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DW: Campaign - Head Hunted (IC Thread)

FFG RPG Roleplaying Deathwatch In-Character

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#1
Mazer Rackham

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++ Deathwatch Campaign: Head Hunted ++

 

+ KILL TEAM: HELLEBORE OPERATIONAL STATUS - AWAITING APPROVAL +

 

+ Thought for the Day: Stay not the Slaying Hand.  It forgives the Impious. +

 

 

 

The Commander rubbed his head, gently pinching the widest branch of his Shio'he as Ashanti'Sera'Vesa had instructed.  The pain did not disperse, the light that blinded him became stronger in fact, punching through eyes still groggy from sleep and the unwise decision to go gulp-for-gulp with El Rag'lan'Sho in the game of se'hen che lel-Ky'husa.

The alcoholic spirit, downed in rapid-fire sequence from the crystal glasses was meant as a celebration of the latest victory in Sector 13.  Such drinking festivities were rare on the planet the Gue'la called Baraban.  A shadow penetrated the blinding light, falling across him and momentarily taking the sting out of his headache.  He recognised the silhouette of one of his bodyguards, whose charge was to stand outside his door when he rested or was indisposed.  On a T'au world, this would not be needed, but Baraban was not so civilised.

 

He wondered why anyone would want the soulless place.

 

"Shas'O?  Are you in the land of the living?" the relentless shadow demanded.

 

"Leave me be Tan'bhet, it is three in the morning," he grunted.  His tormentor did not depart.  He sighed against fate. "What is it?"

His mouth felt like the floor of a Jarratwit cave.

 

"Trouble.  The Gue'Vesa'El has informed us of a new threat."

 

"By the Tau'va, do they never learn?" he pulled himself from bed, although no more than a camp-cot, he was blessed.

 

Many of his Fire Warriors were out there, this very night, under the stars, praying for the dawn to come and stop whatever villainy was to be visited upon them.  Only the Kroot and Vespid cared not.  Canivores were well fed and probably felt at home.  Soon the eruptions of the Grey Mountains would begin and clog the morning with thick ash not even a Battlesuit could penetrate.

 

"Another useless hurl of Gue'la flesh against a wall of Kroot spears?" The acid in his tone matched that in his gut.

 

"No, Honoured One. The Black Ones of the Gue'ron'sha," Tan'bhet's voice was a coffin lid closing.

 

Shas'O Tu'uan Mal'Caor Sa'Cea Kais, seconded to the Viorla Coalition on Baraban reeled to his feet, gripping his comm-link.  He shook the lethargy from his shoulders in a heartbeat, becoming his namesake as his voice hardened.

 

"This is Iron Spider to all commands," he took a steadying breath, "Threat level Mont'yr, repeat, threat level Mont'yr.  All commanders to my control centre!"

 

The Sable-clad Space Marines were coming.

 

Tau'va help them all.

 

 

++ INCOMING ORDERS ++

 

 

Introductory posts.

 

Welcome to the In-Character thread for Kill Team Operation: Head Hunted!

 

As described here in the OOC thread, this campaign is scheduled (with favourable wind) to start soon.  It is not yet officially underway however, and when we begin it will start In Media Res.  That's fancy talk for dropping you into the deep end of the Grey Hell.  In order to get a little bit of flavour before that happens, and to exercise your writing skills, maybe to even start exploring the characters you have so lovingly crafted, this would be a good opportunity to post something of your life before the Deathwatch, leading up to your induction.

 

Think about your characters motivations, why they have been chosen or forced to answer the summons and abide by the ancient Oaths, what they may think of it, where they currently are - perhaps they have a moment of meditation, perhaps they are called up on a battlefield - for the life of a Space Marine is rarely rest.  Perhaps you could describe your journey to Watch Fortress Erioch, be inspired or suffer foreboding at the scale of the operations here (WF Erioch is massive, a star-fortress of epic scales, with Strike Cruisers and shuttles ceaselessly going to and from the docks).  Perhaps you even came through the Well Of Night, the giant Alien warp gate that vomits out a lot of the Crusade forces supplies and reinforcemnts, and wonder at the Xenos technology therein.

 

Either way, you didn't just come from nowhere and you're all going somewhere.

 

Please don't post anything involving the other characters just yet.  You are all separate at the moment and once pulled together will have a good chance to make remarks to and about one another.

 

 

 

Make thine Peace before embarking, ahead there be dragons.

- Inscription on the port bow of Deathwatch Strike Vessel Kerberos.


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#2
Trokair

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The subtle shift in reality and the subsequent firing of the steering thrusters told Brynjarr that they had surfaced back in the real and the ship was aligning itself for the correct course into the system from the jump point. This was the last leg of the journey and should be no more than a few hours. After months of travel he and three different ships he had arrived.

 

Methodically finishing the maintenance he had been carrying out on his left gauntlet he laid it in place next to the rest of his armour, all freshly polished and black, each star and mark carefully removed. All components ready for the rebirth that would come with Brynjarr’s service amongst these new brothers of the Deathwatch.

