DEATHWATCH - FIRST AMONGST EQUALS
PROLOGUE

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day so that he may never truly die.

Yet in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the Daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomicon, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds.

Greatest amongst his soliders are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigiliant Inqusition and the Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, to name but a few. But for all their multitiudes, they are barley enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutations...and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an enternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

The Deathwatch Space Marines serve the Ordo Xenos of the Imperial Inquisition as its Chamber Militant, the warriors of last resort when the Inquisition needs access to firepower greater than the Imperial Guard or a team of its own Acolytes or even Throne Agents can provide. Across the galaxy there are innumerable hostile alien civilisations that threaten Mankind, from the green-skinned Orks, to the monstrous Tyranids, sadistic Dark Eldar, spectral C'tan, and undying Necrons. It is the sacred task of the Deathwatch to stand sentry against all of these terrible xenos races. They are ready to act when such ancient evils rise to threaten Mankind once more. The Space Marines of the Deathwatch form the first, and often only, line of defence against these inhuman horrors.

Those Chapters which undertook the great oath that created the Deathwatch provide their most experienced xenos-fighters to serve in the Kill-teams, as do many other Chapters whose masters were not present to take the original oath, but who have since undertaken it. Most Battle-Brothers are veterans of a hundred alien wars before being inducted into the Deathwatch, but selection is not made upon length of service alone. In the main, it is those Battle-Brothers who have faced a broad range of alien threats and not only survived, but prevailed, learning and passing on new methods of defeating such foes.
These warriors have facedhordes of Tyranid creatures so vast they spill over the horizon, and never once given an inch of ground. They have stood face-to-face with such gargantuan beasts as Tyranid Carnifexes and walked away the victor. They are masters at hunting down such dread beasts as the Ambull and the Clawed Fiend, and know every deceitful ploy the Eldar are likely to utilise.
Aside from the obvious skill the warrior has displayed, perhaps more important is his purity of heart and his soundness of mind. To face the xenos is to bear witness to the most vile, depraved horrors that creation can produce, as if the universe had mutated and life itself turned against Mankind.

The process by which a Battle-Brother is selected for service in the Deathwatch varies, but the most common is by recommendation of the Chapter’s Captains, Apothecaries and Chaplains. Each of these is uniquely placed in their field to pass judgement on the matter, and it is usual that all three must agree before taking the matter to their Chapter Master. The decision as to whether to advance the Brother further falls entirely to the Chapter Master. The Chapter Master’s responsibility in this matter is grave indeed, for the oath of service to the Deathwatch is solemn and terrible, and in it is vested the last, best hope for Mankind against the dire prophesies of alien apocalypse. To present a Battle-Brother not equal to the task would do great dishonour to the Chapter in question, and could have ramifications for entire worlds.

Another way a warrior might come to serve is for the Deathwatch to make a general request of other Chapters in the region. The Watch Commander might visit each of these Chapters and make his plea to the Chapter Masters in question, or if circumstances do not permit such a nicety, he may transmit astropathic communiqués encrypted with the very highest of cipher-seals, or dispatch trusted Brothers of the same Chapter if at all possible, to make the request on his behalf.

In some cases, the request for service might come not from the Deathwatch, but from the Inquisition.

Service in the Deathwatch is understood by ancient convention to be limited to a single mission. In practice, however, a mission could be defined as a campaign or a vigil spanning an indefinite period of time. When chosen to serve in the Deathwatch, the warrior often bids his Brothers farewell as if he will never see them or fight by their sides again. Given the foes that he is likely to face, this may well be the truth. Some Chapters have developed highly formal rituals to mark a Battle-Brother’s departure for service in the Deathwatch. Some Chapters, such as the Storm Wardens, assemble the Brother’s entire company, or even the whole Chapter, to salute him as he leaves upon one of the Deathwatch’s blackpainted Thunderhawk gunships. Other Chapters convene a solemn service led by the most senior Chaplain, the massed ranks bowing their heads in prayer for their departing Brother. The Space Wolves engage in a raucous, night long celebration in which the Great Company’s cellar is drained, while in the Black Templars, the entire fighting company kneels in all night, silent vigil before a chapel dedicated to Rogal Dorn.

However the Battle-Brother’s departure is marked, he sets aside his service to his Chapter, if only for a short period, and turns his back upon his former comrades as he boards the waiting transport...

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(( Player Character Line 1 - Campaign/Episode - FIRST AMONGST EQUALS:PROLOGUE or something along those lines))
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Initiate Raimer was deep in prayer when the noise began. A dull reverberation within the hull of the Land Raider within which he stood. His battle brothers were roused from their own prayers as well when they heard it. All returned to their prayers within moments though, Raimer had chosen His Litany of Hatred Against The Heretic as his own prayer. The noises grew and as the hull reverberated further and they heard muffled thumps all around them. Still he and his brothers did not falter in their prayers further, many had their eyes closed to better focus on their prayers while Raimer stared straight ahead, the words of the prayer echoing through his mind. Fifteen astartes were packed into the Crusader Pattern Land Raider, their jump packs making it impossible and so all stood facing the front hatch weapons already checked, rechecked, and consecrated.

At last they heard the words from the driver they had all been awaiting, "Prepare yourselves brothers, we approach."

Raimer ended his prayer with a final statement aloud, "And hollowed be his name his fury eternal."

With that said he unlatched his helmet from his belt and placed it over his head, it's environmental seals locking in with a hiss. The systems of his helmet quickly came to life with the vox now he heard the chatter of battle echoing across the main channel. He had no time to prepare further as the front ramp and side doors suddenly popped open allowing in a tremendous cacophony of noise. The Astartes of the Black Templars showed no hesitation though charging forward out of the Land Raider drawing their weapons his black and white armor seamed to reflect no light devouring it all into itself and his tabard which bore the mark of his chapter whipped about him.

All about them were explosions and tracers, fire lit the sky in all directions but one. Before them stood a massive curtain wall several meters high. Charging forward onto an outcrop of rock before the wall he triggered his jumppack along with his brothers his. They sailed into the air with a battle cry upon their lips, "For The Emperor!" At their apex as they looked down on the curtain wall manned by milling forms they cried forth once more, "For Dorne!" As they descended Raimer took careful aim even as men fled out from beneath them and gave forth one last cry, "For Sigismund!" The man beneath him died with a horrifying crunching sound as he broke the fall of a fully equipped astartes. Sword and bolt pistol already in hand he cut down one man to his right before he could even turn, Another man, scarred with horrific chaotic glyphs went for a pistol but was not fast enough as a bolt round punched through his chest and killed the man behind him as the round exploded.

Turning to his left he saw his brothers landing and cutting as well, though Raimer had landed on the far right and thus now faced the brunt of the enemy to this side. Firing off five more shots in rapid succession almost twice that number fell as the rounds overpenetrated their weak armor and weaker flesh. They had numbers though and with cries to their heretical gods they rushed him. Throwing away his bolt pistol and drawing a second chainsword he became a whirlwind of death hacking apart cultists and traitors, shearing through limbs, and cutting apart weapons brought against him. Against an initiate of the Black Templars they were little more than chaff to be butchered and as the stone parapet grew slick with the blood of the fallen and his brothers cut through the mass they faced to join him their nerve at last broke. Turning and fleeing in a great mass from the unstoppable onslaught naturally he pursued cutting down the slowest and those who would not break with equal ease.

Pursuing them into a blockhouse his eyes and the sensors of his helmet quickly recalibrated to the darkness allowing him to see the hastily deployed autocannon, diving out of the way as it erupted pouring fire out past him. Coming up out of his combat roll he was prepared to rush the autocannon when he saw the blade coming in for his head. bringing up the chainsword of his left hand he parried the blade aside and swung out with his right sword but before he could connect a second blade came in from the other side glancing off his helmet. Throwing himself to one side he narrowly missed having his skull pummeled though the blow had damaged his helmet enough that it flickered between various settings now. Pulling it off he threw it to one side as he backed against a wall now assessing his situation revealing his short black hair and scarred face. The Autocannon had cut down one brother who ha followed him and pinned the others. His new found enemy was a pair of ogryn with giant blades akin to meat cleavers with bright red sigils emblazoned upon them. They could perhaps match him in strength but would have no chance versus his skill.

Charging forward with both of his chain sword screaming he swung at the first one with his left handed blade though the ogryn used it's blade to deflect his attack while the second came in with a powerful downward stroke. Raimer went with the parry and used his momentum to pass down under the blade as it descended placing the second ogryn between himself and the first one. His right hand blade came in, stabbing into the side of the ogryn tearing through flesh causing the ogryn to howl out in pain and swing wildly at him. The first ogryn still tried to maneuver around the second to get at Raimer but he continued to maneuver himself and the second ogryn to so that it could not swing at him. Meanwhile the second ogryn made a vicious swing at him when Raimer feinted forward throwing the ogryn off balance allowing him to dive inwards with both blade plunging them deep into the belly of the ogryn and yanking them upwards carving two deep gaping lines into his enemy. Yanking them out caused the massive bulk of the ogryn to teeter forward towards Raimer though he was already moving around to the side coming up to the left low and lashed out with his left hand blade slicin through the leg of his next enemy.

Howling out just as his comrade had done before he swing down with his massive blade though once again Raimer was no longer there and now brought down his right hand blade to cleave both arms from the ogryn who barely had time to scream out before a the backswing of the blade severed it's head. Looking up past his opponents now he saw the autocannon still peppering fire out of the blockhouse keeping his brothers from advancing. Sprinting forward he took the crew and their allies by surprise slicing through the gunner and his loader before they could react and diving into a melee with those nearby. There was no resistance now though as all broke and began to run. he joined with his brothers in the pursuit cutting down many before they could flee.

Exiting the blockhouse down on the arty blasted ground he looked back at the titanic curtain wall now from the inside to see banners of the Imperium and Black Templars rising all across it for miles in either direction. The few gates in the grand wall were being opened now as well allowing more Astartes to pour through supported by Land Raiders which cut down the fleeing enemies without remorse. The battle was over, the day was won though there would yet be a thousand more battle Raimer knew. Sheathing his swords he watched as thunderhawks descended from the sky now that the enemy air defenses along the wall were neutralized. One landed nearby and out came various neophytes to begin the post-battle rites, one came directly to him and bowed his head before Raimer before speaking, "Initiate Raimer, I bring word that you have been chosen for your excellence in battle and competence of other matters to be seconded to the Deathwatch until they deem your service complete. Are you prepared for this service my lord?"

Raimer looked down at the small neophyte his face a mask of determination, "A warrior of the Emperor is always ready for any task asked of him." He could see even now a single stark black thunderhawk landing nearby, "I need nothing more than this." With that he held up the chainsword in his right hand, giving the other to the neophyte hilt first, "When I return I will want that back."

He then strode over to the black thunderhawk already reciting litanies of purification to prepare himself for the voyage away from his brothers and to fight beside those who he knew nothing about and whose ways could be far different than his own. That was why he was chosen for this, not his skill but his temperament, he had a chance of withstanding their influence without striking out as others might.

Bowing his head, hands locked in prayer as the Thunderhawk drifted through the endless void of space, Brother-Apothecary Alaric mouthed a silent prayer to the Emperor. He had been in this state ever since leaving The Rock. Finally, after a few more minutes of silence, his eyes flicked open, revealing twin icy blue orbs that pierced the veil of space. His breathing deepened as he once more became aware of reality As soon as his vision returned, he found himself staring at his own reflection in the frost covered window. He had removed his helmet, which now sat immobile next to him, glaring angrily at the cockpit with its dull maroon eyes. His face was lined by age and stress, but still bearing a cherubic image iconic of his Chapter reminiscent of the angels surrounding the Emperor on the tapestries strewn across the walls of The Rock. His short cropped blonde hair was slicked back under the beige hood that encompassed his armoured body, hiding the majority of his form, but his bulk was unmistakable. The two silver service studs driven into his brow shined dimly in the light of the Thunderhawk. It had been an odd series of events that had lead to today, and as he looked out at the stars which floated past him, Alaric could not help but think back to the events a week before.

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Kneeled before the great statue of the Emperor deep within the depths of The Rock, Alaric had his head bowed with the rest of his brothers as their Chaplain led them in prayer. He knelt with the rest of the Apothecaries in the front line, their bone white power armour in stark contrast to the deep green hues of the rest of the Chapter behind them. The Narthecium, the tool of his trade, was in its inert form, all drills and needles having been retracted into the hollows within its structure. His hands were clasped in front of his head as the roiling words of the chaplain spread through his mind, easing his fears and calming his body as the sibilant tones of his voice echoed through his ears. “And despite all his attentions, The Emperor Protects,” The chaplain said as he raised his Crozius Arcanum, finishing the sermon. “The Emperor Protects,” the rest of the chapter echoed, ending their silence. As one, the Space Marines rose up and started off back into their Fortress-Monastery, to return to their duties. Alaric was about return to the Apothecarium himself, but stopped as an armoured gauntlet rang on his pauldron. Turning his head to face his interloper, he found himself staring into the rictus skull mask of the Chaplain. “Apothecary, a moment please,” rang the metal-grilled voice of the Chaplain. “Of course, Interrogator-Chaplain, ” Alaric replied, bowing his head in deference, while at the same time wondering what was going on.

As the rest of the brothers filed out of the hall, the only ones that remained were Alaric, the Interrogator-Chaplain and for some reason, the Head Apothecary. A third brother then walked through the arched walkway, wearing the distinctive beige robes of the Deathwing, joining the trio in the chapel. With a nod to the chaplain, he then left once more, and the Chaplain promptly followed. Without a word, Alaric followed behind him, flanked by the Head Apothecary. At this point, he was starting to feel a little apprehensive. Why was everyone so quiet? Had he made some sort of transgression? Had he broken the Codex Astartes? It wasn’t likely since he had not been on active combat duty for a while, but perhaps he had done something else wrong. He hardened himself. Let whatever may come, come. He was a space marine, one of the Emperor’s finest. He would not cower from what his own Brothers had in store for him. If he must die to repent in the Emperor’s name, so be it.

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As the party ventured deeper into The Rock, Alaric became aware of the drop in temperature, and the pedometer in his suit had already registered a total of more than 1000 steps. There were going very deep into their fortress. Finally, they seemed to come across a dead end, and Alaric started to wonder if they had gotten lost, but at a inaudible command from the chaplain, the sheer basalt wall ground down into the ground, allowing them further into the passage, lit only by silverthorn braziers rather than the fading glowglobes from before. As he stepped over the threshold, Alaric became aware of the noise of the basalt door grinding its way back up into place. He made an inaudible gulp. He had never been this deep into The Rock, and unlike the medical anticeptic smell of the Apothecarium, this place was filled with the heady scent of incense, dust and age. Every step he took left the imprint of his boots in the dust as he followed behind the Chaplain and Deathwing veteran. Once again, he steeled himself. His faith in the Emperor was absolute, and he would hold it no matter what fate may bring.

Finally, the group came across what seemed to be a natural cavern in the asteroid, and they came to a halt. The Deathwing Veteran stepped to one of the sides of the door and another emerged from within its dimly lit depths to take position on the opposite side. The Interrogator-chaplain nodded to them before stepping into the chamber, closely followed by the Head Apothecary and Alaric himself. The two Deathwing members proceeded to close up behind him, obscuring any attempts to get in. Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing his occulobe to adjust to the low light, Alaric then proceeded to scout the room as more and more of the chamber became visible. It was indeed a natural cavern. Stalactites and stalagmites were scattered around the room, and the constant dripping of water was heard. A single man in white robed armour stood with his back to him, his short black hair in stark contrast to the rest of his armour. The Chaplain and Apothecary approached the man and spoke a few words, gesturing to Alaric. The man nodded.

Turning around, the man turned out to be Azrael, their rarely seen Supreme Grand Master. Taken aback for a second, Alaric bent down to one knee, showing deference to their Chapter Master. “Rise, Apothecary,” came his deep powerful voice. With the whine of servos, Alaric rose once more to his feet, facing his Chapter Master with a level gaze. Whatever he had done must have been major. There was a moment of silence as the two locked gazes, Azrael measuring him, with Alaric refusing to back ground. Whatever the Chapter Master held for him was what the Emperor himself decided, and he would not run from it. A small smile tugged at the corner of Azrael’s mouth. “Rejoice, Brother-Apothecary Alaric,” Azrael said as he paced around him, each footstep echoing in the darkness, “for you have been chosen for one of the Emperor’s most important tasks.” Making a full revolution, Azrael stopped in front of Alaric’s face, the wry smile staying in the corner of his mouth. “You have been chosen for the Deathwatch.” Alaric’s eyes widened. The Deathwatch was something that only the most experienced and elite marines were chosen for, while he was a mere century old. Why him? As he opened his mouth, Azrael held up a hand to silence him. “I realise that this may seem strange to you, whom is on the younger end of the spectrum, Apothecary, but rest assured that you have the blessings of both myself, your master, and the Chaplains, and even Asmodai has begrudgingly accepted you. “But Master, I have not done anything of note yet and I-“ Alaric started, before Azrael cut him off, holding his hand up “Think back to your last mission on Parius Omega, and you will realise why we chose you,’ he said.

He immediately closed his mouth as he thought back to those events. He realised why. Running through a storm of slugs and heavy bolter rounds, and even after taking a plasma round to the leg, Alaric had managed to tend to his comrades on the front line, administering the Emperor’s Mercy to those gravely wounded, while collecting the progenoid glands of others and tending to the wounds of those lightly wounded. “You are willing to endanger yourself in order to ensure the safety of your brothers,” Azrael said, placing an armoured gauntlet over Alaric’s head, as if blessing him, “more so than any other Apothecary, and it is for that reason that we have chosen to send you…Alaric.” Keeping his head bowed, Alaric said nothing. Finally, he opened his mouth. “I…accept this honour, Supreme Grand Master…” he said as he dropped to one knee again, “To do the Emperor’s work is the greatest reward.” Azrael nodded and dragged him to his feet. “Before that though…let me tell you a story…do you know of the ‘Tale of Two-Heads talking’?” he asked, the chaplain falling in with him. “The old tale which is told to us as initiates?” Alaric replied questioningly. Azrael nodded. “It has a much deeper meaning…but one which you must never tell anyone, not even your own comrades, for you see, the tale refers to that of our Primarch, Lion El’Jonson.”

Quivering slightly as he emerged back into The Rock, amongst the rest of his Brothers, Alaric tightened his fist. It was not fear he shook with, nor the cold. It was rage. Rage that his own brothers could bear to do something like betray the immortal Emperor. He gritted his teeth. He had been informed of the Fallen, those Dark Angels who had betrayed their Chapter and the Imperium, and they disgusted him to no end. During his seconding to the Deathwatch, he was to look out for signs of the Fallen…and eliminate any he found. With this grim, secondary purpose in his heart, Alaric stalked off to prepare his gear.

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“Brother, your Thunderhawk has arrived,” said the voice of the Master Apothecary. Kneeling in prayer in front of the statue of the Emperor, Alaric had been focussing his mind on the task ahead, ensuring that he would not fail. His lips moved in silent prayer as he invoked the Emperor’s protection, and his hands were clasped in prayer, for once shed of their metallic second skin. His white gauntlet and Narthecium lay on the ground in front of him as his naked hands beseeched the Emperor for his wisdom, hoping for his benevolent aid in the days to come. “Brother,” the Master Apothecary prompted once more. Flicking his eyes open, Alaric nodded, “I will be there at once,” he said as he started to reattach his gauntlets, hearing the hiss of pressurization as they once more locked with the rest of his armour. Unfastening the myriad tools of his Narthecium, Alaric gave one final check of all its components before collapsing it once more. It would serve its purpose adequately. Turning around, he followed the Master Apothecary into the docking bays.

In the large room, his entire company stood at attention, their eyes flicking over as they saw him approach. They were silent as he started past. On the opposing side of them stood every Apothecary of every Company, his brothers in a different type of arms, the one to save lives rather than take them. Finally, at the head of the group, at the foot of the Thunderhawk, stood Supreme Grand Master Azrael. “Take this robe,” he instructed, handing over a large beige cloth, “it may help you on your journey, Apothecary.” Almost reverently, Alaric took hold of the robes with a bow. Turning around, he gave a final nod to all of his comrades, before stepping into the confines of the Thunderhawk. It was very likely that he would never see them again.

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“Prepare to dock…” came the metallic voice of the servitor, which echoed in the narrow thunderhawk, rousing Alaric from his reminiscing. There was no more time for the past. The Emperor’s Work was yet to be done.

“Gather, young Space Wolves,” spoke the wise and experienced voice of the Rune Priest Baldur Thunderfang, “for I have a tale to be told this night.” The venerated Space Wolf spoke to the Sky Claws under his direct command. This may be the last night of their lives for tomorrow, they enter battle against one of the many enemies of the Allfather. Thunderfang is eldest member of their Great Company and has advised three Wolf Lords before his current master, though it is not his age that has him as the mentor to the Company's troublemakers.

Thunderfang was an unusual old wolf. Most Space Wolves believe that using a Jump Pack is a superfluous means of fighting. Afterall, if the Allfather wanted them to fly, he would have given them wings. However, Thunderfang believed that there are potential heroes among the Blood Claws that all others have forsaken.

