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

[Jeremy.Phillips]

As Argus entered the Watch-Station’s Armorium close on the heels of his squadmates, he stopped and stared at the vast array of weapons before him. ‘This is almost as impressive as the Armorium on the Omnis Arcanum’ he thought to himself.

 

He noticed the other members of Swordhands greeting someone before they moved towards the weapon stores. This must be the Forge-Master, Fasumé. He was the size of a Greenskin and like the Techmarines he knew from his home chapter, was adorned with a multitude of mechanisms. Argus approached the Forge-Master and made the sign of the cog across his chest.

 

“Greetings Forge-Master. I am Argus of the Blood Ravens, now of Swordhand.”

 

The giant Marine said nothing, only staring back at Argus with a penetrating gaze. Argus felt like a stack of spare parts being assessed for quality and found wanting. After it was clear Fasumé had no intention of replying Argus walked around him towards the weaponry. He chastised himself for not bringing the Forge-Master an offering. He had heard of such things but had not brought anything of value on his journey here. Perhaps he would keep an eye out for such an item on his next mission.

 

As Argus walked on, his eyes lingered on some of the most exquisite melee weapons he had ever seen. A power sword with an unknown heraldic emblem on the haft, a chainsword of an archaic design covered entirely in honor markings, and even a blade of a deep black which Argus did not recognize. The Deathwatch have such relics as he could hardly believe. He reached out to touch the mysterious sword before catching himself. It had been decided that he would not bare one of these honorable weapons, instead he would equip himself with a mere tool. He continued on until he found the bulkhead shears. It was unadorned though well-kept and clean. A long thick mechanism which attached to a special harness on his Power Armour. At the end were two heavy, chisel-tipped adamantine blades. With this he could tear apart Voidcraft or anything who got in his way. With the assistance of an equipment-servitor he attached the harness and power couplings. Testing the hydraulics of the thing, he opened and closed the blades repeatedly. While he did not relish the responsibility of carrying such a device, he knew that at least if he was making the breach holes, he would not be a first through them.

 

Satisfied with his new equipment he made his way for the Plasma weaponry he had seen when he first entered. Let the rest of the squad use Melta weapons if they wished, they required little skill. He preferred to unleash the destructive power of the stars themselves upon his enemies. As he looked across the rack of Plasma Guns before him, he noted one which was unadorned. The others had honour markings, trophies, fetishes, and emblems of warrior’s past, but this was one was blank. He lifted it from its encasement and saw the red dot laser sight mounted on top. This would be a good weapon for boarding actions he thought.

 

“What is your name?” he said quietly to the weapons.

 

“This one has no name.” Came the loud monotone reply from behind him.

 

He spun quickly around and stared directly at the Forge-Master’s breastplate. He looked up. “A weapon should have a name.” Argus smiled. “I shall take this one, and help it earn its name.”

Edited March 18, 2021 by Jeremy.Phillips

[Commissar Molotov]

[Placeholder]

 

Requisition is complete!

 

-Please update your character sheet accordingly!

 

- Move your character towards Azurea's docking bays so you can prepare to embark your transport to either the Xenocide or the Inquisitor's ship, the Scrutator.

 

- I intend to update on Sunday (potentially Monday) with your respective vessels entering the warp.

Edited March 12, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Ancient_Sobek]

Placeholder 

[Steel Company]

Activating his squad-level vox, Tyber spoke, +Blackthorn, we must head for our transport, be ready to depart once we are all present.+

As he turned to leave the current room he was in, Tyber switched to a private vox to the Chaplain, +We have time on this walk, I will answer your question about my crest, it is my host, the host of crowns. Long before the First became known as the Dark Angels, before they were known as the Angels of Death, they were known as the Uncrowned Princes. In that time, they had developed the way Astartes would make war.+

He paused thinking about how to continue his answer for a moment, + In that time, they learned that not every company had all the tools and skillsets it needed to win every engagement. So they developed the hosts, a cadre of Astartes with special skill sets that would be distributed throughout the chapters and companies. That when needed, they would offer their skill sets to the force commander of that engagement zone.+

Again he paused to touch the crest as he said, +The host of crowns were specialized for honor duels that were common during the unification of Terra but became less common during the crusade, so they intergraded being life wards to force commanders as well. Does that make sense?+

Edited March 13, 2021 by Steel Company

[adesro18]

After the appropriate rights were observed and Atreus was satisfied that the belicose spirits of his newly requisitioned war gear were abated and prepared he left the armory. With a farewell to the master of the forge, the quick exchange of cog machina, Atreus began the journey to the docking station. The clang of hammers and the sound of the forge fading behind him, leaving him with his thoughts. His first assignment as a Deathwatch member.

He had confidence in his team, the training had instilled a sense of pride in him, they would make a formidable force. Their collective experiences alloying in a tough but flexible amalgam. Atreus was determined, he would honor his chapter and show his new brothers his strength.

He awaited his fellow brothers to gather at the ship, waiting for destiny.

Edited March 15, 2021 by adesro18

[A.T.]

Blackthorn had already assembled by the time Atratus arrived at the docking bay, a small army of serfs and servitors parting before him as they swarmed like ants back and forth to the shuttlecraft carrying supplies and unguents to appease the machine spirit in its long deployment.

 

Addressing both the kill-team and Tyber directly and formally, "I regret my late arrival. I make no excuse and accept reproach for my delay." It was not like the Raptor to be late, seemingly sincere in his apology his demeanour gave no hint as to the cause but the blades wrapped in black silk at his side seemed likely suspects.