 

Over the months of travel Brynjar, as he had cleansed the amrour of his old life had recorded each star, and what details he could remember from when he earned it in a tome, so that his past life would not be forgotten, but could be safely but aside. On the one hand Brynjarr felt this was an unnecessary task, as he could remember each and every star and could reapply them just as easily as strip his bolter or eat his rations. However the Chaplain had given him the blank book and task on his departure from the Dawnbringer. Looking back Brynjarr had to concede that transferring the marks and their history rather just erasing them was a way to honor both his armour and his past. He even had a second fresh tome for the life that was to come.

 

Stowing away the armorur in the bigger of the two crates in his room Brynjarr reflected on the last 24 days aboard this vessel. The crew, while distant from him, as much out of fear as awe he suspected, had been friendlier and warmer than the last ship. Not the same as the crew of Voidborn ship, but enough to be acceptable. He smiled at the memory of the a helmsman reminiscing about places he had been with his fellow bridge crew after their shift until they realized they had an extra set of ears in the audience. While the rest had made their excuses and left for their cabins, the helmsman, out of politeness no doubt, had listened to Brynjarr’s tale from his youth aboard the Eyes of the Marshal before his ascension to Marine.

 

Once all his possessions had been tidied away Brynjarr stepped out into the corridor and flagged down one of the crew.

 

“Please arrange for those two creates to be moved to the shuttle bay in readiness for my departure”.

 

“Yes Lord”

 

Brynjarr almost refuted the ‘lord’ but after more than three weeks on ship there seemed little point. Instead he called after the departing man. “Get the lifter servitors for the cargo bay to move them, they are a tad heavy.” The man just nodded and scurried down the corridor.

 

Brynjarr headed for the bridge to get a look at the local system and its start, this would be his new starting point and seeing it would make it real.

 

Entering the Bridge Brynjarr stood by the door until the Captain had acknowledged his presence and motioned for him to come in further. Standing next to the navigation terminal, as from there he would not get in the way of normal bridge activity and had a great view both out of the viewing port and over the crews shoulder at the navigational display. The harsh blue whit light of the Erioch ancient star was off to the right from the ships perspective and from the navigational panels Brynjarr could see that they were taking a low curve around the sun as the sixth planet, and Watch Fortress, had been nearly a third way around from where they had surfaced in the real. It would be some hours yet until their arrival.

 

Staring at the navigational displays further, and in particular the mapped orbits of the planets, it all seemed just subtly wrong and Brynjarr could not place his finger on it. He made a mental note to look into it further once he had arrived, most likely he just was not interpreting the display correctly or there was a minor fault in the ships aged systems.

 

Hours later, as they approved the Watch Fortress, and Brynjarr got a sense of just how large the station was, he bade farewell to the Captain and crew and headed for the shuttle bay. He could hear the servitors on the loading deck busily working below and loading the cargo onto the larger transport whalers. From the smell they where delivering food supply, probably mostly grain of some sort, though the undercurrent of more distinct smell suggest all sorts of other provisions.

 

His two crates where next to the open loading pay of the shuttle craft and two crewmen and a servitor where preparing to load the large crate. Now eager to leave Brynjar hefted the smaller and took it on board with him. Onboard he nodded to the pilot who was strapping in and took up a position where he could see out of the cockpit.

 

The flight was short and really brought home to Brynjarr the size of the Watch Fortress. Upon their arrival Brynjarr stepped into an empty shuttle bay and survived the giant space. In the distance a variety of crafts could be seen standing in near rows but no soul could be seen. Behind him the shuttle crew unloaded his two creates. As they were finishing up Brynjarr head back to the door and called out to the pilot.

 

“You sure this is the right shuttle bay?”

 

The reproachful reply from win came. “I followed the vox instructions precisely my lord, if I had deviated we would not be standing here.”

 

Not wanting to get into argument he just thanked the pilot and wished him a safe journey back as the shuttle departed.

 

Standing next to his crates Brynjarr waited, somebody would surely come for him shortly.

 


Edited by Trokair, 27 January 2021 - 09:22 PM.

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#3
Mazer Rackham

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The watch station shuttle bay rings with the bells for 0600 hours local standard time, the chimes give you an impression that they are real, somewhere great silver-chastened hammers are striking in precious atmosphere, relayed throughout the network of speakers and noospheric interfaces for all who visit this bastion of the Emperor's will.  At this signal, something happens.  A train of black robed serfs appear from a portal which stands some thirty feet high, the pillars of which are topped with gargoyles and eagles, symbols of defiance.

 

There are eight humanoid figures in the procession, led by one whose arms are folded into the sleeves of his habit in the monastic way common to Astartes serf-bonded helots.  One of them carries a tall stave, the top of which is wreathed with smoke from a censer embedded within.  Devotional chains embossed with trinkets in the shape of Chapter iconography loop and hang from the cruciform head below the censer, displaying the symbols of the Black Templars, Imperial Fists, Blood Angels and more.

 

Perhaps one day, the Voidborn will hang amongst such august company.

 

The lead serf stops the procession some twenty feet away from you and bows deeply.  "In the name of the Emperor Immortal, the Lords who Reign in his wisdom, and Commander Mordigael, Lord of the Watch and master of this Fortress, welcome.  Please accept our apologies, Brynjarr of the Voidborn, but the rest of your team is still in transit.  Perhaps you would care for a brief tour of the installation?"

