my mind. It was the lone and singular focus of my innermost thoughts, and I found little comfort in it -- for comfort was not something any found in the words of an Interrogator-Chaplain, and least of all Vincindrael. Even as a member of the most vaunted chaplaincy he was considered to be a choleric; feared and respected, in precisely that order and by his precise intention.

 

As initiates we would jape in hushed tones that the Admission's Gaoler was a haunted vessel and Vincindrael it's stalking spectre, akin to the tales of ghouls and ne'er-do-well spirits that were told at bedtime to unruly children. That his Reclusiam was a mausoleum filled with rows of graves, crypts and other such characteristic pieces to paint a picture of a truly ghastly and unnerving realm. Our imagination and impertinence was never much dissuaded by our brief stints aboard the ghostly vessel, when our training was to be overseen by Vincindrael himself and our actions to be observed by the eyes of the living dead as it were. The ship was a-creak with a constant groaning and a deep, distant wailing would wind its way up through the ventilation shafts as if the dead were truly aboard and screaming their bloody hatred for the living.

 

Such disrespect had been thrashed out of us by the time any of our number were allowed to walk the vessel freely, and given leave to witness the naked truth of the Admission's Gaoler and her phantom passengers. The prefix 'Interrogator' was well earned, and Vincindrael's supposedly haunted graveyard was instead staffed and stuffed with souls both living and on their way to death. The cries of one pleading for mercy and their admissions to guilts most foul would find themselves trapped and distorted among the bulkheads, corridors and dark places of that craft - sealed forever in a gaol of their own admissions. A pithy but not uncommon piece of poetry among the chapter.

 

I recalled the sight the Interrogator-Chaplain at the debriefing, growling from behind his skull-mask, orating with a zeal he was known for as he stood before the Ledger of Historis Personae. Even once I had grown into my genhanced body, and after spending decades in service to the chapter on the bloodiest of battlefields, I still felt like a wretched initiate before Vincindrael. Even the imaginary one I conjured up in my head possessed me with a kind of childlike apprehension - a fact he would likely remind me was the entire point.

 

As my memories played forward in a stilting lope I saw his be-skulled form turn and stab a finger right at me, a gauntleted, protruding thing, like the bony digit of an accusatory wraith, long murdered, pointing from the depths of a darkest hell directly at its killer. A chill crawled down my spine at the memory and I quickly dismissed it, though had I known what would take its place I would have tarried under the Interrogator-Chaplain's indictment for but a moment longer.

 

+++

 

I am aboard the hulk. Again.

 

I look down at my hands. My helmet is cloven in twain. Dripping with ichor.

 

My ears rush with heartbeats. Over the thrum I hear the screaming. It is inhuman.

 

The section is decompressing. I can feel the pull of the Void. I struggle to stand.

 

The strike-team is nowhere to be seen. All around me is darkness. I can still hear the screaming.

 

Bolter fire illuminates the madness. I feel the grasp of something at my neck. I struggle free.

 

I see him there. He holds the blade of dark design. Dripping with ichor.

 

Wings of death envelop me.

 

+++

 

As if to rouse my wandering thoughts the words of Vincindrael pound into the walls of the fortress that is my mind and I awaken. I am no longer scrambling upon the dark and daemon-wrought decks of that hellscape, helmetless in a vacuum and directionless in a bloodbath. I am not aboard a Space Hulk at all.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

No, not Vincindrael's words this time; this ship.

 

The dim lumen strips of my quarters on the Hunter-class destroyer Supplication of Barda activated, having detected my jolt to attention. They flickered for a spell before resigning themselves to the one-thirds power setting I had them keyed to. I prefer the dark, and have since my elevation into the Ravenwing. Nigh-on two score years had I since served as but a pinion in the black bird of the 2nd company. I was proud of my achievements there and, in the half-light of lumens in desperate need of a techpriest's ministrations, I felt somewhat at home.

 

Translation through the Sea of Souls had been arduous, even more so than is usual. The vessel had had to break its course several times to allow the Navigator time to reassess and redirect us. A storm, she had said, was brewing in the Warp. A tumult of that roiling un-place had caused the crew of the Supplication great unease; something that I have come to learn grants me great comfort and resolve in a diametrical sense. When mortals are laden and heavy with fear I am steeled and fortified with purpose by the juxtaposition. It served to strengthen my will, and my resolute presence had served to anchor the crew's otherwise chittering sensibilities as we dove, broke, dove and broke again into the Immaterium.

 

Constant entry and re-entry into the Warp had taken its toll on the Supplication. Were it that my robes a shade dustier, and my oaths sworn on the rust-coloured soil of a red planet rather than aboard the plasteel floor-plates of the Reliquaria, perhaps my so resolute presence would serve to anchor the ship's sensibilities rather than the crew's. The vessel had taken superficial but not insubstantial damage during one of the micro-jumps, and the compliment of ordained and experienced techmarines or priests aboard her was within the estimate of nil, and so rather damnably the repairs were made with haste and without all the proper rites. The banging that had been interrupting my meditation and jerking me from darker memories for the past six months Terran standard was, I hazarded, the protestations of the Supplication's machine spirit.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

I believe I too would be so indignant.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

A vessel such as this would, in better times, have aboard it a full squad of my brothers to accompany me and stand vigil over the mortal serfs who crewed it. These are not better times. Fracture and betrayal ripple out across the Imperium at an increasing rate; recent news had only reinforced the grimness of our situation. I am the only Astartes aboard the Supplication of Barda, and it has fallen to me to keep things as they should be, and to right impropriety where ever I see it.

 

To that end and to occupy my own unquiet mind in these dark times I commenced routine inspection of the vessel and her crew, conferring with the captain where necessary and, over a regicide board, finding context for the crew's behaviours. The inspection was mostly theatre; my presence in full battle-plate was enough to cow any thoughts of clandestine behaviour during our six month transit, yet with the chapter still stretched so thin it is rare for these serf-crewed vessels to see even one of our number in their brief lifetimes. I was to put the fear of the Emperor back into them, as it were.

 

The regicide game was the true inspection. I gave the captain his choice of a dozen of his brightest officers to act as committee to his manoeuvres, and then challenged them to a slow series of games over the six months we had to spare. This was partly a selfish act as my affection for the game was something of a spurious habit I often thank and curse Sergeant Turuzim for in the same breath -- Emperor rest his soul. In the main however the pursuit of this style of game is to gauge minds, to pluck secrets, to disarm and to decrypt a person - or in this case a dozen persons - and unbar the gates to their own mental fortress that I might browse it unimpeded, and at my analytical leisure. I read their moves, and in them I read their minds.

 

It was no mere chance that the Supplication of Barda was to be my escort to the Dalthus sector. There was a string of infractions in its history that suggested at declining standards and worse; dereliction of duty. The captaincy of the vessel had changed thrice in as many centuries, yet the poor showing and lack of improvement still remained - there was a rot that went deeper and I was to find it before I arrived to swear my Long Vigil. A gesture, I understood, of the chapter's intensions for sending me away in the first place. The Supplication of Barda was to be the pre-amble, the opening set of moves in a much longer game, and the stratagem I pursued here would echo down the timeline as it all played out.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

I recalled the words that had been spoken once again.

 

Nigh-on two score years of tested loyalty beneath the wings of the raven, after that fateful strike on the Death of Illumination, and now here aboard this mewling ship that could scarcely stop retching at the sight of the Warp I was to arrive at the destination of my final test; the Deathwatch. I was under no illusions as to my situation -- I had been cut loose. Like a down may drop from a wing my slow descent to more earthly heights would determine whether I would remain apart or become a feather on the bird - a pained metaphor in whose smiling voice I heard my former Sergeant explain to me, once again through veiled implications, the greater manse of the entire chapter. He would, in his argi-worlder's brogue, suggest and at the same time deny his suspicions that this grandiose assignment was not merely an honouring of the ancient oaths, but that at the core of what would be -- damn you Turuzim -- 'The Ongoing Matter of Incariel' there laid spoor of that most iniquitous of beasts; politics.

 

I am no slouching serf when it comes to reckoning such manoeuvres yet I am the first to acknowledge the fact of my inexperience. It is indeed my relative youth among the chapter that no doubt called for such orchestrated tests to be arranged in the first place. Turuzim would cluck his tongue and shake his head at my obliviousness to it all, calling the rising star blind to all other celestial bodies, to which I would respond with something to the tune of my only concern being duty, and he would snort a dismissal, and I would smile. In these dark times Sergeant Turuzim's passing weighed heavily on me, as I could never rid myself of the memories no matter how distant they were.

 

Gifted is the word often used. I possess that which many Astartes seem to develop after their apotheosis -- an enhanced memory. Unlike my brothers who develop it later during their ascension, I was recalling things with perfect detail long before I could speak. As a child I was racked with horrors from nightmares which I now understand were simple disturbed fragments of memories from within the womb. I have never lost the clearness of memory that I was born with, and this to some seems a gift, yet to me I find it often a curse at the worst of times.

 

I can recall with keenest clarity the inflection of the battle-cant Turuzim and I were speaking. The growl of the attack bike as we mounted the hill's crest. The sputter as the engine was punctured by bolt-shells. The pitter-patter of shredded ceramite as it clinked against my helmet. The smell of his blood through my vox-grill.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

"Come hither." I responded to the rapping at my chamber doors.

 

In my reverie I had neglected to differentiate the rancour of the ship for the felling of boots outside my quarters, and the gathering of what sounded to be a dozen mortals squished tightly out of what they believed to be earshot further down the corridor. The crew of the Supplication had often underestimated my enhanced abilities of perception and this was no different. I found it arrogant in some regards - as if I were a deaf and blind babe lacking of wherewithal and numb to their clumsy footfalls; their stifled coughs; their timid heartbeats.

 

The doors cycled open and the captain of this most arrogant of vessels entered through, pungent with a trepidation that bordered on my own childlike hesitance in the presence of Interrogator-Chaplain Vincindrael. Was I so loathsome? I know no fear, yet in my hearts I can understand threat assessment and am all too familiar with that cloying scent of fright upon the flesh of mortals. I found my choler rising and quickly swallowed it, stopping the captain in the middle of his manner rituals with a raised hand and interrupting him.

 

"We hath arrivèd then." It was not question, for I was well aware of his purpose for visiting. He dipped his head in acknowledgement to my statement and then continued on, finishing his deep bows and his own supplications to the chapter and my status as Astartes.

 

Such obedience. No one innocent was that confident in the face of their superiors. I had reckoned in my six months in his presence, and using the regicide game to measure his mind and approach to thinking, that the captain was not totally unaware of the goings on deeper in the decks of this vessel, yet had been purposefully kept out of the loop by the true wranglers of such disdainful activities. He was wilfully ignorant of the infractions, kept abated likely by a small tribute. To think it. Our own serfs. Our own trusted and depended upon serfs. Fracture and betrayal ran deep in these dark days of the Imperium indeed - I did not need news of Badab to engender to me that notion. I felt my choler once again rise, my Betcher's gland became enflamed and I felt as if I could've melted the captain's skull with the mere caustic nature of my breath through my helmet.

