To Plunder The Stars Themselves, Episode III

[Beren]

Svelk observes the mortal's ramblings with passive indifference. Beneath the blank stare of his helm however, his mind pores over teh wors.

 

He grew up listening to void-tales. There had been little enough way to iscern between myth and fact, aye, but all the same it ha gleaned him some familiarity of voidcraft. That, and the reavers he had consumed.

 

Everything the man had said was plausible. 

[Necronaut]

Vesalius listened intently to Lang, his black-within-black eyes studying the human's expressions, searching for any tell-tale signs of falsehood or doubt. The compound vision he was afforded by the specialized augury systems integrated into his helm afforded him a unique, insect-like window into the world. The raw unadulterated feed from the environment around him, slightly crimson-tinted, bled seamlessly into a fractured, kaleidoscopic riot of color and data: body temperature, pulse, perspiration, the sharp intake of Lang's breath when the grim and imposing psyker loomed over him, the dilation of his pupils…

 

The apothecary looked on coldly as the mortal told his tale, made his petty excuses. It mattered not: Talek Varn's desire was no longer the forlorn hope of some void-maddened long-hauler. The human apparently spoke the truth, or at least believed he spoke the truth. Vesalius pursed his lips in contemplation of the task set before them while his helm-picter captured the interrogation for later study.

 

The prospect of attempting to secure a derelict vessel in uncharted space with only a partial squad was daunting. Though he was not void-born like some of the others in Cutlass, he had spent more than enough time in his former chapter's fleet to come to know the myriad dangers of the vacuum of space in intimate detail. Radiation poisoning, explosive decompression, suffocation and boiling blood were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it came to the dangers of space travel. Far worse things lurked in the darkness-between-stars. Xenos. Untold species of alien existed which seemed to delight in taking up residence in, if not utterly infesting derelict vessels. Gene-stealers were the most notable, if for no other reasons than their ferocity and terrifying animal cunning. He remembered the wounds sustained by some of his tactical dreadnought-clad brothers who had managed to uncover a nest of the vile xenos and survive to tell the tale. Their wounds and the fresh damage to their warplate were ragged and savage in nature. He could scarcely believe that the rending claws of a beast could scar and gouge ceramite in such a manner, but the evidence was etched in stone as it were. His scarred lips twisted into a sneer of disgust at the thought of the insidious menace.

 

There was little doubt in his mind that if, if, they were to find this vessel that they would be lucky to find it so abandoned a second time. Extremely lucky.

 

No expert on navigating the void himself, much less tracking down a 1-2 kilometer long wedge of ceramite and steel in a nigh infinite volume of space, Vesalius was content to let the others pose their questions to the human.

 

He turned to look side-long at their new would-be sergeant. Draak. The Traveller had been a stern, reserved leader, one given to aloofness and bitter silence. He had worn his contempt as a suit of armor, betraying little of his true nature. Their new, self-proclaimed commander was blunt, brash and, above all else, loud. Not exactly traits which Vesalius viewed favorably, but ones which could suit his purposes. Just as one could hide from the light cast by a hateful star in the lee of a stellar object, so too could one slip silently and unnoticed after one so cacophonous had passed.

 

Let him play at king, then. Anything to draw less attention to himself in this den of pirates and thieves.

Edited April 3, 2022 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

Their different poises betrayed their different levels of investment.

 

Faceplate squarely fixed on Lang so his cowl wouldn't move and betray his true interest, Orphiel allowed his gaze to roam behind the lenses of his visor, noticing the avian-twitch of Vesalius' beaked helm as he considered the tale Lang spun.  Perhaps the mind behind the plague-doctor mask was peeling back layers of fleshy Allium to get at the grains of truth within.  Draak's blunt hammer a contrast to the chirurgeon's scalpel.  Decimus was just out of the corner of his eye.

 

Svelk's casual absorption was oddly reassuring in the presence of Degier's chill menace.