 

He gestures four of his companions forward and on silent feet, without any sense of strain or effort, they gather your belongings and depart, heading whence they came before you can raise protest.  The backs of the helots are emblazoned with the gothic eye of the Deathwatch in laboriously applied embroidery. 

 

@ Trokair, if you wanted to do your sun-gazing post, please feel free to do so.  The helots will answer whatever questions Brynjarr may have, although their responses may be limited as you might expect the mysteries of the watch are only revealed to so many.


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#4
Trokair

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“Apologies accepted, I am sure you have much to do and I am but one of many. If you could spare the time a short tour would be most welcome.”
 
The two reaming serfs stepped aside as the lead serf, followed by the censer bearer turned and headed back to the entranceway. Brynjarr lengthened his stride to catch up with them and as he did the other two serfs fell into step behind him.
 
The tour was indeed brief, both in time and in information, but by the end of it Brynjarr stood in his cell having seen the chapel, refractory and sparing rooms nearby and more long corridors then felt entirely necessary. The Station was a labyrinth. He had asked for a map for his use, and had received a data slate, though the unspoken reproach in the lead serfs look as he handed it over spoke volumes. Brynjarr better learn his way around quickly.
 
After stowing away his belongings in the space provided Brynjarr headed back to the refractory, a handful of marines had been in there earlier. However now he found the hall empty but for two serfs, one methodically mopping the floor and the other replacing candles in the alcoves in the wall. Off to the left one of several service hatches was open and approaching it Brynjar saw no one in the kitchen beyond it but on the counter rested a series of empty tankards along with a half empty basked of bread. Picking up a tankard and loaf Brynjarr leaned into the Kitchen to see if he could spy anything to fill the tankard with. Hearing footsteps behind him he turned and saw that it was the serf with the candles. As the serf was about to speak Brynjarr gestured with the tankard, apparently thinking better of it the Serf moved on to the last service hatch and pulled it up before getting back to his duty. Brynjarr got the distinct impression that he would have been told off if he had not so effortlessly waved the astartes sized tankard. Once he had filled it with water and with an inwards sigh he set down on one of the stone benches and with his arms resting on the steel table top begun standing the data slate and the map it contained, taking the occasional absentminded bit or swig.
 
 
 
Part two of scene to come once I have had time to finish it. 
Edit: Part two:

Brynjarr did not know what function this chamber originally served, as it lay at the end of a long corridor that was easily missable and he had only found by chance. But with the near floor to ceiling sized reinforced 10 meter long window along the outside wall it made an excellent observation deck. It afforded a great view over the ever busy shuttle ports several decks below, and as the Watch Station slowly turned in orbit around the sixth planet the view encompasses the enter inner system.

 

Not yet attuned to Station time Brynjarr had taken his short daily rest some hours ago and now, in the calm of onboard night time he sat on the cold floor gazing out into the void. The create with his armour in stood to one side, lid open and he had removed several parts in peroration. On the matt in front of him lay the tools he would need both to mark and seal ceramite once more.

 

Meditating on his life so far, the path he would now believe behind and the rebirth of services to the Deathwatch Brynjarr reached out and initially picked up the left Shoulder pad but put it back the Deathwatch mark would go there. Instead he picked up the right shoulder pad, and in the middle of the upper surface carefully abraded a small amount of the sealant paint until raw ceramite was exposed.

 

Next he took delicate tools from his persoan star crafting kit and prepared a minute sphere, carefully matching its outer surface to the cold blue/white light of the dying Erioch start with the specialist pigments available. Once he was satisfied he carefully dug into the exposed ceramite so that the sphere, no more than a few millimeters in diameter, would sit perfectly in it with half of it below the line of the surrounding ceramite.

 

Once the sphere had bonded with the underlying ceramite Brynnjar very slowly and precisely repainted the exposed cremate in the same void black as it had been before, with the area immediately above the Starmark filled in with a crystal clear equivalent. Later once it had all hardened Brynjarr would polish the shoulder pad so that no tactile distinction could be felt on the surface of the plate, but for now the work was done. The first star on his new path, a new life awaited.


Edited by Trokair, 27 January 2021 - 09:34 PM.

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#5
grailkeeper

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***

The moon of Lindis-9 lay ahead. Hengvist cruised in steady but shieldless. 

 

If the tech priests had active scans they'd have had difficulty making a return on the assault craft. They never did. 

 

As far as Silkbeard could see, these monks did little bar endlessly copy data. Fragmented data scraps illuminated in vellum made up most of the plunder. Silkbeard couldn't tell what tech-doctrine separated them from rest of the cult mechanicus, and he didn't care either. They were easy hunting. No scans, no resistance, no chance. A light cruiser was overkill. A predator would have been overkill. He had yet to see much as a laspistol fired in return. To call these raids siege work was practically an insult .

 

The Castleburners made moonfall - supported by two squads of blood claws. Bolters cut down the gray robed acolytes who had come to entreat with them. Inside the tech priory anything of value was quickly gathered and anything else was smashed and burnt. One elderly brother reached out to Sikbeard, with pleas on his lips. Silkbeard's bolt round passed through him and detonated in the wall behind him. A false wall it turned out. Behind was a veritable treasure trove of archaeotech, kept there to avoid raiders and thieves. Admist the rubble Silkbeard saw one prize which interested him above all others. An intact suit of ancient armour. Its previous owner was still inside, but was significantly less intact. Thin mummified skin stretched over his remaining bones. The armour itself was bare of any paint. There was no way of knowing which chapter it belonged to. Which chapter, or which legion. 

