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Kill-Team Blackthorn: The Battle for the Dorsal Spine

Deathwatch Roleplaying Game RPG Play by Post Commissar Molotov Blackthorn Kill-Team Blackthorn Fantasy Flight Games FFG

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#1
Commissar Molotov

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TCIQHbA.png

 

 

Current Mission: Defeat the Genestealer Infestation of Syndalla 

 

Primary Objectives: 

 

Secondary Objectives:

Defend the Imperial Navy vessel Voice of Thunder from boarding by Tyranid bioforms. [COMPLETE]

 

Tertiary Objectives: 

 

 

Table of Contents

Episode I:

Spoiler

 

 

Posting Style Guide 

Spoiler

Edited by Commissar Molotov, Today, 11:51 AM.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM) 
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#2
Commissar Molotov

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Episode I: A World Aflame

S7VLUZ5.jpg

 

Watch-Station Azurea

Outer Swordpoint Stars, Taurelian Expanse

Segmentum Ultima

c.908.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.

 

zvqOKKK.png

 

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, 20 February 2018 - 06:44 PM.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM) 
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#3
Mazer Rackham

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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.

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"How far are we going?" One of the the human Legionaries peered up at him in the darkness.  They were all wounded, sore and tired from hours, turned to days, to weeks of heavy battle.  Silver armour flashed emerald in the light from a Viridian flare.  3rd Company had begun their attack at last.  The only full Battle-brother left in the unit looked down and hefted a salvaged heavy bolter.  He racked the bolt and the first round slid home true.  In the silence before the wall of noise hit them, the black-and-gold Lion on azure on his pauldron witness to their courage, the Marine spoke gently, almost wistfully.

"All the way.  To the bitter end."

 

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#4
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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.


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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.


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The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

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#6
Nineswords

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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.

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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.

+++ Index Astartes: Storm Sons +++

 

A White Scars Successor Chapter

 


#7
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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...


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#8
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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.

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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.

+++ Index Astartes: Storm Sons +++

 

A White Scars Successor Chapter

 


#9
Xin Ceithan

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Nycax Sabaan stared at the xenos remains spread out in front of him and considered his options.
He had left Medusa six weeks, four days, nine hours and twenty-seven minutes ago.

The DeathWatch had called upon the Iron Hands. Invoking ancient vows and traditions, the summoning had brought unforeseen options to the dilemma facing the Iron Council in their ruling regarding his actions and concerns regarding his rather delicate ... condition. His own clan seemed as divided on the proper way of action as the chapters senior members as a whole. The request of the Ordo Militant had suddenly opened another option. Here was a way he could serve the Emperor and his Chapter while the Iron Council could debate the more gnostic issues involved while avoiding dissension from among those of his Battlebrothers who considered his acts during the Siege of Cumbria nothing short of heresy.
As for himself, Sabaan had felt honoured that his Chapter had decreed him worthy of representing the Iron Hands especially after the tumult following his retrieval and recuperation post-Cumbria. He even felt an unusual sense of relief of being called upon to fight the enemies of Man again. He had stoically observed the rites of recovery and subjected himself to the observations of the Council over the last months. It was his duty, after all. But here, at last, was the opportunity to fulfill his purpose.
Thus, he had scrubbed his Armour, his true and his mortal flesh by acid and by las of the markings of his Clan and painted his Warplate black. It's machine spirit tooth to it with uncharacteristical ease, as if sensing that it was finally prepared to go to war again. It's usual angry snarl took on an almost enthusiastic growl. He had taken the vows of the Mistwalker, vowing the keep the secrets of his Clan from the Outsiders as he fulfilled his duty to Clan and Chapter away from his brothers. It had reminded him of his journey to sacred Mars decades earlier. Once more he would be an Iron Hand walking among outsiders, striving to return to Medusa to add his growing strengths to that of the Chapter.
Before embarking, the brothers representing Clan and Council had taken his vows and presented him with a newly forged, Omnissiah blessed axe to replace the one he had lost during the Siege. Lost in a rather unorthodox way to short circuit the Cumbrian orbital plate's remaining gravity repeller engine via a xenos lord's inner organs.
It was in a way a gesture in the true spirit of the people of Medusa. He had lost his weapon fighting the enemies of the Chapter. Now, he would fight their enemies again. Thus, he needed a weapon. In this way, the Chapter recognized his calling as a Techmarine as well as him reminding him to his vows to the Iron Hands and to blessed Mars. Also, they reminded him that, by giving him a new, unbloodied weapon that he would have to prove himself to the Chapter by his actions once more, as he would have to learn to trust his new blade. They also preferred him to prove himself ...over there...where he would not endanger any member of the Clan. Very Medusan, indeed.

