@Wraithblade6@KabenSaal@MonkeyBusiness@DepressedSoviet@FinDragon@DracoLunaris@Andreyich@Dead Cruiser@Zelosse@Hank

The matted black vessel slunk through the depths of the void like some form of prowling oceanic predator - having spent over seven months journeying from one end of the Milky Way to the other – its blunt prow cutting through the blackness of space with ease, a near invisible presence that had been just as close and just as unseen by inhabitants in the galaxy for over ten millennia; where once the unlit vessel may have transported the infamous and near-forgotten Witchseekers, it now served a different master – the shadowy and indispensable operatives of the holy and venerable Ordo Xenos.

Having set out from the Segmentum Solar with but one purpose, it had roamed far and wide in search of the precious cargo that had been requested to fulfil an oath made long ago.

From far and wide they had been received, the Black Ship collecting the chosen ones and bringing them aboard with practised ritual and speed, from a crusading fleet of the Black Templars to the planet Khoraj where the Iron Champions presided, after a deep-space rendezvous with the Sons of Medusa and going as far as the realm of Ultramar in search of those noble sons of Guilliman.

Further additions were bought forth from the ferocious Flesh Tearers, the righteous Harbingers and a multitude of other Astartes Chapters, each having sworn to render unto the secretive Deathwatch what they required when it was requested.

Each marine had been accepted onto the ship with due reverence, their weapons and armour (or as much as possible) removed until they were stripped down to nothing but their black carapace. Each Brother was then placed within a stasis tube, temporarily interred there under Inquisitorial biddings, each perfectly safe for transport to their next destination even if it seemed as only a few moments to them between inactivity and awakening.

Where was it that they were heading?

Deep in the Casistus Sector, nestled in a cluster of long-dead stars, is the location of what was once a fully functioning Imperial facility; since before the dark days of the Heresy the massive structure, named 'Fort Acestes' by the few even aware of its existence, has floated and remained exactly where it is to this day.

Theorised to have been constructed during the Dark Age of Technology, crafted and built by the hands of Human colonists as some form of frontier settlement and defensive structure, Acestes is not altogether unlike a more 'civilian' version of a Ramilles Class Star-fort – or even dissimilar from the Craftworlds of the Eldar.

Not a small number of minor STCs were uncovered by the initial Deathwatch and Ordo Xenos boarding parties, each archived and stored away as swiftly as possible lest they fall into the wrong hands. Over the following years the monumental structure – which contained enough room to house a whole Chapter of Astartes and their fleets, but lacked more than basic defensive weapons – was internally changed to reflect its new occupants, everything from hangar bays to training rooms, chambers, and a Xenos 'zoo' being added.

It is into one of these hangar that the Black Ship slid, clamps locking it into place and the Marines wheeled out inside their stasis units; one-by-one the pods are up-righted, the stasis fields de-activated and the battle-brothers within given a good fifteen minutes to realise where they are and reacquaint themselves with fresh air after such a long time frozen between moments.

All around the hangar is a hive of activity, servitors going to-and-fro as they complete their given tasks, serfs in plain black robes moving past to check on the cruiser some feet away, and all this enclosed within an immense structure of almost completely smooth metal the colour of jet. Below their feet is Imperial-built grated decking, standard in most airdocks across the Imperium, but above them is a ceiling that disappears into shadow before the upper surface is even seen.

From the far end of the hangar came two figures, one had the look of any other Deathwatch marine except that all Chapter identification had been erased, only the silver 'I' and skull of the Deathwatch visible upon his freshly painted armour. Beside him walked another more prominent figure, his Corvus-pattern helmet sweeping left and right as he took in the line of recruits before him. Both came to a halt in front of the newly minted volunteers.

“My name is Watch-Captain Roa Eritana of the Silver Skulls,” came a deep but level tone from within the helmet, a helmet which if studied closely was covered in interlocking whorls and swirls of silver against the black paint, “welcome to Fort Acestes, brothers, where you shall prepare to take your Second Oath and become a full-fledged member of the Deathwatch.”

Gesturing to the so far silent figure at his side he spoke once more, “this is Brother Sorrow, he too has only been here a short while and will be joining you as I put you through your paces.” Another short flick of a finger sent 'Sorrow' to join the now organised line of dressed-down transhumans.

“So,” proclaimed the veteran alien hunter, spreading his arms wide before letting them fall by his side, “who are you and from where do you hail?”

Draksal spent the last of his time in a briefing with a Techmarine of the Chamber Ferrum about the maintenance of his Bionics once he left the chapter. This boiled down to a rapid instruction on how to deal with either tech-priests or Techmarines from other chapters for the acquisition of replacement parts and materials. In particular it stressed to never mention or get involved in a discussion about the Moirae Schism when speaking with them. This along with the transfer of a few slightly more sensitive data-files concerning the maintenance and construction of his Bionics that the Techmarine thought prudent for his survival, were all there was time for before he departed, offering a prayer to the Omnissiah and the machine spirit of the stasis tube for his safe arrival before dreamless sleep enveloped him.

He awoke in indeterminate time later and used the 15 minutes to run diagnostics on his system to ensure they were not damaged by the trip, review the data he had received about the death watch in general and run a mental exercise program that involved sorting falling tetrominoes, with the aim of creating a horizontal line of ten units without gaps, which would then vanish. All this was done by having the various programs/data be superimposed on the optical information he received from his Bionic eyes and controlling them with micro movements of his Little finger.

Finally the greeting party arrived. Draksal eyed the Black shield with curiosity, what crime had they committed that they had been forsaken by their chapter, yet not so great that they had been allowed to survive? As a son of Medusa his chapters origin was in a way like that of a black shield, exiled from their parent chapter due to internal conflict they had proven themselves loyal and capable members of the Imperium. He had of course not been there at the time, but he felt it prudent to give this sorrow the benefit of the doubt for the time being, they were clearly not weak and still loyal to the Imperium if they had made it here alive on their own.

Perhaps the vast metalwork that marked him out from the others had allowed him to come to his senses faster for he was the first to respond in a flat semi-electronic voice.

“I am Draksal Corbite of the Sons of Medusa. I must commend the Silver Skulls actions at the Gildar Rift against the traitorous Red Corsairs”

The grinding of his clenched metal fist the only indication of the burning hatred he held for the former Astral Claws, his voice still monotone as he continued.

"It is satisfactory to know that one from that chapter will be leading us"

He paused for a moment then added.

“May I ask when we will be reunited with our equipment, I wish to confirm mine has survived the journey intact.”

