The Sons of Medusa’s salvaging practices had originated when they were but cast offs from their parent chapter, with only a few ships, the armor and weapons they carried and no Departmento Munitorum support. Any replacement equipment and ammunition had to be either made or taken from those who had it, namely any enemies of the Imperium that used equipment created by it. They had managed to become a full and successful chapter despite supply problems and it had instilled a continued practice of taking any opportunity to acquire new materials.

“Those pieces reclaimed from those that have turned on the Imperium have served me and my chapter well since our founding. Steel, once cleansed, can be put back to work where the wearer has succumbed to the weakness of the flesh.”

The map concern was reasonable, though Draksal thought that maybe a map with large amounts of censoring might have been useful and not so dangerous to leak. Also a map stored in the mind could potentially be ripped out of a psyker, so their plan did not entirely stop the enemy learning of the watch station and it’s contents. Still, in the end it was a reasonable security approach even if it was inconvenient so he simply nodded in understanding

Laughter, from a son of Ferrus? Even if it was a binary package and not a emotional reflex that was still odd. Still the ability to continue on the path was good news.

“That is fortuitous, I was intending on replacing my other arm next to correct the weight imbalance”

Then came the knowledge of other with the art of Techno-exorcism and that he could be introduced after the first mission.

“That’s when they might be needed anyway, though with deathwatch primarily anti xenos endeavors I imagine they do not have much need of it. It is useful to know nonetheless. Thank you for your answers Brother Berumedes”

With that the Techmarine strode of through the halls and Draksal followed, such wordless action and expectation of being followed a normality for him and he was as excited as it was possible to be with the emotionless nature of an iron mind to see the treasures of the armory. It was a shame he was sworn to secrecy on what he would find within, though with the Mechanicus’s jealous hording of the most advanced tech available to mankind such a state of affairs was to be expected in the Imperium. Omnissiah forbid the devices of the Deathwatch fell into the hands of some that would use them against the imperium, such as the Lamenters who apparently had members in this watch despite their chapters crime. Why they had not been thrown out to join their chapter on their mercifully granted suicidal crusade was beyond him. What he was not expecting was Brother Berumedes’s quip along with his question of the weakness of his fellow initiates.

That was two times the Iron Hand had displayed a sense of Humor. It seemed that the rumors circling around the successors of the Iron Hands might be true, that at some point the Iron Hands had had some change of Ideology. At around the same time that "With steel we are stronger, but without a soul we are nothing." became part of their Iron Father's preaching they had exhibited a slow turn away from emotional suppression and dehumanization of their minds. An interesting development in the chapter that was for sure, it was often wondered what event could have so shaken the Iron Hands ideology as whatever it was they were not telling anyone what had happened, even though they had lost almost a third of their numbers around the same time.

Back to the question at hand, it was difficult to judge based on their cursory introductions and half overheard conversation with their own guiding marines the problems that might arise from them but it was probably best to analyse what he new now before they became a problem in the heat of battle.

“From what I have seen brother Inri appears to be rather full of himself, either from being an Ultramarine or from leading the chapter's newest members giving him a false sense of superiority. It is most concerning.”

As the sergeant of a devastator squad his opinion of those responsible for the previous training for his squad members was mixed. Some he received were very adept at exploding things but they all had to be trained that while it did well to tread softly the big gun was the imported part of being a marine and the application of firepower was paramount to victory. It was also very annoying when the sneaky buggers complained about fire whizzing past them as they did their thing. Stealth went both ways and unfortunately in the heat of battle it was sometimes difficult to spot a scout crawling around while you were trying to shoot some giant monstrosity. He had been known to argue that, yes, while we could have them crawl all the way up to the tank and place a detpack on it, we can also just shoot it till it explodes which would be faster and much more likely to succeed.

“Then we have ‘Sorrow’ and the Iron Champion Cornelius, neither whom I like the idea of working with. Sorrow is an unknown factor for whatever crime he committed, though his loyalty is probably assured, only the most foolish of enemy would commit himself to the deathwatch. The Iron Champion’s Founding Chapter the Executioners have fought against the Imperium because of some supposed debt to the treacherous Astral Claws, it is possible that Brother Cornelius may put some supposed honer before Duty to the Emperor as they did.”

Draksal stopped for a moment considering the rest.

“As for the others, apart from their flesh, we shall have to see if the brothers Berauth or Ironmarch run in front of my firing line in a blind rage, if Brother Berauth causes problem with religious arguments or Brother Felbane has issues with no longer being in command of a company and instead equal in rank to former sergeants and battle brothers”

@DepressedSoviet

Koldobika was about to reply when a coterie of figures, lead by an individual bearing the same grimacing skull-mask helmet as Zaphiel himself, came within a couple of feet of the group. There was a short series of clicks, communication through internal helmet vox no doubt, and the helmet of the Crimson Fist turned to leer at the Iron Champion in their midst.

“Brother Cornelius is to go with Chaplain Azariah immediately,” he announced for clarification, the Iron Champion guided both by the robed and hooded Dark Angels Chaplain and his entourage of armed Chapter serfs.

For a moment the First Company Veteran simply watched them leave, knowing he would never see the freshly minted Deathwatch brother again.

“Well, Brother-Chaplain, if you will follow me.”

The walk to the Chaplain's chambers was one of silence and inner reflection, deliberately passing through the fortresses Reclusiam so that Zaphiel could get a sense of what his duties would entail later on, passing others of his distinguished rank from a dozen or more Chapters. They ceased their walking eventually, pushing down a corridor where it appeared that others had already come and halting at one of the identical doors.

“Only you can enter first, Brother.”

With a hiss the door slid upward and out of sight, revealing a perfectly identical chamber to those all around it, except for the inclusion of a small chapel in one corner; from the modest statuette of the God-Emperor hung the very Rosarius which the Chaplain sought.

“We have time before we gird ourselves for battle, is there anything else you would ask of me?”

