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

[A.T.]

[placeholder-ish]

The new assignments were given. As expected the Star Phantom had been assigned to Blackthorn, as a test or a reminder of past events was yet to be seen.

 

Rising early for the first day of combined training Atratus was not surprised to see Varvost already present, the Flesh Tearers gait still betraying the legacy of injuries sustained on the hive ship. Raising his sword as he approached the Raptor indicated his intent and then motioned to the tech-serf to send the first of the combat drones to engage them both.

 

It was not needed to be said that each was here to test the skill of the other, the servitors but a distraction to test focus, their blows as hail upon two warriors fighting in a storm.

[Steel Company]

The walk to the room where he was to be reunited with squad Blackthorn was a heavy one, he knew that Akkad would not be there and it left him wondering if this would be a fully new squad. Taking a moment to touch his repaired Mk VIII Errant plate he spoke to it, “It feels like yesterday when we first walked into this room to meet our squad, I will do my best not to allow you to become so heavily damaged again.”

 

Once he entered the room, he gave it a quick scan, feeling relief at seeing Varvost, Atratus, Sabaan, and Greysight. This however was countered by not seeing Solastion, rather he saw several brothers he didn’t know, but two, two of them drew his attention right away.

 

The first bore the symbol of the Dreadwing, this caused Tyber’s jawline to tighten as he thought to himself, The Watch Captain has a strange sense of humor.

 

The other, the other however their markings sent a sensation down his spine, an altered version of the Firewing mark. The words of Adavan coming to his mind again, ‘Never trust these markings.’

 

Tyber moved through the room, careful to give both the Star Phantom and the Firewing plenty of space as he moved to stand with Atratus as he spoke to him in a low, tone that only Atratus should be able to pick up, “So, what do you think of the new blood?”

[ashlander47]

The data squirt had roused him from another pit of deep contemplation. It was worrying how often he found himself languishing there, and so the mote of relief he felt when glancing at the in-loaded information was a gout of cool water to slake thirsty earth. In truth it was as short lived as a drop of rain upon a sun blasted desert.

 

Assignment. At last.

 

Though having only been aboard the Watch-Station for a handful of days, the six months of transit via the Sea of Souls coupled with his disquieting thoughts had stretched on for what seemed like a year. It had been relatively easy for him to resume rote and fall back into the ritual of the daily scheduling; lack and want being fine fuel to rekindle the flame of duty. Of all the downsides that insisting keeping one's helmet on -- the mistrust it bred, the constant light itch at his scalp, the stench of his own breath -- one of the immediate benefits was receiving information the moment it was released. More cherished in that moment that his primary reasoning; that his memory remain unstained by bare senses for bit a little longer. A brief flash of incivility illuminated shadows in his mind like a bolt of lightning would trees in a forest, and he thought about rushing to the Blackthorn barrack to sequester himself, yet as quickly as the feeling arrived it sank back into the darkness, and against the tug of eagerness he continued to kneel and complete his morning prayers, to the letter, and to the exacting second of the allotment of time. He praised the Lion. He praised the Emperor. Then he was off.

 

The Consecrator flicked through the names in the listing as he walked at curt pace. He had seen few of any his new brothers in his scant stay and swapped names with even fewer, but that was to change and quickly. Once names were put to faces, once faces were put to minds, and once minds were placed in his memory, there would be a solid foundational brick in the section of his mind-fortress devoted to this Deathwatch secondment, and he would feel that much at ease.

 

Incariel noticed two things right away about the listing as he plodded on through the dark, labyrinthine halls of Azurea, candles guttering as he did so. First, that while the squad was a standard ten marine size, the roles were obviously a diverse and potentially contentious spread. This was to be expected given the nature of the Deathwatch; tactical flexibility, highly specialised marines, and the necessity to address any and every scenario when it occurs and with an expert's vigour. To be stuffed in between the shoulders with as many Assaults as Tacticals was heavy enough upon the weighing scales of stratagems that were quickly blossoming behind his eyes, but to sit amongst both an Apothecary and a Techmarine? A heady mixture, thought he. Roaring chainswords, barking boltguns, whirring servos and the cloying scent of medicae fluids. Heady indeed.

 

With three-and-three brothers who could, at any moment, bound to and from the heart of combat, it would be down to him and his fellow Devastator, this Pyke fellow, to form the hilt of the blade that was Blackthorn -- or perhaps the stems of the flowers upon which the thorns of this squad bristled? He dismissed pithy poetic distractions in his mind and reran the scenarios again, focusing on his role. He would have to come to an understanding with Pyke, and their perspectives must align against all else lest there be any times when the squad was neither covered, nor either Devastator kept secure and covered himself by his counterpart. A large ask for such a diverse squad and with only one peer to depend upon, Incariel couldn't help but curl his scar-riven lips into a smile; the shape of the task excited him.

 

The second thing he noticed, which now turned about in his mind as he himself turned the final set of corners that lead towards the barracks, was that the listing was purely names and roles with no mention or hint at rank. This, Incariel knew, would cause some friction between the squad that would have to be resolved before anything truly sacred and worthwhile could come of it. From within his mind-fortress he heard the echoing voices of a memory that, unlike many of his more recent ones, did not cause bitterness despite being admittedly something that ought to. He let his senses wash slowly with the sights, scents and sounds of memory -- a prelude to the true feature to be re-witnessed.

 

Blood. Darkness. Ichor. Death. 

 

Enough. He willed it down like gulping a mouthful of Betcher's finest. He reminded himself that it was because of what happened on the hulk, not in spite of it, that he was even up for promotion in the first place, and he wouldn't even be in sniffing distance of that same distinction had he not survived that place. There would not even be an imagined memory of 'Sergeant Incariel of the 5th Company' to mourn for if he did not walk through blood, bones and blasphemy aboard the Void-wracked hull of the Death of Illumination. Beat yourself over the head with it again, his thoughts chimed, for all the good that supposed memory does you. He was not denied the honour of the rank; he was simply reassigned in a lateral direction, and had now once again move laterally to the Deathwatch. For shame. To hold woe in his heart over something as trite as rank in the face of elevation to the Ravenwing, or secondment to the Slaying Shield. For shame.

 

He entered the section set aside for Blackthorn's usage and his eyes flickered with the flame of detestable ambition from behind his amber lenses. He could see it clearly now; the spoor of that most iniquitous of beasts was laid out before him in the training halls. Politics. Squad-level politics, no less. A dangerous and often lethal quarry that only the bold and foolish dared track. He was bold, he told himself. He was also acting incredibly foolish, he quickly conceded. Stay thy ambition, lest ye find thyself stayed for it. He recalled the words that had been spoken once again. His posture relaxed and he almost slithered through the portcullis and snaked his way to the munitions benches. Above all else, his primary objective was to secure an accord with his fellow Devastator and disseminate in kind, so that no misunderstandings lingered.

 

Seize yonder position of strength and make it thine fortress. From yon unassailable mount shallt thou smite thine enemies with wrath and ruin.

 

He canted the scripture in his mind and, as he had been taught and much to his own chagrin, he responded with a counter-argument against his very actions.

 

If thee reckon both thine own self and thine enemy, thou art invulnerable. He of sharpest mind begets onto his foe, and brooks not the foe to beget unto him.

 

Canst thou speak it truly that thee reckons thine own mind now, Incariel? He could hear Vincindrael's laughter flare up on the vox and with a motion that might've seemed as if he wished to tear off his own head, he twisted free his helmet and let the scents, sounds and sights of Blackthorn's barracks forever stain themselves on his memory.  

