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

[ApostleRP]

Lycus took the brief moment of piece before the Kill-team would reconviene to attend to his own private prayers in his chambers. The rites of the Star Phantoms might seem odd, to the other Astartes aboard the station, and this close to a deployment Lycus had neither the time nor the inclination to provide explanations. 

 

As he knelt, quietly uttering his devotions to the Imperator Mortifex, he rubs the slightly embossed skulls that adorn the edge of his right shoulder, still proudly adorned with the Skull-Hourglass of the Star Phantoms. Each skull, a reminder of a brother lost, a glorious destiny fulfilled. 

 

"... and should my final service come to pass, may my death be glorious and His enemies laid low before me. Gloria Imperator Mortifex..."

 

With these final utterances, he replaces his grim faced Mk 5 helm and strides from his chambers. He quickly gathers his wargear, both his own and his freshly requisitioned, and makes his way to the Kill-team training chambers, to await the rest of Blackthorn's arrival. He thinks to himself as he strides through the chilled corridors of the Watch Station "Enjoy this quite, Lycus, it may be a fair while before you have a moment of piece again". 

 

He steps through the portal at the same time his internal chrono signals the appointed time of the meeting, curious to see which of his new... Brothers... he could label as prompt."

[Mojake]

After the gathering in the Strategium, Achillion strode down the halls of Azurea in the direction of the Librarium. Pushing his way through the grand iron doors, the horned skull staring down at him, he was met with the sight of several hooded serfs milling around the hallowed hall. As he passed the Hall of Glory, he picked up the heady scent of incense and noticed several of the sages at work within.

 

Codicier Montesa must be attending the brothers who fell at Syndalla.

 

The thought was comforting to the Librarian. He was not an Astartes who chased glory, but it brought solace to know that when he did eventually perish in service to the Watch, his legend would remain as guidance and inspiration to those who would come after. He chose not to interrupt the Codicier's ceremony out of respect, and pressed on through the dark chambers.

 

Achillion made his way between the massive pillars that pierced through the shadows blotting out the ceiling, making the sign of the Aquila before entering the Great Vaults, performing the familiar techniques for proceeding through the arcane doors unmolested.

 

Beyond, a long hall shrouded in gloom, small dimly lit alcoves dotted either side of him as the Codicier passed by. He glanced at the arrayed relics as he advanced through the vault; a twisted staff as long as an Astartes and tipped with a fan of cerulean psycho-crystal plates, a psychic hood shaped into an Aquila and exuding Empyrean energies, a cuirass of polished Adamantine sporting a gorget in the likeness of a snarling bat. The myriad antiquities on show would be enough to stun any transhuman on this station into silence. Achillion had known them for close to three years, and had spent the hours between training sessions reading up on their histories until every detail and inheritor was ingrained in his mind. Nevertheless, the sight of dozens of sacrosanct artefacts took his breath away every single time he entered this esoteric treasury.

 

Eventually, he reached the tome that Montesa had deposited recently. It was a gnarled thing, lacking any opulence or signs of being particularly well cared for. Achillion removed the book with care, placing it into a small wooden chest that he had brought with him. Before locking it away, he stared at the battered cover and focused - wary of the corruption that the Warp instilled in such objects, hoping to warn Grist if necessary. For the first time in years, hs psychic senses failed him.

 

The Librarian shook his head and furrowed his brow. Surely the uncomfortable aura of the blank hadn't affected him that much? 

 

He flicked the chest shut and turned about, exiting the vault with the chest in the crook of his left arm and gripping the shaft of Libra in his right. Before heading back to the Inquisitor with the book, he fetched an aged dark leather tome from his own quarters and blew a thin layer of dust from it. The embossed golden lettering caught the light from a nearby candle-flame held by a hooded serf.

 

'CREED OF THE CRIMSON DAWN'

 

The contents of these pages were now known only to him, and the reminder stirred memories within him. He had been a stranger to grief until he'd had the reports from Stromark Secundus read to him, and he remembered the crushing weight he'd felt knowing he was the last surviving member of his order - a burden that he still carried, but had learned to cope with. Achillion banished thoughts of his fallen brothers from his mind, he had already paid penance a hundred times over for not being there to fight for his chapter, even though the fault was not his own. He had never once blamed the Deathwatch for the circumstances that held him from that battle; an oath was an oath.

 

He fitted the latch on the front of the leather-bound volume and affixed the locking mechanism to his belt. Carrying the heirloom on his person allowed him to focus, as though the psychic projections of his former Brother-Librarians and those before them channelled their vast power through his hand.

 

Satisfied, Achillion left the Librarium and headed to the arranged meeting point with Grist, with a mind to reunite with Swordhand once he was done.

 

Hidden Content

Psyniscience test:
Target: 40
Roll: 56 (1 DoF)

Edited March 9, 2021 by Mojake

[Necronaut]

Helgrim conducted prayers and last rites for those who asked it of him, affixing fresh purity seals to their war-plate. The flickering candlelight danced in his red eye lenses, and illuminated the black and silver armor of his brethren. His twin hearts beat in time with the his prayers and exhortations, boom-boom like bolter fire. The myriad chapter cults were dizzying in their number and diversity, and while Helgrim counted himself as no great scholar, he endeavoured tirelessly to master the requirements of his office.

Helgrim was an even-minded chaplain, respectful of the disparate beliefs and practices of his charges, but the absence of Blackthorn's new Watch-Sergeant seemed especially notable. Tyber had never exhibited much piety for as long as Helgrim had known of him, but his seeming coldness, if not hostility, towards the group rituals on the eve of battle troubled Helgrim.

Keep your own counsel and practices if you wish, brother, but we of the Deathwatch do not each stand alone. You will see this in time. My prayers do not bite.

He allowed himself a brief smile on his way out of the chapel.

Perhaps Brother Tyber might be open to preaching to a chaplain...

+++

 

Following prayers in the chapel, he made his way into the bowels of Azurea, the armored core of the station. A great deal of time had passed since Helgrim had last visited his brothers of the forge, a fact he regretted. Forgemaster Fasumé was a wise teacher, and Helgrim enjoyed his company. The pounding of hydraulic hammers and other noises of industry greeted Helgrim as he entered the Armorium. The blast-furnace heat washed over him triggering a response from his monitoring systems which he blinked away.

 

The Master of the Forge was where Helgrim expected to find him, bent over his workbench, performing the rituals of awakening or maintenance perhaps. His various servo arms and mechadendrites gave him the appearance of an ancient mechanical arachnid preparing to devour its prey, a bolter in this case.

 

"Hail, Forgemaster!" Helgrim had to half-shout to be heard over the industrial din of the Armorium. Fasumé looked up briefly and nodded to Helgrim before returning to the subject of his work. Another standard minute passed before the techmarine set aside his tools and said his final words of benediction over the boltgun. Helgrim could not help but admire his ethic, the calm precision of a master craftsman.

 

"Brother-Chaplain, it is an honor. What is it you seek?"

 

"I return to war, Brother. My time for meditation and prayer is over. By your leave, I would bear Deliverance into battle again."

