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

[Morovir]

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Thoughts outlined in the OOC thread.

 

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[Nineswords]

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Greysight

THE NOISE FROM the training halls of Watch-Station Azurea was an unceasing wail of ear-bursting sounds, cataloguing the Deathwatch's extensive armoury. The staccato bang, bang, bang of bolter fire was occasionally punctuated with a violent whoosh from super-heated plasma discharge. Occasionally, more exotic sounds were heard, emanating from re-purposed weapons of alien manufacture. The Astartes seconded to the Ordo Xenos did not compromise their training regimes with simulated ammunition: the explosive detonation of bolt rounds, and the devastating effects of melta discharge levelled at targets were very real on the training servitors, and even exotic specimens purposely loosed in the bowels of Azurea, to be hunted down and exterminated by the brothers of the Deathwatch.

From a small recessed balcony high above the primary firing ranges, Brother Greysight casually observed the drills undertaken by the others assigned to Blackthorn, quietly making his own appraisals. He had not attended the oathing ceremony of the new arrivals, nor made any attempt to interact with them. The circumstances of Daon Akkad's custody and the Watch-Captain's apparent complicity sat poorly with Greysight; and so he had spent the passing days convalescing. Despite his transhuman physiology, the leg wound from that last encounter on board the tyranid hive-ship had refused to heal cleanly, and Greysight limped in the weeks after Syndalla. It bothered him still, and it would not do to show weakness to the influx of Astartes flooding the watch-station. More than once, Greysight had been aware of his new brothers' scrutiny on the few occasions when he was called upon for the re-assignment briefings.

Beyond the physical wounds, Greysight also used the period as an opportunity for introspection, ritually cleaning his sulde and those of his former battle-brothers lost on Deluge, which he kept in his private quarters. Whilst he was duty bound to return them to Sunsitai, a round trip of over a year was simply out of the question. The brothers of the watch would keep for the time being. Fate called to the Storm Son, anchored to this mixed fraternity, and their Ordo masters.

The Khagan wished him here, and so it would be. 'They can wield bolt and blade, but already the posturing has begun,' remarked Greysight.

The Eradicator issued his usual customary grunt by way of greeting, joining the Storm Son on the balcony.

'Repairs?' asked Greysight, surprised to see Vârvost out of his power armour. It was, as far as he could recall, the first time he had seen his battle-brother's naked flesh. The Eradicator's torso was a congealed knot of keloid scar tissue, as ugly as its owner's visage, now embellished with a bionic eye. It looked like Yeng's handiwork.

'Servo replacements,' said Vârvost, scanning the firing ranges below. The ghost of a smile formed on his lips as the Consecrator, Incariel, unleashed a devastating salvo at the training dummies. 'That one's a talker, isn't he, Grey? He reeks of piety.'

Greysight nodded his agreement, though he had not turned his gaze from his friend's scarred torso.

The Eradicator sighed softly. A curious sound. 'My brothers,' began Vârvost matter-of-factly. 'Accepting the silver replaces one brotherhood with another. My brothers left their mark upon me; a reminder that my service to the ordos weakens them. I cannot undo it.'

'Guilt gnaws at the soul' replied Greysight. 'After my brothers were slaughtered by the hain, despair followed me until I arrived at the gates of Azurea. A stain on my honour, I thought back then. I feel differently now after Syndalla. The Khagan has guided me truly, but I came close the precipice of a similar madness that all of the Ninth takes great pains to conceal.'

Vârvost looked up sharply, and glared at the Storm Son. 'And what do you presume to know about us?'

Greysight shrugged. 'What we've always know about you,' he replied levelly. 'Even before the legions were fractured after the Great Heresy. The primarch offered his thoughts on the matter several times in our secret histories. We do not scold or judge, for we are no better. Let me tell you this, between friends: we have had our share of madness and betrayal lurking in the darker corners of Jaghatai's horde. The sagyar mazan. Its exact translation is difficult to express in Low Gothic, but it refers to those who have abandoned the primarch's teachings and embrace the inner savagery that is concealed within our secret hearts. Despair, Vârvost. It is an easy route into the ranks of this accursed brotherhood. 'A mind without purpose will wander in dark places'.'

'Hmn,' grunted the Eradicator. 'Where's that from?'

'The Spheres of Longing by Inquisitor Ravenor. Tyber is not the only one who accesses the watch-station's classified archives,' said Greysight. 'I think the seers of Sunsitai would approve of such a sentiment.'

The reverie was broken by strafing bolter fire. Solza, the Black Consul, confidently traversed the obstacle lane, pinning the battle-servitors under a hail of suppressing fire whilst the Consecrator lumbered behind him. To one side, the Star Phantom watched from afar.

Vârvost nodded towards the distant figure. 'And that one?'

Greysight shrugged again. 'Unknown. These are not the the same warriors I served with on Gaumon. Questions linger about Badab. I'm still trying to piece together what I can, but there's scarce little I can access on this so-called Tyrant of Badab. Maybe we should ask him.'

'They say Tyber's up for sergeant,' remarked Vârvost after a long moment.

'He may be up to the task,' said Greysight. 'For what it's worth, I don't care much. And neither do you.'

Vârvost's face creased into a grin. 'No, I suppose not, Grey,' he chuckled. 'They point. I slay. Who does the pointing makes little difference to me.'

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Edited February 26, 2021 by Nineswords

[Commissar Molotov]

Apothecarion

Vorr, Teralil, Montesa, Yeng… and Boros and Embe!

 

The eventide bells ring throughout the Watch-Station, calling the Astartes to the initiation ceremony. You ignore their call; your focus is on another, more intimate brotherhood. The summons from Yeng pulses insistently on your helm displays, calling you to the Apothecarion.

 

The moment is a reunion of another sort; the brethren of Swordhand have been scattered across Azurea for the last nine weeks. Few others have seen Vorr; the heat-haze of rage around the Red Talon has been almost palpable since the Star Phantoms delivered news of the Badab War to you all. Montesa and Teralil have both been kept busy by their respective duties. As for Yeng - clearly you are all due to see the fruits of the Apothecary’s labours.

 

The central Apothecarion chamber is customarily cold; candles and the dim light of electro-sconces help to illuminate the stone slabs and tables, taken up by the tools of the Apothecary’s trade. One wall is filled with jars and phials, labelled in a flowing hand. A number of deactivated surgical servitors stand limply in arched alcoves decorated with the prime helix, their scalpels and rotary saws retracted.

 

When you enter you see Yeng in his Mark III war-plate, the ancient suit of armour’s bulk preventing you from seeing behind him. The odd Apothecary is mercurial at the best of times; inscrutable at the worst - but few of you can mistake the smile upon his face. When he movesto one side, you are greeted with an even more welcome sight.

 

You have seen them before, of course. After the bio-ship, during the campaign for Syndalla, some of you will have made the journey to visit them. Their features were distorted by the haziness of the stasis field, reduced to an unreadable blur. Could they experience anything? Did they hear your prayers, or the one-sided conversations you had with them? Did they dream?

 

Now is your opportunity to ask. Sitting on the slabs are Castor Boros, the Revenant Angel, and Chaka Embe, the Celestial Lion. Their nakedness only highlights the fresh scarring and surgical suture-work; the new bionics worn by Boros. They are alive. Better than that, they seem hale and well.