He had spent three weeks on a fast Inquisition courier, which made good time out of Medusa. Little more than a crew compartment strapped atop powerful engines, it hardly offered enough room for it's mortal crew. Sabaan had thus rather unceremoniously spent most of that time in the cargo hold, studying uplinked data in preparation of his deployment and meditating. Upon his transfer to a Deathwatch cruiser destined to bring him to his assigned WatchStation, he offered the courier's ship master a treatise on improving their engine output by 0,007 %. He did have ample time to listen to the ship harmonics, after all.

During his time on the strike cruiser, he renewed his Oath among warriors of the Watch proper. He then received new parts to his Armour. The plate did not growl quite as enthusiastically this time. Yet Sabaan felt a strange sense of familiarity when he looked at the Iconography of the Deathwatch. It felt... right. He spent most of his time in the training cages and on the firing ranges, getting a feel for the changes, urging the machine spirits of his war gear to bond into a single, efficient fighting force. It would take time but his plate was eager to taste actual combat again.

Upon arrival at Watchstation Azurea (Four days, seven hours and twenty eight minutes...) he begun integrating himself in the Watch's duties. Given it's small operational status, Sabaan had been cautiously but steady introduced into the outer mysteries of the WatchStation technomantic workings. An additional Techmarine was a welcome additional resource and could not be left to be idle for too long. Proper ritual and protocol had to be observed, of course.
Between his chores, the Forgemaster had taken to challenge Sabaan to a game of Regicide. Nycax recognized this a memnetic technique. Focusing on a few turns of Regicide between his efforts would allow his transhumance mind to process the operations easier. It also seemed intended to ease interpersonal contact between the veteran Forgemaster and his newest disciple. Efficient. Sabaan approved it.

The board was made from an alloyed plate, mot likely cut from some form of armored plate as his sensory data suggested but reworked and beautifully repainted. The playing pieces were made from bone, cut and shaped to an painstakingly precise level of detail which Sabaan felt invigorating. Touch, weight and structure revealed them to be the finger bones of some form of Ork. The irony of using the remains of such a simplistic creature in a game that challenged even the transhumance mind of an Astartes still amused him.
"Your move."The voice of the Forgemaster, equal parts intended as a remainder and as a distraction. Sabaan calmly reached out, subconsciously pleased by watching the efficiency of his cybernetic right as he reached for the game piece. Then, suddenly, he stopped, frozen in the moment. For a fraction of second, his autosenses seemed to flicker, seemed to highlight another piece, projecting a different path of strategy. Sabaan blinked. His autosenses were operating normally. His hand hovered over the board. Consciously, he moved his hand and chose the suggested piece.
"An...unexpected move". The Forgemaster, unhelmeted, raised his eyebrow. "I believe you referred to yourself as being more casually aquatinted with this game?"
As Sabaan considered an answer, a ServoSkull approached them. It delivered the WatchCaptain's summons in frantic binary pulses. "Well, Duty calls." Sabaan let the Forgemaster rise just a little ahead of him, a gesture of respect. He gave the older veteran a polite nod and straightened. The exchange a salute.
"No." Nycax voice rumbles from his respirator grill. A deep rolling sound like the thunder of a distant Medusan storm, it's edge hard and electric. "I am already fulfilling my Duty. Now, I am going to War".
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#10
Commissar Molotov

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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.

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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM) 
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#11
Mazer Rackham

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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.

 

Spoiler

 
MR.


Edited by Mazer Rackham, 18 February 2018 - 10:25 PM.