 

 

Serfs had brought the blades to Atratus less than an hour earlier. Preparations were complete, equipment already dispatched to the transport vessel, it was a time of final study and meditation. The arrival of more than one of the bondsmen was rarely a sign of good news and from the sight of what they carried Atratus knew that the captain of the 5th company had fallen. Romuald Homa, survivor of a thousand deployments across the Imperium, slain when the Astral Claws ignited the skies of Cygnax to ensure its loss would be pyrrhic... just as the skys of Scydala were burned, a fine line between salvation and damnation.

 

The message that accompanied the blades came from Issodon himself, the short account of actions perhaps the greatest length at which Atratus had known him in his brief experience to have expressed opinion on another's character rather than their action. Though the Raptors had been released from the warzone Homa had insisted on retaining a presence amongst the larger forces of the loyalists to guard against the battlefield deceptions of the Mantis Warriors.

 

Atratus took the blades from the serfs, dismissing them as he carefully removed weapons from the black silk in which they had been wrapped. Each more slight than the swords more commonly used by the astartes and made to the captains personal specifications. Homa had been the one to put forward the young Raptors name for the Deathwatch, never one to hold with tradition in his choices nor to accept the safe path when others would be left to walk in dangerous without his guidance. The blades were not gift but challenge.

 

Lost in thought he was roused by the chrono-alarm of his armour, deployment had already begun. A poor start to things as he quickly wrapped the blades once more and moved swiftly towards the docking bay.

Edited March 14, 2021 by A.T.

[Necronaut]

Helgrim nodded to Tyber and voxed in return, +Thank you for indulging me, brother. I believe I understand better now some of the practices of the sons of the Ist Legion. Information on your rites can be difficult to come by in the Librarium, though I will admit that I am not always at home in those halls.+

He adjusted the weaponry attached to his belt while they walked before continuing, +My own chapter was born in the aftermath of the Battle of Calth. Our patriarch, Tulian, was among the few survivors of that great atrocity, and it was his brush with death and the devastation of his legion cohort that made the Doom Eagles what they are today. For nearly 10,000 years we have upheld his teachings regarding the nature of death and the meaning of service to the Emperor and His subjects. We do not fear death or harm for we are already dead.+

The chaplain trailed off, recalling his many brushes with death over his many decades of service to the Emperor, and how each wound suffered for the Throne had tested his faith and renewed his sense of purpose.

The Emperor will guide my wrath and that of my sworn-brothers when we make planetfall. I will punish the heretic, I will purge the xenos…

Coming back from his brief reverie, Helgrim realized they had nearly reached the docks of Azurea. +My thanks, Brother Tyber, for the insight into your chapter. I would learn more from you on our voyage, time and your patience permitting, that I might better understand your ways. It will be an honor to die alongside you and the rest of Blackthorn in battle!+

Edited January 10, 2022 by Necronaut

[That Beyond the Light]

Ekieos Vox link to his quarters activated and Tybers voice filled the room.

 

“Blackthorn, we must head for our transport, be ready to depart once we are all present”.

 

Ekieos eyes sprang open, his attention instant and is thoughts focused. His meditation was over, and his body and mind were ready once more. He rose in one seamless motion to his feet and dawned his robes. He replied to Tybers call

 

"Acknowledged Sergeant, Ekieo out".

 

Ekieo exits his quarters, making his way back to the Armour room. His straight face a sign of exemplary training and faith to his teachings. Yet beneath is a simmering excitement that he feels for every mission. For to truly bury emotions like these would allow you to become a robot and that is not what a marine is, a weapon, an extension of the emperor’s wrath, yes, but not an automated being.

 

Ekieo entered the Armour room and requested his serfs to help him equip his armour. Ekieo stands there, dead still, focused, running through his knowledge of the mission so far, the words of the inquisitor and all that he can be sure of. Robotic arms attach the armour plating, whirling sounds ring true as screws spin, anchoring down the paltes flush, becoming environmentally sealed, al the while the chants of prayers and quotes ushered under the mechanic sounds. Layer upon layer is added till only Ekieos head is visible. He stands there, proud in his jet-black armour, left arm glistening in the artificial light, chrome plating cold to the touch and piercing to the sight. Ekieo attaches his regular armament to his utility belt, all having their very specific place and carefully, almost lovingly placed. A serf hands him his helmet, not needed right now so mag locked to his belt, tucked once more just behind his holstered pistol. He looks at one of the serfs and gives them a cold nod in recognition of their help. Boots released from the holding lock in an explosive vent of air before the heavy clunk and thud on the forward grating, Ekieo marches forward and exits the Armour room.

 

The stairs to the lower level are long and winding, the echo of mechanical armour is heard from the top to the bottom, heralding the presence of the warrior. Ekieo enters the docking bay to find some of his Blackthorn brothers already present. Just by the entrance is a table and a serf calls for Ekieo

 

"Brother Solza, Brother Solza, your weapons and special ammo are awaiting you here".

 

Ekieo turns sharply and makes his way to the Serf and the table adorned with weaponry.

 

"Master Fasume would like you to know that your special ammo was crafted especially for you this morning and your chainsword was serviced and rebuilt to the utmost care".

 

"Please thank the Forge Master for me and tell him I will return them battle hardened but in safe order".

 

Ekieo takes the Chainsword with its glistening teeth, razor sharp and armour tearing hardened, mag locking it to his belt on the left side. He picks up the magazine of metal storm and places it in his spare ammo pouch, at hand when needed. Now equipped he continues to join his team.

 

Approaching Blackthorn his brothers are chatting and double checking their equipment over. Ekieo looks around and there seems to be someone missing. Atratus enters the bay in a rushed manner, the team vox opens and Atratus voice speaks.

 

"I regret my late arrival. I make no excuse and accept reproach for my delay."