 

The Forgemaster nodded and departed, returning some standard minutes later bearing a baroque, chrome and crimson plasma pistol, the name "DELIVERANCE" etched along its length in stylized high gothic. The handgrip was bound in dark oiled leather, and its plasma coils glowed with baleful hate.

 

"It has been too long since this one has been to war," Fasumé said. "Its machine-spirit grows restless and it thirsts for the blood of the Omnissiah's foes. Perhaps providence has brought you to the forge this day?" 

 

The question lingered on the air and was quickly swallowed by the ambient noise of the Armorium. Fasumé set the pistol down on his workbench and proceeded with his rites, taking particular care with polishing the chassis and fine-tuning the operating frequency of the plasma coils. Once finished, he affixed a purity seal and presented the sidearm to Helgrim, who took it with deep reverence, giving the Forgemaster a salute and inclining his helmeted head.

 

"My thanks, Forgemaster. We go to find battle and death again, Deliverance. Woe unto the foes of the Emperor!"

 

+++

 

Helgrim entered the Blackthorn training arena to find Tyber alone.

+Hail, Brother,+ Helgrim voxed in return, +I am pleased to see you sporting your own heraldry, as is befitting of your rank. I would ask you to teach me of its meaning during our voyage to this den of iniquity.+

He paused, admiring the freshly-minted sergeant's full panoply of war.

+My thoughts on our mission at hand? I daresay that if this false-Trader has been consorting with xenos like the aeldari, then there is no telling what manner of heresy and treachery awaits us. They are a crafty and duplicitous foe, and we should be wary when entering our quarry's stronghold.+

The old chaplain paused again briefly, sensing the rest of the squad would enter soon.

+There is another matter we must speak of, you and I, in private. We shall discuss it once we are underway, away from the rest of the squad.+

Edited March 10, 2021 by Necronaut

[Steel Company]

Tyber bowed his head as he responded while touching the crest of the host of crowns, +It is the heraldry of my host, but I have run into issues with other brothers when I explain the concepts of hosts as they are not exactly in teaching with the codex. When you are ready to speak about this matter I will listen.+

[Jeremy.Phillips]

Argus stood in the training hall, listening to his squad discuss the upcoming mission. He had no question, only concerns. He loathed boarding actions. There were no true tactics, only brutal necessity. Push through the initial meat grinder to establish a foothold, then overwhelm the bridge and enginarium before the ship can be scuttled. It was fighting on unknown terrain against a well-entrenched enemy. Kill boxes, traps, and enveloping fields of fire. Even against mere mortals the butcher’s bill could be high. Those types of fights were better left for those Battle-Brothers who were unable to temper their wrath. Or better yet, steadfast veterans in Terminator plate. Argus hoped that should this type of action be required, they could take their prey by speed or stealth and avoid the slaughter.

 

When it was Argus turn to speak, he did so reluctantly. He was aware that there were those before him with far more experience in the void than him. Still, they had asked his thoughts. “If a boarding action is required of us, better to do so against an unprepared foe. We must use speed, surprise, and violence of action to eliminate the enemy’s ability to fight back before they realize they are engaged.”

 

Several of his comrades nodded in approval as the conversation continued.

Edited March 12, 2021 by Jeremy.Phillips

[Ancient_Sobek]

Severix stood at the window, silently watching the stars. There was a faint smell of melted wax drifting up from the newest purity seal to adorn his venerable armor. The parchment strips were adorned with spidery gothic script extolling the righteous cause of their mission as well as prayers to the Emperor and commitments and oaths of fealty to the legacy of Dorn. He appreciated that the chaplain , Helgrim, made the effort to have each oath paper personalized for each watch-brother according to their own chapter lineage. It spoke to the character of the man and his view of his duty to his fellow marines.

 

The thought dredged up old memories for Pyke. His mind turned melancholy as he reflected on his past. Absent-mindedly his left hand brushed the small carved symbol on the inner side of his right wrist. The shadow on his heart always came upon him in the quiet moments before a mission. After 50 years, the pain still lingered. He let his gaze rest upon the silent stars before him. They were always there, watching, judging. 
 

Hardening his mind once more he turned and headed for the training area to meet with his team. As he walked away, the light from the stars caught the edge of the design upon his wrist. A trio of stars laid upon a triangle glinted for a moment and were lost in shadow.

[Noctus Cornix]

What is Glory?...

 

Scholars and warriors alike have asked that very same question, or at least offered their own definition of the term.

 

Was it renown?

 

Was it honour?

 

Was the songs that played in vast halls and ballads told long past the day of one's expiration?

 

Or is it something deeper, the manifestation of the God-Emperor's presence in a hero's greatest moments of triumph? 

 

There were so many interpretations, so many definitions of a word that saw fleets sail and wars waged just to obtain it.

 

But here was glory made manifest in the ideals of the Astartes, a memorial to the most fundamental truth of the warrior brotherhood that defended His eternal empire. To Him on Terra had their oaths been sworn, and to Him on Terra they would return, but their legacy would live on, remembered by their oath brothers and those that would come after..

 

They called it the Hall of Glory, a tradition of those who served the Long Watch, a common occurrence seen among many Watch Stations across the Imperium. It was a vast hall that branched from Watch Station Azurea's Librarium, a place of vaulted ceilings and towering columns of marble that disappeared into the darkness above. Here was a testament of remembrance to the living and the dead, where their deeds and stories bleed together in the verse of the Apocryphon Oath. Here, in this sanctum, the blessed armour and weapons of those who now take the oath are laid, held in safe keeping for the time that these brothers will once again take up their heraldic colors and sail again with their blood-kin, or to remain vigilant until their Chapter comes to reclaim the body and that blessed warplate. Yet, here also was the solemn gallery of the fallen, a clashing  portrait of colors and heralding emblems mounted upon the walls and columns as far as any mortal eye could see. This was a testament to the warriors who had breathed their last breath in service to His will and the Long Watch they served, the livery of their pauldrons left to stand in memoriam of where they could no longer walk. 

 

It was his duty, as it was the duty of his brother Librarians, to tend to the Hall of Glory, to ensure the ancient rites are kept and each lost brother is laid to rest in this hall. In the weeks since their arrival, Montesa had seen to his newest duties personal, paying to writ the remembrance of his lost brothers and their deeds on Syndalla. Five brothers lost for some rancid agri-world... Such a waste of noble blood. He had recorded their sacrifice, their deeds, and their heroic end for the archived tomes and to be sent out in Astropathic message to their parent Chapters. The gene-seed had been recovered and would await along with their armour to be retrieved by the fallen's true brothers. 

 

But here their heraldry would remain, five new pauldrons fastened upon the wall, their names and deeds acid-etched in High Gothic into the bronze panel beneath. He remembered them each in perfect clarity, remembered the prayer he intoned with each fastening and the delicate care of sacred oils dabbed upon that blessed ceramite. He remembered each heraldic emblem starting back at them; the inverted and crimson lightning bolt of the Storm Giants, the cerulean chalice on a gilded field of the Libators, and the leering skull wreathed in the astral halo of the Invaders.

 

And now their Watch had ended....

 

But his fallen brothers were not the purpose of his presence in this sacred Hall. One final duty that must be done before his departure for the Clepsydra. The significance of such an act was not lost on the Codicier, a prelude to what must be done in the coming trials. He was not alone, but he had no need to speak to the hooded priests that tended to their duties with the gracious care of artisans with a most holy relic. They had no need to speak for each knew their part in this sacred and grim duty. 