 

Edited February 19, 2021 by ashlander47

[Commissar Molotov]

[PLACEHOLDER]

 

Varvost after fighting alongside Atratus.

 

Varvost's typically succinct response to Tyber's question to Atratus.

[adesro18]

Atreus returns the nod to the first battle brother who enters the training grounds, Titus is what he was called, of the Stormbringers, as indicated by his heraldry. A curious contrast to himself, the new battle brother was pale and ghostly compared to the obsidian complexion and flaming red eyes that Atreus bore. Where Atreus was broad and powerfully built, Titus was thin and tall, for an astartes at least. Atreus wondered if this phenotype was typical of all Stormbringers. His bulk was a gift afterall of his primarch, a genetic legacy that spanned the millennia.

He would be curious to see this one at war.

(place holder- waiting for more marines to arrive and contemplate)

[Komrade_Atomic]

Entering the training hall, clad in his Ancient but Shining Mark IV Armour, Gideon looked around, taking in the brothers currently in the room, and respectfully nodding to those who met his gaze. Upon spotting Titus and Vorkys, he moved over to them, a smile appearing on his face as he reached them. While Gideon knew that fighting alongside Brothers who he had no prior experience with would be difficult, he found solstice in the presence of his fellow Gallowbane members, and greeted them cheerfully. 

 

"Vorkys, Titus. I'm glad to see we shall be serving together once more, Brothers." 

[Lysimachus]

As Vorkys and Gideon entered the training hall, Titus greeted his brothers with as much warmth as was in him to show. This was the first time all three had been together since arriving back at Azurea. But he quickly put the pleasure he felt aside, quietly sharing his concerns about their close association causing a rift in the Kill-Team. They must be Swordhand, not Gallowbane.

 

Titus also discreetly raised with them the difficult question of who should lead the newly formed squad. Ideally one of the original members of the Team would take up the role, but this was offset by the need for them to be led by a more tactically minded warrior, able to provide the balance between assault and defence, close combat and heavy firepower. Swordhand certainly had a good mix of specialists, it just needed someone to coordinate their skills.

 

If his opinion was sought, of the Marines he had thus far interacted with, Titus would suggest Vorkys as leader. He had shown a strong grasp of tactics in the Rifts, if a little unorthodox. He certainly had the support of himself and Gideon, and was also known and respected by several members of Swordhand. The fact that he hailed from a Chapter with a proud history going all the way back to the 2nd Founding, while less important in itself, would also reassure those who did not yet know him personally.

 

Titus own tactical understanding suggested forming the Kill-Team's order of battle around a solid core of Tactical Marines and the specialists Yeng and Atreus, supported by the heavy weapon toting Devastators, with the Assault Marines as a mobile reserve, ready to counterattack or advance as needed. He would further place himself, and perhaps Thorvald, in a scouting role. Between his reconnaissance training and the vaunted senses of a Space Wolf, there would be little that would take the team by surprise.

[A.T.]

Atratus disengaged as Tyber arrived, his armour more battered that would be expected of a training engagement. Whether a testament to Varvosts demeanor or the unusually aggressive drill was hard to say.

 

Removing his helmet he nodded in deference to the rank of the Dragon, "he has kept his own council thus far, but he is not new. I believe he is one who accompanied brother Parmenion to Syndalla".

 

Tilting his head slightly but not turning from the conversation he acknowledged the arrival of the Consecrator before he entered the room, the sweeping robes and heavy step of the mark 5 armour annoucing his arrival. Perhaps a similarly unsubtle approach to the question of the Star Phantom would be appropriate, "do you wish use of the fighting cage Brother Tyber?"

[Steel Company]

Tyber shook his head as he said, "Not at the moment, my shoulder is still a little sore from the last round I went with Achillion, his ax cut deep."

 

Giving a quick scan of the room he added, "I am concerned by the presence of the Star Phantom, are you?"

[A.T.]

Atratus considered Tybers question, "his presence does not seem co-incidence, but I think it unlikely that his chapter means to seek influence over the Deathwatch itself. Station records indicate that it has been more than three centuries since the last Star Phantom had been initiated into to the watch, their renewed commitment may yet be seen as a favourable outcome".

 

"I do not believe discretion to be the best path forward in this matter, but I defer to you on the matter. Is it your intent to seek rank on our next deployment?"

[Steel Company]

Tyber shakes his head as he says, "Not at all, our last deployment made my path clear to me. Command is not for me, it never has been, I was too blinded by jealousy to see it in the past."

 

His eyes linger on the Star Phantom for a moment before he adds, "I am not concerned about his chapter seeking influence, rather I wonder if he is here to test us, because of Akkad. But he is not the only one I have reservations about, do you see the one with the red flame and wings markings? He is the other I question his motives for being here."

[Reyner]

Placeholder that may or may not be expanded depends how I feel:

 

Vorr isn't a fan of an outsider being the team leader Gallowbane inferior Swordhand SUPERIOR to channel my childhood a bit

 

@GM can we give Vorr a point of torso damage and a cough? Just to echo life a bit for the funnies. And he can't get rid of it til I leave hospital haha?

Edited February 20, 2021 by Reyner

[Brother Argent]

Pallan had been deep in meditation, staring out the small window port of his spartan quarters at the depths of space, when the message arrived listing his squad assignment.  He had scanned over the list for the members of his new 'brotherhood' of Blackthorn.  He had spent little to no time getting to know any of the marines stationed on Azurea so the list of names meant little to him.  He would need to familarise himself with them, he guessed.  If for no other reason then to best be able to apply his trade in the field of battle.  He had to admit he had his doubts on how many of his new brothers would consent to an Apothecary of a chapter of the 13th Founding tend to their geneseed.  Let alone if they knew of his past... failings.  Still the transmission of his posting came with a summons to training so he guessed he would meet his knew squad mates soon enough.  With a sigh he pulled himself away from the blessed emptiness of the void and set off to the training halls.

 

He was part way there when he came upon another marine heading towards the training room.  It was the one he had mistaken for Eret to begin with.  Even here the marine haunted Pallan with glimpses of his lost friend.  He figured if the astartes was heading towards the training room he was likely a part of this new 'Blackthorn'.  Better start somewhere he thought to himself and he drew up alongside him.  He cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"I remember you from the Chapel," he said, matching his pace to the other marine, " You are new to the watch too?" Pallan asked and the charcoal haired marine nodded in ascent.

"Yes, I have only recently arrived," he said and again Pallan was struck by the similarity to Eret, even the marine's voice was like hearing the words of a ghost, " A fresh arrival, a "new blood", originally of the Star Phantoms chapter." Pallan frowned.  The name of the marines' Chapter was familiar and Pallan remembered seeing the Battle Barge hanging over the Watch Station and remembered where he had heard the name before.

"Star Phantoms?" Pallan ran an armoured hand through his short unkempt beard, " Forgive my ignorance on your Chapter, Brother., " he said apologetically before remembering the looks he had seen directed at the Star Phantom in the Chapel, " Tell me, brother, why do the others hate you? I saw the looks they directed towards you in the Chapel. There was anger. Hate and...fear, perhaps. What crimes could you have committed to draw such anger from those we are now told to call brother?" he asked and the Star Phantom raised a curious eyebrow.

"You are not familiar with the events at the conclusion of Kill team Blackthorns last mission?" he asked, "Their Kill-team sergeant at the time, an Astral Claw by the name of Akkad, was taken into custody by my Chapter. He is to be judged to see if he carries the same taint as the rest of his traitorous kin that we butchered at Badab. If that were not bad enough, I was there at the moment of his seizure." he said grimly.