 

My helmet. Cloven in twain. Dripping with ichor.

 

"Indeed, lord. As requested, I bring you the tidings - we are but a day's flight out of the destination, and we shall make for the docking berths with all due haste."

 

His response drew me from blood-slick precipice of memory and I focused on the muffled noises outside. A dozen people - likely the officer cadre that he had chosen as his committee of council for the regicide games we played. There was an ulterior motive for this visit beyond informing me of arrival in-system. Curious. I could see him lingering there, keeping his head bowed and his hands clasped at his stomach with something held between his fingers, and I knew he had more to say - perhaps he was trying to summon the courage. The onus in these carefully navigated dramas between our serfs and ourselves laid ultimately upon me, of course, to direct. Spoken manners are important to the Consecrators, and ritual observations of the obedience had been made, to his credit. I lowered my hand, swallowed my bile and finished my half of the manner ritual.

 

"Thou may speak, captain. What hath thee in thine clutches?"

 

Righted on the proper course by my prompt, the captain relaxed a touch and after a series of requisite back and forth he held out a small figurine of ivory, gold and steel. It was a regicide piece - the emperor to be exact. More ornate than the burnished brass and rough-shod iron pieces found aboard most vessels, the Supplication included, this piece was far less for regular play and more for show on a set that never truly felt the touch of flesh.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

The lumens flickered as the ship cried out its wails of anger. The craftmanship was adequate on the piece and rather fresh, but it had been tailormade to seem older like an antique, rather than a newly constructed piece that was one of a set. Curious decision, though the chapter's focus upon that which is old and of the past may have coloured such a choice. Gaudy, perhaps, but inoffensive and possessing a reverence for our culture that while clumsy was ultimately benign.

 

"The Fratery of the Dozen and One would offer you this, a gift, lord, in appreciation and thanks to you and your inspiring presence aboard this most humble of vessels." he thrusted the thing out towards me and I nearly recoiled at the implication.

 

The Fratery of the Dozen and One had been the name the cadre of officers had jokingly dubbed themselves when I had initially proffered the challenge of regicide. It was a rather irreverent and plodding piece of wordsmithery, but I had allowed it to fester beneath my gaze out of sheer blind myopia. I wanted the games to distract my mind more than anything else, and the analysis of the crew's upper echelon had come secondary. When I had overheard them refer to one another as such members of a fratery I had thought to dismiss it out of hand, ceasing the games as punishment and flogging the crew for good measure. Had I been the Incariel of nigh-on two score years prior then that was precisely what I would have done.

 

But I am no longer the doe-eyed battle-brother freshly sequestered into the wings of the 2nd company. I am not the naïve fool who boarded the Death of Illumination. I am more aware of the nuance of things, and I have learned to allow certain appetites their sate. I took the playing piece between my thumb and trigger-finger and examined it as if appreciating it - purely for the benefit of the captain and the twelve officers who were trying and failing to hide themselves within the corridor. One of them stifled another cough.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

Once again the lumens in my chambers flickered and shorted, resetting and bathing the spartan room in artificial light before dimming like a sunset, and there in the pale luminescence I glimpsed the final clue. The in-lays of gold were carefully plotted along specific lines in the metallic body - lines whose shape I knew all too well. The piece had been crafted from a melted down bolt shell. The coughing among the crew - the fumes of such illicit works were no doubt poorly ventilated - holiest cordite and fyceline play havoc on mortal lungs over long periods of exposure. The readiness with which the crew had made repairs to the ship despite records showing they lacked both proficiency and materiel. The dereliction. The infraction. The crew of the Supplication of Barda were siphoning bolter rounds from the munitions shipments and using them for their own nefarious purposes.

 

"Prithee what is this, captain?" I opened to allow him means to explain himself, starting with the ritual of manners once again and through such an act, bringing in the dozen officers to experience my reprimand in an official, vicarious sense.

 

"As standards dictate, lord, the victor of a tournament is afforded some manner of prize. Since the honoured lord has himself won rather handily each bout of regicide against the Fratery over these six months, we thought it only right to offer some token to signify our congratulations and thanks."

 

I held the silence pregnant for precisely three seconds. I could feel the cadre huddled within the hallway outside squirming and inching closer to hear my next words. I do not find any particular joy in tormenting mortals but I have discovered that minor stressors preceding key information allows for greater intake and retention rates. Their memory is fickle and like their lives short-lived and hyper focused on a few key elements - but they always remember fear. I crushed the playing piece between my fingers.

 

"I am nary so drawn to sentiment nor humour, captain. Mine intent as thee well know was nought but to inspect and oversee. Thy vessel holds in accord all expectations set by rote and ledger, yet I hath discovered infractions nonetheless." I heard the captain's breath catch in his throat and a chorus of muffled gulping from the corridor.

 

I dropped the piece to the floor with a sound like shards of ceramite. My nose filled with the scent of Turuzim's blood and I watched the memory of the traitors cutting him down play over my vision once again. I dismissed it for I had more important things to attend to.

 

"During the musters of thy fratery I became privy to much through hushèd whisperings and purloinèd, lover's glances. Betwixt thine cadre of officials there exists no fewer than three trysts that extend into the lower strata of command. There is a conspiracy of contraband that brews amongst thy officials of watch and patrol to obviate detection as they themselves benefit from the proceeds; I hath identified the most likely heart of such an operation within the lower decks during my inspections."

 

I reached as daintily as I could towards the captain's collar and plucked the pinion from his lapel. It was one of a set of thirteen, signifying the his membership of the Fratery of a Dozen and One, and a symbol of this vessel's budding arrogance and dangerous sense of disrespect - it too had been fashioned from a bolt shell.

 

"In addition, thine own sub-adjutant's grasp of strategy is woeful and her status as thy suitor of circumstance is widely speculated amongst thy crew. Thou shallt see all this corrected, captain, ere we berth at the Watch-Station."

 

As if to chime in concord with my admonishment the Supplication of Barda's machine spirit drummed its own choler once again. I increased the volume output of my vox-grill to three-tenths of what could be considered deafening so that I was heard over it, and to instil that requisite fear that I knew would stick with these mortals for the longest of times.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

"I hath sund'rèd thy fratery, captain. See to it the remainder of these violations are visited upon similarly, lest mine remittal of thine infractions be found in poor judgement and thus thee made an example of. Take thy leave -- I hath been generous with thee."

 

My mild chastisement over and done with, the captain bowed and scraped his way backwards from my quarters with a respectable amount of grace -- well trained in some regards at least. Would that I had the time afforded me I would push further into this matter, likely an entire change of leadership was required and the ship's onboard 'culture' that had been left to develop without the oversight of the chapter to be pruned to more acceptable levels. There was also the iniquitous reality of the matter that I had to consider in kind. How would it appear to the gathered brotherhoods there within the Deathwatch if a vessel of the Consecrators was so unruly and improper? I might earn less side-long glances were the Supplication merely to coast into port ablaze and listing! For all the implications such mismanagement would cast upon the chapter it would do no different. No. I would do as I have been taught; apply discretion and utilise the nuances of which I am now chiefly aware.

 

And yet, as the doors cycled shut and I regarded the pin in my fingers, my mind wandered and my memories embodied themselves before my eyes. The rot of sequestered cabals within structures both military and government was a sin I knew mortals took to with as much proclivity as Astartes take to war. It was natural for them to form bonds between gentries that transcended esprit de corps, and fall subject to cartels of personality and politicking covens. In my fingers I held an icon of such things and my own implicitness within it, for I had actively encouraged such behaviour in my pursuit of a quieted and occupied mind. Unawares or perhaps, more dangerously, wilfully oblivious as the captain was to it all, I stood there under the flickering lumens and wondered aloud as if to the audience gathered to witness my theatrical revelation; what more had I overlooked?

 

As the memories of Sergeant Turuzim's death replayed across my senses once more, and I beheld a symbol of treacherous mortals before me between my own ichor-stained hands, I felt that same sense of guilt and loathing coil itself around my throat as I always did - I would have to pay a penance for such recklessness. Were I still aboard the Admission's Gaoler I would seek out Vincindrael and let the spectre have his day, yet out here beyond the purview of my kindred I was alone with such baleful thoughts. I wash away my thoughts - the ichor falls from my hands, the blood peels from my senses and I am left with the sterile scent of unguents and freshly polished ceramite.

 

No, not alone - I would soon be among new brothers within the Deathwatch. There would be a Reclusiam housed somewhere in the depths of the Watch-Station, and within it a stranger wearing the face of the chaplaincy, unfamiliar to me and of me, yet all the same possessed of that presence in which I may bask and becalm my increasingly restless mind. Of which gene-line would he be? Would he speak of vague concepts like horizons and spirits in the slanted, accented tongue of the Khan? Would his sense of honour and ritual be hidebound to a mere manual of strategy as is so often with those of Guilliman's lot? Would he be a shade closer to a feral hound and consider better company among wolves than to his brothers, as a Fenrisian scion might? I shuddered at the thought - I was unsure if I could suffer under the guidance of one of Russ's sons; their mysticism and malodour a potent combination to upset even most stoic of my humours.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

How livid the spectre of Vincindrael appeared in my mind, stalking among his graveyard of relics and prisoners. Would my first act away from the chapter truly be to bleat and grieve at the feet of an outsider? Am I so squalid of manners that I harbour such reservations and judgements against what were soon to be my newest brethren? Even the sons of Russ do not deserve such undue and untoward thinking. It was a vicious cycle of self-admonition and guilt that only incensed my need to pay penance. Mistakes and grievances all, the image of Interrogator-Chaplain Vincindrael stood there shouting my thoughts at me, Crozius gripped in one hand and his black-pearled rosary in the other, whipping my psyche into further self-castigation. I watched him with a sickening sense of glee as he extracted the secrets from those who arranged the ambush upon us - those responsible for Turuzim's death. I lingered on that memory for far too long...

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

In the scant hours before arrival at Watch-Station Azurea I checked and rechecked my equipment, the ritual soothing my thoughts. I abhor mess. All spaces under my purview are purged of interloping litter or blemishes - an untidy realm is an untidy mind. I took the opportunity to reassess the Supplication of Barda's charted course, crew manifest and shift-records of the past twelve months to confirm and then re-confirm the discrepancies. The clandestine collusion between the crew had indeed remained unchecked until I boarded, whereupon my mere presence stalled most of the illicit goings-on. I noted what I could within my personal records - for the benefit of those that I would eventually send the information to, for of course the moment my eyes glimpsed the data would know such things until the day my duty ends. Memory is such a strange thing.