 

It is as though the dark spell of the last weeks has been broken, in an instant.

 

This is a bittersweet moment! Against the odds, Yeng’s skill as an Apothecary has brought these two warriors back to you. If you need to familiarise yourself with these warriors, you can see their character profiles here: Castor Boros and Chaka Embe.

 

They will know nothing of your exploits in Episode II - the campaign to defend Syndalla, re-inserting into the Hive Ship, the warriors of Blackthorn, the loss of Ghent and, of course, the news of the Badab War.

 

You can choose to either roleplay telling the Brothers some (or all) of this news, or you can assume they are told it before your post occurs.

 

 

Shrine

The new recruits: Arcost, Argus, Artemios, Incariel and Maladon; any other warriors who have chosen to attend this august ceremony.

 

“Thank you for your counsel, Brother-Chaplain,” Diocles says. “I will see to it that Brother Akkad does not stand alone in this trial. He shall have the opportunity to prove his innocence. Let us hope the last of the Astral Claws does not share the fate of his fellows.”

 

At this, the eventide bells ring throughout the Watch-Station, calling the Astartes to this ceremony. The private conversation between Helgrim and Diocles is broken off as the shrine fills with the bulk of its power-armoured congregation. Murmured prayers can be heard in a dozen different languages as the Battle-Brothers pay homage to their Primarchs, give thanks to their fallen comrades and swear oaths anew.

 

Helgrim and his attendant serfs have ensured all the requisite preparations have been made for the ceremony. The air is thickened with the heady scent of sacred incense, and the metal-work gleams in the candle-light. All of the Battle-Brothers attending the shrine have the opportunity to see your fellows here; some of the assembled Astartes are intimately familiar to you; others are yet strangers, with your black warplate the only common thread between you.

 

Kneeling in the centre of the Shrine, you see the new initiates - each newly-adorned in the black of the Watch.

 

GM: These new warriors are Atreus Maladon, Techmarine of the Astral Drakes; Argus of the Blood Ravens; Incariel of the Consecrators, Pallan Arcost of the Star Leopards and Lycus Artemios of the Star Phantoms. See the character thread for more details, should you choose to describe these august warriors!

 

It may surprise some of you to see the hourglass iconography of the Star Phantoms among the new recruits. Before any of you have much time to consider the import of such actions, Diocles begins.

 

“In the service of your Chapters, you were commanded to follow the commands of your masters, no matter how difficult they were to understand or achieve. You were required to accept any challenge, no matter the odds, to sacrifice yourselves without thought. That you have endured shows your determination and tenacity. But still, your greatest challenges lie before you.”

 

The Watch-Captain draws a sword from the scabbard at his waist and holds it out to the new initiates, with both hands.

 

“On the honour of your Chapter, your Primarch and in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, you are charged with the destruction of the Alien and the confrontation of the myriad enemies of the Imperium. You must leave behind your former Chapter and embrace a new brotherhood, as one in your new calling. You must be a blade against the darkness.”

 

His voice grows deeper as he recites the words with a heavy familiarity.

 

“Do you swear to stand vigil in the void-between-worlds? Do you swear to safeguard the night, to annihilate the Xenos in all its vile forms, and bring unto them the judgement of Mankind? Do you swear to form the bulwark upon which the Imperium rests, from now unto the ending of the universe?”

 

As each of you answer in the affirmative, Chaplain Helgrim steps forward, affixing a purity seal to your armour. The waxen seal bears the crossed and barred iconography of your new Chapter, whilst the papyrus strips carry a copy of the new oath you have sworn. The Captain continues his recitation.

 

“By this seal, let it be known that you are bound to the service of the Deathwatch in the sight of the Senatorum Imperialis until the time of your death, or until the specifics of your oath shall be considered and proclaimed to be discharged. The gaze of the Emperor and the blessed Primarchs shall follow you. By your blood, by your deeds, they shall know your names.”

 

A smile passes his lips.

 

“Rise, brothers.”

Edited February 14, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Petragor]

Chaka looks at his hand. It is a patchwork of stitching, cut nearly apart by the Xeno warriors, and put back together again thanks to his lifebinder brother. No, not lifebinder, apothecary. He remembers now. His home ship, The Serenkai ramming aside an ork vessel to protect the Navy listening posts under her care. The damage sustained as the sundered foe suffered critical reactor failure, and exploded point-blank with the Battle Barges starboard retro-thrusters. His initial disappointment at the lengthy estimated repair time, followed by the opportunity to join the Deathwatch. A posting with a reputation for danger, even for Astartes. But certainly his experience fighting with one of the greatest warships in the Emperors fleets would see him through, allowing him to serve where he was most valuable until he could return to a fully repaired Serenkai?

Well, this last battle would be evidence to the contrary. Had he so quickly forgotten the lesson taught to him through countless boarding actions against ships more full of common crewmen than actual trained defenders? Never underestimate a inferior foe with superior numbers. He had been overwhelmed by simple tyranid warriors surrounding him and wearing home down, slash by slash, bite by bite. What has he done wrong? Perhaps weakening the group of enemies with a grenade first would have been wiser? Or shooting them at range to thin the herd? Or keeping his back against a wall to avoid getting surrounded? Or..

Chaka clenches his fist as he chooses to end his train of thought. Pondering on his mistakes like this won’t make them disappear. Rather than thinking up criticism of his past self, he should train and improve for the future. He should atone for his shameful defeat by getting back in fighting shape as quickly as possible, starting with learning of what has transpired during his absence.

“How long have I been in Stasis?” he asks, “What news have I missed?”

Edited February 21, 2021 by Petragor

[Lysimachus]

Titus watched, his helm and weapons at his belt, as Watch-Captain Diocles and Chaplain Helgrim led the new recruits through the Apocryphon Oath. He remembered standing where they stood now. He remembered the feeling of distrust, the palpable tension amongst a gathering of killers, wondering if he could fight alongside the strangers around him. But he had learned. While the bond of the Watch was not the same as that he felt for his brother Stormbringers, he had nevertheless come to trust the Astartes of Kill-Team Gallowbane. Hailing from differing genelines and Chapters, they had learned how to fight as an efficient and cohesive whole, building on one another's strengths and offsetting their flaws. Some had fallen to ensure the success of their missions in the Delvis Rifts, but the ties between the survivors were strong.

 

Titus frowned. It seemed likely to him, given the apparent loses among all the returning Deathwatch units, that the Astartes present might find themselves reassigned to other Kill-Teams. He wondered if he could build a similar trust with the other Marines in the shrine? Perhaps the other veterans might have similar experience of collaboration, but the new initiates would surely struggle for a time, just as Gallowbane had at first. And of course, the news of the Badab War would only make such integration harder.

 

Cautiously he examined both initiates and veterans. Titus recognised some from before Gallowbane's previous departure, the officers of the Watch most prominent among them. Others he had noted in passing since returning to Azurea. The Space Wolf and Iron Hand stood out immediately, direct inheritors of the proud legacy of the Legiones Astartes. Several more were almost as obvious, clearly identifiable by iconography or physical form as descendants of Guilliman, Vulkan or the Great Angel. But many provoked no connection in Titus' mind of any sort. All looked like capable fighters, but that was no surprise. No Chapter would send less than their best.