"So they persecute you for bringing a traitor to justice?  What a strange brotherhood we find ourselves among." Pallan said before shaking his head in disgust, "  Perhaps that is why traitors and heretics lurk in every forsaken corner of mankinds domain. When we are so quick to look past the transgressions of those whom turn from mankind's light. Not that I can pass judgment.  i too am burdened by my own share of guilt." he finished, idly touching the black chains that hung around his armour.  If the Star Phantom noticed the gesture he didn't make comment and the two walked along in silence for a moment.  As they neared the training halls Pallan realised he had never even properly introduced himself to the Star Phantom.

" Forgive my rudeness anyway, brother.  I am Pallan Arcost, former Apothecary of the Star Leopards Fourth House." he said, extending a handshake.  The Star Phantom took the offered handshake.

" Brother Sergeant Lycus Artemios, Star Phantoms Fourth Company, Third Squad." he said and again Pallan suppressed a shiver of familiarity.  Third Squad had been he and Eret's squad before they had gone their seperate ways, " I will be honoured to slay the enemies of the Emperor alongside you Pallan," the Start Phantom said grimly and Pallan nodded.

" The honour will be mine.  Duty till death, brother." he said, reciting his Chapters words.  The blank look on Lycus' face made him remembered he was no longer along his brothers, alongside the Star Leopards.  He felt a wave of despair before shaking it aside.

" Forgive me, Brother Lycus.  It is a motto or greeting amoungst my chapter.  I forget I am not among my Chapter anymore.  We would typically reply with "Salvation through sacrifice".  No matter," he shook the awkward feeling off, " Our brother's of Blackthorn await.

Edited March 17, 2021 by Brother Argent

[A.T.]

It seemed odd that Tyber would not name a chapter of shared progenitor by name but the question stood, "I observed him only briefly at the ceremony and at the ranges. He appears to be a marksman of exceptional skill, his bearing and pride of arms akin to that of the thirteenth yet his manner is more akin to that of an inquisitor." Atratus shrugged slightly, "I have not before seen one look upon an arming servitor with such judgement as he".

[ashlander47]

The ritual of arming was well underway. A weapon is a sacred tool, and none were more sacred than the Younger Death, so it was named. Incariel ran the unguents over the feed once more, canting the words in their highest, most archaic Gothic, almost lurching into a sing-song timbre as the old sacrament left his cloven mouth. It was a scene as old as the Imperium; a warrior blessing his weapon through maintenance, and through maintenance, blessing it.

 

He spoke of the great deeds Iunioris Mortis had performed in the arms of the brother Consecrators before he ever bore the name Incariel. He cited the countless enemies of Mankind that had fallen beneath its thunderous hatred, calling to the machine spirit to once again rouse and direct its most pure and sacred rage onto the foe. He chanted the origin of the weapon, though it was a section of the verse that conveniently left out names, dates or indeed any references to actions Imperial, Astartes or otherwise -- save for the single name; Xarphenon the Old One.

 

He met the Death Knight's eye as the fellow Devastator made clear intent to communicate. Incariel dipped his head in acknowledgement, finished up the verse of ritual arming, and flashed the sign of the Aquilla to Pyke.

 

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

 

His humours. What an odd thing to say to a marine. What an odd thing to ask. Was it petulance? Glibness, perhaps? No. No, he cast these suspicions out of his mind. Scrutinise everything. You do not have to like or even trust these marines, but there was no cause to suspect them of anything but foul manners -- save the Badabian scion, wherever aboard the Clepsydra he was currently rotting. The Death Knight was not being onerous, he simply lacked manners.

 

"Thou art Severix Pyke, art thou not? I know little of thee and less of thine chapter. Prithee, let us remedy this with an exchange of information. I am Incariel of the Consecrators. We count ourselves amongst the sons of the Lion, and thus as posterity of The First himself our tenacity is unmatchèd, and our vengeance swift. Ere my secondment here I was a knight of the Ravenwing, and I do so intend to maintain that honour and dignity during mine Long Vigil."

 

With a finger tipped in unguents he tapped at the shoulder-mounted shield at his right pauldron, where sure enough there menaced the symbol of the Ravenwing; the claw gripping the sword. It was obviously a point of great personal pride for the Consecrator, for even the slight dabbing of unguents was quickly swabbed away and the plate polished to a sheen before he continued.

 

“My brothers and I are loyal sons of the Praetorian, glory upon his name.” Pyke responded, pointing to the words etched next to his chapter icon, “before coming to the Watch I was proud to serve in the Black Company, we are the Crucible of Honor.”

 

Both marines silently acknowledged the pride each felt in his heritage and the pain of being separated from his brethren.

 

"I shall be thy brother Devastator here amongst Blackthorn," Incariel gestured to the Death Knight.  "And it is my wont within that role to serve in a capacity through which our squad may find glory. Mine purview, as I so reckon it, is to serve as both base of fire and enfilade when called upon. Thus I seeketh out positions of considerable tactical strength from whence I may deliver such magnificent storms of death, and under such brooding clouds mine brothers may advance to meet the foe."

 

The pair spoke briefly of the tactics and strategies shared in the role of the Devastator. It was an exchange of facts both parties understood and knew to the point of mastery, but it served as an important affirmation to each of them that the other knew what he was talking about. During the back and forth, Incariel's ritual manners passed briefly into Astartes Battle-Sign, the short, sharp flicks of the wrist and fingers acting as erratic animation to his archaic dialect.

 

"T'is mine summation that thee favour the Frag Cannon. A formidable weapon; yet which such extreme strength oft cometh extreme weakness in kind. Thy reach in which wrath is most efficient is stunted, though within thine immediate grasp most all things come to ruin against thee. Conversely, I hath the privilege of wielding Iunioris Mortis; a heavy bolter of such majesty that its presence alone may turn the tide of battle -- and it hath already done so many times."

 

As he mentioned the relic weapon he placed a hand upon the dorsal handle mount and paused for a moment, sharing the reverence for such a fine instrument of war with Pyke before he took a sharp breath, signalled once again in battle-sign and continued.

 

"Motion is to be thine priority, methinks. Lest thee wish to pelt the enemies of Mankind with loose shrapnel, thou shalt have to close the gap and, indeed, like one of our triplet Assault marines, seek fluid manoeuvre in all things. I am no stranger to such alacrity of arms, and in truth I hath been schoolèd in the choice application of haste and discretion, yet alas I am bereft of mine steed here on Azurea."

 

The Consecrator's mind visibly wandered for a second, his eyes seeming to focus on something over the Death Knight's shoulder for the briefest of moments. Was there pain to be glimpsed there? Sorrow? Hatred? Whatever emotion lurked in the deep, grey waters of his eyes it quickly sank to the bottom and the Devastator refocused.

 

"Thus, I reckon it keen of us to divide our duties, that we might best cultivate the environs in which we excel. Thou shalt serve in echelon in the van providing the enfilade and target priority destruction -- the Frag Cannon demands such close quarters engagements, but thee must be wary of harrying our own melee with stray scatterings. Whilst thou art delivering shredding death from such proximity, the duty thus falleth upon me to represent the unyielding centre -- together we shall be the inexorable fulcrum around which our brothers shall swing."

 

And here was the final piece of conversational prodding. He had primed the feed, oiled the barrel, recalibrated the sights and loaded the chamber -- now all that remained was for him to pull the trigger. Criticising an Astartes on his preferred choice of weaponry was always a thorny bushel to unroot, doubly so for those of the temper that suits the Devastators. They are prideful and rightfully so of their weaponry, but in that pride can come an ego that has zero place on the battle field. This would be Incariel's testing of Pyke's character. Would he take undue offensive? Does he obsess over his weapon and dismiss all comments to its usage? Is he arrogant? Would he be petty? 

