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

[Mojake]

Achillion’s fist beat proudly against his chest as the Newbloods rose to their feet. A smile tore itself free from his mouth, but quickly disappeared as Diocles dismissed the gathered Astartes.

 

The Librarian’s distaste for the Watch-Captain was a card that he kept close to his chest. Achillion had petitioned Diocles for a taste of action several times since his posting here, but he had been refused and thus insulted each time. With a short exhale and the staccato crack of his neck as he rolled his head, he made to leave the shrine – proffering a curt nod in acknowledgment of any brother whose eyes met his own.

 

Feeling like a rodent trapped in a maze, Achillion made the all too familiar descent to the practice cages, eager to rid his consciousness of Star Phantoms, Lamenters and Watch-Captain Diocles.

 

++

 

As he set foot in the blood-stained room that served as a training ground, he unconsciously made his way over to calibrate the combat servitors, twisting the lethality setting far to the right with one hand as the other flexed in anticipation. This was a routine he was no stranger to, having battled the twisted fusions of flesh and cybernetics twice a day without fail for the past 1,000 days.

 

“Brother Librarian, could I interest you in a round or three?” A voice called from behind him.

 

Achillion turned to see the Dragon, Tyber, rotating his arming sword in a clean spiral around his wrist. The Angel felt his blood rise and had to fight his face to stop it from breaking out into a wide grin. It had been too long since he had fought an opponent with a brain.

 

The Librarian’s speech slurred out from his ruined face, “Well, I was looking for a challenge, but you’ll do instead.” Achillion offered what could pass for a smile to the other man to show that he meant the statement in jest; but if overheard tales be true, the Dragon of Caliban had an arrogant streak and to start the mind games early could give Achillion an advantage. Besides, he was fighting at a disadvantage without the potency of his warp-touched mind to assist him.

 

Tyber bristled at the jibe for the briefest of moments. A normal man would not have noticed, not even an Astartes, but Achillion was beyond proficient when it came to reading others.

 

“First to land three strikes takes the match?” The large man had a glint in his eye as he addressed Achillion. Confidence? Wounded pride? The Librarian hoped it wasn’t the latter, and quickly decided that probing his brother’s mind to confirm would be crossing the line.

 

Achillion nodded in agreement and stepped through into the hemispherical sparring cage at the invitation of his opponent. Striding towards the far edge, he turned to face the younger Astartes, drawing Libra in a motion as swift as the blinking of an eye. Tyber’s swords were in his grip in a comparable moment – his reputation for speed was well-earned. Achillion’s eye lingered on the off-hand blade for a brief second, the gifted Syndallan blade that he’d heard tell of.

 

As if prompted by some unseen signal, the transhuman duel began with the two circling each other in an anti-clockwise rotation. Achillion’s eyes met Tyber’s, narrowing as he analysed the man’s footwork and poise. The force axe, Libra, completed the Librarian’s form. To be without the weapon in his hand was to walk as a man hobbled.

 

Achillion closed the gap immediately, his patience non-existant, the famed battle-lust of Sanguinius’ sons launching him into melee with his foe. Tyber reacted at inhuman speed, Libra soaring two inches beyond the man’s left temple, deflecting from the edge of the cage. The Librarian brought the axe up in an expert parry against the assault marine’s counterattack, batting the arming sword away with the first, then blocking the flat of Harvest aside with his forearm.

 

The dance continued for several minutes, the Angel failing to hit anything but air as the Dragon’s impossible agility wrenched him away from danger at a velocity beyond Astartes instincts. On the rare moments that the warriors separated, the contest continued verbally – the advantage distinctly with the assault marine due to his ability to speak unimpeded.

 

“You fight with the brute force of the Warhound legion, Achillion. Tell me again who your gene-father is?” Tyber goaded.

 

If this were a true battlefield, I would kill you in an instant with nothing but a thought for such an offense.

 

Ironically, it was the thought that cost Achillion the first strike. A sharp arc of Bellum invicto a Domino bit into the Librarian’s right thigh. Blood curved across the floor of the arena, coming to a halt almost as quickly, the Healer performing its job well.

 

The quick taste of pain was enough to test Achillion’s control. He had kept his gene-flaw in check for three years, but the sight of fresh vitae pulled the Thirst kicking and screaming to the forefront of his mind. Tyber faltered for a split-second, the change to a blood-red hue in the Librarian’s eyes inspiring unfamiliar hesitation in the younger marine.

 

“I will not stand to be bled by the runt successor of a greater chapter!” Achillion’s voice was not his own as he flew across the cage.

 

Tyber could barely understand the sputtering of words coming from the frenzied Astartes charging him, but he heard the righteous Baalite voice drive into his mind. The insult, delivered directly into his psyche, caught him off guard. The force axe crashed into Harvest, the curved edge of Libra hooking the Syndallan blade and flicking it from his grip as the encarmine steel opened the back of his hand.

 

Achillion was no match for Tyber’s speed and finesse, but his skill with an axe was unparalleled. Libra was destructive thunder to the arming sword’s relentless lightning.

 

The measured battle between the Lords of War became a brawl. Tyber’s forehead crashed into the front of Achillion’s skull, accompanied by the promise of death if such an affront was repeated. The Librarian’s rebuke saw the haft of Libra smashed into the other man’s ribs.

 

In a moment, it was over.

 

The two Astartes froze in place, their breathing heavy. Bellum invicto a Domino’s point barely piercing an upwards angle beneath Achillion’s diaphragm in a direct line through one of his hearts, and Libra’s edge summoning forth a bead of crimson slightly above Tyber’s collarbone, threatening to cleave him from shoulder to opposite hip.

 

The Angel’s eyes flickered for a millisecond – but enough for the Dragon to pick up on it – in the direction of the rapidly healing bloodied wound across the back of the sword hand.

 

Tyber stepped back, breaking the tension between them and allowing Achillion to collect himself. The pair noticed that their sparring match had attracted silent stares from elsewhere in the training arena.

 

“Forgive my outburst, brother.” There was pain in the eyes of the Librarian, slowly taking back their natural grey-blue colour. It appeared that more would follow, but he began to leave the other man without a further word.

 

“Nothing to forgive Brother, I asked you into that cage, though next time I will not go easy on you.” 

 

The unexpected courtesy caused Achillion to pause. He turned to see Tyber wiping the arming sword that had felt the wetness of his blood.

 

“Though you still did not answer my question, from which legion do you hail from? You fought with a savagery I’ve read about that was only known to be in the Revenants and the Warhounds.” The Dragon enquired.

 

"I don't blame you for the ignorance, brother, I was once unmistakeable as a son of the Great Angel." He lowered his head as though bowing and pointed to his crown. "See? No nails." His intent was to bring some levity back to their encounter, but his comedic timing had always struggled since his encounter with the flames on Syrin-VII. 

 

The Librarian let out a short, contemplative sigh and strode back towards Tyber, offering his hand in a gesture of peace and respect. "You fought well, brother. My savagery is borne from frustration, I assure you. I have not seen an honest battlefield in almost 5 years. For the Angels Encarmine, this is a monumental test of patience - one that I don't expect others to empathise with." He spoke in measured tones, trying not to let the skin on the corner of his left lip render him indecipherable.

 

His head reflexively snapped to the right as he noticed that they were being approached by a group of other Astartes, ones that he had not shared words with before.

Edited February 18, 2021 by Mojake

[Necronaut]

Following the induction ceremony, Helgrim looked on with pride at the new inductees, their armor gleaming in the candle light. Of the assembled veterans, some went to make their ritual observances to their various primarchs, the rest either gathered in small knots to reaffirm their bonds of brotherhood or dispersed to see to their own forms of prayer elsewhere. The new recruits largely followed suit.

 

Welcome to the army of the dead, new-bloods. Your lives are henceforth truly forfeit to the Emperor. None of you prior deeds will have such consequence as those you will undertake in the days that follow. Dark tides wash upon the shores of the Imperium…

 

As he stood beside the statue of the Emperor Mordant, he continued to ruminate upon the news from Badab, of the terrible sacrifices made to cast down the Tyrant. The Star Phantoms had bought their victory dearly by all accounts, not to mention those other chapters who had heeded the call to war.

 

Their oaths of vengeance carry great weight. It grieves me that I must stand against them, but a brother of the 'Watch deserves our trust. Many have come here in the past seeking absolution for the sins of their brethren, and the Astral Claws are not the first chapter to fall to the wiles of the Great Enemy, nor the first with wayward sons in need of a home.

 

He watched as the last of the battle-brothers departed the chapel, the lingering curls of incense smoke clinging to their armor like a revenant's claws. All save the new Consecrator and Death Knight who had joined their ranks. The Consecrator was deep in prayer, or thought, or both. Helgrim examined the battle-brother from afar before approaching.

 

Or something else entirely. Let us see what this son of the Lion wished to speak of earlier…

 

"Hail Brother Incariel, I bid you welcome to our brotherhood, and to our humble Watch Station. It is Incariel of the Consecrators, is it not?"

 

"That is I -- though another warrior shallt be given the name soon enough. When word reacheth mine kin, Incariel of the Slaying Shield shall I be known, and the other worthy soul shall take my place upon the Ledger. I will be considered dead -- amusing considering the present company, nay?"