Victar Ironmarch

Before departing Arlockus

Victar sat alone at the rendezvous point on his homeworld. The Harbingers homeworld. It was here, on the windswept stone and steel that an Ork horde had shattered at their hands. It was on this holy place that Victar had become a monster in his own right. From this back water planet had sprung a beast obsessed with eradicating the green skinned menace with a passion that often bordered on madness. Even now, on the upswing from that fateful time lost to the history books, Victars hand still trembled in rage as he watched his brothers in arms die.
The rock he had been idly holding crumbled under the crushing force of his clenched fingers.

The black ship would be here soon to take him for the last Chapter he would ever know. The Chaplain had personally told him of what awaited his future and it had brought a measure of fervor back to his soul. Their numbers decimated, the Harbingers had been more cautious in their wars over the years. Aiding the larger Chapters rather than leading the charge. It had dampened his spirits, if he was perfectly honest.

Resting at his feet was the Storm Shield he had carried into battle a hundred times. It was a totem of his strength and determination to fight and die with absolute honor. A new addition had been added now, as he waited. A power sword Victar had since started referring to as his Chapter. To him, even if he joined the Death Watch, the sword would always be the Harbinger. It would always lead the way, to announce the enemies fate in the form of its wielder.

Victar gripped the hilt of his blade and waited as patiently as he could.

Fort Acestes

Stripped of his weapons and most of his armor, Victar had willingly gone into stasis with the others, and allowed the momentary 'sleep' to claim him. Though unaware of the passage of time it was still reasonable to say that claiming each member here in the gathering had not been a fast accomplishment. Time was not important anyways and thus the subject of 'when' was replaced by 'where'.
Even that really had no meaning to him though. The realization that time had passed had the eager Space Marine itching for a fight and his sword. Thankfully it was another such Marine that spoke the same thought aloud first. Might as well be heard.

"Victar Ironmarch, of the Harbingers. Sir!" Saluting as he spoke. "I don't mean disrespect, but I too wish to retrieve my gear for inspection. There is an item among my belongings of utmost importance."

At the here and now it was the only thought occupying his mind. Without sword or shield, without the will of his brothers in hand, Victar was hesitant to admit he felt more naked without it than he did stripped of his armor.

The Repentant strike cruiser of the Angels of Absolution fell through space with all due haste toward the outskirts of the Eye of Terror. One of the Imperial worlds in this unfortunate region of the galaxy had sent out a distress call. The wasn't an unusual event, for the Black Legion often threatened this zone. Several space marine chapters gave the routine response of a shift in their forces, redirecting ships to where they were needed, but it would be time yet before The Repentent arrived. It was going to be delayed.

Word had been received from the chapter master that the Deathwatch would be claiming their chosen from the Angels of Absolution from aboard this very ship. Previously unannounced, the blackship belonging to the Deathwatch had just arrived. Both The Repentent and the blackship synchronized their flightpaths for boarding.

Curious who it might be, Aldaric and the rest of the vetran and elite Angels gathered in their grand council hall aboard the strike cruiser for the brief and efficient ceremony. They all knew each other well.

"Duty to the Deathwatch is duty equally important as any other, if not moreso. 'Tis a great honor, and nothing less, to join their ranks..."

Aldaric listened in silence as orator tried his best to emphasize the nobility in joining the Deathwatch. But the fact was, they would be loosing someone this day, someone valuable, to an Ordo Militant created by the mortals of the Inquisition out of fear of some alien-originating and impending Armageddon. Whoever it was, that brother would never be seen again, never again be loyal to the causes of their chapter's glory, their primarch, or hunting the Fallen. As much as protecting humanity and defending the Imperium was the ultimate and mutual goal, to the Dark Angels and their subchapters, sacrificing one of their own's identity and fealty felt like a betrayal.

"...3rd company master, Aldaric Felbane."

Aldaric didn't move a muscle. Those next to him began to back away, clearing the path. They looked at him, saluted, brought up their fists... but there was no cheer. This was a death.

Aldaric walked forward, obedient to the last.

----------------------------------------------------------

The pod containing the collected from the Angels of Absolution was righted and opened up. A moment passed, then the space marine inside violently reached up with a grasping hand, fingers curling around the throat of some dreamed beast directly in front of the opened capsule. Aldaric then relaxed, quickly getting it together as he fully came to consciousness. He stepped out of the capsule, naked, feeling the metal grating below him with his own feet. He saw the rest of the lineup beside him, a host of unrecognized faces, and he recalled events before his stasis sleep. His bionic eye gave him additional information on energy sources, heat, and distance to the very shadowed ceiling, then the Watch-Captain made his introduction, pointing out Sorrow.

Two other space marines gave their names, before attention fell on Aldaric. He answered flatly, "I am brother Aldaric Felbane, former Master of the Angels of Absolution 3rd company." He paused briefly, reflecting on the confidence of Drascal and Victar, then he looked to Captain Roa and without explanation added, "I am ready."

Standing naked on the grate without weapons or armor was undoubtedly a questionable state of readiness, yet this Aldaric was at attention. He seemed open to learning and ready to accept whatever training the Deathwatch might throw upon him.

From those aboard, no one could've been more reluctant to give up their equipment than Corneo from the Iron Champions. Even after he finally agreed to it, simply because no alternative was presented to him or the others, he kept outright grumbling about it to himself and anyone who happened to be close enough to hear it. He simply did not feel comfortable, and anyone and their mother could notice it one way or another. Either way, as a loyal space marine he did stop his grumbling, eventually, meaning that he went quiet a few moments before their stasis begun. Such a joyous ride it was going to be, he'd only have to close his eyes like this, see pleasant dreams about things getting crushed beneath his boots as he falls on them from high above, ready to..wake up.

The pod opens and the disfigured marine steps out blinking and stretching his arms slightly, clenching his fingers into fists slightly before recalling his missing equipment and thus there was no need to grasp anything. His new, fellow chapter goes through instructions. Sorrow from unknown origins, Corbite from the Sons of Medusa, Ironnmarch from Harbingers, Felbane from the Angels of Absolution. He shouldn't be so surprised, he knew that Deathwatch works this way, or so they at least said and were right. It was his turn. "Corneu Cornelius of the Iron Champions!" he announces clearly and looks around the rest of the people present slowly before adding."An optimal situation would be that we would at least be reunited with our armor and helmets as soon as possible." he states and rubs his face slightly, trailing his fingers along the scars that were everywhere.

The decision to give up Sirren Gadex to the Deathwatch had not been an easy one. When the inquisitorial order had come down to offer him up, both his company leadership and the senior members of the Sanguinary Priesthood had bickered relentlessly with the Chapter leadership. He was too valuable to the chapter to offer up to the Ordo Xenos, they had argued. Both his experience as a veteran and his status as a Sanguinary Priest were at a premium to the depleted chapter, and his loss would be a substantial blow. Still, their concerns had been overruled; given the Chapter's poor reputation with the Imperium at large, as well as their limited forces, they could not afford to come into conflict with a major order of the Inquisition. The tithe would have to be paid, as the potential consequences would be too great.