 

Or Odysseus and his inscrutable indifference.  Such a dark mirror to Brynjarr, whose questions left Orphiel to his silence and observations, the astrogation a challenge to which he could not contribute.  A gap in his own education perhaps, and yet it was not erudition which led them all here, it was myth.  That strange weirding manner of half-truths and hushed secrets which dropped a trail of breadcrumbs for the unwary - or unrighteous - to follow, gobbling them up like a truffle hound.  Didn't he read and lose himself in Ygrekian Tragedyes?

 

It took all his effort to remember where he was and not shake his head in self-deprecation.  The Sergeant was his unwitting ally in summation of their Heraclean trial.

 

As Ghoran smiled, the gesture never quite reaching his eyes, Orphiel absorbed the last utterances, bearing in mind the huge size of the beast they were hunting with very small spears.  Bigger than a Retribution Battleship.  It was a monstrous seagoing beast, and whilst a dagger could not slay a whale, a fleet of harpooners could.

 

We'll be along.

 

He imagined the riot of vessels, their displacements a shoal of biting, clawing fish latching onto the rolling cetacean, wallowing in stellar debris and ringed with vented gas, wreathed with ice crystals - each the last mote of oxygen and water keeping the mortal crew alive.  Such a remembrance came from hard experience of the Deathw-no.  First Company.  Degier.  Odysseus.

 

He lit a small candle, turning back to the matter at hand.

 

Dying whales attracted all manner of predators, but that wasn't Orphiel's problem.  The real irony wasn't the threat posed by aliens, or warp spectres, but his allies.  They would flood the arteries of the beast with Iron Gods.  Dozens of the bastards called in to secure the strategically significant locations aboard the Pride, hampering any chance of him getting 'lost' in the confusion and arranging an 'accident'.  A challenge born of standard procedure.  What did he expect?  Speaking of which...

 

Orphiel caught Ghoran's eye by deliberately dropping his head to gaze at the power fist the man wore, feeling the rasp of his hood against the back of his helm.  There was no chance the exaggerated movement could be mistaken, and when Orphiel looked back up, the grizzled veteran had the grace to offer a knowing smirk, perhaps caught.

 

No fighting, no fuss.

 

Such lies.

Edited April 3, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Black Cohort]

"How do we know that he is the only survivor?  More than one knew of this great secret.  As the foul inquisition says, the only way a secret can be kept between two men is if one of them is dead."

[Lysimachus]

Lang sniffs in response to Draak's yell.

 

"It was a single vessel. Intact, certainly not some conglomerate of wrecks. Undamaged, as far as I could see. Imperial but, as I said, it matched no class that I have seen before or since."

 

He turns towards Decimus.

 

"The only others who knew the location were my fellow bridge officers. I was the only one sent planetside on Viorda, and the only one not aboard when the Trailblazer was chased by the Navy and disappeared in a warp storm. To the best of my knowledge, it has never reappeared." He sighs. "I would sincerely like to hope that my crewmates survived, but realistically I believe I am the last."

 

Finally, he nods to Brynjarr. His response is more considered, more respectful of an Astartes who also knows something about navigating the black.

 

"We were looking for systems with either habitable worlds or mineral deposits for mass extraction. Three M- type, two K- type stars, one B- type. Some had planetary bodies, others none. I have spent hours since poring over local charts, but remember, these stars are marked on no map… except the one we were making aboard the Trailblazer. In truth, sir, I will not be able to find the correct sequence of stars until I can examine more detailed, closer-ranged augur readings. However, once we reach Rhogau and take those readings, I am completely confident I will be able to identify and retrace our path."

 

He pauses.

 

"The final star was an M- type Red Dwarf, the system unremarkable in all respects. Empty but for a few scattered asteroids we intended to survey for useful elements. The ship was in orbit, just barely, held at the furthest limits of the star's gravitational pull. Stable though, minimal rotation. If memory serves, it was inclined at exactly twenty three degrees to the solar plane."

