.
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 16 June 2020 - 10:20 AM.
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 16 June 2020 - 10:20 AM.
Episode I: A World Aflame
Watch-Station Azurea
Outer Swordpoint Stars, Taurelian Expanse
Segmentum Ultima
c.918.M41
The light of the planetary system's star was pale - wan, even - but strong enough to cast shadows that deepened the buttresses and crenellations of the Watch-Station's pitted hull. In many ways it resembled a mighty Ecclesiarchal cathedral flung into space to drift among the stars.
The Watch-station hung in orbit of a swollen and bloated gas giant, just as it was itself orbited by smaller craft - frigate squadrons of the Imperial Navy departing on patrol, cruisers returning from faraway campaigns.
Within, the quiet was calm, meditative - overwhelming, even. It seemed somewhat oppressive. All that could be discerned was the sound of soft sound of footsteps, the scratch of a quill on parchment. These were the sounds of a library, not a staging post for war.
But this was an age in which war was never far away.
The warrior granted the title of Watch-Captain of Azurea stood with one gauntleted hand against an armaglass window. The light illuminated his face, his features serious and angular. The platinum servo-studs on his brow gleamed beneath his close-cropped, storm-grey hair.
To say "granted" was inaccurate - he had earnt his rank and his position, had earnt the respect of his comrades. Warriors from different Chapters, born and raised on different worlds across the Imperium. Forged into a Brotherhood. He had paid a blood-cost; had fought and sacrificed against innumerable enemies and xenobreeds. His armour was ornate, yes, as befitted his position, but it was not gaudy. Each and every ornament and decoration had been earned on a battlefield, against a foe of the Emperor.
With an inwardly suppressed sigh, the Captain turned away from the expanse of space to observe the robed figure standing before him.
"Interrogator, let me be clear," his stentorian voice filled the room effortlessly. "I have received the request for aid from your mistress. Her several requests. And it has not proven possible to fulfil those requests." He raised a hand before the Interrogator could speak. "Until now. A new Kill-Team has been dispatched here, to Azurea. They will undertake warp travel to Syndalla aboard the Voice of Thunder"
The robed agent of the Imperial Inquisition seemed to hesitate.
"A single kill-team? Will they be sufficient?"
The withering look the Watch-Captain gave in return was as deadly as any weapon of the Astartes.
"Of course they will, Interrogator." His voice was as hard as ice. "They are of the Deathwatch."
GM: Since being inducted into the Deathwatch, you character has arrived at Watch-Station Azurea between two and ten days ago. Azurea itself is a small Watch-Station, with a complement of approximately 30 Deathwatch Marines. Your characters have yet to meet your Watch-Captain, as he has been secluded with agents of the Inquisition. Your first post should be an introduction to your character and could provide some detail as to how they have spent their time since their arrival.
You should end your post with a summons to meet the Watch-Captain and find out what your assignment will be...
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 10 February 2019 - 10:16 PM.
The Imperial Navy Dauntless light cruiser Aphamaels Bane gracefully sidled into position to dock at cradle Omicron-Theta of Watch Station Azurea. The pressure collar extended and a vice-grip clamped the hull to the distended boarding arm with a hollow ring that bellowed across the inner pressure hull. The disembarkation was a courtesy requested by the Deathwatch to the sole Space Marine on board. The outer airlock door opened and his feet, almost by reflex, bound him to the plated deck as his magboots bit down. He strode forwards, his silver armour gleaming against the dull metal of the cradle's walls. Behind him trundled two Servitors, carrying ammunition crates, a gift from the Forges of the Maelstrom. A wry smile came unbidden to the lips of the Astartes as he thought about it. We make so much of it, we're giving it away.
That was five days ago.
In that time, Daon Akkad had taken the Apocryphon Oath, received his warplate, repainted by the armourium, black as night and quicksilver. The Lion Head of the Astral Claws now snarled from the right pauldron, facing forward. His other battle honours framed it. He had spent further time touring the Watch Station, absorbing as much lore about the Deathwatch and the Fortress in particular as he could - all the while avoiding restricted areas. He had also spent many hours in the Armourium, inscribing Heavy Bolter shells with litanies of detestation, under the watchful eye of the Forge lords.
Standing in the firing ranges, the pale skin of a scarred face usually enclosed in Ceramite, lest it look upon the Maelstrom unprotected, was twisted into a thoughtful scowl. His piercing green eyes stared narrowly at maintenance tools laid before him on the weapons bench. Selecting one, he began to minister to Cadence - making fast the pins and bolts that knit the weapon together. Finally he applied the sacred unguents and ran a hand though his short dark brown hair. He looked at the servitor indifferently, wondering a moment what crime or failure had fated the weakling to this servitude.
"Bring me the test rounds." His voice was blunt, but a surprisingly mellow baritone. His physical presence matched this, his genehanced body a fraction shorter than many of his Brethren, but still tall enough to dwarf a human.
The Servitor advanced with a tray of the heavy calibre shells. Within 3 rounds, the Heavy Bolter had been zeroed and it's war spirits tempered. The other Brothers, busy with their own rites paid him little heed.