 

Two caught his eye in particular. One, loitering briefly near the entrance to the shrine before hurrying away, was a giant, fractionally taller than Titus himself. That was an oddity, for Titus usually stood above most others, whether men or Astartes. The Marine was also blonde like him, but here the similarities ended. Where Titus knew himself to be gaunt, pale, wraithlike, this other looked powerfully built and healthy, and carried an air of openness and nobility. A tiny smile tightened the Stormbringers' features for a moment as a sudden thought crossed his mind.

 

"If we stood side by side, I would look like his ghost.

 

One other Marine, seen for the first time, stood out to him for a completely different reason. Titus did not know the warrior's name or recognise his Chapter badge, but he immediately knew that here stood a fellow scion of the Khagan. The Astartes' countenance and bearing screamed out his heritage as one of the minghan kasurga. Titus knew that the same could not be said for the Stormbringers' appearance. His appearance. Recruited from a genestock far different from that of Chogoris and carrying none of the trappings of its ancient culture, his Chapter gave no hint of their savage origins.

 

But we are no less the Warhawk's children, he thought coldly. When the moment comes to bring swift death to the xenos, I will prove it in blood.

 

Titus felt the familiar choler suddenly rise in him and he forced it down immediately, looking away from the other warrior. There was no purpose in rivalry. He did not even yet know which of the occupants of the shrine would be his squad mates, or what their assignment would be. He would hold himself in check. He continued to watch as Diocles concluded the rite, and waited for the Watch-Captain to speak further.

[Ancient_Sobek]

The shrine was filled with those come to see the newest recruits pledge themselves the Watch. The ceremony varies from watch station to watch station, but the end result was the same, new blood for the eternal war. Pyke had lost count how many of these ceremonies he had attended during his long vigil. He looked over the initiates and wondered which ones would make it home to their parent chapters, and which would join the dead.

 

As he looked around the room, his eyes took in not only the new recruits, but the other members of this station. He had yet to spend time with any of his fellow warriors since arriving at the watch station. He knew not why he had been sent, only that his Watch Captain had said he was needed. Truly, it mattered little to him where he fought as long as it brought him closer to his nemesis.

 

His long tenure with the watch had exposed him to many different chapters over the years. Some of these new brothers hailed from these, others were a mystery to him. While the mission would be awkward until they each took the measure of their fellow brothers, he knew that they were each a skilled warrior or they would not be here.

 

The figure that stood out the most was the new recruit from the Star Phantoms. In truth, he knew little of the chapter beyond rumors from the war that had engulfed Badab region. Never the less the chapter had a ship nearby and it was whispered that they were here for a fellow member of the Watch. From what he gleaned, a member of this station had originally hailed from the cursed Astral Claws. A damning thing to be sure. However, Pyke was raised to believe that each man made his own fate and he did not feel it was right to judge a man for "the Sins of the Father" as the saying goes.

[Komrade_Atomic]

As Gideon stood amongst his fellow observing brothers, he watched the new recruits. As the Purity seals were affixed to their armour, their oath to the Deathwatch now set until death or their return to their chapter, he reflected upon his own recruitment to the watch. His own arrival to the Watch wasn't the result of a tithe, he felt called to it, and it beckoned to him. He pondered upon what had brought each of these new and fearless recruits to don the skull of the Deathwatch, and be prepared to die with others who herald from chapters not of their own, to die amongst cousins rather than their brothers. As he thought upon that, the Captain began to finish his recitation, and he looked once more at the kneeling marines. As the Captain ordered them to rise, he thought only one thing.

 

'Welcome to the Watch.'

Edited February 16, 2021 by Komrade_Atomic

[Brother Argent]

The dimly lit and sparsely furnished room assigned to Pallan matched the marines mood.  He had barely ventured from the small spartan quarters since his arrival at the Watch Station on board the Imperial freighter The Grey Wander, the last vessel in his hopscotch journey from far off Argentis, the homeworld of his Chapter with its lush fields and beautiful coastlines, to here at this back water station enveloped in the inky vastness of space.  Whilst he missed his homeworld and, more-so, his brothers he at least felt some kind of peace here on the station.  Peace in solitude, far from those whom knew of his failure.  Though they had never spoken openly of the events at the Eyrie he could see it in the looks they cast his way.  Daggered looks filled with spite and disgust for his failures.  Worse still was the looks of pity.  That one that had been ear marked to rise so far and had fallen that distance and twice as much again.  It had almost been a relief when he had been called into council with the new Captain of the Fourth House, as well as Chapter Master Kristoff and Chief Apothecary Gardin.  Whilst the Captain had been angry and called for great punishment the Chapter Master and Gardin had instead spoke of forgiveness.  The words had burned when they spoke.  Pallan could not, would not, allow his failures to go unpunished.  He begged to be sent of a Redemption Crusade, an exile of sorts from his Chapter and its close brotherhood, until a brother found redemption for there sins.  Kristoff had, albeit reluctantly, agreed. On one condition.  That Pallan would, instead of journeying alone, would take up the black and join the Deathwatch.  It was a condition that, equally as reluctantly, he agreed to.  And that was how he found himself here.

 

  Sputtering lights spilt sporadic light over his armour, recently returned from the Watch Stations Armoury and now painted in the black of the Deathwatch.  The Mk IV plate was as much a familiar sight as it was alien to him now.  Its once alabaster plate, a sign of both his role as apothecary as well as a member of his Chapter, now the inky blackness reflected in Pallan's own soul.  Although mostly well artificed and kept in excellent condition, the Star Leopards all spent time in the forge and were artificers in their own right, where once it had been adorned with honourifics, both Pallan and the armour's former owners, now it was mostly blank and scarred from where such honours had been removed.  Many by Pallan's own hands.  The only symbols that remained were the Prime Helix on his shoulder, helmet and greave and a thick heavy black chain that hung around his chest.  The black iron links of the chain blended well with the armour, only standing out where they hung over his old tattered cloth tabard.  Pallan ran his gauntleted hand over the links absent-mindedly.  Although he couldn't really feel the fine script etched on each of the thirty two links their shape was etched into his mind.

 

Arjus, Isitan, Martellus, Davith, Scirio, Thomun, Abarast, Kolst, Nomen...

 

Somewhere deep in the watch station he heard a bell ringing, a summons to the Chapel.  He had been told that he would need to attend a ceremony there, a swearing of oaths to this new brother hood.  Brotherhood, he couldn't decide if that would be a blessing or a curse.  He had been sworn into a close brotherhood before.  A brotherhood he had failed and led to their deaths.  He had opened himself to trust and had been betrayed in return.  He had news on his journey to the station, news of another brotherhood of astartes turning their backs on the Imperium.  It hadn't come as a surprise, Pallan having just come from his own Chapter's persecution of Imperial mandate against the White Talons, another Chapter that had turned their backs on Imperial rule.  Was the galaxy filled by traitors and their ilk, Pallan wondered.  What was becoming of the Imperium he had sworn to protect? What of those he now was about to swear to serve alondside?  How could he trust them?  How could they trust him?

 

Solus, Gherard, Lucuth, Astarn, Oljus, Emerkis, Xerek, Eret...

 

He was disturbed from his thoughts by a knock at his door,

" Enter," he said coldly and the portal hissed open,

" Lord Astartes?" a serf asked nervously in the door way, silouetted by the light flooding in from the much brighter hallway.