 

Festooned about the containers housing my equipment were the standard seals of purity, and in this instance, also charity. Many chapters send their dear brothers off bearing gifts when called upon to make their oaths to the Deathwatch. The Consecrators are a chapter inundated with well-kept and well-historied pieces of equipment, dating back to times far darker and in need of heroes than these. Though a paltry offering of a dozen holy boltguns may have been perceived as a slight from any other brotherhood of Astartes, these ancient weapons had likely seen more battlefields and survived longer against the foes of Mankind than some of the very chapters who now served within this Watch-Station. It filled me with a kind of pride that I noted to pay penance for later when I re-sealed the munitions crate and glanced at my own personal gift.

 

Iuniorus Mortis. 'Death, the Younger' so it was named. This Heavy Bolter was to be my companion and ally throughout my long vigil, and when I leave this Watch-Station either by dint of glory in death or otherwise, Iuniorus Mortis would stock the armoury and lend to it a relic from our most honoured past. That, I knew, was also likely cousin to the politics at play in my secondment, yet in my hearts I also saw a great gesture given by the chapter to the Deathwatch.

 

+++

 

In the days aboard the Watch-Station I occupied my time with the diligence my kin are known for. Though black was not a colour I was unfamiliar with upon my battle-plate, the Deathwatch's own particular lifeless pigment elicited a sense of deep and terrible dread that only such a tenebrous lacking of light could. I found its effect on the machine spirit within my honoured power-armour to be pale panacea for its sullen and disquieted nature. I mirrored such a disposition in truth, yet I busied myself with the usual ministrations to distract myself from my own restlessness, and with arranging a psychological web in my head of the new faces and chapters I would encounter within Azurea.

 

So many of a different breed yet all the same in other ways. In places such as these it is easy to be overcome by the narcissism of small differences, but as a collector of knowledge and with a mind of interest towards persons and personalities, I kept myself as sociable as I could while maintaining distance. I was not one of them yet, and my presence could likely be misconstrued as intrusion or worse; invasion. Every scrap of information was to go to the foundation of my understanding of this brotherhood I was to enter. An exchange in the training cages, a snippet of loose dialogue within the library, a knowing glance within the shrine hall - each interaction no matter how slight would begin to paint the picture. I spent a considerable amount of time within the Reclusiam, though I did not speak and took part only nominally in the benedictions. There would be time for that later.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

The dolorous bells boomed through the Watch-Station. I had received the summons at least. Clad in my battle-plate and penitent beneath the crimson red robe of my chapter, I donned my helmet, pulled the hood over my head and as I did a small tinkle of metal pinged against the back of my plate. Like ceramite shards. I shifted and juddered the rogue metallic piece loose, and caught it in my hand as it fell down. It was a crushed fragment of ivory in-laid with gold. The playing piece from aboard the Supplication of Barda. My senses began to flood with memory.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

I shook it from my mind and placed the piece within the pocket of my robe, making my way towards the chapel with haste. There were a new set of loyalties for me to swear to, and in the coming years I knew they too would be tested. I recalled the words that had been spoken once again. I would not be found wanting.

 

 

[Petragor]

With a sigh, Chaka closes his eyes.

 

He feels the roar of the Thunderhawk's engines carrying him back to the Serenkai, carrying him home. He and his Pride have just finished securing the bridge of the "Emerald Torch", a pirate frigate which had stumbled upon the Celestial Lions fleet and attempted to escape, unsuccessfully. A comparatively routine boarding action, and yet Brother Izula had suffered a leg wound after the Torch's captain got a lucky shot off with a plasma gun. Thankfully, Lifebinder Vusi has done his duty well, and Izula is doing some basic cleaning of his equipment like everyone else, while they discuss the events of the mission, what could have been done better, how the situation might have changed if they were facing xenos or heretics and so on. Chaka joins in the conversation, but his thoughts roam elsewhere, anticipating the cold steel of the Serenkai under his feet, the idle humming of the maneuvering thrusters when they aren't in use, the naval strategy simulation figures in his cabin. Brother Lunga has challenged him to a game on said board after the debriefing, and Chaka doesn't intend to lose.

 

After landing and stepping out into the hangar, Chaka looks over his shoulder as the Pride walks towards the Astartes quarters. A few shuttles crewed by serfs and servitors are flying towards the secured vessel, just enough to take control and guide the ship back to the nearest civilized world, where it can be repaired, given a new crew, and put into the Emperors service once again. Another victory for the Chapter, and the Imperium. Chaka wonders if this new vessel may someday turn the tide on another front, far from the Celestial Lions' reach. He makes a mental note to keep an eye out for news of the Emerald Torch, just out of curiosity. There is always something to learn in a Naval engagement report.

 

As the Pride walks through the corridors of the Serenkai, Chaka begins to feel odd. How long have they been walking? Feels like hours, but they haven't gotten anywhere. Where are they walking? They should have passed at least one intersection by now, but the walls just stretch on. And what of the floor? It feels strange and spongy, nowhere near the firm consistency of steel Chaka is used to. He finally looks down to inspect it, and sees that the floor has been replaced with a strange pink surface of flesh, that wraps around the boots of his Mark V Power Armour when he places his foot down upon it. Looking around, the entire corridor has changed into this form, resembling less a corridor, more a throat swallowing Chaka and the others. Chaka turns to his Pride, but they too have been replaced. Nine snarling beasts stand where they stood moments before, charging at Chaka with claws and teeth sharper than razors. 

 

Instinctively, Chaka draws his most reliable tool, the Umbani Wezulu crackles to life and strikes the first creature, cutting off the first creature in both the literal and figurative sense, as the loss of it's legs causes it to stumble and fall. The others simply swarm over it, caring not as they stomp on the injured form beneath them, and Chaka fights for his life. He he no time to think, the is only parries, counterattacks, and the inevitable strikes that make their way through his defenses as he is surrounded on all sides. A claw behind him pierces the rear plating protecting his knee, and Chaka grunts in pain as he drops. No pain suppressant comes, are there none left? How long has he been fighting? He slashes blindly behind him, and feels the blade impact flesh, although he knows not which body part is destroyed. Another creature takes advantage of his distraction, taking hold of Chaka's arm holding the Power Sword. Another follows suit, and the arm is locked firmly in place by the combined strength of the creatures against Chaka's exhausted limb. He attempts to swat them off with his other arm, but fails to incapacitate them as another creature leaps at him from the front, dual claws rushing towards his collarbone.

 

With a gasp, Chaka opens his eyes.

[Komrk]

Vorkys Kol was glad to have finally returned to Watch-Station Azurea. Twenty-Seven months sidereal among the Orks of the Delvis Rifts had taken its toll on his wargear and a reset was well received.

 

His wargear had been re-sanctified and returned to him and he now spent the time in his chambers inspecting the work and familiarizing himself with the subtle damage that had been repaired. Vorkys paid particular attention to his personal jump pack Tacet Corvus and noticed how the paint never sticks to the crowns of the exhaust vents. 

 

Upon their return to Watch-Station Azurea they had received news of three Chapters of Space Marines turning against the Emperor in the Badab Sector. Many of the brothers had been taken aback by the betrayal. Vorkys should not have been surprised by their reaction, but he was all the same. Not only was it far from the first time that the Emperor’s Astartes had turned against him, but the fact of the matter is that they are not so different from their heretic cousins. Kill-Team Gallowbane’s operations in the Delvis Rifts had only reinforced this thinking in him. They used many of the tactics that the Alpha Legion excelled at using sabotage and assassination to facilitate internecine conflict and prevent any coordinated response.

 

Naturally, these thoughts must be kept to himself. While the Sons of Corax were not afraid of the possibility of betrayal among the Adeptus Astartes, other more straight-laced chapters would have more extreme reactions to the simple mention of the possibility. As he turned the blue-green scale of an Alpha Legionnaire end over end in his hand, he remembered the lessons of the Revilers. The trophy also reminded him of the incisors of the Ork Warboss he had given Brothers Titus and Gideon after the three of them had taken the great brute down together with only their combat blades. Brotherhood is a narrow path to walk with those who do not share your gene-seed, but it is as important to trust them as it is to be wary of betrayal. 

 

Whatever the next mission should be, Vorkys and his wargear would be ready. For now, however, the initiation of new Brothers took priority. He donned his robes and exited the chamber to observe the initiates’ rites. 

Edited February 12, 2021 by Komrk

[apologist]

His hands were steady. His eyes – both the natural one, glittering amber in the light reflecting from Boros' recumbent form, and the pearly augmetic – were steely in concentration. Nine weeks, he thought, as his gauntlets worked over the two Astartes before him. Both were still, their skin waxy; looking like little more then corpses. Nine weeks. An auspicious number. The Gatebreaker's month-cycle was long-divorced from a single star. They followed ten-week cycles, each dedicated to one of the Divine Princes. The tenth of course, was sacred to He-Who-Speaks-Not, the enthroned skull-headed figure at the centre of the wheel.

 

Helgrim, to his credit, had listened to Yeng's explanation of the Divine Princes without obvious distaste. The Doom Eagle had stuck to his Chaplain's vow in spirit as well as word. While clearly sceptical, he had offered a concession – a way of reconciling his own faith with his vow to minister to the spiritual health of all the Deathwatch, however recondite their beliefs.

 

"Intercessionary figures," he had declared, at length. "Like the Imperial Saints. Or..." and he had gestured at the small figures in the shrines ranged about them, "Like the Primarchs themselves. Your... Hayagriever?" Yeng had nodded at the Doom Eagle's querulous tone. "Your Hayagriever – Swift and Powerful," he had repeated, invoking the epithet in the Gatebreaker's own manner. Ignoring Yeng's grin, he turned, gesturing to one of the shrines. "He shares characteristics with Jaghatai Khan; an honoured Primarch. Those other tales you have told of him remind me of legends told of the lord of Ravens," here he gestured to another shrine, before turning back. "Others... are more problematic. This... He-Who Speaks-Not seems like a metaphor for the Emperor enthroned–" Yeng had interrupted here. 

"Emperor, of course, above all," he had said, wryly echoing the Doom Eagle's words back at him. The Chaplain's tortured face betrayed no amusement, but Yeng detected a glitter of indulgence in his eye. 

"Of course. Should there be any doubt?" he had given. Yeng's grin widened at the rejoinder. He enjoyed his visits to the shrine. The Gatebreakers drew from so many worlds, and had so scattered a brotherhood, that their religious observances were scanty. Few were faithful, in an abstract sense; more seeing the lines of the Tenets of the Divine Princes in a quite matter-of-fact way: precious, of course, but freely to be questioned and discussed. The rigid catechisms and strictures of of the Core Imperial religion, even filtered through the Astartes' Chapter Cults, were fascinatingly strange to Yeng.

 

More than that, he had been surprised to find he enjoyed Helgrim's company. The Chaplain was – quite properly – professionally distant, but he clearly relished a discussion of philosophy and faith. The two had met on numerous occasions, both in the shrine and, most recently,  the apothecarion. He had, in fact, just departed, his serfs and the servo skull hurrying along behind him. Zath had sneaked a look behind him – and just as quickly snapped his eyes back forwards as he saw the apothecary looking at him.