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"How far are we going?" One of the the human Legionaries peered up at him in the darkness.  They were all wounded, sore and tired from hours, turned to days, to weeks of heavy battle.  Silver armour flashed emerald in the light from a Viridian flare.  3rd Company had begun their attack at last.  The only full Battle-brother left in the unit looked down and hefted a salvaged heavy bolter.  He racked the bolt and the first round slid home true.  In the silence before the wall of noise hit them, the black-and-gold Lion on azure on his pauldron witness to their courage, the Marine spoke gently, almost wistfully.

"All the way.  To the bitter end."

 

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#12
Steel Company

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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

Spoiler

 

2 DoS

Spoiler

 

3+ DoS

Spoiler


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The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#13
Slips

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Ooc:

Spoiler

 

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:

Spoiler

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#14
A.T.

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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:

Spoiler


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#15
Xin Ceithan

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Nycax Sabaan enters the Strategium. His movements are calm, measured. precise.
There is is something imposing about him that is not quite physical.

While not noticeable taller than his ( Chapter) brothers, Nycax Sabaan seems to radiate a cold, almost elemental force. Covered in full Aquila Pattern plate kept in the traditional, no nonsense black of of the Iron Hands, the Armour has obviously been extensively reworked and repaired . To the trained eye of an Astartes, there are the tell tale hints of exchanged ceramite plates, reworked power couplings and a wide array of molecular reinforcement. There is nothing jury-rigged about this, however. Even where scratches and dents visibly remain, one gets the uneasy feel that the armor wants these to be displayed, the telltale marks of a veteran warrior and as much a source of pride and a warning to the world at large as a hive ganger's tattoos and pierced skin.
Even the omnipresent, underlying hum of the active Armor seems to convey it's spirit's martial pride and bellicose nature. There is an angry, guttural and almost animal like quality to it, which seems to grow more intense the longer the Plate is not engaged in some sort of activity which brings it's enemies closer to destruction. It is an aspect not immediately unfamiliar (or even discomforting) to another Astartes, but quite unnerving to a mortal on an almost primal level. It's machine spirit quite obviously considers itself a weapon of war first and foremost. Still, it's menace is not the heedless fury of a berserk rage or the burning wrath of the zealot. It is the pressure of geothermal destruction, waiting to erupt from the caldera of a Medusan volcano.

Sabaan surveys the room. He has not yet removed his helmet since his arrival. An array of sensors, grouped around a larger, oval, central bionic eye lens dominates the right side of his helmet's face plate. It glows a deep crimson. A considerable part of his hemet's left temporal side has been reworked to reveal a flat circular sensor dome covered with Mechanicum runescript. The cybernetic replacement continues downwards from it to encompass his left aural receptors. The implants chrome mirrors the light of the hololith. A deep cut bisecting the left brow has been sealed by a rectangular molecular bonding patch midway above the left eye lens. Additional respirator tubing ermerges on both sides of the Aquila helmet's respirator grill, snaking behind a slightly enlarged neckguard.

The silver Chapter Insignia of the Iron Hands, set in a circle of Mechanicum cog teeth is displayed proudly on his plate's chest, dominating it's center and starkly offsetting the overall blackness. The pectoral armor plates to it's left and right have been replaced in irregular, laminated layers, intersected by tubing and connector ports. The Heraldry of the sons of Ferrus Manus dominates his right shoulder guard. Unblemished. Unyielding.
The silver steel continues downwards among the augmentics replacing his right arm and hand. Their gleam is broken by the black of the armor plates covering the back of his hand, dorsal vambrace and elbow joint. Where the cybernetics seem almost pristine, the black ceramite coverings display their scratches and dents proudly.

Sabaan has not yet gotten used to the the quicksilver parts replacing his left shoulder and arm guard or wearing the heraldry of the Deathwatch. The shoulder guard's cog teeth framing and the Opus Mechanicus bionic half skull replacing the customary Skull of the Watch insignia at least offer some familiarity in announcing his calling as a Techmarine. During his relay to the Watch Station, Sabaan has furnished a guardpiece to cover the back of his cybernetic left hand, inscribed with his Service oath in miniaturized golden letters.

A buckle in a shape of the Opus Mechanicus connects his belt from which a tabard of ceramite plating sprawls down, covering his loins and lower back. Boxy, rectangular armaplast pouches circle his waist, holding spare magazines, armor cement and technomantic paraphernalia. A combat blade is sheathed on his right hip.