" Not Lord," Pallan said gently but firmly and serf seemed confused and stumbled over his next words,

" Forgive me, Lord Astartes.  I don't understand..." he trailed off.

" I am no bodies lord," Pallan said, turning to face the man, " My name is Pallan.  You may call me that." he said to the clearly confused man.  As he faced him Pallan's helmet's inbuilt diagnositcator tools gave him an automatic feedback on the man's heart rates and other vital signs.  He noted the man's heart rate was alarmingly high before annoyingly dismissing the display with a thought.

" Of course, uh, Lor... I mean, Pallan.  I was sent to ensure you remembered to attend the Chapel for the initiation ceremony." he said and Pallan nodded his head sternly.

" You needn't worry.  I heard the bells.  I shall make my way there forthwith." he said and turned his attention from the man.

" Thank you, Lord Pallan..." the serf said before disappearing back into the hallway.  Pallan let out a sigh before walking out from his quarters and into the hall.  The future called to him it seemed.

 

Phanuel, Gauis, Lamelus, Virok, Zekiel, Ironus, Erwyr, Thaddaeus...

 

Pallan walked past the stations Apothecarion on his way to the Chapel.  He imagined he would be spending some time there in the days to come.  He had avoided the place so far, having only once forced himself to venture within.  He had hidden himself in robes and only briefly entered the doorway.  He had caught the eye of one of the Apothecarion's stewards, an astartes that Pallan could only assume was a fellow apothecary due to his size but he had quickly left when he thought that he would be noticed.  There would be time for the Apothecarion and the work he would be needed to undertake there later.  Until then he would keep to himself.  The Apothecarion was busy now, he noted.  Several fellow astartes were gathered around whilst an Apothecary moved over his other charges.  As curious as he was Pallan continued.  Duty called, as it often did.

 

Eramades, Hasel, Ansgart, Lyrgar, Xorin, Berik, Honorus...

 

He kept moving till he came to the chapel's doors.  He paused at the gravitas of the moment.  His old life had died in the shadow of the Eyrie.  Its death knell had sounded upon his return.  Now he stood at the doors of a new life.  He placed his hand on the ancient doors and took a deep breath.  Past this portal lay redemption. Or death.  Or both. Was there any difference between the two anymore?

[Brother Argent]

The doors of the chapel swung open and Pallan entered the room.  The room was thick with the cloying scents of incense and candle light sent flickering shadows throughout.  Statues of the Primarch lined the wall and the chapel had already filled with many fellow astartes clad in similar black plate as Pallan.  He was ushered by a serf to where there was a gathering of marines in the centre of the shrine.  Pallan judged these were his fellow new brothers to the Deathwatch.  He could see other marines watching from the shadows or alcoves, their looks clearly judging, assessing.  Pallan couldn't help but feel he was being graded or sized up like a piece of choice meat at a market.  The feeling brought him back to that time long ago when he was brought before the house high captains on Argentis, being judged to see if any wanted to take him from the Houseless.  Captain Istanis of the Fourth had chosen him then.  In some ways Pallan was glad the esteemed Captain hadn't survived long enough to see his fall.  He suppressed a shudder at the feeling of overwhelming scrutiny as he turned his focus to the group of fellow new initiates as himself.

 

They all, for the most part, looked equally as ill at ease as himself.  Closest to where Pallan stood was a marine of ebony skin and white hair, clearly a scion of the Salamanders, Pallan thought.  Judging by the marines equipment Pallan judged him to be a techmarine, a servant of the forge.  Appropriate for one of Vulkan's line, Pallan mused.  Pallan had always admired the work of the servants of the Omnissiah, they worked of a tank or gun much as he worked on a body, both machines of various natures.  The techmarine seemed to carry himself with the aloof detatchness of his kind and Pallan couldn't help but feel envy of the marine.  He bore a Chapter badge that Pallan didn't recognise.

 

Further to the side stood a marine of a chapter that was familiar to Pallan.  Upon the shoulder pauldron of a marine with short cropped brown hair and a neat beard was the familar sign of the Blood Raven Chapter.  A chapter Pallan was familiar on due to them both having the shared honour, if it could be called that, of not knowing the Primogenitor.  True the Star Leopards claimed Dorn, at least openly, but the truth was despite having several gene markers the same they also carried some from unknown sources.  A bitter legacy of the 13th Founding.  The Blood Raven looked equally as ill at ease as Pallan as he cast glances towards the statues of the Primarchs and the scarred Chaplain that stood in front of them.

 

Pallan's gaze fell to another brother whose Chapter markings he didn't recognise.  Deep crimson robes and other familiar symbols marked him as a son of the Lion, however.  The marine seemed to be having his own private battle, perhaps lost in thoughts even darker then Pallan himself.  He averted his gaze when the marine looked up at him, or rather through him at some ghost of his past.

 

Thinking of ghosts Pallan had to look twice at the final brother whom stood nearby.  At first he could have sworn he was looking Eret gain, the fallen brother now standing alongside his in black as if the dark final days of the siege of the Eyre had never happened.  The marine stood with the same poise and bore the same features as Pallan's lost friend.  The illusion lasted only for a second, however, and once it passed Pallan failed to see the resemblance again.  Where Eret had stood as a giant this marine was of similar height to Pallan.  Where Eret had kept a long braid of hair this marine wore his close cut.  The marine bore a odd white hour glass and skull symbol on his pauldron.  Another unknown, Pallan thought.  He began to feel the gaze of the room upon him and couldn't help but notice half veiled stares and suspicious looks.  It took a moment to realise these looks of contempt and suspicion from many in the room were not detected at him but rather the marine.  Pallan couldn't help but wonder what crime the marine had committed, what deed so foul that it seemed to draw almost universal distaste from the marines assembled.

 

He was distracted from his thoughts by the words of the Watch Captain and he turned his attention to where the Captain stood alongside the Chaplain to address he and the other new Deathwatch recruits.  He and the other recruits moved to kneel in the centre of the shrine, facing the Primarchs.  The captain begins to speak, the tone of his voice reminding Pallan of the way his own Chapter Master had spoken to him before he had left his home.

 

“In the service of your Chapters, you were commanded to follow the commands of your masters, no matter how difficult they were to understand or achieve. You were required to accept any challenge, no matter the odds, to sacrifice yourselves without thought. That you have endured shows your determination and tenacity. But still, your greatest challenges lie before you.”

 

Pallan felt his hand unconciously go the chain he wore around his armour, his fingers tracing the words etched as much there as in his mind,

 

Arjus, Isitan, Martellus, Davith, Scirio, Thomun, Abarast, Kolst, Nomen...

“On the honour of your Chapter, your Primarch and in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, you are charged with the destruction of the Alien and the confrontation of the myriad enemies of the Imperium. You must leave behind your former Chapter and embrace a new brotherhood, as one in your new calling. You must be a blade against the darkness.”

 

Brotherhood... the word almost tasted like ash in his mouth.  He cast a sideways glance towards his fellow initiates and wondered how many of them would take their final breath in his care.  Whose blood would be the first to stain his how black gauntlets.

 

Solus, Gherard, Lucuth, Astarn, Oljus, Emerkis, Xerek, Eret...