 

"What say thee, Pyke? How doth thine own chapter surmise thy role; surely thy blood-brothers do not equip all their Devastators with Frag Cannons -- a direst violation of Codex Compliance, nay? And prithee, doth thou partake in games of regicide?"

 

Disarm with humour. Always disarm with humour. It is the opening move that is most versatile. Those who enjoy the boorish venture of comedy will find it endearing, those who have no taste for it will be caught off-kilter, and those who cannot comprehend it will be intimately aware that Incariel holds mastery over something they do not. Always disarm with humour. Turuzim had taught him that. Turuzim wasn't funny, even though mortal serfs and crews that served beneath him would find his presence consoling, but Turuzim was no comedian. He was Astartes. He wielded humour as any Astartes wields a chainsword, and would pose conversational rhetoric like pieces on a regicide board.

 

Regicide. He patted the pocket in his deep crimson robes where he had placed the ivory emperor piece from the Supplication of Brada. Gone. His mind raced, the doors of the deep, deep vaults of his mind-fortress swung open. Where? When? How? His hand patted to the other pockets but he knew they were empty. He caught the gaze of the Death Knight assessing him in kind, the Consecrator himself disarmed briefly by this uncalculated turn of events. It wasn't funny, but it was certainly strange.

 

Pyke took in the strange words of the Consecrator. His mannerisms were odd to him, especially his tendency to mix battle sign with his archaic speech pattern. However beneath the layers of communication he could see that the warrior was competent in his role. In contrast to the verbose utterance of the strange figure before him, Severix was thoughtful and measured in his response. 

 

“Aye, Breaker prefers to be up close to our foe” he said amusedly patting the frag cannon slung at his side. 

 

Incariel had barely listened to what Pyke had said. His senses were filling with the scents, sights and sounds of the past few days. Where? Aboard Azurea -- an easy answer. When? After the initiation ceremony at the very earliest -- another easy one. How?  That remained unanswered. Things do not just simply drop from his pockets. He is no threadbare hiver with holes in his boots. Nothing goes unnoticed and yet this did. Perhaps he was asking himself the wrong questions. Not where, or when, or how, but why?

 

“We prefer to see the fear in our foe’s eyes before we send them back to whatever hell pit spawned them. And aye, it is a more dangerous place for our kind to operate, but as you can see I have some experience in this regard.”

 

As he said this he tapped the service studs at his temple showing his many years of service. To survive for this long in this vicious occupation spoke to his skill and tenacity. Pyke extends his right hand toward his new comrade.

 

The threat of physical contact -- even ceramite to ceramite -- snapped the Consecrator from his internal scrutiny. The gates of the mind-fortress swung shut again and the walls were manned, the guard stood vigil, and Incariel eyed up the Death Knight's hand for a brief but tangible moment. At least this time he wasn't touched before he could give consent. He bit down on his Betcher's gland and shook hands with Pyke, in the traditional clasp of a warrior, forearm to forearm.

 

“Our methods may vary, but our goal is clear. We shall be the good shepherds for these wayward lambs.” He says with a glint of humor in his eye. “As for a game of regicide, I confess it has been awhile. Perhaps you can refresh my memory.”

 

Memory. Regicide. What a lark. Perhaps this was all a joke. It was certainly disarming. No matter. He would worry about wayward playing pieces and the troubling notion that he had missed something later. For now he would play in the truer, more satisfying game of squad politics.

 

Opening move; Incariel. Run 'Kingmaker' gambit.

 

+++

 

The Consecrator was more or less satisfied. The Death Knight was no lackwit, though that should go without saying for any who wear the black and silver of the Deathwatch. He reminded himself once more that these were no mewling scouts or squires in his midst, but all honourable and exceptional Astartes. The Ordo Xenos would accept nothing less than the best; him included. A sense of guilty pride for his own considerable aptitudes rose and quickly subsided in his breast, and rather than endure another lecture by the cherished memory of his late Sergeant Turuzim, he swiftly brought to bear his own intensions loud and clear -- as if to shout over and drown out the perfect recollection that was beginning to flood his senses.

 

He thought for a second about thrusting his helmet back over his head. His own little insulated layer of protection from both memory and scrutiny. The sights, scents and sounds of the training hall however incensed him to belay the instinct, for there was no sweeter ambrosia than the Astartes in their element -- save perhaps for the true dazzling display of battle. Locking his studded Mark V helmet to his belt he wandered out to what seemed logically to be the open centre of the barracks and extended his arms theatrically to begin once again orating with a fervour to make any Macraggian senator blush.

 

"Brothers of Blackthorn," he gesticulated the battle-signs for attention, regroup and assessment among his own ritual manner-signs. "Brothers, I bid thee harken to mine words! Lend me thine ears!"

 

"We stand upon yon precipice; a liminal time in the history of Blackthorn and indeed the Imperium at large. Though I speaketh to it, I am in truth too young to this band of brothers to see all that lieth behind thee. Yet I am no fool! A spectre doth haunt this Kill-Team -- indeed a phantom doth loom o'er Azurea itself."

 

He chose the words very carefully. If any brothers cared not for listening to his prattle, the explicit mentioning of the Star Phantoms might prick an ear or two. Pausing momentarily for both effect and to allow wayward Blackthorn members to gather, he canted the battle-signs of caution, vigilance and betrayal.

 

"I know not thine past, good-veterans of Blackthorn," he spun to encompass the original members of Blackthorn, gesturing in kind to each a sign of the Aquilla. "Yet I do glimpse down thither pathway the future that we all are now, each of us, walking in the haze of a terrible truth that must be acknowledged ere it can be vanquished, and turned to armour."

 

He thought about the scandal of Azurea and Blackthorn. The scandal of the wayward Astral Claw. His mind reached deep into the well of memory, plucking from it battle-reports of the 'Badabian Matter', recounting casualty reports, playing pict-feeds of massacres borne of both traitor and Imperial alike, witnessing mortal men bicker and fret over the sanctity of all things, given to despair over the scope of the conflict.

 

"Badab casts a shadow o'er Blackthorn, as real as the Clepsydra that shrouds our very Watch-Station 'neath it's gun batteries -- as it indeed hath cast a long shadow across all of Mankind's holdings. Not since the Heresy have so many Astartes turned and spilled the blood of their brothers. Now more than ever strong leadership is needed among we, the Emperor's angels, his loyal servants, for the weak and wretched now do their utmost to shirk duty when called upon."

 

He watched the reactions of the gathered marines as he mentioned these things in turn. Speaking of the darkest times when the Arch-Traitor rent the Imperium asunder would be an easy way to gauge reactions, for it was a flagrant topic. Citing the Star Phantom's own vessel in orbit would test for those of any opinion one way or the other on the arrival of the heroes of Badab. As he spoke to those refusing the call of duty, his eyes lay upon the Dragon of Caliban and stayed for a microsecond -- long enough to send a unmistakeable message. Lastly, calling for leadership would make it apparent, even without his accompanying battle-signs indicating request for orders, confirmation of leadership and, as he made way to speak his next words, the gestures to imply the giving of orders as well.

 

"I shall tarry no longer on mine words. If we art to venture forth from these sorrowful, bitter times then it falls to good, honest marines like we gatherèd here to do so. Insofar as mine own contribution, I see Blackthorn doth lack its Watch-Sergeant, and I hereby broach the matter of replacement -- that we all may sally on into a better, more dutiful age."