 

In the archival records that stretch back many millenia, there have been no fewer than a dozen warriors that had made the Apocryphon Oath at Watch Station Azurea, warriors of gleaming silver and the purest lapis. Though he would not speak the name of their Chapter in the halls of this crypt, these Lions had been heroes, one and all. Of the Lions that had come before their final brother, three had fallen in the line of service to the Long Watch. With their Watch ended, their silver and lapis heraldry had stood proudly on these walls, the lion roaring in eternal defiance and pride. 

 

Such a beautiful heraldry for the most damned of kin.

 

They called it the 'placing of the Sable', the traditional rite that had come to be known as the origin of the Blackshields. Most often, such rites were performed on still living brothers from origins or histories of shame. In rarer cases, the rite was performed post-humous, casting a fallen brother's history into utter darkness. The archival records had already been expunged of the Chapter, each of the dozen warriors now cast as martyrs of an unnamed origin, warriors who lived and died solely in service to the God Emperor. Two of the heraldic pauldrons had cast in abyssal black and the dull, metal trim before returning to their place on the wall, the memorial placards recast to remove all memory of their purged origins. 

 

This was the last. The Censer sways slowly from the brass chain, his wrist turning slowly back and forth to keep it swinging as a thick mist of incense wafted through the air. The hooded sages tended to their work, seeing to the final task of their grim labour. The roaring lion and precious lapis had been scourged away in acid, what remained now slowly being cast in the deepest black so that no memory of what once was would remain. He intoned the prayers of remembrance under his breath, eyes fixated upon the pauldron as each brush stroke cast it further into darkness. 

 

 

"Heroes of the Watch, brothers of an origin and pride that was stolen from them by the greed of their descendants. ."

 

His thoughts drifted as he began to speak, a quiet whisper for ghosts alone as finally the priests slotted the barren heraldry of black and iron into its housing.

 

"I make this solemn vow to you and you alone... There is but one brother that still remains of your blood and your Lion's pride... By this vow, I do swear... So long as I draw breath, I will ensure that your final kin will not be scourged into anonymity. He will join you, here, in this vault, when the Emperor had deemed for his appointed time. He will carry your memory and your pride on until his dying breath, and then he shall join you all in honour and purest black... It is the least I can do..."

 

With the final ritual complete, Codicier Montesa stood and left the Hall of Glory, leaving behind the three pauldrons of nameless livery. 

 

The Clepsydra awaited....

[A.T.]

The meeting over Atratus shadowed Incariel through the station, increasingly familiar with signs that the Consecrator was occupied with some thought of his own and disinclined to be interrupted, lest his displeasure be voiced at length.

 

Time aboard the Tyranid hive ship combined with the causticity of the explosive compound he hand used against the xenos had taken its toll upon the weapon, a thousand rounds of wear inflicted by only a scant dozen. Fasumé had taken to the task of its repair with surprisingly good humour and Atratus considered it some fortune that it was a son of Vulkan who stood to judge him for the employment of improvised pyrophoric rounds.

 

Today though the Raptor stood before him for a different purpose. The question of a new sidearm had occupied much of his time in training, each with its own strengths and flaws, but the compact construction of the Ceres pattern was the most logical choice.

 

As the Astartes entered Fasumé directed his gaze towards Atratus, “Azurea recognises you, in the sight of the Omnissiah". For the slightest moment Incariel appeared to stiffen - new awareness that he was followed or perhaps dissatisfaction at being recognised second in the company of a junior. The forgemaster had already turned his gaze as they approached to a weapon that Atratus had not seen before. A brutish looking pistol, a disparate collection of components whost construction the Raptor suspected would have tested the tolerance of any scion of Mars.

 

Laying the weapon before him Fasumé spoke, "this weapon has resided in the vaults of the Deathwatch since the war of the beast, unmarked and unheralded, recovered from the last wall of Ullanor. I suspect it was once carried by a brother of the Valedictors but they lay no claim to it, nor can any vouch for the true chapter of its origin."

Atratus understood the unspoken meaning of his words, such weapons were created out of necessity from any available components during the heresy as supply lines were cut and most could trace their lineage back to Terra itself, but in whose hands?

Fasumé continued, "it is of ill fortune for a weapon to have endured so long and yet be denied its purpose."

[adesro18]

Atreus listened to his squad sergeant brief the squad. Atreus was unskilled and without knowledge of naval engagements compared to some of his battle brothers, he knew enough that it would be close confines and likely a powerful short ranged weapon would be useful. A trusty melta weapon would serve well no doubt, vapourizing foes and even giving the ability to make new entrances and exits in the bulkheads of a ship when the need arose.

He removed his helm to adresse his squadmates directly. "Brother sargent," he said, "what do we expect for resistence?"

[ashlander47]

The argument still had not ceased even at six paces within the Armorium, and the choler that had risen during it was still fresh on his tongue. Turuzim had graced his former protégé with an appearance, and the memory was of the Ravenwing's deployment on the rebellious world of Prairie. Endless horizon filled his senses, a place where dust, dirt and death intermixed with a prevailing and ever constant pitched breeze. Not that any of the 5^th squadron of the 2^nd company had suffered any of these effects, or indeed had time to stop and "smell the xenofungus" as Turuzim had put it. Their mission was to hurry up and wait. The standard fare. Their scouting efforts had been performed dutifully but there was little sport in their quarry. Whatever chapter command wanted from Prairie... no. It was not his place to question. He followed orders. He did as instructed. Prairie lasted six weeks sidereal, and for all the lacklustre fighting that occurred with the local insurrectionists, the true highlight was getting to activate the teleport homer himself. The Deathwing had been sent here. Whatever Prairie might've held, it was to be taken and consecrated by the chapter.

 

The argument, then, was nothing to do with the action on the blasted sandpit of a planet. It was about something as petty as an oil change. Turuzim insisted he was the last to facilitate the rites and descale of his steed's promethium reservoir, but Incariel knew -- he knew -- that was not the case. He also knew that Turuzim was very sceptical of his new gunner's supposed perfect memory and would try to feign forgetfulness himself, or imply that past actions did not go as they actually did. It was a form of mental jousting every time there was maintenance in the field to be done, out and away from the techmarines and their infallible cogitated work logs where Turuzim seemed to think he could get away with it. Well he couldn't. And he didn't. No matter how many times he insisted he did.

 

Despite that, Incariel ended up serving the steed and changing the oil again for the sixteenth time since deployment in-sector. He didn't mind it. He didn't anything it. It was an honour to offer what little service he could to such a grand and powerful steed. What did chafe him was the way his sergeant would drawl in his argi-world accent on and on about events that did not happen. It wasn't lying, because both of them knew deep down the truth, it was merely a sort of mental and social dance. Hazing, he had referred to it as once. Hazing. Incariel disliked getting hazed.

 

"Azurea recognises you, in the sight of the Omnissiah." spoke the forgemaster, but not to the Consecrator.

 

With an imperceptible jolt he flushed his senses clean. The memory of Prairie's dusty expanse faded away like cordite vapour in a backblast and he was there in the Armorium looking like an idiot who was just roused from a daydream.