---

@Zelosse@Andreyich

For the very first time since being presented to the newcomers the regal face of Cylaris twisted into something akin to an expression of genuine vexation, the aryan-looking Astartes moving forward until his own chest-piece pressed against that of Victar and his blue eyes looked unwaveringly at those of the Harbinger before him.

“Your pardon be damned,” he announced in his smooth voice, “there are few things I can stand, and disrespect is among them, as is a blatant disregard for ones betters.”

For a moment, and only a moment, the Ultramarine thought of striking this impudent whelp where he stood – it was only his own self restraint and unwillingness to damage what was now more or less the 'property' of the Deathwatch that held his fists.

“Speak to me in that manner again, and you will find yourself looking up at me from the floor.” It was no idle threat, but a promise, “you want to go to the armoury, new-blood? Then let us go.”

The armoury was closer to the hangar than one might think, and the long strides of the Space Marines carried them swiftly to the thrice-armoured doors of what was possibly the most valuable room in the fortress after a number of others; behind those closed doors were weapons of Imperial origin, xenos origin and even vaguer points of creation that were still unknown to the Deathwatch.

“Now we wait,” intoned the son of Macragge, for he was not going to let these fledglings inside the arsenal before the allotted time, such a thing would have been against all protocol and that was something that an Ultramarine could never break.

@Dead Cruiser

Lartius watched the Priest examine the casket with a professional eye, although a Flesh Tearer he was nonetheless a member of the Sanguinary Priests brotherhood and represented their caste of Chaplain-Apothecaries across the successors of the Legion. As the retainer of a sarcophagus himself, he knew that it would work, but humoured the Tearer as a good mentor should.

When asked to regale Sirren with exploits he was momentarily stumped, thinking through a dozen and more actions of the past before he finally settled on a select few, remaining where he stood nearby the door and running a gauntleted hand over his marble-like chin.

“You may run your tests, Brother-Priest,” he boomed, his voice larger in the confined walls of the chamber than they had been within the hangar, “but we have others of your ilk that have done so already.”

Looking up to the ceiling for a moment, thoughts swimming behind his perfectly blue eyes, he then looked back at Sirren with something similar to a smile on his lips.

“I have nearly a century with the Deathwatch, a long vigil by any standards, and thus far I have seen things that I never even believed existed...” his mouth tightened as he remembered things still fresh in his mind, as all thoughts would be, “I have fought against things made more of mist than of flesh, slain creatures – parasites is a better word – that burrow into the mind and can take control even of an Astartes, having to slay my own brothers.” The expression on his face relaxed a little again, his inner turmoil churning within him, “most of the new recruits will believe they have fought the worst that the galaxy has to offer, that there cannot be anything to stand before the might of the Emperor's Angels, and that they are warriors without a match even beyond the edges of our galaxy; this is all a lie, and they shall find this out before the end of their own vigil.”

The Blood Angel lapped into silence, gazing out into the corridor and watching shadowy forms of initiates and their mentors moving here and there, speaking again without looking back at the Sanguinary Priest.

“Once we reach the armoury, you will have only days before you see what I mean,” replacing his helmet upon his head with a small hiss he took one last look at Sirren, “I shall be back within the hour to take you there, until then I suggest you purify yourself after your long journey.”

---

@Wraithblade6

The Consecrator said nothing as events were explained to him, barely even moving until Aldaric ceased talking, before asking that the Angel of Absolution walk with him toward the armoury; talk of Planet Killers, Black Crusades and Abaddon the Heretic drove the Astartes internally into a rage.

“What would you wish to know, Brother?” Came the half-whispered voice from the black-armoured Marine, “there is much to tell...” For a moment he said nothing more, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the high ceilings of the labyrinth of corridors, “steel yourself,” he said after an instant, “against the foul xenos there can be no better defence than to keep oneself hardened to all else, allow yourself to hate them with every fibre of your being, and you shall do the Emperor's work.”

He had slain the xenos for nearly two-hundred years, had worn the black both before and after joining the Deathwatch, and was generally silent on issues of the Deathwatch in general. Asked the right questions though, knowing he was now a mentor to this younger Marine, the Consecrator would answer.

---

@DracoLunaris

Brother Berumedes listened intently to his gene-brother, nodding at the correct time and giving his own quick sallies when necessary, and would have smiled – had he even been able to any more – at the opinions of the Son of Medusa on his comrades-in-arms.

“You allude to their weaknesses as a true son of Ferrus,” came the robotic tone once more, “for we both know that there is only the strength of metal, the flesh is weak.”

Pausing to regard his next words, the Techmarine pointed toward the hangar doors and gently guided Draksal by his shoulder toward it.

“I know you wish to see the armoury, and your appreciation of the items within shall do you great honour, just recall that these things are to go unrecorded and unknown outside of the Deathwatch.”

Aldaric walked in awkward silence with brother Rathanael for several moments, each of them getting used to the idea of the other. Finally, the veteran spoke. His voice was unexpectedly quiet, yet Aldaric clearly caught every word. The former-captain recruit didn't immediately answer, and let their footfalls play a soothing rhythm in echos through the vast halls. Such patience was rewarded with exactly the kind of advice Aldaric had hoped for, personal.

"...allow yourself to hate them with every fibre of your being, and you shall do the Emperor's work.”

Rathanael was seething with righteous ire to the point it deserved a commendation. Aldaric immediately absorbed and reflected his mood, not needing to question it. He too, had ire. The experience and personal maturity that had seen him promoted to captain had arisen ironically out of an ability to follow, thus he easily took cues from his mentor. The two were proving to be fairly well matched.

Aldaric nodded in understanding, neither of them breaking their casual stride. Reflecting on Rathanael's words, the younger recalled his own anger against the xenos and allowed it to fill him, to flow in his blood like a drug. His answer was likewise quiet in return as they came within sight of the armory, "Hatred... yes. I do hate them. So let it become my greatest weapon."

The two stopped in front of the armory. Of course the Ultramarines were already here....

@Jbcool

Sorrow said nothing for a few long seconds before placing his helmet back on his head, the pneumatic seals of his armor hissing as they clamped shut.