 

+++

 

Boros and Embe. Revivication. This was the realm of Yamartarian, Overcomer-of-Death. Helgrim had performed the Exorcism-of-Death-in-Life, a ritual intended to ward the souls of the warriors as they returned to their bodies. Yeng had stood back, alternately impressed and appalled at the ritual. The Doom Eagle had chanted while his serfs swung censers, then the Chaplain had smeared a black, chalky substance – charcoal? Kohl? Cuttlefish? – over their closed eyes. He had repeated the action over their noses and cheeks, before drawing three short lines down across their lips, rendering a crude skull on each. To the Gatebreaker, it looked primitive, almost atavistic. I prefer more civilised, modern methods, he thought privately, patting the familiar pouch of divination sticks at his waist for reassurance.

 

Still, reflected the Gatebreaker, as he finished intubating the Celestial Lion and turned to the Angels Revenant, More important than taste is that it work. Yeng's hands along with the arms of his narthecium, continued to work. Reviving Astartes from sus-an hibernation was no simple procedure; and made more complicated by the fact Yeng had never overseen the procedure before. Still, he was confident. The medical aides were top rate, and he had always been a fastidious and fast student. His confidence was buoyed by the fact that the two looked somehow less corpse-like. While their hearts and lungs remained still, some of the waxy bloom had left their features, and Yeng was heartened by Boros' face. Still pale and bloodless, it somehow seemed to have taken on more of the Angels Revenant's habitual half-sneer.

 

Yeng continued.

 

The fifth hour bell chimed. Yeng considered pausing, but dismissed the idea. He wanted to talk with Boros and Embe again. He had admired them both; both in different ways. The Gatebreaker was largely unburdened by guilt at Akkad's fate – his demeanour was far too pragmatic to dwell on what might have been – but it would be refreshing to talk as Swordhand had prior to the events of Syndalla. His mind wandered once more.

 

+++

 

The armourium. Yeng felt naked. Worse than naked. He was swathed – almost swaddled – in the green-and-yellow tabard of the Claviger-Gentle, but he was acutely aware that his scoliosis and limp was pronounced. It would be obvious to any who saw him. He had demurred and resisted handing his plate over, until given a direct order by the Watch-captain. It was, he considered, a fair order. His plate, always battered and dinged, was rapidly failing. Not even Armorum Ferrum, famed for its ruggedness, was immune to degredation.

 

Besides his personal reluctance, the Gatebreakers had an almost instinctive dislike of mechanics. Techmarines were utterly unknown to the Chapter; armoury slaves and mercenary techpriests maintaining the green-and-yellow armour of his fellows. A microcosm of their constant slow degradation as a Chapter, a Gatebreakers armour rarely came back better than it went in. The serfs were keen, and thoughtful, but simply lacked the ken and materiel necessary. Similarly, the greedy techpriesthood of the Edge frequently cheated; surreptitiously substituting or swapping out elements of lower grade when given relic suits.

 

It was utterly alien to Yeng to hand over his armour to Teralil... but at last he had. He had not, however, surrendered his yoke of samples. That was sacrosanct. He would no more hand that over than his own head.

 

The Storm Son had met him – apparently unplanned. Unarmoured and making the invitation, Yeng had – with no excuse otherwise – joined Greysight on a perambulation of the fortress walls. At least here, they were unlikely to meet any others. Yeng made a half-hearted attempt to excuse his limp and awkward gait, citing the injuries on the tyranid craft, but he had no belief that the other Astartes believed him. It had been strange. The two had looked up at the stars; unfamiliar to both of them – and to Yeng, raised at the very edge of the galaxy, where stars were as thinly-scattered as all else, unbelievably dense and rich. It had been strange, then, when the Storm Son had recited words of the Divine Princes back to him. Arms behind him, hands lightly clasped, Greysight had kept his gaze steadily upwards, as though watching for some long-heralded event to begin.

 

"The wheel turns. He that has a place upon it is crushed; and raised up to victory; and descends once more."

 

Yeng had finished the poet's words.

 

"Only he at centre remains outside cycle of destruction and renewal. Let wise man, therefore, move to axle of events."

 

There was a short pause, during which neither spoke, and both remained looking up. At length, Greysight intoned, softly but clearly,

 

"You told me that on the ship, Gatebreaker. I thought you should be reminded."

 

So saying, the Storm Son had excused himself. Yeng had gratefully let him go. He had remained there for some time, then returned to his cell.

 

+++

 

Teralil had worked wonders. Wonders. Yeng had begun armouring himself immediately. He had – churlishly, on later consideration – ignored the techmarine's request to deliver the armour personally in his haste to be clad once more. It felt different. There were obvious differences. The surfaces were broadly smooth and clear, but the Obsidian Glaive had respected the machine spirit enough not to completely erase its history. It was still mottled and marked, but somehow in a way that enhanced and highlighted its great age, turning it from relic to totem. Internally, it felt free. Just as Yeng's body had healed over nine weeks, so his armour felt lighter, freer. 

 

Once clad, he had hastened to the armorium to thank Teralil in person. The Obsidian Glaive had not seemed offended; nor particularly surprised or pleased to see him. Yeng was unable to hide his amusement at his comrade's utterly unimpressed nature. He had simply begun running over a reel of technomantic diagnostcism; little of which Yeng understood. The Gatebreaker received a not-insubstantial casket from the techmarine, containing – so the Techmarine told him – More dross than I have seen in a mortal lifetime. Old and redundant servos, worn wires and poorly-sutured cables, small paper tokens of blessing and the remnants of ancient wax microseals along with holy soulder used by generations of previous maintenance enginseers. His armour had been more repair than original – but now it was restored. Yeng felt that the Obsidian Glaive was showing – in his own way – more than just professional pride. It seemed that his old armour had been an enjoyable project.

 

As he departed, Yeng test-operated the long-dormant systems Teralil had informed him of. He had simply not known the functions existed. With a tic of his eyelid, for example, he found he could don the – what was it the Techmarine had called it? – hood and marvelled at the green lines that filtered over his surroundings. 

 

+++

 

His hands were steady. His eyes were steely in concentration. Nine weeks have passed. The time had come. Boros and Embe's vital signs were active once more. Their spirits inhabited their bodies for the first time in months. He turned to an aide, and asked her, with characteristic politeness, to summon the brethren of Swordhand. They should be here to witness their brethren arise once more. 

 

Who know, mused Yeng. Perhaps it is time I allowed some of my comrade's lessons to seep in more fully. It seems the Core has much strength. If we can bring Boros and Embe back, perhaps there is hope yet for Akkad – and for the Endworlds.

Edited February 13, 2021 by apologist

[adesro18]

The transit to the Watch Station aboard the Chapter vessel, Forge of Battle, was troubled. The tides of the warp, according to the Navigators aboard the vessel, were troubled and disturbed. It was only after some time plying the void that the crew learnt of the recent events in the Maelstrom system. So many brother chapters falling to rebellion. The greatest affront to the honor of every Astartes since the events of the Heresy. Atreus wished for the satisfaction of taking the fight to the traitors personally, a desire that would likely go unfilled, but a satisfying thought. 

Arriving at the watch station, final farewells were exchanged in Lodikan with his former battle brothers aboard the Forge of Battle which departed immediately on chapter business. Atreus was not left in solitude for long, bustling serfs of the Deathwatch immediately removed his brilliant teal armor, which was returned to him shortly after now sporting a deep black. His left pauldron was refitted to the right side, bearing the snarling dragons head emblem of his chapter, the left fitted with a new silver pauldron inscribed with the oath of the Deathwatch upon it. 

Escorted to his new cell, a sparsely furnished plain room, a far cry from the more embellished tribal style dwellings he typically resided in upon his homeworld or a chapter ship for that matter. He did not spend much time here, and doubted he would, for his work would undoubtedly bring him to the forge, where praise of the Omnissiah was performed in deed and not in the solitude of prayer.

Alone, only with his thoughts he turned to his final days with his chapter brothers and his home on Lodikar before joining the watch. The memories flooded back to him, he briefly wondered if secondment to the watch would be the honor he expected or not.

Deep within the Crucible, the watch fortress of the Astral Drakes, Atreus Maladon knelt before the master of the chapter. The everpresent ring of hammers shaping steel, the deep rumble of the core of the world and the sounds of industry echoed around them. It was, for the last 87 years since his ascension as an Astartes, what he considered his home. Rightfully so, the crucible housed the chapters armory and forges, the world of Lodikar the ancestral home of all Astral Drakes. On this day though, to him fell a new duty, a new test beyond all others faced before; secondment to the Deathwatch.

To the eyes of the chapter this was a great honor. Secondment to the Deathwatch meant two things: Dedication to the path of hunting the hated Xenos, and acknowledgement of great skill and potential for only the elite of the elite were sent to the most hallowed of organizations such as the Deathwatch. The chapter would not mourn his loss, though they would never in all likelihood see him again. As is tradition, Atreus would forge a weapon using the utmost of his skill to present to the watch upon his inception as a token of gratitude for secondment before saying his farewells to his brothers. Days spent in the heat of the forge, working the metal, forming the weapon. A time of reflection, the cleansing heat and hard labor bringing the mind of Atreus to a sharp focus, honoring the traditions of the Primarch.

While genetically unable to feel fear, he reasoned that the current mix of emotions, the trepidation of the unknown and the looming loss of his closest battle brothers was the closest he could get to true fear. As he struck the metal the thoughts of his new life flooded his mind. The loss of his battle brothers, but gaining new ones. The way of war as taught by the chapter lost, but replaced with the meshing of ideologies that the Deathwatch brings. The rumble and growl of engines roaring into battle en masse a thing of the past but new and exotic foes and battlefields awaited. He grabbed the glowing red metal of the weapon with the forge tongs and quenched the metal in water, tempering the metal as he himself hardened his own mind to the future that awaited him. Determined now to forge the bond of brotherhood anew as he forged the combi weapon before him. Assembling the weapon into its final form, he stood back and observed his work. The finely crafted bolter with underslung melta gun was fine work indeed. A worthy tribute to the armories of the Watch Fortress he would now call home. Satisfied with the work, he hefted the weapon aloft and named the weapon, Fusion, both for the clarity of mind the forging brought and for the Xenos hulks it would undoubtedly fuse together into twisted hunks of metal one day.

Yes, he thought, it is now time to forge the bond anew, he would forge the bond of brotherhood in this place, a new alloy strengthened by the differences of the new brothers of his kill team. 

His thoughts disrupted by the tolling bell calling him to the shrine for induction, he left his spartan cell and headed off to meet his brothers in this new life.

[Komrade_Atomic]

(This takes place before Lysimachus' post)

In his quarters, Gideon meditated in solitude. He blocked out all noise, focusing only on one thing. The card. It was placed opposite to him, faced up. The card shifted and changed, displaying only thin wisps. He recalled back to being handed it. The prognosticator had been unable to decipher it's true meaning, it's intent. It was out of grasp. The only thing the card had wished to display was a single symbol. The Symbol of the Watch. That was three years ago. Three years since he had gazed upon the mountains of Varsarvia. Three years since he had walked through his chapter's fortress monasteries halls. As his train of thought diverted, he found himself thinking of the Watch. Of Gallowbane.