 

Lang looks around, seemingly trying to decide whether to say more.

 

"If you wish to hear my honest opinion, its placement was too precise to be an accident. Positioned in a perfect heliocentric orbit on the very edge of an empty star system many light-years from any Imperial warp routes, and left in a secured but unpowered state? I believe the vessel must have been deliberately hidden. If I am correct, who knows how long before Vespucci's day the Pride was interred there. Centuries? Millennia? As far back as the dawn of the Imperium itself?"

 

***

[Beren]

Svelk sudenly takes a step forwards, looming over the mortal, his vox-emitters turne up a notch.

 

"Who else did you tell? Void-tales run from a voisman's lips like their blood runs into the void itself. Do not expect us to believe you kept it to yourself, not when it is such a great prize to pay for, an not one you could have hoped to exploit alone."

[Lysimachus]

Lang cringes back fearfully, his arm raised defensively above his head.

 

"No one, no one, Lord!" he insists. "Well… no details at least! When I was left behind on Viorda, I was forced to sell those items I had in my possession. Potential buyers of course insisted on hearing something of the goods' provenance. But I gave none of them any more information than what they could have already gleaned from the legend of Vespucci! I always planned to gather sufficient funds to charter a ship and return to find the Pride, but I did not want to share the treasure with half the Segmentum, I am not a fool!"

[Beren]

Svelk does not relent.

 

"Then what did you tell them of yourself? Your posting? An exploratory fleet goes rogue and flees without warning, abandoning a single crewmember with artefacts from an ancient treasure. Scavengers flock to such stories. Trace the Trailblazer back to Rhagau, what then? How long would it take others to stumble upon by the luck of persistence what yo already know."

[Lysimachus]

Lang snarls weakly.

 

"I told you, I gave the buyers no details! I did not tell them we started from Rhogau! So yes, I think it more than likely that there are others, Captains and Traders who have been inspired to go looking for the Pride themselves, but they are still searching blind!" he snaps back. "Perhaps you might wish to get moving rather than wasting time bullying me, in the unlikely event that someone stumbles across it before we can get there!"

[Mazer Rackham]

Orphiel let Svelk break the man down, folding his arms into the black-green robe sleeves across his chest plastron, watching as the mortal seethed and spat in frustration.  Yet he wasn't wrong in his urgings.  When he spoke, Orphiel was amused by the fact his statement was related to matters already on his mind.  He made it a soft thing, a slow blade into the sudden quiet.

 

+Interrogator Jinsho was a Psyker.+

 

He let the ramifications fill the space.

[Machine God]

+Interrogator Jinsho was a Psyker.+

 

 

Orphiel's words hung in the air like a leaden cloud.

Edited April 4, 2022 by Machine God

[Lysimachus]

There is a moment of silence, and the former cartographer also goes suddenly quiet. He gulps in a deep breath and holds it for several seconds. Finally he speaks in a soft rush of displaced air. All spite, arrogance and impatience is gone from his tone, replaced by the memory of barely-checked terror.

 

"That man… that thing… was the most horrifying creature I have ever encountered in more than twenty years as an Explorator. If he had asked me but one question, I would have revealed every single word of my story. But once he had captured me, he largely ignored me, other than to express his scorn and ensure that the Arbites were feeding and watering me. He told me his master was on his way to Viorda Prime to conduct my interrogation personally, and would arrive in less than a month - and of course, they did not know that you would arrive first and steal me out from under their noses."

 

He shudders suddenly.

 

"I think Jinsho wanted to start on me himself, but feared disobeying the orders he had been given. By the Emperor," Lang asks plaintively, "what kind of being could command the fear and obedience of such a monstrosity?"

 

He looks up at Orphiel, then around the rest of the team.

 

"Lords, if you do not believe me and do not wish to seek this treasure with me, please might I ask for one thing? I do not believe any other ally I might find could prevent them from taking me. So end it. Kill me quickly and save me from falling into the hands of Jinsho's master."