 

Ekieo, passes no judgement to his fellow brother, his demeener seems to be of embarrassment and it is not like a brother of his stature to be late. Something else was to play and it felt personal. Ekieo then hope that this would not echo into the team, he would keep one eye on Atratus, it better that and things not transpire than not to and it cause an issue for the team. Ekieo gives Atratus a nod, its intension is of friendly concern for his metal being. (will add any response of Atratus if needed)

 

Ekieo Turns back to the Team, ready and awaiting Tybers words....

Edited March 14, 2021 by That Beyond the Light

[Xin Ceithan]

Placeholder

 

Sabaan at the forge, preparing for deployment 

[ashlander47]

Placeholder

 

+ Mustering in the docking bays.

[Petragor]

If there is one rule that applies to the Astartes, it would be that there is always another mission to complete, and for Chaka, the next was about to begin. 

 

He stands in the docking bay, carrying most of his possessions on him, tools of war mag-locked on various parts of his armor. A serf, Chaka believed his name was Ricole, was carrying a crate with all of Chakas personal effects inside, including the Naval Combat simulation miniatures of course. The rest was mostly robes, equipment maintenance gear, and religious supplies. 

 

Chaka looks out of the hangar, into the void, or more specifically the section of void the Xenocide was in. A Deathwatch Strike Cruiser, she would be a fine transport to the mission area. Though Chaka was slightly bothered by the fact that they weren’t given an escort. Even a battleship can be overwhelmed by a small fleet of more maneuverable raiders taking advantage of the blind spots. An escort or two would be able to harass these assailants long enough to make them retreat, or force them in front of the flagships guns. 

 

The Xenocide could be afforded no such luxury however. If she was engaged by voidcraft during the mission, she would probably have to rely upon Swordhand to board the enemy and destroy key components to get an edge in the fighting. Indeed, if the heavily armed Dark Lantern were to appear, there would be few other ways to harm the vessel. If this could be accomplished however, her prow Lance should be more than capable of destroying those who opposed her.

 

Satisfied with his assessment of the Xenocides capabilities, Chaka prepares to depart.

Edited March 14, 2021 by Petragor

[Ancient_Sobek]

Placeholder 

[Brother Argent]

Following the trend (of me and others) Placeholder - Pallan meditates on the mission at hand as he makes his way to the docking bay.  He remembers working alongside the Inquisition during the fall of the Eyrie and also thinks of the possibilities of dying in battle at the hive, with conflicted enthusiasm.

[Komrade_Atomic]

Gideon, his new weaponry with him, began to board a shuttle onto the Xenocide, reaching to a small enclosed pack on his belt. As he took a seat, he pulled out his personal trapping, a card of the emperor's tarot. He breathed in quietly, before focusing in on the card. Soon, the surroundings and noise of the hangar became nothing but distant, before fading away, as he watched the card shift and change. He had done it before his deployment to the Delvis Rifts, and before some of his other (if minor) operations while in the watch. He sought answers to his fate, and though he knew that the card would not answer him fully, it gave him peace of mind. 

 

After a few minutes of the same, ever changing wisps, Gideon stored the card away, and thought of the Mission ahead. He recalled the vessel being a rogue traders, if he was not mistaken, and his mind harkened back to his own memories aboard a Rogue Traders vessel, attached within a retinue.

 

The Bolter spat out rounds and turned another of the would be raiders into varying chunks of flesh and xenos armour. The sharp and jagged armour served as little protection against the Bolter Rounds, and it stood out against the atmosphere of the ship, letting targets be marked easily. "Brother Thire, your location?" Gideon activated his Vox Link and spoke back, as he continued searching for another of the Xenos Pirates. "Still near the Engine Bay, just cleaning up some of these stowaways." As he turned, he saw the fast outline of a sprinting hostile with a glinting blade behind him. As he lept forwards, and made to plunge his sword into the Astartes, the tell-tale sound of a Plasma Discharge alerted both Gideon and his Adversary to a third party. Already set on his course and unable to move, the Xenos Swordsman was hit square by the Plasma blast, and subsequently reduced to ashes. Gideon turned to see the Captain of the Vessel, a Rogue Trader by a slightly long and convoluted name (as it was with the Rogue Trader Dynasties), lowering a plasma pistol. "Good Shot." Gideon spoke, removing his helmet and looking behind the Captain, seeing some Arch-Militants and Crew Members equipped with Hot-Shot Lasguns and Shotguns fanning out. "Thank you. My men can handle clearing the rest of the ship." The Rogue Trader spoke, before gesturing for Gideon to follow him.

 

As Gideon's reminiscing ended, he smiled to himself, before looking out the window towards the Xenocide, patiently waiting as the Shuttle began to lift.

[Deadass]

His hands were quickly growing accustomed to the new heavy bolter’s feel and weight. It was of an older make - Mars-pattern, he believed. The fact that the Forgemaster entrusted him with such a storied weapon was humbling and, Boros believed, not entirely deserved. The gun issued to him two years ago had been destroyed, lost to the same creature that had slaughtered Jor and Cathar. Fasumé had not been pleased when the Revenant requested a new one, and part of his mind had him believe the Techmarine’s humours slipped even further as he returned to request a few necessary alterations. Still, the bigger marine had set to the task immediately.

Brethren of the line had never been allowed into the foundry beneath the Angelspire, the towering monastery of the Angels Revenant. This law, so spoke the Chaplains, was born out of tradition rather than secrecy. Boros’ brotherhood was one of eremites and just as the Chapter at large eschewed the company of mortals, so did the artisans of Libethra labour in seclusion to better hear the word of the God-Emperor as they crafted magnificent engines of death. Seeing Fasumé work his little wonders upon the weapon presented a unique opportunity, and he was grateful for it. When he left the forges of Azurea, Boros had gained a new appreciation for the many different cogs that powered the Imperial warmachine.