 

Fasumé continued and it became apparent that another had been swiftly on the heels of the hallucinating brother. He turned and regarded the pair now in the stark light of the forgemaster's domain as they spoke and exchanged words like old friends. It was Atratus. The raptor.

 

A bird of a different plumage, possibly? The sons of Corax are often recluse and terse, but from what Incariel knew of the general gene-line they were level-headed, stern and fantastic practitioners of war's subtler nuances. Many sons of different gene-fathers might scoff and think the greater glory theirs for charging in with rudimentary reconnaissance. Not these crows. They knew knowledge was a keen blade to wield for the fast-handed swordsman. An ally? Maybe. A fellow appreciator of discretion? Perhaps.

 

He approached and waited like any good, well-mannered knight of an order, for the conversation to open for him. The two were speaking over a hideous looking implement and of an incredibly obscure chapter. He almost opened his mouth before realising there was a fresh globule of his Betcher's secretion still squatting on his tongue, ready to be loosed. Of all the faux-pas and poor first impressions, spitting hot acid at the Watch-Station's master of the forge would be one to avoid. He gulped.

 

"Hail, forgemaster." the flashing of cogs, Aquila's, battle-sign and ritual hand signals began. "And to thee, brother Atratus. I didst not notice thy approach on mine heels. Quite the talent. Do I hath the pleasure of being thine quarry, or be it mere happenstance?"

 

He waited until he was certain the ichor had all but left his tongue before removing his helm with a curt twist, and carefully pulling back his hood. A calculated manoeuvre to endear himself with the two Astartes by showing his face, with the added benefit that he didn't have to breathe the musk of recycled Betcher's for the next sixteen minutes. He even would've attempted a smile if he was sure his teeth weren't still steaming with the acid. Discretion is the better part of valour however and he opted for a simple curt bowing of the head.

 

 

[A.T.]

"Happenstance. We travel together to a common purpose". Atratus tilted his head towards the Consecrator and considered asking the obvious question of what past matters with the inquisition had left him so distracted since their arrival. Not so long ago the question would have been asked readily as to another brother of his chapter, and he wondered if it was truly an attempt at polite discretion that held his tongue now.

 

Nodding his acceptance to Fasumé he reached for the weapon before him and turned to Incariel to speak, "It is my understanding that the brothers of the Consecrator chapter favour older patterns of weaponry".

[ashlander47]

Happenstance it was. The question had been rather facile. Two Kill-Teams had just been given assignment; this section of Azurea would be overrun with Astartes procuring weaponry and wargear in short time. 

 

"Thy understanding is correct. We of the Consecrators stand as gaolers and wardens of a parcel of Mankind's most dangerous of conceptions," he paused for effect and glanced over the weapon for a second before returning to Atratus's gaze. "The past."

 

With an incline of his head he gestured to Fasumé and continued. "The good forgemaster hath surely already catalogued and placèd the dozen holy boltguns I arrivèd with; a gift of mine chapter to the Deathwatch. Of these, the youngest doth sit at a spritely seven centuries of age -- t'was namèd Voice of Zeal, if memory serves."

 

It did. He knew Voice of Zeal well, for it happened to have once belonged to him when he had first been elevated from the scout company. He served as escort, bodyguard and ammunitions bearer to Brother Ahaab within the Devastator squad he was embedded in. Brother Ahaab met his end at the hands of Kroot pirates upon some distant battlefield Incariel never learned the name of. A death thankfully missing from the annals of his recollection.

 

"Art thou int'restèd in relics of the past, brother? Forgive mine parlance but I didst not take thee for the type."

 

[A.T.]

"They are a resource that dwindles as any other and it is not in the nature of my chapter to favour preservation over victory, still... " Atratus raised his empty hand before continuing, "we do recognise the value of the past and the trials that such things have overcome. We would not see them lightly lost to neglect".

 

Incariel had seen the Raptors' battle plate on several occasions since arriving and beneath the black and silver of the deathwatch and the scars of training with Varvost and the servitors it appeared at a distance as the corvus armour not warranting of particular note. But now the Consecrators' eyes were drawn to the imperfections in the fit, the armour much like the boltgun a fusion of components salvaged and recombined. In of itself not uncommon but the gauntlet raised before him was deceptively ancient, to his trained eyes the seals and articulation mechanisms marked it as once among the first of the Maximus suits fabricated - or at least what was left of it.

 

"The end of things is the only constant in the universe, yet we endure though that which we create for those that follow". Turning back to Fasumé he secured the bolter at his side, "I will see that it is given purpose".

[Commissar Molotov]

The two Kill-Teams have been left to chew over their new assignments. The Inquisitor - grotesque as he is - spoke some measure of the truth: whereas you once fought with adamantite certainty in your duties and in those around you, service in the Deathwatch is an exercise in uncertainty. An abject lesson in the importance of trusting those around you. A reminder to be on guard, and ready for the unexpected.

 

As is perhaps customary with the Astartes, your thoughts have turned to the wargear that will gird your bodies and augment your blows. Over the next day many of you make pilgrimage to Azurea's Forge, petitioning Master Fasumé like tribesmen leaving offerings before a volcano's hungry maw, hopeful that he will see fit to bestow the Omnissiah's benevolence upon you. Azurea is a frontier station, modest in the eyes of the Deathwatch, but even so the Forgemaster is able to provide weaponry and equipment of great potency.

 

Plasma pistols, combi-meltas, power swords - it is a testament to your growing renown in the eyes of the Deathwatch. For some of you, this is a dizzying array of flexibility unseen outside of the veteran squads of your Chapters' First Companies. For others, unbound by the tenets of the Codex Astartes, you are still awed by the destructive force the Deathwatch can unleash. Many of you have been dispatched to the Watch to learn the ways of war from a new perspective - and this is certainly enlightening.

 

You will imminently be required to ready for transit. If there are any last tasks that must take place aboard Azurea, they should be completed soon.

[Brother Argent]

Place Holder - Pallan and Incariel have a talk outside the armoury over medical matters before Pallan goes in an remembers the weapons he forged in his own chapter that were stripped from his upon his Path of Penance.

[Lysimachus]

The Stormbringer listened carefully as the other members of Swordhand offered their various tactical insights. Then the unit discussed the more practical matters of what equipment and supplies the mission to the Baltarian Abyss might require. Titus did not need much in the way of additional weaponry. Huntsman, along with his bolt pistol and combat blade, were like old friends, trusted more than any living being. But the Watch-Station's Armorium was a place of wonders, a trove of technology beyond even what a typical Chapter could provide. Even if he needed nothing, the opportunity to peruse such a treasure was not to be missed.

 

Several of the Kill-Team's warriors visited the Forges together immediately after leaving the training Hall. They entered, paying the proper respects both to the Onmissiah and the Forgemaster himself, then split up to make their selections from the Armorium, each followed by at least one buzzing servo-skull that vetted and catalogued their choices. Titus walked along between dozens of rows of poorly lit racks, each gothically carved with the icons of Humanity and Death, admiring the brutal potential of the items they held. One could conquer entire systems with the arsenal contained in the sprawling series of interconnected storerooms. Some items, some whole chambers, were guarded by arcane technological wards, utterly forbidden unless one carried the correct idents of loyalty from the Adeptus Mechanicus.