[Necronaut]

At Svelk's sudden outburst, Vesalius shifted his weight slightly and tested the fit of Lancet in its scabbard. The human cringed backward under the void-warrior's withering line of questioning, and Vesalius wondered if violence was to follow. Alas, only more blubbering from Lang ensued. The fool had too loose of a tongue by half. Vesalius scowled at the prospect of half of the salvage crews in the segmentum likely already out on the prowl, with an unknowable head-start on Varn's forces, on Kill-Team Cutlass.

His mind raced, vainly attempting to calculate the odds of a scavenger ship finding the derelict before the Dagger Thrust even let slip its moorings. Too much uncertainty. He gripped Lancet's hilt, feeling the wrapped leather flex under his crushing grip. The utter insanity of their situation rendered itself in stark clarity in his mind.

In truth, he didn't actually care whether the Iron Gods found the Pride first or had to carve a bloody path through all manner of void-scum to claim the ship. Nor did he actually care if Varn and his band of renegades even successfully found and claimed the hulk, should it truly exist. He had no illusions as to who would be the prime beneficiary of such a windfall. But what did concern him was the looming possibility that they were either now in direct competition with the Inquisition for the hulk, or walking directly into an Inquisition trap, or both.

He glared at Orphiel through his crimson lenses, briefly wishing his sight could bore a hole through his associate's skull. And just how long were you and the others who went with you sitting on this information?! What game are you playing at, Orphiel?! But he already knew the answer to that riddle, of the lengths such a slippery and duplicitous operator would go to in pursuit of his own goals. The further excuses from Lang did little to alleviate his growing sense of unease.

The Iron Gods were but a means to an end, for the time being, nothing more. He had and would continue to make a home amongst these outcasts, but it would be in the manner of a tick burrowing into the flesh of its host. Vesalius did not intend to be around when the Tyrant's reach inevitably exceeded his grasp, nor would he sell his life dearly in the process.

Edited April 4, 2022 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Devoid of life in an uninhabited system, not that it would matter as even a ship so grand would lack transport for all but essential personnel.

Either the crew had been consumed whole by the warp or the vessel had been exiled, and even a catastrophic gellar failure seemed unlikely to be so... clean.

 

Competing claims and base greed were of no concequence, though description of the Interrogators companion suggested a threat to be ware of. But the vessel itself gave pause and recollections of half truths and cautionary tales, and the feral intelligence that lurked within these ancient warships.

 

At length Odysseus tilted his head forward and spoke, "did your party seek to commune with the ship itself, or transmit any part of its cogitator banks back to your own?"

[Beren]

Svelk's helm snaps round to focus on Odysseus as he speaks, then the assault marine turns his back on the mortal, steps away. He hears Odysseus resume the interrogation behind him he considers the situation.

 

The Pride of Kings had been claimed by the void. A fitting tribute to its hunger. Every drop of blood spilt in its pursuit would serve as further offering. As for Varn... hubris would tell eventually.

 

In the meantime, it seemed more and more likely that his talents would be put to the test.

[Lysimachus]

Lang is subdued in his final responses, the pressure of being 'interviewed' by an entire squad of Astartes beginning to take its toll. As he replies to Odysseus, his voice is becoming wearied, monotone.

 

"I know very little. Our communications officer could not make contact by vox, so the Captain had us come alongside and extend a docking tube to connect with a personnel airlock. I remained on the Bridge, but as I understand, the boarding team were able to manually open the lock and investigate within. They entered into a large cargo hold, full to the brim with containers of weapons, armour and equipment. Some of the crew were ordered to begin bringing crates across to the Trailblazer, while the Executive Officer and our ranking Techpriest led parties towards the Bridge and Engineerium. We… we lost contact with both groups before either could reach their objective. Vox signal stayed strong, but they just… stopped answering. Our crew was too small to risk losing more of us by going looking for them, so the Captain continued to hail them for several minutes, then pulled us out. We thought if they were alive, we could come back for them. If they were alive…"

 

Lang trails off and Ghoran frowns at this sudden, ominous admission.