 

It was a bloody and brutal kill, but they had earned it. As the beast had fallen, Gideon smiled with relief, removing his combat blade from the beast's back whilst Kol moved to remove an incisor from the beast's mouth, Gideon removed his helmet and took in the fresh (if blood stained) air. After a moment of brutality, it brought him peace. As Kol claimed his battletrophies, and Gideon went to take the skull of a Nob who'd proven incredibly tenacious, even in his dying throes, and Titus watched the surrounding area, still vigilant, the Kill Team returned to the Shadows, victorious on that day.

 

 

As he recalled upon his operations with Gallowbane, he smiled to himself. They'd built a sense of brotherhood between them, especially with Kol and Titus. He kept the gift of the incisor from Kol, and it remained on a ledge within his quarters, and though a gift, Gideon took care of it, as it was a symbol of their brotherhood. As he realized that today would sadly not divulge any more secrets upon the card, he lifted it and placed it back onto the ledge. As he stood, he looked onto the helmet of his armour. Mark IV Maximus. Aged and proud, he felt proud to claim ownership to such an esteemed set of armour. It heralded from the second founding, since the chapter's origins. As he held it in his hands, the door slid open. A serf knelt outside, and Gideon turned and spoke. "Serf, rise. What do you bring?"

 

"I bring news, my lord, the new initiates are scheduled to arrive soon." Gideon's eyes widened, and he smiled. "Thank you. Where can I find Brother Titus, do you know?" The serf rose and spoke, "The armourium, my lord." Gideon nodded, and spoke. "Thank you. You may go." The serf left, and Gideon could not help but display a saddened expression to himself as he maglocked the Helmet to his belt. He and Titus had learnt of the Badab War at the same time, they were informed by a Chaplain upon their arrival. Where Gideon only nodded in saddened acknowledgement, Titus was utterly disgusted. Gideon hadn't spoken to him since, for fear of igniting a volatile topic of debate. If anything could even vaguely lessen the blow of this horrendous travesty, the initiations of the new brothers would. And as he stepped out of his quarters and shut them, he changed his expression to his familiar smile, and set off at pace.

 

 

As Gideon speed-walked to find Titus, he observed Serfs hurriedly pacing down the halls, no doubt with tasks and jobs to complete. It felt strange to him. Seeing humans again. In his time with Gallowbane, he had only his squadmates as company, and to see human faces again, it was a strange sensation. As he continued on his way, his mind wondered once more, and it fell onto his next assignment. He thought about what would happen next to Gallowbane. He had heard that some Kill Teams were lacking in numbers, losses against the Xenos Threat. And while those brothers had no doubt died for the Imperium, he thought of who would replace them. Would it be someone from Gallowbane? Maybe it would be himself. His smile had fallen slightly, and as he rounded another corner, and sighting the Armourium, he stowed the thoughts of his next assignment away. He would take it on, no matter what it was. As he made his way in, his grin returned to his face, and he approached Titus.

Edited February 12, 2021 by Komrade_Atomic

[Lysimachus]

edited to fit with KA's post

 

 

The return to Watch Station Azurea had been without fanfare. Several Kill Teams had come home within a few weeks, seeming similarly tired and battered as Gallowbane, but nonetheless victorious. But overshadowing these victories had been the bleak news from the Badab Sector. Tales of treachery and succession from the rightful rule of the Imperium, and not just by foolish mortal men. Entire Chapters of Astartes had apparently forsworn their oaths of loyalty. The effect on the Watch Station had been immediate. Marines watched their own brethren, those they had fought and nearly died beside, with suspicious eyes.

 

Titus had been disgusted by such betrayal, the selfish choice to put personal gain ahead of the continued survival of the whole. But he had done his best to stand aside, to avoid the arguments that inevitably occurred. The Stormbringers, far to the galactic north, were no part of this rebellion. It would be foolish for him to take sides. The role of the Deathwatch in the Taurelian Expanse was unchanged, to bring death to the xenos in its myriad hateful forms. Titus chose to focus on this, spending his time in silent practice at the target ranges and sparring cages, occasionally with his fellow warriors that had survived the Orks in the Rifts.

 

He was in the Armorium, working on his boltgun, when the Silver Skull hurried in with the news that new initiates into the Deathwatch were arriving, and the rumours that when they did Azurea would be sending its sons out into the black void once more.

 

"Will you join us for the initiation ceremony, brother?" Gideon asked with his usual wry grin.

 

The cold-eyed giant smiled back, remembering some of the wise advice of Chapter Master Asmodeus on Titus' departure from Tuphon years before, advice that now seemed all too applicable to the situation at far Badab:

 

"Learn all you can of your enemies. Learn all you can of your allies too. For who knows when the latter may become the former?"

 

Titus nodded.

 

"I will be there."

 

*****

[Mojake]

The Librarian watched the void in silence.

 

How many days had passed since Parmenion’s news had come to Azurea? The Space Marine did not know. He leaned against the thick, rounded armourglass of the observatory, his right hand curled into a fist at his side. A shattered dataslate lay discarded near his boot, flickering and sputtering in the moody light of the room.

 

The hulking figure refocused his gaze, settling his stare on the reflection that matched his bitterness.

 

This mask of pink flesh and scar tissue mocks me.

 

Yet again, his thoughts returned to Syrin-VII. He remembered wave after wave of green muscle smashing against their lines, the air thick with the smell of viscera, and the weakness of losing control never far from their thoughts. He remembered the inferno ruining his face as he fought to save Sergeant Toros and his squad from the twisted automations of the Orks. He remembered the sacrifice he had made so that eight brothers of the Lamenters would live to fight another day.

 

He felt the darkness within lurch upwards. He uncurled his fist and traced the ridges and grooves that ran the length of the left side of his face, controlling his breathing, purging thoughts of their treachery from his mind.  

 

The Astartes turned on his heel and made to leave the view of the blackness of space. Too often of late he had spent time in this room, the churning currents of the warp impressing upon him the vagaries ongoing and soon-to-be within the system.

 

An hour of blood draws near.

 

The transhuman made his way through the halls of the Watch-Station like an animal caged. Every muscle fiber within his flesh was poised to act, not through alarm, but inactivity.

 

We do not stand idle.

 

It felt like years since his last taste of bloodshed. The indignation of having nothing but combat servitors and holographic xenos feel the bite of Libra kept him on edge. His time sparring with Vârvost and that grox-sized specimen of the Dragons of Caliban had brought him some measure of comfort; but much to his chagrin, the Watch-Captain saw it fit to leave him confined within the walls of the Librarium, or in the depths of the training cages.

 

As he turned a corner, he punched the activation rune on the sealed door ahead.

 

“Brother-Codicier Achillion”, he barked.

 

As with all of his speech since Syrin-VII, the taut skin of his cheek pulled at the corner of his mouth and caused his words to gargle forth from his throat. He snarled as a red glow blinked from the door above him and denied access, taking steps to articulate himself with more care on his second attempt.

 

Achillion tapped into a small reserve of his power and projected a telepathic message to the other side of the station.

 

|| Vârvost, I hope you’ve fixed that eye of yours before you attend the new blood. We wouldn’t want to make the wrong impression. ||

 

The voice that sent the message was that of Achillion’s prior to his disfigurement; one of confidence, good-humour and nobility worthy of a son of Sanguinius.

 

The Librarian stepped through the door and strode in the direction of the Chaplain's shrine, his scarred face fought with itself to form a grin as his consciousness received an expletive-filled response from the Eradicator.

[ApostleRP]

It has been a difficult few days of acclimatisation for Lycus. He is by no means a stranger to operating with Astartes from other Chapters, especially considering his most recent deployments, but he has always enjoyed the comfort of his brothers being by his side. He finds himself engulfed with a feeling of isolation, surrounded by so many strangers, most of whom find themselves at odds with his views. So many of his new ... comrades... are occupied with their own interests. Advancement. Prestige. Acclaim. None of them seem to embrace the undeniable truth that they, like Artemios himself, are killers alone. It seems so many of them have forgotten, or outright forsaken, their divine mandate. 

 

The thought sends a chill down his spine, even though his scarred plate is perfectly regulating the temperature in his chilled cell. He remembers, all too well, the ultimate fate of Astartes that stray from their Emperor given purpose. Too easily the memories of Badab flood his mind. The sights of burning cities and fallen brother hiding just behind his eyes, waiting for the first opportunity to spring forth, an eternal reminder of the fallibility of the Emperor's Angels. Separated now from his Brothers, Lycus had spent most of his time in drills or personal prayer to the Imperator Mortifex, when not going through the orientation for the Watch Station. His more overt worship of the Emperor as the god that He is has drawn more than a few sideways glances from some of the other Astartes, but Lycus pays no mind to their glances. He is proud of his faith, the flame he shall use to burn away the darkness that offends the Emperor. 

 

Artermios' thoughts drift back to his final moments with his Chapter. His Captain had pulled him aside, prior to his debarkation of the Clepsydra. He offered words of encouragement in the unique way of the Star Phantoms, stating that if Artemios should fall in the execution of his new duties, he should make it an ending so glorious his brothers across the galaxy could hear of his glorious death. Between the sombre congratulations and honorifics, there remained important words to be shared. As ever, Artemios' first and foremost duty is to bring death to the enemies of the Emperor in whatever forms they take. However, recent events proved that not all of the Emperor's Astartes can be held above reproach, and some must be brought to heel. He must be vigilant, for many Astartes have been known to stray when removed from their Chapters. Artemios is no Chaplain, but should any of those he now serve beside were to stray or otherwise folly, he would give them a stark reminder of their purpose, or assist them onto their final duty.

 

The servos and power pack of his scarred power armour grind and growl at the thought, the memories of Badab still hanging onto the machine spirit, as much as onto Lycus himself. The sound jarred him from his contemplations, the time was fast approaching for him to take the Apocryphon Oath, and for his long Watch to begin... 

[Steel Company]

Nine weeks, it has been nine weeks since the cowards of the Dreadwing took my brother by choice. Nine weeks they have taunted me by keeping their ships so close to the watch station. Tyber thought to himself, as he slowly drew Harvest out from a target dummy, the fluids that kept it running falling to the floor, making it extremely slick.

 

With a quick chopping motion, the severed head of the servitor rolled around on the ground, causing Tyber to roll his shoulders, it felt so much better to be in his Mk. VIII again, no longer being confined to a suit that was one size too small, even with all of the expansion points positioned to their maximum, it had still pinched him at the worst times, limiting the ability to move and strike.

 

Looking to the blade in his right hand for this he felt so conflicted, this new blade was moving like an extension of his own body, more smoothly and accurately than even Adavan’s blade moved for him. He was finding that it was proving to be a more effective tool, biting deeper into these practice targets, enough so that it was becoming clear that he would need to seek a way to improve Adavan’s blade.