 

The tall Marine paused at the racks dedicated to the near countless variety of grenades used by the Imperium's finest warriors. While he already had sufficient frag and krak devices, there were other, more unusual types available here for Watch veterans. Titus picked up one he recognised from his missions as a Hunter. A Photon Flash grenade. It would do no permanent harm to an enemy in itself, but it was no less deadly if used at the right time.

 

He looked up, sensing another presence further along the row. Watch-Sargeant Vorkys also stood with a grenade in his hands, of similar size but a differing pattern. A Blind grenade. Clearly the Reviler had thought the same way as he had.

 

"Confusion…" Titus started softly…

 

"...is a weapon," the other Marine finished with a tight grin.

 

"You may take those, if you wish," said a gravelly voice from behind Titus. He turned to see the Forgemaster, carefully watching, measuring and calculating, as the Kill-Team made their requisitions. Fasume was big, near as tall as Titus himself and far, far broader. His features and colouring were reminiscent of Brother Atreus, but weathered and worn by vast age and covered by innumerable bionic devices. His armour was similarly enhanced and bore the cog iconography of the Mechanicus in several prominent places.

 

Titus nodded his thanks and the Forgemaster looked him up and down with a critical eye. The Stormbringer suddenly hoped again that his attempts to care properly for the equipment he had taken into the Delvis Rifts had met with the ancient Adept's approval.

 

"Scout?" Fasume asked laconically.

 

The Hunter nodded again and Fasume grunted, waving for Titus to follow.

"I may have something you might find useful."

 

The Forgemaster led him deeper into one of the sub-chambers of the Armorium, lit by flickering candlelight and filled with all manner of esoteric devices that Titus could not identify. He lifted a compact piece of technology from an ornately decorated gold and purple box. Titus had no clue what it was.

 

"Antiphase wave generator. Sonic inverter?" the Adept explained gruffly. He frowned in obvious distaste. "I have heard some call it a… Stummer? Useful if you must move quickly and quietly. Functional for perhaps twenty minutes, depending on the level of sound being nullified, before it must be recharged."

 

"Impressive," Titus replied, carefully taking the device, "and very useful indeed, Master. I would be honoured to carry it." Again, he was taken aback by the sheer technological wealth held by the Deathwatch. Fasume muttered something under his breath and turned away, his attention drawn by another of Swordhand's brethren examining a piece from his prized collection.

 

Titus noted several of his squadmates selecting short ranged, powerful weapons, as advised by Brother Embe. The Stormbringer felt a moment's concern. Perhaps a long-range sniper rifle was not the best choice for a mission in the cramped confines of stellar wrecks and hulks? Without conscious thought, he ran one hand along Huntsman's long holster. He would not go into battle without it. The bond between Marine and weapon was too strong, their partnership too deadly.

 

However, it might not be a bad idea to select a back-up from the Forges, for those times when he could not keep a proper distance from his targets? Titus suddenly remembered when he had first arrived at Azurea to join the Deathwatch. He had been offered a boltgun, a 'standard' Godwyn-pattern. Though the weapon had been objectively perfect, manufactured to the highest quality the Imperium could produce, at the time he had been somewhat dismissive of it. No other bolter could match his precisely calibrated killer. Nevertheless, an unmodified, 'standard' bolter might be useful in its own way. For one thing, it might be able to maintain a better rate of fire against the pathetic but numerous dregs he suspected Swordhand would soon encounter in the Abyss. He smiled grimly. What was it Brother Ekeio had said at the Ranges? Something about the quality of quantity?

 

Titus' final stop was at the ammunition depot. He found this chamber incredibly inspiring, and paused for a moment to think about how many foes, in their thousands if not their millions, could be ended by its contents alone. Clips of bolter rounds of dozens of differing designs and purposes were stacked in neat rows, in numbers beyond his ability to count. The Stormbringer suspected that the Forgemaster could have immediately told him their number, to the individual round. He selected a clip of Kraken Penetrators, the perfect match for Huntsman. A clip of Metal Storm rounds, designed for eliminating poorly armoured hordes, would equally complement the Godwyn now holstered diagonally across the base of his spine.

 

Satisfied that he was as ready as he could be, Titus went to ask final approval and offer his thanks once more to the venerable Forgemaster. He left the Armorium with a spring in his powered step. Now that the moment had nearly arrived, the itch within him, the desire to move, was almost overwhelming. He wondered if it was too soon to find a shuttle headed for the Xenocide?

[Mojake]

Following the Watch-Sergeant's dismissal, Achillion made his way alongside his brothers to the great forge of Azurea. He had not yet set foot in the Armorium upon this station, having not been blessed with an assignment until this investigation of the Dark Lantern, and having all of the weaponry he could need in Libra, his Mk II Angelus-Ves Bolt Pistol and his Baal Pattern bolter.

 

His steps into the forge were weary at first, his gaze lingered on the symbology to the Omnissiah for a moment and he bowed his head in deference. He knew what he required and broke from the others, following the awesome display of weaponry on show at the indication of high gothic script. 

 

He soon found himself looking over dozens of different grenade types, scanning the racks until he found what he was looking for. He carefully took the Haywire Grenade from its perch and strode over to the ammunition depot, selecting a pack of Kraken rounds and grunting in satisfaction at their perfect fit into his magazine.

 

Not one to waste time, Achillion quickly tracked down Fasumé. The Forgemaster was in conversation with Titus, finishing up a requisition for the Stormbringer. As his brother finished his order and made to depart, Achillion nodded at the other Space Marine and stepped up to Fasumé.

 

"Ah, Librarian. I wondered when your presence would grace my forge." His voice was what Achillion imagined it would be like to hear a mountain moving - low and gravelly, with an inclination of great power behind every word.

 

"Honoured Forgemaster," Achillion began in his snarling accent, making a show of deference as he gingerly handed over his Baal Pattern Bolter, "this weapon has blessed me with its service for decades and hasn't failed me yet. I am loathe to make modifications, but what are we if not ever-adapting servants of the Imperium? I request that it be fitted with a means to deliver purifying flames to our enemies."

 

The Codicier then placed the Kraken Rounds and the Haywire Grenade on the worktable, noticing the derision on Fasumé's face at the latter. 

 

"Beings of the flesh are weak to my powers," Achillion gestured towards the grenade, "with this I can destroy the machine too."

 

The Forgemaster, not taking his eyes from the Flamer attachment he was currently fitting to the Bolter, snorted and shook his head. "And here I thought Sons of the Great Angel enjoyed a scrap with chain-tooth and blade."

 

Achillion bristled, his lip curling at the rebuke. "There will be plenty of time for blood-letting, Fasumé, of that I can assure you."

 

The Librarian took the modified weapon and the rest of his requisitioned items and left the forge, heading to the docking bays and onwards to war. As he strode through the corridors of Azurea, serfs bowing to him as they went about their duties, his hand went to the vial of blood fixed to his belt - its presence inspiring comfort, yet stoking the embers of battle-lust within him.

 

He smiled as he left the grey halls of Azurea for the first time in years.