Travelling along the hallway to the docks, he repeatedly encountered gangs of Chapter Serfs. All of Azurea was busy with the departure of two large starships yet the robed mortals were obligated to pay deference to their betters, falling into a deep bow as the Devastator’s heavy frame trudged by. Boros ignored them all. His attention was on the glasscrete panels lining the corridor, where he could lay eyes on the vessel that would ferry him to war once more. The Xenocide had been repaired as well as nine weeks could afford. Although the sable livery of the Deathwatch still gave way to the grey of bare adamantium in more than a few places, any hull damage sustained during the war above Syndalla appeared to have been sealed. To his layman’s eye, the Strike Cruiser looked fully operational.

Boros finally arrived in the hangar bay assigned to Kill-Team Swordhand. Several of his squadmates had gathered already, busying themselves with final checks and preparations before boarding their shuttlecraft. He saw Titus and Thire, their newcomers from Gallowbane. The Astral Drake Maladon seemed to study technical readouts from his armour while Embe’s attention was absorbed by the sight of the Xenocide waiting in the void. He did not yet see Sergeant Kol or Achillion, and that bitter part of his mind reared its head again. More whispers? More secrecy? Boros pushed the thoughts aside, reminding himself of his visit in the forge and the insight it had provided.

 

Was it the purpose of the cog to question the burden of its peers?

 

Suddenly, he felt ashamed of the lack of trust he had felt these last few days. The old Swordhand was gone, indeed, but these new warriors were no lesser for it. Rather than expecting the dynamic to stay the same, it was he who had to adapt to Kol’s own style of leadership; whatever that entailed. Boros did his best to banish the perpetual half-sneer from his expression and approached the group. It was time he began to think like a Squad-Brother again.

Edited March 14, 2021 by AHorriblePerson

[ApostleRP]

Having waited patiently in the Blackthorn training cells for the rest of the Kill-team to gather, Lycus follows Tyber's instruction to make for the docking ports. He quietly continues to mutter the rites of preparation that he has learned and drilled into his soul through his many years of service among the Phantoms. 

 

Soon, he thinks, it will be time to serve death in His name. "The time cannot arrive soon enough..." he growls through the grimace of his helm as he arrives at the docks. 

Edited March 15, 2021 by ApostleRP

[Commissar Molotov]

Deathwatch Strike Cruiser Xenocide

Azurean Nearspace

 

Captain Rubio oversees your embarkation and the transfer of all your equipment personally, before leaving to tend to matters of command. Those of you who have served with the Voidmaster before know that this is an accustomed action; he is diligent in the extreme. For those of you who are new to the Xenocide, you find it reassuringly familiar - one legacy of the Imperium's reliance upon STC technology. As you proceed through the vessel's corridors the ship's crew step to one side, nodding deferentially or making the sign of the aquila over their uniforms.

 

Soon enough, you feel the thrum of the Xenocide's engines vibrating through the decking beneath your feet as the Strike Cruiser slips from its berth and begins to navigate to the system's edge. You know that soon translation alarms will sound and that the vessel will prepare to enter the Immaterium, making the journey toward the Abyss.

 

Inquisitorial Vessel Scrutator

Azurean Nearspace

 

You transfer to Inquisitor Grist's vessel aboard the Stormraven Spearcast; those of you who fought at Syndalla are comforted at least by the presence of one more familiar ally. The stubby, pugnacious flyer served you well upon the surface of Vinov and conveyed you back from the ailing bio-ship. Spearcast flies well under the ministrations of Techmarine Sabaan, and the eleven of you transfer swiftly to this new vessel.

 

For his part, the Inquisitor travels aboard a shuttlecraft of his own, along with his strange retinue and more of the equipment and supplies that your Kill-Team requires.

 

Once aboard the vessel - named Scrutator - you find it is cramped and spartan, even by the standards of the Astartes. You are led from the docking bay to the chambers that will house you by a crewman that seems alive enough, but all others that you pass seem to be mind-locked servitors or robed tech-priests tending to the swollen machinery and over-developed warp engines threading the vessel. This is indeed a ship built for speed - near enough the smallest spaceframe capable of housing warp engines.

 

This impatience seems to be one of Inquisitor Grist's defining traits, and you see it come to the fore, once again; the cartolith displays upon your helm visors show the Scrutator navigating its way out of the minefields and defense networks spiralling around Azurea, making best speed towards the system limits and the jump point into the warp.

 

 

Watch-Station Azurea

As both the Xenocide and Scrutator carve out their passage into the warp, tearing open the fabric of realspace, Watch-Captain Diocles leans forward, gauntleted hands balled into fists upon the hololithic projector.

 

His gaze turns now to the Star Phantoms' Battle-Barge, looming over Azurea like a down-turned sword.

 

"May the Emperor be with him," he says, to himself.

 

 

GM: Please do not post.

 

With both vessels entering the warp, our narrative will briefly transition and we will see a few other posts from our sub-plot.

 

Afterwards I will post with your vessels having reached their destinations, and you will be able to construct two-part posts (if you wish) detailing what your character got up to during warp travel, and their reactions to the new information I present you with.

 

Until then, sit back and enjoy the ride!

 

[Mazer Rackham]

They let him keep his warplate.

 

Whether it was some mocking show of hospitality, or bland respect for the Watch, he was unsure. Perhaps it was just pragmatic irony; after all, if he attempted to break free or fight his captors, his life would be ended near-instantly in a hail of bolts.

 

Maybe that’s what they wanted.  What need for a trial, when their vengeance could be sated by the contrivance of ‘shot whilst attempting to escape’? How damning.

 

How easy.

 

He lost count of the days spent aboard Clepsydra; time stretched on and on, into nothingness. Something fogged his mind, psychic trickery, perhaps.  Maybe something as mundane as sleep deprivation. He felt concussed, his thoughts intangible, made of smoke, floating in and out of his grasp.