 

While the practice target sparked and twitched, Tyber turned his attention to Harvest as he spoke, “It is not that I favor Adavan’s blade over you, it is more that I know a lot of the history of that blade, and I will add to its legacy, whereas with you, I will be starting to build yours, to be carried on by someone else, someday.”

 

Rolling Harvest through a standard and reverse grip stance before flipping it end over end by each side of his body he continued to talk to it, “Because of you, I had to re-balance my equipment better. You deserve a visible place; perhaps I will have you on my right hip and I moved my pistols to my front.”

 

Making his way over to the table in the practice cages, he took out the polishing cloth from one of his pouches he started to clean Harvest before turning his attention to his arming sword, while he continued to talk more to himself than the blade as he said, “I’ve left a request for an audience with the Watch Captain, I think he will be able to help guide me on my path down the mysteries of my host.”

 

He paused to take out some of the oils used to maintain the blade and begun to gently work them on the metals of the blade, watching as the pattern of the wheat fields becoming more pronounced as the oils started to work their way into the pattern he continued to speak with the blade, “I feel foolish for coming to this station, seeking something that was never my path to walk. I came here out of a sense of jealousy of another, I coveted what he had of what his path held for him.”

 

Tyber sighed and stopped working the oils on the blade, lifting it to look at the shine of the metal as he said, “It is funny, that so far from the brotherhood of my home, I find that everything that was in my path had been placed before me and I was too blind to see it.”

 

Giving a final wipe to the blade and slipping it into the scabbard for the blade, he turned his attention fully to his heavy black bladed arming sword, giving it a once over with the wheat stone, oiling the blade as he spoke to it, “You have served me so well and you will continue to do so, but I can see that I will have to find a way to improve both you and myself to do continued honor to Adavan.”

 

Once he was finished sharpening and cleaning both blades he stored them one upon each hip and made his way to the chapel, stopping just outside of it to try and get a look at who and what chapters would be joining the watch station. As he stood outside, seeing who was joining the Watch, his eyes narrowed as they spotted the symbol of the Dreadwing, his lips compressed and his nostrils flared outward. Spinning on his heels Tyber hurried off to the records room, seeking any information he could find on these Star Phantoms, the children of the Dreadwing.

Edited February 12, 2021 by Steel Company

[Necronaut]

1730 hours. It was time to begin the evening rituals of observance. My master, Brother-Chaplain Helgrim of the Doom Eagles, of the Deathwatch, struck his ceremonial staff on the stone floor, issuing a sharp report like a bolter. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and prayed my master had not noticed. The other two attendant serfs and I began walking in step in front of him past the heavy doors of the narthex into the refectory proper. Primus, first among us, began the High Gothic hymn while swinging his censer.

 

"In nómine Deus Imperator,"

 

Gloria in excelsis Deus Imperator

Et in Terra pax hominum et Imperium

Laudamus te

Benedicimus te

Adoramus te

Glorificamus te...

 

Strong smell of incense and accompanying smoke started to fill the chamber as he walked, flanked by Tertius and myself. Both of us carried a large candle and were followed by our towering, skull-faced master, the mechanisms of his Corvus-pattern armor purring with barely restrained lethality with each step. We joined Primus in the hymn as we marched in lock-step toward the shrine of the God-Emperor Mordant, hewn from black marble and depicted with aching beauty by a master artisan whose name was long lost to the ravages of time. We halted in front of the effigy of the God-Emperor, set our candles into their corresponding sconces, made the sign of the Aquila and withdrew from sight as our hulking master approached the seated form of the God-Emperor. My Master dropped to one knee before the beautifully carved statue of the Master of Mankind as he has countless times before with his head bowed. Following a standard minute of silence, he rose once again, now turning to face those Battle-Brothers gathered in his chapel, all kneeling.

 

He began the morning call-and-response prayer, an older one from another chapter, another chaplain's words, his voice the sharp and abrasive bark of a line-commander's. It thundered like heavy weapons fire, and its memory will give me chills to my dying day,

 

"What is your Duty?"

 

To serve the Emperor's Will!

 

"What is the Emperor's Will?"

 

That we fight and die!

 

"What is death?"

 

It is our Duty!

 

"What is your Duty?..."

 

The chant was repeated, over and over, for half an hour, while he paced back and forth in front of the assemblage. In his own chapter halls, such prayers would last for over an hour, but the demands of the Deathwatch were different, and time was a precious commodity on this Watch Station.

 

This day was a special day, for later there was to be an induction ceremony for fresh recruits from nearly a dozen Astartes chapters, one of the largest gatherings of new disciples at Watch-Station Azurea in recent memory. While our master led the assembled demigods in prayer, I took note of those battle-brothers in attendance, and was surprised to notice one clad in sable armor and a robe of deep crimson. While he wore the silver pauldron of the Ordo Xenos, I did not recognize this battle-brother. A newcomer perhaps? I racked my mind to remember his chapter sigil from the hundreds in my memory. The Consecrators? Sons of the Lion. His armor was immaculate, in stark contrast to my Lord Chaplain’s scarred and war-torn plate. And it was an ancient mark from the time of the Heresy! My mind raced with questions that would have to go unanswered.

 

“And in death, duty does not end, brothers; death is just the beginning!”

 

My master smote the stone floor once again with his staff, topped with the symbol of His Holy Inquisition, and those gathered battle-brothers rose. Following prayers, our master gave benedictions to each of the battle-brothers in turn, the interloper being the last. He rose, acting as if he wished to speak, but at that moment the Watch-Captain entered the chapel and our mysterious guest bowed and departed. I suspect the Brother of the Consecrators may return later. I once heard my master describe the Sons of the Lion as "clannish and clandestine," and the description seemed apt, though it was not my place to pass such judgement.

 

I pray to the God-Emperor for the wisdom to best serve my master in ministering to the new members of His Holy Deathwatch.

 

From the logs of Telion Zath, Serf Secondus, servant of Brother-Chaplain Helgrim of the Doom Eagles

 

 

 

 

 

++++++++++

Helgrim saluted the Watch-Captain with his right fist crossed over his chest. "Hail, Watch-Captain, I am honored to see you this morning." His voice was harsh, but friendly. "All is well; the dead have had their rites ministered to them, and they rest soundly," he gestured to the shrines to the fallen brothers of the watch station across the room. "We weep not for their passing, for they have found great glory in their deaths, bringing down furious vengeance upon our foes." He clenched his right fist triumphantly to punctuate his pronouncement. "As my mentor would have said, 'It is with great lamentations that we bear the loss of our Primarch, but not for our Brethren, who have written great glory upon the stars with their blood and the blood of the Enemy.' "

 

Death. His constant friend. The only constant in the 41st millennium.

 

As he spoke with the Watch-Captain, he watched the remaining battle-brothers paying their respects to the various primarchs. One to visit the Khan, one to visit Dorn, one to visit Russ, one to visit the Angel, Helgrim counted silently. The thought of the son of Sanguinius reminded him, as it so often did, of his former master, High Chaplain Zakiel, the wily and charismatic warrior-priest of the Lamenters, from whom he had learned these rites, and much more during his crisis of faith. He wondered to himself what his mentor would have thought of his chapter, those cursed sons of the Angel, led astray by the corrupted Tyrant of Badab. He could feel the bile of hatred rising in him at the mere thought of that monster. He prayed again, as he had many times before, that the benighted Lamenters would be purified, their honor redeemed by their long sojourn into the dark places of the galaxy.

 

The thought of his mentor caused the burning rage at his defeat to rise inside of Helgrim. One day, old friend, I will find you and grant you the funerary rites you so justly deserve. Your war-plate and holy armaments deserve far better than to rot away in that accursed hulk beyond our grasp when there is so much xenos blood yet to spill...

 

"All preparations for the induction ceremony have been made, aye. I look forward to welcoming this crop of warriors into our Brotherhood. It will be good to have new blood added to the rolls, Watch-Captain," Helgrim continues. "Our holy mandate demands fresh minds and bodies to prosecute our Duty, and it is a glorious thing to see a battle-brother remade in the fires of our forges." He paused, remembering his own induction into the Deathwatch, many decades ago. He recalled how the gruelling training and psycho-indoctrination made his own transformation into a Doom Eagle pale in comparison. "Their mettle shall be tested as never before."

 

His left hand absent-mindedly drifted up to the left side of his face, wanting to scratch the recently sutured scar tissue holding his refitted augmetic eye in place, hidden by his death-mask. The horrors that bionic replacement had witnessed -- horrors and glories alike. Apothecary Yeng had questioned him why he did not opt for a higher-grade augmetic as befitting one of his station, but that was HIS eye, by the Throne! That cybernetic eye had served him since he had been a Sergeant with the Doom Eagles, hurriedly installed in the medic's tent on the front lines of their war on Golan against traitorous filth. He could never forget the sensation of his eye boiling in its socket when he was doused with the renegade's fire. The stench of the cooked meat of his face, the adrenaline rush when he gutted the cur with his chainsword. The ocular nerve had been suffering degeneration, Apothecary Yeng had told him two hours ago, likely due to the conditions and rushed nature of the original treatment. Helgrim had calmly and matter-of-factly told the younger Astartes to do what repairs were necessary to his flesh and reinsert the bionic eye, or so help him the apothecary would be treating himself.

 

His thoughts turned to the Badab War, which from what he had gathered had been driven by hubris much as past Heresies had been. Hubris is to Heresy as a moth to flame, Helgrim thought to himself. Hubris and navel-gazing. That was how the Deathwatch garnered its strength, its resolve in the face of implacable odds -- not from rigid self-reliance which can lead to hubris and self-aggrandizement. The Deathwatch was made stronger by its myriad moving pieces, like cogs in a grand machine, each serving its own purpose. No that was not it -- each brother was like an alloying element in an ingot of steel before being forged into a pristine blade. Yes, that was it. And each brother must die a purifying death upon admittance into the 'Watch, a death in which they shake off some shackles of their former lives amongst their disparate chapters, before being reborn, reforged into something new and terrible to behold.

 

Once the remaining battle-brothers had filed out, Helgrim turned back to his superior,

 

“There is another matter, Watch-Captain: that of our visitors, the Heresy in Badab, and the fate of our own Astral Claw,” his voice dropped to only a few decibels above a rasping whisper. “These are dark tidings indeed -- Heresy and worse if the stories I have heard can be believed. I thank the Throne that it was only the Tyrant’s chapter who were purged, that the Inquisition saw fit merely to sentence those he led astray, who conducted themselves honorably, to survive and serve their just penance.”

 

The Lamenters suffer aplenty for half the Imperium.

 

“Which brings me to Brother Akkad. How does he fare in the... tender mercies of our honored guests? I have heard no word of him since he was taken into their custody some three-score days ago. His cohort has heard no word. The Watch Station stands upon the precipice, Diocles. Where there exists doubt and resentment, are the seeds for corruption and worse sown.” He measured his words, displeased by recent events. “The battle-brothers of this station are strong of mind and spirit, but we have left them too long in the dark on this matter. You and I owe them that much.”