 

"This one's mine!"

 

****

Watch Fortress Erioch lay ahead. Hengvist cruised in steady but shieldless.

 

"This is Erioch Port Authority. Your approach is approved Hengvist. You are go to come along to entrance berth Delta-Niner. Stay on your current approach vector or you'll detonate the mines."


Edited by grailkeeper, 27 January 2021 - 06:29 PM.

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#6
Boyadventurer

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*SKRRRRT* *CLNNCH*

This echoes across the sparring hall. The room is pitch black to human eyes, even the lenses of the training servitor have been daubed with machine grease to block out its glow.

*KKKKRT* *CHNNNK*

The Astartes combat knife finds its target all the same. It has been several months of the same routine. Darkness. Knife. Enough destroyed training servitors to earn the ire of the repair serfs. This Watch Station is suffocating. The wait for Kill Team assignment is infuriating. The blood of the Khan still runs hot in Mantanor Carde’s veins, and hotter still for lack of activity.

*SHHHHHHRING* *FZZZZZZZ* *FZZZZZZZ*

The hall illuminates slightly from the sparks emitting out of the knife wound in its neck. The cut only nicked the cable supporting the servitors main motor drive. He’s losing focus. He wipes the sweat from his brow and checks the chronometer of a nearby console. Three hours of continuous combat training. Not impressive for an Astartes, but at least he was not disturbed this time. Too many times have other marines entered and turned the lumens on while the Dark Hunter was still training. A well-lit hall does not make for good sport to someone who trained on Phobian.

A signal chimes from the console. He clicks his rune on the screen and reads the missive. It is a summons. His Kill Team awaits.


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#7
Mazer Rackham

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Berth Delta-09.

 

The Silkbeard grimly waits.

 

It's as spartan and cold as an ice sheet.  Among the many passageways connecting the quay to the rest of the station, black robed serfs walk in procession, leading other Battle-brothers, black armoured Stromtroopers march with steady cadence, no military pomp beloved of Imperial Guard commanders here, no.  Just a steady step as inexorable as the seas of Fenris washing over the islands to remake the face of the world.

 

Blunt, effective.  Like the angled front of your recently acquired Mk III helm, which sits on your hip.  A low whistle greets your ears just as the smell of another of kind strikes your nose.  It has a tang of the arrogant, matching the swagger of the black-armoured Space Marine that pulls from his lazy lean against the bastion wall, etched with gargoyle reliefs and words of detestation for the alien.  His hair is controlled, unlike those of the young kin, pulled into a plait.  His chin is shaven and he has something of the Young King about his chops.

 

"Hail Grey Hunter," the Wolf who smiles at you warily is almost a pup, just out of his eager Blood Claw years and obviously still feeling the urge to challenge, as all Wolves do to establish pack.  "I have been sent to guide you to the inner sanctum of this floating Aett."

 

He wanders away, no hurry in him, his expectations whether you will follow or remain unclear from his scent.

 

++++++++++++++

 

"You are smashing up too many of my Servitors, Carde," Watch Sergeant Kulle wags his finger at you as you both march towards the Strategium, "I'm glad we're getting rid of you for a while, before we have to force you to repair them yourself."

 

His squat, blunt shape, almost that of a box, somehow manages to make his movements more fluid than his sturdy frame would suggest.  The grizzled veteran always speaks as if he's just discovered something displeasing, and from your experience it appears there are an infinite amount of things which do.  As you head for the Strategium, the clanking of a heavy set of warplate attracts your attention, the dusky blue paint a lighter colour to your own Dark Hunters shade.  heading towards you is a procession of serfs, another Astartes behind them with with a carefully wrought design upon his pauldron, where his Chapter symbol would be.

 

"All of you wait here," Kulle instructs, showing you through to an antechamber.  He grins at all three of his new charges, but it's rich in nasty.  "Throne, what a bunch of strays."

 

He beckons to the serfs and to the young Space Wolf, moving off without saying a word, leaving the three of you standing with no further indication of what happens next.

 

The room you are in has seats obviously for humans, and benches for Astartes.  There are paintings, banners and other reliefs in marble, depicting great battles and victories of the anonymous soldiers of the Deathwatch.  Even here, in this small room, the pressing weight and muted splendour of Erioch's glory is manifest.

 

Whilst you wait for the rest of your Kill Team, feel free to bounce off one another, try to assert dominance, recite frustrated internal monologue, that sort of thing.  Maybe lose yourself in the decor of the room, describing what you see.  Perhaps you judge these other Astartes harshly, comparing them favourably or not to others you have met.  Brynjarr and Carde will no doubt recognise the Space Wolf, whilst their own Chapters, even with a great roll of honour, may not be so easily determined.  It is up to you if you bother to find out or not, depending on your Character's humours.  Carde knows you're the Kill Team, but Brynjarr and Olaffson may be unsure.  Let us know!