Sirren had accepted this solemn duty without protest. It would be his duty, and at this point, duty was all he had left. Emotionally cold as ever, he had barely spoken to the inquisitorial retainers that had taken him aboard the Black Ship, and submitted to their demands without fuss. He looked forward to the relative calm of stasis, where his mind would not be plagued by the constant threat of the Flaw looming overhead. A peaceful rest was a rare luxury on Cretacia, though his blood would need purification upon his arrival at the Watch Fortress. He made a note to track down a fellow Son of Sanguinius upon his arrival, to procure a Blood Casket to this end.

Upon arrival and being greeted by the Watch Captain appointed over him, Sirren again displayed no thoughts or emotions outwardly. He listened intently as the others that had arrived with him boasted their parent chapters and made a great fuss over what had been done with their weapons and armor. Not that Sirren himself did not wish for his equipment to be returned to him, but thought that voicing such concerns would be pointless. Despite their naivety he envied these young Marines; how easily their zeal came to them, and the comfort he suspected their duty gave them.

Eventually eyes drew to Sirren, who introduced himself in a stark and rough voice, "Sirren Gadex, Sanguinary Priest, Flesh Tearers Second Company."

As the gathered Astartes announced their names, their titles and their chapters, the anonymous Astartes known as Sorrow couldn't help but feel a pang of loss. He had already been announced and there was precious little for him left to say -- how he would love to able to speak of his Chapter with the same pride as these men! Sorrow's eyes, hidden behind the featureless visage of his Mark VII helmet, fell on Draskal Corbite and the clenching of his augmented fist at the mention of the Red Corsairs. Such is the fate of traitors, Sorrow thought to himself.

The rest of the introductions were more or less as expected. Seeing a Sanguinary Priest of the Flesh Tearers here was an interesting surprise, but other than that, Sorrow wasn't in the least surprised to hear the repeated calls to be reunited with their armor and weapons. Any Marine feels naked without their gear and Sorrow took a second to appreciate the armored plate already shrouding his form. Standing in line with his fellows, Sorrow still felt the need to express at least some form of acknowledgement.

"Hail, brothers," was the greeting he settled on, and held his closed fist to his chest. Sorrow's voice was remarkably quiet, barely above a hushed whisper, but still managed to make itself clearly audible in the dark chamber. "It is an honor to serve with you all." He made no mention of his Chapter or the lack of its heraldry on his pauldron and, after a second's hesitation, dropped his fist to his side and stood at attention, making it clear he was done talking.

It was quite an event when they decided to send the Scout Sergeant to the Deathwatch. An Astropath would send a message to pick him up at Macragge, where a small ceremony was held. A long line of the Chapter's serfs would form all playing assorted instruments while assorted Space Marines including those of Kurt's former squad would all stand saluting to form great pomp. With a final salute to his Captain, Scout Sergeant Inri was gone.

He awoke with an exaggerated yawn and stretch, like the princess of a fairy tale. He walked out slowly, adjusting his hair. His dream was a bright one, with him sitting on the throne Calgar usually occupied. He too had power armour just a little too large for him and a power fist that was unnecessarily big, but he also didn't have two. That just seemed silly. Instead he had a storm bolter, yes an engraved one with kraken bolts only, and all the other Ultramarines bowing to him. Yes, a fine dream indeed....

Kurt stood amongst the other Marines, looking left and right. No, these were not the desirable fellows to have at all, he would have to exercise caution; especially around the flesh tearer. He didn't want the lunatic splattering a valuable asset, no. He gave a sarcastic salute before presenting himself. "Kurtis von Inri, Scout Sergeant, Ultramarines." he said, a socialite smile upon his face. It would be an interesting service to say the least.

When Zaphiel's Crusade fleet had been notified of its requirement in choosing a battle-brother to be tithed to the Deathwatch, Zaphiel had some secret hope that it might be him chosen. As a Chaplain, and a member of a more spiritual Chapter, Zaphiel felt that he owed it to the Imperium and the Emperor to serve with the Holy Inquisition. Zaphiel, however, had no doubts about the likelihood of tensions between the members of whatever unit he served with. Any Astartes could recall stories of Deathwatch units where the battle-brothers were at each other's throats as much as they were the Xenos. And with Zaphiel's more...unique spiritual beliefs, he knew that if he were chosen, he would be no exception to the tensions found when Astartes of multiple chapters mingle.

Upon the day of the choosing ceremony, Zaphiel stood in the main hall of the flagship of the crusade fleet, along with most every other Marine. The Marshal stood upon an elevated platform, overlooking the crowd of Astartes below him. A grand speech resounded, praising the recent accomplishments of the crusade, the God-Emperor, and welcoming the representatives of the Ordo Xenos. When the time came for the name of the tithe to be announced, Zaphiel was almost caught by surprise when it was him. Striding to the platform, Zaphiel gave a salute to the Marshal, and a brief word thanking the God-Emperor, the Marshal, and the Ordo Xenos for the honor and privilege to serve in the Deathwatch. From there, Zaphiel boarded the Black Ship, was stripped of his possessions, and entered stasis.

While in Stasis, Zaphiel dreamt of his duty as Chaplain. From scenes of leading his battle-brothers in monastic prayer aboard the vessels of the crusade fleet, to raining righteous holy fury down upon the enemies of the God-Emperor. These dreams were interpreted by Zaphiel as a reminder from the Emperor of his true duties, and knew that he would not falter in performing these tasks within the Deathwatch.

When he awoke from stasis, and followed the others into the hanger of Fort Acestes, Zaphiel felt a strange sense of ease. Although he was without arms or armor, with only his Black Carapace providing any sort of protection or modesty, he felt as if the protection of the Emperor Himself were shining upon them.

When the time came for Zaphiel to introduce himself, he simply gave the salute of his fist across his chest and stated "Zaphiel Berauth, Black Templars Chaplain."

@DracoLunaris@DepressedSoviet@Andreyich@Hank@Dead Cruiser@FinDragon@Wraithblade6@Zelosse

Roa eyed the assembled warriors through the lens of his helmet, his optics picking out every detail – from the most minute scarring, to the mini-expressions crossing their superhuman features – although he had already read enough information on each of them to know all that he needed to; now it was simply his task to get them armed, armoured and prepared to dispense the Emperor's mercy to those who deserved it.

“It is an honour to see you all here,” he replied with genuine exuberance , “now that we are acquainted, let us proceed with the formalities. From your questions I can see you are each eager to begin your duties.”