"I thank you for your counsel, sir. The prying of my brothers, should it come, will not disturb my will and purpose. A mentor... won't be necessary. I shall follow the orders and movements of my brothers in the field and support them as best I can. Consider me nothing more than a vessel for the Emperor's judgement."

With those parting words, Sorrow saluted his captain. Having already received directions to the armoury earlier upon his arrival to the station, the anonymous Marine made his way there now -- slowly. Every thirty steps, Sorrow paused briefly and muttered a sentence of a litany, allowing the dark and reverent silence of the Watch-Fortress to guide his mind towards a state of tranquil meditation. They would soon embark on a mission and Sorrow needed himself to be focused and cleansed of doubt and melancholy. There was no further room for such emotions. It was time to purge.

Upon arriving at the great doors of the armoury, he already saw a congregation of his brothers and their mentors gathering. Sorrow decided to keep a respectful distance, halting in the shadows near a wall, his hands splayed in the aquila, perpetually whispering prayers and litanies. He would follow them inside when the time came.

"My sincere-" began Kurt with an exaggerated bow upon being chastised by the other Ultramarine, until he saw that the harbinger was making a retort. He straightened out, putting the apology he was about to make into the depths of his head and sticking out his chin with his eyebrows creasing. What a piece of grox excrement he thought, running his tongue along his teeth. He'd have to exercise caution around this one too, just another nuisance that was clearly below him. So far he had a clear pecking order established in his head: himself, Brother Cylaris, most Astartes and humans aboard, then the Blood Angels and successors, the dirt and grime, and finally the Harbinger.

He walked quietly alongside Brother Cylaris, hands folded behind his back. "Do you know when we will see action? Not to speak ill of your supervision, but I desire some independence." Kurt stated, rubbing his hands idly. "And if I am not asking out of line, is the armoury prepared for a Scout Marine? Most tend to cater to more traditionally equipped Astartes. If not, I shan't complain. While simple, the bolter and it's pistol variant is also exceptionally effective if used properly." he said, selling himself off as humble yet inquiring because he actually wasn't.

@Jbcool

Victar eyed his "superior" sternly, knowing full well that this man was intentionally trying to cause him trouble. The captain had told them all to ask if they had a question. Not bend over and kick the dirt from the shoes of his betters.

"Your apologies, but I had one question and you answered it. The slight you seem to envision is in your own mind."

Victar shrugged off Cylaris with a calm back step, but otherwise made no threatening motions what so ever. If anything he was being respectful of his guides knowledge of the complex by waiting to follow to the predetermined destination. But it was clear as day on the unchanging expression painted on Victars face that while he had honestly meant no disrespect and would comply with orders, he would not back down from another challenge. It was in his very nature to defy the odds as he had always done.

Following along wordlessly behind Cylaris and the pompous Ultramarine, his thoughts returned to his home. The fallen he had left behind. But all it did was remind him to focus on the future. His worth would be proven again soon enough.
Even if it meant stepping over the corpses of the very two he now followed, he would never stop his forward March against the threats to his home and race.

@Jbcool

Watching as Brother Cornelius was guided away, Zaphiel imparted a silent prayer to the God-Emperor, asking for his protection, or forgiveness for any possible heresies or crimes. From there, Zaphiel followed Brother Koldobika through the halls, to the Reclusiam, and then to the various rooms for the Astartes.

As they passed through the Reclusiam, Zaphiel felt the same feeling he had always experienced in those aboard the ships of his home chapter, one of awe and of being looked down upon by the God-Emperor himself. Zaphiel gave another silent prayer as he walked, this time thanking the Emperor for a chance to serve such a dignified part of the Imperium.

From there, the two Astartes entered the dormitories. As they paused in front of the room that was to be Zaphiels, Koldobika asked if Zaphiel had any other questions or requests. "I do not. I shall recover my Rosarius, then we can proceed to the armory."

With somber steps, Zahpiel approached the shrine. Lowering his head and making the sign of the Aquila over his chest, he picked up the Rosarius and placed it around his neck, the faint glow of the power field becoming visible for a brief moment.

Exiting the room, Zaphiel looked to Brother Koldobika and stated "Shall we continue on, then?"

@Jbcool

Brother Berumedes was in agreement with his impressions of the others, so he simply adding to his brothers closing statement on the matter.

“And such weakness must be purged”

They would now proceed to the armory, but his brothers words to remind him of his place and the position he now in, bound to secrecy of his time here, to be forever set apart from his brothers by his time in the deathwatch, if he even survived the alien horrors they fought.

“This I understand, It shall be a privilege and a burden both to know what my brothers cannot, to wield the classified weapons of the deathwatch against the enemies of humanity.”

A burden and a privilege, so much of a space marines existence was these two intertwined in their duty, bound to serve the Imperium, to fight and die so others may live in relative peace. Although this was perhaps more true of those chapters who actually gave a damn about the average Imperial citizen than for the sons of Ferrus, who cared little for the weak mewling mortals who made up the Imperial masses as anything other than cogs in the great machine that was the Imperium.

“Tell me, what kinds of threats might we expect to encounter in this sector? Xenos of course, but what kinds? It would be useful to know in case some foul creature outside of the upcoming mission parameter shows up unexpectedly to know what they are and how they can be killed.”

The armoury of Fortress Acestes, had it not been locked up tightly within the bowels of the pre-Crusade structure, would have surely been a site of pilgrimage for any of those who professed their sincere devotion to the Omnissiah – Techpriests, red-armoured Astartes and others of their ilk; for within the four walls and through the thrice steeled doorway, a portal armoured against near all weapons known to the Imperium (as well as some that were not...), lay a collection, an arsenal, of the most lethal implements of war to be discovered since the God-Emperor had revealed himself to the people of Terra and looked toward the stars.