“Do you swear to stand vigil in the void-between-worlds? Do you swear to safeguard the night, to annihilate the Xenos in all its vile forms, and bring unto them the judgement of Mankind? Do you swear to form the bulwark upon which the Imperium rests, from now unto the ending of the universe?”

 

Judgement?  Whom was he to mete out judgement? It was hard for a sinner to cast the first stone.  At least again the filth of the Xeno he could stand firm.  He knew one could offer no trust to them 

 

Phanuel, Gauis, Lamelus, Virok, Zekiel, Ironus, Erwyr, Thaddaeus...

Pallan spoke the words of affirmation without realising, an automatic gesture of one long given to services and rites of just such a nature.  He was startled when he felt the touch of the Chaplain as he affixed a seal to Pallan's armour.

“By this seal, let it be known that you are bound to the service of the Deathwatch in the sight of the Senatorum Imperialis until the time of your death, or until the specifics of your oath shall be considered and proclaimed to be discharged. The gaze of the Emperor and the blessed Primarchs shall follow you. By your blood, by your deeds, they shall know your names.”
 

Blood... in the end he guessed that was all he had left to give.  And only in doing so could he find redemption.

 

Eramades, Hasel, Ansgart, Lyrgar, Xorin, Berik, Honorus...

The Watch Captain finished and then smiled at the kneeling marines,

“Rise, brothers.”

 

Brothers.  Another cursed word ringing of doomed failure and cursed sins.  And yet also a promise.  A promise that perhaps Pallan could find his redemption.  He looked down at the wax seal now attached to his armour.  A small and simple thing compared to the solid black chains that hung about his armour.  Though made from completely different materials they seemed equally as heavy, if in import rather then reality.  The new seal in its small understated form told him of whom he now was to be, a brother of this new fraternity of the Deathwatch. The chains were a reminder of why he had to be that, and to always remind him of his own past.  His own failures.  The brothers that he had lost.   He looked at the seal a moment longer before smiling to himself wryly.  For something so important he wondered why they trusted it to a piece of parchment rather then something more solid.  Like, he thought, a chain...

Edited February 28, 2021 by Brother Argent

[Mojake]

Achillion entered the Chaplain’s shrine, briefly taken aback by the pungent incense permeating the air. Several brothers were already present, their ebon armour dancing with the reflections of myriad candle flames. The Librarian made no effort to smile in acknowledgement of the Astartes present, for his scarred face would only twist it into a mask of aggression.

 

He made his way over to the statue of the Great Angel where Vârvost stood. Pride filled his breast as he looked upon the faultless countenance of Sanguinius. Achillion made a short show of respect to his gene-father and nodded to his disfigured brother in silent greeting.

 

“A shame that we’ve lost the resemblance, isn’t it?” Achillion joked to his equally mutilated brother.

 

++

 

As more veterans filtered into the shrine, the Librarian took a place towards the rear of the room, setting himself apart from the main bulk of the congregation. Whilst he had met several of his brothers in passing previously, he did not feel like he knew any of them, or vice versa. To be touched by the warp is to know isolation and prejudice, and Achillion was no stranger to suspicious glances and hushed whispers. Nevertheless, he stood proud and unwavering, his conscious mind years past even perceiving such distrust.

 

He kept a keen eye out for Montesa, the Crimson Fists codicier, but to no avail.

 

What occasion of greater import could be keeping him? He thought to himself.

 

The representation of the Librarium would fall to him, then.

 

Achillion’s eyes fell upon the Newbloods kneeled in the center of the shrine. He recognised the symbols of the Star Phantoms and the Blood Ravens, but no others. As his gaze focused on the hourglass painted upon the pauldron of one of the recruits, his thoughts returned to Parmenion’s news and the Astral Claw whose presence on the Watch-Station had brought the Dreadwing to their gates.

 

Let us hope that your presence does not encourage further divisions in our ranks, Newblood.

 

Achillion drew himself back slightly into the shadows of a wall niche and closed his eyes, extending his spiritual perception with a small, controlled release of psychic energy. The unconscious shadows of mortal beings in the warp were rarely more than a translucent wisp suspended in the Empyrean, yet Astartes projections were a blazing furnace in comparison – a well of fierce willpower and resolve that was almost as distinctive to a Diviner as the Emperor’s Light was to an Astropath.

 

The Librarian filtered past the fiery shadows of his veteran brothers and focused on those of the Newbloods, a torrent of emotions bleeding forth from them. Anger, distrust, unease, guilt, shame - a maelstrom of negative feelings bled from the initiates. The despondency cut Achillion like a knife, yet there existed hope and determination under the veneer of despair.

 

Not one of them bore the blood of the witch – a blessing for them, perhaps. The Librarium was small upon Azurea and did not require Lexicaniums to bolster its ranks owing to the size of the garrison; however, Achillion always felt a measure of comfort when in the presence of his brother-psykers.

 

The Librarian withdrew his witch-sight and stepped back into the flickering light as the Watch-Captain began the swearing of oaths, a momentous occasion that would forever reinforce the legend that these individuals would weave in the years to come.

Edited February 16, 2021 by Mojake

[A.T.]

Atratus stood amongst the veterans of the Deathwatch as the ceremony began, only a few years before he had stood with the applicants and until now had not considered attending the arrival of new astartes.

 

The event had pulled him from his studies. Despite recent events it was not a question of distrust but of prudence, if he were to understand the motivations of others then those he stood with in battle would be the first. His eyes settled on one in particular - Artemois. Though helmeted at the time his size, gait, and the unique peculiarities of his armour identified him as one that Atratus had seen before...

[Komrk]

Vorkys stood toward the edges of the shrine as the new brothers swore their oaths to the Watch. The ceremony had drawn quite a crowd compared to many of those he had attended during his long service with the Deathwatch, further proof that Watch-Station Azurea was in a rare cycle where most of the brothers were present at one time. Looking around the shrine he saw many brothers he did not recognize, and some that he did. The high tempo of assignments and the turnover of the rigors of combat and the end of oaths to the watch meant that there was little time to even come to recognize those outside of your own team. 

 

The thought of a shakeup in the teams stuck in Vorkys' mind as he watched the recruits swear their oaths. Certainly he had meshed well within Gallowbane and found where he fit into his role easily, but he was adaptable. Learning his place once again would simply prove to be another opportunity to expand his knowledge, although he was sure that there would be some friction as always. 

 

The affixing of the purity seals roused Vorkys from his thoughts as he was moved by the feeling of oneness in service to the Emperor that the ceremony portrayed. Despite his lack of religious fervor as a Chaplain might describe it, he had always been stirred by ceremony and circumstance, the feeling of acting together as one could be intoxicating. Whatever the next assignment would bring, he and his brothers would face it together as one. As the brothers rose at the command of the Watch-Captain, he made the sign of the aquila.

[ApostleRP]

Lycus is no stranger to ceremony, the Death Cult of the Star Phantoms have many rites and practices that many among the Imperium would consider peculiar at best, morbid and fatalistic much more regularly. This ceremony however, made him feel uneasy. At first, he suspected it was the unfamiliar secular nature of the proceedings. As the ceremony continues, however, he comes to suspect it is something else. 

 

So many eyes now rest on him. A palpable sense of separation washed over him, not the separation he had felt when removed from the Star Phantoms, this was a new sensation. Deep in his gut, he feels that those around him keeping him at arms length. It passes through his mind, that he is being held to account...