He didn't always believe in even the most foolish of Blood Claws. He was once like most of his brothers, believing Skyclaws to be worth litle more than to rush into combat and die while dealing as much damage to their enemy as possible. The tale he was about to tell is the same tale he tells before every battle. Some of the young Wolves under his command have heard the tale a dozen times, but they listen intently as if it was the first time the story was ever told. Even these impatient, blood thirsty warriors understood that the tale of Greybeard is a story as inspiring as that of The Young King himself.

When the Skyclaws heard Thunderfang's voice, they knew to listen. They knew that this tale was only for their ears and once they have proven theselves to be worthy of a true place in the chapter, they would never hear it again.

Thunderfang spoke:

There is one Wolf in our Great Company that has seen it all. He has fought all of the Allfather's many enemies. He was present for the destruction of a Necron Tomb World. He personally slew more Tyranid monstrosities than can be counted. He braved the firepower of the heretical Tau. He faced the horrors of the Warp and won. This Wolf has the greatest saga of any in our Great Company. This is the Saga of the Black Wolf.

Sven Greybeard hails from a tribe in the north. He was a great warrior, but was abandoned by his blood family. Some of his tribe were superstitious about Greybeard's frost white hair. However, the tribe's chieftain knew better. He saw the boy's unusual hair color as a sign from the spirits that he had the gift of the bear. He was destined to become the greatest warrior his tribe had ever seen.

When Young Greybeard came of age under the chief's guidance, he was given the name Greybeard and chosen as the chief's successor. This did not please Skaasgald Erikson, Greybeard's rival for the next chief and the one who was agreed to be the greatest warrior in the tribe. Erikson and those loyal to him believed that Greybeard was too violent in his ambitions and would only lead the tribe to unnecessary war.

On the eve of his chief's death, Erikson and his followers left the tribe and declared war on Greybeard. While the details of this war are a tale for another day and one that I cannot do justice, the wounds attained by Greybeard in this war would precede his being chosen to join us Sky Warriors.

Greybeard was to become one of us. He was large man before his ascension, a solid wall of muscle. After his ascension, he was even greater in size. He stood a head taller than most of the other Blood Claws in his pack.

After his initiation, Greybeard was surprised to be assigned to the same pack as the very rival who nearly killed him, Skaasgald Erikson. Their rivalry was immediately rekindled. I've been witness honor duels with the Dark Angels with less passion than the sparring matches between these two Blood Claws. Their collective will to outdo their rival is unparalleled among the entirety of the Sky Warriors, let alone the Space Wolves alone.

Both showed potential as their rivalry lead them to push themselves to prove their worth to the elders of the Great Company. These efforts did not go unnoticed. The pair were assigned to a unit of Swiftclaw bikers, where they played a key roll in several battles against the Tau. One particular battle had Greybeard and Erikson separated from the rest of their pack and forced to fight alone against the Tau allies known as Vespid. Vespid weapons are something to beware, young brothers, as they will make easy work of your armor. The two Wolves proved themselves that day and were soon named Grey Hunters.

Though they would never admit it, Greybeard and Erikson were the closest of friends. They both sought the path of the Wolf Scout. Their pack was given a mission to find and sabotage Ork encampments during a campaign that took our Company to the Jericho Reach.

The pack's efforts were critical to clearing the Orks off of several worlds. Erikson came up with a plan that would confuse the Orks and leave any schemes their Nobs and Warboss had in shambles. Greybeard would take up a position near the Ork camp with half of their pack, while Erikson would take higher ground with the other half with sniper rifles. This plan was very successful. It failed only once, but this failure would change Greybeard's fate completely.

Before the mission began, Skaasgald came to Greybeard an offered the wolf pelt he had taken as a prize from a mammoth Thunderwolf he hunted on Fenris.

“We have word that this is the Warboss's camp, brother.” Erikson's explanation was more to give his reasoning than to give him the mission. Greybeard ran his hand through his thick hair and stroked his mighty beard in thought, a habit he held from before his ascension, despite the many years since.

“I know you have your superstitions Skaasgald,” Greybeard felt uneasy about taking the trophy as he always felt envious of Erikson's skills as a hunter, “but this is your prize. It is not my place to take it.”

“I fully expect it back, Sven.” Erikson refused to take it back, turning to prepare for their mission. He expected Greybeard to return the pelt, but not until they had slain the Ork Warboss they hunted. Despite his reservations, Greybeard wore the pelt on his shoulder with pride.

Greybeard crept through the woods with his brothers, approaching the Ork encampment. He silently asked the Allfather for protection this night. He motioned for his brothers to advance. There was something off about the forest they stalked through. Though the Orks in the distance could be heard making their pre-battle celebrations, which, as nothing Orks did excluded it, involved fighting to the death, there seemed to be fewer of them than what would be expected of the Warboss.

The five Wolves came to the camp, a ramshackle mess of metal barricades with only a few shelters that looked to be ready to collapse at a moments notice. Straight ahead, there was a circle of Orks cheering and laughing as they watched two other Orks fight. Their cheers were almost deafening when one Ork crushed the other's skull wth his power klaw and roared a challenge to the next comer.

“What drives them to fight like this?” One scout asked Greybeard, who shot him a glance to silence him. One wrong move and the entire operation would be a failure. If one stray Grot heard that question, it was over. The plan was that Greybeard's team would find the Ork Warboss, then signal Erikson's team, who would snipe the Warboss, signalling Greybeard's team to attack and wipe out the remaining Orks. There were so many Ork encampments that this wouldn't prevent a battle the next day, but it would easily turn that battle in the Space Wolves' favor.

Everything was going as planned, Greybeard identified key targets. He knew it was a good idea to sabotage the Ork warbikes on the far end of the camp. To his right, he saw what the Orks used as medical supplies. Past the Orks' fighting circle, he identified an Ork that was a few times larger than the others. He presumed that this was the Warboss and pinged the vox channel to Erikson twice, the signal to move in. Within moments, the Warboss's head exploded into a shower of red. Some of the Orks found this hilarious, the others immediately turned to run toward the direction the snipers were firing from. This is when Greybeard's team moved in.

With a gutteral roar, the five Space Wolves charged into the camp, one taking Greybeard's signal to destroy the Ork supplies, another made a break to destroy the Ork warbikes, but was tragically slain as he dropped a melta bomb at the bikes. From the distance, Erikson's team picked off Ork after Ork, while Greybeard expended several magazines worth of bolter rounds into a Nob charging for him.

When the Nob failed to go down from the Bolt Pistol, Greybeard braced himself and jammed his combat knife into the Nob's heart, which slowed him down enough to be executed by one last well placed bolt between his eyes.

Suddenly, Erikson's voice rose over the vox, “Where did those come from? Damn! We're being overrun!”

Greybeard felt the need to rush to his brother's aid. He barked orders to rush towards the snipers. They went as fast as they could, though the Orks were not going to let them go without a fight. Brother Svaneson fell during their rush to save Erikson's team.

When the remaining four Wolves arrived, they found Erikson alone, armed with only a Bolt Pistol fighting off far more Orks than were in the camp. He was injured and barely fighting off their attacks. It was then that Greybeard saw the biggest Ork he had ever seen. They had been tricked.

The Warboss laughed as he watched his Boyz rush at Erikson, who soon ran out of ammunition for his pistol. Greybeard's team rushed into the mob, cutting and shooting their way to their brother. Brothers Ivaldson and Furyfist were lost in this rush.

Greybeard took Furyfist's combat knife and tossed it to Erikson. The brothers stood back to back, slaying Ork after Ork after Ork. The green tide seemed endless until the Warboss stepped in.

“The name's 'Ardfist, 'umies,” the Warboss laughed. In a twisted way, the Warboss was having the time of his life fighting the two Wolf Scouts. It had been a rare day when humans entertained him this much. “WAAAAGH!!!!”

At the war cry, 'Ardfist ran straight toward the Wolves. Greybeard opened fire with his bolt pistol, while Erikson took a quick shot with his sniper rifle. The collossal Ork shurgged off every shot. They braced themselves, but were knocked back by 'Ardfist swinging his mighty choppa. Erikson was the first back to his feet and he noticed the Warboss aiming his shoota at Greybeard. As Greybeard rose, 'Ardfist opened fire.

Greybeard's Saga was destined to end this night, but fate had taken a different path. The Ork laughed maniacally as his weapon screamed in agony. Greybeard braced for the inevitable, bracing his armor against the Ork's shooting. But his end was not to be. Skaasgald Erikson decided that Sven Greybeard was the only to survive this night. He threw himself into the line of fire and, while his armor took the brunt of most of the fire, he charged at 'Ardfist, but quickly succumbed to his injuries, leaving his combat knife in the Ork's chest.

Enraged, Greybeard resolved himself and marched at 'Ardfist. He cut and shot down any Orks that got in his way. He likely killed over two hundred Orks that night. All that stood between him and revenge for his brother was Warboss 'Ardfist. He charged at the Warboss.

'Ardfist countered by opening fire with his shoota, but Greybeard was able to avoid every shot. When he got to the Ork, he stabbed his knife into the Ork's arm, making him drop his gun. He took a blow from the choppa, but brushed it off as he pulled Erikson's knife from the Warboss's chest and nearly cut the Ork's arm clean off at the elbow. 'Ardfist reeled back in pain, but this did not stop him for long.

He knocked Greybeard back with one more swing from his choppa. As he lay on the ground, Greybeard struggled to stay conscious. He rose a shaking bolt pistol and fired one last shot straight into the massive Ork's eye, just as he lost consciousness.

When Greybeard came to, he heard the voices of several other Marines.

“He is stable, Watch Captain” spoke a black clad apothecary.

“Good to hear, Brother Lucas,” laughed a seemingly jovial Marine who carried a very large blade. Greybeard recognized the blade as a Sacris Claymore, the signature weapon of the Storm Wardens. It was strange, however, last he worked with the Storm Wardens, they wore blue armor, not black. “Still, what is the damage?”

“Of course,” the first marine said. “His primary heart is damaged, but not beyond repair and he will need a replacement lung, but otherwise he is surprisingly intact.”

“Damned Wolves always get themselves into trouble like this.” Greybeard got a vague glimpse of the third Marine's right shoulder, which appeared to hold the iconography of the Dark Angels. He understood that these Marines were with the Deathwatch. He had heard whispers of their operations in the Jericho Reach, but did not expect to encounter them, let alone end up being treated by one of their apothecaries.

“Where are the Orks?” Greybeard spoke solemnly from clenched teeth. His pack was slain. No one needed to tell him that. All he wanted now was to hunt down the Greenskins' Warboss and end him. He tried to sit up, but had surprising difficulty with it.

“Easy, Space Marine.” The Storm Warden eased Greybeard into a sitting position, partly holding him down to keep him from trying to get off the Thunderhawk to foolishly try to track down the Warboss. “We took care of the remains of that encampment. Your unit did quite the number on them before we arrived. They did the Emperor proud. Do you know where you are?”

Greybeard found it difficult to calm himself. He should have died with his pack. That he did not was a great dishonor.

“Answer me, Marine,” The Storm Warden demanded.

“You are with the Deathwatch?” Greybeard responded meekly. He had always hoped for a chance to join the Deathwatch. He had heard the sagas of many of the Space Wolves greatest heroes who had served with these Xenos hunters. The challenges and enemies they face regularly are greater than those that even the most experienced Wolves would rarely face. However, he did not expect this to be how he met them.

“Well, we know his eyes function,” smirked the apothecary, who's shoulder revealed him to be a Blood Angel. There was one more Marine, an Ultramarine, who stayed quiet, though it was quite obvious that he was upset with the Wolf. Perhaps it was our disregard for his precious Codex Astartes?

“Well, you appear to be able to comprehend what's going on,” the Storm Warden mused. “And since I've served with enough Wolves to know what you're thinking, allow me. I am Watch Captain Tavis, welcome to the Deathwatch.” It was then that Greybeard knew that this was the only way to redeem himself after failing his pack.

Standing in the hanger of the Orbital Defense Platform above Ultramar, Pontius was a tall man and a lean build for a Space Marine. His Caesar cut of dark brown hair barely covered his pair of service studs above his left brow. He was rather young by Astartes standards and had risen through the ranks quickly, a hopeful for leadership. Before him was the Black Thunderhawk of the Ordo Xenos, his entire company standing in ceremonial robe and regiment, and Captain Uriel Ventris, all saluting him. He could not help but feel guilty in the grand moment. This was an honor he did not deserve. He lost his arm, his leg, and his entire squad defending Tarsis Ultra, too grave a cost for this great of a reward. The vivid memories of his slain battle-brothers still haunt him, so too does culprit, the same warrior beast that maimed him and left him for dead. It is by the grace of the Emperor alone that he lives to return to service. Shaking doubt from his mind he gives himself a moment of satisfaction. For he is Pontius Nius Scipio, Ultramarine of the 4th company, proud Defender of Ultramar and soon to be Deathwatch. With this pride and the resolve of avenging the lost he starts down the steps. His first steps into a new life. There was much praise and a grand seeing off, as is custom with the Ultramarines. But it quickly faded from memory as Pontius stepped aboard the Thunderhawk. His mind focused on what was to come...

Roaring Green hellfires and Hellish Warpspawn crawling up from the blasphemous summoning circles his former Librarian comrades drew of the once pure soil. Mouths with uncountable teeth stretcthed impossibly wide as they eagerly locked eyes with whatever loyalist prey they could find.
Inhuman screams coupled with the endless stream of munitions being launched from both sides. It was truly amazing on its own that the loyalists even knew who to shoot with many of the heretics still wearing Blood Raven colours and hereldry on their armour. He remembered Standing At the Angel Gate of the Great forge world Meredian. His Bright blue armour clearly marked him as the leader amongst the squad of crimson and bone white warriors sorrounding him. The large force staff in his hand, topped with a golden Aquila and the shaft carved from the rarest fo woods inspired and filled the loyal hearts of Astartes and Guardsman alike with righteous fervor and purpose.

He was ordered by what remained of the highly confused Chapter command not to let anything, NOTHING, past them into the hive city proper. For if that were to happen the entire populace would have to he purged by exterminatus and all their efforts to save these billions of lives would be for naught. So with a full squad of men and a company of the bravest guardsman he will ever have the honour of knowing. The Blood Raven's stood firm and silent, there was nothing to be said to inspire these men more than loyal citizens being cut down. Nothing to stir their hearts more than the sting of betrayal by once close friends.

In Stoic silence They faced down wave after wave of Heretics, Common man cultists crazed to the point of sheer stupidity and mindlessness by the corrupting powers of the arch-enemy. Mercilessly they were cut down by the droves, mowed and sawn in half by the roaring fire of the Imperial guard auto-cannons and Astarte's bolter fire. But event this was just a prelude to the attempts of their traitor brotheren. Any feelings of comraderie or hesitation to shoot those who only days ago had been their closest freinds was evaporated by the sights deeds they had done in the name of chaos. They were butchered and left to rot on the ground like the filthy cultists they used as fodder.

But Even as the traitors fell their deamon masters remained. By the Emperor's grace or sheer iron will that Even he as a space marine could be envious of those few guardsman that survived the onslaught of the Chaos marines stayed sane in the face of these unrelenting horrors long enough to be cut down by Scything talons and claws that could rend a Land raider's plating. Lazaros fought in more campaign than he cared to count, and never has his mental abilities been pushed so far to their limits. He was trying to hold as much of his powers in reserve but as bolters ran dry from their last clips and his brothers were reduced to knives as the warp flesh continued to surge around them Lazaros had no choice. Soon the very air came alive with Electricity and fire. Great wreaths of flame sorrounding his fists as he seemingly ignored the force staff in his hands and simply lashed out, each blow setting another deamon ablaze and then Screeches designed to demoralize and instill fear turned into screams of pain and fear. When he did finally Use his Staff it was to Cave in the skull of a bloodletter that saw only a hated sorcerer and not a potent enemy. It's body cackled and burst with Subsquent bolts fo lightning arching out and cooking those deamons in the imediate vicinity.

It wasn't until he felt a creeping presence in his mind that he jerked upright and all but ignored battle his brothers were raging against the deamons. “Sorcerer” He growled with hatred, it was a recognized presence as well. “Brother Ezekiel.” He growled again. But there was an undertone to this, almost mournful and saddenned by the truth. The deamons seemed to ignore him and turn and focus on his remaining brothers. And there indeed was his old and trusted friend. They were recruited together, they were scouts together and they even had the fortune to both join the librarium. “There will be no taking sense into you my brother?” He locked eyes with the former Librarian and removed his helmet and let it fall from his grasp into the ankle deep puddle of gore and blood. The helmet seemed to float it was so thick and was carried away several inches. “No one is beyond Redemption.” he tried vainly to appeal to Ezekial. He knew long speeches and Grandios words would not work on him. If there was one thing Ezekial was it was stubborn. So he kept his appeal short and simple. But he didn't have high hopes. Sure enough his appeal was met only by laughter. But this wasn't the usual deep and booming chuckle of his old friend. A sound filled with friendship and heartiness. This was hollow and shrill. His eyes were different as well, Gone was the piercing gaze and shrewd intelligence. “Ezekial has given himself over to the Chaos gods little one.” He grinned evily as if amused by the small stature of Lazaros.
“He has embraced chaos fully and is subject to the greatest of our honours.” He flashed a wide grin to show teeth that have somehow sharpened themselves to wicked points. Even as he spoke the very flesh of his face seemed to bulge and writhe as of a thousand tiny worms were digging their way beneath his skin. Of all the fate's to befall a psyker. He could imagine none worse than possession. To lose control of one's self completely, Even in a chaos deluded state he knew Ezekial would not have wanted this fate for himself. He was a man who liked to be in control of his own mind and skills.

The deamons words made Lazaros's heart fall even further into his chest, and they also brought a fiant mental smirk to his lips. Already this deamon was underestimating him. An act of overconfidence that would be his folly.

Lazaros simply sank to the ground and kneeled with his planted in the ground and both hands grasping it in a white knuckle grip. It was the tpye of kneel one would make to a lord or master, or the type of kneel a librarian used when focusing his powers. All around him his brothers shouted in concern and some in outrage as what they perceived as submitting to the enemy. They were being overwhelmed as it was, Even if Lazaros didn't sumbit to chaos he knew it would only be a matter of time before his position was completely overwhelmed and the Arch-enemy would be free to pray upon the hive cities innocents. So he did the only thing he could think of to spare the lives of billions. His brothers could think of him as they will for they would probably not survive the coming moments any more than he himself would.

The deamon host laughed in its apparant victory as yet another psyker so meekly seemed to give in to despair. He strode forward and the deamon throng parted to admit him. He was a handful of steps away from claiming yet another soul when he felt a tightness in his limbs. The deamons and heretics around him seemed to slow as well, some started grasping their heads as blood leaked from their eyes and ears. The pain was clearly written on their faces but it was to overwhelming to express into a scream. From around brother Lazaros Lighting bolts arched out from his staff, striking randomly at whatever chaos ifnused host was near. Killing and setting everything it touched ablaze. Both Hate and heat seemed to radiate from the Librarian. Sheer unbridled Fury and rage at the situation sorrounding him. At this friends corruption, at his chapters ruination. With a full throated growl he Rose to his feet. Despite him being a good deal shorter than Ezekial he seemed to purely and utterly dominate that area in sheer force of presence and will. His growling seemed to echo impossibly loud. At a volume and vibrating frequency no normal voice, even the most trained Chaplain should have been able to reproduce. He lifted his force staff and held it with both hands at the base as if it was some primitive club. The Roar finally ended and Once more Lazaros locked eyes with Ezekial's body and whatever was controlling him. He knew that somewhere he still had to be alive for the possession to work. His eyes seemed slightly reddened and not just with bloodshot exhaustion. Moisture was threatening to leak from th corners of his eyes and in another minute he may just have committed an act he had not done in over a hundred and fifty years. With a voice filled with genuine sorrow “I'm sorry brother.” and he slammed the head of the staff down onto the gore stained ground between them with all his mental and physical strength.

***********************************************

The Sorcerer screamed and raged against his confines. He was one of the few remaining turned Librarians. Once their brother he was now an experiment for the remaining true librarians needs. Again and again he was mentally probed, tortured, physically burned and scarred. His eyes had long since been branded from his skull and his powers were kept nullified by use of a special collar that dampened psykic powers. He was one of many such captives that were brought before the Librarium to be questioned. Those the surviving codicers were finished with were handed off to one of three surviving chaplains to be 'redeemed' of their corruption before executed. Most minds had devolved completely. Offering no useful information beyond useless gabbering in some foul heretic tongue that stung the ears. One turned and somehow captured Epilistory however managed to give some interesting information. He claimed to have been told this by the traitor Azariah Kyras himself. And that the Eveidence to support it was clearly and happily offered by the forces of chaos. It was a shocking truth, Just a small tibit that could potentially lead to an even greater understanding of their once glorious's chapters history. Just probable and beleivable enough not to be dismissed as the mad ramblings of a heretic.

The newly appointed master of sanctity. Was the only non librarian that was allowed to view these interrogations. Even he was skeptic and shocked by what he had heard. As each interrogation continued for hours and hours. All of the surviving Librarians and the Chaplain looked to eachother, each new that this must be studied further before made public to the rest of the chapter. And the Inquisition would definalty not be told about this. They were under close enough scrutiny as it was without them screamed to the high lords for a chapter wide extermination. It took every ounce of diplomacy they had to prevent that already and still they were unsure of what this Inquisitor would do once she left the subsector.