 

Dosjetka, BadgersinHills, you are free to describe your entry to the Watch Station, but it maybe that you're already attached to and working in the Apothecarion.  If the latter, your physical appearance (armoured of course in Dos' case) will be known to each other and a familiar sight, but that's just a suggestion.  You write up how you want to come in, finishing with entering the antechamber and meeting your Kill Team.

 

TechCaptain, Ains could already be aboard and visiting the Armorium, or on the way, arriving much as the others.  Either way, Ains should arrive at the antechamber.


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#8
grailkeeper

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The squad vox link beeped and fizzled in Sigtrygg's ear. Disconnection. Hengvist hadn't dallied long after delivering him but he hadn't expected it to. 

 

Every home smells different, he thought. It is only because you are used to the smell of your own you don't notice it. Here he could smell the musk of many different chapters over the tang of prometheium and metal.  What he hadn't expected was to smell the musk of Fenris. He didn't recognise the pup- probably one of the young king's get. He followed.

 

" I know little of this place. How fares your tour on the watch?"


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#9
Mazer Rackham

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"I know little of this place. How fares your tour on the watch?"

 

The young Wolf pivots, continuing to walk backwards in his sable plate, the odd and lopsided electrum-silver strange, but perhaps not so much to a Astartes who decorates both shoulders according to tradition, as opposed to Codex dictate.

 

"Well.  The reaping of souls for the Allfather has been good.  I have cut the threads of aliens and heretics alike.  The Sea of Stars holds many treasures."

 

He matches your hulking step so not to lose you in the labyrinth.  Although the Wolf senses bestowed upon you by the Canis Helix would lead you back to him eventually, the riot of different smells and scents drive your nose wild.  There is the faint hint of many different humans, their powers and humours waxing and waning over not just the tall, vaulted passageways, but over the centuries.  Watch Fortress Erioch is indeed ancient, but something of the dark times lingers, down at the root.

 

Perhaps you are surprised the humans cannot smell it.  Perhaps not.

 

As the young Wolf finishes speaking he turns again, narrowly avoiding a servitor carrying Bolts you recognise are specialist issue, not unlike the Helfrost rounds belonging to your own armoury.

 

"Forgive me," he bangs his fist against his breast as you come level with him, disturbing a wolf-tooth necklace hanging from his neck, "Torin Ironbreaker, of the Blackmanes."

 

He gives you a fang-toothed smile, but it lacks any challenge.  His attitude remains affable, yet you can sense the tension.


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#10
Trokair

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A serf had come with the 06:00 bells and had informed Brynjarr that he would be summoned later that day. After a hasty meal in the refectory Brynyarr was back in his cell and donning his armour for the first time since he had left his chapter to come here. The weight took a moment to get used to again, but once fully clad it was once more his second skin and he moved unburdened.

 

When the procession of serfs arrived Brynjarr picked up his helmet and followed them. His instinct was to put his helmet on and engage the seal, but after a moments contemplation he maglocked his to his belt.

 

Several minutes later, and well beyond the area that Brynjarrs map had marked as allowed access, the procession approached a group of marines at the entrance to a vaulted chamber. One gestured to Brynjarr and two others. “All of you wait here”. The room was clearly designed for meetings, with human and Astartes sized seating.

 

“Throne, what a bunch of Strays.” The marine uttered before turning to leave, gesturing the serfs and another marine to follow, leaving just the three of them. The departing marines grin spoke of contempt for these unproved newbloods, or so it felt to Brynjarr, but best not to assume, for it could well be that Brynjarr was the only new one here.

 

Turning to study the other two in the room he noted the heraldry of the legendary Space Wolves on the larger of the two. Brynjarr was unsure how much bulk the Space Wolves armour added, but even without it he must be an Ogryn of a man. His armour bore some similarities to Brynjarr's own, but had drapings of great age to it that suggests that it was far older than any Mk VIII suit, whether standard issue or modified.

 

The other’s armour by contrast looked light and flexible, a MkVII by the look of it. Small sweat beads clang to the marine’s hair, perhabse he had been in one of the sparing chambers before being summoned. The heraldry of this one was unknown to Brynjarr.

 

‘If these are to be my brothers,’ though Brynjarrr, ‘then I better get to know them.’

 

Nodding slightly toward each of them in turn he spoke: “I am Brynjarr, Voidborn, at your service”.

 

 

Edit: That one spelling mistake you spot after posting, Argh!


Edited by Trokair, 29 January 2021 - 04:01 PM.

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#11
grailkeeper

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"Sigtrygg Olafsson, known as Silkbeard, of the Grimbloods has arrived" This was accompanied by a thump of his fist on his chest plate. Sigtrygg had previously given his name to Thorin Ironbreaker, but these words had the formal pattern of one following an ancient profession of loyalty, learned by rote . "Let it be known that the Vylka Fenrika honour the Apocryphon compact, and will so continue to honour until the coming of the wolftime".