A short burst of clipped comm-chatter could be heard by those standing closest to the Captain, although no precise words were discernible, a conversation clearly taking place within the veterans helmet which did not concern them. For a moment it appeared that he was no more than a black-armoured statue, completely still with only his eye lenses flickering momentarily.

A couple of seconds passed before the sound of an approaching group drew the attention of all.

Arrayed in a single-file column were a number of tracked servitors – things that had once been men and women, condemned to this servitude as punishment for heinous crimes, their lower body replaced by rotating tracks and their bodies morphed into more machine than Man – each of them pushing before them a similarly caterpillar-tracked cross-rack bearing upon it each suit of armour belonging to the assembled Astartes; there the green of the Sons of Medusa, and beside it the yellow of the Harbingers and the blue Scout armour of the Ultramarines, all soon to be of the same colour. Upon the back of each servitor, dangling like some form of glittering prize, was an electroplated pauldron bearing the skull and 'I' of the Deathwatch against a background of catechisms abhorring the xenos for the filth they are.

One servitor, one suit of armour, and one Astartes was how the column eventually aligned, an arms length away from the Marines, an eighth attendant – this one a black-robed serf, a container of black paint in one hand and a swinging brazier in the other - moving toward the suits, accompanied by a murmuring priest of the Ecclesiarchy distinguished by his crimson robes and tall mitre; each suit was held in place by the servitors as they were painted black for their new purpose, the opposite pauldron retaining the colours and livery of their owners parent Chapter, the hymns of the Ecclesiastical operative meant to sooth and calm the Machine Spirits of the armour in the God-Emperor's name.

“Now,” intoned the slightly robotised voice of Watch-Captain Roa, “step forth and affix your pauldrons.”

Every Marine was required to step forth and 'suit up', assisted by the same servitors that had wheeled in their armour racks, the freshly painted armour dry within minutes and ready to be worn. Only the Deathwatch pauldron was not attached to the armour, a duty that could be performed by the wearer of the protective carapace themselves.

From within his own armour the Silver Skull watched them, from the reasonable fresh-faced Ultramarine – part of a Chapter that rarely had an easy time fitting in with others – to the battle-brother from the Angel of Absolution Chapter, their entire strength seeming to stem from something inside them that their progenitor Chapter grasped at still; what this was he did not know, and doubted he ever would.

As for the Black Templar Chaplain...a Chapter of fanatical zealots who worshipped the Emperor as a deity, not unlike his own brethren who were often considered some of the most superstitious Astartes to exist, when others knew from the very blood that ran in their veins that he was but a man. The greatest of men, but a man even so.

“Now, allow me to introduce you to those that may make things a little easier for you.”

There was another short burst of communication within the helmet, the doorway from which the servitors had entered now widening again, but this time it was filled by the broad frames of various black-clad warriors. They approached at a leisurely pace, some more upright than others, all as unarmed as those who were finalising the checks on their power armour as these newcomers drew nearer.

“Brother-Chaplain Berauth should be familiar with the concept of the Initiate-Neophyte system, but in case others here are not, you will be placed in the temporary custody of these veterans until you have completed your first assignment – whatever it may be. They will guide you, answer your questions, and provide support in battle.”

“Brother-Techmarine Berumedes, step forward.”

A Marine bearing the mechadendrites of the Machine Cult stepped forward and placed himself beside Brother Corbite, the black and silver of the Iron Hands visible upon his pauldron, a salute of a fist across his chest being the only sign of acknowledgement for the moment.

“Brother Cylaris,” a tall and helmetless Marine stepped forward, his back straight and his aryan features the mirror image of his Primarch, Guilliman.

“Brother Inri and Ironmarch, Brother Cylaris is a veteran of the Tyrannic Wars and a font of knowledge; I would recommend you learn all you can from him.”

The two scions of Macragge and the Harbinger – part of a Chapter who's Primarch was unknown to Imperial records – were grouped together.

“Brother Rathanael of the Consecrators will be your support, Brother Felbane.”

Dressed from head-to-toe in Mark IV 'Maximus' power armour, something that looked as if it may have just popped out of the pages of the Horus Heresy itself, the Consecrator moved to stand beside his brother-by-blood. They were an odd lot, no record of them to be found anywhere before the 40th Millennia, and each part of their armament said to be ancient but perfectly functioning.

“He does not speak much,” quipped Roa to the Angel of Absolution, “but he may to you.”

“Brother-Chaplain...Brother Cornelius...this is First Company Veteran Koldobika of the Crimson Fists, your assistance.”

Brother Koldobika saluted them both with a clenched fist, gesturing for them both to stand by him and showing especial deference to the Chaplain.

“It is an honour, my brothers!” Came the jubilant voice from within his helmet, “may the Progenitor watch over us all; if I can be of assistance to you, then I shall do my utmost.”

“Finally, Battle-Brother Lartius.”

Lartius was most certainly a member of the Blood Angels, the winged tear-drop of blood upon his shoulder saying as much, but his uncovered head showed patrician features of ivory delicateness and a mane of golden hair that framed his oddly innocent looking features. A smile crossed his lips as he moved to stand with the Sanguinary Priest, a look passing between the two sons of Sanguinius – a look of knowing and understand, the sort that can only be shared between two who battle each day of their lives tom keep themselves under control.

“You are all dismissed for now; you may go to your chambers, to familiarise yourself with the fortress, you may remain here if you wish. Just be at the armoury within two hours, that is all.”

---

Captain Roa gestured for Sorrow, the only Astartes without a 'partner' to walk beside him as he made his way out of the hangar and back into the central area of the fortresses labyrinth of corridors, silent as they moved away from the dock. The Captain had no place to be, but traversed the corridors with the ease of someone who knew them intimately, until he ceased his pacing and removed his helmet to speak with Sorrow face-to-face.

“I do not know as much about you as I would like,” admitted the tan-skinned warrior, his lips twitching into a smile and the tattoos chiselled into his face giving him an unintended malevolent look, “you are an unfamiliar element and I do not like things I do not know...strange to find me here then, I know.” His deep brown eyes locked onto the glowing eyes of the Imperator armours helmet and remained there as he spoke again, “is there anything you would like to tell me before I take you into battle?”

Watching the suits of armor of his new brethren receiving their fresh coat of black paint reminded Sorrow of his own initiation, merely a few days ago -- a rather more solitary affair than this group event. The assignment of veterans to the newly inducted as instructors and guides reminded him, once again, of his loss, especially when Astartes from similar or related Chapters were coupled together. While he awaited one such adviser of his own, none came, and Sorrow found himself feeling even more alienated when he followed Captain Roa within the corridors of the fortress, away from his brothers.