A silver lightning turning into a trident set in a Mechanicum cogwheel of burnished bronzed is proudly displayed on his right knee, a somewhat archaic honor badge hinting at his service in the chapter fleet.

Both lower leg guards have been reinforced by molecular bonding globes spread over a criss crossed roadmap of piecemail plate replacement. Gleaming chrome parts suggest partial bionic replacement of his left knee and right ankle. A stylistic rendering of the inquisitorial =I= has been applied to his outer left lower leg. The crisp, unblemished chalky white seems oddly out of place.

Slightly off center, the humming of his backpack's power coil on stand by is almost lost in the growl of his Armour , His servo-arm rests at the pack's right side. It shivers slightly, resting in a way not unlike a slumbering guardian canine, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. It is contracted to point where it almost resembles a stored sidearm - a further indication of Sabaan's long fleet service and habit of deployment in often cramped environments.

Sabaan strides into the Strategium and comes to a respectful stop Halfway into the room. Still unfamiliar with his new assignment, he chooses to bow in respect, forming the sign of the Aquila across his chest. He acknowledges each Astartes with a nod, using the gesture to perform a cursory inspection of those present. He then turns and takes a place around the hololith according to the Codex Astartes' lay out regarding the Rituals of Briefing.


OOC:
Spoiler


Sabaan regarded the unfamiliar variety of shapes, colors and totems displayed by the heraldry of the battle brothers around him. None seemed familiar. He was not surprised. The Iron Hands took pride in their self reliance and had always been wary of outsiders. Of course, his expertise did not lay in recognizing some fancy coat of arms at any rate. He would judge them by their deeds. For now, he began sorting them by their Armour Marks and the technical variations of their warplate.

Edit: Tried to fix spoiler tag. Added snidefuk comment to dice rolls. Rounded out narrative

Edited by Xin Ceithan, 20 February 2018 - 12:26 PM.

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#16
Nineswords

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GREYSIGHT III
Brothers
 
THE LION, THE Angel and the Giant. There were others, of course, but those three Greysight recognised by sight, though not by their chapter markings.
 
All but the Storm Son were clad in varying marks of ebon power armour, a congruence imposed by silver gauntlets and the mark of the Deathwatch, but there all similarities ended as Greysight appraised the flashes of colour that marked each warrior's previous brotherhoods.
 
Perhaps the only one whose external appearance had changed the least was the clansman of the Iron Hands. One of the First. Strong. Indomitable. A good omen. 
 
Next, the familiar device of a skull set in a white corona upon dark blue caught Greysight's eye, and smile ghosted across his face. The ordus had served with the Novamarines in several fleet actions, and the name Hadraichus was celebrated as a shining example of Shah-Guilliman's wisdom in breaking the legions. Another good omen.
 
Last of all was a white hawk's head device set on green. Though the warrior's parent chapter was unfamiliar to Greysight, in the written and oral traditions of all liege sons of the White Scars, the hunting hawk of the Altak was closely associated with the Great Khan. It was the best omen of all, and one that elicited a broad smile from the Storm Son.
 
Greysight caught the Giant looking at him. All descendants of the Fifth knew the look. At best, the look made lazy comparisons to their gene-fathers on Chogoris, at worst, it was a look that screamed, 'we are superior to you in every way, and you are mystic barbarians clinging to superstition'. The sons of the Great Khan were used to being overlooked, and had done so since the Emperor took to the stars before the Great Betrayal. 
 
Let them make their judgements, chayaran awaits.
 
The Giant maintained his gaze, whilst his right arm subconsciously drifted towards the grip of the chainsword that had so deftly annihilated targets in the practice cages.
 
Maintaining his smile, Greysight locked eyes with the Giant, and deeply bowed in the ancient Chogorian manner, as a mark of greeting and deference to his new bond-brothers. No one spoke, though the Novamarine and the Hawk inclined their heads towards him, anonymous behind their black helms.
 
And so, the wait continued.
 
 
OOC: 

 

Spoiler

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.

+++ Index Astartes: Storm Sons +++

 

A White Scars Successor Chapter

 


#17
Mazer Rackham

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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.