 

Sigtrygg took in the room. The wall opposite was made almost entirely of pauldrons. Hundreds of them, some bearing chapter icons he recognised, most bearing ones he did not. A servitor assiduously was repairing dulled paint on a row of the older ones. Before the wall stood a number of serfs, each holding a right pauldron almost as large as they were. They were trembling slightly under the weight. These pauldrons were all identical, save that one was in mark 3 plate and another was in a pattern he did not recognise. They were silver and bore the same cruciform icon of a stylised I that appeared throughout the facility. Sigtrygg's attention wasn't drawn to them. Instinctively his eye was drawn to the largest threats in the room instead, two other astartes. He bade his hackles settle and fought the urge to start designating threat markers.  

 

"The Voidborn. I have not heard of them."


Edited by grailkeeper, 29 January 2021 - 05:20 PM.


#12
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“We are young chapter compared to your esteemed linage, and furthermore our homes normally patrol for from Fenris in the outer reaches of Segmentum Tempestus.”

 

Feeling that more needed to be said to answer the challenge and defend Voidborn honour Brynjarr added. “Void warfare in all its guises is our call.”

 

Gesturing towards the Serfs with the silver pauldrons, Brynjarr continued.

 

“As we are going to be brothers, Sigtrygg Olafsson, may I call your Silkbeard?”


Edited by Trokair, 29 January 2021 - 07:48 PM.

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#13
grailkeeper

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"You may. I require it. 

 

The compact between my chapter and the Inquisition requires that I disclose my true name, I'd much rather I'd not. To use ones true name is to have power over them. This why we go by such names as protection from the förbannad. To allow them to know your true name is to invite damnation. The ancient terrans had a similar tradition. They called it Nomdeger. Your chapter must have traditions and compacts of its own."

 

Sitrygg, wandered over to a large table at the center of the room. It was the same cruciform shape as the pauldrons. A holoprojection of  an aquila slowly rotated over the skull in the middle, the projector-lens in one of the eye sockets.  It flickered as he dumped his helmet on the table. 

 

"Presumably someone is going to tell me why I had to drag my arse half a segmentum to be here."


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#14
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Brynjarr nodded for while one’s own customs where true and tried the tradition of others where no less important and should be accorded the respect circumstance permitting.

 

“In that case it is forgotten, Silkbeard you are, for I meant you no ill.”  

 

Following Silkbeard to the table he glanced at the dark blue armoured marine to see if he was following or may have a better answer to Silkbeard’s question. Brynjarr certainly had not and gently shrugged.

 


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#15
TechCaptain

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Artificer Ains had his head bowed over an ancient tome that had been buried in the Archived Vaults of the Watch Fortress. The hum of servitors filled the otherwise quiet space in which he worked. He stayed studying various Xenos weaponry notes that were recorded in the logs of past brothers of the Deathwatch when he became aware of a menial of the Deathwatch, an old archivist whose life was this area. "Lord, your presence is needed by the Watch Captain." With an annoyed huff, Ains got up and handed the massive tome to the man. The Archivist immediately took notes of page and wear the lumbering Marine had left off in his research. Artificer Ains was not known for his good dealings with others but knew he would be watched and recorded in such restricted corridors. He made his way to the Gathering that was directed by the Watch Captain with eyes and a mask that glowed with electrical intensity. At all times his faith in the Omnissiah burned from behind the mask that was his calling. 


Edited by TechCaptain, 01 February 2021 - 08:09 PM.

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#16
Dosjetka

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Brother-Apothecary Oridyn Loth stood alone in his chamber. As someone who had by necessity of his craft always been surrounded by his fellow Exorcists, his current surroundings were unfamiliar, almost unsettling. He was not sure that the low temperatures and constant hum of cogitators were the only reason has bare skin was prickled.

He watched his own right hand close and open, repeating the motion several times. It was his bionic arm yet he felt like it was his own, unlike during the first year after he lost his original during which he had struggled to acclimatise. Loth touched his throat. The wounds the Ork had dealt him had been extensive, and some ran deeper than any physical injury.

 

As his arm lowered, the Exorcist caught sight one of the many lines inscribed on his flesh. It has been written by a skilled calligrapher in tight, cursive script with a precision that never failed to astonish the Apothecary.

 

Spirit of noxious immateria, be gone from hence, for as the Emperor of Mankind, manifold be his blessings, watches over me, so I will not fear the shadow of the warp.

 

A humoured smile crept across his battle-scarred visage. The Exorcists had always been reknowned as some of the foremost specialists in Daemon-hunting, second only to the Malleus agents of the Holy Ordos and the... Loth tensed suddenly, all traces of mirth gone like water vapourising instantly on a red-hot stove. His focus was on a thread of memory that was so tantilisingly close, yet as if just beyond the struggling grasp of his mind. Flashes of dull, ceramite grey, bright gold, and piercing icy blue danced at the edges of his vision, hinting at what it was he was looking for. A few moments later Oridyn released a frustrated breath of air. Closing his eyes and passing his other, organic hand across his face, the memory had gone along with its irritatingly confusing flickers of colour.

 

He moved across the chamber to the sink, letting cool metallic-tasting water wash over his scalp and face. As he stood straight, drops over water made their way downwards across his skin, prickling it along their multitude paths.

 

The Daemon has many forms. You must know them all. You must tell the Daemon from his disguise and root him out from the hidden places. Trust no-one. Trust not even yourself. It is better to die in vain than to live an abomination.