There was a pregnant silence in the air after Roa's question. After a few seconds, Sorrow raised his hands and removed his own helmet, revealing the horrifically burned wreck of his face. The bone of his lower jaw was exposed to the air in some places, all the flesh having been seared away, and much of the rest of his face was covered in thick scar tissue that bloated and disfigured his features. Set deep within the twisted mass of his face were Sorrow's eyes, colored a pale shade of gray that was reminiscent of a snowstorm, and the conflicted emotions the Astartes felt were plain to read in them.

"When I arrived to this fortress, the Master of the Vigil heard my tale and accepted me into the fold of the Deathwatch. I was allowed to shed myself of my origins and to renounce my Chapter once and for all. I would like it to stay that way, sir. The Emperor has my undying loyalty and devotion and I shall strive to rid the galaxy of his foes until the end of my days. Is that not what matters most?" Sorrow responded in the same penetrating whisper as before.

The rest of the marines followed suit with introductions and a few other requests for the return of their equipment, none of which were answered and were rather taken for enthusiasm, a pointless notion if ever there was one. Still there was the ceremony of the return of their armor so at least that could be checked over now. As their armor was borne to them by a number of tracked servitors - things that had once been men and women who had serve the Imperium unflinchingly and with all due diligence and thus received the Blessing of Iron.

As the Ecclesiarchy priest(in Draksal’s opinion versed in the Cult Mechanicus would have been more suitable) applied what was in some places his suits third coat of paint, the reality of the situation began to set in. That despite it seeming like he only just left due to his time in the stasis field, he was now many light years from his fellow Sons of Medusa, among people whose beliefs were very different from his own. Yet he was expected to work with these people who were far too attached to their weak flesh and none of whom worshiped the emperor as a god, the only exception being the Black Templar Berauth and his faith was via the Ecclesiarchal teachings. For most believers of the Cult Mechanicus this too would be at least as distasteful as meany chapter’s continued belief in the Imperial Truth, but The Sons of Medusa where perhaps one of the few groups who did not view the Imperial religious institution that they were not a part of with disdain, due to their rather quiet belief that the two would one day become unified in their worship.

It was with mixed feeling then that, after his donning his armor and running similar checks on it as he had on himself, that he was assigned a member of the Iron Hands as his ‘Initiate’. Having one who shared many beliefs and potential needs would be rather useful for him in getting used to the fortress. However there was the problem of the ‘many’ part, as those few that separated them had resulted in the exile of those who eventually founded his chapter. He would need to head closely the advice of the Chamber Ferrum and not bring it up. Ever. The Techmarine’s wordless salute did not help clarify whether his opinion of Draksal’s chapter was cold disdain or if it was a genuine show of respect. He returned it all the same. Not exhibiting any outward emotion did have a few disadvantages in the communication department but they could be overcome by being forthright with your intentions.

“It is a blessing to be placed in your custody for my initial assignment, Brother-Techmarine. ” It truly was, for the Techmarines of the iron hands and their descendants acted as chaplains would in other chapters, along with their usual duties.

“ I have a few questions, after which I intend to head to the armory to inspect my own equipment and what heavy weapons this station has access too before we assemble formally. Is there a digital map of the station available? Will I be able to continue the path of purging the weakness of my flesh here or does the deathwatch not have access to that amount of Bionics? Also are you or any of your brothers versed in techno-exorcism?”

He was very interested in what the armory held, for while the Sons of Medusa’s forges were known to be able to produce most equipment of the Adeptus Astartes, even some of the rarer pieces, the deathwatch may have access to some particular advanced or novel devices his chapter did not yet have patterns for or nor the chance to examine.

Kurt was quite glad that somebody from his own Chapter was to be the one supervising him. The other Chapters of course did great service to Emperor and Imperium but they were so barbaric, so unorganised, and so arrogant despite it being quite clear that only one Chapter and it's successor's deserved the right to be arrogant; the Ultramarines. The least instigating word the Scout Sergeant could think of Chapters of another Primarch was "silly." The life of an Ultramarine was twice as much as one of the others, Kurt had to remember that.

He marched forth with his hands behind his back, staring at Brother Cylaris with praise. "I have done so many times, but I am still honoured to meet someone who has defended the Imperium's second capital, and the home of the warriors rivalled only by the Emperor's gilded honour Guard." he said, not particularly minding the fact that he was saying the Ultramarines were the best Marines. After all, arguing against that would be like arguing about the existence of one's boots -- Kurt quickly amended the thought remembering that he was not yet wearing boots. The Scout had the privilege of not being so thoroughly annoyed by the Priest of the Eclessiarchy and Servitors, for he merely had carapace armour. He sighed a little with grief as the ornately decorated carapace armour upon him was painted black. With it's dark shade, one would not even be able to make out the muscle shapes upon it, making dealing with nobles (especially ladies) quite a bit more difficult. Still, the Deathwatch was a test of one's mettle, he could not breeze through it like his usual duties.

The transhuman stared at his shoulder with his tongue sticking out as the greatest care was used to place the Deathwatch pauldron upon his shoulder. There. He gave a little sigh of relief, it was done. Presumably, they would soon go on to their duties that involved shooting and cutting. Still, there was time to kill. An eyebrow was raised in the direction of the neophyte grouped with von Inri, and Kurt asked the question. "Willing to give the secret of your Chapter away?" he asked with a smirk.

Aldaric merely watched quietly as Captain Roa spoke. The servitors tracked up, and Aldaric recognized the bone white powerarmor of an Angels of Absolution brother, HIS powerarmor. He hardly identified it as his own from the outside, having never fully appreciated it from this angle. He noted its emptiness, a mere shell, as they all were. Was it symbolic?

The servitors themselves were sad cases, living machines, left without much mind of their own. They were failures, yet still they served. Aldaric briefly wondered at how much difference there was between one of them and an Astartes. At this point, there was not much else to do but to behold the moment, to take in and be one with the meaning in the ceremony.

Again, he did nothing but watch as the painting began. Black covered white, numbers erased, company colors, erased. Very much so it felt like the death of his former existence, and indeed it was, for from this day forward, he would willingly don his new black armor himself. He would encase himself in a new mission, a new identity, and become a merciless machine, an angel of death to the dragon enemies of the Emperor, the Tyranid, the Orcs, and other xenos. His sole focus would be this, and it no longer mattered where he was from, or even who his gene-father was. Nothing else mattered.