Without ceremony or 'Redemption' The traitor psyker had a bolter round put through the back fo his head and his body was completely and utterly incinerated before the ashes themselves were scattered into space. All assembled agreed not to mention this to anyone Save their new chapter master. If this was true. It would bring new light and sense to the Artifacts and secrets found on Kronus years before.

***********************************

He sighed heavily as he looked out from the window of the Litany of Fury some hours later. one of the last remaining battle barges the chapter had at its disposal. The destruction he saw on the planet below was visible even from this high orbit. The once great forge world was decimated in the recent chaos and tyranid incursions. He also felt a sense of pride as he new that many of his remaining brothers were on this planets surface and several others both mopping up pockets of enemy resistance and helping the Citizens of the Sector rebuild. The blood Ravens at least were wise enough to realize that they were nothing without their home worlds. And Their only purpose was to better the lives of the Imperium's citizens. However that may be. Some brothers from other Astarte's chapters he had met had hearts so iron clad they could only see war and death. Willing to let a thousand citizens die if it meant they alone could claim glory at killing some arch heretic. Conveiniently forgetting that without the regular citizens their would be no purpose to a space marine's exsistance. Lazaros breathed deeply again. Maybe it was his training as a Librarian that taught him to think in a broader sense than his more mundane compatriots. Or or the Blood Raven's geneseed as a whole, But he still liked to think that despite becoming an Astarte's or maybe because of it, He still had a soul.

He finally tore his gaze away from the window. He was dissapointed that he was not alongside his remaining and loyal brothers, purging the Heretical filth that once masked themselve's as true Blood Ravens. The simple thought of that betrayal filled his mouth with ash and put a terrifying scowl across his face. As if realizing where his thoughts were leading him he took a second to calm himself and breath. He let the memories invade his thoughts for a brief second. He had no idea what transpired near the end of the fighting at Angel gate. when the apothocaries and came upon the scene. He was told that there was nothing living in a hundred metre radius around his limp body. The gore was as practically thick and deep as a swamp marsh, There was no trace of deamons, their bodies simply evaporated and banished by the psykic blast. Those two Battle brothers who survived the fighting along with the corpses of their fellows had their armour singed and marred with a blackish char. They to were knocked unconcious by the blast. As for Ezekial their was no official way to identify his body save the now empty armour that was mearly acting as a hollow shell now that its former occupant was turned to complete ash. He was at least thankful that he completed his mission and nothing living, not heretic or deamon managed to push their way past him and his squad. His memory ended when he caught sight of his once former brother, then everything was infuriatingly blank in his memory.

He pushed those thoughts aside for now and focused on his future. He was at least clad in his personal armour. A suit of honoured MkV heresy pattern. Easily repairable, simple in construction and reliability. Maybe it was a hair weaker than the MkVI or VII. But it was also the only suit of armour that was made small enough by some miracle to fit someone of his stature. Besides, after over a hundred it became a part of him as much as any appendage. He was comfortable in wearing it and the way it moved. He was however without his customary force staff and Bolt pistol. His force staff was reportadly ruined and found as charred his armour, still smoking and hot to the touch. The once proud aquila that spread its glorious wings atop this masterful creation was nothing more than a puddle of molten slag nearly obscured and unnoticed beneath the blood. Not that he would have been able to take it along with him anyway. Deathwatch apparantly has it's own armouries and preffered weapons for its members to use.
From what he had read in the chapters records and first person accounts deathwatch service was going to be..... interesting. He was tempted to refuse this offer outright but he could see the wisdom in this. After nearly ten years of constant purgagtion of orc and tyranid footholds and planet falls. His chapter had seen more action in ten years than in the past fiftey. There was not a man among their number who could not call himself a veteran of ork or Tyranid warefare now. And at least have passing knowledge of appropriate tactics to use against these hated foes. Such experience could be invaluable to deathwatch and by extension the Imperium.

But it would also do well to make a public face for the chapter. Word of this crusade and his chapter masters betrayal would leak for beyond their sector soon enough. Many already criticized the Blood Raven's fo their near Company sized Librarium. Saying it was ripe for corruption and mutation. In the end of course it was partly the remaining librarians that held the command structure of the company together. And who were the most effective fighters against the mass warpspawn and cultist swarms. But it would do the chapter good for the rest of the Imperium to see a strong and uncorrupted Psyker belonging to the chapter. One that would do serious good for the Imperium. To at least soften the blow when the Aurelian crusade inevitably became common knowledge and his chapter was openly criticized, yet again. The surprising part was this was the idea of the Inquisitor herself. A chance to prove their strength and worth despite their horrific loses and betrayal. It seemed that maybe she finally saw some sense in the continuation and survival of another Space marine chapter in the Imperium. Especially with the 13th crusade making its first forray's out of the eye of terror. If nothing else maybe she just thought that the Imperium could use every possible advantage it could get its hands on. She was probably right.

So as much as he wanted to stay with his brothers and rebuild. They must not appear so weakened by this that they cannot even spare one marine to fuffill their ancient Oaths of service. He he started the long walk through the battle damaged halls to the Thunderhawk bay. He also new why he was being chosen for this. Out of all the surviving librarians he was the youngest and the least skilled. This was not a point of shame for him. Deathwatch candidates rarely lived long enough to return home. And if such a blow is to be dealt to the chapter they may as well try to minimize the damage. He could respect his chapter's decision in this regard.

When they say an Astartes is immune to fear. That he cannot feel those long cold fingers of dread grip his mind and and he his able to break away that icy grip and focus on nothing but his end goal. They are only partially right. As Brother Lazaros recently discovered a space marine only learns to suppress his own fears. Those debilitating thoughts that are directed towards himself. Brother Lazaros feared several things, He feared for the future of his chapter. For the Aurelian Crusade now won took its devestating toll on the chapter and their home. It would take centuries for the Blood Raven's to regain the strength of arms and numbers they once had and the Aurelian sector to rise to the same prosperity it once new. He also feared for the common humans, the nameless citizens that most space marines simply ignored as beneath their contempt and notice. For their livlihoods and now uncertain futures. He feared for the Poverty and desease that will run rampant in years to come while the new Govenor tries to instill order across the sub-sector. Relief forces, a near constant Imperial Guard presence until the decimated PDF forces can be rebuilt. And of course their would be lingering ork and Tyranid forces to put down. Miles and miles of land to purge of taint. And heretics by the score to put to the sword.

His thoughts were re-directed as he stepped into the bay and aside from the Pitch black Gunship he was warned would be waiting for him. There was also the remnants of the Librarium gathered to see him off. He was touched by their display. Usually the corresponding company gathered to see their battle brother off to Deathwatch service. Considering the remnants of the chapter was barely able to call itself a company and were much to busy bringing order to the sector. These men were his closest colleagues and might as well be considered his company. No words were said aloud between them. All of their goodbyes were shared through telepathy, he felt their sadness at the almost certain possibility of losing yet another Blood Raven, never to be seen again. And they felt his sorrow at having to leave them behind for the sake of publicity.

As he was finishing embracing the last of his brothers, his inhibitions about such acts dissapeared. If he might never see them again in this life. He may as well make the most of it. Besides They have shared to much blood and sweat in the last decade. Each surviving member of the chapter was a brother in nearly every sense now. They had all fought and earned respect for their actions. “By the Emperor's grace our most important artifacts seem to have survived on board the flagship.” these were the first and only physically spoken words of the meeting. They were spoken by the new Defacto Chief Librarian. The only Elpository to survive and stay loyal. He held a parchment wrapped bundle in his hands and gently opened the Parchment to Reveal the “Hate of Xeno's” The revered Plasma pistol that was by tradition handed to each Blood Raven as they left for a tour in the Deathwatch. It was both an honour to receive and a kind of uplifting promise that was being made. After all he had to survive his service in order to return this pistol in person and hand it to the next Battle Brother personally. He gingerly reached out and wrapped his large hand around the hallowed weapon's grip. The parchment was a protective scroll from the Librarium's archives and this was gingerly rolled by one of the Codicers and secured against his right greave. A momento for him to document his discoveries and any knowledge his oaths of service would allow him to bring back to the chapter to add to their already considerable bank.

The pistol itself was an old and heavy piece. Dating back centuries to the first Blood Raven to ever take up the oath of service. It was responsible for the death of scores of eldar and probably untold hundreds of tyranids and orks over the last thousand years. One could feel the strength and the wisdom of its venerable spirit, even with all his mental abilities and psykic power, a power that had the potential to eclipse all machines, The strongest of his kind could rip battleships from the very sky and shred predator tanks in half with a flick of the wrist. And he was still in awe of some of the ancient weapons of the Blood Raven's arsenal. "Strike a blow to our enemies" the chief Librarian said and reached out a hand to place on Lazaros's shoulder. "And Show the Galaxy we are not so crippled they may assume." He bowed low before the assembled group. There was nothing more he could think of to express his gratitude that they would take their time to see him off even when there was so much to do and the entire chapter was running ragad and dangerously low on sleep and food, even for space marines. In return the Librarians said nothing themselves. There was no more to say. Lazaros simply turned on his heels and didn't look back as he strode up the ramp into the black gunship.

***********************************

The Ride was uneventful and silent. The few black clad marine's on board the gunship who were escorting him said nothing in the way of greetings or salutations. And in return none was offered by Lazaros. He was content to stay in the gunship and let himself meditate on prayers or simply as a focus for his mind's eye.

He stayed in silent meditation for the entire journey and only opened his eyes when he felt the slight jarring of the Thunderhawk landing and the metallic “Thump” of the metal Struts landing on a metal Floor. Sure enough the ramp hissed and DE-pressurized before lowering slowly to reveal the inside of yet another Battle-barge Like many in the Space marine's service across the Imperium. He rose and followed his silent escort down the ramp to the ship proper. He got know more than a half dozen paces before he saw a small command cadre judging by the apparel of the two Astarte's at its head and the impressive Psykic power he felt from the Librarian behind them. He turned to face them, offering his own hand in light-hearted greeting when he felt his once silent escorts grab his arms, Both commanders and the two marines escorting them drew their firearms and hand them pointed at his chest and gut.

“Fear not Brother, I am Librarian Archilochus Son of the Novamarine's.” The feel of telepathic communication was familiar. And it was delivered smoothly. Whoever this librarian was he was skilled in the arts, there was no discomfort or pain on the receiving end. “This is simple policy. We cannot allow anyone to continue into our halls and our service without first searing by their Life, honour and the honour of their chapter for complete and utter silence on what transpires during your service here. There are secrets you will see that must never be discussed or alluded to, Outside the hull of this vessel.” he let that message sink in for a few seconds as Lazaros ceased his struggling briefly. What this Archilochus said made some sense. And he knew from records of previous brothers to fulfil their oaths that a vow a silence was customary. “I ask you to swear by the Emperor and your... Chapter” he was going to say primarch but them remembered who he was talking to. “Do you accept this vow?” Lazaros focused of this man. Like him himself this librarian was wearing a helmet so it was impossible to see the expressions in his eyes. But from the feel and emotion of his mental voice he believed him to be truthful. He decided to take a chance and trust in his fellow Astarte's. No matter what chapter they belonged to.

“I do swear by Emperor and Chapter to Uphold and maintain my silence upon matters pertaining to my missions and activities relating to the safety of the Imperium and Deathwatch.” He returned the mental message with a calm air as if he was not being restrained and held at gunpoint.

The Novamarine seemed to study him in turn but eventually seemed to nod to the Commanders who were patiently awaiting word on the outcome of the mental debate. Weapons lowered a fraction of an inch and Lazaros thought this pointless display of lethality over when he heard a second sentence. It was spoken in a tone that was oddly familiar but he could not explain why. The words only said. “I'm sorry brother” With genuine honesty. He heard a pair of heavy boots approach and the hum of a Narcethium being powered up. He could only assume he was continuing to be held hostage because he would not approve of what would be coming next. If he answered the oath in some unsatisfactory way they did not bother to tell him or give him a chance to amend his words.

“Treachery!” he roared back mentally and seemed to throw off the two men holding him as he gave a burst of mental power that briefly caught the Novamarine unawares and sent his 'escorts' and the apothecary flying to the ground a couple feet away. He even managed a single thundering step forward that echoed throughout the entire loading bay before he was overwhelmed mentally once again and unable to do anything more than breath and let his heart continue to pump. His chest heaved with the mental battle being waged. “You would lie to me brother?” he let his own feelings of betrayal fill the mind of Archilochus. He spoke as if he understood the thoughts filling Lazaros's mind. “i have not betrayed you brother. What must happen to you has already happened to me and every librarian that has come before you. And in time you may even be called upon to oversee this act on a fellow brother as I must do now. If you are loyal and stay loyal through your service there is nothing to fear any it will even be removed. But we cannot risk your or my corruption on the field. This must happen to keep those afraid of us appeased.” again Lazaros could sense to deception or falsehood in his tone. It was hard to hide ones feelings from a fellow psyker. There was a bond of shared pain and understanding that went beyond what a normal battle brother must endure.

if anyone else was aware of this telepathic back and forth they did not show it. The apothecary simply picked himself up from the ground and expunged a syringe from his wrist mounted medical array. This needle was quickly injected into the neck of Lazaros before a larger psykic blast could be released. Two marines were quick to jump forward and catch the unconscious body. The commanders barked out their orders and he was carried to the ships Apothecary bay to undergo surgery.

Nearly a full day later he was meditating in a small cell. By all means such a small and spartan space was not unknown to a space marine. Private quarters, for those of high enough rank to warrant them were little more than this in his chapter. A flat and hard bed, room enough to kneel though it was lacking the usual shelf for a private altar or to display some personal relic or accolade that one liked to keep close.

Ever since he awoke in this quite and he could well imagine out of the way location he focused on meditation to calm himself and any feelings of anger or resentment he had. They would do nothing to benefit his cause and only destabilize him in combat if he allowed them to continue. For the first time in his life he was without the comfort of his psykic abilities. They were being suppressed by some form of implant. Usually suppressive collars were used. Actual implants able to perform this action were rare but he supposed that if anyone had access to them. It was the inquisition. The only reason he knew it was there at all from from the splitting pain at the base of his skull, that and the unsubtle commands it was relaying into his mind. He could imagine it was also designed to kill him if he became to unruly.

While this was certainly insulting to his pride and honour as an Astarte's. He supposed he couldn't really be to surprised. The inquisition had a pathological fear of anything and everything psychic. What worried him more than the sudden empty feeling of his mind. Was that even his beloved armour and the relic pistol of his chapter. was removed from his person. That made him feel truly exposed but like all blood Raven librarians, he was a commander of men just as much as a psyker. Which meant he was long accustomed to keeping his face stoic and calm despite the happenings around him. For now the implant seemed to be only telling him to sit tight and pray. By his best guess he was already doing that for nearly a whole standard day but he might as well make best use of this time. He combined prayer with meditation. Asking the Emperor for the wisdom and knowledge to help him decipher the secrets of his chapter, of the disturbing truths made aware to the remaining librarium members only short days before. He also prayed for the strength and endurance to overcome the challenged he would face during his service in the deathwatch. And the ability to unravel the secrets he would undoubtedly expose. He could only assume that was the purpose of assigning psykers to an order such as this. To unravel that which would only confuse a more mundane brother. There were some secrets that would forever remain invisible to those without a minds eye.

If he could find one good piece of information to take away from this experience it is that they seem to have clad him in a dark grey jump suit, similar to the one worn by initiate's and astarte's when they weren't wearing their armour during prayer or cleansing their wargear. So at least he wasn't naked. That was something he could be thankful for at the very least.

FIRST OATHS #1
Through your deeds you have gained countless honors and distinctions; your commanding officers have found you worthy, you have been selected. Though you all walked separate paths to your destination, the Emperor’s divine providence has brought you here…stepping off a Thunderhawk into the hanger-bay of an unknown ship.

The pilot’s voice abrasively cuts in over the ships speakers “This is where you get off Brother. May the Emperor protect you.”

As you exit the craft, the doors slam shut and the Machine-Spirit of the engines begin the familiar sounds of idle rest, waiting for the proper authorizations to depart.
At the far end of the hanger a solitary blast-door opens. Five Adeptus Astartes, clad in holy power armour, crisply march into the room. They move in a protective tactical formation; 2 in lead, 1 in middle, 2 protecting the flank. Though they are all armed, they are not aggressive towards your arrival.
The armour and helms are the color of the darkest depths and blackest nights, save for the left arm and pauldron. The left arm shone brightly of polished silver, leading up to the shoulder-pad, which boasted the familiar effigy of the Inqusitorial “I. This “I” was different to ones you have seen before. This “I” was mounted with a death’s head and crossbones. Around the icon you can faintly see passages from various devotional texts. As they approach, your genetically enhance sight is able to pick out one of the engravings…the Catechism of Xenos. By instinct, your mind recalls the holy scripture…
To be Unclean
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Impure
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Abhorred
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Reviled
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Hunted
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Purged
That is the fate of the Xenos
To be Cleansed
For that is the fate of all Xenos

The Marines halfway across the hanger they stop midmarch. After a moments pause the lead Marines to your right steps forward, he raises his right arm in greeting and waves you forward. You see his right pauldron painted a field of white, a bold blue shield at its center stamped with a white bolt of lightning. A proud symbol of his Chapter, the Storm Wardens. His chest-plate is adorn with Purity Seals, trophies of past victories and ranks of office awarded; a Captain of the Watch. Over his shoulder peaks the intricately engraved hilt and pommel of a greatsword, his left hand rests casually on a Storm Bolter maglocked to his hip.

As you move within footsteps, the Marine on your left, also a Watch Captain, takes a step forward . A ancient but deadly looking lightning claw soft clinks against the bolt pistol at his belt. He signals, both hands firmly gripping his Boltgun, to stop. As he steps to the side to allow passage for the middle Marine, you clearly see the unmistakable black-on-white shark icon of the Carcharodons.

A strong, clear voice with a soft High Gothic accent is slightly distorted through power armor speakers…
“I am Librarian Archilochus of the Novamarines…”
“This oath you take today, will forevermore affect your destiny. Secrecy is law. Those who dare break this oath will be hunted down and suffer the penalty of death. No excuses, no exceptions. All who came before you understood this and each of your Chapters swore to uphold them when they signed the Old-Accord. You will find no friend amidst Brothers, no aid amongst kin, aiding renegades is a crime and its punishment equally decisive. Do not dishonor those who have sent you. Do not dishonor the memory of those who came before. Do you swear now, this First Oath of Silence?”
((#1))

After the Oath is sworn, Librarian Archilochus continues…
“Any Battle-Brother serving in the Deathwatch is by definition amongst the most experienced of xenos-fighters in the entire galaxy, yet he cannot possibly be as well-schooled in the matter as a veteran Watch Captain or Commander. You may have experienced combat against a hundred different alien races, but there are many thousands more you have not. The Watch takes it upon itself to pass on every shred of knowledge possible to its warriors.
First, the newly recruited Brothers will be subjected to a grueling regime of hypno-indoctrination and invasive medical exams.
During which your implants are thoroughly checked, your physical conditioning pushed to its limits and subconscious mind filled to overflowing with the details of every known intelligent race, and many classed as mindless, yet highly dangerous animals. This process merely lays the groundwork for further schooling and study, which unlocks the full potential of a Space Marine’s superior mental capacity.”

“From here, Battle-Brothers Octavius and Gregor will escort you to the Apothecarum. There Apothecary Haeron will begin the next step in reforging you into a weapon of the Watch. We will not cross paths for some time. I pray we shall meet again, the next time as Brothers in the Watch!”

The Librarian gives you a warriors salute with his Force Staff and makes a sweeping pointing gesture towards the now open blast-doors. Battle-Brother Octavius of the Ultramarines takes the lead with the confidence that confirms his heritage.
As you move to follow, Brother Gregor smoothly falls in behind. Chains softly clink against the black ceremite armor and gently rattles around his wrists, where they connect his blessed chainsword and sanctified bolt pistol to his wrists. His iconography confirms his identity as one of the zealous warriors of the Black Templars. A look back reveals the Watch Captains and Librarian observing your departure unfold, impassive as statues.
((#2))

After a short trip through a wildly twisting series of corridors carved into the earth and surrounding rockface, you arrive at the Apothecarum. The door slides open with a sharp mechanical scrape. Your escorts moved to either side of the doorway, facing outward into the dimly lit hallway.

A voice, deepened and hollowed by age beacons from within...
“Enter Brother! I’m not getting any younger and I’d prefer to die with a sword in my hand, not waiting around for some green-gilled Initiate to play will he/won’t he!”
The man responsible for the voice was an ancient looking Marine. The majority of his skull, left eye and cheekbone were all replaced with cybernetics. The little flesh remaining on his face was darkly tan and leathery, faint scars of various size peppering his skin. His remain organic eye was milky white and dead, a jagged scar bisecting his face. In contrast, a neatly manicured goatee, stark white, frames his thin lips that firmly clutch the handle of a scalpel, as some lesser man do with a toothpick. His armor is painted in Watch black, dried viscera faints speckles the contrasting silver of his arm. His right pauldron is weathered and well-worn with age, the chips on the edges, proud reminders of battles long past. Despite the paint bearing the marks of an extended service in the field, the Chapter symbol stood clear. A yellow comet buring with a bright white core, buring across a blue sky- Marines Errant.
All around him servitors worldlessly scurry, tirelessly working at unheard commands. Some servitors gather materials and check vials around the large table at the center of the room. Others silently approach you, various tools and diagnosticators at the ready. They pause their heads in a moment of reverence. Black hooded robes rendering them deceptively formless, their identities forgotten behind silver faceless masks. A red “I” on their foreheads emits a dull throbbing glow.