 

Oridyn was a product of both the Chapter's gene-smiths and the Inquisiton's skilled Daemon-hunters. This legacy had been passed down through the centuries since the dying years of the 35th millennium, through countless generations of the Mankind's foremost warriors, in the form of sermons delivered by members of the Reclusiam, texts inscribed by the skilled and erudite minds of the Librarium, inscribed on etched into the ceramite armour that shields the body of all Astartes by the able smiths of the Chapter Forges, and through the actions carried out by each and every Exorcist living and dead since that ancient time.

 

"And yet," he thought, "in the face of this sacrosanct heritage I care more for the Enemy Without than I ever have for the Enemy Beyond or Within."

 

This was why Loth was deep within Watch Fortress Erioch, letting his mind wander while waiting for his summons.

 

"A wandering mind is one easily led astray", that was something Brother-Chaplain Skaerellan would no doubt quip if he were to bear witness to the current scene. The Exorcist chuckled at the thought and felt the familiar warmth of brotherhood, of purpose that the memory brought course through his body, make his epidermis tingle. The crooked smile remained as approach his armour rack and initiated a process that would take some time. The consequence to shoulder for doning ones armour unaided by the usual half dozen serfs and servitors.

 

Trust no-one. Not even yourself.

 

As he intoned the correct rites passe on to him by the tech-scions of Mars, Loth wondered how he would reconcile the unviolable teachings and sacrosanct mantras etched into his body, mind, and soul since the very first day as a neophyte 24 years prior and his strong, human desire for brotherhood amongst a band of Astartes he did not know, Astartes he did not trust...

 

...and would likely never trust, as that was the price to pay for the hunters of Mankind's most dangerous and insidious foes: daemons.


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#17
Mazer Rackham

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The door chimes.

 

The sound, with the hints of colour and needle-shards of memory pricking your mind is ominous.  If you were a man who believed in coincidence, and not the hard truths of fate, witnessed and hastily sequestered within the vaults of your mind - as no doubt the secrets of this fortress - no more would be thought of it.

 

And yet, the chime from the door, the ever-present silver bell tinkle of monasteries and warriors who watch the darkness, is different today.  You have perhaps dwelled on the past, upon fate, too long.  Now it has heard you, and it has arrived at your very door.  Swiftly, you close off the world beyond your own hardened skin, burdening yourself with the armour which sustains you and will, you hope, forever be as firm as you.  A growing sense of deep revulsion stirs as you close the distance to the door.  A pit in your stomach that only exists in the depths of the soul.  Something horrendous lurks without....just as something unholy once lurked within.

 

Your hand hovers over the rune to open the door.

 

You must call on your reserves of willpower to overcome the waves of anguish thundering through the solid adamantine tiles that form the barrier between you and whatever waits.


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#18
Dosjetka

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The door hisses viciously, parting before the striding Exorcist like two halves of a mythical Terran sea. Loth comes to a sudden halt, his armoured boots clanging on the muted steel floor, the echo of which rings around the room. Three had already assembled in the antechamber and are sitting or standing to the right while both behind and opposite them hang ancient banners commemorating epic battles, lost to time and the weight of an incessant war for survival if not for these large pieces of cloth hanging mutely in the dark corridors and soaring rooms of the Watch Fortress. Framing these delicate hand-woven masterpieces are columns of marble. Loth notices two among the many: one depicting a man struggling to hold up a two-headed eagle sitting atop a stylised, capitalised "i", with three perpendicular lines occupying its centre, and the other a battle-ready Astartes standing upon a pile of alien skulls, his power sword planted into the ground, his arms grasping its hilt, his uncovered face set in an expression of grim determination.

 

The tense conversation taking place among the present Astartes catches the Exorcist's attention and he turns his helmed head to better regard them. The relief of being once more in the company of the Emperor's finest clashes with the anguish and suspicion bubbling away in the pit of his stomach. The resulting emotional tempest does nothing to calm Oridyn's nerves or aid his focus.

 

Hidden Content

 

As his eyes settle on each of the Astartes' shoulder pads depicting their parent Chapter, the Apothecary regrets not having paid more attention to the heraldries and hallmarks of the other Adeptus Astartes Chapters: he recognises none.

 

Loth quietly recites a mantra of focus, his dry mouth joining and parting rapidly, and calms his breathing using a simple exercise. Regaining his focus, the Exorcist contemplates his next action: he theorises he is not the only one to be poorly-schooled in Space Marine heraldry and concludes that it would be in everyone's interest for him to reveal both his role and Chapter of origin. But what of his name?

 

"A surprising portion of Mankind beieve that a person needs a selection of different names for different purposes. Many have a common name which is for everyday purposes, while a personal name might be used only among trusted folk like family and close friends. Some cultures have a secret or "true" name which is believed to hold considerable power over a person should it ever be discovered. These names are said to be consumed should a person foolishly enter a pact with a daemonic entity, and the control over their own fate or indeed even their own mind and body would be surrendered to the whims and vicious desires of the daemon."

 

Unlike the lessons in heraldry dispensed by Lexicanium Arkken, which Loth is convinced the young Astartes did not enjoy dispensing either, the Apothecary clearly remembers the lectures of Epistolary Sygyz. After all, if an Astartes surrenders their true name to a daemon, they cease to be servants to the Throne and are forever tainted by the Immaterium. Swift execution is the only acceptable cure.