A fatalistic stoicism dominated his gaze like a dark cloud as Aldaric suited up. It seemingly would have overtaken his persona ever afterward, had it not been for the look given him by his approaching new mentor, Brother Rathanael. The Consecrator's gaze locked onto his own, holding it, shattering it as Aldaric momentarily froze, the last fastening of his right Deathwatch pauldron held still in his hand. Aldaric blinked his biologic eye, finding himself suddenly freed from blindly following the path of the inevitable as he looked at his blood-brother in that ancient armor. Without words, a bond instantly formed between them, and he had been saved.

Aldaric paused, strangely heartened. Inside he knew, he felt it. He could now go forward with appropriate mind. Like the Angels of Absolution from which he hailed, he had no need to look back. "Loyalty and honor, Brother Rathanael." He said, expecting no response in return, and then he finally secured his new pauldron as the last piece of his armor.

Watching his armor being painted black was a strange sight for Sirren. To have his armor stripped of color so ceremoniously carried a significantly different context to a Son of Sanguinius, and he never thought that he would watch it be done in complete lucidity. It was a feeling something like dreaming; not unpleasant, but still unsettling. When that was done, he affixed his Deathwatch pauldron without any fanfare or ceremony. This was duty for him, not glory. His utmost goal was to survive and return to his chapter, where he could return to his much-needed services.

Much to his surprise, Sirren was appointed a Blood Angel to assist him in his transition into the Deathwatch. The forethought was well-appreciated by the Flesh Tearer, both in that he had been paired with a gene-brother, and that it had been a member of his magnanimous predecessor chapter. A fellow successor to the Blood Angels was like as not to be prejudiced against him, due to his chapter's savage reputation, but the Flesh Tearers and their parent chapter had been on good terms since the Conclave of Baal.

"Hail, Blood-Brother," Sirren greeted Brother Lartius in his harsh, muddy voice, "Frater Sanguinius has favored me this day by granting me your company and guidance." He approached the Deathwatch Veteran (who by his looks, was not yet as senior a marine as Sirren himself), his helmet slung under his arm. "My journey has been long," he said, in hushed tones so that only Lartius may hear him clearly, "Are there facilities in this fortress with which I may purify myself?" A vague question to any other marine, but the Blood Angel was likely to pick up on the subtext of Sirren's question.

@Hank

Roa made no expression as the Blackshield removed his helmet, his face an impassive mask of whorled flesh and strong features as his eyes alone moved over the severely disfigured visage and rested for but a moment upon the lower left jaw in particular. It was fortunate for the Captain that he had seen far worse in his time, years in the Deathwatch having caused him to see Brothers die in the most excruciating and agonising ways imaginable – a little bit of scar tissue was not going to cause him to to react like some wet-behind-the-ears aspirant.

“Just so,” answered the Silver Skull in return to Sorrow's barely audible words, his fused flesh and bone clearly constricting his speech, “if it was not so then you would have been cast out into the void of space, but now you are here. Yet...” he was not entirely sure he even needed to say these words, but he would anyway, “you are a Blackshield, and your battle-brothers will look upon you as a dread enigma in their midst, a lone wanderer who has come here because of their sins and shall treat you accordingly. I will not pry, it is not my place to do so, but others may and may press harder than I. For that you must be prepared.”

Looking into those pale eyes now, seeing within them the hurt of loss and betrayal that many Blackshields held inside, Roa could not help but let out a small sigh as he reached up and pressed his palm against one of Sorrow's black pauldrons.

“As Watch-Captain I can only remain outside and observe, for the most part...should you wish for a mentor, I can assign you one.” He did not really know if this was what Sorrow wanted, although he had seemed a little on edge since leaving the hangar, but it was intended as a comradely gesture nevertheless, “think on it if you will; for now we are 'between missions' as it were, yet only for an hour or so, should you wish to prepare your soul or yourself before moving to the armoury.”

---

@DracoLunaris

Berumedes listened to the Son of Medusa in silence, pondering just as Draksal did on the allegiance of his initiate in terms of their creed. Of course, the Sons had been formed from those Hands that followed the teachings of the techno-mystics whose ravings had sent their Chapter into a spiral of near civil war, a war that had been diverted only by direct intervention from the Grand Council. Had they not interposed themselves, well, it could have been the worst to befall them since the end of the Great Heresy!

“It is an honour to guide you, Brother Corbite,” came the first words from the Techmarine, words that came in a sharp burst of robotised speech, flat and void of all emotion that would have emerged from a fleshy and human larynx had he still retained one, “although I am a little unimpressed with your choice of salvaged armour.”

Although it could not be seen beneath his snouted Mark IV armour, the eyes behind the visor swiftly took in all that Berumedes need know about what his initiate wore, not least lingering on those parts salvaged from the Red Corsairs. Oh it was all black now of course, the deep black of the Deathwatch and Iron Hands alike, but he had personally inspected each suit of armour as it had been bought off of the shuttle and not been impressed to find such things on the armour of his gene-brother.

With a long hiss of escaping airs the senior marine answered again, whatever displeasure may have been contained in his voice being nullified by the same augmented vocal organ that caused him to seem permanently deadpan in manner.

“There is no map,” he stated simply, “not for fresh recruits and most importantly because, should this station be taken by enemies of the Imperium, there are things here that are best left hidden until we can reclaim it...any maps we may have are in our minds, learnt through being guided by others or by years of walking the halls. It is one of the reasons I am here, brother.”

The next question caused a short burst of binary from the marine, which could be translated as laughter, “before I came to the Deathwatch I had my voice-box, both of my legs and arms. Now half of my skull is augmented, both of my legs and one of my arms. If you wish to purge yourself of the weak flesh and replace it with blessed iron here, then there are worse places to do it.”

Techno-exorcism...

Yes, the Sons of Medusa were known for exorcising out machine spirits of the enemy Berumedes reminded himself, a queer practice that he had never practised himself...but knew others who did.

“Yes, Brother Corbite, there are others in this fortress that are versed in your Chapters peculiar habits. I have never found using the enemies weapons to be a sound strategy, but should you wish to meet such brethren I can present you to them once our current duty is complete.”

Not even bothering to inform his charge that they were moving, mechadendrites shifting uneasily on his servo-harness as he walked, Berumedes flicked a hand at Draksal and began to lead the way toward the armoury of Fortress Acestes. Such places were true treasure troves for those that served the Omnissiah as well as the Emperor, those such as the pair of them who now moved through the widening and narrowing corridors of the confusingly large headquarters, although everything contained within them was strictly for the eyes and ears of the Deathwatch only; any who tried to copy, imitate or possess things from the armouries would be torn apart for such hubris and perfidy.

“Tell me, brother,” vented the Techmarine as they walked, his stride equal and with purpose, “what do you think of your fellow recruits? Do you see weakness among them?” There was a short pause and he spoke for a moment longer, “they are all weaker than we sons of Ferrus, but you understand.”