As they begin to remove your power armor, Apothecary Haeron speaks again…
“Fear not, Brother! You will see your precious armaments again! And just like you, they shall be the same…but different! Rehoned. Refined! REEplenished! RESPLENDANT!” He accentuates his final words with soft jabs of his needle enclosed fist in the air. ((#3))

When the servitors are finished it is time to take your place on top of the examination table.
“Hypno-indoctrination is but the lesser part of preparation, however, and you will undertake constant training in the methods required to combat specific enemies. While much of this training is theoretical, of course, some is very real indeed! Now…enough chatter. Lay back and relax. This may sting a little...” ((#4))

Later, you awake on your cot in your living cell. You are clothed in plain grey flightsuits, the only adornments three embroidered patches. On the left should is sewn the all too familiar “I”. On the right your Chapter is proudly displayed. On the left brest, a singular simple square. Now engrained in your DNA is some of the knowledge of what is to come…

Your first several cycles will be a brutal regime of solo evaluations. Hours of hypno-data uploads, followed by hand to hand combat sessions with Captain Kyros, constant strength and endurance training with Captain McGarrack, more tests from Apothecary Haeron, hours spent isolated in your living-cells awaiting that moment when you would take your Second Oath and once again be welcomed into brotherhood.((#5))

Finally you are deemed fit, you will now be required to enter a sealed slaughter-chamber in which a captured alien combatant is entrapped. You are not allowed to exit until you have killed it.
You are armed with only your combat knife and without any armor.
Only when Brother’s Watch Captain is satisfied will you be authorized to take place in a Kill-team and undertake your real training as a member of an elite squad. ((#6))

Raimer stood watched silently and carefully as the astartes approached him. They were cold to him no doubt well ingrained into the ways of the Deathwatch which stripped away much of your brotherhood. He advanced when indicated to and listened solemnly as the librarian recited the oath. His skin crawled to be so close to a witch, a user of the warp but he had in part been sent as he could hold off on acting on the feelings of revulsion he felt and so maintain his composure even as he was close enough to strangle the witch should he choose to. He raised his bowed head once the oath was finish, "I swear upon the honor of myself, my chapter, and the name of Sigismund first of my order that I shall hold true to this first oath, the Oath of Silence."

His answer seemed to satisfy them as the witch as he was invited to follow and soon surrounded. He noted one was a brother of his own chapter and turned his head to speak to him but even though he could not see his brother's eyes through his helmet it was almost as though he was glaring with such power to sear through their helmets and Raimer abandoned his attempt to communicate with his brother. They continued on in silence then as they approached a doorway from which he could hear the sounds of a clearly ancient battle brother and upon seeing his appearance could tell he was correct in his first assumption of the astarete's advanced age. It was rare for an astartes to live so long and as such bowed his head in respect to the warrior who had lost so much of his skull the steel plugs which would normally indicate his age were missing.

When the servitors suddenly came at him for a moment he almost fought back though in realizing what they were doing and the proclamations of the apothecary caused him to lower his arms back down to his sides and let them remove his armor. One they finish their task he silently goes with the apothecary to the examination table, he understands what is to happen he is no stranger to psych-indoctrination and proceeds to meditate on the many hatreds of the Emperor as the procedure is performed.

With the medical procedures finished he awoke in a cell, one of the first things he noticed was it had superior furnishings to the usual Black Templar cell though lacked in some key areas such as arms and armor though that was to be expected except there was no personal shrine as well which did annoy him. How could he be expected to properly venerate the Emperor if he did not have a shrine or the means to construct one. He went through his mind with the new information he now had anti-xenos methodology mostly or information to aid that in some way. It was all as he had expected for the most part though the Deathwatch seemed to know more about some Xenos than he had expected and wondered how they had gotten such knowledge that could not be gleaned on a battlefield. With that finished he set about meditating and exercising until he was brought from his cell by the Storm Warden Caeden. The chatted amicably at first as he exercised under his watchful eye.

Near the end though Raimer asked him, "So, for what I have ahead what can you tell me of the horrors out her."

This made Caedon seem to darken slightly and some of his pleasantry was gone, "Of the horrors out here, now that you are in the Deathwatch I can tell you nothing, you are not yet truly one of us and the things you will face are those which I cannot speak of and must be experienced.

That put a damper on the rest of their interactions that day and Raimer stopped asking questions of the Deathwatch and what they would do exactly instead asking more questions in regards to general knowledge,

At last the final day came, he was brought to a small arena and as he entered it was all to clear what he was to do. Standing across the arena from him clad only in a small tunic and armed with a combat knife like the one he had been given was an Eldar, searching his knew knowledge he quickly surmised it to be the breed known for capturing and torturing prisoners and was more afflicted by the negativeness of Chaos. He would put it out of it's misery, he came at it quickly swinging his blade to test it and was caught of guard by it's speed as it leapt in at him, he tried to dodge but was not fast enough as the Eldar drew a dark line of blood across his chest with the blade in it's right hand. The Eldar did not stay within his reach for another attack retreating back away as fast as it had come. He was preparing to attack again when it sidestepped him, to the left. Turning with it he brought up his arm to block another attack from a blade in it's right hand but the attack did not come from there. Instead it had switched the knife to it's other hand and stabbed deep into his back. This time though it could not retreat fast enough as the blade met resistance as it tried to pull free.

Dropping his own blade he grappled with the Eldar now gaining a hold of him before he could escape, one hand was latched around the Eldar's left wrist even as he had let go of the blade to escape while the other hand was clamped tightly over the Eldar's smaller shoulder. With the Eldar in his grip now he knew he had him, with a fierce yank he dislocated the Eldar's arm and broke his arm with a snap that echoed through the room. The Eldar did not scream, he would credit him with that but now with one arm useless Raimer grasped the Eldar's neck with his right hand, lifting him up off the ground and began to squeeze. There was no fear in the Eldar's eyes as he closed his grip, only hate. Slowly, one by one a serious of small sharp pops and cracks could be heard and then the hate faded from the Eldar's eyes as the life did as well.

Dropping the corpse of his enemy the gate from which he had originally emerged opened up. Turning he proceeded to leave and gave out a reverberating cry in victory, "TO BE PURGED, THAT IS THE FATE OF ALL XENOS"

With a loud thump that reverberated through the rest of the ship, the Thunderhawk landed in the docking bay of the unnamed ship. As the engines died with a descending whine, Alaric remained seated, his hands clasped in front of him as his elbows sat on the arm rests.
“This is where you get off Brother. May the Emperor protect you.” Rasped the tinny voice of the pilot from the voxspeaker at the cockpit. “And, you brother, may your travels be guided by the Emperor’s hand,” Alaric replied to the blank metal wall, making the sign of the Aquila even if he couldn’t see it. The pilot had seen the Apothecary safely to his destination, which was already to be commended. Unlocking the restrains around his armoured chest, Alaric stood up, his robes swishing as the heavy canvas once more gave in to gravity’s enhanced pull. Grabbing his helmet, Alaric clipped it onto his belt as he placed a fist against his chest and took a deep breath. Remain calm, he told himself, you are a Son of the Lion both within, and without. Act like it. Opening his eyes, he moved towards the rapidly opening door of the exit ramp.

Calmly walking down the ramp, unlike almost every other time he exited a Thunderhawk, Alaric took in his surroundings. Docked into pre-organised positions, several Thunderhawks lay idle, ready to do service in the Emperor’s name when required, but for now slept peacefully. The rest was what he would expect from the docking bay of a ship. Myriad barrels and containers were scattered around, some dripping with black promethium, while others were hooked up to pipe systems. The room smelled of toil, sweat, and fuel, as well as the ever present odour of recycled air within a spacecraft, and the ozone of heated metal. At the end of the dim, gunmetal coloured room was a single large blast door which proceeded to open with a gratuitous hiss of depressurization. Our from within its depths strode five Space Marines, their armour glistening black like a carapace, but marred by scratches and discolouration. Their left arms up to the should were coloured silver, with the familiar insignia of the Inquisition plastered on their plastrons. They moved in perfect formation for an attack, and all of them were armed, yet bore no hostile air. Nevertheless, the Apothecary tightened his Narthecium fist out of caution.

As the marines closed with him, he could garner some more details about them. The Inquisitorial electoo that they had on them was subtly different from what Alaric had seen so far from his few dealings with the shadowy organization. Theirs carried a skull and crossbones across it, but like many inquisitors, it was superimposed onto the image of several devotional texts, all of which he recognized. The Litany of Fury, the Prayer of Deliverance, but most prominently was the catechism of the Xenos. Just the thought of that brought the Catechism to his mind…and his lips.

“Well said Brother,” said the lead marine as he stepped forward, raising his right arm in greeting, in turn flashing the symbol of his chapter, the Storm Wardens, “I see you know your devotional texts well.”
“Any servant of the Emperor would do well to learn his teachings,” Alaric replied, bowing his head in greeting as he pressed a fist to his chest before making the sign of the Aquila. Dropping his hood, he revealed his cherubic face which was devoid of emotion apart from a small smile, “from the humblest recruit to the highest Chapter Master.” Taking a step forward, he ceased as the second of the leading marines signalled for him to stop, both hand on his boltgun as if to emphasise his point. Moving aside, Alaric spotted the infamous, but rarely seen sigil of the Carcharodons. But that didn’t interest him as the marine in the center stepped forwards. From the insignia displayed on his shoulder, he was one of the Novamarines. Or used to be at least, Alaric mused. From the psychic hood around his head, though, he could already tell what type of person he was.

Confirming the Dark Angel’s suspicions that he was a psyker, and probably a powerful one at that, Librarian Archilochus continued with grim news, informing him of the first oath. Hitting him like a daemonhammer to the face, Alaric took a deep breath, before kneeling down onto the ground with one knee. “I swear on my faith in the Emperor, and the honour of myself, and even that of my Chapter, that should I ever break this oath, I will forfeit myself into thy keeping, and submit myself to your judgement,” he said, pressing a fist onto the floor, “I will not dishonour those who came before me, nor those who sent me. Nor will I dishonour myself. As my faith is my shield, so my word is my binding.” Nodding, as if in approval, the Storm Warden flashed a smile at him, but the Librarian simply carried on, as if he was simply an automated Servitor, repeating the same message over and over again. However, despite the slightly droning tone, Alaric listened intently as he stood back up. He growled quietly. They needed to check his purity and physical condition? They dared question it? However, he calmed himself down a mere split second later. It was only to be expected. The Deathwatch did not want those it found wanting to be within its ranks. They wanted to best of the best, in any sense and form. Alaric would do his best to fulfil their expectations. “I commend myself into your keeping,” Alaric said, bowing his head.

“From here, Battle-Brothers Octavius and Gregor will escort you to the Apothecarum. There Apothecary Haeron will begin the next step in reforging you into a weapon of the Watch. We will not cross paths for some time. I pray we shall meet again, the next time as Brothers in the Watch!”

“As do I, Brother-Librarian,” Alaric replied as Brother Octavius took the lead, the Dark Angel following behind him, with Brother Gregor moving to cover the rear. As the move past the blast door, Alaric took a final look back, but the three marines simply looked at him, impassive as statues. With a hiss of repressurising air, the dual blast doors closed once more, as if to indicate that there was no going back. Taking a deep breath and chanting the Litany of a Calm Mind, he moved on, following behind Brother Octavius.

The trio moved through twisting corridors of metal and winding passages, completely silent apart from the soft clink of Brother Gregor’s chains and the hiss squeak of one of their augmetics. At one point, Alaric tried to start a conversation with brother Octavius, but after a brief bout of speech, they fell silent once more, nothing important having transpired. Nevertheless, Alaric was interested in seeing what a Deathwatch Apothecarium was like. He had worked with many different chapters, and had access to many of their Apothecariums, and most of them, while based on a standard template, had different appearances. The Blood Angels covered their walls in their winged blood drop motif, with several Sarcophagi holding their injured, while the White scars decorated their walls with trophies stolen from hundreds of worlds, from skulls to pelts and swords.

As they arrived at their destination, the door opened up with a mechanical screech that set the Apothecary’s teeth on edge, but as soon as it opened, the familiar smell of blood and antiseptic that was everpresent in these sorts of places flowed out. Gregor and Octavius took up positions on either side of the door, as if standing watch. It was then that an ancient, slightly scratchy voice called out to him from within the confines of the room.

“Enter Brother! I’m not getting any younger and I’d prefer to die with a sword in my hand, not waiting around for some green-gilled Initiate to play will he/won’t he!”

Steeling himself, Alaric walked inside, his robes swirling in the slight breeze of autorecyclers. The man standing to the side of the examination table was a grizzled old man, with the entire left side of his face being replaced by a mask of metal. His remaining eye showed signs of advanced cataracts, and the rest of the face was marred by radiation, punctuated by the pink-white of several scars. Probably shrapnel wounds. A larger, more severe scar bisected his face, but almost every marine carried scars of some sort with them, almost as badges of honour. Alaric himself had a large chainaxe wound on the left side of his hip when a Khornate Berserker managed to drive him off of him feet. As the man turned around to face him, Alaric spotted the comet symbol on his pauldron. The Marines Errant. When he saw the Narthecium locked onto Alaric’s arm, he snickered. “Well, looks like they’ve finally brought in another medboy,” he said as he approached, spitting the scalpel out onto a tray, “good thing too, they’ve been sending too many to me to patch up.” Alaric stood stock still as the man started to pace around him, before grabbing his Narthecium and lifting it to his face, surprising Alaric whose hand automatically moved to his bolter, but stopped when he thought better of it. ‘Bear with it,’ he told himself, ‘he is simply another battle brother checking the sanctity of my gear.’

“How long have you been an Apothecary, son?” the man asked,
“Approximately 60 standard Terran years, Brother Haeron,” Alaric said, recalling his name from the Librarian, “with 40 serving as a Battle Brother of the Dark Angels.” Apothercary Haeron’s milky eye flicked up as a small smile appeared on his face. He scoffed. “You’re still an infant then, boy,” he said as he dropped Alaric’s Narthecium hand, walking away to the examination table, “barely starting your journey.”
Grunting in indignity, Alaric started, his hands gripped into tight fists, but mastered himself as he realized that Haeron was right. He was still young compared to most of the marines, being a mere century old. “Even a young boy knows what to do when his brothers need help,” Alaric replied, “and I am confident in my ability to sustain my brother’s lives in the field.”
The older Apothecary scoffed again. “Maybe when you’re being covered by a few hundred bolters, boy, but how will you do when all your brothers are dead, and all you have is yourself, and a single wounded brother against a tide of flesh?” he asked as he wiped blood off of the drill of his Narthecium. Alaric gritted his teeth. This man was trying his patience. “I would do what any other loyal Servant of the Emperor would do,” he replied, taking a step forward, “I would stand with my brother and fight till the death!”
“WRONG!” Haeron replied, stepping back towards Alaric and slapping him across the face, “you would take his geneseed and run! Along with the gene seed of your brothers! You are still inexperienced boy. Do not let that fail you.”
Alaric breathed hard as he felt his cheek. The pain was temporary, but the shame was permanent. He had forgotten about his Apothecary training in a fit of rage as Haeron questioned his loyalties. Ashamed, Alaric bowed his head. “You are right…brother…” Alaric said through gritted teeth, “I apologise for questioning your wisdom.”
“Do not apologise to me,” Haeron said as he walked back to the examination table, opening up his Narthecium, “but think about your actions before you execute them. That is what we, Apothecaries, must do. We cannot always stand beside our brothers, Dark angel, sometimes we must flee…” There was a hint of sadness in Haeron’s tone, but he bore the stoic smile the way a father would to his son. “Now, let us begin the examination.”
Closing his eyes in shame as he begged the Emperor for forgiveness, Alaric saw the approaching servitors. “…I submit myself to your keeping,” he said as he allowed the servitors to start stripping his armour, but not before removing his robe himself. “A simple request, Brother,” Alaric said as he folded the heavy robe, “may I…keep this robe with me?”
Haeron looked at him before a small smile appeared on his face. “Leave it with me,” he said with a small chuckle, “I’ll make sure it gets to you. I know how you Dark Angels are with these robes.”
Handing the heavy canvas over to Haeron, Alaric climbed onto the examination table, feeling oddly naked without his armour.
“Fear not, Brother! You will see your precious armaments again! And just like you, they shall be the same…but different! Rehoned. Refined! REEplenished! RESPLENDANT!”
“I trust your judgement, brother,” Alaric replied.
Haeron nodded as he stood over Alaric. “Hypno-indoctrination is but the lesser part of preparation, however, and you will undertake constant training in the methods required to combat specific enemies. While much of this training is theoretical, of course, some is very real indeed! Now…enough chatter. Lay back and relax. This may sting a little...”

With a small groan, Alaric awoke in his cot, his eyes bleary and his mind aching with the amount of information that had been pumped into it. The tight-fitting grey flightsuit stretched as Alaric sat up, holding his pounding head as he swung his legs over the side. He would have a long period in front of him where all he would feel was tired. From the information already ingrained in his brain, he knew that he would have to endure tests of both physical strength and endurance from Brothers Kyros and McGarrack, then submit himself to both data-uploads directly into his mind, and finally, more sessions with Haeron, who he had begun to see as a father figure to him, much like the divine Emperor. With a sigh, he sunk down to his knees on the floor and clasped his hands together. “Emperor please, give me the strength and endurance to pass these trials. Give me the fortitude to serve in your name,” he said quietly. His prays had been becoming less and less eloquent the longer he trained. Standing up, Alaric grabbed his heavy canvas robe and swung it over his shoulders. The instructors did not look kindly upon it, but they knew its importance to the Dark Angels, and so let it be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Throwing a heavy punch, Alaric followed through with an uppercut, both of which Kyros dodged, punishing Alaric’s reckless aggression with a gut driver that caused the Apothecary to stumble back, clutching his stomach. However, the Carcharodon did not stop there, showing no mercy. Following up with a knee to the jaw, Kyros drove Alaric back, seizing the advantage and gripping it firmly. Grasping Alaric’s blond hair, he threw him across the riveted metal floor, creating a hideous scraping sound. Both combatants were stripped down to the waist, and, despite this, Kyros still had a mask over his head, that hid everything but his pointed teeth and black eyes. His grayish-blue body was tattooed with the image of sharks and jaws, but at the same time was riddles with scars and wounds. Alaric’s meanwhile was relatively unmarred, but large bruises had appeared all over his body, along with small grazes from the metal rivets along the ground, which were already closing up thanks to his Larraman’s Organ. With a large effort of will, Alaric picked himself up into a kneeling position before rapidly turning around to the sound of pounding feet. Kyros was already moving in for the kill. With a heavy dive, he tried to pin Alaric below his weight, but the younger Dark Angel rolled away, letting the Carcharodon slam heavily into the bulkhead. Rolling to his feet, he looked towards Kyros, before feeling a welling sensation in his mouth. When Kyros turned around, the first thing he saw was a clear liquid splattering over his mask and into his eyes. With a roar of pain, he moved his hands towards his eyes in an attempt to wipe it off, but Alaric took example from the Watch Captain and seized the advantage. Running up, Alaric drove a fist into the side of the Captain’s mask before launching a knee into the marine’s groin. As he reeled back from the Dark Angel’s assault, Alaric grabbed the marine’s collar bone before driving a fist into Kyros’ stomach and tried to throw him over himself, but the veteran was not green enough to fall for that. As he soared overhead, the marine once more grabbed Alaric’s hair and dragged him along with him, landing on the Apothecary’s body like an obscene cushion. Feeling a rib crack under the weight of Kyros, Alaric gritted his teeth to avoid screaming in pain, but that was where Kyros stopped. Dragging him to his feet by the arms, Kyros nodded, as if in approval. “You know the capabilities of your body,” he said through the mask, a deep gravelly voice that sounded like two boulders being ground together, “even that of your Betcher’s Gland, but you still do not possess the experience you need as a member of the Deathwatch.” He was blunt if nothing else. “Then train me,” Alaric managed in between gasps for breaths, “Hone me…into a weapon worthy…of the Emperor!” Kyros chuckled. “As you wish.” Unceremoniously, he slammed his fist once more into Alaric’s face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kneeling in front of the entrance to the slaughter-dome, Alaric had his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes closed in prayer. His lips moved silently as he sought the Emperor for his protection and guidance. Dressed in the grey jumpsuit he had been given, with a well maintained combat knife on the floor in front of him, Alaric was preparing for his final test to become one of the Deathwatch. He had not been given much information about what was to happen, but what he did know was that he was to fight a xenos to the death. Only one of them would come out. Steadying the pounding of his two hearts, the Dark Angel opened his eyes and reached down for the combat knife. Though they may have stripped him of his Narthecium, he was still not without teeth. “May the Lion and the Emperor watch over me,” he muttered over his breath as he signaled for the guard to open the blast door.