 

"Well," he grunts finally, "that's a cheery way to end the conversation and no mistake. Still, your boarding parties weren't Space Marines of the Iron Gods. With these lads with you, there shouldn't be any reason to fret!"

 

The Sergeant then looks around you with one raised eyebrow and mutters.

 

"Still, be sure to make that stop at the Armorium on your way out…"

 

***

 

 

 

 

There we go, I think everyone has had the chance to ask questions and been given answers, so if we can move on with Requisition selections, and then I'll move us into our next scene!

[Machine God]

"01001000011010010110010001100101011110010010000001001000011011110110110001100101"

 

Draak chuckled to himself. Suddenly the bio readings of the six other member's of Kill-Team Cutlass appeared on Eisen's HUD.

 

Draak listened to the last of Lang's ramblings.

 

 

 

"We thought if they were alive, we could come back for them. If they were alive…"

Lang trailed off and Ghoran frowned at this sudden, ominous admission.

"Well," he grunted finally, "that's a cheery way to end the conversation and no mistake. Still, your boarding parties weren't Space Marines of the Iron Gods. With these lads with you, there shouldn't be any reason to fret!"

The Sergeant then looked around you with one raised eyebrow and mutters.

"Still, be sure to make that stop at the Armorium on your way out…"

 

"Captain Achard, I trust that you will look after your new crew member? Please treat him kindly" said Draak. "My squad will board the Daggers Thrust shortly after visiting the Armourium. Good Day!"

 

(Edit: Typo's)

Edited April 4, 2022 by Machine God

[A.T.]

Not so lifeless as has been claimed, yet nothing that sought escape.

 

Odysseus did not follow the others to the armoury but instead returned to his quarters, to a box he had carried near a century now. No mere strongbox or stasis lock, a legacy of a xenos long vanish or perhaps not yet born... for the box was and was not, for that placed within was also removed at some other time and in some other place and so ever did the box remain empty.

 

And from within it he drew a vestige of his past, or perhaps that returned to the box on a day yet to come. A small globe held within case, a single needle suspended within it pointing unerringly at some distant point. A matter to be settled, but times change.

 

Securing the device to his vambrace he made his way towards the armoury. The box itself remained, without concern, for woe to anyone who sought to take what they did not once or later place within.

[Machine God]

Draak left the Audience Hall and proceeded towards the Armourium, requisition algorithms whirring around in his head. His measured steps were true, not too hard and even in purpose.

 

Upon entering the Armourium, Draak lit a votive candle to the Omnissiah and then headed to the requisitions desk. Draak reached for a requisition form and a stylus, however he stopped his action.

 

Draak approached the Master Armourer. Draak stopped in front of the Master Armourer, making the Sign of the Cog with both hands and said:

 

"Master Armourer, I Draak am now the Sergeant of Kill-Team Cutlass and as such I require a melee weapon worthy of a Sergeant. Do you have anything within your illustrious Armourium that might fit my request?"

 

"Hah" laughed the Master Armourer. "Draak you are well versed in the affairs of the Machine, but watch your arrogance! Yes there is such a weapon that I would like for you to wield, simply to get it out of my Armourium. It was salvaged from the raid on Cynarae Dormus, a fickle weapon of power that allows itself to be maintained but not wielded as of yet."

 

"This weapon is currently under the watchful guard of Brother Mharkad, as such you will have to wait. You will wait within my Armourium and help with requisitions for the next five hours!"

 

"Thank you Master Armourer" said Draak, as he headed to the requisitions area.

[Black Cohort]

"It seems like this could be a race, and we will have to be as ruthless and merciless as only Astartes can be.  But make no mistake, if we succeed, the Iron Gods will have lit a beacon that entire sectors of the Imperium will notice.  We must be ready for the inevitable response."