Akkad was used to that - the business of tending to weapons that your life and soul relied upon was consuming and personally industrious - it was this focus that caused him to miss the first words of the Serf Initiate who approached him, data-slate in hand. The thunder of Boltguns ceased a moment and Akkad realised he was being stared at.
"Speak."
"The Watch-Captain requires your presence immediately my lord." The Serf proffered the data-slate. The Astral Claw consumed the content of the summons quickly, He left Cadence on the bench, dusted off his battle plate and gestured to the serf to lead, without uttering a further word.
Hope this is alright - it's my first time playing by post!
MR
Edited by Mazer Rackham, 17 February 2018 - 01:15 PM.
=][= Deathwatch PBP Game =][=
Indexes:
IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins
To no man, does the earth mean so much as to the soldier.
When he presses down against her, when he buries his face and his limbs from the fear of death by shell-fire, she is his only friend, his brother, his mother.
He stifles his terror with her security; she shelters him and releases him, only to receive him again and again.
And often, forever.
- All Quiet On The Western Front. (Abridged).
Atratus stood at the entrance to the Watch Captains office, the first to arrive and unsure if protocol required him to await his brothers or entire. Perhaps he was the only one called, but sure that the Captain was aware of his arrival and had opted for prudence.
He had been dispatched to the Deathwatch more than four months prior but not deployed on a single mission, his days spent in study and practice of the orders battle formations and protocols. As the weeks had turned to months creeping doubt had set and was renewed here that perhaps his own experience had been found wanting by the standards of the Watch Captain, most others here veterans of centuries of warfare beyond his own.
But he did not doubt his own skill and his dedication in service to the Emperor. He needed only the opportunity of battle to prove his worth and steeled himself to press his case to the Watch Captain should he again be passed over.
It had been three days since Tyber had first took his oaths to the Deathwatch, in that time he had had his armour tinted black, save for his left arm, had a new pauldron fitted to the left shoulder, with his right now baring his chapter’s heraldry.
On the table in his chamber, sat the data slate from the Watch Captain, requesting his presence, across from it a disassembled chainsword, Tyber activated the audio of the data slate, to read the request as he pulled his iron grey tabard over his war plate. Pulling his sword belt around the tabard, fitting his arming sword into the scabbard on his left hip and placing his bolt pistol into the holder on his right, gave a final check to his purity seal, before letting his grey eyes linger on the disassembled chainsword for a moment before exiting his chambers to meet with the Watch Captain.
OOC:
I think that covers what Tyber would be getting up-to just before the meeting with the watch captain.
Greysight I
Arrival, eight days before the present
I HAD RESISTED, of course. The anguish of Deluge was still fresh in my thoughts, even as the Watch-Station's Sitai-Ezen had ordered servitors and indentured serfs to relieve me of my battle plate. I was to be issued with Mark VIII 'Errant' power armour, with its more refined sensory systems and increased protection. Just one of many 'improvements', they assured me.
Changes was perhaps a more apt word, but the Low Gothic definition is rather crude. In the language of the Great Khan, the concept öörchlölt is used to denote an alteration where the outcome is unknown, and therefore confers no positive nor negative connotations. It simply is. However, we of the Khuu Arga are mindful to not offend the machine-spirit of the battle plate that has kept us alive in our two thousand year history. To much of the Imperium, our battered, bronzed and split visage conjures the image of yaksha, a demon from the very depths of hell designed to scare children into bed, or keep a seditious populace in check. The Storm Sons make no attempt to disabuse them of this notion, in the knowledge that most citizens of the Imperium are unaware of the twisted horrors that serve the Enemy of All.
To offend the machine-spirit now would be a grave sin. It had saved me on Deluge, and but for it, I would lie in the dirt with Ulaansar, Khoisal and the rest, our suldes lost to the chapter. So I resist, not out of arrogance, but gratitude.
I do my best to convey my reluctance in Low Gothic, a language I have not spoken frequently since my Ascension, but it suffices. I have never understood why our Chogorian cousins never picked up the knack for it. Where their Low is halting, ours is mildly accented, and yet our Khorchin is coarse compared to that spoken still by the White Scars at Khum Karta.
The forgemaster concedes to my request. I shall keep my armour, though they tell me it will be painted black, and I shall wear the silver of this strange brotherhood.
One bond for another, I suppose.
I suddenly have an epiphany, and for a moment it dulls the pain of Deluge. The zadyin arga, that is, what other chapters may call 'Librarians' (a painfully narrow term for those blessed with the Gifts of Heaven), choose. Not only do they choose which of us are marked for Ascension, but they also choose our names. Names are important, and we hide our true names to ward away the yaksha. So it has always been, and will always be. When a name is chosen, it is often attributed to some physical attribute of its bearer, or perhaps a lucky name like Enebish, literally, 'Not This One'. In rarer cases, a name is tied to the bearer's fate, and some, like myself, may spend a mortal's lifespan unravelling its meaning.