 

He carefully drew back his hood, revealing his full countenance to the gathered members of Blackthorn and taking a second to let the full, unmuffled, unfiltered sights, scents and sounds wash over his senses. This memory, good or bad, would be with him forever and rather than suffer under it as a moment of shame he would bare his face in the lights of the lumen for all to scrutinise. 

 

"I am brother Incariel of the Consecrators. Some of thee know this already, some of thee know of mine kind, that we are true and loyal sons of the Lion." he turned slowly and let his gaze linger upon Tyber once more before continuing to look each marine in the eyes as he spoke. "None of thee know of mine person as current, though as we serve together, I wish myself ne'er to be so vile in thine eyes as to make thee regret coming to know it."

 

The Consecrator wasn't sure if any of them truly understood his attempt at humour. Perhaps the indigent sense of linguistic propriety amongst them was to blame. Perhaps, he heard Turuzim's voice muse faintly in the back of his mind, perhaps he just wasn't as funny as he thought he was. When one vector of attack fails, regroup, reassess, and re-engage.

 

"I am bold. I am strong. I am young, to be certain, but I am experiencèd notwithstanding such matters of seniority. I hath servèd my chapter well enough for them to consider me too vital to promote on occasion," now surely that was a joke everyone could understand. "Ere I came upon my secondment I was elevated to the honour of the second company; the Ravenwing. Whence forth mine Vigil reaches its completion and I return to mine chapter, I shall receive the highest of honours and find mine place amongst the first company. The Deathwing."

 

He tapped the tilt-plate at his right shoulder that, sure enough, bristled with the symbol of the Ravenwing. The eponymous winged claw wielding a sword in it's talons, a sure point of pride and honour for any, though a stark truth that the Dark Angels and their successor chapters find the Codex Astartes to be more a suggestion than anything else. A heady mixture of memories past, promises made, loyalties tested and oaths sworn crashed against the walls of his mind-fortress. He swept the interloping recollections back with a withering gaze and continued on.

 

"Command is not mine ambition, for ambition is dangerous -- we need but only glance at Badab to reaffirm such wisdom and suspicion. I seeketh then only to serve the Emperor in whichsoever capacity He deigns. Thus do I extend my proffer to thee, Blackthorn; I shall lead thee as Watch-Sergeant as but a humble angel in His service. I shall be bold. I shall be strong. And I shall be true and loyal where others falter."

 

Incariel finished his ritual manner gestures with the sign of the Aquilla and, to the present Techmarine, the sign of Cog. Reaching to pull his hood back over his head and shroud himself beneath the cowl of the Unforgiven once again, he spoke one final time before arresting himself in darkness and making his way back to the munitions benches.

 

"That is unless any wouldst seek to gainsay me or, shall I hope, display greater merit and aptitude to lead. Let him step forth and submit petition -- I brook both words and steel in this matter, as is our way."

Edited February 26, 2021 by ashlander47

[Steel Company]

Tyber’s eyes narrowed at the Fire Wing, the insult that his chapter was less than loyal, well less than loyal to the Lion. He spoke his chapter’s words in his mind again, ‘All are subservient to the Legion; the Legion is subservient to the Emperor and only the Emperor.’

 

When he made mention of the Deathwing, Tyber’s left fist balled and his jaw squared as he recalled that the Lion had formed the Deathwing and the Deathwing had swallowed his host, the Host of Crowns. Pushing himself off of the wall he was leaning against, he gave the gene brother a sideways glance as he started to make his way to the cages he spoke, “It is true that we need a watch sergeant, and it is true that I am young and inexperienced compared to all of you. So I will place my trust in those that I have served with already, and I will cast my vote with Atratus, Greysight, Sabaan, and Varvost.”

 

He paused to whisper to the Fire Wing as he got close enough so that only those two would hear, “At least with them, I know they will not speak in half-truths and riddles.”

 

Giving a brotherly pat on the pauldron of the Fire Wing, Tyber continued into the training area. As the target dummy came to life, he withdrew blades, his obsidian black arming sword and Harvest, then proceeded to dodge and parry against it, going through the muscle memories of fighting the machine.

 

WS:

TN: 44 (WS 54, -30 two weapon fighting+swift attack, +10 Two Weapon Wielder Melee, +10 Ambidextrous)

 

Test Roll: Melee attack, arming sword: 1d100 10, Pass with 4 DoS

 

With a quick sidestep to the blades of the dummy coming down, Tyber rolled his grip on Harvest before implementing it deeply into the side of the head of the dummy.

 

STR

TN: 73 (53 base, +20 PA)

 

Test Roll: STR Test: 1d100 41 Pass with 5 DoS (3 base, +2 from Unnatural STR X2)

 

With Harvest planned so deeply in through the temple, Tyber lifted the head clean from the machine, the connective tissue, cables, and tubing being torn from the body in the process. As he did so, he let out a sigh, these offered little challenge, not like those of the more skilled beasts that he had fought, those had been worthy foes.

 

 

Later to clear his head from what was going on with the selection of a new squad leader, Tyber found himself in the range, both pistols in hand, landing shots down range.

 

BS:

TN: 45 (BS: 45, -30 Two Weapon fighting, +10 Two Weapon Wielder Ballistic, +10 Ambidextrous, +10 Gunslinger)

 

Test Roll: BS roll: 1d100 40 Pass

 

As the bolts hit home in the target, again he found himself at a loss, Vaidan, Solastion, and Akkad were now gone. He had looked up to Vaidan, a son of the War Born, but he had been good to Tyber, never judging, always guiding. Solastion, That was a different case, he respected him, but he found the son of the Angel to be troublesome, being a priest, something that carried with it religious overtones, something that the Emperor had thought to expunge from the universe. But Akkad, Akkad had become friend, mentor, confidant, and brother in all but blood, now who could he turn to share his thoughts?

 

With another heavy sigh, he ejected the magazines from the pistols to replace them with fresh ones as he asked himself, “I wish the Captain could give me that guidance I seek.”

Edited February 22, 2021 by Steel Company

[Commissar Molotov]

Kill-Team Blackthorn

 

The brethren of Blackthorn spend much of the day progressing through drills. There is a palpable sense of unease that shrouds Daon Akkad's former squad-mates - the Star Phantom, Artemios, is an unknown quantity. What's more, the Raptor is as astute as ever - it appears that Artemios was one of the thirty white-armoured warriors that boarded the Xenocide in search of their prey. For his part, the Phantom seems stoically ignorant of the hatred directed to him; he has focused on his training, demonstrating his obviously battle-skill with his bolter. Were this any other situation, he would be warmly welcomed as a Brother of the Watch. The new Apothecary, Arcost, has conversed with him; for now, others seem content to ignore him.

 

The loss of the Astral Claw's quiet humour and solid leadership is keenly felt - though in Brother Incariel the Kill-Team has found itself a deadly replacement. All of you cannot help but be awed by the relic heavy bolter carried by the Consecrator - it is a masterwork, enough to rouse even Sabaan. It is even deadlier in action, demolishing scores of targets during your training. 

 

As for Pyke, the Death Knight chooses to wield a frag cannon, a weapon rarely seen outside of the Watch. its short range by nature lends it to an aggressive, forthright style of warfare, and he uses it to great effect throughout the day. The thunderous chunk-chunk-chunk becomes a metronomic beat throughout your drills, counterpointed by the almost musical tinkling of jagged shrapnel clattering to the deck.  

 

Helgrim: Whilst there are a few placeholders to be filled, it seems that the question of leadership is one that hangs heavily over Blackthorn. You can identify three candidates for Watch-Sergeant; Tyber, Solza and Artemios.