[Mazer Rackham]

Orphiel looked up at Decimus as he made the statement.  Thoughts of Degier and his Throne-damned Vision sprang to mind, the irony that the Witch may have just set in motion a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

It didn't matter.

 

The others stepped out, and in loose column, the team marched down the corridor towards the armoury.  He looked, the sides of the vessel towering, sheer but for the odd gargoyle leering down at them, frozen in time for ten centuries or more past.  A vaulted gothic ceiling, shrouded in shadow, the abeyance of light a problem to mortal eyes, but he could see the wrought-ironwork, the twists and filigrees hanging with cobwebs, dust.

 

It would be like this in the Pride.  Tall, tight, confined combat of the deadliest type.

 

Fighting aboard a ship was fighting inside a city, except with nowhere to run.  Sailors hated fire for that very reason.

 

For a moment, Orphiel felt something stir, perhaps a jealousy for mortal sight that it was so short, so narrow of scope and focus.  Blinkered.  Unlike mortals, he saw everything, a Chandler brought light to darkness, but often it only revealed the horrors there, or sent the vermin scurrying to hide under rocks.  He sighed gently, his observations guttering the flame of his enthusiasm.

 

There was a choice to make: soon.  The Witch, with his own sense of grander sight, no doubt despised him as blinkered, a fool trussed to the wreck he was prepared to go down with, but that was not how an Interrogator's mind worked.  A closed mind kept the torture going, until the excruciation was for the sake of sadism, the information useless.  They couldn't both be right, but as Degier's words nagged at him, what if they were both wrong?

 

And anyone could be wrong.  Luther.  The Lion.

 

He exloaded his list of requirements, the Hellfire shells, a powerful augury array, and sent it via noospheric link, nodding to Draak as he busied himself handling the technology, busy and seeming at home surrounded by mechanical marvels.  There was one thing Orphiel needed to do himself, and it was well overdue.  He searched among the shelves for brushes and lapping powder, cloths and wax, bundling them into his robe.

 

He smiled.  It was useful for many things.

 

He swept past the arming members of the team and into a small machine room, where a serf treadled the blades of the normal soldiery and stood waiting.  Upon completion of his task, the small, hunchbacked man rose on bowly legs, pulling thick goggles from his face.  His cheeks burned black and scarred with sparks.  Myopic eyes peered at Orphiel's hands, grasping Zachariah's Steel.

 

"Apol'gies milord.  Does want the wheel?"

 

For a moment Orphiel walked the markets of Allhallow.  Then, he nodded and sat, pedalling the grindstone carefully so not to tax it, losing himself in the keening sounds of adamantite against the blade, bringing light to the dark edge.

Edited April 6, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Beren]

For once, Svelk's head was bare. Pale skin clung close to the elongated bone of his stubbled head, sunken eyes peering at his helmet. Part of the faceplate from one of the battle-sisters had been affied to the front, wires springing from the joins. He examines it a moment more, then raises it high and brings it down on the worsurface before him, hard. The crash resounds through the armourium. The assaut marine grunts in satisfaction as he sees the modification has held and, ignoring the reactions of others to the noise, slips it on his head.

 

In an instant the room is lit up, the bodies of the other Astartes and the mortal serfs lit up in pulsing crimson. Here and there there are lines that stand bright against their bodies, evidence of broken bones or the cooler hues of augmentics. A valuable tool for the hunt...

 

For a second the inage blurs, then intensifies, searing Svelks eyes. With a growl he brings up his gauntleted hand to crash against it, and the image stablises. For all their supposed skill and training, the tech-wrights here seem less... innovative in their bastardisation than Annechan was. Nor did they know the spirit of this armour as well. The modification would not hold forever, not without being rejected, but for now it would do.