My name is Saraluzekh. 'Cloud Watcher'. Like many cultures in the Imperium, the Nakarene encapsulate colours in concepts. A cloud on Nakaris ranges from the darkest ash to a burnished silver. The symbolism is not lost on me, and I revel in the Emperor-given revelation.
The forgemaster asks me my name. It is not just a name. It is the essence of who I am. What I must do in service to the Imperium.
'Greysight,' I reply, the word sounding alien to me as I say it for the first time. Low Gothic cannot possibly communicate the wisdom of the Stormseers.
He nods, satisfied. I am to take to sacred, secret oaths to bind me to this new brotherhood, this Deathwatch.
I do so willingly, for I will endure.
Edited by Nineswords, 12 March 2018 - 01:34 PM.
+++
'We are the sword of Jaghatai. Had you not created great sins, the Emperor would not have sent a punishment like us upon you.'
‘We estrange our fathers and forsake false brotherhoods. The War God cares not from whence we came, only that we fight.’
The Unbroken: A Renegade Cult of Obliteration
+++
Trepidation.
It wasn't a feeling he often felt in the century following his ascension into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes but, as his armored feet stepped off the Navy Strike Cruiser that bore him to Watch Station Azurea, the feeling was unmistakable. Maybe it was his being away from the Chapter he was sworn to oversee as one of the Apothecarion. Maybe it was being away from his Battle-Brothers - the only 'humans' he considers, as mortals put it, family or, maybe it was his stepping into a situation wholly alien to him: secondment to the Deathwatch; despite having taken the Vigil voluntarily and partly against his own Chapter Masters wishes.
Either way, he had come too far to back down and return to his Chapter forever shamed.
As he walked into the Station proper and introductions were made in addition to his arms and armour being sent to the Stations Armorium for resanctification and, in the case of his Power Armour, repainting and the addition of Deathwatch Heraldry, Solastion took what little downtime this afforded him to get a proper layout of the station he would call home for the remainder of his Vigil.
Over the next few days, he would go about his duties as Apothecary; the nagging worry of having not been introduced to his Kill-Team or the Watch Captain being pushed to the side as he aided in research, oversaw wounded marines from other teams and drilled, himself, when the opportunity arose.
Through the flurry of all these new avenues of research, providing treatment for wounds and injuries caused by weapons or xenos he never heard of before and maintaining his training regiment, he spared nary a thought on all the new heraldries and marines from different gene-lineages he encountered so preoccupied was he. It certainly did not help that, when otherwise unoccupied, that he sought the company of his Gene-Cousins - fellow Sons of Sanguinius - in essence unconsciously secluding himself from the other marines on the watch station.
It was much to his surprise that, on his seventh day on the station, that a Serf approached him with word that the watch Captain requested his presence for assignment. Not wanting to arrive at his first meeting with the Captain, Solastion promptly made his way to the Armorium to don his armour - the presence of his chapters Sword of Blood-and-Sunlight on his right instead of his left still unnerving - and, once done, makes his way to Captains chambers...
Greysight II
Observations
ON NAKARIS, WE have many different words attributed to the very human sense of sight, and even an insult for those who see, but do not observe. No matter where you hail from in the Imperium, the soul-forges of Nakaris transform you into a hunter of superlative skill. And to be effective at that, one must observe. It is a skill one must practice obsessively with vigour and patience.
It is a cosmic irony then, that so many of my brothers fell on Deluge, because we did not see the true threat until its maw clamped down on us. I promise I will never be blind again. With the lesson learned, I took the oath of chayaran and sought passage outsystem.
I began to hone my skills of observation in earnest, to utilise the gifts I have been given in service to the Emperor. Dozens, then hundreds, and then thousands of observations. It is hard to keep track, even with near eidetic memory.
On KA-926, I had executed a detachment of Lepidus' naval fleet, after making the astute observation that they had failed to report for ship duty, by an average margin of six minutes over four days. Further investigation revealed they had abused their naval clearance to illicitly traffic ordinary citizens to outlying mining colonies to work as indentured slaves. From KA-926, aboard the Inquisitorial frigate Lord Keeper of the Seventh Seal, we avoided potential catastrophe making passage into the Ultima Segmentum, after spotting an anomaly with the ship's Gellar field, which would have been missed but for my enhanced eyesight. The very grateful captain of the Lord Keeper offered safe passage to the Taurelian Expanse, so I may join the Emperor's holy Deathwatch. I took him up on his offer, for the path of the shadow need not be a lonely existence.
Since my arrival at Watch-Station Azurea, and awaiting the return of my sacred armour, I have made a point of exploring and observing my new surroundings. I must admit, the prospect of going to my true home, being astronomically near Nakaris was a tempting prospect. However, the shame of the losses incurred on Deluge forfeited my right to any immediate sanctuary on the homeworld, so Azurea will do.
The Watch-Station is a small facility by Imperial standards. In just over a week, I have traversed and patrolled every area of the Azurea that is open to me, and some that are not. A thousand more observations are now part of my mental architecture, for I will not be blind again. From the shadows, I have observed the rites and oaths taken by my new brothers, and take strength from the unity of spirit that defines the Deathwatch.