 

The Mk. V helm angles itself towards the gathered warriors as his vox system releases a short burst of static, as if clearing a clot generated by meagre use. His armoured fist slams against the moulded, pale gold skull-and-spread-wings adorning his breastplate.

 

"Greetings. I am Brother-Apothecary Loth of the Exorcists. I have to come fulfill my Chapter's oath to the Holy Ordos."

 

His voice is transmitted loudly, steadily, and clearly, betraying nothing of the maelstrom raging within.


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#19
Trokair

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The hiss of the door and the sudden clunk of boots coming to a standstill alerted Brynjarr to a newcomer. Turning he studied the new arrival; clad in shining red MkVII suit he was a much brighter than the common deep black of the Watch Fortress, especially the ceramite white helmet. 

 

Leaning towards Silkbeard Brynjarr whispered: “Any idea who he is?”

The scruff reply from his brother marine was in the negative, and of no surprise given that they all appeared to be new to each other here.

 

The newcomer surveyed the room and the Marines before him before his vox crackled to life.

 

"Greetings. I am Brother-Apothecary Loth of the Exorcists. I have to come fulfill my Chapter's oath to the Holy Ordos."

 

Brynjarr was gladdened to have an Apothecary on the team. Though the more he thought of it the more dangerous it felt, to have an Apothecary for a small team rather than a larger strikeforce spoke of exceptional danger levels, better to check his armour once more to ensure that it could withstand such a raised thread potential.

 

Not wanting to prolong such thoughts he greeted Loth and gestured to Silkbeard.

 

“Welcome Loth, this here is Silbeard and I am Brynjarr.” Gesturing towards and the third marine in the room in turn Brynjarr continued, “His name I know not yet.”


Edited by Trokair, 30 January 2021 - 05:13 PM.

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#20
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"A sawbones? They must be expecting incoming fire wherever we are going. Greetings bonesetter. If things were otherwise we'd be fighting together against the kine of Armageddon. Who knows, perhaps we still might."



#21
Dosjetka

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As soon as the word leaves his lips, Oridyn feels uneasy about it.

 

Brother.

 

To omit the word might have suggested animosity directed towards these Space Marines that he did not know, potentially eroding the bond between them before it had even started to properly form. But including it in his sentence feels like there is some implicit trust between them and the Exorcist's training tells him this can turn out to be a fatal mistake, despite all Astartes sharing a strong common genetic heritage. They are all scions of the Emperor, after all.

While a portion of Loth's mind wrestles with this conundrum, his ears pick up the replies from two of the gathered individuals.

 

The first is short for a Space Marine and his epidermis has a distinct grey-ish hue.

 

Melanchromic mutation? He makes a mental note to analyse this further at a more appropriate time.

 

The second looks like a brute who's swallowed a whole citrus and is not enjoying it.

 

No amount of medical treatment can mend that.

 

Neither has any indication of specialism or rank other than their boltgun mag-locked to their armour. Loth assumes they are both Tactical Marines, like he was before his appointment to the Chapter Apothecarion. He nods once to each Astartes.

 

"Silkbeard. Brynjarr. Which Chapters do you claim as your own? I recognise neither of your heraldries."

 

Recognising weakness can be dangerous and used against you, but in this case, Oridyn decide that heraldry is of little importance and admitting this gap in his knowledge can serve to ease the tension palpable in their air.


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#22
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"You might not recognise us but the Emperor did. Space Wolves chapter, previously legion. The burners of Prospero and saviours of Terra. Sons of Leman Russ, the Primarch Leman Russ. " 

 

Silkbeard shows making friends was not his strong point. Thorin can see now why he has not made the wolf guard, despite his seniority. 


Edited by grailkeeper, 31 January 2021 - 05:15 PM.

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#23
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"Ah, Wolf", Mantanor calls as he enters the chamber. "Your kind is known to me. What fortune to have a son of Russ to hunt with." He leans to the next marine whos livery he does not recognize "I hear their nose is so keen they can smell what a Dark Angel isn't telling you, hmm? Hahaheheh" He leans back over and heartily slaps Silkbeard on the chestplace twice. His lips form a sly grin, but his eyes are reading the marine's composure.

"Good, good," he says to himself, taking in the other marines as well. "I will hunt with you all. Hmm. I am Mantanor Carde, son of the great Khan, Jaghatai. Dark Hunter."


Edited by Boyadventurer, 31 January 2021 - 09:19 PM.

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#24
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"I had not known of the Dark Hunters till now. Tell me are your chapter born in the saddle like the other sons of the Khagan?"



#25
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"Hmm, heh heh, my world is too dark to ride fast. You'd run in to something, see. We learned to be patient, stalk our prey and strike at the right opportunity. Wolves know all about that, no? Heh heh."

 

He rolls his shoulder and twists a kink out of his neck.
 

"But I think I've been waiting around this place for too long, hmm? It's been too long since I've smelled the blood of my enemies," he flashes a predatory smile. "I think when we are finally unleashed, I will outrun a Chogoran steed just to get my hands dirty faster, heh heh."


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