 

Helgrim was somewhat taken aback by his new sworn-brother's archaic speech, and by his jest.

 

"Amusing, brother?" the Chaplain inquired, not finding much amusement in his solemn oath or chapter creed.

 

"Thou art a Doom Eagle, art thou not? A Second Founding chapter is no obscure matter. Bold and resolute sons of Guilliman, so am I told. Yet thine kin possesseth a certain predilection for morbidity, nay? Thy holdst true to thine hearts such a concept that thou art already dead men. Hath I been led astray? Do correct me, Chaplain, should I speaketh falsehoods or improprieties."

 

The Consecrator gestured curiously with his hands, punctuating his statements by making the sign of the Aquila.

 

The sons of the Lion are full of surprises...

 

"Hrmm. Aye, we may seem morbid to our cousins, but death is the currency an Astartes deals in. As an Angel of Death you would do well to take the teachings of my chapter to heart lest ye forget that our lives are all forfeit to the Throne. My chapter's cult does preach that we are all dead men, but it is not a burden we bear lightly."

 

Helgrim turned to regard the Lion, His visage reflected in the lenses of his death-mask.

 

"Prithee, Chaplain, forgiveness. I meant no offense. Dost thou wish an end to mine lingering? T'was not the intent I assure thee -- though the irony is powerfully rich betwixt these walls for me."

 

Helgrim did not immediately respond, nodding after a time while continuing to examine the carving of the Lion.

 

"I presume you wished to speak earlier, brother? What troubles you?"

 

"Things best left alone and not ruminated over. T'is not doubt, nor a mismatchment of my humours that causes mine state. Merely memory. How is thine memory, Chaplain? Doth thou spare a page in the tome of thine mind for things beyond and outside duty? How old and weatherèd do the words appear? For myself, the ink is as fresh as the moment it was penned, and I cannot turn the page in these recent times. Such a pained metaphor -- perchance a member of the Librarius might better soothe my aching tome."

 

Helgrim considered his words carefully, sensing a deep disquiet within Incariel.

 

"In my two centuries of service, I have seen horrors beyond reckoning. Heresies and Evils abound in this hellish reality over which we stand as wardens. But, brother," the Chaplain rasped, "It is the duty of an Astartes, and the nature of our existence that we shoulder such burdens so that normal humans should not. That we should suffer that the many should prosper is what it means to be an Astartes."

 

Helgrim removed his skull-helm, letting Incariel take in his burned and ruined visage, his red augmetic eye glaring at the Consecrator. Multiple lifetimes of pain and torture in the name of the Emperor had been written on Helgrim's face, what remained of it.

 

"Our lives are defined by our service to the Imperium, Incariel. That which troubles your psyche, I know not, but it will pass. To live, and to suffer, and to die is to be one of the Emperor's chosen. Do not forget that, new-blood. You will be deployed in the coming days against a menace whose numbers are beyond reckoning and whose malice is utterly fathomless. Steel thyself and meditate upon the teachings of your Primarch. The maw of madness yawns wide in these benighted times, and we are the shield against the darkness! Death awaits us all; it is only a matter of time."

 

The chaplain rammed his helm back in place and turned to leave.

 

"Will your death be memorable, Brother Incariel?"

 

++++++

 

Helgrim left Incariel behind, striding across the chapel to the Death Knight kneeling before the carving of Rogal Dorn, a stern and noble depiction of the lost Primarch. As he approached Brother Pyke, he mused on the Dorn, and his loyalty to the Emperor during the Great Heresy. The chaplain stood beside the kneeling warrior for a time, contemplating the statue's subject and the nature of duty.

 

"It is said Dorn stood by the Emperor on Holy Terra when the Warmaster declared war on the Imperium, and that he personally directed the fortification of the Palace. The Fists led the defence of the Imperial palace during the siege, and they later were among the vanguard of the retribution fleet. A proud legacy to honor."

 

Pyke was silent for many seconds before responding, "I am beginning to wonder if I can ever live up to that legacy. I have been away from my brothers for so long. I feel my Chapter is moving on without me. I am trapped here by my past failure, like a revenant wandering these shadowed halls.”

 

Helgrim, too, paused for a number of seconds before responding.

 

"My own Primarch was unable to stand beside the Emperor on defence of Terra, mired as he was by the brutal war with the Traitors in Segmentum Ultima. He lived with that shame, it is said, until he too was interred in stasis on Ultramar. But despite his failure to stand on the ramparts of the Imperial Palace alongside his brothers, he never once wavered in his duty, and he alone lashed the broken pieces of the Imperium together. To join the Deathwatch is to be dead in your chapter's eyes, Brother Pyke. Some, many may return to their gene-brethren alive once their watch is over, but more return only as gene seed and a record of service to put armored divisions to shame."

 

Helgrim continued, "I see no failure here, brother, no mark of shame or corruption upon you. You are one of the proud few Astartes to form the tip of the spear that is the Deathwatch. Your chapter, your gene-brothers have honored you by loaning you to us of the Long Watch for so long. You honor the legacy of Dorn and his sons with your tireless service. Now stand firm as Dorn and our founders did! Shame not their memory with black words, but carve out your own legacy with blade and bolter, and in so doing honor them!"

 

Pyke stood before the chaplain, clapped his fist across his chest in salute, and replied, "Thank you, Brother-Chaplain. I will honor those who came before me as you say, with blade and bolter! I will see my duty to the end!"

 

Helgrim placed a gauntleted hand on Pyke's shoulder. "May your end be glorious, Death Knight! May your legacy resound through the ages, written in the blood and suffering of your foes!"

 

Helgrim saluted his brother of the watch with a clenched fist across his chest and withdrew, his serfs joining him once he exited the chapel.

 

 

++++++

 

Helgrim returned to his cell, attended by his serfs. His armaments were hung on the otherwise bare cell walls. It had been too long since he had last been to war, since he had last roused the machine-spirits of his wargear in anger.

 

He handed his ceremonial staff to Serf Tertius, who bowed and withdrew. Serf Primus removed his Crozius Arcanum, quietly intoning prayers of war and awakening; he knelt before his master and placed the winged mace in his outstretched hand. Helgrim gripped the tooled leather haft, testing its weight. He stepped away from his serfs, giving the Crozius a few test swings, refamiliarizing himself with its heft and balance. All was perfect. He held out his left hand and Serf Secondus knelt and handed him an ancient and battered chainsword, inlaid with the iconography of the Doom Eagles. The chaplain waved his serfs away and held both of the mighty weapons before him.

 

Helgrim slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, recalling again the old forms which he had drilled in countless times which benefitted one as ambidextrous as himself. He whirled the Crozius and chainsword around in an artful flourish before a ceremonial salute.

 

Yes, this is my true calling. I am become death! I am wrath made flesh!

 

He proceeded to move about his cell in a series of movements whose origins had been lost to the ages, but whose memory had been faithfully transcribed and passed down for eons. His twinned weapons weaved about in deadly arcs, parries married with counter-thrusts. He repeated the movement sets until he felt himself begin to sweat.

 

Satisfied that his old reflexes and movements still held true, he handed his chainsword back to a waiting and ready Serf Secondus and picked up his bolt pistol, again testing its weight, and examining the sights. Holstering the Crozius at his hip, he ejected the pistol's magazine and rammed it back home, feeling the familiar click of the Phobos-pattern weapon.

 

War is the holy temple in which all Astartes worship. Its walls encompass every world in the Imperium, its liturgy spelled out in bolter fire and the roar of chainswords. I have been too long removed from its hallowed halls.

 

Helgrim found himself grinning in spite of himself.

 

Ah, Zakiel, how you preached on this exact subject countless times in the chapel. Now it is my turn to invoke the war-spirits of my brothers.

 

His serfs bore his arms, save for the winged mace, back to their resting places, their master satisfied with their maintenance for the time being.

 

"I return to war now, my mortal servants! Witness me, for I am the Will of the Emperor!"

 

His serfs cowered back as he bellowed within the enclosed space. The last thing he did before again leaving his cell, was to take a strip of parchment and inscribe an oath of moment. Serf Primus was attendant with fresh wax and the holy seal of the Inquisition. The purity seal was affixed to Helgrim's right pauldron, just under the icon of the Doom Eagles, a place of particular pride.

 

Brother-Chaplain Helgrim was ready for war.

Edited February 28, 2021 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Atratus turned to nod briefly to Atreus as he entered the forge, unsure if the techmarine was yet aware of his presence. Though the two had left the shrine together the shifting tenebro-maze around the stations critical areas allowed quick passage to those familiar with them, and a futile struggle for any others who would stray from the central passageways.

 

He turned back to his task, the forgemaster had provided several variants of the standard pattern boltgun for his inspection as he weighed the cost of their encumbrance against the firepower they would provide. The hordes of the lesser xenos had cared not for precision marksmanship, the delay in clearing them had almost brought disaster, but nothing would be served trading one obstruction for another.