It was here that Captain Roa now appeared, his tattooed face a mask of stern professionalism and his helmet held almost leisurely in one hand as he walked, a smile playing across his lips as he saw those already present and awaiting his arrival at this the allotted time and place. The sons of the Gorgon, aye, that was no real surprise! Who else within the Astartes shared such strong bonds between Man and Machine? Beside them but apart from them were those noble – and some might even suggest arrogant – members of the so-called 'Primogenitors', the Ultramarines and their offshoot Chapters; dedicated, unswerving and professional to a fault, their presence was not unanticipated either.

“Sorrow,” he spoke in a half-whisper, turning momentarily upon his heel to gaze into the shadowed corner where the Blackshield lurked, “perhaps you might complete your prayer and join us? I would hate to leave you behind.”

A few more steps carried him to where the immediate Astartes milled about, a number of nods and pats on shoulders counting as his way of greeting, his eyes giving off a small sparkle even if his mouth remained tight and his features without expression.

Approximatively fifteen minutes passed before the Angels and descendants of Dorn showed themselves, including the Flesh Tearer priest and the Crozius-bearing Chaplain of the Black Templars. These were greeted with forearm clasps, a greater show of respect to those of more rank within their own Chapters.

Once all had come, and silence was given as Roa asked for it to be, the Silver Skull opened one fist and removed his gauntlet in a flourish of movement. Stepping to the side of the doorway, the arched entrance three times the height of an Astartes, he slid aside a panel and pressed his hand against it; what may have looked to be but a simple DNA safeguard was in truth so much more. Had Roa been infected, his corpse or simply just his hand pressed against the panel then he – and by extension anyone seeking to use him to gain entry – would have been vaporised by altered archeotech within seconds of trying.

“Welcome to the armoury, brothers. Follow me.”

---

Inside the armoury it was as silent as the grave, croziers of incense burning in brackets, servitors moving on greased tracks up and down the manifold isles that housed what were essentially artefacts of combat; everywhere one looked could be seen weapons and suits of armour, some perhaps coated with a thin layer of dust, but every single item within those walls cared for daily by the Fortresses most skilled artificers.

The room was divided into a number of sections and sub-sections, the broadest being 'standard issue', 'heavy weapons', 'close quarters' and 'xeno-tech' – the last being a section that was off limits unless explicit permission was otherwise given by a ranking member of the Deathwatch.

Here could be found ancient examples of the standard Boltgun and venerable Chainsword, less common variants of the Lascannon and Meltagun, as well as suits of armour spanning assorted 'marks' – including a dozen or so suits of the most blessed Tactical Dreadnought Armour, each as black and as silent as death.

What lay within the parts not often tread were things which no average Astartes could wield, and in truth there are no 'average' Astartes - weapons taken from slain foes to be studied...and to use against them.

The bone-crafted blades of a Tyranid Warrior, for example, Tau weaponry and even examples the Gauss technology of the dreaded Necrons, all were present and more.

“Please treat this sacred space with the reverence it is due,” spoke the Watch-Captain upon their entry, the huge doors grinding shut and sealing behind them, the room illuminated by strips of light that lit well the racks and shelves surrounding the rookie Kill-team, “I advise you that we shall be facing the flesh-eating Kroot, and so I suggest you arm yourselves accordingly.”

Only just before the arrival of the newest recruits had the call-to-arms come from an Inquisitor in a nearby sector, a person known to the Deathwatch only as 'Curvus'; they had never been seen by any of those they ordered about with impunity, only heard through a voice scrambler over the vox, or known by members of their retinue that would appear at the fortress from time-to-time. Nevertheless, they were a verified member of the Inquisition’s Ordo Xenos, and for the Commander of this fortress it was good enough.

“You have ten minutes.”

Watch-Captain Roa stepped stepped with great veneration to a rack housing what looked to be a power weapon of some sort, a sword by the look of it, and indeed the weapon which he gently took from the bullet-proof casing and locked to the side of his armour was a power sword and much more. It was called Merula, meaning Blackbird in High Gothic, a relic of the Heresy and still as lethal as it had been then.

With somewhat less reverence, but far more soldierly expertise, he took a Tigrus-pattern bolt pistol from the wall and checked it over with a practised eye. Like the sword it was an antiquity from an older time, from a lost world that no longer existed, and that had not seen service for several decades at lest – not that you would realise from looking at it, everything as precise and polished as if it had been manufactured yesterday.

---

When all was said and done, the ten minutes having elapsed and their armaments secure upon their persons, the seven warriors and their mentors were taken back to the hangar from whence they had come. Nothing had stopped moving, all was carrying on apace, and the same black cruiser that had bought them here would now take them to their destination, from their proceeding by way of Thunderhawk Gunship to their eventual destination.

“Take one last moment to check your equipment, once we board the Strike Cruiser there will be no stopping between here and our terminus.”

With that said he advanced up the boarding ramp emerging from the ship, wide enough for four Astartes to walk abreast, and after taking one look back at the hangar was swallowed by the behemoth of metal.

As the watch captain approached, a respectful silence fell on the assembled astartes as they greeted him. This was what they had all been sent here for, their first mission was about to begin, and it was time to prepare. Aldaric looked over his soon-to-be squad mates, the estranged Sorrow, Zaphiel the chaplain, Sirren the Apothecary, Victar who had also been a captain, the blonde scout in carapace armor, the cyborg Son of Medusa. As a former leader, he subconsciously evaluated them all in what they might bring to the team on a case by case basis. Their veteran mentors would also be present in this one, so it was a sizable force together. By the time Aldaric had finished his initial assessment, Captain Roa had managed not to be incinerated by the security system and the Deathwatch armory was opening.

The armory was impressive to say the least, with a variety Aldaric had never seen. Many of the stranger items Aldaric wasn't even sure he could use. He suddenly stopped and clenched his jaw in anger at the sight of Tyranid scythe bones. How he hated them most of all. The Tyranid survivability, and adaptability, made them far more infuriating enemies than any other, as if their particularly staunch refusal to die was a prominent obscenity itself. How he dreampt of seeing the exterminatus of their very last world.