Edited March 15, 2021 by Mojake

[adesro18]

"yes brother sargent", Atreus responds to Vorkys, donning his helmet. He accompanied fellow members of his squad to the armorium to request equipment for the coming mission. Keeping in mind the challenges they may face.

Approaching the Forge master of the watch station, greetings were exchanged beyond the those typical of battle brothers, ancient hand signs of the pact between the imperium and the adepts of mars were exchanged, phrases of greeting and praise in the machine cant of the omnissiah.

 

"Forge master Fasumé, I have come to request the honor of bringing a few choice items with me to aid my brothers in battle and to smite the wretched xenos and traitors we encounter. We are to board a ship and will likely face combat there, in the close confines the wrath and flexibility of a combi melta could prove critical. In the confines of a ship a timely melta burst could prove optimal, reducing a foe to mere molecules in an instant. I would also request kraken rounds to more easily slay the foe, and a selector for my bolter to give me the flexibility I require to use these awesome weapons to their full extent. Lastly honored Forge Master, I would request a multi tool, to aid me in my communion with the machine, and to ensure the sanctity of my brothers arms and armor in the name of the Omnissiah." Atreus waited for the response of the forge master, and accepted the equipment given to him, vowing to honor their machine spirits and bring honor to the deathwatch.

Edited March 10, 2021 by adesro18

[Komrk]

"Resistance is unknown, but likely to be piratical in nature, whether they be human or xenos. Combat will likely be onboard whichever ship draws our ire or aboard the Xenocide itself so prepare accordingly. Make sure you have whatever equipment you need to perform your job within those confines. Head to the Armorium and make your requests then report to the Xenocide. Dismissed."

 

With that, Vorkys made his way from the training hall with many of those from Swordhand who were going directly to the Armorium. The dimly lit forge held all varieties of the weapons on war. If an Astartes could potentially find a use for it, it was here. It seemed that Titus had a similar idea as he spoke out to Vorkys about the value of confusion. Perhaps we spent too much time together in Gallowbane. He chuckled to himself. After the brief exchange, Vorkys said to himself, "I'll be needing a launcher too...", and he noticed Titus looking at him again. "Flatter arc, better in low corridors and the like." He motioned the trajectory with one hand as he explained and Titus simply nodded. 

 

Making his way to the ammo dump he considered his options for variant ammunition. He had learned in his long years with the Deathwatch to value the uses of the variants available to him with their unique qualities. Certainly they all had their uses, and even many could be useful in the execution of the mission at hand. The rest of the squad seemed to be gravitating toward Metal Storm and Dragonfire rounds which performed well against lightly or unarmored enemies. The Stormbringer also grabbed some Kraken rounds which seemed to be a prudent choice. While they were likely staring down pirates, the possibility of running into mortal sized power armor was greater than zero, and it would be foolish not to account for that unknown. Vorkys also decided to grab some Stalker rounds. The ability to maintain the initiative for even a second longer could make the difference between mission success and failure.

 

He was slow to approach the hulking Forgemaster, taking a winding route through the armorium, observing what his squad was selecting and some of the more esoteric weapons that lined the walls of the forge. He considered his jump pack Tacet Corvus and whether or not it would prove useful or simply get in the way. He would be loathe to deploy without it, and there were certainly uses. Turning yourself into a rocket of muscle and ceramite in the narrow confines of a naval vessel was certainly potent. Also, Emperor forbid, should they need to fight in the void it would both be incredibly useful and potentially save his life. The Reviler's being Sons of Corax meant that they shared the same gene-seed mutations as their parent chapter, including the lack of a Mucranoid leaving them unprotected from void exposure.  

 

Finally, he could put it off no longer and he approached the Forgemaster with his requisition request. As the hulking Astartes looked over his request, he looked down at Vorkys and gruffly said, "Another Auxiliary Grenade Launcher? Are you going to destroy this one too?" Vorkys looked at him and responded, "Well, you see, that was an unfortunate incident, but it prevent the destruction of my Bolter, so it was one or the other." The real situation was a little more complicated, but he didn't need the full story. The Greenskin Kommandos had gone undetected and sprung their ambush as Gallowbane had begun their own. He only noticed at the last second as one of the Kommandos had come up behind him and tried to hit him with his Choppa. Vorkys had brought up his bolter to parry the blow and it landed squarely on the grenade launcher destroying it.

 

The Forgemaster simply continued staring at him, his face unmoved and his person clearly unimpressed. After a minute of staring at each other Master Fasumé finally spoke, "Very well, but I expect it to come back in one piece this time or I will begin being far more discerning with your procurements. You're holding up the others." Vorkys quickly gathered his equipment and left the forge. He boarded the shuttle to the Xenocide and as it ferried the marines to their temporary home he started to wonder which deployment this would be with the Deathwatch. He had stopped counting nearly a decade ago, and yet he was always still curious to know the answer. Though not curious enough to find the answer.

Edited March 10, 2021 by Komrk

[Reyner]

Vorr placeholder. He gets a multi-melta. He is very happy. 

[Komrade_Atomic]

Arriving at the Armourium, Gideon nodded as he approached the Forgemaster, and spoke his requisitions to the Forgemaster. It was all fine until the mentioning of a chainsword, to which, much like he had done before with Vorkys, spoke: “Chainsword? Will it be returning in pieces or whole this time?”

 

Gideon smiled and spoke, “I will honour this one more than I did the previous. You have my word.” The Forgemaster gruffly nodded before taking a Vulkan Meltagun from a container, and smiling a little at the weapon, before placing it down. “Take good care of this, it has served before and I intend for it to serve again. Whether in your hands or another’s.” Gideon nodded, heeding the wise Techmarine’s words as the weapon was returned into it’s container, and then handed over to Gideon.

 

“I seek to requisition Metal Storm and Dragonfire rounds if possible, if it may be permitted?” Gideon asked lastly, as the Forgemaster checked a datapad, before walking away, returning with two more containers, and laying them down onto the table. He nodded and Gideon spoke his thanks, and went to leave. Before he did so, the Forgemaster called for him to wait. He spoke, “Do not break or lose any of this.” Gideon nodded, and spoke in return, “You have my word, Forgemaster.” Before leaving for their transport.

Edited March 12, 2021 by Komrade_Atomic

[That Beyond the Light]

Ekieo observed intently and listened carefully from the outer of the gathering, taking in all he could about the mission from both the inquisitor and his Sergeant. He felt uneasy by the inquisitors requests, something is still not sitting right. Tybers talking puts him at ease for now and gains his respect for being equally at ease and not absorbed by the power that an Inquisitor can hold.

 

The discussion ends and EKieo along with his other Blackthorn brothers are given their briefing by Tyber. It is then a given that they have 1 solar day to prepare for the first mission.

Ekieo departs the room and makes his way to the armoury in order to request his personal set up for the type of mission he will embark on. He is unfamiliar with this Forge Master and knows to well that they can be strange souls and best approached with a respected caution, so he prepares himself for his encounter.