[Lysimachus]

The Stormbringer entered the firing ranges quietly, looking around the wide, long chamber with curious eyes. Titus observed only two who had preceeded him to the ranges. One of the new recruits, a Marine clad in an exquisite suit of Mk IV armour, was working on a heavy bolter, carefully aligning the long ammo feed with the breech. The other was a veteran of the Watch, already in a firing position at one of the lanes, making precise single shots into the humanoid-shaped targets 300 metres down the length of the chamber.

 

Titus watched for a moment, observing the impressive grouping the Marine was achieving with the practice rounds. Designed to match exactly with standard bolts in terms of size, weight and range, the rounds lacked the explosive core that made the weapon infamous across the galaxy, making them ideal for target shooting. Titus took a clip himself from a stand near the entrance. Then he moved to another lane not far from the veteran and carefully drew his own boltgun from the leather cover attached alongside his power pack. It was a truly beautiful weapon, a Huntsman-pattern Bolter, a design named after and favoured by many among the Stormbringers First Company scout Corps. Slightly longer than a standard Godwyn, it was an utterly efficient killer, loaded with penetrator rounds and mounted with a powerful sight that linked with the autosenses in Titus' helm. He ejected the penetrator clip, placing it in a pouch at his belt and slotted in the practice rounds.

 

As he did, the veteran turned, allowing Titus a better view of his right shoulder. The pad depicted an eagle's head, white on black. A Black Consul? If so, the Marine hailed from a Chapter worthy of respect. Titus nodded his head.

 

"Good grouping."

 

The other nodded back.

 

"Thank you. That is an impressive weapon. Sniper specialist?"

 

Titus heard the inherent challenge in the Consul's tone, realising immediately that they were both doing the same thing, seeking to learn the strengths and weaknesses of their potential squad mates. He shrugged.

 

"Reconnaissance. With a little long ranged work when necessary."

 

Titus did not specify assassination, he had found that some Astartes seemed to find the idea oddly distasteful, but the veteran simply nodded again, appearing to understand his meaning.

 

"Show me."

 

The words were spoken softly, but Titus immediately recognised the tone of a Sergeant used to giving commands. He complied, turning to face the targets, lining up on a series of three dummies at a range of approximately 750 metres and confirming that the Huntsman was set to single shot. A Space Marine sniper did not need to take a prone position or brace his weapon, his armour's recoil suppressors did the work for him. With a mental impulse, Titus locked his battle plate down, ensuring a stable firing platform. Then he focussed on the targeting data being fed from the weapon sight into his heads up display. On the battlefield he would be receiving a string of scans and measurements, estimates of wind and temperature fluctuations that could send a bolt round far off course. Here in the range, the air changed not at all. He sighted on the first target.

 

"Heads."

 

His finger tightened momentarily on the trigger. Crack. As the bolt cleared the weapon, his arm was moving. Only a fractional amount, changing the position of the barrel by millimetres, but that would be enough to change the point of impact by metres. Crack. As he sighted on the third target, the first round struck, a clean hole where the enemy's forehead would have been. Crack. He watched as the second and third bolts hit home, the second fractionally to one side of the middle head, the third dead centre of the final head. He grunted, slightly disappointed. His alignment must be a little off. He would return to the Armorium later and recheck it. Still, not a bad showing. He turned back to the Sergeant.

 

The other Marine lifted his helm, revealing a surprisingly youthful face for one who had by all accounts served multiple tours of Watch duty. He nodded again, wearing a small smile.

 

"Not bad. Ekieo Solza, of the Black Consuls." he said, offering his arm. Titus removed his own helm, placed it at his belt and took the proffered arm in a warriors grip, forearm to forearm.

 

"Titus, of the Stormbringers."

 

Behind Titus there was a sudden, deafening boom of noise as a weapon started firing. Titus spun, and Solza peered around the taller Marine, his boltgun instinctively readied. The other Astartes at the ranges had successfully primed the heavy bolter and was now laying down a furious torrent of fire. It did not matter that the weapon was similarly loaded with training rounds. The overwhelming hail destroyed a dozen mid-range targets across several lanes in three well placed bursts, literally tearing them apart. Titus had the distinct impression that the Devastastor Marine was angry about something.

 

He turned back to Ekieo, who was now opening grinning. The veteran spoke.

 

"Of course, quantity has a quality all of it's own..."

[Ancient_Sobek]

As he left the chapel, Pyke thought about what the chaplain had said. He knew his doubts were born of frustration and the feeling of being stalled in his progress. He wanted to to live up to the example of the heroes that had come before him. All he could do was focus on the here and now. Fate would have it’s will done, one way or another.

 

+++++++

 

To clear his thoughts and focus his mind, Pyke decided to head to the range. He had not had a chance yet to fully test out his beloved frag cannon and this was a good time as any to make sure it was in fighting shape for the days ahead.

 

While many of his brothers within the Death Knights favored the blade and the pursuit of it’s mastery, Pyke had always had an affinity for the heavy guns. It was not that he was unskilled with the blade, no self-respecting knight would be anything less. But there was something alluring about the smell of fycelene, the feeling of his weapon bucking in his grip as holy fire rained down upon his enemies. Heavy flamers, multi-meltas, Lascannons, he had carried all in his time. His true love though were the heavy ballistic weapons. It was like glorious music hearing spent shells rain down around his feet as the enemy hordes were obliterated. He had always preferred the heavy bolter until he had joined the watch. His new captain, sensing his skill, introduced him to his weapon of choice, the frag cannon.

 

He had carried the same frag cannon for his entire time with the Watch. It had become apart of him, his partner in war, his trusted right hand. He had named it “Subversor”, it meant breaker, destroyer. It was an apt name. The weapon had a vicious machine spirit and he used all of his martial talent to bend it to his will.

 

+++++++

 

As he approached the firing range he heard the sound of a heavy bolter unleashing hell upon the targets. He could tell by the sound that the person wielding it was pushing the weapon hard. He could feel the anger as the staccato waves of sound washed over him.

 

He entered the room to see the Black Consul and another marine staring at the devastator that had laid waste to the range and it’s targets. Pyke walked over to the weapons locker, ignoring the awkward silence filling the room. He Picked up his weapon and a box of ammo and headed to a place in the firing line. He stopped behind the Devestator. Noticing his body heaving with suppressed rage. Pyke leaned in, looking past the marine at the devastation he had wrought.

 

“I think you got him” He said, slapping the marine on the pauldron as he continued on to his station.

Edited February 19, 2021 by Ancient_Sobek

[ashlander47]

The muster was a strange mixture of types. I recognised many chapters and their heraldry, and some others that I had only the briefest conjecture to their origins. My understanding of the other brotherhoods of the Imperium is extensive, perhaps bordering on obsessive, and more than once have I found myself questioning whether my vigilance isn't a type of voyeurism instead. Knowledge is power -- isn't that the old Terran saying? What power am I looking to exert over other Astartes in my studiousness of their chapter lore? What, that I might let a snide and smug comment slip from my lips during conversation? Did I seek to impress with my uncommon reach of knowledge, or intimidate? And for either, whom was my target?

 

"Do you always think in such banal questions?"

 

Vincindrael's voice rasped into vox feed. I started for a moment before checking through the communications runes of my helmet's display and saw that, as expected, there were no incoming broadcasts. Still he spoke again, clear as if he were stood beside me now.

 

"Commit thyself to a battery of amateurish self-interrogatives, Incariel, and you will find thine mind-fortress instead a goal of the spirit. Do you recall these words I spoke to you?"

 

I shook my head, trying to loose the memory from my senses. Perhaps it was an emboldened sense of superstition that caused me to isolate my vox frequency as well for good measure. It didn't help. This memory was going to play out and quite like the Interrogator-Chaplain himself it was determined to be heeded. He would repeat his chastisement of my over-indulgent introspection, I would limply counter with a point for meditative solemnity, and he would cite sermons and battle-cant and utterly annihilate my argument. A sentence to two extra months of gruelling penance beneath his care would then be added to my lot.  I tried to focus on the Watch-Captain and his speech, hoping the initiation into a new brotherhood would drown out this stale memory.

 

Then Vincindrael stepped out from behind me and into the rows of Astartes. My hearts began to race. Combat stims flooded my system. Below my helmet no one could see my face contorted into a mask of incredulity and concern. What was this? Could anyone else see this? Moving my head slightly so as not to jolt my helm from side to side I took stock of the room -- nobody had moved an inch. Each were focused on the Watch-Captain and all were oblivious to the ghost of the Interrogator-Chaplain strolling between them as if they were headstones in a cemetery.

 

"Do you really expect them to accept you?" he turned to me, his skull-mask helmet illuminated by an other-worldly light that no amount of incense burners or candles could've wrought. "Are you so wretched as to seek that acceptance?"

 

I watched on aghast as he made his way like a loitering serf, running his gauntleted hands over the bowed heads of the brothers gathered here to receive and swear their Apocryphon Oath. Could they feel it? What was this -- this was no memory, this was... I was beginning to unravel. Finally it had happened. Six months dipping in and out of the Warp had finally turned my perfect mirror of a mind into a shattered mess of glass; half-reflections of misremembered and fabricated thoughts are now all it showed.

 

"You are not like them, Incariel. You are not one of them and never will be. Give up this charade and return to the Reliquaria. You will be shamed of course, but you are no stranger to shame. You might even be given your name back."