Under his helm he grimaces, "Why am I being judged?" He thinks to himself, "It was not the Phantoms who were harbouring traitors …". 

 

He attempts to hold his composure, but his mood is disquieted as the ceremony crawls on. This ceremony, this Trial, he determines will not break him. 

 

His will is iron. 

 

His determination, resolute.

 

Ave Imperator Mortifex....

[Xin Ceithan]

They had been summoned. Duty called and no base state of emotional turmoil would keep one of the Sons of Ferris Manus from fulfilling his duty. Not before and certainly not now. Damn the Astral Claws and their weak willed brothers in heresy. If the Great Work required it, Nycax Sabaan would serve. And in doing so, prove  beyond any doubt that he, and his chapter, would see the will of the Omnissiah, the Primarch and the Emperor done by any means necessary. And despite anything or anyone, as recent events had made so disgustingly clear. 

Thus the Techmarine stood among his brethren of Blackthorn, warily letting his optical cluster gather an initial sweep of information from the assembled Astartes. Sabaan had gotten used to see the unfamiliar shapes and colors of other chapters around him, even if he  did not recognize them on sight. He would not take any of them at face value ever again.

 

>> Trust no one...<<

Seeing the hourglass symbol of those “Star Phantoms” among the Iniates, he felt a muscle twitch, even he longer had any eyebrows to raise. The anger followed it. Was this one supposed to watch them? A way to assure that the poison of the Astral Claws had not spread among them? Or was it meant to ensure that the treachery did not impair the duties of the Deathwatch? A replacement installed where weaker tissue had been cut away...

 

>>Well, hold your kin at bolt range and your enemies within blade reach...<< 

 

The old Medusa’s proverb ghosted through his thoughtstream. A snorted chuckle distorted his respirator. He would keep a closer watch on his “brothers” from now on....
 

[adesro18]

Atreus responds to the summons. He vows to return later to the forge, to apply himself to his craft before their first assignment, but ceremony and duty calls. No stranger to the various rights of the Astartes, the Astral Drakes themselves underwent many rituals his new brothers may find strange. Entering the chapel he sees his new brothers, and veterans of the watch alike, a chaplain stands before them ready to lead them in the vows of induction.

Atreus takes his assigned position in silence, waiting. The heraldry of the star phantoms catches his eye, the swirling maelstrom of rumors of the Badab system brought sharply to the fore of his mind. It is of no matter, he thinks to himself, we all leave behind our old chapter and unite in the deathwatch. The worth of the battle brother is in his deeds and nothing else.

Atreus joins the other brothers in reciting his oath with the Chaplain before them all, keenly aware of the many eyes watching them. United in only the blackest night of their armor, the first step in forging a brotherhood has begun.

[apologist]

The Gatebreaker almost asked whether the others were ready, but it felt a little like a conjuring trick. Of course they were ready. 

 

Montesa, Vorr and Teralil stood a few paces away from the recovery cots, quietly. The quiet put Yeng ill at ease; it felt more like a wake than a wakening. Watch-Sergeant Jor would have had a cheering phrase, he was sure. He sighed, inwardly. He hoped the return of Embe and Boros would herald a return of a little hot-bloodedness and optimism to the squad. The Princes know we could do with some optimism. He toggled a switch on a nearby rune-panel, then used the oxygenless cutting torch on his gauntlet to ignite a votive. 

 

"On Epiphany, I fought against Jerracin," said Yeng, conversationally, as he continued to monitor the two Astartes' return. He was not addressing anyone in particular; and it seemed to the woozy Astartes on the cots that he was speaking to the room in general.  "Magnificent Desert, we call it afterwards. Cold at night. We found their rest-pods buried during the nights. Nasty foes in the heat. Not while they were waking."

 

Vorr snorted, with a defiant jutting of his chin. The faceplate of his helm seemed to sneer at the Gatebreaker. Get on with it, the gesture said; but Montesa inclined his head, curious.

 

Yeng paused, then clarified. He was still unused to the straightforward mode of the Core. Addressing the two returnees directly, but loud enough for the others to hear, he said, "Hibernation sickness needs both time and patience." Boros darted him a defiant glance, but a tremble in his limbs betrayed him. Embe had awakened first, sitting upright, but the initial burst of battle-energy had exhausted him. He had understood Yeng's gentle advice to rest. Empty platters sat beside both cots. Hunger – ravenous, insatiable hunger – was a symptom. "See you have an appetite. Good to see." He smiled.

 

"Sick or not," intoned Teralil, talking past the Gatebreaker to address Embe and Boros. "Your place is with us." The others agreed, the saturnine Crimson Fist with a curt nod, the Red Talon with a half-barked greeting. Yeng's face was dour, but the gesture brought him a little welcome warmth.

 

***

 

Now the others had arrived, Yeng stepped back, motioning the brethren of Swordhand to take seats by the cots. Vorr declined, choosing instead to pace back and forth across the apothecarion. Both Boros and Embe were as hungry for information as they were for nutrition. Led by Montesa, the four gave the two a short debrief, concentrating on the facts of the matter. 

 

Even in outline, the deaths of Jor, Alderax, Ghent, Echion – and laughing Cathar – caused a pall to fall over the reunited squad. The wounds, scarred over for those active, remained raw for Embe and Boros. 

Edited February 16, 2021 by apologist

[Deadass]

Azurea, he thought. I am aboard Azurea Station.

 

Clarity had come quickly. The insufferable glare of the operating lights mounted overhead and the tang of antiseptic fluids were certainly not the hallmarks of a tyranid void-beast. Boros also knew that he was not aboard the apothecarion of the Xenocide - too large were his current whereabouts; too advanced, too well-equipped. Memory stirred, then. He had been here once before, weeks ago, when Swordhand’s Apothecary had conducted routine examinations before clearing them for deployment. Boros had baulked at the mere suggestion he might not be fit for combat, but the medic’s calm, disarming manner assured him that no insult had been intended. Oto Yeng expressed the same quiet mirth when he welcomed the Revenant back into the waking world.

 

Yeng, Montesa, Teralil and even snappish Brakan Vorr had assembled around the medical quarters since the Apothecary - No, Boros reminded himself, Claviger-Gentle - had initiated the rites of revivification. Now they were trading jests like old friends. They were just that, really. Much time had passed since he fell aboard the hive ship, made obvious by the new scars his squadmates bore and the work Teralil had wrought on their warplate. Yeng’s bulky type III armour in particular seemed to have made a transformation, its cracked and pitted surface made smooth while the Gatebreaker’s habitual slouch appeared just a tiny bit less crooked. And of course, Boros himself had not remained the same. He looked down at the web of sutures adorning his chest, still raw to the touch in spite of his body’s innate regenerative power. He felt the thumping of a heart that was and was not his own, heard the faint tick-tick-ticking noise it made as the device pumped blood through damaged veins. So many questions. Why were they here? What of the Tyranids? And perhaps most pressing of all, where was the rest of Sworhand?

 

“Sick or not, you belong with us”, Teralil spoke in that moment; a rare moment of indulgence contrasting the Techmarine’s austere character. At that, Boros formed the ghost of a smile. A Space Marine should value these moments of solemn camaraderie, sources of strength to fuel an existence dominated by the clash of blades and the thunder of guns. Knowing one’s brothers at your side was part of what made the Adeptus Astartes mankind’s fiercest defenders. “None but the Emperor himself could ordain otherwise, ” he murmured. “We do not die that easily.”