 

He turns, turns to the rest of the equipment left on the table. An assortment of munitions. Another precious melta-bomb, and two smaller devices to rend and tear the flesh and spill the blood. These would supplement the hand-crafted demo-charge he still had at his belt. Finally, he reached down and picked up a small device, tossing it lightly, and catching it.

 

The murderous warrior he had often sparred with during their time waiting for their information to bear fruit had called it a 'stummer'. A device to deaden the sound of footsteps, silence the song of the blade drawn from its sheath. The description had intrigued Svelk. One must always had a blade in the darkness...

 

His mind flashed back to more certain days, crossing the ice void, lingering in shadows before the lash of his axe-rake drew blood. The roar of the eplosion, or the silent spectacle of its fires blossoming into the void. Besides him two others, with this and this only in common...

 

Older days.

 

Svelk affixes the stummer and munitions to his person, and exits the room without words.

[Trokair]

Even freed from the hunger of plants humans still insisted on day and night, a cycle so ingrained at the depth of the psyche that its arbitrary nature made a mockery of any claim to humanities mastery over the stars. Thus it was what it was Night below, here on the Dagger Thrust, and over on the station.

The interview with Lang had been interesting, on the one hand the man seemed sincerely to believe of what he spoke, and it certainly sounded plausible, if unlikely to the point of disbelieve. But on the other Brynjarr could not feel that it was all too neat.

That previous integrations, for Brynjarr had no doubt that the Tyrnat had wanted to know everything before the squad had their briefing, such as it was, would have loosed Lang’s lip and could account for his willingness to answer so freely now, if indeed that was what he had been doing. Maybe it was greed, the hope to profit from the find.

A trap for the Tyrant and for them perhaps, but if so it was too elaborate, too many points of failures if it was a snare for them. Though a tarp it could still be, just one baited for any explore and not themselves specifically.

It all sat uneasy with Brynjarr, a simple mission had become a chase of greed for the Tyrant, and with such stakes nothing would be simple, and everything would be lethal. Supposing that even if the prize was real and for the taking, would it be a blessing or a curse in the hand of such as here.

On the dawn the ship would come to life again, and sail thereafter but for now it slept below Brynjarr, with but a few scant souls on duty in this artificial night. The apprehension at what the dawn would bring is why he had sought space and quiet, to mediate and fortify. The minor observation room he had used previously had been filled with supplies for the ship, relegated to auxiliary storage, as if the crates could enjoy the view.

Instead he had gone for a walk on the hull, and see the stars directly. It had been some time he knew when another approached.

+A turn of the blade, brother?+

While the stars, void and walk had been good for his mind and soul, a bout would be good for the body. Signaling agreement with one hand, briefly wondering how universal sign languages where, but for something so simple the other would no doubt read the intent regardless.

+Though perhaps inside+ he added over the vox after a while.

Edited April 7, 2022 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

Once more the Dagger Thrust hummed beneath his feet, and his quarry stood, gazing out at the stars he'd proven so enamoured of when he questioned Lieutenant Lang.

 

Orphiel did not hide his presence, but his approach did not disturb the Breacher and void-wanderer, who simply remained engrossed, his magboots ceased in wandering the hull.

 

+A turn of the blade, brother?+ Orphiel asked, keeping his tone light.

 

To emphasise he merely offered a practice bout he kept Zachariah's Steel sheathed, inverted it, and knocked the pommel onto Brynjarr's boarding shield.  It was as ancient tradition demanded.  Had he drawn the weapon, and touched the shield with the naked tip, it was a challenge to the death.  Such a thing was not unheard of, but viewed as unbecoming before a dangerous mission, where all must be hale and hearty.

 

Further, it was dishonourable to offer bloody combat to perhaps the only Space Marine worthy of the title in this little band of mercenaries.

 

Orphiel awaited Brynjarr's acceptance or dismissal, equally at home with either reply, joining him in watching the stars go by.

 

The Breacher signalled in Astartes Battle Sign, a simple but universal shorthand shared across the texts of the Codex as penned by the Ultramarines Primarch.  Of course, the 'accent' was different, but Brynjarr's agreement was easily read.