 

I was paralysed as he made his way beside the Watch-Captain and laid a hand on his outstretched arm. Vincindrael ran his fingers along the blade held by Diocles and I heard that single thing that despite knowing no fear always sent a nail of horror into my heart; I heard the Interrogator-Chaplain laugh.

 

"Strange how memories can seem so similar. Was this not a scene from that blasted hulk? How was it again -- a blade of dark design? Always so dramatic and vague, Incariel."

 

You are dead, Vincindrael. I screamed the thought in my mind as if it would banish this strange mutation of memory but he simply laughed again. All the while, the procession of the Apocryphon Oath plodded on apace. Watch-Captain Diocles continued his speech oblivious to the spectre of Vincindrael caressing his sword. Would he sense my disjointed delusion if his eyes laid upon me? Had he already?

 

"I'll take the blame for some that, Interrogator-Chaplain. You can't throw it all at his feet." a voiced crooned from behind me and out stepped the body of Turuzim -- torn apart by bolter fire and bleeding as freshly as the night it happened. I could smell his heart's blood.

 

Despite all attempts to honour his memory and recall him as a proud and strong warrior, I could never stop seeing him in such a state. Broken and yet so noble in death. So peaceful against the rage that swelled in my hearts whenever I saw him this way. He turned and through the bolt-hole in his right eye I spied Watch-Captain Diocles approach the gathered brothers, both the resident chaplain and Vincindrael short on his heels.

 

"Leave the boy alone. He's got enough on his mind without you and I bickering like cherubs at his ear. Come, old friend -- you're spoiling the ceremony with your sullen mood. This is meant to be a joyous occasion after all, when the 'Ongoing Matter of Incariel' enters a new act."

 

I could hear the smile in his voice, even though I knew with keenest clarity that most of his face had been torn to pieces by the bolter round and he would never smile again. Still, his words emboldened me as they always had. Thank you Turuzim, even in death you are a good mentor to me. I peer over to Vincindrael whose arms were folded in that rare gesture of concession that he would adopt; when a master of rhetoric had been matched and given pause. He rasped again with that metallic laughter.

 

"Sergeant I dearly wished you had lived a longer life than you did, if for no other reason than never having to hear your honeyed appeals in this memory-gaol. Fine. The dead will stay dead for but a moment longer," he walked in the shadow of the Watch-Station's own chaplain, now only a mere handful of paces from me. From behind the pair he jutted that finger at me again.

 

"But know this well, Incariel -- I will have your admission, even from beyond the grave. A loyalty untested is a loyalty left in question."

 

And with that ominous repetition my world slunk back into reality, no longer were my senses deciphering between the here-and-now and a cacophony of information from both Sergeant Turuzim and the Interrogator-Chaplain's deaths. Blood. Fyceline. Sweat. Ichor. All banished like a ghost before an exorcism, leaving nothing behind but the stink of holy incense and the words of the Watch-Captain as the only real, non-imaginary chaplain within this shrine affixed my purity seal.

 

"Rise, brothers."

 

It was done, then. I was one of them now. I was one of them. I was one of them. I played the words over and over in my mind, inflection and stress dipping between each syllable as if I would find a particular way of saying it that felt right. Was I one of them? Rising to my feet I heard the distinct clinking of ceramite shards. Another delusion? Over the combined chorus of power armour roaring, their joints aching or impatient, there was no possible way to discern. I was not going to look away to go chasing phantom sounds -- I had to focus on the ceremony. How irreverent of me to ignore this intiation, because of what? Humour imbalance? What's in a delusion? What is it made of and how do I kill it?

 

As the muster thins and newly initiated brothers of the Deathwatch file out, I linger in the shrine on the periphery. The low light of guttering candles is agreeable to my morose mood. I find myself a spot kneeling before a statue of my Primarch. There was no comfort to be found under the gaze of the Lion, but in that lacking of spiritual nourishment I found my own strength, pulled up from a deep well inside me that refortified my mind's fortress. I held my position there, deep in thought, a type of introspection that may have indeed been banal and fraught with self-defeating interrogation by an untidy mind. If anything existed that would stay Vincindrael's hand, it would be Jonson.

 

From atop my unassailable fixture I spied the chaplain -- the real one -- approach. What would I say to him? Would I disarm him with humour? I could distract him with questions he may feel compelled to answer. Dare I? Or should I simply quit the field and reassess -- I needed to speak to someone who could offer guidance. I needed to rid my mind of these renegade memories. I needed to kill something. While I entered it half-minded, the conversation with the chaplain was cut short by my own impulsiveness. I left. Better he think me over-eager than a lackwit. I'm sure he sensed something though -- that is their purview after all. To find weakness in the minds and spirits of their brothers. I can only wonder if the lack of 'interrogator' before his title meant that his approach to inspiring zeal would be far less... scarring.

 

I all but sprinted towards the firing range. Things were becoming a blur of rote and muscle memory. I paused for a moment to commiserate with Iunioris Mortis as I completed the rites of arming. Oh to be a heavy bolter and to have concerns no more immediate than whether I had destroyed an enemy of Mankind recently. A spurious comment to make, but I knew from chapter lore that Xarphenon was considered to be a spurious man, even in death. The Old One may have even laughed at my comment, if his spirit lingered in the weapon. The two mingled for a spell, their machine spirits and cogitative processes spooling and interlocking before the display of my helm updated with ammunition feeds, temperature measurements, firing solutions, and an almost gleeful throbbing of the targeting runes. I levelled the sacred weapon downrange and I knew that I would be granted a grain of forgiveness for every piece of holy ammunition I cycled through the firing chamber. I intended to earn myself a desert

 

In the torrent of righteous fire, stood within the storm of steel, I saw them again. Turuzim, who I bid good evening and carefully laid back to his grave. Interrogator-Chaplain Vincindrael, who I showed my respect to as I turned his body to dust.

 

And there among them I see him. A blade of dark design in his clutches. Sweat runs down my forehead and onto my lips -- the taste of ichor.

 

My careful shots go astray, not through fault, or miscalibration, but by rage. In harmony, young Mortis howls out its own hatred of the enemy as if the relic bolter shares in my delusion. I blink-click my vox to an isolated channel yet again just to be sure and I scream inside my helmet.

 

I killed you. I will always kill you. You are dead, traitor.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

[adesro18]

"Well met forge master," Atreus answers in turn displaying the cog of the omnissiah. "The journey was uneventful and blessed by the Omnissiah, with no major disturbances or outages. The chapter ship which brought me here was ready and capable as always."

Atreus takes a moment to inspect the right pauldron of the forgemaster to attempt to identify his chapter of origin.

"I have come my lord to familiarize myself with the forge and apply my skills as needed to strengthen my kill team and the watch fortress. I hope that Fusion was to your satisfaction. I ask the Omnissiah that it will vapourize much xenos blood."

Edited February 17, 2021 by adesro18

[Commissar Molotov]

Maladon:

 

You see Fasumé's pauldron is a deep, imperial purple. Upon it, a rampant lion, crowned and wielding a sword. (Something like this) The Chapter is not one you recognise immediately. He turns to Fusion, holding a hand over it as he murmurs a benediction to the weapon.

 

"You crafted this weapon?" He nods with satisfaction. "You have infused it with a potent spirit. It will claim many lives in the service of this order."

 

The Forgemaster opens his arms wide, the servo-arms mounted to his back mimicking the gesture.

 

"When the Watch-Captain assigns you to a Kill-Team, we will discuss their armament and the oversight of their wargear. Until then, The Forges of Azurea are yours. May the Omnissiah grant you the spark of inspiration as you craft in His name."

 

You see another Marine in these cramped confines; a warrior in Mark VI armour and bearing the white hawk of the Raptors. He stands before several bolters of different manufacture, as though uncertain.

[That Beyond the Light]

The Ranges - Ekieos perspective 

 

Standing in the optimal firing position and feet locked sharp, Ekieos H.U.D. in his helmet lights up with an array of targeters and numbers. He makes quick mental adjustments off of these equations and adjusts grip slightly, easing into the bolter a little before feathering the trigger. A round slides out of the barrel, cutting through the air and precisely hitting the target some 300m away. He let off another round with similar effect, then another and another, his armours recoil buffers taking the brunt of the Bolters powerful hits as he emptied the magazine.

Ekieo maintained his stance for a second as his H.U.D worked to compute the accuracy and proficiency of his shots. Ekieo was a proud Tactical warrior and his shooting skills were as important as his ability to command and be perceptive to the battle field. He was always looking for new advantages and weakness in situations and a well placed shot could be crucial to either of those.

As Ekieo lowered his weapon he caught out of the corner of his eye a fellow Marine stood watching him as he changed the clip in his unusual but stunning looking bolter. It certainly was not a pattern he had seen before. Ekioe turned slightly more and the Marine nodded his head at him in a friendly gesture before speaking

 

"Good grouping."

Ekieo nodded back in receipt of the marine words all the time trying to assess if he was being sarcastic or sincere to wards his Bolter mastery. Ekieo replied in a challenging tone, wanting to try and work out just who this marine was and if he was as skilful as he looked.