 

The chaplain turned to look upon the carving of Guilliman. Give us strength, Primarch, in these days of woe.

 

"How is last of the Astral Claws to die? As a supposed Traitor skewered on a Star Phantom’s blade, or a Brother of the Deathwatch, drenched in the blood of the Imperium’s foes?"

 

 

 

 

 

++++++++++

My master and the Watch-Captain spoke for some time in hushed tones, whilst the other serfs and I tended to the numerous shrines and candles placed around the sanctuary. There was much work to be done before the induction ceremony later today -- ceremonial candelabras to assemble and prepare, Deathwatch and Ordo Xenos heraldry to hang on the walls, the crimson rug to be rolled out, last minute polishing of the statue of the God-Emperor…

 

The list went on and on.

 

While I was working, I strayed too close to the two giants, locked in hushed conversation. Both turned to look at me, and my master growled, “See to your duties elsewhere, serf!”

 

I fled in terror at his presence, knowing I would be reprimanded later by Primus.

 

God-Emperor protect my soul!

 

From the logs of Telion Zath, Serf Secondus, servant of Brother-Chaplain Helgrim of the Doom Eagles

Edited January 11, 2022 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Over the days and weeks messages and records arrived at the watch station detailing the events of the war. The Raptors deployment had occured less than a year after Atratus was secunded to the Deathwatch, amongst the rolls of honoured and dead those who would have been chosen in his place, and brother Eiderman of the 5th who had put forward the young Raptor for the position now fallen not at the hands of xenos or daemon but of once fellow astartes.

 

Reports of battles and losses gave way to those of taxes and debts of honour as Atratus poured over every detail, the name of every ship and functionary. Politics, pride... betrayal. Like the Dark Lantern no single event made clear what was to come until taken in context of others, a realisation too late of events that had long since been set in motion.

 

103 days sidereal passed as the Raptors eyes turned to Syndalla. By his own hands and those of autoscribes recording every event in exacting detail, seeking some pattern in the unklnown but seeing only disparate events yet to come into focus. The inquisition, the xenos, humans and astartes alike moving at apparent cross purpose yet all connected somehow to the survival of the world - or as the captain had suggested someone amongst the killteam itself.

 

(placeholder - to continue)

[Commissar Molotov]

Brother-Chaplain Helgrim

 

At Helgrim

[That Beyond the Light]

“A time spent searching, a time spent never finding the answers you seek. A place so dark, A sense lost to the consuming evil that approaches. My brothers I will find you, I will uncover the truths that hide in the depths of the cosmos. We will be whole again”.

 

The dense darkness of space breaks for moment as the Imperial Cruiser Ulras makes its approach to Watch Station Azurea having travelled the long journey form Watch Fortress Erioch. A shuttle leaves the protection of the hulking ship of spires and weapon platforms to begin its docking procedures with the station. Aboard the shuttle Marines stand patiently for their arrival with the docking port. A mix of coloured armour fills the forward aft of the shuttle’s cargo area with new initiates from a multitude of chapters, waiting to fold into the Watch. There is no chatter but the subtle sound of helms turning, this speaks more than word alone as the marines try to work out who each other are and why they have been selected, demanded or volunteered for this prestigious honour.

Stood in a dully lit corner is a figure clad in black battle worn armour and bearing the unmistakable chromed left arm and pauldron of the DeathWatch. What light there is shimmers harshly off it, making it even more difficult to see the rest of the shadowy marine. He never breaks his gaze from eyes forward, never rises to the occasion of the other marines’ games of macho, he just stands there, disciplined, calmly waiting for the docking to finish and the enviro sealed doors to open.

The sound of the docking port clamping on to the shuttle and air lock engaging rings loudly in the bay and the jolt jars the marines where they stand. The doors whirl with the sound of servos and cogs as the locks disengage and screech along their rails as they slowly slide open. Two marines stand guard with bolters in hand on the other side of the door as The Marines disembark in single file. They all head down a corridor of flickering lights that are almost pulsing in rhythm, guiding them to the Watch Stations main hall. The shadowy figure is last and does not act impatient to leave the shuttle, he just breaks the symmetry of the line with a small gap from the last marine and proceeds onwards.

 

The Corridor opens into a vast room with huge ornate windows that are drenched in the deep orange light from the nearby star. The hall floors are awash with a warm glow and dense shadows from the windows frame that pool over the glossy glass stone floor like liquid magma. As the shadowy figure finally walks into the hall his full stature is revealed. He is of average height for a marine, lean and wearing armour of Mk8 design. The right pauldron has a stylised eagle head in white on a black background with gold trim. Gazes turn to the Marine as initiates, serving Watch and station staff stare in disbelief upon realisation. Realisation that he is of the Black Consuls, a chapter near decimated and a rarity to see in this part of the Imperium these days. If you ever do it is in the middle of the battle attacking with an outstanding ferocity from their drop pods.

A retinue of the Station approaches this clear veteran of the Watch.

 

“Solza, Ekieo Solza?

 

The marine turns instinctively upon the call of the name, signalling to the retinue that he has the right Watch man.

 

“Welcome to Azurea Station. Your previous Watch Captain spoke highly of you and recommend you for this post, he advised us you would be an ideal member for the new team”.

 

Ekieo stands there silent. He turns left, then right almost like he's assessing his surroundings for danger, before returning the gaze of his green tinted lenses to the retinue. With jets of pressurised air he disengages his helm and removes it revealing his fair complexion and scared face. With time, care and respect he clips his helmet to his utility belt, just behind his holstered pistol. His soft deep voice answers slowly and clearly…

 

“I am still unaware as to why I have been re-assigned to here”?

 

“I am not of high enough authority to answer that im afraid. It will all become clear at the de briefing. In the meantime, please familiarise yourself with the Station before proceeding to Chaplain Helgrim’s shrine for the induction. You can find it down the main Corridor over there”. Please be prompt, the Chaplin does not like to be kept waiting”.

 

Ekieo stares at the retinue with eyes like fire, as if the last comment had insulted not just him, but his whole chapter.

 

The retinue looks worried. Then a scrawny, weathered, robbed arm points to the retinue’s right at a large arch with a vast and gloomy looking corridor, lights flicker like candle flames dance on their wick. He bows deeply then wishes Ekieo good fortune and wellbeing before turning and departing the great hall in scurry of a walk.

 

Ekieo strides towards one of the great windows and looks towards the distant star. Looking upon its distorted glow his thoughts cast upon the recent events that hang in the air of every imperial base and brother. Once again betrayal plagues the blessed sons of the Emperor. This time its one of its most respected battle commanders, Lufgt Huron of the Astral Claws. His blatant heresy against the great Emperor sickens and concerns all who’s ears fall to its sound, his decimation of the sacred bodies of brothers akin and not, turns even the strongest of stomachs. Every time news like this crosses the path of Ekieo he can only be reminded of the betrayal, the pain, the near extinction that his Chapter was dealt at the hand of the traitor Word Bearers Legion. He and his known brother may be the last, the only to continue the fight. Anger fills his being, rage grips every fibre of his enhanced body, the pain still raw even after all this elapsed time. It becomes harder to control every time he hears of these atrocities towards his beloved imperium. It takes all his dedicated teachings to supress and harness these feelings, to turn them in to focus and straight thinking, harness it into a force that he can use against them.

 

When gripped in thought time becomes distorted and absent to mind. The warm glow on his face fades as the stars light diminishes with the passing of the gas giant that the station orbits, fading just like memories do as he concentrates of the task in hand. The induction ceremony of the new Kill Team and why he has been pulled from his post on Fortress station Erioch? A most favourable post that he volunteered for, something his chapter was both proud of and mournful over. In Jerichos Reach he had the chance of hunting the heretics that his chapter and brothers were so gravely wounded by. His hopes turn to being able to find the same retribution here, the more of them that die by his chapters hand, the more of his brothers that will be truly honoured! With these thoughts flowing through his mind, he turned from the growing darkness beckoning from beyond the grand windows of the great hall and began to follow the vast corridor that the retinue had shown him leading to the Chaplains Shrine.

 

After a short while Ekieo’s stride shortens as he is presented with a large set of golden doors. They are beautifully decorated with scenes of honour in battle, religious depictions of the Emperor of mankind, stories of the past and a large Crozius Arcanum down the centre, dividing in two when the doors open. With iconography like this Ekieo could not be mistaken that this was the Shrine of the Station, shrine of his new post, shrine of his new home. Before he could do anything further the heavy doors slowly open, a dazzle of light invites him in, but the cold breeze of uncertainty posts doubt.

 

Ekieo’s imagination runs wild

 

“Is this where the journey of truth begins, is this where the answers lie, or where more questions are discovered…”.

Edited February 13, 2021 by That Beyond the Light

[Necronaut]

Helgrim nodded at the wisdom of his Watch-Captain's words.

"I do not mean for us to stand against the Star Phantoms in their inquest, Watch-Captain. I agree it would be the wrong course of action. If they act with the authority of the Inquisition, then this must play out accordingly. However..."

He paused for a moment, locking eyes with serf Secondus, whose work had brought him closer to Helgrim and the Watch-Captain than desirable.

"See to your duties elsewhere, serf!"

He saw the blood drain from the serf's face. With his heightened senses he could hear the serf's heart thundering in his chest, he could smell the adrenaline being released by his nervous system in response to the presence of an apex predator. Serf Secondus bowed, hurriedly stammered out an apology, and fled in terror before the baleful scowl of his master.

He met Diocles' gaze again, "However, this is as much of a question of his complicity as it is his spiritual purity. If he is found to be tainted by the great Enemy, then I would end his miserable existence myself. But if not, then yes, taking the Black could be one step towards expunging himself of his chapter's sins. Why not let Daon Akkad of the Astral Claws die a ceremonial death, and his chapter along with him, and let us induct a new Blackshield into the 'Watch, following a ritual of purification? To lose so honed and deadly a weapon as he would be a great waste if he is yet pure of heart."

He turned to a nearby shrine, candlelight flickering on the red lenses of his skull helm.

"If Akkad is to be judged by his company, then let it be us! I would rather he find redemption in a glorious death, his blades wet with xenos blood than to die in ignominy and futility!"

Edited February 13, 2021 by Necronaut

[Jeremy.Phillips]

Argus stood in the MK VIII armour he had been bequeathed upon his ascension to the rank of Sergeant. It felt different now, however. It shouldn’t he knew, but he had always fought clad in the crimson red of the Blood Ravens. He had proudly borne those colours on dozens of worlds. He had lost more than a few brothers who wore the same. Now his armour matched the cold void of space.

 

In the low light of the training room, Argus hefted the chainsword in his right hand. It was not his, he had brought little equipment with him on the journey, but nonetheless he found the weight reassuring.