Stepping over the threshold, Alaric could see the creature he was to face on the other side of a circular arena. Rusted barrels lay around the room in various positions, and there was the sound of constantly dripping water. The Xenos was tall and thin, with wiry muscles. Its long claws tugged at the chains binding its neck to the ground and it let out several inhuman screeches that set Alaric’s hairs on end as its beaked mouth opened over and over. With a mental command, he brought up the reserves of information that had been fed into his mind over the long training he had endured. This particular creature was called a Kroot, and was a member of a race subservient to the Tau Empire. They possessed strong, ropy muscles that could compete with that of an Astartes and, upon the death of the victim, had the distasteful habit of consuming their prey. Alaric narrowed his eyes. He would be damned if he would allow himself to become this creature’s next meal.

Spinning the knife in his hand into a backhanded grip, Alaric stood into a ready position as the collar on the creature’s neck was released. Almost instantly, it bounded out with a crude knife in its hand, screaming bloody murder as its quills stood on end. Surprised by its agility, Alaric barely avoided a killing blow as he jinked to the side, the blade of the knife sliding across his right brow, causing a deep cut as it ground against his skull. Grunting in pain as he wiped the blood out of his eyes, Alaric recovered just in time to see its blade flash again. This time, he would not be fooled. Blocking the blade with his own, Alaric heard the clang of metal as they locked blades, but with a reaction speed that not even he knew he possessed, he sidestepped and brought his blade around in a vicious backhanded arc, slashing a large gash into the creature’s chest. Spurts of purple-red liquid squirted out as the Apothecary severed a vital artery, but the creature seemed not to notice as it hissed at him.

Once again it came at him, but as Alaric thought back to his bout with Kyros, something occurred to him. Consciously, the Apothecary forced the Betcher’s Glands in his mouth to activate, and he felt them enlarge in his mouth as he opened it. With a loud hiss, a stream of clear liquid rushed out in a tide, splattering all over the Kroot’s body. With a disgusting hissing sound, the potent toxins that Alaric had produced ate away at the creature’s flesh, exposing its innards. The creature itself started to succumb to the pain, reeling back as it tried to hold its own organs it. Seeing the creature in this pain, Alaric felt no compassion, only the urge to finish it. Walking up to it, Alaric flipped the knife back into a face up position and reeled his hand back, ready to deliver the finishing blow, but even as it came down, the Kroot’s body had suffered enough, and it gave up, collapsing to the ground as the acidic poison continued to eat away at its body. His blade met empty air as it scraped just above the falling corpse. Spitting the remaining poison out of his mouth onto the body of the Kroot, Alaric turned away, wiping more blood from his eye as the wound started to close up already thanks to the Larraman’s Organ. Once again, the Catechism of Xenos came to mind.

To be Unclean
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Impure
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Abhorred
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Reviled
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Hunted
That is the Mark of the Xenos
To be Purged
That is the fate of the Xenos
To be Cleansed
For that is the fate of all Xenos

Scoffing at the rapidly decomposing corpse of the Kroot behind him, Alaric moved towards the exit, relatively unscathed with his encounter.

Grey skies occupied the horizon as a cold wind from the Eastern seas blew over the rocky moors. A pattering of water on stone maintained a solid infrastructure of sound as the rains continued for days on end in what seemed like a marathon of sunless weeks and weeping skies. Patches of moss and wild grass stuck to the stones like a plague, covering the ground in a soft padding of sorts that had abrupt protrusions of jagged rack here and there.

Sacris.

The home-world of the Storm Wardens was as hard and tough as the humans that lived and died on it. Craggy moors and wind-swept plains provided sparse land that bred only the toughest of men and women. The seas to the north and east were as turbulent and salty as the spirits of the warrior tribes of the continents, constantly pelted by waters and snows from cold overcast skies. Daelon MaCcullach, son of Braedon and ascended son of the Emperor remembered his youth fondly as he stepped along the highland moors in a modified suit of Astartes scout armor, watching the trials and tribulations of ascension unfold once more among the tribe's best and brightest warriors. It was not so long ago that he had been in their same position... or was it? A century at least.

Two of his squad leaders flanked him on either side. Both men wore their full battle plate, beautifully painted royal blue with steel grey trim and Oaths of moment still pinned to their shoulder pauldrons. Their heraldry shined proudly on their right shoulders: a steel shield cut across by a bolt of lightning. Wardens against the oncoming storms. Justice made manifest. Storm Wardens. Mark 4 bolters accompanied mark 7 "Aquila" battle plate, and both Marines stood still as statues as they observed the games below. One of them unconsciously moving the fingers of his Narthecium ever so slightly. Daelon's own battle plate was currently with the Chapter artificers and war smiths. Even now he knew they would be beating out the dents and smoothing over scars on his ancient suit of mark 5 "Heresy" armor, taking care of it as one would the legend of the oldest chapter hero. The armor itself dated back to the forbidden times - times of deceit, lies and betrayal - times of heresy. And through that heresy it had held fast. Across a sea of light years and countless thousands of battles, that plate had withstood every enemy known to mankind, from traitor Astartes to foul xenos without name. His armor had weathered countless storms and would shield against countless more. Daelon was as proud of his access to such a relic - to the trust and honor bestowed upon him - as he was of being one of the Emperor's ascended. To wear such a piece of Imperial history was an honor he could never hope to live up to, but would never stop attempting to. And even now it was being embossed with yet another honor the newly promoted Sergeant did not expect, and would have traded in the blink of an eye if it meant former Sergeant Rayden would still be breathing. The grey Iron Skull being fitted and soldered onto his battle-helm, his promotion to acting Battle-Sergeant was unexpected and in his mind, unwanted.

"The honor is now mine, brother. I hope I lived up to your tutelage." He spoke silently into the wind, knowing it would carry his words to the halls of the Emperor and beyond. He spoke as though he knew Brother Rayden was listening. If his squad leaders heard him they made no show, standing as still as stone as the rain pattered off of their armor like so many enemies before.

Below them the tribe's warrior hopefuls raced through mazes and deadly battlements, leaping over spiked pits and dead falls as well as dodging various booby traps. Daelon felt odd out of his armor as he watched, but he enjoyed being in the lighter, more exposed scout armor. Helmetless and feeling the wind and rain on his battle-painted skin, he was reminded of his time as a warrior-hopeful. He had run through death-mazes and hazards similar to this, brushing off the chill of the air and the sweat and rain in his eyes as he crossed quicksand pits, swamp gas fields and millions of swarm leeches. He remembered slaying a fen-troll in single combat - the next challenge that awaited the men below. Most would not survive to become aspirants, but that was the point. Out of the dozens who competed, only a handful would make it through this. The Storm Wardens needed the strongest men, the toughest men. The best men. Only a handful would make it to Daelon and his Brothers at the Thunderhawk landing site. Sgt. Rayden had been the best and now, he was no more.

Daelon held his Sacris claymore out in front of him, blade in the ground, resting his muscled arms on its hilt. He stood two and half meters tall and even out of his power armor gave the two Astartes with him a run for their money. His large imposing frame was made all the more menacing given his long held tribal inclination to paint himself in the customary blue woad paint of the initiates. His heavily muscles arms, neck and even armored chest were painted in various patterns. Blond hair, a rarity for most sons of Sacris was pulled back into a warriors knot that fell down to his shoulders. A low cut beard occupied the lower half of his face and two identical fat blue streaks went from his forehead to his jaw, covering both of his eyes. A part of him yearned to be back in his armored body glove, under his second skin of ceramite and flexsteel; back inside of his battle plate he felt at home. A clang from the trial grounds below brought him out of his reverie as a tribesman swung his claymore at an enormous fen-troll. The clang, having brought him out of his reverie, only acted to send him into another one.

Steel on steel. Shots fired. Incoming.

+++++++++++

Bolter in hand, Daelon lined up a shot and squeezed the trigger. A chest plate exploded. Rotten skin and fragments of bone and organs sprayed over the ground where the heretic and the two behind him had been eradicated by a single .75 calibre round. The mass reactive had gone straight through the first target before detonating into a cloud of shrapnel that enveloped his two comrades. The Battle Sgt, Rayden, voxed orders through the squad-to-squad. The attack was going as planned.

1st Company was heavily engaged en route to the munitorium and 3rd Company was making head way along their flanks. The mission was simple: open up a second line of attack on the enemy's flank to take pressure off of the First. Eradicate any and all opposition. Retake the munitorium and install loyalist Guard elements to hold it before moving on to secondary targets of opportunity. Sgt. Rayden's squad - 3rd Co., 4th tactical squad - was en route to engage the heretic's flanks. There had been problems with some of 3rd Co. drop pods and as a result most of the Storm Wardens 3rd were separated from one another by some tens of kilometers. That was not a problem. All eventualities had been discussed and debated over the night prior to mission drop. In the case of drop pod malfunctions, all squads were to continue on their set mission parameters and reestablish with one another at or en route to the munitorium. Securing the munitions plant was mission critical to ensuring a loyalist victory on the moon.

The squad, with Rayden at its head, moved along back alleyways and crumbling, bombed-out shells of buildings. The Guard regiments attached to the Astartes had done their part in drowning this area with artillery fire. Sky-flower anti personnel rounds, high explosive, and bunker busters had all been liberally applied to the positions around the munitorium. Bodies of the heretics lay strewn about. Daelon took in the scene. The heretics still wore their PDF uniforms, only most were now painted in the dark dried crimson that could only have been blood. Ruinous symbols and blasphemous litanies had been painted on themselves and tattooed onto their flesh. Some had the tell-tale taint of mutation about them, but none had been able to withstand the might of Imperial Artillery. Those who had somehow managed to avoid the worst of it fell like rotten wheat against the Emperor's mighty scythes.

"Movement." The point man of the squad, a Marine by the name of Callidar with exceptional scouting abilities, voxed into his battle-helm mic. Immediately, positional information from what his helm was seeing was transmitted to those of his battle brothers. "Two. Moving fast into the water tower up ahead. Clumsy. Non-human. Bigger." Callidar had taken a knee while he transmitted, finding cover behind a fallen piece of a nearby apartment hab block. His bolter was trained on the water tower, practically begging for something to stir again. Nothing moved. Perhaps they had changed positions on the back side of the tower.

Seconds turned to minutes but nothing reappeared. "All clea-" the vox cut out as Callidar's head and battle-helm exploded into fragments. The first shot had struck before its report met the ears of the Marines, followed by what seemed like hundreds more. Callidar's body remained kneeling as five more heavy bolter rounds slammed into it, causing the armor to buckle and give as some of the enormous mass reactive rounds found weak spots and tore into his midsection.

"Contact!" Sgt. Rayden screamed as he reacted, firing with one hand into the destroyed water tower as he grabbed the dead remains of Callidar and threw himself into cover. "Apothecary, up!" It was unnecessary. 4th squad's Apothecary was already moving, his Narthecium coming to life as inbuilt saws and grasping mechanisms unfolded. "You can save his geneseed, Narfell. His legacy must live on."

"Aye, sergeant," said Narfell as he scanned the ruined armor of his fallen Brother. "His memory and his life will fuel the Chapter on."

Rayden was barely listening, beeming with pride as he watched his well-trained squad move without orders. They had set up over lapping firing positions on the water tower while taking cover. "Daelon, report."

Daelon had jumped behind the side of the ceramite foundation of one of the apartment habs. Already he was getting the squad's Devastator into position. "Sir, heavy bolter up in that water tower. Has to be. But the report and flashback of the weapon keeps changing positions. No human gun team could move a heavy bolter that quickly and maintain fire on our position. Making ready to frag out." Daelon knew what they were up against the moment he saw the flash from that heavy bolter moving position while firing. The arch enemy. Traitor Astartes.

Rayden knew it too. "Bring that water tower down now, Daelon."

Daelon didn't need to respond. The soundstrike on his Brother's shoulder was in position and ready to fire. Three claps like thunder rang in his ears. In one second the soundstrike was down and so was the Marine holding it. The heavy bolter rounds chewed up the ground around him and blood was pooling in great buckets from the wounds in his stomach and chest. He clawed forward, hoping to grab the launcher and complete his orders. Three more rounds contacted with his head and back and he ceased moving altogether.

Daelon simply reacted. Dropping his bolter he dove forward, taking up the soundstrike and rolling into a kneeling firing position in one move. He fired once, then twice as the mechanical auto-loader pushed another missile into the firing tube in the blink of an eye. Both missile screamed out toward the water tower at incredible speed.

The first exploded on one of the support struts holding the unstable structure up. As it crumpled under its own weight and began to fall some forty meters to the ground, the second missile impacted the ruined water tower itself. It detonated in a ball of fire and shrapnel, shredding the insides of the ruined holding tank and everything inside of it. Daelon was pleased to hear the terrified shrieks of whatever lay inside with his enhanced senses. He only hoped that they had met a terrible, painful end. Justice. Honor restored.

Silence followed the booming crash and dust cloud of the collapsing tower as Sgt. Rayden's 4th squad regrouped. "Daelon," he said after he had assessed casualty reports and gathered weapons and ammo. "That was quick thinking and steadfast resolve. Remind me to promote you one day."

There were laughs around the squad-to-squad vox. Rayden had a way of inspiring the men, and this day was no different. "Doing my duty is reward enough, Sergeant." Rayden had expected such a reply. Daelon was steadfast and proud, a Storm Warden and son of Sacris to the bone. He did not let ambition cloud his duty. If promotions came, they came. They were not sought after. The mission was all that mattered.

***

They knew they were getting close to the munitorium as the sounds of fighting intensified. Closer to the munitorium the artillery assault had been much weaker in order to stave off any excess damage to the facility itself. As a result, the enemy had proven to be dug in much more securely. Narfell had done what he could for the other Marines - he had removed their geneseed with precision and marked the locations of their fall so quick-reaction-forces could come claim their remains and repurpose their arms and armor for future initiates. It was not much, but the mission came first. In the distance the rumble of armor and heavy cannon could be heard decimating packs of heretics and, apparently, renegade Astartes. The fire in Daelon's heart burned bright as he thought of the traitors. The honor they had betrayed made him grit his teeth in hatred. Bastards, he thought to himself. You will pay.

At last, 4th squad broke free of the alleyways and into a scene of panic and chaos. The 1st were stalled along the northern approach to the munitorim and if they did not receive assistance fast, there was good reason to believe the assault could be halted completely. The heretics had set up heavy weapons nests along the outskirts of the munitions plant. Some were supervised by massive power armored figures painted black and gold with 8-pointed stars emblazoned across their armor. The black legion. The sight of them made Daelon's blood boil, but he almost stutter stepped when he saw the "champion" they had chained near the entrance of the plant-proper.

A massive four armed Xenos biped with a collar displaying the same 8-pointed star around its neck ran along the entrance driveway of the munitorium. Around it lay dead Storm Wardens. Most had been ripped apart or apparently crushed inside their armor. The monstrosity had a red hide covered in scaled plates and a bifurcated lower jaw that dropped spittle and Astartes blood as it gnawed on the head of one of the fallen.

"Abomination," whispered the Marine to Daelon's left.

"Orders sir?" Daelon waited patiently for the order to open fire. It could not come soon enough.

"Stow your weapon, Daelon." Sgt. Rayden was pulling his massive Sacris Claymore out of its scabbard on his back, his bolter mag locked to his left thigh. As one, the Astartes of 4th squad stowed their bolters and unsheathed their claymores. It would be an honor duel between the Sergeant and the beast, and the Marines of 4th squad would ensure it was not interrupted by any outsiders.

"Sir, are you sure? A decisive strike from our undetected position would catch them off guard." Daelon was not being insubordinate. It was the Storm Warden way to debate combat actions to ensure the most effective choice had been made. Rayden, however, would not be swayed.

"Aye, Daelon. Aye. It may do just that. But cutting the head off of a snake is the surest way to ensure the body dies, my boy."

"But, sir-"

"Enough. The order has been given. One day, Daelon, you will have to choose between the tactically smart decision and decisive action. Either way, Astartes will die. Our honor, however, will live on through the Chapter for eternity. Until the Primarch returns."

"Until the Primarch returns," echoed 4th squad. Daelon, resigned to the decision of the Sergeant, gripped his claymore and followed Rayden into the belly of the beast.

***

4th squad formed a fighting ring around Rayden and the Xenos monstrosity. The heretics had not taken to firing at them, instead focusing on the fight between the 4th's sergeant and the beast. It was stupid on their part, as the 1st continued to butcher them on the northern front, using the stall in the fight to gain the advantage. The Black Legion traitor Astartes had formed a ring around 4th squad as well, chainswords drawn. It was an odd stand off and it took every ounce of discipline not to crash into them and make them pay for breaking their sacred vows.

Rayden and the beast clashed back and forth like a beautiful symphony of violence and warrior spirit. Already the beast had lost one of its arms and was spitting blood from an internal injury the sergeant had dealt. It would be over soon and Rayden's honor would be preserved. A flicker of movement caught Daelon's attention. Something was moving on the roof of the munitorium. He saw the black of their armor - the 8-pointed star. Treachery. A stalker shell left the muzzle of a bolter before Daelon could call out. It slammed into the weak spot of Rayden's armor under his right arm as he moved to make a killing swing on the Xenos. Instantly one of his hearts was destroyed and many vital organs punctured by the sniper's round. He swayed on his feet, maintaining his balance but just barely. The xenos moved quickly. With its remaining hands, it picked the 4th's Sergeant up into the air and squeezed, its massive strength issuing groans and squeaks as the ceramite between it bent and buckled.

"Trachery!" Daelon screamed and swung his sword in a brutal two-handed sweep in front of him. The traitor Astarte's head had not yet left its shoulders as Daelon drew his bolter and emptied its magazine onto the roof of the munitorium. The sniper disappeared as twenty-eight mass reactive shells ate its ancient body into red mist and pulp. He dropped his bolter to the ground and took his sword in both hands. Around him, the 4th fought valiantly against the arch-enemies. "4th squad, kill them all!"

He turned and ran to the honor duel.

***

Rayden lay on the ground, his body broken. Even with his enhanced Astarted physiology he knew that unless he was immediately evacuated to the Strike Cruiser in low orbit, he would not survive his injury. The stalker-round had simply caused too much internal damage. The beast loomed over him. Its maw of ragged teeth forming into a rudimentary smile as its limited intellect realized it was about to feed.

"On my honor, Xenos," Rayden weezed between wet bloody breaths, "You will die before the day is done."

It roared and reared up onto its hind legs, ready to deal the death blow. It stopped abruptly as it crashed toward the Sergeant. Rayden's vision was going blurry, but he saw a beautiful blue armored form in front of the creature. Two hands held onto the hilt of a mighty sword that pushed into the xenos' mouth and out of the back of its head. With a wet pull, the sword flew free and arched around to connect with the creature's neck. A wash of blood and gore spewed forth as the beast's head rolled from its body. With a few muscle spasms it lie on the ground twitching as its bowels and bladder let loose.

+++++++++++

Under his leadership, Daelon had taken the reigns of 4th squad sergeant and led his Marines to victory that day. Rayden had died in his arms as the 4th butchered the traitors around him to a man; his Astartes body was fighting a battle it could not win. Even with the aid of Apothecary Narfell, he had been wounded too grievously. The Marines who had been witness to the event saw Sergeant Rayden smile, his helm having been taken off by the Apothecary and place his gauntleted hand on Daelon's chest. On the private channel they had spoken to one another, with only Daelon being privileged to hear the sergeant's final words.

***

Even now they were fitting the Iron Skull honors onto his battle-helm and he hardly felt worthy of it. He stood proud on the wind blown moors, snapping out of the memory of battle's fought and honor preserved. The sergeant had been slain by treachery, and his honor in single combat had been upheld by Daelon. The promotion had been unanimous and bestowed upon him by the 3rd Co. Captain, but had come with a caveat. He was to oversee the newest trials of the aspirants while his arms and armor were repaired from the previous battle. Following this, he was to be sent to take the Black where his skills, but most importantly his honor, would be put to the test in the most elite fighting force the galaxy has ever seen. When his vigil was up, he would return to the Chapter as one of its most knowledgeable fighters and the pride of the 3rd Co.

"They are finished, sergeant Daelon." The Marine behind him, Narfell, had spoken. Daelon watched as six tribesmen walked toward their position, bloodied and tired, with their claymores in their hands. They looked hardened by battle and only now would their true trials begin.

"They will do," said Daelon, hefting his claymore which was twice as large as the largest of the aspirants onto his back. As he spoke a black Thunderhawk gunship armed to the teeth sat down near the Storm Wardens own. "It appears my ship has come."

The Marines flanking him spared a glance at the ship and at the tribesman kneeling in supplication before their war gods. "Sergeant," said the Apothecary, "It was an honor to serve by your side. I will see you again, in this life or at the Emperor's side."

"Aye," said Daelon gripping the Apothecary's forearm in a warrior's embrace. "I believe you will. Marines, make me proud while I am away and I will do the same for our Chapter."

Without a word, both Marines made the sign of the Aquila and bowed deeply to their sergeant as he made his way to the black Thunderhawk and onto glory.

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

The Thunderhawk passed through the Void of space as it had done a thousand-thousand times before. Black as pitch, the only light it produced was a tiny glow of barely visible after-burn from its modified silent-engines. Sergeant Daelon McCallugh of the Storm Wardens sat as stoically as ever as he reflected on his last moments standing proud on the grounds of his ascension. As soon as he had watched the war bird touch down on Sacris, with its stylized "I" cut by horizontal hash marks three times and death's skull overlaid on top, he knew that nothing would be the same. No longer would he toast and deliberate battles won and yet to come with his brother Storm-Wardens in the great hall. No. The days of past glory were gone. The days of future glory were yet to come.