 

His interrogators probed and goaded him constantly, a withering psychic siege that left him drained and confused. Allegations and accusations clawed and hammered in his brain until he was unsure which were spoken by his interrogators, and which were solely his.  The warplate bore the scars of battle sustained upon the Syndallan Hive Ship. Sometimes, he would run his gauntleted fingers along the gouges and runnels in the ceramite. They, at least, gave him something solid to cling to.

 

He promised to make it hard for his accusers, but couldn’t remember who he’d made the promise to...a tall warrior, a tattoo, green and gold...a sulde -

 

Huron.

 

It always came back to Huron. Again and again, he was battered with the shame of that word, a blunt cudgel to his soul, a bitter pill forced down his throat, reminding him he had no friends, no hope.  There was no rescue here, just the erasure of all he was, all he stood for.

 

Huron.

 

The atrocities of the Badab War. The Tithe Fleet broken and burning, the act of open defiance that started it all, or more accurately had just been the unmasking of the Astral Claws’ ambitions  The punch and counterpunch of the early war, the mournful Lamenters, the keen Mantis Warriors and the morbid Executioners.  WIlling or no, they all stood beside the Blue and SIlver Lions as at first their fortunes waxed, before waning in the fierce gaze of the High Lords.

 

Huron.

 

Bellerophon’s Fall, where brothers blasted brothers into smoking meat,  the destruction of a Strike Cruiser in the service of the Marines Errant. The Betrayal at Grief, where unknown vessels ambushed a parley.  Even though it could never be confirmed, his captors told him Huron's mark was upon it.

 

Huron!

 

It was a malign truth - he’d seen operations like it before, against the Eldar Corsairs plaguing the Maelstrom Zone, tempting targets left vulnerable, so that the Battlefleet could ambush the nimble pirates and lay them low.

 

The war continued, over airless moons and the toxic jungles of Gargathea.  Nowhere in the Zone was untouched or unsullied by the reciprocity.

 

The losses sustained by the Chapters who brought the Astral Claws to heel were horrendous, some of them suffering greatly - some inflicting terrible punishment on their own account, the slaughter of Mantis Warrior Aspirants, the near annihilation of his comrades and friends.

 

HURON.

 

The corpse-haunted ruin that was once Badab Primaris.

 

It were as though his worst fears harboured on Syndalla came to pass - as he stared out into the darkness and the stars over General Wrex’s grave.  Infernos laying siege to the beautiful hanging gardens, the ancient tablets of stone depicting the one-hundred laws of the White City smashed into rubble, pulverised into dust beneath the cleats of an invading Space Marine force.  He could smell the smouldering bark and crisping leaves, hear the crackle of wood splitting, and the inexorable stomp of armour-shod boots.

 

HURON.

 

His mind reeled against the enormity of it, fingers biting deeply into the scars in his armour, as before.  Here only a few millimetres of grip provided desperate foundation, enough to hold on to who he was, where he was -.

 

HURON!

 

As always, even this anchor deserted him when the accusations hammered his skull.  He rebelled, as he had before.

 

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

 

The echo of his wordless defiance, as he tried to bite off the torment, died in a silence which was almost painful, a chasm needing to be filled.

 

When it was, he wished it hadn’t.

 

++ What is your name? ++

 

The voice came from...somewhere.  Maybe everywhere.  It surrounded him just like the darkness. An entirely empty void swallowing everything.  Close, dense, claustrophobic.

 

“Hur -” he stopped himself, just in time.  He tried to remember, failed. “ I...don’t...know,” he replied through cracked and gummed lips.  The murmur was all he could manage.  His mouth was parched and his body was weak with lack of nourishment.  The scribes and zealots preached there was no limit to Astartes endurance.

 

Yet he'd found it.

 

"Water..." he whispered.

 

His voice didn't carry. Sound, too, was suffocated.

 

Almost indiscernible, a faint light eroded the edges of darkness, casting the vaulted chamber into a sepulchral half-life. Specks of dust hovered, suspended in the arid twilight. Not the dank sound of a cave, then. Instead, the dry throat of a tomb.  From above, a single light burst from the roof with startling brightness, blinding even his Occulobe. It painted a clean, pure cone into the gloom, spilling onto the gold-edged Imperial Aquila that was etched into the deck, illuminating it.

 

The shimmer of the Imperial symbol of power lit his face with a golden cast.  He could see his nose, the black clots of his own blood.

 

In the shadows of the perimeter there were hints of grave faces, haunting the darkness.  They were neither allies nor kindness, and the gall erupted onto his palette from his tortured Betcher's Gland to dribble burning acid down his chin.

 

The Strong, are Strongest Alone.

 

And he remembered.

 

"I am Daon Akkad, the last Lion of Badab."

 

Then he spat at them, a pathetic gesture in his condition, but his chest heaved in a maelstrom of agony, with the harsh laughter of a dead world bathed in hell-light.

 

In whose shadow he suffered.

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

Star Phantoms Battle Barge ’Clepsydra’

Azurean Nearspace

 

The hold of the Thunderhawk around you is empty.

 

A craft such as this could easily hold thirty Astartes, harnessed in their warplate and with wargear ready to defend the Imperium. On the short journey from Azurea, its only passenger is you.

 

Of course, silence and solitude are no strangers to you; in your duties among the sarcophagi of the Hallowed Sepulchre, they were constant companions. But the emptiness of the gunship serves as a further reminder of your brothers of Swordhand, already dispatched on another mission.

 

But then you have a mission of your own, however unorthodox it may be.

 

Even without consulting your helm displays, you feel the Thunderhawk lift off from Azurea’s docking bays, traversing the space that separates Daon Akkad from his brothers and passing unimpeded through the Star Phantoms’ defenses.

 

As the gunship settles heavily like a raptor coming to roost, you hear the hissing of atmospheric equalisation and pneumatics.