 

The hallways dim as Ekieo approaches the Armoury. The smell of heated, tempered metal and the sound of its beating fills the mouth of the entrance. The zips and zaps of machinery fusing materials together or repairing damage with lazers continues in the background like an underlying melody to a orchestral symphony. Ekieo stands in the door way and takes a moment to kneel and say a some words to please the machine spirits and Forge Master beyond. It is all really a show, not in deception or disrespect as such, more in order and duty to please the forge master as he knows this may hold him in slightly better light and thus grant him a more favourable encounter.

 

The room is empty apart from the robot arms and benches and desks with neatly laid out components of weapons and tech placed upon them. Walls decorated with armaments of varying kinds, parts of unknown origins. A faint glow flickers with excitement from an adjoining room suggesting that someone may be working within it. Ekieo stands patient just within the room, anticipating the Forge masters eventual entrance. Eventually the Giant frame of the Master strides his way past Ekieo, his hulking armour groaning and servos twitching as he moves to his work desk as if Ekieo wasn’t even there. The master carries of with his work at the bench, tinkering with what looks like an electronic panel of some kind. His lazer cutters cutting new circuit lines and fusing wires to it. So delicate and precise for such a giant of a Tech.

 

Ekieo Shuffles slightly in order to make a slight sound, a gentle nudge to the Forge Mater of his presence.

 

“I know you are there Veteran. Do not take my silence and un acknowledge passing as ignorance to you being. It is customary that you address me first and my custom to decide if to converse from your domineer”.

 

“Forgive me Forge Master, I am new to this station and unaware of its customs as of yet”.

 

“I have heard of your being here Veteran. A chapter of rarity like yours in these parts since such vast depletion in numbers does not go un noticed or un said. You must be aware of some customs as i heard your prayer and I acknowledge your respect for my forge”.

 

“It was the way with the Forge Master on Watch Fortress Erioch, as well as the Masters of the Forge within my chapter, what is left of them”.

“My name is Fasumé . How may I assist you Veteran”.

 

“Brother Solza Forge Master. We are to deploy for a mission in the early morrow and I require some additional equipment for it. Im wish to take a Chainsword, stun grenades and some specialist ammunition for my service Bolter, can you acquire these for me”.

 

“I can see if we have your requests, what ammunition do you require”?

 

“I require Metal Storm rounds”.

 

“A truly deadly round in the right situation and in the right hand, these I will have to make for you. I will see to it that you have these items before your departure and are blessed accordingly. Is that all? If so I will continue with my work, some of your team have been here prior and I must work in haste in order to safely complete the combat requirements”.

“May the Emperor guide your hand true Forge Master Fasumé. I bid you well”.

 

With that Ekieo bows to the Fasumé and turns to exit. He passes under the grand arch of a door frame and makes his way to the training area for a last minute close quarter exercise. Although Ekieo is well trained in close quarter combat it is more on field encounters. Drop pods spilling into the middle of enemies and battles engaged instantly. This will require room clearance and precise tactical prowess in a kill zone situation. This though is what EKieo relished in, learning new skills, understanding and implementing new tactics and full out furious combat!

 

Upon finishing his training Ekieo decided that some form of meditative rest would be wise. Although he could go with out Ekieo believed that meditation before an assignment and the clearing of ones mind was important. To clear the mind of all but the mission would only aid in his complete focus and energy to give for the team. He made his way back to his quarters and on the way enlisted the help of some armour serfs. They made a slight detour to the Armour room and Ekieo was helped out of his MK 8 armour, given to him by his chapter upon acceptance into the Death Watch for the honour of this. Ekieo was robbed and then lightly made his was to his quarters. Here he would mediate till it was time, time to suit up and ready for Tybers command, a wait that could not come soon enough.

Edited March 10, 2021 by That Beyond the Light

[apologist]

The Gatebreaker's face was screwed up. Likewise his arms were ready and forward, pauldrons up, in the habitual combat-hunch of the Space Marine. He reminded himself – again – that this was no warzone.

 

The sound and activity around him, however, made that hard to believe.

 

The forge was steamingly hot; condensation clinging to every metal surface. Great belches of flame and thick, acrid smoke filled the air – but the worst of it was the noise. Great chest-shaking percussions rang out constantly, overlaying each other. The hammering blows were individually so loud that each was bracketed by the momentary distinctive silence of the aural cut-out built into the Lyman's Ear, but together they produced a cacophonous racket. Yeng wondered how the serfs kept their hearing – or indeed their sanity, he mused – in such a place.

 

He still found the world of the tech-cult unnerving. The Gatebreakers maintained no techmarines; their meagre armoury instead being attended by the flighty inducted Magi of the Endworlds. All of their maintenance was done behind sealed doors, any light and noise hidden carefully away from the uninducted.

 

Nor had Yeng adapted to the techmarines; their dual duty sitting ill with him. How could one serve the master of war, if one also served the master of knowledge?

 

As though summoned by his thoughts, a shape loomed from the crimson clouds; massive and threatening. 

"Identified-Brother Oto Yeng of the Gatebreakers," roared the Master of the Forge, Fasumé, over the noise. His voxmitters were straining, the words trailed and interspersed with 'pops' of overwork. Yeng called back, but as his Iron Armour's external speakers was equipped with little directional control, his wary greeting lost in the noise.

 

The half-marine reached out, and Yeng almost leaned back instinctively to avoid the massive gauntlet; but managed to control himself. The Techmarine's hand grasped the side of his collar. "You will find speech easier this way." Fasumé intoned.

 

Indeed; indeed. Bypassing the external vox entirely, Fasumé was using his armour to transmit the sound across. Yeng's collar served as a wishbone of sorts, transmitting and amplifying the noise. The Gatebreaker was impressed; an adaptive solution worthy of the Edge.

 

"I have come to treat with you, master-of-the-quarters." Yeng began, uncertain of the form. The two formed an uncomfortable tableau, their armour ruddily underlit. Their stillness was belied by the flashes of arcing energy that crackled around them. 

"None of that, Identified-Brother Oto Yeng. My title is Forgemaster, and your requests precede you." The forgemaster's arm, thick around as a jummi-tree, was still held at Yeng's throat. "A chest stands already within your quarters; it contains all you will need."

 

Before Yeng could reply, Fasumé withdrew his arm, rendering any speech impossible. The Forgemaster knuckled his hands together – some sort of esoteric salute, Yeng supposed – and stepped back, already turning away.

 

Yeng hurriedly used his plate to send a ping, and the Forgemaster paused. Turning back, he saw Yeng give a stilted half-bow of thanks. Afterwards, Yeng was unsure whether the curt noise that stemmed from Fasumé's armour was one of amusement, contempt, or simply another aural 'pop' of overworked mechanics. Whatever the case, the Forgemaster retreated into the roiling scarlet clouds of his domain with no further word.

 

+++

 

Later, back in his quarters, Yeng ran a hand over the chest. It measured some three yards square, by a yard deep, and was thick about with leather detailing. The frame itself was some form of metal, dark and smoked. A metal and wax seal, marbled yellow and green, was affixed over the casing's fastener. Yeng presumed that last detail was a personal touch – though perhaps it was coincidence.

 

The silence was refreshing – almost unnerving. Unhelmed but still armoured, he absently scratched at the dangling frame of his aural augmetic to ensure it was functioning. The unfamiliar brass-and-sulphur smell of the forge still hung about him; faint but unmistakeable. He had lit a pair of djeuss-sticks; the camphor and sandalwood overlaying the smell.