 

Tyber is clearly a warrior of some potential, respected by his comrades. If what you have heard is true, he was being groomed for command one day within the ranks of his chapter. He fought well in the campaign for Syndalla - the power sword at his waist is a testament to that.

 

Solza is a veteran of the Watch, and a descendant of Guilliman. He has experience of command, but is newly arrived to Azurea. This is both a blessing and a curse. His temperament is a question, even for a Chaplain as fatalistic as you - can he look past the near-death of his Chapter and lead with courage and conviction?

 

Artemios equally has experience as a commander of men - that much is clear from the testamonials his Chapter have provided. It would clearly be a contentious choice, and perhaps not one welcomed by Akkad's former squad-mates.

 

 

 

 

Kill-Team Secundus

 

Oto Yeng has found his skills as an Apothecary in demand more and more these days. Boros and Embe have donned their armour now, the black ceramite hiding many of their still-healing wounds. Vorr had been more reluctant to spend time in the Apothecarion, but his movements still betray the damage his lungs sustained in the Hive Ship assault. And then Thorvald, transferred from Blackthorn - the Wolf who fell from the sky. 

 

Teralil and Montesa are both absent - both called away on other duties by the Librarium and the Forge. The ghosts of the fallen hang heavily around, judging. Or perhaps waiting for others to fill in the void. You think of the rituals of organ implantation - how care must be taken to ensure the host does not reject the new interloper - as you watch the three warriors from Gallowbane. They move with an easy familiarity, aware of each others' idiosyncrasies and peculiarities. They will take time to meld with Swordhand, to be accepted within the host body.

 

Argus - the Blood Raven - and Maladon - the Astral Drake - are the two new recruits. Both have been quiet thus far, assessing their place within this squad.  

 

Achillion: The obvious candidates for leadership here would be the Tactical Marines - Argus, Kol, Thire and Titus. Of the four, Kol is perhaps the strongest candidate, having served as a Demi-Squad Leader during Gallowbane's extended deployments to the Delvis Rifts. Argus is quiet, and therefore an unknown quantity. Thire and Titus are likely to defer to Kol.

 

 

 

 

Training

 

In an effort to help you craft your narrative and get used to rolling, let's try this as an exercise:

 

Pick three Skills or Characteristic Tests which can form part of your Kill-Team's training. For example, Varvost might choose: 

 

Weapon Skill Test (Charge):

WS72 (+20 Berserk Charge)(+10 Hunter of Aliens) = WS92: 82 (Pass, 1 DoS) 

 

Strength Test: 

S61: 29 (Pass, 3 DoS) 

 

Toughness Test: 

T53: 87 (Fail, 3 DoF) 

 

 And therefore I might say that Varvost has been training hard, still fighting with his customary skill and ferocity, but that it would be clear to Arcost that his bionic leg is causing him pain, necessitating some sort of treatment. 

 

Have a look at your skills and characteristics for interesting and characterful ideas - for example, Tactics Tests would be a good one to try to use. 

 

Ideas to help: 

 

Weapon Skill: Representing your Marine participating in combat drills - whether against drones, combat servitors or other members of the Kill-Team. 

 

Ballistic Skill: Representing your Marine taking part in target practice -perhaps trying to take a specific, called shot, or mowing down streams of enemies in a hail of fire. 

 

Strength: This could represent a feat of strength, such as ripping apart a combat drone, or brawling/wrestling with other members of the Kill-Team.

 

Toughness: This could be some attempt to resist pain, or a resistance to extremes of heat or cold.

 

Agility: Agility could well be used for Dodge tests, showing your ability to resist damage, or it could be used for running or jumping - showing your enhanced biology being pushed to its limits.

 

Intelligence: This could be used for tactics tests, showing your Marine's expertise; Apothecaries are likely to use this to tend to any minor wounds sustained by the Kill-Team's members. Techmarines might be tending to weaponry or armour to ensure it is running at peak performance. 

 

Perception: This could represent you spotting a target, or avoiding an ambush. 

 

Willpower: This could represent an endurance of pain, or being able to resist 

 

Fellowship: This could represent your attempts to bring the disparate parts of your Kill-Team together, or your ability to lead and command. 

Edited February 21, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mojake]

“It will be done, Brother-Captain.” Achillion struggled with the words, the ragged smile on his face pulling his already tightened cheeks in such a way that did not facilitate speech.

 

++

 

The Librarian strode from the strategium with renewed purpose, his mind analysing several permutations of training drills as his fingers deftly moved across the dataslate displaying the records of the new Swordhand members. His Mark-VII Aquila enhanced his gait with vigour, clearly eager to be involved in a fight, causing his blue tabard to flutter behind him.

 

The door slid open at his command, revealing the Kill-Team under his temporary supervision. Red Talon, Gatebreaker, Stormbringer, Celestial Lion – his eyes scanned all of the chapters unfamiliar to him, attributing their bearers to the excellent records on his dataslate.

 

“Greetings, brothers. You have the honour of purging the enemies of mankind as a part of Kill-Team Secundus. Your prior assignments are a figment of the past,” his gaze flickered over the former members of Gallowbane, “you will soon forge yourselves into the greatest fighting force that Watch-Station Azurea has ever produced.” Although not the finest orator, Achillion’s words echoed through the assembly chamber, and he felt their weight settle onto the shoulders of every Astartes present.

 

Good. We may be second in designation, but we will not falter behind Blackthorn in achievement.

 

“For those of you who hail from chapters that diverge from the teachings of the Codex Astartes, my trappings mark me as a Codicier, an esteemed scion of the Librarius and a witchblood. You will set aside any judgement you have for my kind whilst you serve in this Kill-Team. For those of you who are new to the Deathwatch, allow me to reinforce that the culture of your chapter is not of import here. What is important is that you suffer not the alien to live, and that you execute this edict with lethal prejudice.” Achillion did not make a habit of speaking for an extended period of time and decided that it was best to gradually introduce Kill-Team Secundus to his talents now, lest they be distracted during future warfare.

 

| Do you understand, Swordhand? |

 

The question bore into their consciousness like a krak missile, and the revulsion was visible on the faces of some of the men in front of him. Despite this, their response was immediate and resolute.

 

“Yes, Brother-Codicier!” The baritone assertions echoing in unison, unaffected by the perfect Baalite gothic that issued forth from Achillion’s psyche.

 

“Then let us begin.” The Librarian snarled, a flash of bloodlust in his eyes.

 

++

 

Through Achillion’s direction, Swordhand began training drills with a rigour not seen in decades within these walls. Battling combat servitors in their dozens with fist and chainblade, sniping hologrammatic xenos in simulated warzones, harsh endurance trials modelled after the challenging environs of death worlds, stealth assessments involving breaching and assassination of high value targets, and assignments of minor command roles of varying squad sizes.

 

Achillion watched like a hawk, several datafeeds displayed on monotask servitors in front of him as he spectated multiple drills simultaneously.

 

When the Kill-Team expected a break, the Angel watching them replied only by shuffling the squads and sending them into the next drill – determined to iron out any single imperfection that could arise due to poor chemistry or chapter culture. The dataslate in front of him was barraged by the Codicer’s fingers as he input swathes of data on every strength and every weakness (as rare as they were) that he witnessed, building a portfolio of fatal efficiency.

 

His eye twitched towards one of the displays in front of him as he saw one of the marines stop to catch his breath for several seconds longer than Achillion deemed necessary.

 

| Do not stand idle, brother! |

 

He pushed the encouragement into the space marine’s mind, watching him flinch from the sudden intrusion. The man quickly exhaled, then continued his journey across the parallel bars at pace, swinging by powerful arms several meters above the ground below.