"Thank you. That is an impressive weapon. Sniper specialist?"

The Marine shrugged at Ekieos response and immediately spat back his reply

"Reconnaissance. With a little long ranged work when necessary."

Ekieo new exactly what the marine meant. Cloak and dagger tactics weren’t exactly seen as the most tasteful of tactics to a Black Consul, but he also recognised the skill and discipline that it took to become one. Since his time with the DeathWatch he had come to see their importance on the battle field too. They always had the squads back, even if it was from afar or the shadows and because of this he was keen to see what this shadow could do…

Ekieo stared at him briefly before nodding

"Show me.” He told the marine with the air of authority and command that he could bring.

The marine turned and lined himself up with 3 targets some what 750m away. He let off 3 shots in steady succession. His pause at the end spoke, he seemed disappointed with his performance, a performance that was above what any normal marine could achieve. Ekieo was impressed with this. He knew he could do better and he knew that he would correct his mistake and do just that.

Ekieo removed his Helm with a gentle smirk upon his face and a welcoming nod he spoke

"Not bad. Ekieo Solza, of the Black Consuls."

He reached out and offered him his arm in a warriors shake. The marine accepted the gesture and they locked forearms in a vice like grip.
"Titus, of the Stormbringers." replied the marine

Ekieo was pleased to have met a fellow marine that for now seemed to be of his thinking and tact. Just upon that thought there was a sudden, deafening boom of noise as a weapon started firing. They turned and Ekieo peered around Titus who was much taller, his boltgun instinctively readied. The other Astartes at the ranges had successfully primed his heavy bolter and was laying down a furious torrent of fire. It did not matter that the weapon was loaded with training rounds or that he had not readied the other users. The overwhelming hail of heavy bolt rounds, training versions or not, destroyed a dozen mid-range targets across several lanes in three well placed bursts, literally tearing them apart. Ekieo and judging by Titus’s face got the sense that there was something troubling his Devastator.

Titus turned to Ekieo to see him in almost laughter at the site of the carnage. Ekieo opened up once more, a rarity it had been in such an age…

 

"Of course, quantity has a quality all of it's own..."

[Steel Company]

"You fought well, brother. My savagery is borne from frustration, I assure you. I have not seen an honest battlefield in almost 5 years. For the Angels Encarmine, this is a monumental test of patience - one that I don't expect others to empathize with." Spoke the Librarian to him.

 

Tyber nodded as he said, "I can understand that, since my first deployment in the halo stars and my company suffering greatly for it, I had been kept on the home world, unable to advance down the path I had wanted to, a path that was wrong for me and I couldn't see it at the time."

 

He paused, resting a hand on the hilt of his arming sword as he continued, "That was until I was able to be sent here and was deployed to put down a gene stealer cult, only for it to turn into an invasion from the Great Devourer, and came to understand my path better."

 

 

Rolling his left shoulder a little, Tyber picked up on the biting of the ax wound in time with looking over that shoulder to spot Yeng and another pair of astartes over the balcony overlooking the training cages, offering a nod to Yeng, Tyber returned his attention to Achillion.

Edited February 18, 2021 by Steel Company

[apologist]

The portal chimed, and Sutton-Hoo hurried over to admit the visitor. Framed in the doorway, lit by the the sconse above the ablution-font, was an unfamiliar marine. Yeng tilted his head up, in interest. The marine's first action was to acknowledge the orderly who had admitted him. The Gatebreaker appreciated that – while the direct collaboration his depleted and resource-thin Chapter required was unnecessary here, he could not completely shake the habit of viewing the Watch-station's staff as colleagues, rather than assistants. Sutton-Hoo did not appear taken aback. Either the orderly knew this marine's habits, or his reputation had preceded him.

 

Or, of course, Sutton-Hoo has become used to my bad habits. Partly to hide his grin, he rubbed a gauntleted hand over his head, tousling his scrubby hair.

 

He approached the visitor as the marine decontaminated his hands in the ablution-font; the infrasonic waves and scour-sand washing over black gauntlets. 

 

"Good day," he began. The other marine straightened up as he turned to the apothecary-gentle, and Yeng stifled a start. Peculiarly pale-skinned, the marine's eyes were all-over as black as his armour, varied only by the stark reflections of the apothecarion's lumens. The effect was disconcerting. They were set in a slim, measured face, clean of tattoos or prominent scars. Clean-shaven, his hair was also close-cropped.

 

Besides his coloration, the marine was almost anonymous. Yeng had to concentrate to prevent his gaze from slipping away, as though the visitor was not present. The visitor's reply helped him focus.

 

"Vorkys Kol," he began. "You are Claviger-Gentle Yeng? Chaka has told me a little of you. I assume he made you aware I was coming." his lip twitched in a half-smile. Now that he had been reminded, Yeng was aware that Embe was expecting a visitor – to play Regis Side, or somesuch. Why had it slipped his mind? He shook his head. 

 

"No need to let me know; not their warder. You are welcome," he said, turning and gesturing to the main area. Kol dipped his head, respectfully, and the two approached Embe. "Well you are here. Both could use some distraction – whether I am warder or no, Embe and Boros behave like caged birds: they do not appreciate the luxury of bedrest." The visitor half-turned; as though he could not quite decide whether the apothecary was making a joke. Embe's greeting interrupted them, and Yeng dipped his head before withdrawing.

 

 

"What wonders the world contains," he quoted the Sage Dijn's words under his breath, "New sights should stir the mind; and so increase your wonder by seeking these wonders in turn."

 

 

***

 

In between his studies, Yeng paced back and forth to Embe and Boros, monitoring their signs. He peered down at the game between Chaka and Vorkys as he finished fortifying a hypersaline pouch. Little figures, moving across a chequered board. Many such games were familiar to him – long periods aboard ship necessitated distractions – but he had not played this one. He nodded to both, then moved to Boros.

 

As he opened the cell door, the Angels Revenant was meditating, or praying. Or just sitting silently, thought Yeng. However much he learned of the Core Imperium, the sheer variety of the different Chapters was hard to parse. Boros opened his eyes and half-turned.

"Sorrows; had not meant to –" began Yeng, stepping backwards, but the scarred marine raised a hand. 

 

"You have nothing to apologise for, Apothecary," his tone was brusque and clipped. As always, he used the Codex rank honorific, rather than Yeng's Claviger-Gentle title – but Yeng took no offence. Castor Boros was ever a straightforward and upright figure; qualities that the Gatebreaker had come to associate with the marine. "Can you confirm whether I can armour yet?" This question again. Since re-awakening, Boros had continually requested his armour. Yeng sympathised – he hated to be out of his plate – but power armour's auto-sanation and medical gear would interfere with healing and recovery. 

 

Alikibus, Arcost and Yeng had taken it in turns to head the Apothecarion, the Gatebreaker and Star Leopard taking the lion's share owing to the Crimson Knights' command duties. As a result, the three had barely met; but both had placed their confimatory seal on Yeng's assessment. Yeng privately suspected deployment was imminent, and wanted to ensure all the Astartes were battle-ready, rather than merely battle-hungry.

 

"Have this to apologise for, Castor: I must again decline. The spirits of your plate have instinct to heal you; but this interfere with your body's own vapours." He saw the disappointment in Boros' intense – but passably human-normal – eyes. He relented, a little. "As the Odes have it, What use is strength in the arm if the mind lacks the urge to move it? Balance in peacetime balances with balance in war." Boros' gaze hardened. He seemed to have little time for Yeng's poetry.

 

"Speak plainly, Apothecary."

 

"Plate is an ally; but its absence teaches your body to stand alone. As your Codex says: 'A fortification requires strong walls, but also trained defenders.' Nevertheless, if your humours will be harmed by its lack, then it can be with you." The Angels Revanant's face remained stern, disciplined; but a brightening was unmistakeable. "Will administer the final doses at the third hour; and by the second watch will be passable. Warn you, however, that your reflexes and strength will take longer to return to heights. Teralil will need to disable the auto-medicae temporarily, also."

 

He watched as the other marine straightened and smoothed out the folds and wrinkles in his tunic. He could appreciate his impatience. Yeng was certain Castor Boros felt ready to take on the galaxy, and – knowing his comrade's occasional lapses in temper – felt this was better then strict adherence to protocol.

 

How important, he thought, the lessons of my home prove here. Adaptability, a willowy pragmatism. These were valuable to the Core; as valuable as its own virtues of discipline and protocol could be to the Rim. The Gatebreaker thought fondly of the Endworlds. Not yet, he thought. There was still more to learn; more to take back.

 

"The third hour gives us forty-five minutes, Apothecary. I do not wish to–" He was interrupted by an amused roar. Boros and Yeng peered round. It seemed the game had ended in victory.

 

***

 

Yeng, Boros and Embe discussed the likelihood of who would join Swordhand as they made their way to the training cages. The mysterious Kol had demurred, politely, when Yeng had suggested he join them. He had other business about the tower; but promised Embe he would return for a rematch soon. 