“Please treat this sacred space with the reverence it is due...”

The soft, yet undeniably commanding voice brought the "cousin" of the Dark Angels back to the present, where he learned he and his brothers would be facing the Kroot, and that he had ten minutes to loadout.

His focus sharpening, Aldaric recalled what he knew of Kroot. He had never fought them, but he had been briefed on all the Imperium's enemies prior to departure. They were a primitive species, tall, yet allied with the Tau and often armed with Tau technology. They often employed hit-and-run tactics, using their environment, usually jungle, for cover as they wittled down an opposing army. Like many other races, their warriors would engage in close combat as well, and they had been known to drive giant carnivorous battle beasts to directly assault their enemies.

Aldaric marched over to "standard issue" and took up a powersword, fastening it to his armor. No matter what primary weapon he chose, he'd have to have a melee backup, and the powersword was an easy choice since he, with his knightly origins, preferred it. He scanned around the shelves intently searching as he considered what he saw. The Kroot would certainly have a ranged force, with their leaders and handlers back from the risks of the front line. Aldaric knew right away that his Stalker rifle would be perfect for picking off key targets out of distance from his brothers, but his weapon was back at his room, out of ... distance. Of course, there were also the giant Kroot beasts to consider, which might require something like a rocket launcher, and there was the likelihood of the Kroot making a melee forward rush with their warriors. With the enemy's lack of armor, melta weapons, and the hellfire he would have preferred against Tyranid, wouldn't be necessary, but a heavy flamer would be very effective against such a rush.

Five minutes to go. Aldaric stopped a servo-skull and asked it to find and bring him a ranged weapon of high acurracy while he mentally debated.

A combination heavy bolter/flamer, the Infernus, caught his eye. It was a spectacular arsenel in and of itself, versatile for the unexpected situation to come, and lightened to boot. Aldaric threw the strap over his shoulder and stocked a number of frag grenades. This would have to be it, he thought, remembering what Rathanael had said about using his anger. The Infernus would certainly deliver in that respect, yet he knew this method of fighting would deprive him of his usual awareness and of his unique skill in high profile enemy takedowns. Did any of his squadmates have the kind of practice he did? Aldaric doubted it. Honor was not to be found, or at least not typically recognized, back from the front line and the splatter of xeno blood. The vast majority of space marines were far more personal in combat, yet a critical kill could shift the tides of a battle.

The ex-captain turned to go when he suddenly nearly ran into a servo-skull lowering a long-barreled bolter in his path. It was a standard Godwyn Mark Vb pattern, modified with an M40 Targeter System that Aldaric knew could be synced to his ocular implant. It was fine enough for firing at nearby targets with decent rate, but its real power was in its scope. Pride be damned. Only Aldaric Felbane could chanel as much hate through this fine piece of mechanicus work. The skull's delivery was a sign, and the switch was made. "Blessed be the name..." Quickly, he checked the weapon over.

"Do we have an auspex?" Aldaric wanted to make sure thre Kroot could be seen among any potential trees, but he didn't have time to look for a scanner.

Finally armed, he went where he was next directed.

The armory truly was a sight to behold, the wonders of the destructive Omnissiah were in full display but this all was soured slightly by one section labeled xenotech which, while of limits for now, it was most concerning that it even existed. This was the first sign of why the Deathwatch required secrecy from its members even from their own chapters.

“The guardians of this armory do not seem to share your opinion on the use of the enemy's weapons Brother Berumedes.”

He said to the techmarine before the two separated to arm themselves, somewhere between a quip and a damning of the armory's guardians. There would be time to deal with the implications of those weapons later, for now it was time to ready himself for battle.

10 minutes was not much time, Draksal could and would if there was time after this mission, spend hours examining the myriad of weapons that lay within these halls but for the time being he would focus on those he knew and what they would face. The Kroot were know to be lightly armored humanoid xenos who prefer melee combat, who were sometimes accompanied by large war beasts. Draksal had heard of them due to their being known to do mercenary work for just about anyone, including the forces of Chaos, so while they were not the most common xenos threat they were not locals of this sector either. While most equipment could therefore be chosen with anti - infantry capabilities in mind, it would not do for their lone heavy weapons user to be caught without some way of dealing with the larger monstrosities. For this the versatility of the missile launcher would be a good choice, frag missiles for Kroot, krak for their monsters and flash missiles to disrupt their charges and help with building clearing. Finally a small number of Flakk missiles in case there were shuttle craft (it was unlikely kroot war spheres could land on planets) that needed to be shot down.

For sidearms they took a Deathwatch shotgun with Wyrmsbreath shell, which turned the shotgun into a burst fire flamethrower, for dealing with any xenos that got a little too close and an inferno pistol for getting through bulkheads/walls or incinerating anything that survived missile and shotgun fire.

Thus the armaments chosen where
A Deathwatch shotgun and Inferno pistol.
A Soundstrike Pattern missile launcher with
Frag Missiles
Krak Missiles
Photon Flash Missiles
Flakk Missile

The launcher was slung over their shoulder, the shotgun holstered on their right hip and inferno pistol on their left.

Finally they searched the armory for a Skull Probe, this he linked to their Signum that he had as a former devastator sergeant and to his augmented mind, so that he could use it to scout and get targeting data for his missile fire.

With the small hovering device following behind him Draksal boarded the Strike Cruiser.

When Zaphiel entered the armory, he noted the rather large size of this Kill-Team. Granted, it consisted of both the new recruits and their various mentors, but it was still a sizable force. The various weapons stocked within the armory were impressive, to say the least, and Zaphiel was certain that such a place stood both as a weapon hold and a shrine to both the God-Emperor and the Omnissiah, though Zaphiel couldn't help but feel a tinge of zeal at the sight of the various xenos technology, though he reassured himself by assuming that the collection had been properly sanctified prior to being stocked.