 

Finally, finally, the ramp of the Thunderhawk descends. Almost immediately you hear the sounds of an Astartes docking bay; cargo being transported by serfs; tech-adepts consecrating flying craft; the sounds of grinding metal and the clatter of boots on decking.

 

This, then, is the Clepsydra.

 

As befits your rank and your station as an ambassador of the Deathwatch, you are greeted by the sight of an honour guard. A squad of Star Phantoms, holding their weapons at rigid attention like a colonnade of alabaster statues.

 

At their front, you see a warrior wearing the Codex-approved markings of a Sergeant. His brow bears a cluster of service studs and a deep scar that continues down his cheek. The honorific name-plate on his pauldron reads DIOGENES. After a curt half-bow, he addresses you.

 

“Codicier Montesa, of the Deathwatch. You are welcome here aboard theClepsydra, in the sight of the Imperator Mortifex.”

Edited March 16, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

Silence had been his companion in the patient ticking of void travel, where smaller vessels traveled hundreds of kilometers to reach nearby vessels. It was not a true silence, for the muffled rumbling of the Thunderhawk's engines and the comforting familiar thrum of his active power armour banished any notion of that. Rather, it was a silence in the quiet lack of the comradery he ached for in his bones. 

 

He passed the several hours in meditative composure, muttering benedictions of focus and resolve on recycle. He had a duty ahead, one he was not looking forward to, yet no less prepared.

 

It was his duty, and he would see it through to the end. 

 

- - -

 

A quiet sigh whisped from the Codicier as his ceramite boots paced down the Thunderhawk's disembarkation ramp into the vast and unmistakable expanse of a Battle Barge hanger. It had been decades since he last set foot upon one of these vast monarchs of the Astartes armadas, memory fading back to kneeling on the flagship of his own Chapter, the Rutilus Tyrannus, where he made his oath to Chapter Master Kantor and swore that he would honour the Chapter in secondment to the Deathwatch. 

 

It was said that no two Battle Barges were alike, and he believed it. However, one can always find the similarities, if one knows where to look.

 

His eyes flickered away from the ship and scanned over the honour guard that now stood in salute, welcoming him with a fair bit more grandeur than he expected.. In truth, he wasn't exactly sure what he expected. The crimson-washed vision of his eyes moved across each of the warriors, the tactical readout of his mk IV helm's internal databanks feeding him a screed of unnecessary information about their decorated warplate and idle bolters. One thing, however, did stand out. Each of the gathered warriors bore the black sigil of a swirling star on their right pauldron, a mark of honour as the campaign badge of the Badab War. 

 

The meaning of this gesture and the presence of such warrior, now greeting him as he came to speak on behalf of one they swore to destroy, was not lost on the Codicier. 

 

He returned the respectful gesture, both hands moving away from his sheathed weapons to make the sign of the aquila over the silver eagle adorning his breastplace. 

 

Imperator Mortifex. He had read about this Chapter and their unique faith in the Emperor's divinity, more so their devout beliefs in a direct spawn of the wider Imperium's own religious doctrine of the Adeptus Ministorum. As was his duty, he had meticulously studied the public records on the Chapter, and everything that had been available knowledge of the Badab War... what little and vague information he could find outside of the logs now already sealed beneath a writ of purgation.

 

"Your Chapter honours me with such a welcome, Sergeant Diogenes. I thank you for your presence." he said, the smile hidden beneath the sleek beauty of his mk IV helmet.

 

Truly, his suit was a majesty of antique design, carefully maintained over millenia where these crimson eye lenses had seen the burning skies of Terra as the treacherous Warmaster had brought the Imperium to its knees. Once gold and then a deep, regal blue, now it stood in abyssal black and polished silver, but the ancient warplate's craftsmanship was no less apparent. 

 

 

If it ever becomes important, the antique suit of mk IV Astartes warplate confers a +10 to all interaction tests with fellow Astartes.

Edited March 16, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

A void-going vessel as mighty as Clepsydra is a titanic construction, a hive city torn from the ground and flung into the void. You follow Sergeant Diogenes through the Battle Barge’s corridors, travelling towards Parmenion, the Chief Librarian of the Star Phantoms. The Astartes you encounter during your travel avoid your gaze, moving swiftly onward. Your black warplate marks you out as an outsider, stark against their white. As they pass, the death’s-head hourglasses leer at you, leaving you to ponder the significance of such panoply.

 

Eventually you are brought before a set of double-doors, surrounded by intricately carved hexagrammic wards inlaid with silver and platinum. The doors themselves are marked with the horned skull of the Librarius. It is a symbol that you are innately familiar with; one that has defined the course of your life. And yet in that moment, it strikes you as eerily sinister.

 

The entranceway is guarded by a battle-brother, holding a bolter across his chest. At the sight of you he tenses, the sharpened edge of his killing instinct held in check only by the presence of the Brother-Sergeant at your side. As you near he steps aside, nodding deferentially as the doors swing open.

 

You find yourself in a large, vaulted chamber that would not look out of place if it were an Ecclesiarchal cathedral from one of the many shrine-worlds across the Imperium. Arched buttresses, stained-glass windows depicting Imperial triumphs. The walls are clothed with crusading banners from the Star Phantoms’ histories: some shot through and scorched by enemy fire; others stained with the blood of those that died keeping them aloft.

 

Throughout the chamber you see plinths surmounted with crackling stasis fields, keeping the artefacts within protected against decay. Through the haziness you make out alien weapons, pieces of armour or fragments of Aeldari wraithstone; in one, a skull that matches no Xenos you have ever seen before.

 

As you continue you see a heavy-snouted helm that could only come from a suit of terminator armour. The steel-coloured ceramite glows with a blue sheen through the stasis field that catches the eye. It is only as you step forward that you see that one whole side of the helm has been reduced to slag, the eye-lenses shattered and the blackened ceramite like molten wax.