At the armourium, I quietly watch a warrior assembling a well crafted heavy bolter, his lion-headed pauldron gleaming softly in the candlelight. In the training cages, a blue-eyed giant chews through arming servitors, cleaving them into two with a chainsword. It relaxes him, I think. Once, I even encountered an emchi of the Sanguinary chapters. If the common citizen of the Imperium thinks the Storm Sons look like devils, then this particular warrior is the paragon of all that is good by the Emperor's design, and yet...
And yet.
Greysight's meditation was broken by an incoming vox-transmission, a harsh grating noise that reverberated across the plasteel walls his private cell. The serf's droning voice indicated that Greyight was to be summoned to a strategium located in one of the restricted areas of the facility by order of the Watch-Captain. As his armour was in the care of the Watch-Station's techmarines, the Storm Son donned an indigo-black chiton, and a well-maintained duelling knife, and exited his private cell.
On Molotov's suggestion, I have moved my previous introduction into this thread, and made some small changes to the text to eliminate any references to the FFG corners of 40k.
Edited by Nineswords, 12 March 2018 - 01:35 PM.
+++
'We are the sword of Jaghatai. Had you not created great sins, the Emperor would not have sent a punishment like us upon you.'
‘We estrange our fathers and forsake false brotherhoods. The War God cares not from whence we came, only that we fight.’
The Unbroken: A Renegade Cult of Obliteration
+++
To call Azurea a small outpost of the Deathwatch was, of course, relative. It was small in comparison to the gas giant it orbited, or to the stars. And yet from another perspective it was a sprawling complex of corridors and chambers. Certainly, it takes you no considerable effort to traverse the station in order to answer the summons of your Watch-Captain.
You arrive one at a time in a central chamber, the lack of cohesion perhaps a telling metaphor for how you are still out of place in this new brotherhood. Where once you could rely on those that shared your blood, your heritage, even the same homeworld - now the warriors standing alongside you are almost as alien as those that you have been called upon to slay.
The room you are in is perhaps less unfamiliar to you. It is a strategium of sorts, a circular room dominated by a central hololithic table sunken into the floor on a circular dais. Low railings circle the table, and you get the sense that this is a room that could accommodate many times more than your number at its fullest capacity. The walls are draped with banners and crests of the Deathwatch, displaying its insignia in silver traceries that glint in the light.
GM: A beginning to get us started -
You should take the time to describe your character's appearance as he enters this chamber and waits for the Watch-Captain to arrive. Consider your armour, and what an outsider might observe of it. Consider how your character stands, or behaves - this is an opportunity to play towards your personal demeanour. Does your brother wear his helmet, or go bare-headed?
I'd also like you to roll some dice for me.
We have seven brothers of the Deathwatch here:
Atratus of the RAPTORS
Daon Akkad of the ASTRAL CLAWS
Greysight of the STORM SONS
Khyber Vaidan of the NOVAMARINES
Tyber of the DRAGONS OF CALIBAN
Solastion Albikus of the CRIMSON KNIGHTS
Nycax Sabaan of the IRON HANDS
For each of these Marines other than your character, I'd like you to roll a Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) check to see if you recognise the Chapter's iconography and/or can recall any information about them. This is an Intelligence check.
I will place the difficulty for this at +0 (Challenging) with the exception of the Astral Claws (+10) who will have gained some recognition for their stewardship of the Maelstrom and the Iron Hands (+30) who are obviously famed as one of the First Founding Legions - I believe that would carry some weight for most Marines.
A success means you know of the Chapter, whilst 2 of more degrees of success might mean that you can recall some facts about a famous campaign or a hero of note. (Tyber, Nineswords, Slips - might be worth you posting in the OOC the sorts of information another marine might know about your Chapter.)
A fail doesn't necessarily mean you know nothing - you may well be able to reasonably infer some details about which Primarch the Marine descends from.
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 18 February 2018 - 03:24 PM.
Daon Akkad stepped into the room, his helm under his right arm. This was a place whilst, not familiar with, he was familiar in. He stood at ease, left arm loose at his side, shoulders relaxed and legs apart by a shoulder's breadth. His green eyes set into a stern face, he placed himself slightly apart from the others, gauging them. He let his gaze play over the other brethren in the room, a strong showing of both the disparate breeds of Astartes and the Ordo Xenos who could bind them here with oaths under strange and different suns. As his eyes alighted upon each robe or pauldron respectively, the reversed heraldry threw him a moment. He had only the vaguest notions of some of them.
Recognition flared as he noticed the Storm Son, he had been too busy before, but yes, that was the same warrior from the Armourium. The bloodline of Jaghatai flowed powerfully in that one - dressed in his traditional robes and the eyes of a hawk, missing nothing. Daon imagined him on a barren crag somewhere, a falcon upon his wrist, seeking enemies. He seemed to have a shade of melancholy about him that drew over him like a cloak - not that such a thing was unknown among warriors from those worlds they called home.