He did not glance back at the brothers who had accompanied him to the hallowed grounds of the training rites. He knew Apothecary Narfell was already administering the first in a long series of medical examinations that would ensure the aspirants were fully fit and ready to become initiates. He walked with pride in his modified scout armor, his Sacris claymore fit over his back in its grox-hide and flexsteel sheath. Long blonde hair was pulled back into a tight warrior's-knot that gave his yellow bearded face a more imposing look, highlighting the blue woad paint crisscrossing each of his bright emerald green eyes.

The loading ramp on the front of the massive war-machine lowered with a mechanical groan and hiss of hydraulics. The air inside was warm and stuffy compared to the chilly sea-winds that blew over the ritual moors of Sacris. No human or servitor life awaited him inside the troop hold. Even still he smiled; this Thunderhawk had already been to the fortress monastery, for at the back of the troop hold stood his ancient suit of Mk. V "Heresy" Armor. It had been recently repaired, and the royal blue of the Storm Wardens shone like a beacon in the dark stuffy interior of the Thunderhawk. Studded shoulder pads showed his heraldry and livery, company and unit; but even still the Chapter artificers could not get the blood stains off of the left shoulder pauldron and side of the waist. It had been there as long as he could remember and would simply not clean off no matter how hard the serfs worked at it. Some part of him wished it gone, while another part was glad it remained as a constant reminder of his duty and what would happen should he fail in that duty; the blood of a battle brother was almost a moment’s weakness away from spilling. His battle-helm showed the newest addition. Daelon smiled as he approached it, noting his weapons laid out beside it on a simple stone table covered in a white linen cloth embroidered with the heraldry of the Storm Wardens and the Imperial Aquila. The weapons too had quite obviously recently come from the Fortress-Monastery's war smiths; they were in excellent shape and Daelon could feel their machine spirits practically begging for release against an enemy of Mankind.

He turned and gave one last look at the world of his birth, fully prepared for the eventuality that he may never see it again; nor may he ever see his brothers again. The thought had barely crossed his mind as Apothecary Narfell turned to salute the gunship as it readied for its ascent off world. Arms crossed over his breast in the sign of the Aquila, both Marines shared a moment of mutual respect and brotherhood as the Thunderhawk blast doors closed. With a roar, the engines fired up and Sgt. Daelon stood like a statue as he watched Sacris grow smaller through a starboard view port. It was time to take new colors, and make new brothers. His Vigil had begun.

+++++++++++

The flight had been long and uneventful. His trip through the Void was not as bereft of life as he had first thought; upon taking off his scout armor, a team of servitors had moved into the troop hold to assist Sgt. Daelon in re-equipping his Mk. V battle plate. It had been a solemn moment. Feeling his armored body glove slip over his skin had been akin to reacquainting a longing child with their warm blanket. As the armor had begun connecting with interfaces on his black carapace, plugging into his nervous system, he felt at home again. He was back in his own skin - back in his battle plate. The ancient design of the armor had made plenty of those affiliated with the Inquisition look on brother Daelon with suspicion, but it had never failed to rally those Astartes who looked upon such a relic, regardless of Chapter of origin. The plate was as much of Daelon as any appendage, and he would be damned to the Warp if he let anyone who looked down on him for donning it affect him.

The Iron Skull honor was freshly fitted onto his battle helm, the grim steel skull staring out at him from top of the helm's forehead set in between two studs that looked like small raised horns on a ceramite and flexsteel skull. He stared at the honor long and hard. "I hope you are watching, sergeant Rayden," he said to himself. "Through this distinction I will do your memory the honor it deserves." He then picked up the helmet and donned it, feeling more than hearing the hiss as it sealed him inside the life support systems of his suit. His HUD read in a soft light blue that all systems were functional and he was one-hundred percent battle ready.

That was exactly how he felt, inside and out: Primed for war.

From an outside perspective, he looked imposing. He was a huge figure of legend in an ancient suit of armor that very probably saw first hand the atrocities of the Horus Heresy. A soft blue glow from the optical lenses of his battle helm helped silhouette the ghastly Iron Skull honor that denoted his rank and reputation. The Mk. V plate was heavier than the newer marks and it showed, yet it did not slow him down one bit and he could, and often did, keep up with the best of the scout units in battle. His Sacris Claymore was sheathed over his right shoulder, his bolt pistol holstered on his left hip while his holy bolter was held firmly in his massive gauntlets. It was all formality, of course. Daelon knew he would have to remove all weapons and armor upon entering the Watch, but formalities had their place and he would walk into his Long Vigil looking as proud as any Astartes before him and any that came after.

The ship began to slow as lights whirred within the troop hold. They were approaching their destination. Daelon saw that the levels of static electricity had doubled inside of the troop hold, indicating that the ship had just passed through the void shield of a landing bay. The void shields were massive containment fields that kept the death-chill of space separate from the insides of a landing zone. After a few moments, the engines idled down and Daelon felt an audible thump as the Thunderhawk sat down. He had arrived.

The pilot's voice crackled over the vehicle's Vox system, "This is where you get off, Brother Sergeant. The Emperor Protects."

"Aye," responded Daelon on his armor's external Vox, "The Emperor protects, indeed."

With another hiss, the loading ramp door slowly made its way down to the plasteel and rockcrete floor and Daelon makes his way out of the ship and into the watch station.

***

Five Astartes made their way toward him in perfect formation, but that was to be expected. Anything less might suffice for a Guard unit, but these were the gene-children of the Emperor Himself: anything less than perfection was failure. Daelon smiled as he saw the beautiful blue and silver shield heraldry of the Storm Wardens on one of the Marines in front of him. And a Watch Captain no less. It was apparent that the bar was set high, but that mattered not to the Tactical Marine. Daelon enjoyed, no, he needed a challenge.

As the Marines made their way to him, he remembered fondly his litany of hate.

To be cleansed, that is the fate of the Xenos.

The Librarian spoke first. A Novamarine; a solid Chapter of Astartes, steadfast in their protection and adherence to the Codex Astartes, not so much in their reverence for the Emperor as Divine. It mattered not. Daelon had fought beside them before and knew a Chapter worthy of respect when he saw one.

"On my honor, on the honor of my Brothers and on the honor of my Chapter, before the Emperor of Mankind, I swear this Oath..." ((#1))

After his Oath had been taken, Daelon returned Brother Librarian Archilochus' salute and fell in behind Brother Octavius with Brother Gregor taking up the rear position. He had nothing to say to either of them. Now was a time to speak less and pay attention more. He had always been keen to watch and absorb before acting; now was no different. He made his way into the Apothecarum. It was as expected. The stale sterile air cut only by the burning of an incense brazier marked the room as an area of healing. Tools that looked more akin to torture devices than healing instruments lined the walls and the Gauntlet of an ancient and scarred Astartes whose plate displayed the equally proud heraldry of the Marines Errant - Brother Apothecary Haeron.

Servitors moved about and immediately began removing Daelon's armor. Even though this was an expected measure, he had to resist the urge to snap the servitors necks for touching his hallowed Mk. V battle plate. He denied them the chance to touch his battle-helm, moving to unlock the enviro-seals and speak the appropriate rites of disarming himself. The Apothecary, Haeron, instructed him where his plate was going and what was to be done to it; it reeked of insult and Daelon did his best to keep his wits about him. The way the man spoke of such things showed a disregard for the past, as though the plate needed to be upgraded.

Typical Marine Errant, thought Daelon. Always looking to improve their tech rather than appreciate its legacy of victory.

"Brother Apothecary Haeron," started Daelon in a level tone. "This armor has seen battles waged while the Emperor still walked among our forefathers. Resplendent, aye, it is definitely that, but the stories it could tell would keep a dreadnaught in awe. I trust that when I see it again, it will have added yet another story to its saga." As he removed his helmet, the Iron Skull honor seemed to stare at him. The burden of its weight was his now and he would not let those that came before him down. He had a job to do here in the Deathwatch and he was eager to get started. But they would not touch his helm. He sat it down next to him with a very clear message delivered by body language only: Do Not Fething Touch. And while he knew they would inevitably take the prized helm from him as he was anesthized, it made him feel better knowing it was near him now.

Stripped of his armor and body glove, Daelon lay his naked form on the table in front of the Apothecary. Blue woad paint still covered most of his body, and even out of his armor the two and a half meter tall Marine was quite an imposing figure. He had been shot, stabbed, burned and broken before. The Narthecium of the Apothecary mattered not to this veteran of the Storm Wardens.

"Do your worst, Marine Errant," he said with a slight smile, trusting in his fortitude and strength to keep him well above par with whatever the Apothecary had in store for him. He laid completely still as the Narthecium began its grisly work. Daelon held out for a surprisingly long time, his innate toughness being something of a surprise even to the veteran Apothecary. Most recruits had gone under long, long before and Brother Haeron seemed just as curious as he did frustrated that Daelon had refused, perhaps through stubbornness alone, to give in to the mixture of drugs and pain applied to his system. He vaguely heard Brother Haeron whisper, “Let’s start with the neural reconditioning restraint,” before fading into black. ((#3))

***

Daelon awoke on his cot in nothing but a gray flight suit. It fit his form as well as it could, he supposed, with his Chapter colors emblazoned on one shoulder and a stylized "I," the same as the one on the Thunderhawk that brought him here, on the other. His brain swam with memories of fights against Xenos that he has never participated in. Names, stats, physiologies, biologies, geneologies, all ran through his head. Most importantly, weak spots and how to kill each and every species he could think of ran through simultaneously. He smiled again, knowing that he had been made a better killer; a better servant of the Emperor; a better Astartes - a god of war in the eternal battle for Mankind's rightful dominance in the galaxy.

Suffer Not the Alien to Live.

Hours of hypno-indoctrination would follow, but Daelon was only excited to learn more, to become better. He rarely stayed inside of his cell. It was sparse and he required very little sleep - as did all Astartes. When he did sleep it was only for a few hours or so every few days; even this he found to be too much. Hours upon hours of hypno indoctrination, followed by physical training, combat scenarios, more physical training, and sometimes breaks for sustenance made up the norm. Daelon's routine was brutal, efficient and he absolutely loved it. This was why he was created; this is what he lived for. Every moment spent honing his mind, body and soul was an edge he would have over his enemies. It mattered not how hard he was pushed, he would not break. He was a son of Sacris; he was the Emperor's sword and light; he was a Storm Warden.

Of all the Astartes he had interacted with, Daelon felt most comfortable around Watch Captain Caeden McGarrack, for obvious reasons. The Storm Warden he had first seen upon entering the Watch Station was something of a legend when it came to training and Daelon desperately attempted to match him in feats of strength, stamina and toughness whenever he could. The Watch Captain was jovial enough and interactions had reminded Daelon of home. In a show of camaraderie, Daelon had continued to paint his face in the styles of Sacris. Perhaps one day he would have the same tattoos as Captain McGarrack, but such an honor was reserved for those who had gone above and beyond the call of duty. As the days passed, Daelon not only matched Captain Caeden in endurance and toughness, but began exceeding him.

***

“You cannot break me!” Daelon screamed at the top of his lungs, standing atop the remains of a combat servitor in a swampy marsh filled with all sorts of Xenos flora and fauna.

Movement in the bush. The shaking of a branch. Watch Captain Caeden emerged, a series of small cuts covering the left side of his face interacting in a lively display of color with the blue tattoos there. He eyed Daelon with a burning stare. He looked ready to pull his combat blade. But instead, he began laughing. The warmth and joviality of it quite out of place in the deadly environment.

“I know that, lad!” He wiped some sweat from his brow and approached the sergeant from his home Chapter. “I knew it the moment I saw you walk off of that war bird. Your colors, the shield, the blue and the gray – they cannot be broken. We are the shield in the night.”

“Aye, the Storm Wardens hold watch over the places most of the Imperium do not know exist. The outer edges.” Daelon was confident in his Chapter’s history and legacy, even if the Imperium at large was not.

“No. You misunderstand.” Caeden pressed a hard finger against the stylized “I” on Daelon’s right shoulder. “We are the shield in the night. The Deathwatch fights against those that cannot be named. You will be tested, brother-sergeant. You will face things that no amount of training can prepare you for. You must be prepared here,” he said while pointing to Daelon’s primary heart. “You will be forced to make sacrifices, lad. You will be forced to make the hard decisions. Your word, your past will mean nothing. I have high hopes for you.”

Daelon had not responded. He pushed it into the back of his psyche and continued pushing himself beyond the limits of physicality.

Brutal runs through the harshest training environments – deadly jungles coated with toxins, brutal deserts with burning sands, harsh tundras of living snow hell bent on murdering whatever crossed over it – stopped being unanimously victories attributed to Caeden. More often than not Daelon would find himself toughing through training regimens that Caeden had hand crafted to break Astartes. Daelon had never felt more confident in his mission. He was at the apex of his training and battle-effectiveness.

+++++++++++

It was in a rare moment of meditation and reflection that the Serf came and retrieved Daelon. A slight tapping on his chamber door followed by a data slate with orders on it was the only announcement he received that his training was nigh at an end.

He made his way into the training grounds. It was a familiar place now and the walk took him all but five minutes. He was handed a combat blade and his mission was clear: eliminate all enemy threats. There was no middle ground. He was a member of the Deathwatch and he would eliminate any and all Xenos put before him.

You will be tested. You will be forced to make the hard decisions.

Captain Caeden’s words ran through his head, and while he knew he had to focus on the mission at hand, they nagged at him. Surely now he would be tested, but the choice between ridding the galaxy of a hostile xenos and living to fight alongside his brothers once more was not even a choice at all.

The training ground was pitch black. Night cycle. No matter. Eliminate your enemies. He began the hunt. He had barely moved two hundred meters over lightly hilled terrain before he heard it. A sound he was used to, having survived thousands of battles, but not one he was expecting.

Weeping.

Crossing a small hill, flat on his stomach, his blade covered in dirt to not reflect any light, he spotted the source. Ten men huddled together near a small fire. All wore fatigues of some sort and were lightly armed with knives and batons, with one obvious leader armed with a pistol and blade. He stood with pride while the others huddled and attempted to get warm. Daelon watched them for a long time, unsure how to proceed. Surely, this was a xenos trick. Body morphing? Shape shifting? He knew some species of xenos were capable of replicating human movements and sounds, some could even mimic bodies and faces. He crept closer, keeping his body to the ground and his sound signature to an absolute minimum. He could not help shake the sinking feeling inside his gut.

These are not Xenos. No…

The Storm Wardens Sergeant crawled off of his stomach and stood tall, only four meters away from the group. “Explain this!” he yelled in a booming voice, at once demanding answers from those in front of him and those undeniably watching his performance from afar. The men themselves looked terrified. Most stumbled over looking toward the source of the outburst, while a few remained huddled near the fire unmoving. For his part, the leader covered his shock with hardened resolve, drawing his pistol and taking a bead on the source of the noise, his vision no doubt having been ruined by the fire.

“Please,” said the leader, “If you have come here to kill us, take us while we fight.”

Daelon did not move. “Who are you?”

“Captain Commissar Ariean Krall, 23rd Newbia Lances, Orpheus Salient, Achillus Crusade. Who am I address-”

“Enough!” Frustration cut through him like a knife. What treachery was this? Was killing these men the test? These were not simply humans, these were the Emperor’s own warriors. They were Guardsmen of the Achillus Crusade.

Silence followed and seconds felt like eons.

“Daelon,” a voice boomed throughout the training grounds. Immediately recognizing it, the confused Sergeant addressed it.

“Caeden, what is the meaning of this?”

“You know your mission. Will you not fulfill it?”

“Murdering servants of the Emperor? These are Guardsmen loyal to the God Emperor of Mankind in service to the Achillus Crusade! What game are you playing at? What game is the Deathwatch playing at? Storm Wardens do not do this.” Daelon gripped the combat blade in his hand so hard that his knuckles went white. The thought of betraying Oaths given upon his ascension boiled up inside of him so hard that it made him want to lash out. Hushed murmurs passed between the group of men at the mention of an Astartes Chapter.

“Brother Sergeant, these men are loyal servants to the Emperor, yes. These men, however, were in direct contact with a Xenos Warp Entity of classified name and origin; security level Vermillion. The Deathwatch Kill Team sent to deal with the threat all but perished in vanquishing it. The nature of the threat is of such classification that normally these men would have been mind wiped or executed on the spot to contain the breach in protocol… I am afraid their contact with the creature has left them beyond salvation. This is your mission, sergeant.”

Daelon sat in silence, fury building in his chest. Was this betrayal? Was this the murder of an ally? If they were exposed to the Warp, perhaps this was the best solution.

“My Lord,” a voice spoke out barely above a whisper in High Gothic. “What the voice says is true. We saw that beast… and… it shook us to the core.” He spoke elegantly, and no doubt his men could not understand his dialect. “Some of the men will never recover. I will never recover. Please, my Lord Astartes, give us a warrior’s death.”

Daelon faltered. This was not a battle with physical consequence. These men had no hope of overpowering an Astartes, regardless of whether or not he was armed or armored. This was a culling. He heard a click. Faint. Almost imperceptive. The safety catch on the pistol was being released.

“Don’t,” said Daelon, taking a step closer.

“I have no choice, my Lord. If you will not initiate this, I will.” Daelon could see the miniscule movement of muscles in the Commisar’s finger. He was going to fire.

“Wai-“ a rush of movement from one of the men almost caught him off guard. One of the few huddling and shaking near the fire rushed him with a club. The look in his eyes showed anything but sanity. He was gone. The combat blade sunk into his heart easily, the mono-edge slicing through the chest plate like it was made of paper.

Chaos erupted. Men were charging him, shots were being fired. Nothing connected with him. The Sergeant was a blur of movement. He was the leader of a fatal dance, the culmination of decades of service and warfare. The Guardsmen of the 23rd Newbia never stood a chance.

“Fight with honor! Fight with courage! For today, we are sent to Him on High by one of his chosen! Today is the greatest day of our lives!” The Commissar screamed over the din of battle, rallying his men to greater feats of courage, but it mattered not. As the men fell like wheat before the scythe, the Commissar pulled his sword in his free hand and advanced. He had a grim determination in his eye; he knew he would meet his end on this field of battle, and he had not let the fear of death ruin his steadfast resolve.

***

Captain Commissar Aerian Krall died last. He died proud, fighting like a man without fear, but still only a man against a god of war.

Daelon laid them out on the ground next to one another, taking the time to lay their arms across their chests in the sign of the Aquila, weapons next to their bodies. He took exception to the Captain COmmissar, laying both the Commissar's sword and his Astartes combat blade next to one another under the man's folded arms. He exited the training halls without a word and made his way back to his cell. He had nothing to say to anyone.

Cracked rockcrete and blood from his fists was all that remained of the northern wall of his cell. ((#5))

Knowledge is power. Knowledge is life. Knowledge is illumination. The massive tech-marine scholar sat in the great Librarium of the “Spire that touches the heavens” and read from an enormous tome detailing the Jericho Reach’s history and many of the battles and xenos that could be expected to reside there. He turned the pages carefully, as this tome was of great import to the Guardians of the Covenant, mainly due to the fact that it was their only source of knowledge on the sector. Wish I could know more…Makradon thought to himself in the quiet archive section, the only sound emitting from his mechanical cybernetics. Sure would make me feel more comfortable… He stared out the massive glass window beside him, a view that would take anyone’s breath away.

Mortikah VII.

The mountains and vales stretched on for miles in all directions, littering the planet with a beauty that even one such as him, a Mechanicus Adept, could appreciate. Despite this, as one looked close, the signs of war were evident. In the long history of the Imperium, Mortikah VII had seen its’ fair share of wars. The craters from planet killers sprinkled the planetside, as unnatural canyons brought about by enormous firepower curved through the landscape. The citizens of the planet might have forgotten the wars, but not the Guardians of the Covenant. Not for a single second. A home fit for a chapter such as ours… It was time for Makradon to make a new home.

A few days prior, Makradon had been called into the Hall of Secrecy, where many of the official meetings took place between him and his brothers. Expecting many of them to be around him, he thought nothing of it, a simple matter of upcoming battles or maybe a check on supplies from each Sergeant. He pushed the massive stone doors open, one in each hand, allowing for his bulky frame to pass through unabated. But, instead of booming with the sounds of the entire chapter, there was only one thing potent in the grand hall.

Silence.

The Hall of Secrecy was a marvel in and of itself. Stained glass windows depicted the great Chapter Masters from before. Golgotha. Lucian. Magron. Astelon. And of course the largest stained glass window was given to the finest of all, Lion El’Jonson, the Primarch of the Dark Angels and all the successor chapters, resplendent in his black armor with his golden hair flying though the wind. The gothic benches of the Hall of Secrecy led up to a large stone podium. As his eyes moved up, Makradon spotted the most influential figures of his chapter.

The three of them stood in a solid horizontal line in full battle plate, their red robes covering their heads, leaving their faces hidden in the shadows, but Makradon knew them well. He had bled with these men. He would bleed with them again. Apothecary Cadmus stood on the left, his narthecium displayed on his right arm. Battle Sergeant Elyas stood on the right, his gleaming force sword sheathed at his side. In the middle stood an angel of the Astartes, one of the most learned in all the galaxy, shining brightly with a large grin on his face.