Had the Techmarine just made a quip? It was hard to tell, but very probably.

---

@Andreyich@Zelosse

Cylaris let a smile play across his lips as the Scout Sergeant spoke, or more like boasted, his way through his introduction. It was a gesture that sat well on the face of the Tyrannic War veteran, his blonde lock and blue eyes plausibly attractive even to baseline humans, the oversized features of an Astartes not usually considered to be so; all he knew was that between the Ultramarines and any other Chapter, it was usually they who were most likely to be welcomed with open arms, to be praised as heroes and victors by the common citizenry of the Imperium, for to them they were the most 'human'.

It was only when Kurt decided to ask the Harbinger a particular question that his perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowed somewhat, a look of mild rebuke coming over him as he answered for Victar.

“Kurt Inri, Scout Sergeant of the Ultramarines,” he admonished gently, his tone even but austere, “this is not something one asks in the Deathwatch, and you should know this. Brother Ironmarch here is a loyal warrior of the Harbingers, and it does you no credit to cast aspersions that they would even hold any secrets.”

Everyone knew of Kurt von Inri within the Ultramarines, a scout who had decided to remain a scout in spite of the ability that would have seen him promoted, but from what Cylaris had observed thus far it was a wonder how he had gotten away without a disciplinary chastisement.

---

@Wraithblade6

“Brother Felbane,” said Rathanael by way of greeting, “loyalty and honour to us all.”

The Angels of Absolution, a Chapter of the Unforgiven who believed that they were forgiven, that the Emperor had seen their actions and now deigned the sins of the past wiped entirely from them. As much as Rathanael and the Consecrators at large disagreed with this viewpoint and belief, he could not help but think that it must be truly liberating to consider oneself and ones comrades free from a deeply buried secret that he and his embodied more than most of his gene-ilk. Indeed, it was one of the Consecrators primary concerns and duties to delve into and uncover the secrets of the past, something that service within the Deathwatch interfered with to say the least.

“So, what news from my Chapter cousins of Absolution?” His voice was deep and rich, yet insistent – as if he were used to being obeyed – each word levelled like a loaded gun at the recipient from within the Corvus-pattern helmet, “I heard of the First Companies actions at the Siege of Vraks, a masterful stroke indeed, but beyond that I know little of our brothers of the Unforgiven...I have been here for more than a time.”

There was no mirth in his voice, if anything there was a bitterness to it, as if he truly wished to be somewhere else...anywhere else but presently where he was. Whether it is because of you or because of the Deathwatch vigil in general you cannot tell, but something lies behind the Consecrators words that he is not saying.

---

@Dead Cruiser

“The honour is all mine, Brother-Priest,” responded the angelic Lartius in his easy way, “although it appears as if our beloved Primarch blessed me with the greater looks, eh?” The chuckle that followed was warm and full of espirit de corps, showing nothing of what lay just beneath the surface and threatened to overwhelm him each day of his existence, but still tinged with the respectful manner that all sons of Sanguinius showed to members of the priesthood – they were the existence of the split Legion after all.

In answered response to the more hushed question, and arguably the most important for members of his gene-stock, Lartius presses his hand against the back of the priests armour and guides him lightly toward the door through which Captain Roa and the Blackshield made there way not too long ago.

For a while they walked in silence, passing others in the corridors dressed in in fatigues and robes, each clearly and proudly marked with the symbol of their parent Chapter. There were others of the Sanguine sins – Angels Vermillion and and Lamenters among them – as well as the tell-tale crests of over a dozen other Chapters assigned to the Deathwatch. A Novamarine here, an augmented Red Talon on his way to the training cages, even a rarely seen warriors of the Subjugators striding past.

It seems only a moment since leaving the hangar that you arrive in a corridor containing one dead end and, along each wall on either side, at least a dozen identical doorways; although no-one else is present at the moment, you being the first of the initiates to ask about their chambers, it is clear once you are lead to a doorway which opens with a hiss of hydraulic clamps that this is one of a multitude of dormitories within the fortress and where you shall be staying when you are not training for combat, eating alongside your brothers in the mess halls, or researching how best to kill the xenos in the fortresses Librarium.

As with all the chambers it is severe and sparse in it's design and functionality, plain and unadorned walls of steel (and more resilient materials) surrounding the interior, an interior containing a metal cot to act as a bed – more than the stone plinths used in Watch Fortress Erioch at least – two racks for ones personal weapons and armour when not in battle, and a storage housing for devotional items and miscellaneous equipment.

This particular cell was different though, as were all those inhabited by Sanguinius' gene-bearers, for it contained within it not a cot as did the rest but a golden sarcophagus shaped in the image of the winged Primarch; here and there tubes emerged from the machines workings, the currently inert device acting as both purifier and resting place for the vampiric Angels.

On one of the racks could be seen his chainsword and combat blade, both of which were personal items, as well as his golden goblet. His narthecium was already attached to his armour, so not present with the rest of his effects.

“Welcome to your new home, brother.” Spoke the Blood Angel at long last, “others will be joining you in these living quarters as time goes on, but none can enter another’s chambers without permission or a correct scan of their genetic make-up. So, whatever happens in here remains in here.”

Further down the corridor another door opened, a black-clad brother moving past with his own initiate – a rather young looking Ultramarine dressed in his fatigues – both disappearing back into the depths of the fortress as swiftly as they came.

“We commonly wear fatigues or robes while within the Acestes, but it is nice to allow the newcomers to feel their armour once more upon them.”

Another quick smile and the Battle-Brother placed his hands together at his waist, “is there anything else I may do for you? We leave for the armoury within the hour, so I may go and return or remain here. As you like.”

Zaphiel watched as the ceremonial painting of the Initiate's armor was done. When the servitors and the Ecclesiarchal priest walked to his armor, Zahpiel made the sign of the Aquila over his chest in deference to the God-Emperor and his servants that stood before him. Truly Zaphiel was blessed to witness such a ceremony. But as he watched the servitor apply the paint, he couldn't help but feel as though the black coating was a bit redundant in some places, given his home chapter's heraldry, as well as the armor color of the Chaplains in general. Nonetheless, Zaphiel was respectfully quiet during the ceremony, and when the time came to affix the silver pauldron of the Deathwatch to the armor, Zaphiel did so with great internal honor, feeling proud to be part of such a monumental occasion.

When Zaphiel was introduced to his mentor and partner, he immediately felt a sense of camaraderie with the fellow sons of Dorn. Giving them both a salute, he stated "It is an honor and a privilege to fight alongside you both. I look forward to our endeavors together." With that, he turned to face Brother Koldobika and asked "If it is not too forward of me, might I be reunited with my Rosarius? It holds both personal and professional sentiment, and I want to ensure that it is once again in my possession."