A Iron Hand there too, one of the Glorious First. He seemed distracted, as if someone was talking to him, then the moment passed and the room had his full attention. His augmetics were impressive and his armour was well maintained. Akkad could easily appreciate that, the men of the Iron Tenth knew well how to care for their wargear. His own armour growled a little in pride and he tapped the front of his helm gently to soothe it.
The others were less easily identified - a Hawk's Head...although he had noticed the Marine waiting outside, he had not been able to place the Chapter. Another adorned with a Skull in a Starburst, another who looked every inch a Knight, but Daon could not pin down a bloodline, although interestingly, his helmet lenses were a similar emerald hue as Daon's own pure Badabian Vertanese Crystal. The last to fall under his scrutiny was even more mysterious, but without a doubt had to be a Son of Sanguinius, his golden hair and adonesque features marked him as such.
These were his Brothers in the moment then. They awaited the Watch-Captain. Long hours of waiting under the harsh command of the Astral Claws inured a man to boredom or complacency. He was also wary of the politics at play here. That had been his downfall at home, on Badab. He would not make that mistake again.
OOC:
3 Degrees of Success for Nycax and Greysight, failed all the rest horribly.
MR.
Edited by Mazer Rackham, 18 February 2018 - 10:25 PM.
=][= Deathwatch PBP Game =][=
Indexes:
IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins
To no man, does the earth mean so much as to the soldier.
When he presses down against her, when he buries his face and his limbs from the fear of death by shell-fire, she is his only friend, his brother, his mother.
He stifles his terror with her security; she shelters him and releases him, only to receive him again and again.
And often, forever.
- All Quiet On The Western Front. (Abridged).
Tyber a giant of an Astartes entered the room, standing tall, proud as if issuing a challenge to those that would be his equals. His freshly tinted black helm carried under his left arm, the crusaders point almost drawing attention to the green lenses of the helm, moving to taking position in the center of his Astarties kin giving them each a sideways glance to see size them up and see whom he would be assigned to work with.
OOC:
Raptors; Target Number: 59
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) Raptors: 1d100 7
5 DoS
ASTRAL CLAWS; Target Number: 69
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) ASTRAL CLAWS: 1d100 13
5 DoS
STORM SONS; Target Number: 59
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) STORM SONS: 1d100 81
2 DoF
Are they traitors to the Emperor?
NOVAMARINES; Target Number: 59
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) Novamarines: 1d100 39
2 DoS
CRIMSON KNIGHTS; Target Number: 59
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) CRIMSON KNIGHTS: 1d100 2
5 DoS
IRON HANDS; Target Number: 89
Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) Iron Hands: 1d100 40
4 DoS
It would seem that Tyber is very well versed in his chapters of the Astartes... well at least those that are not sons of the Khan....
Back to IC:
Tyber made mental notes of each of the chapters and what he knew of them, yet his blue/grey eyes lingered on the one he did not recognize, the lightning bolt stood out in his mind as something that is often associated with the sons of the Khan, but he knew nothing of them, this vexed him, as he knew much about the others present. His features tight and muscles tensed, even under his Mk VIII war plate, his right arm hovered over the grip of his arming sword, ready to draw it in an instant.
OOC:
Dragons of Caliban (pass)
Sons of the Lion, laid claim to world on the edge of the Halo Stars on the border of Segmentium Obscurious and Pacificus. Known for the skill with both Bolter and blade, claim to be of the second founding. Unlike other sons of the Lion, they do not make use of the Raven wing formation
1 DoS
2 DoS
3+ DoS
Ooc:
Solastion arrived at the Strategium, waited a beat, opened the doors then stepped in. It was different, this room, but still all too familiar due to the shared base layouts and components that prevaded Imperial construction. He noted that he was neither first nor was he last and mentally sighed for he had no desire to be the first and await awkwardly for the others to arrive nor did he want to be last and be the subject of simultaneous scrutiny by the rest of those assembled.
His brilliant blue eyes - a color they changed to after his ascension - calmly scanned the room of the current occupants, his eyes resting on the Golden Lion Head on Field-of-Blue that rested on the right shoulder of a marine who arrived before; a moment of reflection bringing forth the knowledge that he was of the Astral Claws - a Maelstrom Warder. That one with a duty of such import could be pulled away from his Chapter to serve in the Deathwatch spoke volumes on the sway the Inquisition and the Ordo Militant's Oaths held.
Absentmindedly running his fingers across his helmet - mag locked to his waist - he would turn his head ever-so-slightly at the entrance of every subsequent marine into the chamber, his short cropped blonde hair glinting ever so slightly in the light that made its way in and his renaissance-painting-esque features making it clear to those who entered who's gene lineage he drew from, nodding in their direction as a sign of acknowledgement.
Of those that entered, only two he did not recognize. The first, a marine whos heraldry was but a white Hawks Head on a Field of Green. Simply put, he had never encountered this heraldry in his studies before and was unable to place the marine. Unless he's showing some skin and is an Albino like their Raven Guard primogenitors at which point Solastion would have an inkling of gene lineage at the very least - but I also rolled a 100, so, maybe not even then...