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"How far are we going?" One of the the human Legionaries peered up at him in the darkness.  They were all wounded, sore and tired from hours, turned to days, to weeks of heavy battle.  Silver armour flashed emerald in the light from a Viridian flare.  3rd Company had begun their attack at last.  The only full Battle-brother left in the unit looked down and hefted a salvaged heavy bolter.  He racked the bolt and the first round slid home true.  In the silence before the wall of noise hit them, the black-and-gold Lion on azure on his pauldron witness to their courage, the Marine spoke gently, almost wistfully.

"All the way.  To the bitter end."

 

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http://www.bolterand...white-paladins/


#18
Steel Company

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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.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#19
Commissar Molotov

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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. 


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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM) 
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#20
Chaplain Dosjetka

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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.
 
+][+
 
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.
 

Hidden Content

 

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.

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"Suffer not the Heretic to live."

 

+ The Road to WHW & Iron August +

 

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Black Templars - W:4 L:1 D:0


#21
Xin Ceithan

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Sabaan turns his head slowly to face the one identifying himself as an Astral Claw. An impulsive one, apparently.
The Iron Hand had expected introductions to be made by the Watch Captain as a senior officer or in his present, at least. To break with ritual is to break with the Omnissiah - the voice of his Martian mentor echoes through his mind. There is just a hint of another voice in it, like a voxcast not just in sync. He uses the voices of the others to refocus on the present, turning his face towards each as they speak, filing away their names and identifications. His armor snarls at each verbal introduction, frustrated by it's unsuccessfully attempts to uplink with it's ceramite counterparts. It is as unfamiliar with operating outside the structures of the Iron Hands as Sabaan himself.
Their introductions finished, the Techmarine turns towards the Astral Claw once more. He takes sometime to scrutinize him, memorizing his features, his coat of arms, his armour. He then slowly turns his attention to next brother, repeating the procedure in the order of their introduction. Once finished, he takes a step forward and forms the sign of the Omnissiah across his chest.

"Brothers." His voice is a deep, rolling sound, effortlessly filling the chamber. It is surprisingly warm, despite it's obvious mechanical edge.
"I am Nycax Sabaan of Clan..."He pauses. A moment passes, marked only by the underlying, disturbingly serene rhythm of his respirator.
I am Nycax Sabaan. Of the Iron Hands. This is my Clan now."
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<p>Call_of_Chaos_7_Banner_01c.jpg;<p>Call_of_Chaos_9_Banner_01b.jpg

#22
Nineswords

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GREYSIGHT IV

Names
 
THE INTRODUCTIONS WERE stilted, a reflection of etiquette that is as diverse as the Imperium itself. Where one would expect the Watch-Captain to make the introductions, his continued absence caused the tension in the room to reach a fever pitch. It occurred to Greysight that even now, this new brotherhood was being discreetly observed, tested even, to uncover the natural order of dominance.
 
The Lion spoke first, clenching a silvered fist and tapping his chest in the ancient salute. He returned the Storm Sons' bow, though a little stiffly, as if he forced to break an unspoken social code.
 
'Daon Akkad, of the Astral Claws,' he said. Greysight was about to reply when the Giant interrupted, thumping an ebon hand into his breast. 
 
'Tyber of the Dragons of Caliban, reporting as requested,' growled the Giant, an implied challenge issued to the Astral Claw who had broken the silence. And so it went, introductions spilling forth one after another, becoming more elaborate as if speaking last was something to be despised. 
 
'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,' intoned the Novamarine. 'I am Nycax Sabaan. Of the Iron Hands. This is my clan now,' purred the Iron Hand. 
 
All gazed at Greysight again, diminished before his brothers unclad in sacred battle plate. Only Greysight and the Hawk remained. Silence is power, but it was impolite to remain close-mouthed.
 
'I am Greysight,' said the Storm Son simply, and turned to the Hawk.
 
 
 
OOC:
Clearly I've missed something, but I love how awkward the situation is.

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.

+++ Index Astartes: Storm Sons +++

 

A White Scars Successor Chapter

 


#23
Chaplain Dosjetka

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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.

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"Suffer not the Heretic to live."

 

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#24
Steel Company

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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.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#25
Commissar Molotov

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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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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM) 
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.





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