 

They tire, but do not complain. Good. Is it pride, or force of will? It matters not. They are a weapon, and a weapon that falters is not fit for battle.

 

He watched closely as the Reviler issued orders like a warrior born for command. His disdain for the methods that the sons of Corax used to wage war did not resonate with Achillion, but in the Deathwatch they were undeniably an excellent asset. The Angel’s mouth curved into a smile as the graphical representation of Kol’s splinter group executed a perfect tri-pronged infiltration of a Kabal shrine, assassinating the holographic Archon and securing a pair of hostages.

 

Several others showed aptitude for leadership over the day’s challenges. The Silver Skull issued orders with the confidence only a son of Guilliman could. The Blood Raven showed an aptitude for implementing non-standard techniques when it came to sabotaging a simulated Greenskin war camp, resulting in a record time for that run. The Stormbringer and his command performed a stealth extermination of a Kroot band with such precision and silence that Achillion had to rely on his witch-sight to monitor them, as his display feeds could not ascertain their positions.

 

After almost eighteen hours straight of gruelling training, the fatigue began to show.

 

We do not stand idle.

 

| Run it again, Swordhand! Fight as though the Emperor himself was watching! |

Edited February 21, 2021 by Mojake

[Petragor]

Weapon Skill Test (Lightning Attack):

WS66 ( Lightning Attack)(+20 Full Aim) = WS86: 79 (Success, 0 DoS means only 1 hit) 

 

Trade Rememberancer Test: 

Ag 52 (-10 Scrimshaw Tools) = Ag 42: 38 (Pass, 0 DoS) 

 

Tactics (Void Combat) Test: 

Int 44: 54 (Fail, 1 DoF)

After Chaka receives word from the ever attentive Apothecary Yeng that his wounds are sufficiently healed to begin train training again, the first thing he does is see to his wargear. His Power Armour, an ancient Mark V first forged during the Horus Heresy, is at it was when Chaka was last sent to war in it. Covered in battle scars, a few acquired by Chaka himself from Drukhari traps or the crude but powerful impacts of Ork weaponry, but most of the scars are older than Chaka himself, including the occasional puff of sinister black smoke from the power unit that thickens when battle is met. He wouldn't have it any other way however, these markings are not damage to be repaired, but rather proud displays of the armour's history in service to the Emperors will. Chaka does notice a new scar, a small cut in the Gorget where the Tyranid warriors injured him during his last mission. A seemingly trivial wound inspection, but dangerous in practice, like the xenos themselves. He looks now to his second most important possession, the power sword Umbani Wezulu, or "Lightning Bolt" in gothic, was well maintained, looking as good as new thanks to the efforts of the skilled Techmarines and dutiful serfs no doubt. A fitting treatment for a relic of the Celestial Lions. He decides that it has waited long enough to be used, and heads towards the training grounds.

Not yet feeling ready to duel with his squadmates, Chaka instead enlists the aid of a trio of serfs, by the names of Benton, Esta and Lera. Chaka instructs them to each throw empty barrels and crates at him simultaneously, so that he may attempt to cut them down before they hit him and thus train himself to combat multiple components. They do so, and he draws and activates the Bolt in one smooth motion, cutting apart the first projectile. Chaka isn't fast enough however, and the two other projectiles crash into him in quick succession. They don't inflict any harm of course, not to a Space Marine, in Full Power Armour no less, but he still stands in place for a moment, contemplating his reaction time. The serfs look at him, and to each other nervously, seemingly about to speak up when Chaka moves and assumes his fighting stance once more and addresses them. "Again."

Chaka continues the sword-training with moderate results, once again realizing how difficult it is to respond to multiple threats at once. However, he still has other areas in which to train. He decides to read some detailed books on the strategy of Void Combat, looking for inspiration to add to his own understanding of the subject. Chaka doesn't find any works that pique his interest however, and elects to re-arrange his naval wargame miniatures in order of size instead, pondering the roles of each ship type to re-affirm what he already knows. Finally, he looks to his last important piece of wargear, the Scrimshaw tools. Made for the eventuality of a battle-brother dying in battle, they are designed to create a small improvised relic from one of the fallen's bones (from the hand if possible), to honour their sacrifice, to give penance to the maker of the relic for letting his brother fall, and to serve as an inspiration for those who would avenge the fallen. Chaka has naturally been trained in their use, and decides to hone his craft on some small metal rods which should simulate Astartes finger-bones nicely. After a few failed attempts, Chaka manages to create a passable relic, carved with runes detailing the life and death of a fictional space marine. Satisfied to have finally succeeded in something when all his other training seems to fail, Chaka goes to meet with his squadmates and decide on a squad leader.

Edited March 2, 2021 by Petragor

[Lysimachus]

Titus:

 

Weapon Skill Test (Charge)

WS 50 +10 = 60: 67 (Fail, 0DoF)

 

Titus spent the first three hours of the day working ceaselessly in the training cages. While he knew his abilities in hand to hand combat far exceeded those of any mortal man, they could not compare with the perfectly timed strikes and sheer destructive fury of some of the other members of the squad. He resolved to ask one or more of Swordhand's Assault specialists to spar with him and further hone his abilities.

 

Agility Test (Silent Move)

Ag 50 (+10) = 60: 08 (Pass, 5DoS!!!)

 

The next challenge set by Codicier Achillion was much more within Titus' area of expertise, crossing a wide section of the vast chamber through stacks of munitions crates and massive cargo containers, while hunted by humming servo-skulls. Titus took the lead, slipping like a wraith from shadow to shadow, and attempting to show several of his squadmates how to do the same.

 

Perception Test

Per 51: 83 (Fail, 3DoF)

 

As the tests continued, Titus took the opportunity to observe his new brethren, looking for any particular strengths or weaknesses. The Marines around him were much as one would expect, in one way or another mighty warriors all, but at this point there seemed little to raise either special interest or concern.

[Komrk]

Ballistic Skill Test

BS54 (+10 Aim) = 64: 31 (Pass, 3DoS)

 

Vorkys went to train in the shooting range for the first time in 27 months. He set the training regimen to the highest difficulty and prepared his bolter, clearing his mind of all outside thoughts he began taking single shots at the targets as they popped up and moved around through cover and concealment. He tracked the targets purely through reaction and endless amounts of practical combat experience. Even when many target appeared at once, he simply allowed his brain to shut down and slid from target to target with incredible precision. The stealthy nature of the mission against the green skins meant that he didn't have many opportunities to practice these skills on this scale. As the drill ended he noted he had missed only two targets. Not good enough. Vorkys motioned for the drill to be reset.

 

Intelligence Test Tactics (Recon and Stealth)

INT41 (+20) = 61: 14 (Pass, 4DoS)

 

Working with a new squad is always difficult at first, particularly one that was closely bonded among those who remained. Vorkys could tell that stealth was not a preferred tactic among the veterans of Swordhand. The scenario at hand called for the assassination of a Xenos leader, but his guard was particularly strong. He had split the kill team to approach from multiple angles at once to deliver the killing blow at close range. He had assigned Gideon and Titus as team leaders of those elements as he could trust them completely to guide the teams through the advanced techniques needed to evade detection. Once both teams were in position, Vorkys ordered the teams to begin the assault and decapitate the Xenos leadership. As he gave the command the teams breached the enemy HQ and made quick work of the guards before killing the leader. Exactly to plan, Vorkys contained a smile within his helmet as the team performed in sync and completed the mission with only minor injures, simulated or otherwise. "You can always teach marines new tricks..." Vorkys said as the scenario and leader changed.