 

Breaking the seal, he lifted the lid. Packed in sturdy foam lay a wondrous reductor gauntlet. He carefully lifted it out and held it up to the light, admiring the lines of the polished surgical silver. Looking more closely, beautiful filigree ran all along the chasing. The chainblade was newly-fitted. He slipped it over his gauntlet, locking it into place, and spent a few minutes testing the mechanisms; sliding needles in and out before cycling to the next. 

 

Besides the hole left in the foam was a box of boltshells, and his refurbished boltgun. Again, he lifted it out and tested the mechanisms, finding all to his liking. Squatting besides the crate, he spent a few minutes meditatively filling the boltgun magazines. As each shell of the specialist ammunition slid into place, scraping over the previous one and forcing it downwards on the spring, he murmured imprecations to the Ten to guide his aim.

 

Finished, he carefully placed each magazine beside him, then reached in once more. Grasping his chainsword, he lifted it out. His hand slipped over the handle. The leatherwork there had been sensitively repaired, he noticed: the curious style of long-and-short stitch that was common to the Endworlds carefully, if inexpertly, copied by the serf on the Watch-station. The fact amused Yeng: he cared not one jot how Begtse was dressed, as long as it served; but he was touched by the attention to detail the Deathwatch staff observed. 

Edited March 15, 2021 by apologist

[ashlander47]

He nodded in agreement to the sage words of the Raptor. An appreciation of past engendered a concern for the future, and Mankind's future rested squarely on the shoulders of men like he and Incariel -- even mortals may know honour and glory in their duty to the Throne. As he mulled this over the Consecrator's eyes flitted from the pastiche museum of armour suits that the Raptor wore to the new arrivals filing into the Armorium. There was twinge of bitterness as his eyes fell on each, and the mental memory web filled in the information to context of their own armours.

 

The irony was not lost on him. Though a Consecrator may know himself to be a warrior, he also trains as archaeologist of sorts, and in a prideful way only a true son of the Lion can, he will invest a great deal of his self worth in historical means in which he clothes himself. It was him that was supposed to be decked in ancient pieces of equipment, things thought lost, things thought merely legend, things distant and obscure in the mists of time. Instead, as the irony again stung him with a bitterness, it seemed every marine besides himself was somehow honoured in Maximus pattern suits.

 

He reasoned, as was reasonable, that these were exemplars of their chapter, and each secondment to the Deathwatch carries with it the undercurrent of pomp and politics. You send the best and you make sure they shine brightly, so that the brothers who return to their parent chapters tell tales of the gallant knights they served alongside. It was a bias of exceptionalism that wrangled with him. It was at odds with his chapter's doctrine to truly concern himself with such matters of ego, yet the irony, as he could so perceptibly behold with each new marine coming into Fasumé's domain, was a rich and seemingly bottomless cup to drink from. He felt shamed. The Consecrator, the wielder and steward of relics, isn't even wearing the oldest power armour on the station. 

 

None of this inner process was displayed on his face, though his eyes did return to the Raptor's suit before him. It was indeed an imperfect fit, and as he knew the sons of Corax to be, likely a product of pragmatism as much as it was a relic from the past.  He watched marines saunter in past him and address the Forgemaster, each barking their requests, and each garnering an affirmation or interrogative from the techmarine. It seemed that the Kill-Teams were swarming him all at once, but no doubt the enhanced cogitator's of this Lion's Regent marine was more than capable of keeping up with the barrage of requests and conversation. Rather than linger, Incariel submitted his requisitions, received a brief confirmation, and departed.

 

On the way out he had encountered the Apothecary Pallan, and just like that his bitterness and feelings of shame melted away as he engaged in that same targeted social warfare that he had been applying all throughout Blackthorn. For Apothecary Arcost's benefit he kept the dialogue short and bid his leave, though the ruminations of that brief exchange swirled around in the mists of his thoughts like a lingering stench that wind or perfume could truly be rid of. He had replaced his helmet, expunging outside sensory sources and enveloping his senses in the artificial, the enclosed, and the isolated reams of information he could curate. The mission reports continued to flow down one side of his visor as he made his way to the barracks of Blackthorn, content to meditate in solemnity before the coming storm of pre-deployment training.

 

Edited March 12, 2021 by ashlander47

[Petragor]

The time had come for Chaka to equip himself for the coming mission. His standard gear was on him as usual, and a serf had already prepared his few personal effects for transport, including the Naval Combat simulation set. Finally, an excuse to play it with his brethren! The game never was as well-respected as Regicide, but Chaka believes it to be much more practically applicable. However, putting his mind back to the task at hand, Chaka heads for the Armorium, to ask for some equipment from Azurea’s Forgemaster.

 

The Armorium was quite busy when Chaka got there. Several other Marines had evidently already spoken with the Forgemaster, inspecting various gear and magazines of Special-issue ammunitions. Brother Vorr was particularly noticeable, holding a Chainsword in one hand, while checking the power settings of an imposing Multi-Melta with the other. Even despite the helmet his enthusiasm is clear, and infectious. Chaka smiles and heads to the Forgemaster.

 

“Brother-Forgemaster! Are the Machine-Spirits of Azurea in a good mood today?”

 

Fasumé looks at Chaka, unimpressed with his casual demeanor.

 

“They are many, and thus they are in a wide variety of moods, Brother Embe. I assume you are here for gear?”

 

Chaka nods, and crosses his arms. He thinks to himself that he must remember this is a techmarine. A more serious approach will do him well.

 

“I am indeed. I expect a lot of close-quarters combat, so a melta weapon should be quite effective.”

 

The Forgemaster looks him over, eyes settling on the Umbani Wezulu, mag-locked to his hip.

 

“Wielding such a relic, I’d say you’re already quite effective in close quarters. It looks like it has seen better days however. If you would allow it, I would like to take a look at it once you return. Still, you are not mistaken about melta being effective. Perhaps…”

 

Opening a nearby crate behind him, he gently pulls out a Combi-Melta, so well-maintained that it shines.

 

“This should further increase your close-range stopping power, but also give you a longer-ranged alternative if you find need for it. It is a newly forged weapon, it has no history nor a name, but if you wield it well on your mission, that may change. Was there anything else?”

 

Chaka takes the Combi-Melta as it is handed to him, while thinking about what else might be useful.

 

“Do you have an Auspex to spare? Our mission objective is investigation after all…”

 

“I have. Do you know how to properly operate such a device?”

 

Chaka mag-locks the Combi-Melta next to his Bolt Pistol before responding.

 

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be requesting one eh? Boarding and defending ships means constantly being near machines. I’ve studied some rites from other Tech-Marines and Mechanicus acolytes. It comes in handy.”

 

The Forgemaster nods and produces an Auspex, handing it to Chaka as well.

 

“You should be well prepared now. Remember, look to your battle-gear-”

 

“-and it will protect me. Words to live by Forgemaster. I will do right by these tools you have entrusted me with, and they shall do right by me.”

 

With that, Chaka leaves the Armorium, as Fasumé turns to speak with another Battle-Brother.

Edited March 11, 2021 by Petragor