 

The gold plaque on the plinth gleams in the light: THE TYRANT OF BADAB.

 

It is then you hear the grinding snarl of Terminator warplate, like a pack of wolves descending upon you. You half expect the ground to shake under his heavy tread.

 

Even knowing what to expect, drawing close to Chief Librarian Parmenion is overwhelming. Doubtless his craggy features and stern gaze could make the bravest of the Phantoms’ neophytes quail. But it is the formidable psychic force that exudes from him like shimmering heat from a fire that makes your head swim. You can feel his unbridled power, edged with boiling rage. It is akin to standing near a volcano’s maw.

 

This is a battle-psyker, possessed of a potency like few you have ever experienced - perhaps even above that of the Chief Librarian of the Crimson Fists.

 

“Hail, Codicier.”

 

His grinding, tectonic tones are civil - perhaps surprisingly so.

Edited March 16, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

The travel through the Clepsydra had been, in truth, an educational one. Though they had shared few words, Diogenes had escorted him through the bowels of the mighty battleship as one would treat an honoured guest. Even though he had come in defense of one whom they had sworn to destroy, they were not treating him with any disrespect. Quite the contrary. Still, he was every part the outsider, the stark contrast of their warplate only emphasizing the divide between him and these noble warriors.

 

"Your vessel is beautiful..." he had said once during their travel through the Battle Barge, a comment he meant with utmost sincerity. The baroque exaggeration of gothic architecture impressed upon him that he was walking through the hallowed temple of a grand cathedral, one he might in some distant Shrine World of the utmost import to Imperial faith. 

 

Still, they moved on, until he was escorted into the presence of a hall that was altogether more familiar to his senses. Despite the constancy of the inlaid architecture, this place had all the hallmarks of a Librarium, a temple to the history and legends of a Chapter's warriors and all they had done in life before their souls were commended to the Golden Throne.

 

With a pressurized hiss, Guillermo removed his helm and brought it to rest under the crook of his arm, wishing to let his own eyes look on in wonder at the sacred ground of another Chapter's Librarium. History was palpable in the air, the significance of each hanging standard and ancient trophy buzzing in his skull as he slowly paced into the hall with all the care of a reverent pilgrim.

 

It was breath-taking.

 

"Hail, Codicier," came the voice he had been expecting, though its tone was kinder than he had expected. 

 

He turned to face the Chief Librarian, having to look up towards the ancient warrior's scarred visage. Having to look up to keep eye-contact with anyone was still something of a rare experience. 

 

Without thinking, Guillermo bowed to the veteran battle-psyker in unnecessary deference, unwilling to show a master of the Librarium (even one of a different Chapter) anything but the utmost respect. 

"Hail, Chief Librarian Parmenion. I am deeply honoured by your presence, Lord."

 

In truth, he had not expected to the see the ancient warrior again so soon, having assumed that responsibility would fall to someone of lesser import. For all his talents and his history of honour in service to his Chapter and the Long Watch, he was but a Codicier... This was a Master of the Chapter, a warrior of unparalleled martial prowess and a psychic mastery that few in the galaxy could ever hope to match. It would be a lie to say he could not taste the excitement on his own tongue, a yearning to reach out and commune with the mind of a warrior who undoubtedly matched his own Chapter's master, Chief Librarian Mendoza.

 

"Your vessel is beautiful..." he said, repeating the same words he had shared with Sergeant Diogenes.

[Commissar Molotov]

“Rise, Codicier,” Parmenion rumbles. “You are welcome here, and I would not see you debase yourself.”

 

As you stand, he turns to the matter of your compliment, still hanging in the air like curling incense-smoke.

 

“Clepsydra is more than a Battle Barge; it is a monument, a memorial to those who have fallen in service to the Imperium. We are taught that the Imperator Mortifex knows us for the manner of our lives, and indeed for the manner of our deaths. Therefore we justly honour the sacrifice of those greater than ourselves.”

 

Parmenion turns and begins to walk. He does not bid you to follow, but his might seems to draw you onward, like a satellite orbiting a star. The pair of you walk out into a long viewing gallery, one entire wall open to the expanse of space surrounding the Battle-Barge. With an outstretched arm, the Chief Librarian gestures at the Watch-Station before you both.

 

“We have remained at anchor here for nine weeks. I have three companies of fighting warriors here aboard Clepsydra, ready to fight in the Emperor’s name - veterans of the Badabian War all. Who can tell what campaigns we could have prosecuted in that time? The Imperial subjects we could have freed from beneath the yoke? The heretics and the aliens that could, even now, lie crushed beneath our feet? If you were to accuse me of being a wastrel, you might not be far from the mark.”

 

Here, the Star Phantom comes to a halt. The many purity seals and honour markings still flutter, gently. It gives the mountainous giant a sense of inertia.

 

“Your honour is your life: let none dispute it,” Parmenion says, almost to himself. You recognise the words immediately. “It is a maxim oft repeated by your fellow Sons of Dorn, as I understand it. What price do we place upon our honour? My Chapter pledged its entire strength to the Badab War. We swore a solemn and binding oath to purge the Imperium of the Tyrant’s Legion. And it is a task that is not finished yet. Should I return to the Master of my Chapter and tell him I have failed in my appointed duty?”

 

He fixes you with his iron gaze, as though you might be able to provide him with an answer.

 

“You might think me cruel or callous for the actions I have taken, Codicier. Doubtless some of your brothers do. I take no pleasure in what I have done. I could have slain Daon Akkad straight in pious rage abord your Cruiser. The High Lords themselves would have championed me for doing so. But I must confess that in this moment, I am uncertain. I have attempted to seek guidance from the Emperor’s Tarot, but the way forward is unclear. To allow a traitor to dwell so close to our bosom invites only disaster. Badab has taught us that. But there is a crime in wasting the lives of the Emperor’s faithful.”