Zaphiel had brought with him his Crozius Arcanum, as was ceremonial tradition for a Chaplain entering battle, but upon being informed of what they were going up against, the DNA-stealing, flesh eating Kroot, Zaphiel opted to investigate the various ranged weaponry. Though the usual doctrine of the Black Templars was oriented towards melee combat, Zaphiel had made sure to train extensively with ranged weapons as a Chaplain, so that he may deliver the righteous fury of the Emperor no matter the distance.

Thinking over the tactics of the Kroot as Zaphiel had been instructed on them, he ultimately settled on taking a Vulkan-pattern Combi-Flamer, deciding that the bolter-flamer combination would aide greatly in the upcoming battle. From there, Zaphiel gathered some ammo, double-checked that he had everything he wished to use, then awaited departure.

Sirren marched into the armory after his short prayer, marveling at the diversity of weaponry available. While it was certainly a luxury he was ill-afforded in his home chapter, it was for that same reason that he was hesitant to diverge much from the equipment standard to most Astartes. It would not serve him to take some obscure weapon that he could not wield to its fullest tactical effectiveness.

He had already brought with him his personal chainsword, currently resting on his shoulder, and his combat blade, strapped to his harness. Though they were ostensibly more lethal, he did not care for power weaponry. They cut too quickly and cleanly; they could not provide the spray of blood on Sirren's face that he so savored, nor the exhilarating shock to his arm when the blade hit bone. In any case, he armed himself with a Deathwatch-issue bolt pistol, and requisitioned a smattering of specialty rounds, as well as a few standard frag and krak grenades. His duty would be in ensuring that his Battle Brothers were at their fighting best; their strength would be his strength in the coming battle.

Pacing up and down the armoury, Kurt was quite impressed. It certainly was lot of guns. His brow wrinkled but then aided by the method of loci, he remembered exactly what the Kroot were. He scoffed, not particularly worried unless a few of them already ate an Astartes and used their method of shaping. That would be a problem.

Eventually, he came upon exactly what he wanted. He selected himself a Stalker bolter, taking one magazine of each kind of ammunition they had available. He took an all too familiar gladius, a phobos pattern bolt pistol (preferring it to the less gory standard bolt pistols), several krak and frag grenades, a cameleoline cloak, and finally a demolition charge surprisingly well concealed about his person. He knew it could come particularly useful against some of their larger beasts. As an afterthought he took a combat knife too, deciding it would pair well with the gladius. Prepared at last he would stand to attention, salute, and tell his brothers of his readiness. He could have picked the sniper to stay even further away from the real fighting, but he decided that if ambushed it would be worse.

Victar was told before entering that his gear had been placed securely in a different location. Directions acquired from his current guide, of sorts, he made haste to his chambers and retrieved the only thing in the universe that meant more to him than duty. What he used to uphold his part of said duty. Storm shield securely buckled upon his left arm, the weight more reassuring than anything, and the power sword named after his chapter strapped to his hip, the space marine made equal haste to return to his new squad. His spirit at peace once more.
Inside the armory was impressive indeed, but few of these items caught his eye.

For his sidearm, he grabbed a simple bolt pistol. Unadorned and plain but well suited to what he needed it for. Not ever foe would be wisely engaged with a mere sword and shield. The honorless cowards. Upon his hip was 4 krak grenades and 2 clips of ammunition for the pistol.
The last item he required was essential to his core beyond the sword and shield. Any fool could run headlong into a fight and die in a hail of gunfire, but only the brave would engage from the sky. Jump pack secured, Victar made his way to where the others had begun to wait.

Glory and Honor awaited.

It was supposed to be a quick transfer between point A to point B, to be a swift traversing of realspace to the co-ordinates that Curvus had given to the Deathwatch...but things rarely go according to plan.

Midway through the voyage of the Inquisitorial Cruiser Arcadius, a Lunar-class Cruiser with some slight modifications made to it by Curvus and their long association with the ship, Watch-Captain Roa was voxed from the bridge and his immediate presence requested. Such an unorthodox command, from the human Captain of the vessel nonetheless, immediately put the warrior on edge and within a matter of minutes he had half-sprinted his way from his chamber on the middle deck to the ships bridge.

All eyes turned to watch the armoured giant as he approached the much smaller Captain Calzane, a career officer of the Imperial Navy who had joined the Inquisition at the behest of a superior and showed not an ounce of fear as the Astartes stepped up onto the throne-dais to speak with him. Once you had seen as many members of the Deathwatch as he had, well, the shock and awe simply went out the window.

“Captain,” rumbled the bare-headed giant, “you requested my presence?”

“It would appear we are being shadowed, my Lord.”

Now the unease he had felt at being summoned turned into full blown disquiet.

“Elaborate.”

Calzane shifted slightly at the lack of manners, but then again he expected as much from a superhuman warrior, “our long-distance scanners have picked up the signatures of numerous ships, yet only periodically, before they disappear once more from our screens. As far as we can tell, the signatures are certainly xenos in nature, but of what form we cannot yet say.”

“Current distance?”

“Also uncertain...but they are swallowing the space between us with some velocity.”

“Estimated time until engagement?”

“An hour at best,” the Captain said through gritted teeth, knowing what would be asked next and deftly pre-empting it, “and half that at the worst.”

“Alert the veterans and tell them to meet me in the briefing room.”

“Aye, Lord.”

---

The meeting between the Watch-captain and his direct subordinates as a short one, time was of the essence and there was none of it to lose, each Marine giving their own opinions but eventually reaching a conclusion as to the best course of action.

“We cannot outrun them then,” questioned Brother Lartius at one point, “so we must stand our ground and show them the might of the Astartes, yes?”

All agreed that this would be best, their current transport a Lunar-class Cruiser – a vessel of considerable fire power and, with alterations made by the Inquisition, greater speed and manoeuvrability than usual for such a ship. As such it could handle itself against most adversaries of a similar class, and with the payload of a squad the size of two Kill-teams it most assuredly held a distinct advantage.

“So they are fast, faint and without a specific signature,” mused Brother-Veteran Cylaris, “sounds like-”

“Eldar.” Finished Rathanael, the only member of the coterie still wearing his helmet around the hololithic table and projector centred between their circle of bodies.