The Second, the one whose emblem was a Skull-In-Starburst upon Field of Blue. To him, the icon resembled a mix of the Iron Skull and Iron Halo honour badges which threw him off. In addition, the amount of Chapters whos colors were blue made this endeavor all the more difficult. I'll have to research these chapters later... he thought to himself for even if the brothers were to introduce himself, he did not like the fact that he had no knowledge of their Chapters of Origin.
The rest, however, he recognized to some extent.
The Storm Son he recognized for he had crossed his path a few times as he awaited the summons of the Captain and had inquired about them. A descendant of the Vth Legion, he, however, lacked the...savage appearance he had expected but his piercing gaze made it clear that he missed nought a detail. He wanted to have a chance to speak with them before coming to any premature conclusions - a son of Jaghatai was never what one expected.
For the Dragon of Caliban, he knew very little beyond the surface level information he could glean. A Son of the Lion, their name unmistakably marking them as a Successor to the Ist Legion. Coming from a world and Chapter of Knightly tradition himself, Solastion felt a hint of kinship with the marine though he still held reservations for what he knew of the Dark Angels and their scions cast a pall of slight mistrust over them. Still, he would have to get past that suspicion for, as the room filled up, he saw the makings of a Kill-Team and distrust amongst members of a squad never bodes well.
The most recognizable of the bunch, however, was the Iron Hand. Unmistakable as a techmarine of a First Founding Chapter. He wondered if there was even any flesh underneath his power armour for him to minister if and when the time came but, still, it was good to have one such as him in their Squad for, as far as Solastion was concerned, he had no real affinity with Machines. His speciality lay in the healing and treatment of other marines.
It was, however, with a slight pang of disappointment that he noticed this Kill-Team would include no other son of Sanguinius. Despite that, he looked over the assembled Marines and was struck by the thought that, as the only Apothecary present, he was in charge of the wellbeing of these new Battle-Brothers and swelled with pride that he was deemed worthy to handle the task alone.
Knowledge of the Crimson Knights:
Atratus entered the room at a measured pace, watching the others for the appropriate distance to take from the watch captain. His appearance while pale was quite mundane but his armour seemed half way between the work of a master and a madman, bearing inscriptions and honours of its own but none to mark out its bearer.
His heart lifted as he looked about the room. A kill team, a mission at last. The high spirits were short lived as he realised he could place almost none of the heraldry in the room save for that of the Astral Claw and the son of Sanguinius.
One of these men would be chosen as his squad leader and he made mental note of their markings to learn in the archives at first opportunity. To kill the xenos was a task he had long trained but this bond of disparate brotherhood was new to him, and it would seem one that the Watch Master would have forged in battle.
Knowledge rolls:
Edited by Xin Ceithan, 20 February 2018 - 12:26 PM.
Edited by Nineswords, 12 March 2018 - 01:35 PM.
+++
'We are the sword of Jaghatai. Had you not created great sins, the Emperor would not have sent a punishment like us upon you.'
‘We estrange our fathers and forsake false brotherhoods. The War God cares not from whence we came, only that we fight.’
The Unbroken: A Renegade Cult of Obliteration
+++
Despite his earlier misgivings and reservation, the silence was growing tense. Seven warriors, one of whom was a giant, another smaller than he was, one who seemed unsure of himself, another wrapped in cybernetics, his heart as far from human as the warrior could make it. Aloof as he was to those that were not kin, something had to be done about this because it was becoming farcical. He remembered when he had first been a Sergeant, his squad had been unknown to him then as well. He decided to introduce himself as he had so long ago.
Akkad turned deliberately and obviously. He banged his left gauntlet to his chest and bowed respectfully.
Mindful of the need to avoid politics so soon, he spoke only that probably already known.
"Daon Akkad, of the Astral Claws." He recovered his posture to see what the admission would cost.
OOC:
Edited:
I have left this as-is because I thought the Captain wasn't in the room..! I did not see his presence mentioned above? If he is, well shame on me!
MR.
Edited by Mazer Rackham, 19 February 2018 - 07:03 PM.
=][= Deathwatch PBP Game =][=
Indexes:
IA: Scions of Gehenna IA: White Paladins
To no man, does the earth mean so much as to the soldier.
When he presses down against her, when he buries his face and his limbs from the fear of death by shell-fire, she is his only friend, his brother, his mother.
He stifles his terror with her security; she shelters him and releases him, only to receive him again and again.
And often, forever.
- All Quiet On The Western Front. (Abridged).
With the banging of the gauntlet Tyber snapped his attention off of the one he did not know anything about, his right hand became a fist as he placed it over the left side of his chest, lowered his head respectively to all in the room and said “Tyber of the Dragons of Caliban reporting as requested.”
After a few moments he gave quick sideways glance to the Astral Claw that had been so brash in manner to be the first to speak. For Tyber it had been tradition that the junior Astartes speaks only after the senior Astartes has spoken, yet here he did not know whom was most senior, nor would any Astartes present, all he knew for sure was that he would be one of the most junior.