 

The Gatebreaker had mostly listened interestedly to Boros and Embe's discussion; weighing up the potential candidates' strengths and capabilities. Both of the recovering Astartes had been keen studies of the new intake – their recuperation had left their minds hungry for information and distraction. The Apothecary-Gentle had had less time; he was even-tempered about who joined. For him, a squad was a thing of development and movement, rather than – as Boros seemed to think – an alloy to be considered and perfected from the first; or, as Embe put it, a pack able to support a prime hunter – that prime switching 'as easily as water to the well' depending on circumstances. It was interesting to hear the debate.

 

At length, they arrived. The sounds of an ongoing bout were clear – two of the cages were in use. "In no state to spar, but your begtse fires will be rekindled by watching a bout or two." Yeng grinned to the others, motioning them to the spiral stairs to the viewing platforms.

 

Climbing quickly – the stairs reminding him fondly of ship-ascenders – Yeng took a place to the left of the two unarmoured marines and peered over. Below, he saw Tyber and an unfamiliar warrior; one of them a Librarian, by appearances. Impressed at the skill of both, the apothecary was surprised at the fervour the librarian used.

 

As the bout increased in intensity, Yeng felt uneasy. Leaving Boros and Embe in the viewing platform, he hurried downstairs to speak with the two – but by the time the door staff had unbarred the portal, the Librarian had already left. Yeng walked in to speak with Teralil.

Edited February 19, 2021 by apologist

[Petragor]

Now sure if this totally fits the timeline and such, will happily hear out edit requests:

Chaka and Vorkys sit in the apothecarion, Vorkys in his power armour, and Chaka in some robes provided by a serf. There is regicide board between them, as Chaka scratches the back of his head, pondering what his next move will be. Naturally, Yeng is there as well, reviewing medical files, monitoring Chakas vitals, and spectating the game when he has the time, silently observing as to not distract the players. Boros is resting yet restless, expressing a wish to swiftly reunite with his power armour. A wish that Chaka can see in himself as well, though he worries his still stasis-sick body is not yet ready to properly wield his wargear, and adheres to Yeng's advice for more rest.

Chaka is in quite the tough spot. Vorkys has a lead of two pieces, and though Chaka's Emperor is well protected, it may not remain that way if more pieces are lost. Chaka considers the board, looking for a method to counter-attack without losing any more pieces. It doesn't seem possible however, Vorkys' formation is very agressive. Chaka asked him not to hold back in the game, and he certainly obliged. Chaka sighs, and speaks. "Sometimes I wonder if He on the Throne acts through us like we're pieces on regicide board. Finding the path forward, trying to protect us, but sometimes sacrificing us when it is needed to win." With that, he takes one of Vorkys' Warriors with an Ecclesiarch, putting it in harms way, but opening a potential avenue of attack. "Several of my pride-mates are dead and I nearly joined them, but such is our duty. I only wish I could have been there, maybe one more piece would have made a difference..."

Edited February 19, 2021 by Petragor

[Komrk]

The humming of machinery in the Apothecarion provided a layer of white noise to the game of Regicide that Vorkys was playing with Chaka largely in silence. The game was well fought, and Vorkys had chosen to take an aggressive stance, perhaps as a change of pace from the over two years he had spent striking from the shadows against the Greenskin menace. Normally, Vorkys would play a more passive game letting his opponent overextend his forces, but stale doctrine leads to inflexible thinking. He was surprised when Chaka finally spoke, and simply responded with further aggression taking his opponent's Ecclesiarch with his own Fortress. 

 

"Perhaps he does, that is why we were created after all, to serve the Emperor and the Imperium, to further humanity and secure its place among the stars. One more piece may well have made the difference..." Vorkys trailed off noticing that he had exposed his backline with his last move. A stupid mistake, but one worth learning from. "Or you could have simply been another lost piece. Few games of regicide have ever been won without sacrificing a single piece. Such is the same in our duty, we are trained to kill and die without hesitation. Celebrate them, mourn them, avenge them, do as you must but they have done their duty, and we must do ours." The game was lost, it would not be like Chaka to miss such an opening even in his injured state. 

[Brother Argent]

The rites in the Chapel over Pallan wandered aimlessly around the Watch Station.  His mind wandered as freely as he, for once thinking over current circumstance rather then past failures.  He knew he would have to familarise himself with these, his new Brothers, at some point.  But he worried about what would happen when he did.  How would they feel having a stranger not just fighting alongside them, but salving their wounds.  And not just a stranger but a son of a Chapter of the Thirteenth Founding.  A Chapter regarded as cursed by many in the Imperium.  Pallan had once sneered at the thought of his Chapter being cursed.  But following the events of the Eyrie perhaps there was some truth in the claim.  But if so, he mused, it was a curse of his Chapter's own making, a rod they had forged for their own back.  

 

He pushed such thoughts from his mind and continued to move along.  He wished to be on his homeworld again, walking Argentis' long silver beaches, listening to the waves crash against the shore.  Here the only noises were the groan and strain of a space station.  Even in the Apothecarion on Argentis one could still hear the sound of the sea through its thick walls.  The thought of the Apothecarion made Pallan realise he still hand't familiarized himself with the facility here on the station.  The thought of potentialy meeting other astartes there made him uncomfortable but remembered part of his Chapters motto, 'Duty till death,".  His duty was as Apothecary to his brothers, a care taker and medic.  He supposed sooner or later he would need to make himself familiar with the place.  He let out a resigned sigh and made his way there.

 

The Apothecarion was empty when Pallan entered, other then a few servitors and the wounded or those in hibernation.  Pallan was envious of those brother's able to sleep away their wounds and injuries.  Part of the curse of his Chapter was they suffered similar failures to their supposed Primogentior, the Imperial Fists.  Like Dorn's sons their Betchers Gland didn't work and their Sus-An Membrane was usable, but was just as likely to send the marine into a coma from which he couldn't wake.  A tempting option, Pallan had though at his bleakest moment but, no, to lie forever still was no fate for a Star Leopard.  Duty till death, the words echoed through his mind, salvation through sacrifice. The motto of the Star Leopards, of his brothers, of him.  He snarled in disgust at his moment of despair.  If it was through sacrifice he would earn his redemption, then so be it.  He looked around at the wounded brothers lying in the Apothecarion and swore if by his sacrifice he could prevent another of his new brothers ending up here he would.

Edited March 2, 2021 by Brother Argent

[ApostleRP]

Lycus finds no reason to linger in the chapel. Although he finds no shame in his faith, compared to some of his more atheist cousins, this chapel did not hold any of the grim designs he had come to consider as homely or familiar since becoming a Battle-brother of the Star Phantoms. 

 

He decided that he was overdue some time in the firing ranges. He had spent a frustratingly long length of time recovering from wounds sustained in the Badab campaign. Nothing as commonplace as enemy fire had left him unfit for duty, in truth it had taken a collapsing palace to render him out of action. During the final assault on the Tyrants place, Lycus' squad had been ordered to secure some of the outermost wings. The resistance they encountered had been determined, but was untimely swept aside by their unrelenting advance. It seemed however, that the traitors had a taste for the ironic. As their rebellion, and their little empire, crumbled around them they had elected to attempt to rob their foes of a glorious victory, and had rigged explosives to collapse large portions of the palace. 

 

Lycus' squad had been caught in one of these traps. Two men were lost in the inital detonation, one more of the wing they were clearing collapsed. Squad Artermios was buried there for 2 days while the fighting raged on and before excavations could begin. 

 

Lycus pushed the memory of his almost-tomb from his mind as he paced with purpose towards the ranges. Although the apothecaries had cleared him for duty, he still felt a phantom stiffness in his left arm that he felt was slowing his reloading time and reaction times. He was determined to spend any spare moment outside of prayer and rest honing his body back to peak performance. 

 

As he arrived at the ranges, he takes a quick moment to asses the other occupants of the chamber. He notes a few of them paying notice to his arrival, but he decides to find as private a spot as possible. A large number of the Astartes at the station were keeping him at arm's length, but this doesn't really give him a moments pause. He had expected some level of animosity at his presence here, and he was perfectly comfortable being excluded from their brotherly niceties for the time being. 

 

Easier to observe from the outside anyway.

 

As he steps up to the firing line, he racks the slide on the training bolter with a reassuring familiarity, before taking aim at the targets down the line and letting loose his first shell...

[Jeremy.Phillips]

Argus wandered aimlessly through the halls of the Watch Station reflecting on the ceremony he had been a part of.

 

He had felt uneasy throughout most of the ritual. It was not just the strange Astartes he would soon call brother who stood around him. He had never before been within a shrine which so prominently displayed the Primarchs. It was true that some Blood Ravens chose to venerate every Primarch, but Argus did not. He only gave praise to the Emperor of Mankind. After all weren’t the Primarchs created by the Emperor? Perhaps someday his Chapter would learn from which gene-sire they were descended, but until then he would regard them with proper respect and nothing more.

 

He thought about his old sergeant Argentius. Had he knelt in that same spot? The grizzled veteran had overseen Argus’ training and first operations as a scout. He rarely spoke of his time in the Deathwatch and had never revealed where he had been stationed. Had he wandered these same corridors? He had more knowledge about the filthy xenos than most companies and the Chapter had felt his loss dearly. Perhaps that is what had inspired Argus to don the black, he now realized.