 

Fellowship Test

Fel50 = 50: 68 (Fail, 1DoF)

 

As Achillion's tests assessments continued even to the edge of Astartes' endurance, morale among the squad seemed low as minor injuries started to add up and exhaustion began eat away at the marines. Noticing the flagging spirits of the squad, Vorkys thought it best to try to rally them. Certainly they had all pushed themselves harder than this at some point in their service to the Emperor. 

 

"Come brothers, this is far from the worst any of you have experienced. We must push through if we are to serve the Emperor properly. This training will save our lives in the face of the Xenos hordes that threaten the Imperium that we are sworn to protect."

 

With this, Vorkys visibly throws himself into the next task set to the squad, but he can already tell that his speech did not have the effect that he was hoping for. Perhaps because it was coming from an outsider or simply because his words were full of platitudes rather than shared experience, his words simply had little or no weight to his brothers. Room to improve, but camaraderie can only be built through shared sacrifice and this was but the first of many they would go through.

[Reyner]

Vorr was glad of the relentless speed the Angel Encarmine forced upon them. He still had a cough he couldn't shift from Tyranid spores but no matter he had 3 lungs as most space marines did. He thought it best to try out a chain blade in the fighting pits, it felt good in his hands growling idly. Reminded me of his time as an assault marines in the Reserve Companies before he became a permanent Devastator in the Second.

 

Weapon skill test (Charge)

Ws44 = 44. 24 2 DoS

 

The chain blade sang as it smashed through a training servitor, Vorr relished it much more brutal than his trusty combat blade he made a note to take a chainsword when they deployed for any close encounters.

 

BS Attack (Full Auto Burst) combat shotgun

BS58 = 58. Rolled 35 for 2 DoS (can't remember if I get more bonus for FAB)

 

Next Vorr made his way to the shooting range setting up several targets and mowed them down with a fully automatic roar from his combat shotgun. Simplistic brutality he loved this weapon, not as elegant as a bolter but it felt more wild. He may leave it behind for a deathwatch bolter but he hadn't decided yet since he would still favour a heavy weapon anyway.

 

Something different now that he wasn't really a fan of but his Mark 6 armour was built for recon in mind originally. Why not. He hacked some hard coughs to try clear his chest for a bit then attempted some silent movement through a maze of guardian servitors.

 

Agility Test (Silent Move)

Ag 50 (+10) = 60 rolled 76 for 1 DoF

 

Ha. Vorr smiled to himself stealth was really not his forte but he didn't care. As a Devastator he didn't sneak around he planted his feet and unleashed long range devastation with blistering accuracy.

[Necronaut]

Helgrim entered the training arena unannounced, spent some time in the combat cage, and watched the Kill-Team members going about their drills, studying them like a predatory bird. The new-bloods were proving themselves worthy of the black and silver armor they now wore. As the day progressed, he joined in with the drills, taking the time to exhort his comrades and fan the flames of their fury.

Weapon skill test: Lightning Attack

WS 57 (+0): 56 rolled; 0 DoS

Helgrim ordered multiple combat servitors into the combat cage with him and brutally dismantled then with his Crozius, attempting to set a good example for the rest of the Kill-Team.

Perception Test: Scrutiny

Per 50 (+0): 42 rolled; 0 DoS

Helgrim observed his fellows for a time, making mental note of those who took charge in various scenarios.

Fellowship test: Charm

Fel 52 (+0): 26 rolled; 2 DoS

The chaplain did what he did best: inspire the Astartes under his watch to greater heights of zeal and focused their hatred into the tasks at hand.

Edited February 23, 2021 by Necronaut

[Jeremy.Phillips]

Listening to the words of the Codicier, Argus’ heart lightened. He wasn’t so different from the Brother Librarians he was used to. Perhaps a little more “aggressive,” but that was to be expected of a scion of the Angel. Even the intrusive thoughts pushed into his mind as a means of communication were not wholly unwelcome. As their training began, Argus found the lingering heartache for a brotherhood left behind begin to diminish. The members of Swordhand would be his brothers until his time amongst the Deathwatch was completed. Still, he remained quiet. He did not know enough about his new brothers and in situations such as these he preferred to observe and plan.

 

Ballistic Skill:

BS 58: 77 (Fail, 1DoF)

Argus was eager to show his skills as a Tactical Marine to his new squad. He knew he was no sniper, nor was he a breacher, though he was adequate at either task. His abilities were best applied at midrange firefights. At the firing range he picked his favorite weapon system, the Plasma Gun. However, it had been a long time since he had fired one in battle. As a Sergeant he had been forced to yield that responsibility to another. He fired with the intention of impressing the others at the range, but his lack of practice showed. He fired as rapidly as he once could have, but his accuracy was much diminished. He managed to score a few hits, but the majority of targets remained unscathed. He heard a quiet chuckling behind him though he refused to turn and see who it was emanating from.

 

Intelligence (Tactics):

Int 56: 84 (Fail, 2DoF)

After his successful planning of the raid on the simulated Greenskin war camp, Argus decided to prove his worth through his skills as a tactician. In a simulation of a raid on an Eldar encampment, He meticulously planned every detail based on his experience and education. However, he forgot to account for the fact that his new brothers were not Blood Ravens and would behave differently. Because of this, the operation failed, and the primary target escaped.

 

Fellowship:

Fel 45: 80 (Fail, 3DoF)

The plan had been to get to know his squadmates throughout the course of the day. He knew that for the squad to perform well they would have to “get along” as best they could. After some initial assessments he would begin to engage them in conversations followed by proving himself as a capable warrior. This would cause Swordhand to accept him as one of their own. His unexpected failures throughout the day had made this task impossible. He stopped trying to conversate after he was ignored for the fifth time. By the end of the training day, Argus longed for the true brotherhood of his chapter once again.

[Komrade_Atomic]

Ballistic Skill Test:

BS 60 (+10 Aim) = 70 : 22 (4 DoS)

 

Gideon arrived at the shooting range, focusing only on the targets down the range, each shot timed and precise. As the Boltgun ejected rounds, singing a song of war and honour, Gideon continued, targeting and firing with increased accuracy and speed, becoming more and more remote, more focused upon his targeting than the world around him. Eventually, his call back to reality came in the sound of a resound 'CHK', as he came to realize he had emptied the Boltgun's magazine. His minor distraction over, he removed the magazine and inserted another one, dispatching the targets at pace with viscous and precise accuracy.

 

 

Agility: (Dodge)

45: 53 (0 DoF)

 

As the Combat Servitor lunged in once more, replicating the attack pattern of a Kroot Shaper. As Gideon made an attempt to dodge, he forgot about the second blade their rifles held, as the simulated blade dug into his shoulder. Gideon grunted, clutching his shoulder as the Servitor/Shaper turned once more, preparing to attack once more. Gritting his teeth, Thire stood up once more, and prepared for the oncoming foe.

 

 

 

Fellowship Test:

47: 23 = (2 DoS)

As the Kill Team had continued through their training, Gideon's optimism, while it may have been annoying at times, helped keep them pushing through. Even if there were marines who found it irritable, it served as something of an encouragement. If the descendant of Guilliman's smile would not falter, even in the most harsh of simulations, then what was there stopping another marine from pushing through? While it might not have been the type of encouragement that was Sergeant material, a sense of competitiveness was good for training. But when their training finished, and they were assigned their Mission, Gideon knew there was no place for competitiveness, for he would need to trust the man by his side in the battlefield. But the harder they trained, the more he could trust them.

Edited February 22, 2021 by Komrade_Atomic