OOC:
My bad, I had assumed that the Watch Captain would've been present, as we had been asked to assemble here. Thanks CM for letting me know about my error.
Edited by Steel Company, 19 February 2018 - 07:10 PM.
GM: Now that Akkon has identified his Chapter as the Astral Claws, the +10 to the test becomes a +20, should you feel it appropriate that your character would have some knowledge of who the Astral Claws are. You may re-test if you failed previously.
As he walked down the ramp of the Thunderhawk Gunship Eregarn and out onto the Watch-Station's dock, Khyber Vaidan thought of home. He pictured the diverse and colourful marine wildlife beneath its stormy waters, the wave- and rain-lashed rock cliffs that rose from the waters and had endured the tempest for centuries, the howling winds that could knock a grown man over, the electrical storms that tore the skies apart and could vaporise anyone foolish enough to be out in such hazardous weather. A smile crept onto his lips. Honourum certainly had a fierce temper. His mirth faded as he realised just how long it had been since last setting foot on the planet. Far too long.
Before following his robed guide any further away from the dock, he turned and raised a hand in farewell to Eregarn's pilots, both of whom Vaidan had served with in the past. As they made their way deeper into the station, the Novamarine took note of the station's layout and was glad to discover that many design features were similar to those of the ships he was familiar with.
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His first day on the Watch-Station was spent in the armoury having his equipment removed, assessed, blessed, repainted if necessary, and refitted to his broad frame. Vaidan noticed the forge serfs' curious stares and realised they had no doubt never seen an ink-marked member of the Adeptus Astartes. His tan skin was covered from the extremities of his feet to the middle of his torso and from the tips of his fingers to the elbow pits in swirling patterns and dots of predominently black ink with strokes of azurite, crimson, and ochre denoting particularly significant events, like the Fall of Karad-dûn or the Vresh Sector campaign. His induction into the Deathwatch would need adding to his skin as soon as he could retreat to his assigned quarters.
+][+
This will take some getting used to, he thought as he looked down at his armoured arms. Where one was once ivory and the other cobalt, now one was bright silver and the other as dark as the abyss. All of his battle honours had been recreated with great care and exactitude on his right shouder pad with the exception of his cingulum which hung from his belt. While he observed the changes wrought by the Forgemasters and their artificers, the Novamarine made his way back to his quarters and nodded to Fryssa, a strongly-built middle-aged woman who acted as his aide, who was waiting patiently for his return. She helped him remove his armour piece by piece, storing them carefully on a plasteel frame. The serf lit a few strands of incense and cleared her throat before singing an old honourumian songs while she rubbed ointment around the various interface ports protruding from Vaidan's skin. While she prepared her pigments, she continued with her singing. The Novamarine closed his eyes and relaxed, letting memories of home fill his conciousness. The Space Marine barely even registered pain as the serf marked his skin with ancient honourumian script and flowing designs on his right upper arm over the course of two hours. While most of it was unintelligible to any non-native, a stylised "i" marked in crimson and black stood out at the centre of her work and was instantly recognisable.
+][+
After a period of meditation and basic meal, Vaidan decided to explore the parts of the Watch-Station he had access to. The Librarium was one of the most heavily restricted and controlled areas but he still managed to consult some naval charts and read up about the Watch-Station and the area of space surrounding it. Knowledge is power and they certainly know how to guard it well, he thought as a slightly irritated smile crept onto his lips. He would have liked to have further access to the many tomes contained within the vast repositry, to expand his knowledge about the xenos species that threatened Mankind's existence in this galaxy. For now, this opportunity was denied to him and this bothered him. He sighed and stood up, realising it was futile to try and talk to the Librarians, keepers of this library. The would at best ignore his request and at worst ban him from ever setting foot in the Librarium again. Or worse.
Exiting through the large heavily-armoured doors he took a right turn and made his way to the training room, intent on trying out the boltgun he was given before leaving his Chapter. While in theory he could wield any boltgun with the same skill, he had always preferred the venerable Umbra pattern boltguns. His own, Rosyn, had been exchanged for a more modern Godwyn pattern boltgun before he had left his Chapter no doubt as another way to test him by giving him a less familiar weapon to use. This boltgun had been upgraded with a fire selector while his armour had been repainted and he was eager to familiarise himself with it.
+][+
A short time after he entered the chamber, he was galled to notice he was the last to arrive. Six other Astartes were present standing around a central hololithic table in a rough circle. While no one looked directly at him, Vaidan knew he was being observed, assessed, judged. Wanting to take stock of the environment they were in with his own eyes and as a mark of openness, the Novamarine unsealed his helmet and mag-locked it to his belt. First he looked up at the banners hanging from the ceiling, trying to decipher the cryptic symbols and illustrations. While some like the Inquisition's stylised "i" were recognisable, others were unrecognisable. He then turned his gaze upon the room and its layout. It was standard, similar to the many strategiums Vaidan had been in while serving in the Novamarine's fleet. At last he turned to look at each of assembled Astartes in turn.