 

+Though perhaps inside...+ he added over the vox after a while.

 

Orphiel smiled and nodded, the odd quiet of the recycling valves fluttering the only sound but for the thump of magnetic cleats upon starship hull.  They passed through the airlock, and rejoined in the common room, although off to one side.

 

He faced Brynjarr with ten paces between them, pulled steel, and pressed the hilt to his forehead in salute.

Edited April 7, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Necronaut]

Vesalius lingered for a few moments in the chamber waiting for the rest of the kill-team to file out. Instead of following the rest to the armorium, he slipped away and returned to the Dagger Thrust's medicae bay. He needed time to think and to plan. Acquiring the necessary hardware for Cutlass's new mission could wait for the time being.

 

He reached for the prayer beads on his work bench which he had scrimshawed from some freshly harvested knuckle bones, and threaded through with steel wire. The beads passed one-by-one through his grip and he closed his eyes as the events that had transpired since he joined Talek Varn's pirates replayed themselves in his mind.

 

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Some time later he found himself in Elysium's armorium, his psyche refocused, a plan taking shape in his mind. There was the here-and-now to contend with, the practical problems to address. He and his fellow band of killers had been charged with recovering a mythical derelict vessel which had been lost on the currents of the void for an unfathomable gulf of time. What awaited them was impossible to know, but there were precautions which could be taken, risks which could be mitigated with adequate forward planning and necessary equipment. One did not attempt to conduct life-saving chirurgery sans basic medical implements, after all.

 

He returned Trypanon to one of the menials, its purpose served, some questions answered. There was subtlety aplenty to be had when exploring and navigating a darkened hulk with scant advanced intelligence, but he suspected, wisely to his mind, that claiming it would be a blunt and brutal affair. He surmised that he would need to be able to seamlessly shift gears from reconnaissance operative to butcher at a moment's notice. But such was the way of things, and it was a duality which his gene-brothers had embraced whole-heartedly. Honorable conduct on the battlefield was an alien concept, a fool's game: achieve your goals by any means necessary, and withdraw before the enemy can respond.

 

Vesalius briefly stopped to examine his new equipment before disembarking for the Dagger Thrust: the powered-harness of the bulkhead shears was secured across his chest; a chainsword of indeterminate vintage and model was mag-locked to his hip; a firing selector and integrated toggle had been mounted onto the receiver of his bolter, and a magazine of metal storm rounds now sat adjacent to a clip of their standard-issue cousins. Lancet rested comfortably in its scabbard in the small of his back, his bolt pistol rested mag-locked on his other hip. He had looked longingly at the rack of power swords, but if they were to cross blades with any scavengers or Inquisition agents, then shock, awe and terror would be among the preferred tools in his toolkit. Any wet-work which required silence could be handled with his quick-razor.

 

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He sat alone in a shadowed alcove in the common-area which Cutlass had taken to using aboard Achard's vessel, watching the others as they went about their final pre-deployment rites while counting the string of knuckle bones. His mind was at ease: it was the calm before the storm. Orphiel approached Brynjarr and offered the greeting of a tap of his sword pommel against the breacher's shield. Whether this was something to pass the time or a means to measure his fellows within the kill-team was a question that still eluded Vesalius. In his chapter's halls, training bouts were common enough within the sparring cages, but duels such as these in the open were almost universally to the death, and thus, by necessity, incredibly rare. To draw naked steel in the presence of others without the intent to kill was considered childish, if not outright rude – that you would casually handle a blade amongst your cohort in a common area implied a lack of respect, a lack of regard for the trade you plied, and a lack of culture. He sneered at the warrior from afar before resuming his counting, mentally reciting his battle-mantras, while continuing to watch the pair.

 

Vesalius might have been a twisted monster clad in the skin and armor of an Astartes, but at least he had manners.

Edited April 7, 2022 by Necronaut