 

His thoughts and footsteps halted as he understood where he had brought himself. Before him stood the entrance to the Librarium. Often, at home on his Battle-Barge he would take the long walk to the Librarium to seek the wisdom of those brothers. This was different though. He knew none of the brothers who worked within here. Would they be offended if he entered? He had heard of other chapters and their relationships with their own who were burdened with the gift. Perhaps he would seek their counsel another time.

 

Argus turned and walked away through the darkened corridor.

[Commissar Molotov]

Twenty-Four Hours Later

Another daily cycle begins on Azurea, the dolorous bells ringing throughout the Watch-Station. Some of you may have had a few hours’ sleep; others may have trusted in their Catalepsean Nodes to negate the need for rest - or to stave off troublesome dreams. Regardless, as you greet the day, you receive a notification from Watch-Captain Diocles, with your assignments.

Codicier Achillion, Codicier Montesa and Chaplain Helgrim: The three of you are summoned to the Watch-Station’s Strategium by Watch-Captain Diocles. The room is circular, and filled with tiered benches upon which Astartes warriors can sit. The centre of the room is dominated by a hololithic table, upon which briefings can be carried out. The walls display many banners and trophies the Deathwatch of Azurea have accumulated over the millennia.

The Captain is perfunctory.

“All of us are aware of the distempered atmosphere affecting our brethren,” he says. From your vantage point, you can look over the Captain’s armoured pauldrons and out into the void - at the Star Phantoms’ Battle-Barge, hanging like a suspended sword over the station. “Today, we will move to restore Azurea.”

The Captain hands out two data-slates - the first, to Helgrim; the second, to Achillion.

“Revised deployments for Blackthorn and Swordhand,” he says. You can press an access rune to see the following:

Kill-Team Primus (Codified BLACKTHORN):
-Atratus (Assault Marine)
-Ekieo Solza (Tactical Marine)
-Greysight (Tactical Marine)
-Incariel (Devastator Marine)
-Lycus Artemios (Tactical Marine)
-Nycax Sabaan (Techmarine)
-Pallan Arcost (Apothecary)
-Severix Pyke (Devastator Marine)
-Tyber (Assault Marine)
-Varvost (Assault Marine)

Kill-Team Secundus (Codified SWORDHAND):
- Argus (Tactical Marine)
-Atreus Maladon (Techmarine)
-Brakan Vorr (Devastator Marine)
-Castor Boros (Devastator Marine)
-Chaka Embe (Assault Marine)
-Gideon Thire (Tactical Marine)
-Oto Yeng (Apothecary)
-Thorvald Hammerhand (Assault Marine)
-Titus (Tactical Marine)
-Vorkys Kol (Tactical Marine)

“Brother-Chaplain, Brother Codicier,” he nods to each of you in turn, “I would ask you to attend to the Kill-Teams. Helgrim, see to Blackthorn. Observe the warriors that fought alongside Daon Akkad for the longest. Rouse the furies that fester within them and direct them towards the enemies of the Imperium. And if you should find any sense of spiritual corruption, you will bring the Battle-Brothers involved to heel.”

He turns to the Angel Encarmine, next.

“Brother Achillion, I have not been deaf to your requests for deployment. Assist Swordhand in their preparations. Their losses against the Hive Ship were great, and they must be returned to battle-readiness. To that end, I have transferred three capable warriors from the returning Gallowbane to reinforce them. When you feel they are ready, you will accompany them to war.”

Diocles leans forward, placing both gauntleted fists on the strategium table.

“I must ask that you assist both Kill-Teams in electing a Watch-Sergeant. They need discipline, and leadership to rally behind.”

Lastly, he turns to the Crimson Fist, who has stood silently throughout the entire briefing.

“Codicier Montesa, I have been given wise counsel by our Brother-Chaplain, here. The Star Phantoms seek to carry out an edict from the High Lords of Terra, to judge Brother Akkad for his Chapter’s crimes. You saw him fight in the defense of Syndalla. I would ask that you protect him now, in his time of need. He needs an advocate, a defender. Especially given the psychic nature of his accuser. I will communicate with Chief Librarian Parmenion and inform him that you will be travelling to the Clepsydra. There, you will do what must be done. Provide Akkad with an opportunity to fairly and honourably defend himself. If he is to be condemned, let it be for his sins and not those of the fallen Tyrant.” There is a moment’s pause. “In all things, protect the honour of the Deathwatch during this delicate matter.”

Diocles turns back to Helgrim and Achillion.
“Do not speak of this to the brethren until a conclusion has been reached.”

+ + +

GM: So that the narrative doesn’t delay waiting for Necronaut and Mojake, you can assume the following:

 

• You will have received notification of your new assignments, early in the morning.
• Both Kill-Teams will have dedicated training spaces where you can meet and assemble.
• It’s easy to assume that the Kill-Teams will be able to run through practice drills - combat, shooting, drills where you practice assaults and warfare in configurable environments. I will assume that Blackthorn and Swordhand are training in separate spaces for now, so there won’t be the same degree of interaction between Kill-Teams.
• Such is the endurance of the Astartes that these drills could take the whole of a day.
• For Swordhand specifically, Boros and Embe will still be getting up to “fighting fit” - even in their diminished states, their physique is an order of magnitude greater than a baseline human, but there is still much work to be done.
• This is an opportunity to get to know the brethren you will be fighting alongside - there is the opportunity for clearer introductions than during the Initiation ceremony.
• At some point during the day, Helgrim and Achillion will arrive to observe the training - or even to take a more active hand in leading, supervising or participating.
• Under the Captain’s orders Helgrim and Achillion will seek to ensure the selection of a Watch-Sergeant for each squad. The manner of that selection is open-ended: it can be determined through force-of-arms, through consensus or vote. The Chaplain or Librarian could simply choose arbitrarily. It may even be that the Kill-Teams will have decided themselves before the observers arrive.

Edited February 19, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mojake]

Placeholder removed to flow better with narrative.

Edited February 21, 2021 by Mojake

[ApostleRP]

The assignments having finally been post, it was time for Lycus to begin his work among the Watch in proper. He initially reviews his new squad mates, but quickly comes to learn he knows very little of his new allies, outside of their parent chapter, combat speciality and a brief breakdown of their more recent assignments. 

 

He decides that the best way to overcome this first hurdle is to stop taking the role of the outsider. He leaves his spartan chambers and paces towards the training area assigned to Kill-team Blackthorn. His armour, in its usual bellicose fashion, growled in anticipation. It was an odd sensation, for some reason he found himself tensing and easing the individual muscle groups in his body, testing their strengths and highlighting any areas that may slow him at the most vital of moments. This was a routine he had picked up, and was usually conducted on the eve of battle, not meeting new squad mates. Clearly, the tension inferred within this meeting had not eased since the induction ceremony. 

 

He arrived at the training hall, his heavy metallic footfalls announcing his arrival before he even stepped through the threshold. As was his fashion, he would start by first performing the usual equipment checks and blessings before making his way to the firing ranges. He always felt better with his weapon in hand, there was something reassuring in its weight, the rhythmic beat of the ejecting shells matching his twin-heart beat. 

 

After getting some individual practice in, more to reassure himself than to actually hone his post-human skills any further, he would step away from the range and start to take note of the other Astartes in the training area.

Edited February 20, 2021 by ApostleRP

[adesro18]

Atreus had spent his time familiarizing himself with the forge of the watch station learning of its capabilities and what work would need to be done, finding areas he could improve or provide his own expertise. Upon receiving his summons, he had not slept, simply relying on his advanced Astartes physiology to keep him in peak condition. Acknowledging his new position in kill team Swordhand he dismissed the serf that brought the summons and finished the task at hand quickly.

He knew his new brothers would want to begin training together to learn each others strengths and weaknesses and to assess which of them would take charge of the squad. The position of Sargent was not one Atreus coveted for himself, he was a techmarine, he provided council at best and provided a service to his fellow brothers less attune with the Omnissiah. While he did not wish to be chosen sargent, he would certainly keep a cold appraising eye open for those he believed would fill the role best, for efficiency was his utmost concern.

Atreus found his way to the training area designated for Swordhand and awaited the arrival of his brothers.

[Lysimachus]

Titus was already awake, being assisted by several Watch serfs to don his armour, when Diocles' assignment was delivered by one of the Watch-Captain's many mortal adjutants. The Stormbringer paused, dismissing the serfs to wait by the chamber entrance, and scanned the list. So. Swordhand. A name with a proud history of victories and losses both. Though not surprised, he felt a certain disappointment that his time with Gallowbane was ending. However, he was pleased to see that his association with Vorkys and Gideon, solid brothers who he knew from experience he could work alongside, would continue.

 

In truth, Titus did not envy the Marine given command. A difficult assignment, to take the fractured elements of two Kill-Teams, and several new recruits, and forge them into an effective whole. It had been a good choice to keep him and his brothers together, but the three would have to be careful that their prior connection did not unintentionally cause a division in the greater whole. Titus frowned thoughtfully. While in the Delvis Rifts, Kol had mentioned in passing his exchanges with a least one member of the original Swordhand. Perhaps these links might be a good place to build from? Still frowning, Titus nodded for his serfs to continue the armouring process. He wanted to be at the training chamber in good time, to observe each of his new brethren as they arrived.