“The Eldar, while prone to piratical raids here and there, are not foolish enough to come after a vessel this size without reason...they are a dying breed after all.”

“Cylaris is right,” came the slightly scrambled speech of the resident Techmarine, “the Eldar would not trail us or get this close without good reason.”

“No, not the perfidious Eldar...but their dark kin?” Mused Koldobika, a large crimson finger scratching his over-large cheek for a moment.

There was a hiss from those gathered about the table, acidic bile rising from the glands in the throat of Roa Eritana, “it...would seem logical, probably having never seen a ship such as ours before, and unaware of exactly what it is they are tracking.”

“Then let us show them,” suggested Lartius with a grin, his lips peeling back to reveal vampiric fangs, his beauteous façade changing to that of a supernatural predator in a change of expression, “let us put our initiates through their first trial.”

“I had hoped to wait until we reached our destination, but I concede that now is as good a time as any; let it be so.”

---

Ships of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue - hulls of deep blues and marked with the sigil of a striking serpent, bladed projections jutting from them at erratic angles, and ordnance swivelling this way and that – came upon the Arcadius in a perfectly devised formation. It allowed enough room for their swifter ships, Torture-class Cruisers and smaller Corsair escort ships, to manoeuvre while still surrounding the larger enemy ships.

Dracon S'rath watched over this with an experienced eye, inwardly pleased to have caught such a prize all alone and out in the void, while outwardly appearing as stoic and cold as a block of marble. It was a Mon-Keigh ship bearing odd markings – that being no markings at all, save for a layer of black paint – but to the arrogant commander of this large-scale raiding force it was an insignificant detail that mattered not at all.

“Helmsman,” hissed the Dracon through teeth sharpened into points, “attack pattern Soul-Drinker, and be quick about it.”

Moments later a void-war began, the batteries of the Lunar Cruiser opening up as spectral vessels swept by and glided skilfully away from torpedoes and macro-batteries, Phantom lances and weapons of dark matter stripping away the shields of their preys defences one-by-one; a lucky strike from a torpedo caused a Corsair escort to implode in a show of light and wreckage, S'rath gripping the arms of his chair tightly and opening comms to his subordinates.

“Prepare leech torpedoes and Impalers, we shall leave them like a man without air and drag them screaming back to Commorragh!”

Aboard multiple vessels Kabalite warriors prepared themselves, Impaler Assault Modules filling to the brim with bloodthirsty and sadistic killers; soon the Leech torpedoes would drain the power from the Arcadius and leave it dead in the nothingness of space, a target containing some ninety-five thousand souls to be harvested and killed at the whim of the Kabals Archon.

Little did they realise that it was a choice they may come to regret.

---

They sat together in within the confines of the Caestus Assault Ram, one of three within the bowels of the Lunar Cruiser, and as black as the rest of the vessel, each of the Deathwatch marines linked up to the attack crafts 'misericorde' – a system consisting of multiple retractable inertia suppression clamps which connect with a Space Marines power armour, locking them in place and protecting them from any impact short of one which could destroy the entire craft.

Brothers Corbite, Inri, and Ironmarch sat on one side of the ships interior while Felbane, Gadex and Berauth sat directly opposite – 'Sorrow' was given a seating placement of his own, further serving to show him as an outcast to the group.

Extremely short notice had been given to the Astartes inside the heavily armoured vehicle, a whirlwind briefing taking place not long before the Dark Eldar had opened fire on the Arcadius; they had been told in no uncertain terms that they were to be sent into combat while the veterans stayed aboard the Cruiser to help defend it from any enemy incursions that successfully navigated through there shield and weapons fire.

Where was it they were going?

Captain Calzane had managed to get a lock on the ship that they believed was leading the raiding party, a Torture-class Cruiser that needed to be 'removed' from the conflict in our for them to survive. It was up to Kill-team Epsilon take the Assault Ram and board the enemy ship, making their way to its bridge and cutting off the head from the serpent, a secondary objective being to lower its shadowfield in order that a more accurate lock could be made on it.

Watch-Captain Roa would be monitoring everything from the Arcadius, guiding them as they went.

Without windows or view-ports they failed to see the outside battle as their craft launched itself from the bay of the Cruiser, twinkling lance shots hissing past and more solid projectiles both missing them and glancing from the crafts thickened armour plating. Guided by the pilot and gunner servitors, each slaved to their respective positions within the ship, the eighty-five metric ton vehicle blasted toward the shimmering haze of the enemy Cruiser at maximum speed, impacting into the hull and slowly but surely burning through with the Magna-Melta which served as both weapon and boarding device.

Had someone glanced, they would have seen the blackened vehicle attaching itself to some haze of a ship – the outline only somewhat visible against the twinkling backdrop of stars.

“Five...four...three...two...one...”

A hiss of metal that was now molten slag could be heard outside the landing ramp, even as the ramp itself began to descended and the locking mechanisms of the attack crafts thrones released the Astartes and their equipment from where they'd been placed.

“You have your orders,” crackled the voice of Roa over the long-range squad-wide vox, heard by those who wore their helmets at least, “the Emperor and I are watching over you, and you shall know no fear.”

All that was left was for the Kill-team to disgorge themselves into the corridor of the Dark Eldar ships lower levels, for that was where they had impacted, and prepare themselves to carry out the Emperor's will.

It seemed the initiates where to go into battle in a boarding action versus a different enemy than they were expected and unaccompanied by the veterans. Unfortunate that they would have to go against Eldar with equipment chosen to take down Kroot, the Eldar were considerably better equipped than the barely armored Kroot. Also the lack of the veterans made the distinction of who was leading this attack on the tactical level rather confused because, while Watch-captain Roa was commanding them via vox, they would need to decide who would be making the snap leadership decisions that won battles, otherwise they where going to get in each others way a lot. Still, adaptability was a virtue, they would deal with whatever came their way with faith and firepower.