 

A voice rose from beside him. “How long have I been in stasis? What news have I missed?” Boros had not seen Chaka Embe fall on the ship, and so he could only assume that the assault marine’s brush with death had occurred after his own. Not only that, but the warrior had also risen earlier than him and was quicker to ask the right questions; questions that burned on both their minds. Boros admired the Celestial Lion’s pragmatism even as he saw his brothers’ faces darken. Montesa began to speak, and the injured finally caught up with reality.

 

+++

When the Librarian had finished, the empty spaces between the six of them appeared more prevalent, even overbearing. Alderax, Jor, Cathar. Echion. Ghent. Two more of their brothers had perished during his dreamless slumber. While they had been successful, Kill-Team Swordhand was effectively gutted.

 

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

 

There was no guilt in Boros as he rose on trembling legs. Duty was all that remained now, fulfilled only by honouring Swordhand’s sacrifices, taking up arms and bringing death to the foes of man again. He needed to do something and he said as much to Yeng and Teralil despite their polite objections, pushing the words through teeth clenched by the effort of standing upright.

 

“I have neither time nor patience to lick my wounds. Show me to my armour, Brother Morthas, and see how fast my strength returns.”

Edited March 5, 2021 by AHorriblePerson

[Petragor]

Chaka is the first to break the silence. "The fallen shall be remembered as the emperors finest." The others simply nod in response. It is a fairly common phrase, but Chaka cannot think of much else to say. Death is sometimes unavoidable in the Deathwatch, but would these have been so too if he and Boros were there to help, or give their lives instead? Glancing at Boros' contemplative expression, Chaka believes he must be thinking the same.

 

There is no changing the past however, as Chaka constanly reminds himself, only preparation. And prepare they must, for the enemies of mankind are ever drawing closer. Not through training however, not yet. Yeng prescribes rest, and though Boros is more resistant to the notion, Chaka sees wisdom in recovering his strength before returning to duty. 

"I shall follow your advice and rest my body Yeng, at least until the worst of the symptoms have passed. I would like to exercise my mind however, if any of you would be willing to play a game of Regicide, or better yet, one of my Naval Wargames?"

Edited February 16, 2021 by Petragor

[Commissar Molotov]

Shrine

 

As the new initiates to the Watch rise, several of the assembled Battle-Brothers cheer, or beat their armoured fists against breastplates. The din resounds throughout the shrine. One warrior, a burly brother in Mark IV armour bearing the insignia of the Wolves of Fenris, surges forward to clap his hand against your shoulder pauldrons.

 

At this the Watch-Captain raises his voice.

 

"You may tend to your duties as assigned."

 

GM:

 

And with this, the setting opens up somewhat. It's up to you to determine the scenes you'd like to see play out before I move us on. Think about which characters you'd like to interact with, and where.

 

This article is based off the 3rd Edition Codex: Space Marines and could give you some ideas to post.

 

Some options:

 

- The firing range, allowing tactical or devastator marines to compare notes (or to engage in competition)

- The fighting cages, allowing those more interested in the way of the blade to size one another up. (Narratively, not mechanically)

- Perhaps a scene where Tyber catches Artemios in a corridor somewhere? Whilst I don't see it erupting into violence, it might be interesting to sow the seeds of their antipathy.

- Some or all of Swordhand visit the crypts of Azurea to honour the sacrifice of the fallen?

- Arcost could visit the Apothecarion and acquaint himself with Yeng?

- Maladon could visit the Forge and meet with Azurea's Forgemaster, or either of the Techmarines on the station

- Embe has mentioned playing Regicide, against a strategically-minded opponent?

- Weapons maintenance - spending time ruminating on your weaponry could give us an insight into your character.

- Waiting behind as the crowds thin out to either pray on your own, or to talk to the Chaplain

[adesro18]

Following the ceremony Atreus Maladon rises to the thunderous applause of his new brothers. The booming applause heralding a new life amongst strange warriors. He will surely have to meet the fellow members of his squad, learn of their strengths and weaknesses as surely as they must learn his, for it was only logical to do so. The efficiency of the squad in battle was of utmost importance. Although this could wait for a time, first Atreus deterred he would like to visit the armories and pay homage to the machine for the safe passage to the watch station. Here he could also present himself to the master of the forge and learn the names and skills of his fellow tech marines, learn the facilities that he would use to improve and help maintain his battle brothers equipment. This would be his first step in forging the bond of honor between his brothers.

 

He sets off to the forge.

[Lysimachus]

Titus held in a disappointed snarl as he realised the Watch-Captain was offering no hint of a new deployment, then watched as the gathered Astartes began to break up, moving out of the shrine in twos and threes. With a disgruntled sigh, Titus decided to stretch out his limbs with a run around the Watch-Station's perimeter. He lifted his helmet from his belt and placed it over his head. Locking it firmly into the neck socket of his armour provided power to the helm, lighting the dark green lenses with a low emerald fire. Within, Titus brought up the schematics of Azurea, plotting a route around the outer reaches of the outpost, finishing at the ranges where he could then put in some time with his boltgun.

 

The tall Astartes set a blistering pace through the Watch-Station, along empty, echoing corridors, through cavernous storage bays and past countless defensive batteries crewed by servitors and serfs. His route covered nearly 40 kilometres and he was determined to complete it in less than an hour. Titus fell into a loping stride, a pace that he knew he could maintain for days if necessary, though he knew that an unaugmented human would struggle to match it for more than a few seconds. The servitors ignored him utterly, their limited minds focussed entirely on the void beyond the outpost's bulkheads, but the serfs watched him pass by with obvious apprehension, a few even ducking to one side to cower as he thundered past. He wondered at their nervousness, curious as to its cause. Certainly the sight of an Imperial Space Marine, akin to a heavily armoured vehicle, moving at speeds more fitting for a racing equid might cause some concern, but Titus suspected there was a deeper, underlying issue. After all, it was not every day, even for an Inquisition facility, that the defenders were faced with an Adeptus Astartes Battle Barge and its escorts in a holding position a few thousand metres away. Deadly weapons in their own right, what was truly fear inspiring was the fact that they could deploy more than three hundred of the Imperium's most capable warriors in a matter of minutes. Given the Star Phantoms' reasons for being here, Titus could not in all honesty say he was happy at their presence either.

 

Though of course, he thought with a stab of cold amusement, it would make for a truly invigorating battle.

 

Whatever the case, the Deathwatch had drilled its mortal retainers well and they seemed to fulfill their duties efficiently enough despite their nerves. Titus hurried on, gradually losing himself in the pleasure of the race. His pace quickened, his thoughts drawn away from the niggling feeling of waiting into the thrill of moving as fast as only a son of Jaghatai could. As he turned a corner into the corridor approaching the firing ranges, he allowed himself to let go and increased to a full sprint. Moving at a near blur, he covered the final straight of two hundred metres in a dozen seconds.

 

Titus skidded to a stop just outside the entrance to the ranges, the thunderous sound of weapons fire matching the thudding of his twin hearts. He took a deep breath, checking his armour's chronometer. Forty-three minutes, seventeen seconds. He nodded thoughtfully, his respiration already returning to normal. A decent enough time, for a relaxed run.