Chapter Master Zahariel.

To look upon one such as him brought tears to the eyes. Makradon continued his stride up to the front of the hall, wondering immensely at this meeting. What in throne could this be about? Finally, after a good while, the steely boots of his power armor halted before the podium, and the three magnificent figures of his chapter. With a soothing voice like honey, Chapter Master Zahariel spoke softly, but with an elegance that stole the attention of any who heard it.

“Makradon…my boy. Ease your worrying mind. You have done no wrong this day. Nor do I believe you will ever wrong our chapter. We merely wish to discuss a matter of great importance with you.” As Zahariel spoke, he made his way down the steps and embraced the tech-marine. “We have brought you here into the Hall of Secrecy alone, for you are to partake in a grand adventure, my son. One the likes of which few from our Chapter ever could even dream of.” Makradon embraced his Chapter Master in return and then stood reverently waiting for him to continue. Pacing in front of Makradon, Zahariel got to the point. “The importance of secrecy remains the truest doctrine of our Chapter next to the quest for knowledge. We abhor lies and deceit, as well as the fact that we are Unforgiven for which we strive in any way we see fit to exterminate that perception. You know this more than most, my favored son.”

---

The brain matter flew in all directions as the inside of the Chaos Cultist’s head exploded out, the silenced round having done exactly what was needed. Makradon held up his hand, stopping the advance of his team, putting an armored finger to his helmeted mouth. The signal was clear to all. Silence is golden. Makradon and his strike team had made it into the depths of the Chaos Fortress on the planet of Hearth, while his brothers distracted the enemy outside, creating quite the diversion. Soundstrike missiles pounded the walls around them, and specks of dust fell down in the haze of battle. According to intelligence reports, the Cultist Library was somewhere down this hallway. All that was left was to purge the slanderous records created by these Heretics, these foul traitorous guardsmen and their chaos cultist commanders.

Makradon listened for the right moment to come, perceiving the screech of the missiles through the air. He stepped forward, along with his brothers at the exact moment of the explosion, masking their footsteps and taking them down the long corridor. Halfway down the hallway, a figure rounded the corner at the other end. Instinctively, Makradon brought his silenced bolter up and ended the life of the newcomer in a split second, sending him to hell for his transgressions. Makradon motioned for his team to move forward into an adjoining room, he would cover their approach. As they filed into the room, Makradon stood up from one knee and made his way into the supposed Librarium. Inside one could feel the heat of impurity, taste the flavor of deceit, and smell the stench of heresy. Bodies littered the floors, symbols scratched with blood filled the walls, and black tomes stood on bookshelves made from human skin.

Makradon looked around, searching for something that might hamper their efforts. He found it quickly. In front of them, standing tall and defiant was exactly who they were looking for. The Dark Apostle stood before them raising his Accursed Crozius into the air, performing some perverted ceremony at the center of the Librarium. He turned to greet his new guests.

“Tisk tisk tisk, my little Guardians, did you really think you could stop us? We will illuminate the world as to the truth of your Chapter and the truth of every one of the Dark Angels!”

The monstrous Apostle moved to the side and Makradon could see a mortal man, flesh seared from his body, chanting some sick ritualistic words.

“Do you like my toy? In a matter of moments, he will send the “truth” of your chapter telepathically to every psyker within the sector. And there is not a thing you can do about it!”

The Apostle screamed through his maniacal laughter and the bodies around the marines came to life, attacking the strike team in a frenzy of claws and teeth. The humans had been reborn as daemon monsters, filling the room with a pervasive taint. Makradon reacted quickly, hearing the screams of his brothers. His servo arm smashed the skull of one of the abominations before he rounded on another and emptied a bolt round into its’ screaming mouth. He saw as 2 of his brothers went down, blood spraying from their necks, the gurgling in their throats a potent sound. One of his team crunched in the ribs of an attacker, as the beings continued to assail his team.

And all throughout the encounter, the maniacal laughter of the Apostle rang out.

Makradon knew his only chance was to kill the intoner, a good 20 meters in front of him. Another of his brothers fell before the might and numbers of the chaos creatures surrounding them, leaving only Makradon alive. Well, if my time is now, I’d better go out with a bang. He reached behind him, pushing away the hands of his attackers. Finally he reached the one thing that could end this fight and preserve the good name of the Dark Angels and all of the successor chapters.

A monoball grenade.

It had been given to him by Chapter Master Zahariel before his mission. “Take care, Makradon. Only use this if you must, for the destructive power in this one grenade can turn a room of bodies into dust in the blink of an eye.”

Usually reserved for only Deathwatch members, the Chapter Master had gone to great lengths to procure it. And Makradon was not about to die and let it go to waste. The powerful claws of the heretical creatures reached up to his face, their force knocking him to the ground. The slimy creatures wriggled and writhed their way towards him, wishing to tear out his jugular and end this. He pulled the pin of the massive grenade, letting it drop to the floor. It rolled forward, the mass of bodies ignoring it, focusing solely on him. The Dark Apostle continued his laughing, a hideous aura emitting from him. The chanting human pressed forward with its ritual, glowing an incandescent blue.

The monoball grenade went off.

The grenade dissolved into an expanding cloud of fast-moving monofilament, searching for victims. It tore through the bodies all around Makradon, and reached forward towards the chanting humanoid. The Dark Apostle opened his eyes for a quick moment, noticing the filament, his laugh replaced with a look of terror. He tried to shield himself, but it was far too late. The cloud shredded his skin from his body, leaving a pile of bones in place. The humanoid figure at the center of the ritual opened his eyes and let out a shrill cry as the monofilament particles pierced through him, turning him to dust. Blood splattered against the walls and it would be later said that the screams of those victims could be heard outside the Chaos Fortress walls.

Makradon had also experienced the shredding quality of the grenade, and even his Power Armor could not hold back the massive destruction that it caused. He blacked out from the loss of blood; a smile on his lips for his mission had been accomplished.

---

“I picked you up from the rubble myself. And Apothecary Cadmus saved your life that day.”

“A debt I owe to him to this very day. It was an honor, sir,” Makradon said to his Master.

“I remember your great sacrifice for all of us. You preserved the secrets of this chapter and defeated the chaos heretics that would spread slanderous lies about us. It is with a heavy heart that I must convey these words to you.” Zahariel took a deep breath.

“None of us wish to see you go, Makradon, but duty is duty. You are the best of our chapter and we will miss you sorely. You have been chosen to take the Long Watch. In 3 days’ time, you will be taken from us to join other members of the Deathwatch in the Jericho Reach.”

Makradon was honestly surprised by this turn of events. A mixture of emotions played through his head. Sadness. Honor. Pride. Curiosity. He bowed down to one knee before forming his next words. “I will honor our chapter and do all of you proud. I swear this to the Emperor, to the Omnissiah, and to all the members of our glorious chapter.”
Zahariel brought the tech marine back to his feet, noticing a tear in his left eye. “Do not be sad brother, for I know this, as do we all.” Zahariel embraced the tech marine once more.

---

A chapter serf entered the Librarium, alerting Makradon that it was time to go. He closed the tome in front of him and stood, looking down at the serf with a smile. “I’ll definitely miss you, my little servitor friend.” He walked from his seat in the Librarium, wondering if it would be the last time he would ever see it. At the entrance, he turned to study it once more.

Not a chance…

Makradon stepped from the Thunderhawk with a solid thump of his monstrously armored feet, the sound punctuating the noise around him. He lowered his hood to reveal the face of one who has had a long history with the Adeptus Mechanicus. Metal patches replaced parts of his skin and his servo-arm, Kyril, extended far out behind him. A massive marine, he usually stood much taller than most. Makradon took in the flight deck around him. The left eye, a splash of color, mostly hazel but with a few specks of purple mixed in. His right, a cybernetic red eye, scanning the room as it scanned every new environment. He maintained his shock of red hair despite the wishes of the Mechanicum, implanting his connectors and plugs around the hair, rather than just shaving it off. His two eyes searched the room. A new home. He had never known any other than Mortikah VII, the spire of the fortress rising high into the sky. After a few solitary moments of reminiscing, the blast doors opened, and five Astartes made their way towards him. The welcoming committee, he thinks for a second before coming to attention before his Deathwatch superiors. An oddity that they stopped mid-march, but then Makradon spies the crest of a Storm Warden, who waves a hand, motioning the tech-marine towards the group. Ah the Storm Wardens, quite the chapter and great when you find yourself in a tough spot. I find that…His thoughts trail off, knowing that he could sit here thinking all day, but that action was needed.

After a few steps, a member of the Carcharodons stops him, allowing for…looks like a Novamarine…to step forward. After his long-winded speech about secrecy and silence, a subject that Makradon knew all too well as a member of the Guardians of the Covenant, the tech-marine goes to one knee before his superiors. In his slightly augmented voice, Makradon chooses his words wisely. “I swear before you all that on my honor as a follower of the Emperor, praise be his name, the Omnissiah…Makradon says a few words in the rare speech of the Adeptus Mechanicus…and on the honor of my chapter, that I will abide by the Silent Oath of the Deathwatch. Not many chapters value secrecy when necessary, but the Guardians of the Covenant hold true to the importance of such things. Upon penalty of death, I swear to never be blinded by my quest for knowledge and never to dishonor the name of my chapter, nor the honor of the Deathwatch, by disclosing the secrets held within.”

A smile played on the lips of the Watch Captain, obviously pleased with his Oath of Silence, before continuing. Makradon enjoyed everything he heard. Learning of new xenos species through hypno-indoctrination, the knowledge passed on to him that would be the envy of all his brothers back home was a dream come true. Finishing up his speech, Makradon bowed his head in deference to the Watch Captain and made his way with the two Battle-Brothers towards the Apothecarum. As the 3 Space Marines make their way through the corridors, Makradon takes it all in, surveying everything around him, from the metal used in the wall panels, to the actions taking place in specific rooms. He tries to ask questions of his fellow marines, but they must have been off-putting to some degree, because they stare at him quizzically and ask that he remain silent for the remainder of the walk. No matter, must be all my cybernetics and of course, the voice. Really makes everyone new a little hesitant to converse.

Makradon walked for some time before the two lead him before a large door that opened as soon as they stood in front of it. A voice boomed from inside and Makradon hurried into the Apothecarum, quick to follow orders from his superiors. Inside, Makradon saw a sight for sore eyes. Cybernetics. He studied the Apothecary as the words flowed from his mouth about the procedures and all that would be done to him, looking at the quality and systems of the man’s face, ever observant of these things and sometimes to a fault. Makradon tensed when the servitors come to take his armor, for a Space Marine to not have his armor is a worrying thing indeed. His armor had been passed down to brother before him and then eventually to him upon his ascension to the Guardians of the Covenant. It was priceless to him. A relic of the past that instilled fear into the hearts of his enemies, what with the blood splatters and streaks remaining for centuries. He relaxed when the man assures him that the armor is only getting a detailing job. Praise be to the Omnissiah for that. “Please be kind to her, my servitor friends. She is a beauty.”

The tech-marine makes his way to the examination table, his various cybernetic implants resplendent in the light of the room. More machine than man, he follows the Apothecary’s instructions and relaxes on the table, ready for the process to begin. The first few hours were tedious and grueling, but the amount of knowledge gained made up for it. How I do love to learn more and more and more… After the first round of tests, Makradon passed out from the exertion, fading in and out of consciousness over the course of the first day. The tests go on for an indeterminate amount of time as Makradon is tested in every way imaginable for days on end. A bit rusty on the hand-to-hand combat, Watch Captain Kyros bests him each and every time. The hypno-indoctrination continues and each new day sheds new light on the thousands of xenos breeds that Makradon was never aware of. Their thoughts, their actions, their fighting styles. All of this and more was infused into his already abundantly packed mind. Throughout the process, Makradon and Watch Captain Haeron bonded over the knowledge that each of them had learned over the centuries of serving as Space Marines. The old-timer took quite a liking to Makradon and what knowledge the two of them were able to share was shared. A great amount of respect formed between the two of them. Where many would see a crazy old Space Marine, Makradon saw the amount of knowledge and wisdom that could be learned from one such as Haeron.

While alone in his cell, Makradon would think of his brothers back on Mortikah VII and how many of them were doing. He missed the tomes and scripts, the Librarium and the various secretive bases of knowledge that he could reflect upon and learn more from. He also thought about Mars from time to time, contemplating the brotherly bonds he made in his time with the Mechanicus. Knowledge was power and the more he remembered and studied, the more chances he had to obtain the rank of a member of the Deathwatch.

The day finally came when Makradon would have to test his abilities sans Power Armor against a foe of the Imperium. “Just show them what I have seen, my boy. Use those quick wits and knowledge to tear the sucker apart,” Haeron had said to him before the fight. Oh what a wonderful day for a fight. Makradon, his machine like body displayed for all, made his way with his trusted combat knife, Jezebel, to the designated combat area.

As the doors closed behind him, Makradon could see that the room had been constructed around an urban setting, crumbling buildings and destroyed barriers littered the area around him. He walked a few paces not knowing exactly what he was supposed to do. No enemies surrounded him, and nothing could be seen, even with his heightened and cybernetic senses. Cautiously, the tech marine made his way forward towards a crossroads where a dead tree sits, wondering about the extent of his test. You’d think something would have happened by now… He focused for a few seconds before noticing something finally. From the corner of his eye, he saw the abomination before him. It struggled as it made its way towards him. Quickly, Makradon searched his intricate brain for any knowledge pertaining to this particular enemy. After a moment or two, the thing opens its’ mouth to reveal a set of double teeth, screeching at Makradon and bringing itself into a run. Closing in on the marine.

With the augmentations to its’ body…the long limbs…the teeth…pale flesh color…A HA! So this is what they send my way…a human genestealer hybrid…nasty little things…I’ll be sure to make him bleed his unrighteous blood.

Before Makradon can deduce any more information, the thing is upon him. The monstrosity raised its’ long, gangly arms up and came down hard with a slash of the crude dagger in its’ hands. Makradon must have spent a little too much time thinking and only has enough time to bring his arm up to block the attack, the crisp blade biting into his arm and drawing blood. He lets the xenos scum get closer to him, a few inches away at most. Staring into the abyss of the hybrid’s mouth, spittle and flecks of phlegm painting his face, Makradon knew his best chance of success. Disgusting… He moves his face closer to the enemy before him, a smile coming to his lips before opening up his mouth and spitting acid from his Betcher’s gland at the enemy before him. The acid rained down towards the genestealer-hybrid, about to tear the flesh from his face, but something extraordinary happened.

Makradon must have underestimated the agility of his foe, for some strange reason, and the abomination slides out of the way of the attack. Smarter than the average genestealer… Makradon awaits the next move from his foe. The abomination comes at him once again, murder in his eyes, screaming out the entirety of its lungs…but this time Makradon was up for it. “Not this time...” He lithely steps to the side, dodging the incoming attack, sticking his leg out and tripping the abomination before him. The foe was still in mid-air when Makradon makes his next move. With a furious roar of his slightly augmented voice, Makradon slams downward to one knee, simultaneously bringing down Jezebel into the back of the genestealer-hybrid, extinguishing the life of the slobbering piece of meat. The blade had ruptured internal organs and blood spilled forth from its’ back, pooling around the two of them.

Makradon stands fully and swipes his blade in the air, the blood droplets dancing on the ground. He moves forward with purpose towards the exit of the combat arena, fully sure that he had passed the test.

Lazaros stood behind a large table. On the table was a deck of the Emperor's tarot. Save a few candles the room was bare and empty. With watch captains and librarians watching from a carefully disguised window at their subject. Lazaros starred hard at the deck for many minutes befor epicking it up gingerly and shuffling the deck before drawing the necessary cards and slowly placing them face down and putting the rest of the deck to the side.

He slowly flipped the cards face up, one by one. Each revealing a painstakingly crafted image to reveal at least in the short term, his future. When he flipped up the last card he raised an eyebrow and several other people behind the glass did as well. Auguries were always onimous and in this day and age usually forboding. And this was no exception. He had seen draws like this before. From the many forces that ravaged his home system.

Arcs of Lightning shot out from the Librarium's finger tips to strike the chest of a servitor. The machine to its credit was built with durability in mind, that and Lazaros was both not using his power to his fullest potential. And his nullifier was only allowing him so much leeway for him to exercise his abilities. So there was no fear of drawing anything hateful and overly ganerous from the warp.

And practising his abilities was far preferable to the tedium of the Gymnasium he was working for the past however many days. Combat drills, marksmanship practice, and Physical endurance tests that reminded him of those days wehn he was still a young scout or newly inducted battle brother. Many of those drills were put on hold when he became a librarian. He still trained as his brothers trained but keeping the records and sharpening his mind became the new key focus.

The servitor did not stutter or short out. Instead it simply righted itself and stood its ground as if preparing for another attack to be made against it.

Soon a calm voice could be heard coming from a carefully disguised speaker. The room was completely featureless. Similar to the one he performed the Augury in. For all he knew it was the same room. No colour on the walls, no glass, seems, pannels. Not even the cracks of the door were visible. It was designed to throw a man off mentally and give the impression that one was completely at the mercy of the owner of the voice with no discernable way to leave.

It was the perfect controlled environment. He had no doubt the room could be flooded with fluids and gases that could even suffocate a space marine within moments. And the inquisition are not the tpyes to hesitate to use such power.

“Again. Use More power this time. Destroy the machine.” the voice said. Lazaros sighed and looked over at the singed abomination of machine and flesh. He squared off against his motionless opponent. There was nothing to do but give the demonstration he knew they wanted. They wouldn't be satisifed until he proved he could control the perils of the warp.

He took a deep breath and focused his mind. He could feel the implant's control over his mind receding and allowing him to draw more upon the strength of his mind. It did not give him complete and total control. But significantly more which was still a comforting feeling. His hand clenched into a claw like grip around the stale, recycled air filling the room. His eyes took an a slight glow as he brought complete and unfettered power to bear upon the helpless servitor. Where it was a few measly bolts of lightning before his hand positivly cackled to life as the strands of lightning burst forth and consumed the servitor. The weaker blast may have only singed its outer layers but now it was sparking and convulsing as both the biological nerves and the wiring of the machine were trying to outcompete eachother is a display of rampant twitching. Within a few moments the electricity in the air dissipated and the servitor was left to twitch and convulse on the ground.

There was no confirmation or congragulations from the voice. There was just silence for many seconds while his nullifying implant once more overwhelmed his mind and he felt as if his brain itself was being pulled from his skull. before the near invisible door in the wall opened and he was uncerimonously told to return to his cell.

Sometime and an unknown amount of days later Lazaros found himself being ushered into yet another featureless room. He was handed only a combat knife, which at least gave him some form of warning as to what it was that awaited him. All he knew was that his implant, while not completely letting his powers loose. Was allowing him to bring some of his energy to bear. Enough to form a defense and a weaker if not moderatly powerful attack. Or a defense against an opponents psykic blasts.

Suprisingly the eldar that was already in the cell was simply sitting and meditating in the middle of the cell. If the fact he was a prisoner and most certianly scheduled for a quick but brutal death even if Lazarus should not walk out of the chamber alive, he did not show it. And to an extent Lazaros had to admire that, grace and poise even in the end. Well he would admire it if it wasn't coming from a xeno that is.

“So you are my executioner?” the voice was soft and melodic. But undeniably xeno as he reminded himself firmly. These were the same eldar who tried to sacrifice his home sector just to save one of their worthless craftworlds. Still he was surprised it new Imperial Gothic, High Gothic at that. “You seem far shorter than the other mon'keigh who put me here.” he was attempting to goad Lazarus, But if a few short jokes were enough to throw him into a frenzy he would have died years ago.

He in turn did not dignify the creature with a response. He simply walked forward with his knife in hand. He knew from experience his odds of sneaking up on the creature were non-existant. Even without his armour he was sure it could hear him approaching.

The creature dodged the first attack that was thrust his way. Not overly suprising, Eldar were quick bastards even at the best of times. He adopted a much more defensive action after that attack. Knowing he may not out-compete the creature in a contest of speed he decided to weather whatever attempts it made towards him until the time was right.

Indeed as the Eldar moved in for the first strike he summoned what psykic energy he could to blast outward with a fairly weakened but still substantial blast with his mind. His attack was more a reaction than anything else was was not at his greatest levels of power but it still sent the Eldar crashing back into the wall. Whatever it was expecting in its opponent it probably wasn't a psyker.

As he charged forward he saw the being pick itself up, dazed but still very much alive. “Stubborn bastard” he breathed and stepped forward to thrust his knife into the beings chest. His forarm kept it pinned by the neck as he twisted the broad bladed knife once....He heard a few ribs crack and a groan of pain from the Eldar. Twice and something definatly broke inside the chest. Then savagely pulled it from the gaping wound and let the corpse fall to the ground. The death was quick and the body tumbled over lifeless within moments.

He nearly collapsed as the Implant was activated yet again. He would never get used to the feeling of being completely severed from his own mind. the door opened behind him and he knew that they had already learned of his victory. He picked himself up and pushed past the empty feeling inside his skull to exit the room. The implant was very much starting to annoy the hells out of him.