Three Chapters were instantly recognisable to Vaidan, not least because he had come across them during past combat operations. He smiled and nodded to the Iron Hand, Raptor and Astral Claw. The other three Chapters were completely unknown to the Novamarine and he attempted only a few cursory guesses as to their origin, unwilling to make too many assumptions and come to false conclusions about their character.
His thoughts were interrupted by the Astral Claw who spoke his name and which Chapter he hailed from. One of the unidentified spoke next. Vaidan had never heard of the Dragons of Caliban but their name left no doubt about their genetic lineage.
The Novamarine decided to speak next.
"My name is Khyber Vaidan. I am in the service of the Novamarines Chapter, scions of both Honourum and the Ultramarines Chapter, oath-bound defenders of Ultima Segmentum and the Imperium of Mankind. I am a void-farer, a nomad of the Great Expanse with only distant memories of my home world."
He let the echo fade before continuing, a smile on his face, his hazel green eyes gazing at the six Astartes.
"It is an honour to stand here beside you and I eagerly await fighting at your side as brothers of the Deathwatch."
Edited by Chaplain Dosjetka, 20 February 2018 - 04:38 PM.
GREYSIGHT IV
Edited by Nineswords, 12 March 2018 - 01:35 PM.
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'We are the sword of Jaghatai. Had you not created great sins, the Emperor would not have sent a punishment like us upon you.'
‘We estrange our fathers and forsake false brotherhoods. The War God cares not from whence we came, only that we fight.’
The Unbroken: A Renegade Cult of Obliteration
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One would find more mirth in a graveyard.
Vaidan kept that thought to himself as the one named "Greysight" fell silent once more. Curiously he was the only one present not clad in armour.
Feeling the tension in the room, the Novamarine sought to defuse it. He looked around the room at its occupants. Sensing that no one was eager to break the silence again, he cleared his throat.
"Brothers, we have all been united at this precise place and time to fulfill a mission in the name of the Emperor. The importance of this is not lost to me. Yet with the absence of our Watch-Captain it seems we have some precious time to get to know each other and to me it would be most productive of us to use this gift wisely."
He continued scanning his audience, gauging whether or not his words were having an effect on them.
"Usually I would suggest a small sparring match but this is not the inappropriate place to stage such an activity. Therefore may I suggest we talk about the various paths that led us here?"
He looked around the room again. There was no immediate reply.
"I tend to ramble so would anyone like to cut my monologue short before I bore you all to death with my tales of heroism and glory?"
The Novamarine smiled earnestly and spread his arms, inviting the other Space Marines to speak up.
Edited by Chaplain Dosjetka, 20 February 2018 - 05:17 PM.
Tyber looked to Vaidan, furrowed his brow quickly before starting to speak "Cousi..." he closed his mouth catching himself and reminding himself that this was a new brotherhood, not a collection of cousins, "Brother Vaidan, please continue."
Tyber took a more relaxed stance, placing his helm on a dais that was nearby and resting both hands on the pommel of his arming sword, forcing it down and out while tilting the blade up and back under his tabard.
Before the Novamarine can continue his attempt to coax conversation from the group, a new brother enters the room.
The suppleness of his movements seem possessed of a monstrous, almost feline lethality which is only underscored by the beastlike snarling of his armour. The suit he wears is an amalgam of pieces of myriad different marks. (GM: At the least, Sabaan will recognise the pieces as bearing the hallmark of different sources of manufacture.) How fitting, then that he bears a similarly patchwork face, seemingly held together by a labyrinth of livid scar tissue; rents and runnels that carve through his flesh like trenches on a battlefield. To the rear of his skull you see a metal plate, dented and scuffed, that seems to indicate that the Apothecary that tended to him was hasty - or careless. At his belt, the Marine wears a chain-weapon - but not a sword, as you might expect. He carries a crude chainaxe that seems to reflect every aspect of his character.
Beneath the mask of scar tissue you see two eyes, surprisingly blue - and surprisingly similar to the Apothecary, Solastion. And yet this newcomer is everything he is not - hideous rather than fair, cruel rather than noble. His shoulder pauldron bears a leering bleached skull surmounting a pair of longbones. Beneath it is a scroll emblazoned with a runic script you are unfamiliar with. And yet, he points to it as though it explains everything.
"I am Vârvost, of the Eradicators."
Others of you might fancy yourselves as knights, defenders of creeds and upholders of the Imperium. Some in the galaxy might call you the Angels of Death. But this is no paragon, no warrior or champion. This is a killer, and every edge of him radiates murderousness. He seems inclined to put the lie to the Novamarine's words - that this is a place where blood could be spilled after all.
(GM: Solastion will automatically recognise the Eradicators as Sons of Sanguinius, although they seem to share little of their Primarch. It is said that each successor reflects some aspect of their gene-father's character - It is perhaps painful for you to reflect whether that is true for the ill-omened Eradicators. Other players may test Common Lore (Adeptus Astartes) at a Hard (-20) difficulty to see if they know at all of this Chapter. Aside from that, you can likely infer much from Brother Vârvost. )
Edited by Commissar Molotov, 20 February 2018 - 06:46 PM.
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