 

Here, at last, you see an opportunity, a chink in the armour of this very formidable foe. You simply need to make the right argument...

Edited March 17, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

He followed.

 

By the Throne, of course he followed. He felt like a child, an infant scholar that nipped at the heels of his aged tutor as he strode in the Terminator's wake. This was far from the first time he had stood in the presence of warriors in the most holy suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour... And yet, the stature in communion with the Chief Librarian's psychic might and reputation gave him an air of something truly titanic. 

 

He quietly hung onto every word, keeping his own thoughts at bay for now as he waited for the Maste of the Librarius to make his point. Those venerated warriors of the Librarius oath were often as skilled a storyteller as as they were in the art of psychic mastery. No word was wasted, no breath unmeasured. But, here they had come to the matter at hand. Akkad. He listened, eyes easing shut for a moment as he came to understand the thoughts of the venerable master. 

 

"It gladdens me that you stayed your hand upon the Xenocide, Lord. If you had made your judgment there and then, I would not have had this privilege to speak with you."

 

He did not press further on the matter, letting those simple words speak all that he needed to on the subject. Should the Chief Librarian had dictated the execution of Daon Akkad there and then, honour and oath-sworn brotherhood would have demanded that the Codicier raise his blade and stand with his sworn brother. He would not have survived. This was a simple fact of reality, and he was not ashamed to admit it.

 

He hoped that the Chief Librarian would not think less of him for it.

 

Guillermo let the moment pass in silence, allowing the silence to stretch for a time as he quietly looked out the gallery and onto the Watch Tower below. From here, it seemed almost like a glittering jewel of pristine silver. 

 

"Brother Balasus, slain at the Desecration of Lamiad IV, fallen even as he slew two warriors of the Arch-Heretic's legion, the Word Bearers."

 

"Brother Champion Kinziru, slain at Vorgal Prime, fallen only after he had personally taken the head of the greenskin warlord."

 

"Brother Murdus 'the Kassite', pronounced slain after the Strike Cruiser Unbreakable Oath went critical in the orbital battle over Zanadu. Thirteen individual distinguishing honours of marksmanship."

 

Again, he paused after completing the list of the honoured dead, knowing each name and their deeds, for he had committed them to memory before staining their legend with eternal black.

 

" 'If your life is given in service to the Emperor, your death shall not be in vain.' My blood-kin, Brother Chaplain Argento told me those words once, as he had told many of our brothers before. I think of those words now, as you weigh the life of my brother Akkad in your hand, as is your sacred duty sworn to Him on Terra. Those three warriors, heroes that had given their lives to the Emperor, will be remembered forever in our halls and legends. They took the Apocryphon Oath as each and warrior that has come before and after in service to the Long Watch. They swore to set aside their Chapter of origin and stand with new brothers as those of the Deathwatch. They gave their live to the Emperor and His people, knowing that they would never return to their home alive."

 

"Each of those warriors, heroes all, were Lions, just as Daon Akkad still is." This time, he turned to face the Chief Librarian again, searching the warrior's scarred visage for any sign of recognition. 

 

"As was my duty as Codicier of the Librarium, I performed the sacred rite of Obliteration, as was decreed by the High Lords. All record of that blasphemous Chapter are now stripped from our text, save for those locked under the highest authority. In accordance with our traditions, each of the three Lions fallen in the Long Watch have posthumously taken the sable, their origins black but their memories and loyalty remembered as untarnished. I watched as each of their shoulder pads were stained in the abyssal black, never again to take the lapis and silver of their origins."

 

"Their service, their loyalty will not be forgotten, nor will their legends be dishonoured by the curs that turned their backs on the Imperium. Chief Librarian Parmenion, I implore you as a representative of the Deathwatch and the Apocryphon Oath, let loyalty not be forgotten. Let us judge the warrior Akkad, and come to find where his true loyalties lie. If he still remains a Lion, then let him die as all the traitors of Badab must. But, if his heart is true and his loyalties strong with Him on Terra, then let him take the sable -as his fallen brothers have- and give himself wholly to the Emperor's service. No matter the outcome, the last Lion of Badab will be cleansed from Watch Fortress Azurea and your duty done, Lord."

Edited March 17, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

"Your words have a weight beyond your years, Codicier," Parmenion says, nodding. "A trial by ordeal, then."

 

The Chief Librarian gestures and Sergeant Diogenes appears, at the periphery of your vision.

 

"Take the Codicier to Daon Akkad. Provide them with anything that they should require," Parmenion says.

 

The Sergeant nods, wordlessly.

 

+ + +

 

With Diogenes as your guide once more, you descend deeper into the heart of the Battle-Barge.

 

Finally, you are brought to a doorway guarded by yet another alabaster-armoured marine. At your approach, the door is opened. The room within is small; it takes you scant seconds to take in the contents. You see a slab upon which to rest; a small shrine dedicated to the Phantom's interpretation of the Emperor; a ledge upon which to eat. The cell is sparse, certainly - but such is the custom among many of the more austere Chapters of the Astartes. It is certainly no torture chamber.

 

You see Akkad in his armour, sitting on the slab with his helm beside him. He does not look up as the door enters; he seems entirely motionless. His warplate is as pristine as the day of the Syndallan triumph; you know Teralil would be pleased with its condition. His face is unmarked; to your eye he bears no sign of injury, even when considering the healing factor of the Astartes.

 

You look back to Diogenes, almost questioningly; the Sergeant scowls.

 

"He wears no shackles, save those with which he binds himself.”

 

You step forward, and the door shuts behind you, leaving you and Akkad alone.