 

*****

[That Beyond the Light]

During the ceremony Solza moved back into the shadows of the shrines corners, concealing himself from the rest of the group. Watching the new recruits taking their oaths with honour and accord draped in darkness that was only broken by the shimmer of his left arm, Solza became deep in thought. The words of the Chaplin bringing back the memories of his initiation, remembering the tremendous sense of pride and humour he felt to be able to represent his chapter in the most righteous of fights. Its been some 20 years since that day but he remembers the prayer he gave before he left the shrines embrace…

 

Love the Emperor,
for He is the salvation of mankind.
Obey His words,
for He will lead you into the light of the future.
Heed His wisdom,
for He will protect you from evil.
Whisper His prayers with devotion,
for they will save your soul.
Honour His servants,
for they speak in His voice.
Tremble before His majesty,
for we all walk in His immortal shadow.

 

As the sound of the Watch Captains voice raises Solza returns to the present fully and the ceremony has come to its end. The once un-unified initiates were now unified in another brotherhood, we are now all Death Watch. Solza came out from the shadows and began to beat his chest plate and then raise his fist in acceptance of the new members. He stood by the door letting them leave first, then folding in behind them to exit into the dimly lit corridor.

 

His thoughts turn to what his other Tactical marines are capable of. He wants to know their weakness’s and their strengths, because he knows too well from commanding units with his Black Consuls that if they work as a seamless weapon then they can destroy their enemies in a single swoop.
He makes his way down subdued corridors and spiralling flag stone steps to the firing range, the sound of his heavy boots echoing through them, alerting his presence to anyone listening. It had been a day or more since his last weapons session and Solza liked to keep all his skills sharp. As a tactical Marine his most formidable weapons are his mind and his bolter and both need to be meditated on in their respective shrines.

 

Ekieo enters the range and acquires a bolter and some rounds. He prepares by whispering a prayer and taking stance. His focus overwhelms his mind and body and its as if his bolter is now and extension of his being. The Bolter releases round after round thundering towards the target. Its roar can be heard from outside the range, inviting others in….

Edited February 16, 2021 by That Beyond the Light

[Komrade_Atomic]

As the Astartes dispersed from the Shrine, Gideon began to move to the Fighting Cages. He knew there were programmable Servitors, instructed to replicate the fighting patterns of various Xenos lifeforms, but he also relished the chance to train with a fellow Astartes, should one have been there. In the Delvis rifts, he had become skilled at fighting Orks, but he knew that should his next deployment bring him against a foe which wasn't an Ork, he may be at a disadvantage. Quickly jogging to the fighting cages, he tried to remember the Chainsword Drills which he had been taught while still a novitate, but the muscle memory was fading away.

 

 

Grunting, he raised the Chainsword and attempted a masterful drill against the Ork Nob, but the beasts makeshift melee weapon clashed against his Chainsword, damaging it and exposing the internal mechanisms and damaging them. His melee weapon, now unusable, Gideon roared loudly with anger, and quickly drawing his combat knife, he thrust it suddenly and violently into the Orks neck, drawing it and thrusting it back in, before it finally killed the Ork. Removing the Knife, blood on it's blade dripped out onto the Marine's armour, before Gideon grabbed and began to drag the body and the chainsword, to hide them from any other Orks, should they pass.

 

 

Fighting in the Delvis Rifts against an unpredictable foe had made Chainsword Drills for Gideon a difficulty, and he had been forced to resort to hacking and slashing against the Green Beasts, and become as unpredictable in combat as his foe. Arriving at the Fighting Cages, Gideon approached a small armory of sorts, withdrawing a Chainsword and getting a feel for it's grip and weight in his hands. He entered a Fighting Cage alone, activating a combat servitor, and ordering it to select a random combat pattern. He held the Chainsword tighter, and as the Servitor began to activate, Gideon gripped down on the Throttle, the revving and roaring like a long lost favorite song.

Edited February 17, 2021 by Komrade_Atomic

[Commissar Molotov]

Watch-Station Forge
Atreus Maladon

Whilst the Watch-Station is new to you, the standardisation afforded by STC designs allows you to orient yourself and to head deep into its depths. Your armour’s auguries register the steadily increasing temperature as you close, finally reaching a set of double doors surmounted with the bionically-enhanced skull-and-cog of the Machina Opus.

As you approach, the doors open inward, unbidden. Your newly-blackened warplate is bathed with the ruddy, volcanic light of a roaring forge. Discordant clangs and bangs resound, overlapping one another as the impact of hammers and forging tools can be heard again and again. The noise is loud enough that it forces your helm’s auto-senses to compensate. The air is thick with smoke and steam that billows up towards the ceiling. Around you, you see bonded serfs of the Deathwatch hammering, shaping, forging.

From your experience with your Chapter, and your arduous studies on Mars, you know that this is a scene replicated across the galaxy. Without the beating, churning heart of the Forge, the Astartes would find themselves unable to wage war.

The Forge is smaller than those of your Chapter; the oppressive heat and blinding steam make it almost claustrophobic. The space is made even smaller by the bulk of Azurea’s Forgemaster, Fasumé. His power armour is artificed and enhanced, reinforced with layers of crenellated ceramite. The multiple arms of his servo-harness jut over his shoulders, giving him the appearance of an arachnid; a sinister visage enhanced only by the ruddy light of the forge.

As you approach, the Forgemaster motions to a servitor. The lobotomised creature shuffles forward; you see its arms have been replaced by heavy bionics - and in those metallic limbs, you recognise Fusion, the combi-bolter you brought with you to the Deathwatch. The weapon, sized for Astartes hands, is almost the same size as the servitor's torso.

“Greetings, Brother,” the Forgemaster’s voice rumbles like the grinding furnaces. He makes the sign of the Cog with his hands. “Azurea recognises you, in the sight of the Omnissiah, and the bounty you have brought to us. Your journey was acceptable?”


Halls of Study
Tyber

GM: Your studies on the Star Phantoms should grant you access to any common knowledge as posted on the Wikipedia page. You would not, for example, know who the Star Phantoms are descended from - even if Tyber has his own suspicions. That the Star Phantoms were apparently formed in the twenty-third founding does seem at odds with your knowledge of the Dreadwing. 

Edited February 17, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Steel Company]

Tyber had no idea how long he spent on the available records on the Star Phantoms, reading over them many times due to the lack of depth of information. He knew now that they were not that dissimilar from his own in terms of lack of contact with outsiders, but that seemed to be where the similarities ended. His nose wrinkled each time his eyes landed on the words, CODEX COMPLIANT.

 

That phrase never sat well with him, the codex was of the War-Born and their Primarch, his attempt at binding the legions to his will. What right did the Primarch of the War-Born have to force his will on other legions or to go against the organization handed down by the Emperor himself?  Tyber thought to himself.

 

Shutting down the work station, Tyber gathered his equipment to return to the practice cages; perhaps he could find someone to spar with, to work out this frustration at a lack of answers.

 

 

Once he reached the cages, he saw many of the new brothers going through their motions, save for one, his armor was of similar colors to that of Montesa, yet rather than a sword he bore an ax and seemed to be looking for something. Lifting his helm off his belt, Tyber spoke to him, “Brother Librarian, could I interest you in a round or three? “

Edited February 17, 2021 by Steel Company