Victar Ironmarch

Victar paid no attention to what was said. Neither towards him nor around him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his mind was occupied by something beyond rage and hatred. A numbing emptiness grasped his mind and soul in iron. His suit, his impenetrable fortress of faith and fury that had sported the Harbingers for his entire life, was coated black now.
It had been expected, demanded, and he had believed such a thing would not cause him such pain, but it had. For the briefest of moments it was all he could do to squeeze his hand till they went white. A refusal to allow his base emotions play him for a fool for being so sentimental.

Again he ignored everything, the captain, his teammate, and the veteran, to focus on this singular moment. It was a blessing to serve, to be recognized as an elite and become part of something larger than he was or could be, yet it felt wrong. It wasn't until he realized that a single pauldron had kept the original painting that a profound peace returned to his spirit.

My colors have changed but my heart remains the same. Nothing can change that.

The final black pauldron was placed upon his shoulder and at last did he feel complete. The last matter was the two he had been placed with. It would be a short lived moment of friendliness.

"Your pardon. I've no need for advice," He turned to glance at his fellow initiate, "Nor a desire to answer." His tone was firm and clear, before he again returned his gaze to the veteran. "Directions to the armory are enough."

As Sirren and his assigned mentor marched through the halls, he eyed the other passing Marines warily. None caught his eye as so much as the Lamenter; a member of possibly the only chapter of Blood Angels successors more cursed than the Flesh Tearers themselves. Given their recent pentiant crusade into the Eye of Terror, the poor bastard could be the last of his chapter and not even know it. Sirren exhaled from his nose sharply at the thought, a gesture he repeated often that went unnoticed by most. Another unspeakable tragedy, and the galaxy would not move a single nanometer for the mention of it.

Arriving at Sirren's chambers, he was relieved to see that his equipment had been stored here without any undue harm coming to his personal effects. And of course, a requisitioned Blood Casket took up most of the spartan quarters, its golden surface casting strange reflections on the rest of the room. It took Sirren a moment to find its controls, given that this was a Blood Angels model and was subtly different from the pattern of sarcophagi that he was used to, but he opened it to reveal the myriad of wires, tubing and needles that made the device seem much like an iron maiden.

"You may stay if you like," Sirren said, still inspecting the Casket, "Perhaps you would regale me with your exploits as a brother of the Deathwatch thus far? I will be performing a few maintenance rituals in our spare time. Given the opportunity, I should like to do the same to each of the Blood Caskets in the fortress."

Removing some of the external panels, Sirren was able to access the inner workings of the device. Normally used to implant Sons of Sanguinius with gene seed, this one had been modified like many others to filter their blood for impurities, stimulate their supplementary organs, and many other functions thought to reign in the Red Thirst and stave off the Black Rage. Hormone injectors, carbon-fiber dialysis filters, and high pressure intubators were all checked for wear and disrepair as Sirren chanted various litanies to his Primarch and the machine spirit of the Casket. His armor did not impede him in the least, as part of his Apothecary training to excel in precise movements in armor and while under fire. The programming of the automated process was checked for irregularities; Larraman's Organ paralyzed to prevent blood clots, Catalepsean Node stimulated to induce catatonia, both primary and secondary hearts arrested as the Casket assumes pulmonary function, Oolitic Kidney function assumed by dialysis, Haemastamen drained and cleansed with anticarcinogenic tonics, Omophagea suppressed with neurolytic agents, Neuroglottis electroshocked to lower olfactory sensitivity, and finally regular function would be resumed in mirroring stages. All seemed to be in order.

Aldaric's bionic eye spun a click as he focused on Rathanael's close, pre-heresy Mark IV grill. The Seige of Vraks was relatively recent, but it was still 160 years ago. Aldaric recalled what he knew of Vraks while he speculated on Rathanael's age. The battle had lasted 17 years before its conclusion, with the Dark Angels and Angels of Absolution only becoming involved near the end. Master Yafrir of the Angels of Absolution's 4th company had been slain, Supreme Grandmaster Azreal of the Dark Angels had nearly been killed, and Vraks Prime itself was ever afterward declared "Perdita," a dead world. Masterful indeed?

Aldaric took it as the compliment it was intended to be and went on. "We will always mourn Master Yafrir, but no battle is without loss. Our success at Vraks was to be found in the capture of no insignificant number of traitor prisoners..." Rathanael would immediately realize what Aldaric implied, that those prisoners would have provided valuable information on finding the Fallen. This secret mission was critical to all Dark Angels and their subchapters, whether or not they believed their souls were at stake. The Angels of Absolution still hunted the Fallen, but because they were traitors, and not for the cause of their own redemption. Certainly Rathanael would be interested in that piece of information.

"As for current matters, all companies of my chapter have been called to the Cadian sector to repulse the newest incursion of chaos. Abbadon and his Black Legion have returned, again, but this time with unprecedented force and have already besieged or destroyed half a dozen worlds. They've brought with them the Planet Killer, which you may know, and it has proven itself to be fully functional.

There is much going on that I am not privy to, but I am aware that our xeno enemies are taking full advantage of our obviously divided forces. The abominable Tau have begun seizing Imperial worlds in the Zeist Sector of the Ultima Segmentum. There has recently been an alarming increase in attacks by Eldar raiders, and the Orks and the Leviathan Hive Fleet are still threats." Aldaric took pause. Clearly he was returning to the importance of the Deathwatch in regard to xenos, a topic Rathanael probably was not interested in. Perhaps he could return to the subject of his chapter's exploits.

Aldaric smiled genuinely as he remembered a most recent endeavor. "You would not have yet heard this, brother, but I must tell you of a great victory. There is a mining world just inside the Cadian Sector called Ex Lucan VII. Commander Azreal knew from Cadian High Command of an impending Eldar raid on this world, and he organized seven companies consisting of Dark Angels and subchapters, including my own, for an ambush attack. We hid inside the mountains, and when the xenos appeared through their portals to attack the underprepaired settlements, we fell upon them with merciless aggression. The whole thing went exactly to plan, and the enemy was slaughtered. What's more, was that the Eldar portals were still active and gifted us with a second entire raiding force to destroy as well, right after the first! It will be long before the Dark Eldar forget the price of their audacity."

The news may or may not have lessened the Consecrator's bitterness. It was impossible to tell through that antique helmet, but Aldaric hoped it had. "Brother Rathanael, I will listen well to you. Please tell me, everything." The new recruit looked earnestly at his mentor. Strong, free, and loyal he was. He did not ask for anything specific like weapons or directions but left an open invitation for the teacher to teach. Rathanael, however to his dismay, was going to have to do a lot of talking.