 

He had chosen this path. There had been talk of his ascension to the ranks of higher command after he orchestrated the victory on Selucia against the insurrectionists. He knew however, he was not ready. There were too many enemies he had not fought, too many things he did not know. And so, he made the choice the take on the black armour of the Deathwatch. He had believed this would be an opportunity do battle against the vile xenos of countless worlds. He would take back this experience, if he survived, and use it to ensure the victory of Blood Ravens against all those who would stand against the Emperor.

 

The combat servitor entered the cage. Its lumbering gait belied its programmed agility. Four arms ending in blades of varying lengths glinted as they spun about.

 

The journey to Watch-Station Azurea had been long. The Chapter had lacked the resources to dedicate a transport for him, so Argus had been forced to embark on numerous Imperial Navy crafts whose paths took him closer and closer to his destination. He was never refused of course. Those trips through the void and the warp and been without incident. The awed looks from the human crew only reinforced the isolation he felt now that he had left his chapter behind. And so most of his time was spent in quiet contemplation in whatever quarters were provided to him. Of course, that became difficult after he learned of the incident.

 

He did not set the servitors combat level as high as he usually would, knowing that his full concentration was not on the moment. Argus took a defensive stance, feet braced and chainsword held vertical in front of him.

 

That so many chapters would be led astray by the lies of one Space Marine. No matter that he had been a respected Chapter Master of an honored Chapter. That war besmirched the honor of every Astartes Chapter, most of all those who had sided with the Tyrant. This was the inevitable outcome when warriors joined battle without truly knowing their foes and allies.

Argus knew that haste and fury could win battles, but it never won wars.

 

He parried a sweeping blow from a scythe-like blade and narrowly dodged under an impaling strike from a serrated spear.

 

Argus had hoped to spend his time at the Watch Station in study, learning about the foes he may soon face. Try as he might though, his thoughts always turned to that dishonorable incident. His time was spent instead in the training cages and firing ranges where he could vent the fury he felt.

 

He brought his chainsword down in a brutal arc directly onto the servitor’s head. Its eyes didn’t change at all as the roaring weapon bit down and cleaved deep through the skull and into its chest. Blood, viscera, and scrap metal spewed across the room until the sword seized to a stop. Argus realized he was breathing heavy as calm replaced the anger he had felt. The arms of a servitor slumped down in a clatter. As he grabbed at the lifeless hulk to pull free his weapon, he stopped and stared once again at the color of his gauntlets. It would take some time before he was used to all these changes. Suddenly, the eventide bell rang out. Argus released the chainsword and the corpse fell to the ground in front of him. He gestured for the attending serfs to quickly clean the gore the from his armour.

 

He was being summoned and he would not be late.

[Ancient_Sobek]

The chill air of the crypt caresses my skin as I descend beneath the fortress monastery. Each step pregnant with anticipation as I make my way to the hallowed sepulcher. I think upon all I have achieved to reach this point.

 

Before me stand two bronze doors covered with the verdigris of countless ages. I hesitate for but a moment before pushing the gate open and entering the Emerald Crypt. The inner chamber is cast in shadow, dimly illuminated by an eerie light emanating from near the floor.

 

I swallow my trepidation and march to the center of the circular space. I pause above the ivory and onyx depiction of our blessed chapter symbol inlayed in the stone below my feet. I draw my chainsword, kneeling upon that sombre skull icon. I place the tip of my sword upon the ground, my hands resting upon the hilt. Bowing my head, I speak.

 

“Hallowed and glorious ancestors, I come before you seeking your guidance and ask for a test of my worthiness.”

 

Silence hung in the air as his last words were swallowed by the gloom. Did he do something to offend them? Was he judged unworthy? Panic began to set in before he finally heard the faint sound of machinery coming to life.

 

Around him a green light slowly crawled up each iron effigy arrayed around the tomb. Twelve they were, each a glorious hero of the chapter. Each thousands of years old. Each long dead, and yet not.

 

As the dim light slowly filled the space, it revealed each of the twelve figures. Cast in iron and bronze, they at upon thrones of basalt. The thrones arrayed in a circle around the room. Six to the left, six to the right, and between them, the 13th throne upon which the Chapter Master would sit when consulting the undying peers. Their ageless wisdom and council helping guide the chapter through the ages.

 

The green light reached the eyes of the death masks upon each figure and flared. The light revealing a dread sentience lurking within each figure. A chill voice rang out like a funeral bell from one of the figures. The sound hollow and eternal.

 

“Who comes before this council?”

 

I speak with all the confidence I can muster, “Severix of the House of Pyke. Battle-brother of the Black Company, scourge of heretics and xenos alike.”

 

“And what boon do you ask of us?”

 

“I ask for a quest, to prove by worthiness to enter the vaunted company of our chapter’s heroes within the First. I beseech they, tell me how I may win my honor?”

 

The eyes of the effigies seemed to pierce his soul. Searching his heart for it’s worth. Another voice joined the first.

 

“We have received word from the agents of the Inquisition. They seek help with a matter most dire. Ancient pacts and fell bargains compel us to send them aid. The task is fraught with peril and you may very well perish in the undertaking. Will you take up this quest?”

 

“For the chapter, on my honor, I shall see this deed done”

 

A final voice filled the space, deep and sonorous. “In life I was called Artemis Pyke. I am the founder of our house. I see that you wear the battle plate that once protected me. Show it the deference it deserves, bring it honor and glory in battle. Do this, and it shall see you home.”

 

“Go now, leave this place. Do not return to your brethren until your task is complete”

 

+++++++

 

Severix opened his eyes as memories of the past faded from his thoughts. A chime had woken him from his reverie, alerting him to a presence outside his door. 

 

“Enter” he said. The door to his small chamber sliding aside to reveal one of the many serfs you served upon the watch station.

 

“Pardon my Lord, I was sent to inform you that the Initiation Ceremony will begin within the hour. Your presence is requested if it pleases you.”

 

“Thank you Esteban, I shall make my way there shortly. Would you call the arming servitors for me? I should dress for the occasion.”

 

“Of course my Lord, at once” the serf said, bowing to the Astartes as he withdrew from the doorway.

 

Severix turned back to the small portable shrine he had been kneeling before. His eyes lingered on the illuminations of the Primarch and the founding Chapter Master. Each work of art flanked the small statue of the Emperor Mordant that filled the center of the small frame.

 

Bowing his head he grasped the small metal icon he wore around his neck. The locket held within it an inscription of the quest he must fulfill. Until that task was completed he would not remove it’s leather cord from around his neck.

 

Saying his final benedictions, he reached forward and snuffed the candles before shrine. As the last candle was extinguished he lifted his gaze to the suit of armor before him. It’s grim visage seemingly looking down in judgement.

 

“By the Primarch and the Emperor, may you find me worthy.”

 

The door chimed again as the arming servitors arrived to once more clad him in his holy armor. He would greet his new brothers in the panoply of their sacred profession.

 

+++++++

[Noctus Cornix]

[PLACEHOLDER]

 

Montesa joins Yeng at the Apothecarion and welcomes both Boros and Embe back into the waking world.

[Xin Ceithan]

+++Stimulus inload... pending ++++

 

Placeholder - see the OOC thread for further rambling

[Deadass]

When Castor Boros woke, his world was yet composed of Sound and Fury.

There were the crack-shots of discharging boltguns, their bearers howling bloody defiance in the face of imminent defeat. The thunder of blood rushing through his ears, carried onward through a failing system by hearts pierced with bone and malice. He heard the roar of the unknowable, ungodly enemy they had been sent to kill, and he felt bitter rage at being unable to halt the chaos still unraveling around him.

Sight returned.

The Deathwatch were withdrawing, running from a beast a full squad of Adeptus Astartes could not lay low. Three of their number had fallen to its nightmare spawn, among them the mangled form of Calumnus Jor. The Sergeant’s body was borne by the Crimson Fist Montesa, the witch-mind turned leader of their motley group. All were wounded; armour rent and bleeding freely from a score of wounds by virtue of xenos bio-weaponry. Some were missing limbs or primary organs, yet no one would have brooked their weakness to slow the rest of his brethren. And so it was that even as he was forcing his body to move through the viscous fluid of the tyranid hive ship, Boros twisted his paling features into a joyless grin. So long as Kill-Team Swordhand still drew breath, the mission could - no, would be completed. They would return. They would see their oaths fulfilled.

Bested, but alive. Bloodied, but not yet broken.

When the rugged shape of the Thunderhawk finally came into view, the xenos sprung their trap as dozens of warrior organisms leapt from the shadows of the bio-vessel’s cavernous interior. Was that intention? Did the vile intellect behind the alien horde want them to see their deliverance before it ended them? Was it even capable of spite? It did not matter.
With his heavy bolter gone, Boros’ hand found the hilt of his chainsword as he saw the first mark come into striking distance. Gaunt-strain, that one. He evaded the creature’s first lunge, letting its momentum carry it past him before he made for the tail, the fingers of his augmetic closing around the frail appendage. Strength great enough to crush bones stopped Boros’ enemy dead in its tracks, dragging it towards him in the same moment as his blade plunged downwards, aiming for its unarmoured neck. The weapon’s teeth-tracks found purchase, beheading the monster in a welter of gore. Boros could not discard the body fast enough as targets two, three and four made for his position.

On and on it went, the cutting, stabbing, thrusting; work all of them had done for years on end, and it was this innate familiarity that made the eight of them reap a tally a dozen times their own. As they inched ever closer to the Thunderhawk, Boros witnessed Rodrik Ghent covering the churning mass behind them with pinpoint bursts of bolter fire, a xenos horror slumping to the ground dead each and every time. Vorr and Echion, brothers by choice, unleashed the anger of their heavy weaponry. Guillermo Montesa, fueled by naught but pain and grief bathed the swarm in gouts of psychic lightning; the lynchpin of their dogged advance.

For one glorious moment, the killing rage of Swordhand took a step into the mythical. Far away from mortal eyes, they embodied the fabled Angel of Death.

Boros did not see the blade that brought him down; not soon enough. One creature among a thousand leapt past the whirling teeth of the chainsword, limbs outstretched, maw agape. His cuirass, breached in half a dozen different places, did not so much as slow the blade. He felt the weapon lodge within his chest, cutting through something vital. Boros fought, of course. He fought to stand, to tear the creature from himself and end its worthless, wretched life for daring to let his blood. It was not to be.

As he lay dying on the heaving, organic floor, metres away from salvation, the thought that accompanied Boros into oblivion was the realisation that there would be no return; no mission completed.

No oaths fulfilled.

After that, there were only impressions, fleeting noise and colours in the void. Montesa’s un-voice forcing words of retreat into his fading mind. A knight aflame wading into an ocean of otherworldly hunger. The icy caress of metal needles sliding underneath his hide and the shapes of power-armoured figures circling his prone, unmoving frame.

There was no dream for him, no breakaway; merely the vivid memory of his near-demise.

And when Castor Boros woke, he gave a roar one hundred nights in the making.

Edited February 15, 2021 by AHorriblePerson