“Let me check that the cost is clear for the moment”

Draksal sent the skull probe out first to check that the boarding impact had cleared the corridor of hostiles and that they were not immediately going to be taking fire upon exiting. At the same them he loaded a Flakk Missile into his launcher, then slung it back over his shoulder and drew the shotgun, which in the tight confines of a ships would serve as an excellent room clearer without the risk of explosive decompression ejecting them all into space. The melta pistol would be excellent for cutting through any doors that might bar their way. All in all their sidearms rather well suited to this operation.

The skull probe had checked both ways down the corridor, had seen nothing so far and more importantly not been instantly blown to pieces by enemy fire. It was probably safe to proceed.

“We’re clear”

Draksal stepped out to watch the left approach to the craft, the probe keeping an eye on the right, he was ready to open fire on any xenos that came to investigate the crash to cover the others as they disembarked.

The impact was relatively cushy as the Caestus rammed into the side of the Dark Eldar raiders' lead ship. Aldaric waited impatiently as the mechanical countdown finished and the doors dropped open to form a heavy ramp onto the floor of an empty lower corridor in the abhorrent xenos' vessel. Heartening words rang over the killteam's vox communicators. Fear however, was not a problem. They had their orders, which were to rapidly ascend to the bridge and dispatch the raiding party's leadership, thus routing the rest of the foolish Dark Eldar who had unwittingly attacked the Imperium's specialized xeno-hunting taskforce mid-space. Educating these xeno scum would be most satisfying indeed.

The killteam that had been sent to this task however, was nacent. The Deathwatch captain was present in communication only, having said nothing of individual responsibilities in the field or provided any hint of on-the-ground organization or tactics. They were all equal now, brothers, and they had to figure this one out on their own.

Aldaric found the lack of immediate clarity in what their individual actions were to be irritating, but there was no time to get to know each other. Quickly, even before they made contact, he considered each of their chosen armaments and began to rationalize their best use based on that and what little he knew of his new teammates. It was a roll of the dice how any of this was about to go.

Draskal had already stepped out to investigate the corridor when Aldaric's suspensory device finally released him. Once freed, the impatient former captain immediately went to work on what he saw was their greatest problem at the moment, the lack of a plan.

"We're clear." Stated the space marine who was more machine than man.

Aldaric noted the floating familiar by his side which he had used to safely enhance his sight. Drascal also had ranged weapons, which would be far more useful on the inside of a spacecraft than his missle launcher, more than likely. A quick glance around spotted a stormshield, carried by Victor Ironmarch, certainly a most useful bulwark. There was Sirren with a mighty chainsword, Zaphiel with a combi-flamer, and Kurt with his much lighter armor and potential vulnerability.

Aldaric's brow furrowed seriously above his mechanical left eye as he scrutinized. The team's hesitation was killing him, the moment of quiet was an inferno of infuriation. Finally, unable to stand for it any longer, he simply, acted. Holding his own sniper bolter at the ready, he turn to those he named specifically. "Victor. Drascal. I want you two to take point. Find their bridge. Sorrow, you're behind them to provide cover as needed. As soon as we clear an area, Draskal can blow up the next door so we can move in..."

Aldaric didn't bother with apologies or any statements of the obvious. He simply did what he had always done. It was his job, his role, and he expected no recognition for it. There was a gap that needed to be filled, and he simply provided the spackle. He had no idea whether or not he would be heeded, or hated, but he went on regardless. "We will be moving fast, so Kurtis, I need you specifically to call 'in-back' if anything pursues us from that direction. As for the rest of us, do what you do best and eliminate all hostiles." Aldaric knew that only experience would show each of their strengths and weaknesses. He primed his weapon and began moving down the left hall, letting the anger at his enemies fill his heart and drive his resolve. "We rally on Zaphiel if we get separated, so keep track of him at all times. Speed is of the essence brothers. Let us show these xenos how a proper assault is conducted."

There was no rational for sneaking around. This would be a guns-blazing, blitzkrieg assault, one that the enemy was hopefully completely unprepared for.

The orders to prepare for boarding actions had been rather unexpected, but were not altogether unwelcome. Zaphiel had been eagerly awaiting to unleash the Emperor's Fury upon heretical Xenos, but he was certainly not expecting an encounter with the Dark Eldar, especially given the nature of their vessel in question. Ultimately he chalked it up to Xeno incompetence inherent within their races, and prepared for action.

The Caestus Assault Ram was filled to the brim with members of the greenhorn Kill-Team. Zaphiel rested his bolter across his legs, the dim glow of his Rosarius power field emitting blue light across the interior of the small vessel. Zaphiel held the religious charm in one hand, offering a prayer to the God-Emperor, asking for protection and strength to be granted to them all in the coming battle. Though not many chapters viewed the Emperor as a holy figure of worship, Zaphiel spoke this prayer out loud, hoping that at the very least, thoughts of the Emperor would ease any tension in the mind of his Battle-Brothers.

As the doors to the Assault Ram hissed open, and Drascal moved to secure the immediate area, Zaphiel did one last quick check of his weaponry, before preparing to disembark with the others. Aldaric seized the opportunity to take command of the situation, which was a commendable act, given the lack of any real command structure as of yet, and so Zaphiel had no qualms about following his orders.

"Victor. Drascal. I want you two to take point. Find their bridge. Sorrow, you're behind them to provide cover as needed. As soon as we clear an area, Draskal can blow up the next door so we can move in... "We will be moving fast, so Kurtis, I need you specifically to call 'in-back' if anything pursues us from that direction. As for the rest of us, do what you do best and eliminate all hostiles. "We rally on Zaphiel if we get separated, so keep track of him at all times. Speed is of the essence brothers. Let us show these xenos how a proper assault is conducted."

As Aldaric finished speaking, Zaphiel spoke with a firm "Acknowledged." to confirm his willingness to accept the current structure of the unit. Stepping out into the Xenos ship with the others, Zaphiel took his place in the formation, eager to begin his Emperor-given task.