 

He smiled suddenly. While he found such personal interactions… awkward… they were a necessary first step on the path, the path that would lead to making war anew on the enemies of Humanity. The thought made him itch as the serfs attached the final pieces of his war plate. It was nearly time to move.

 

 

*****

 

Titus entered the vast training hall, wondering whether any of his squad mates had beaten him to first place. Another Astartes stood alone in a pool of light at the centre of the poorly lit chamber. The figure, who Titus assumed must not have used the rest period at all, was immediately identifiable. Techmarine. Salamander. This must be Brother Atreus Maladon, of the Astral Drakes Chapter. Titus nodded respectfully to the tech-adept, then took a position on the edge of the light to wait for the others to arrive.

[Necronaut]

The chaplain studied the data slate intently, committing the names of his charges, old and new alike, to memory. While no master tactician, save for of jump-pack assisted assaults, Helgrim was a keen observer of his brother Astartes and their psychological motivations. Hardship was a great teacher, and the surviving core of Blackthorn had seen its share.

 

Helgrim struck his fist across his chest in salute and inclined his head towards Diocles.

 

"It shall be as you command, Watch-Captain."

 

He then turned toward Montesa. The Codicier's image was reflected in the red lenses of his skull helm, vibrant life cast on the image of death.

 

"I will pray for your success, Brother-Codicier. Daon Akkad will be in good hands."

 

The chaplain nodded to the Crimson Fist, saluted his brothers, and left the strategium.

 

There is much work to be done.

 

++++++

 

Helgrim stood in his cell again with his serfs, a tech-priest and arming servitors in attendance, his arms outstretched in cruciform. As led by the tech-priest, his serfs were chanting the prayers of awakening and lighting ritual candles. Serf Tertius was swinging a censer back-and-forth and the smell of incense and machine oils hung heavy in the air.

 

Serfs Primus and Secondus tied the tooled leather holster of his bolt pistol onto his left thigh plate, affixed a fresh purity seal to the Phobos-pattern weapon and inserted it into its holster. Next, the arming servitors, under command of the attendant tech-priest, hoisted his jump-pack and fastened it over his armour's power pack. His servants then affixed a purity seal to his old and well-used chainsword before mag-locking it to the left-side intake of his jump-pack, just above his shoulder. Into his right outstretched hand Primus placed his master's Crozius Arcanum, its adamantium shaft sporting freshly waxed seals. The final piece of his wargear to be mounted on his person was his ancient combat knife, granted to him upon his initiation into the Doom Eagles' scout company. It was tied onto the left side of his breast plate, sheathed and handle down.

 

The arming rituals complete, the tech-priest uttered a final prayer to the Omnissiah to bless the chaplain's wargear, bowed and withdrew from the chamber with his servitor retinue in tow.

 

"I depart for Kill-Team Blackthorn, my servants. See to your duties within the chapel in my stead, and honor the Emperor in all you do."

 

Helgrim's serfs bowed and he departed his cell with renewed purpose and vigour.

 

I return to the front lines of the Holy Crusade, Zakiel. I go again to my death. Woe betide!

 

++++++

 

My master paused at the door of his cell a final time before departing and roared at we three serfs, "Attend, mortals! I, Helgrim of the Doom Eagles, go now to find battle and death! Remember me, my servants, and serve your next master honorably! WOE BETIDE!"

 

And with that, my master, Brother-Chaplain Helgrim departed to see to the war-spirits of Kill-Team Blackthorn, and to mete out the God-Emperor's divine retribution.

 

Ave Imperator! God-Emperor guide his hand!

 

Woe Betide!

 

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

Edited February 21, 2021 by Necronaut

[apologist]

[Placeholder] Yeng proceeds to the assembly-place; reflecting on the situation;s similarity to that on board the Xenocide, after the death of Watch-sergeant Jor. He is hopeful that one of the new intake will bring a sense of leadership and cohesion, badly-missing prior to Swordhand's return.

 

On arrival – near last – he will greet his old colleagues with a few remarks, then move to talk with Kol – the Reviler made a good impression.

 

He will discuss with Kol his thoughts on a potential sergeant: Argus as a potential, given his record on paper; but will look to see if others have ambition. He and Kol will appraise Titus and Thire as other likely candidates.

Edited February 19, 2021 by apologist

[Ancient_Sobek]

Though it was early Severix was already up. He had noticed some minor deviation in the sighting mechanisms of his frag cannon. While within acceptable tolerances, it was not up to his standards so needed to be addressed.

 

The disassembled weapon was spread out before him. Each piece placed precisely in it’s assigned spot. One by one, each part was inspected, cleaned, and freshly oiled as needed. As he worked, he said the requisite prayers and burned incense to soothe the belligerent spirit of the weapon. While no techmarine, years of bonding with his gun gave him a feel for the device and how to care for it properly. A knight is only able to perform his duty if his weapons are well maintained. Drilled into him from the moment he joined the chapter, he would not dishonor his brothers by letting his weapon fail.

 

He finished his work and began reassembling the cannon. His large hands belied the deftness of his movements as each part slotted back in place. The ballet of his movements almost hypnotic as the pile of disparate parts took shape.

 

A chime from his monitor drew his attention as he completed his task. Wiping the machine ungents from his hands, he called up the new message. Reading through the contents he felt his will become focused as he finally had orders. He was no longer a warrior without a home. The missive gave him the name of his new brothers as well as a summons to meet and train together.

 

“So, Blackthorn it is.”

 

Before he left he had one final thing to do. Taking up the electro-scriber from his workbench he etched the name of his new team alongside of the names of his previous units. Sixteen times he had performed this ritual over his five decades of service. He wiped the freshly scribed letters with his thumb, brushing away the minute metal shavings. 

 

“We shall guard them well my friend”

 

Replacing his gauntlets he checked the seals and ports of his armor. Satisfied everything was in place, he clipped his helmet to his belt before hoisting the weight of his weapon. As he headed for the door he took a moment to offer a quick prayer to his shrine before he left.

 

+++++++

 

Arriving at the assigned training area he saw that most of the other members had already gathered. As he made his way into the room he looked over each warrior trying to glean some measure of the men he would work alongside. As he met the eyes of each he gave them a friendly nod, acknowledging them as equals.

 

Passing through the crowd he went to the firing station to see how the adjustments he made would effect his performance. Unleashing several shots he noted that the groupings were passable but still needed improvement.

 

(Ballistic Skill Test - BS 62 + 5 from armor history [hero’s shame] Roll = 49 (1 dos))

 

Satisfied for the moment, he entered the fighting cage. He had not had a chance to spend much time training with his chainsword since arriving at the watch station. He stretched his arms and performed some parries, thrusts, and slashes to warm up before activating the combat servitors. 

 

As the mechanical opponents advanced he steadied his mind bending his will to the enemy at hand. As the servitors attacked he deftly flowed between them, butchering each in turn. As he eviscerated the final foe he cleaned the gore from the weapon’s teeth with a quick pulse of the trigger and a practiced flick of his wrist.

 

Old Halberec, the blade master that had instructed him, would have given him a curt nod of respect before pointing out that the servitors were an easy foe to best and he would need to do better against a trained foe. Pyke chuckled inwardly at the memory of his old mentor.

 

(Weapon Skill Test - WS 49 + 5 from armor history [hero’s shame] Roll = 13 (4dos))

 

Feeling his war spirit swelling in his breast he thought he should test his perception. A keen eye was a boon to any Devestator, allowing him to pick out targets in the heat of battle. Exchanging his frag cannon for his side arm, he ran through the trading gauntlet that had been set up for them. Moving through the space he used his focus to pick out targets, separating enemy combatants from civilians and hostages. His results were acceptable but he decided to run the course again. There is always room for improvement.

 

(Perception check PER 47, roll = 24, (2 dos))

 

As he waited his turn to run the gauntlet again, he saw the other Devestator assigned to the team approach him. He had learned that the marine hailed from a chapter known as the Consecrators. He knew little of them, thought the markings and accoutrements spoke of their relation to the old First Legion. As the warrior stopped before him Severix nodded his head and spoke.

 

“Well met brother, I trust your humors are better aligned today.”

Edited February 24, 2021 by Ancient_Sobek

[Komrk]

Vorkys awoke as he heard the pattering of a serf's feet approaching his chambers. The serf delivered his new team assignment as handed down by the Watch-Captain and he noted that he had been assigned to Swordhand alongside Titus and Gideon. He also recognized a number of names from the list including Chaka with whom he played Regicide just yesterday and the Apothecary charged with his care. His other brothers from Gallowbane would be missed as he had come to consider many of them friends, but this is how the Watch worked and trust had to be placed in the Watch-Captain's decisions. Certainly there would be many rough edges to smooth over as new recruits and those of Gallowbane would have to learn to operate as one with the survivors of Swordhand. Leadership would be another question that would need to be answered.

 

Once his armor was donned he made his way to the training hall and exchanged brief pleasantries with those he did not know and then went to speak with his brothers from Gallowbane.

"Glad to see you here with me brothers, at least it will be one less thing to worry about during operations."

 

[Place holder] Vorkys and Yeng talking about leadership