As soon as the Librarian finished speaking Pontius dropped to one knee, bowing his head and gripping his bionic right hand into a fist over his primary heart, “I swear to uphold the secrecy of the Deathwatch, on my honour as an Ultramarine and in the name of the Emperor.” As his words hung in the room he rose to face his new Brothers and commanders. With his first Oath sworn the Librarian continued, but Pontius couldn’t help but recall the last Oath he had sworn on the day he had awoken after losing his squad. His Oath of Vengeance to his fallen Brothers. He was determined to master all the Deathwatch had to teach him and use it cleanse the galaxy of the vile xenos that had taken so much from him.

After staying in step with his escorts for a while, Ponitus broke the silence of the hall, “Brother Octavius, Which company do you serve in on Ultramar?” After an awkwardly long pause, Brother Octavius’ vox pinged on, “Focus on the trials ahead of you Brother, your past on Ultramar is just that…you past. Deathwatch is you future.” He understood the meaning behind his brother’s curt response. Duty before camaraderie, and with that he remain silent until his next destination was reached.

Upon hearing the Apothecary Pontius entered the Apothecarium. He could vaguely recall the medical procedures or the caddy remark he received from the half-corpse of an Apothecary for leaving his armor with his chapter. His mind was lost in thought. He could not shake Octavius’ words from his mind, nor the coldness he felt from his fellow Ultramarine as he drifted into unconsciousness from the injections.

Pontius dedicated himself to his training, focusing on absorbing as much knowledge as he could from his superiors. He would inquire whenever possible in an attempt to get some piece of information, some hint or tip that would help him stand out amongst his fellow initiates. That ended abruptly with Watch Captain McGarrack. During his training with McGarrack, he hoped to glean some knowledge on the leadership of the Deathwatch, and how he might one day become Watch Captain himself. McGarrack took this for arrogance of an overly proud whelp, and worked Pontius past the point of exhaustion every session, meeting all further questions with silence. This had become the standard of his training. When not being worked to exhaustion, Pontius spent his time trying to see past the harshness of those around him. He accepted that this is what must be endured for when his training is complete he will be able to prove his worth through action, and continue his personal vendetta against the enemies of man.

Finally, his time has come. Time to prove himself worthy of truly being a member of the Deathwatch. As Pontius stepped into the slaughter-chamber, his genetically enhanced senses took stock of battleground before him. The arena itself was a small open circle with a loose sand floor with no distinguishing features other than smooth stone walls around the perimeter. “Good” he thought to himself, “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” Standing in the center of the arena, were six scrawny creatures with hooved feet and blue skin. All six xenos wore nothing but simple loin-cloths and wielded a myriad of primitive weapons. The group resembled a motley of feral world gladiatorial combatants. “T’au”, He grumbled under his breath, “This should be easy.”

He took a slow direct approach walking straight at the formation in front of him. Carefully analyzing each of the six T’au warriors. But as he moved so too did his opponents, speaking in their vile tongue to each other they formed a line in front of him. Once he was within 3 meters of the line he paused, to decide which was to be cleansed first. Directly in front of him, the T’au warrior wielded a single handed axe and small round buckler shield raised ready to defend, to either side its companions clutched combat knifes normally used by Guardsmen. The farthest xenos to Ponitus’ right held a long curved exotic sword in both hands. Of the remaining two remaining on his left, one awkwardly held a net and the other a trident pointed forward and at the ready.

With his decision made, Pontius gripped his combat knife and without hesitation, sprung to action. With a quick sweep of his back foot he kicked a cloud of sand at right three xenos and leap to the left directly at the one holding the net. Prepared for what was to come, the shield bearing T’au jumped in front of its allies and raised its shield, deflecting the bulk of the sand set flying at their faces. With his off hand, Pontius gripped the net of the enemy in front of him and spun to the right attempting to pull the T’au off its hooves and send it sailing into the one of its compatriots. To Pontius’ dismay the startled T’au simply let go of the net he was already struggling to hold. Unable to adjust for the change in weigh as he spun, Pontius suddenly found
himself tangled in the net, pulling his own feet out from under him.

Seizing their chance, the T’au surrounded Pontius, making stabs and slices wherever they could land them. Knowing he was surrounded, and feeling the blows made by his enemies, Pontius struggled to his knees, planted his weight the best he could in his current position and swung his combat knife at the torsos of the aliens in a wide arc. His cut made it almost a full circle around him before he lost grip of his combat knife. Feeling the hot spray of blood from multiple directions and left with no other options; Pontius took his chance to free himself of the
net that had been cut to pieces by the T’au’s own strikes.

On his feet once again, he saw only two T’au remaining, both reeling from the carnage that exploded around them. His wide cut had cleanly bisected all four downed xenos, and his combat knife remained lodged in the shield of the T’au who’s arm, severed just above the elbow, now lay a good meter away from its owner. Looking around for a weapon amongst the gore, Pontius spied the trident laying within arm’s reach. He grabbed it, without realizing that the upper half of its original wielder remained death gripped to its shaft. Seeing the remaining two xenos regroup and close in on him, he sent the trident sailing at them, realizing too late that the weight of the body that still clung to the weapon threw off the trajectory of his throw. The trident and paired corpse sailed just past the T’au leaving a visceral spray of gore which masked his attackers approach. Within seconds of losing sight of the approaching T’au, Pontius felt his bionic right leg give out, as the curved sword severed its hydraulic lines. Unable to support his weight, Pontius collapsed to one knee, giving the last T’au the chance buried its knife into his neck. His vision blurring from the wounds that covered his body. He raised he eyes to catch a glimpse of the bottom of the T’au’s hoof as it was driven into his face. That was the last thing he saw. Blackness followed, and with it the shame of defeat at the hands of such a pathetic enemy.

SECOND OATHS #2
After your experiences in the combat pens, several cycles pass. The time is spent isolated in your cells; resting, regenerating, reflecting. The monotony of your time spent alone is disrupted only once, when you are visited by an ominous figure, Chaplain of the Watch, Archomedes of the Silver Skulls. He wears the familiar colors of the Watch, save for his leering skull-helm, which has be painted and polished silver. Several satchels bursting with scrolls, books, and other various parchments dangle at his waist. Two servo-skulls trail behind him, floating just above his shoulders. In his power armor he towers over you.

As he leans in to speak, you catch a glimpse of your reflection on his helm…
“You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.” His voice is light with a gentle cadence to his inflection. ((#1))

You speak for many hours, perhaps even cycles. Finally, the questions stop, he reaches into one of his satchels and hands you a black hooded robe. “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.”

Finally, it is time. A silent blank-faced servitor leads you to a grand hall, one that you had never seen before. It is large and bare, carved out of the rock-face itself. At its center; 66 Adeptus Astartes stood stationary, all clad in the black robes, hoods drawn back. They stood in six rows of ten, except for the first row, which holds yourself and 6 others. All stand as motionless as death and silent as the grave. The room is dimly light with candles and small torches. It is heavy with smell of strong incense.

Standing before the assembly, equally statuesque, was the familiar armored forms of Watch Captains Kyro and McGarrack, Apothecary Haeron and Chaplain Archomedes. They had all donned their wargear, both in celebration of the day and to lend it undeniable gravity.
It appeared as though the officers were standing in with bowed headed reverence in front of a large statue. But as the last of your brothers falls-in, the statue slowly begins to rotate towards you, the dull grind of heavy ceramite on stone.

A deep, throaty growl, softly begins to speak…
“One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of the his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whores-son Horus saw to that.” He said with a dark chuckle.

Heavy, resonating steps that send reverberations through the ground steps possibly the largest Space Marine you have ever seen. Even without his ancient Terminator armor he would have easily stood several heads above the tallest of the Astartes gathered. His head is shaved, save for a warriors-stripe of hair, grown long and braided back, left to dangle behind his shoulders. Faded runic tattoos pepper both sides of his head. A long white beard reaches down to his chestplate, framing a mouth featuring canines so large it never fully closes. In his gauntleted hands he casually holds a massive double-bladed Frost Axe. As he speaks his fingers gently move across the rune work engraved on its haft.

“The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten.
But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor.
All-Father willing, we will all return to the Chapters we hail from; ready to strengthen our brothers from what we have learned, more adaptable to their needs, all because we were Deathwatch!
You will have stood as a bulkward against the never ending dark. It is in our strength that mankind finds it salvation. They will never know, there will be no thanks. We have stood the Watch for over ten thousand years, and if the Throne needs, ten thousand more. Accolades should matter little to us, for we fight in the shadows and so in the shadows we must remain.”

“Once you pass through these doors,” - gesturing to a set of massive doors behind him-“there is no going back. You will be bolted into power armor. You left shoulder will bear the icon of our holy order. The right will remain the icon of your Chapter. Your service honors both and betrayal is a betrayal to both. The rest of your armor is black, expect for left arm, made silver. You don the black to cloak yourself in darkness, for the shadows are your ally. Think on that a moment.”

Two servitors shamble in from the shadows. One is carrying a tripod stand of black iron, the other a dish filled with red-hot coals. They placed these things nearest Chaplain Archomedes before disappearing back into the dark. From his belt, Chaplain Archomedes pulls out a steel rod with the skull-and-bones icon of the watch and rests the tip in the fire.

The Watch Commander continues to speak, his golden eyes locking with yours…
“Do you swear your loyal service to the Deathwatch for so long as it is needed?
Do you swear to stand tall beside your fellow Space Marines, no matter their Chapter, no matter the scars of the past, to fight against the xenos threat side-by-side at the cost of your life?
Do you swear to pledge your soul to the holding of this order’s doctrines, laws and secrets?
Swear now and hold these above all else, or lose all memory of your time here and returned to your Chapter a disgrace…” ((#2))

The Watch Commander turned his eyes to Chaplain Archomedes and nods. Archomedes moves to pull the now white-hot brand from the coals and approaches.
“Ready yourself to accept the mark of your covenant Duty and honor are never to be forgotten.” ((#3))
((#4)) ((#5))

Time moved in a blur. How many cycles had passed, Daelon didn't know. He had stopped keeping count, because ultimately it did not matter. What mattered was the mission - whenever and whatever it may be. He maintained his physique and mental fortitude, training and running drills until his body could move on autopilot so that his mind could focus on the minutia of battle. It had been said that the Skitarii and Tech Priests of the Mechanicum could relay orders to multiple coordinating units in the midst of melee combat without breaking their stride or rhythm. That was how he felt during his most recent combat runs: mire machine than man, separated from its consciousness, issuing directives without a second thought.

His "down time" kept him level. Between combat training with Captain McGarrack, Daelon took meals and studied in his cell. He had not seen his hallowed armor since it had been removed in the Apothecarium by the rambling Marine Errant and every ounce of his being wanted to lash out and rage because of it. He kept that in check by studying the Codex, and pushing himself to his limits in the hypno-indoctrination chambers. Studying the enemies he was sworn to slain brought him solace from the reality of the fact that he had been forced to slay those loyal to the Imperium only recently. It was not his place to question orders, but the betrayal he had enacted upon those men, however menial it may have seemed to an Astartes of a different Chapter, lay heavy upon his heart. They had died bravely and with honor - and most surprisingly willingly - but the fact that they had to die by his hand and not holding the line against one of the myriad of Mankind's enemies bit and tugged at Daelon's conscious.

A knock on the door of his spartan cell brought him from the midst of one of his solemn reveries.

"Enter." Daelon stood tall and proud, his yellow hair pulled back into the same warrior's-knot he sported during battle. He had been running combat simulations so often that it had not made sense to remove it. Bathing and cleaning himself had not been a priority and he could only imagine how he smelled, though he cared little. Bright eyes stared ahead as a monstrous figure in the tell-tale armor of a Chaplain entered his cell.

The door hissed closed as two servo-skulls floated in behind him and the two found themselves shut inside of a cell that only just accommodated them. The newcomer stood with his hands behind his back and looked around the cell, taking a momentary interest in the reading material laid out on the desk in the corner. After a moment he spoke.

"I am Chaplain Archomedes of the Silver Skulls. Well met, Sergeant Daelon of the Storm Wardens. Your reputation precedes you." He gives a slight bow before adding, "please have a seat." Although it was posed as a request, it was very much an order. Daelon stood for a moment, attempting to peer into the soulless master-crafted silver polished skull-helm of the Chaplain, but he was not giving an inch. The Storm Warden did see himself in those optics-lenses, however. He looked harder than he remembered, as if the mental strain of what he had been through had left a scar upon his features. His eyes, normally so bright and full of energy and life looked worn and tired. Perhaps he had been pushing himself too hard, eager to erase the memory of what he considered deceit and dishonor from his mind. Reluctant, Daelon took a seat on his cot, ready for whatever was to come.

Archomedes stood as still as a statue, his power armored body towering over the Storm Warden sergeant. He spoke with his external vox at a low setting, coming forth as almost a whisper or an echo of words spoken from far away. "You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure and indeed it was. In fact, I am told that your body held out much longer than the rest of the initiates, a testament to the toughness of your Chapter and the resolve for which you are known. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit and I spoke at length with Captain McGarrack concerning your training regimen and the ultimate results of it." He waited a moment, ever the orator, to allow his words to sink in. "You are wondering then why I am here, no doubt. For even one with high accolades such as yours can be troubled beyond salvation; has history not taught us the price of hubris, the gravity of ambition, and the damnation of doubt? Was Horus himself not the favored son of the Emperor, blessed be thy name, and we all know the folly of his pride, ambition and doubt." The name of the Arch-traitor stirred the embers of a ten-thousand year old fire inside of Daelon and it took all of his self discipline not to charge at the Chaplain for hinting their may be a connection between himself and the enemy. Sensing this, Archomedes remained motionless, ever peering into the Storm Warden before him.

After a few moments he continued, "I am here to weigh your very soul, Brother Sergeant.” His voice was light with a gentle cadence to his inflection. "I am here to ensure that you are as sound inside as you appear to be outside."

***

Hours passed, perhaps even days. Daelon did not break. The intimidation had little effect on him and his mind was like a steel trap. Every attempt at breaking it open had resulted in a resounding failure on Archomedes part and his frustration was evident in the speed at which his questioning started to take. Daelon did not tire under the assault, nor did he let his anger get the better of him. He was controlled and disciplined.

"Sergeant Daelon, why is it that you apparently cannot follow orders?"

Daelon said nothing. He had an idea of where this was going but he would not allow himself to be walked into the firing squad that the Silver Skull was setting up.

"Do you normally need to be told twice to carry out your mission?" Archomedes was unrelenting. The air was stale and warm, having been recycled at a faster rate now that the mass in the room had effectively doubled.

"No, brother-Chaplain, unless of course the orders are contrary to my Oath as an Astartes of the Storm Wardens."

"Is your Oath not to follow the orders of your superiors? Surely killing the enemy disgraces no other Oaths you may have taken." His voice still a whisper, the Chaplain had been saving this. "Your mission in the Training Grounds has proved that perhaps you aren't the model of loyalty you appear to be."

"Had an enemy combatant been placed before me, its death would have been swift and without mercy. yet, I found no xenos, no heretic, nor traitor before me. Only a group of men who could have served out their last days in service to the Emperor." Daelon's voice was growing louder as the memory of the Guardsmen dying under his blade replayed in his mind. He was almost saddened to find that his mind immediately went to mistakes in his form or blade work that were the result of hesitance on his part and how he should correct himself.

"So..." Archomedes took a step forward, "You faltered. You hesitated and in this Vigil hesitation is death!" The Chaplain's external vox switched from a whisper to a shout in the blink of an eye and it nearly startled Daelon into a fighting stance. For his part, he remained seated, glaring at Archomedes.

"Should this situation repeat itself in the field, what then? You would risk the lives of your Kill Team, of your brothers due to a hesitance to carry out your orders?"

"Those 'orders' were contrar-" He was not allowed to finish. A hand shot out, faster than he could react and in a moment he was at the mercy of the Silver Skull. A crushing strength enhanced by the might of power armor enveloped Daelon's throat. He was strong, but the Chaplain was stronger. Daelon held futilely onto Archomedes' armored gauntlet, trying without success to remove it. He felt the oxygen supply to his brain get low as his vision blurred and knew that his primary and secondary hearts were working overtime in conjunction with his third lung to oxygenate his blood.

"Contrary to your Oath?" His voice still a shout, Daelon knew that he had but moments before he passed out. "Your Oaths prior to this day mean nothing, sergeant! You fret for the lives of a squad that had been condemned by the Emperor and for them you would hesitate in your duty, and at what cost? You would see your squad die for a hesitation? You would watch a hive fall to a genestealer infestation to a hesitation? You would condemn a planet to exterminatus for a hesitation?!"

Daelon's eyes grew heavy, but heavier still were the words of the Chaplain. For as much as he hated the Silver Skull at this moment, sergeant Daelon knew he was right. Archomedes reared back and threw Daelon into the northern wall of his cell. The cracks and dried blood from earlier had not been removed and it was as fitting a place as any for him to be.

"We do not get the privilege to hesitate in the line of duty, sergeant. You have taken the black now and had better learn that if you and your men are to survive the trials to come. We do not hold the line nor do we bolster spirits. We are the shadows in the dark that ensure the Imperium continues along its righteous path to glory in the cosmos. You will be tasked with sacrificing the few to ensure the existence of the many..." Archomedes external vox moved back to a whisper, as if acting without orders but sensing the Chaplain's mood. Somber and almost regrettably he added, "This I can promise you."

Daelon righted himself against the wall, hating that he was not clad in his armor and ready to return the physical pain, but hating even more that the Chaplain had been right. He stood and breathed in a gulp of air, staring into the optical lenses of the Silver Skull. "So, what now, Chaplain?"

Archomedes dug into a satchel at his side for a moment, eventually producing a robe of the darkest blacks. "Now you don the black and make yourself ready. You have proven to be exceptionally strong, Brother Sergeant and I can see that Captains McGarrack and Haeron were correct in their assessments of you. I fear not for your physical capability, but you would do well to remember your place and what is expected of you. The lives of the few do not outweigh the lives of the many. You will be summoned. The Emperor protects, Brother Sergeant Daelon of the Storm Wardens."

***

The summoning happened quicker than Daelon had expected. A single servitor led him down hallways and past rooms he had never spied before. He had an idea of how big the facility was, but this unexpected tour was evidence that his estimations, as grand as they were, were too small. Finally they stopped before two large adamantine double doors with the Imperial Aquila borne into the center. The servitor stood motionless and silent beside it, bowing low to acknowledge the presence of his better.

Daelon took in a deep breath and pushed. A grand hall sprawled out before him, its immensity but a taste of the awe inspiring forms of sixty-six Astartes standing at parade rest donning the same black robes Daelon found himself in. The servitor moved ahead of him, beckoning him to follow and led him to a spot next to five other Astartes. They stared straight ahead and Daelon did not have to be told how to act. Standing at parade rest along with the rest of them, he awaited whatever was to come with a mixture of elation, excitement and the dread of failure.

You will not fail, son of Sacris.

Huge braziers of incense hung from walls lined with candles and dimly lit holo-globes. Cherubesque servitors flew from the top of the hall and around the banisters, trailing smoke-lined paths of incense wherever they went. Ahead of the initiates stood the familiar faces of Watch Captains Kyro and McGarrick, Apothecary Haeron and the much more recently familiar Silver Skulled helm of Chaplain Archomedes. They stood before the immense form of an Astartes straight out of legend. The figure was so huge that he appeared to be a statue only giving away that he was in fact a living Astartes as he turned to face the delegation of initiates and officers.

The Watch Commander. He was one of the largest Space Wolves Daelon had ever laid eyes on, enhanced by his master-worked suit of Tactical-Dreadnaught "Terminator" armor and the proud Storm Warden had to imagine that he probably gave even Logan Grimnar a run for his money in the training cages. He cradled a massive double headed power axe as though it were a tooth pick in front of a beard that reached down to the front of his chest plate. His feral grin was made even more savage by the mohawk of white hair complimented on either side with tattoos of the Fenrisian language. Daelon swelled with pride to be in the presence of a warrior of such obvious repute and lineage.

With a deep, throaty growl, softly he spoke…

“One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whore's son Horus saw to that.” He said with a dark chuckle.

At the mention of the arch traitor, the second time since he had begun his initiation, Daelon tensed with anger. He could feel it around him as well. No other name was as hated, reviled and despised as that of Horus - his legion - and all of those who followed him into damnation so many hundreds of centuries ago.

The Watch Commander continued, “The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten. But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor." His words resounded in Daelon's heart, for surely his trial had been one of the hardest he had yet faced in his life and he was quickly learning that his view of the galaxy was too straight forward, too black and white. If he had to skirt the gray line in between, then so be it. He had been chosen for a reason and he would be damned if he brought dishonor to his Chapter as a result of hesitation.

Eventually the Watch Commander gestured the recruits to a set of double doors, beyond which they would receive their armor and ready themselves for glory.

An eagerness filled his soul as he approached. He would be reacquainted his his cherished battle plate. It was an honor beyond words to wear such an ancient suit of armor; worn into battle against the arch enemy themselves during days that had largely been relegated to myth and legend. To be tasked with preserving such a namesake for his Chapter was on par with the highest of honors. A pair of servitors made their way to him, holding a brazier of red hot coals. The seal of initiation, thought Daelon. So be it. He stepped up to the coals as Chaplain Archomedes flanked him producing a branding iron from a satchel at his belt. He thrusted it into the middle of the coals, while he stared at Daelon. Unflinching.

The Watch Commander continued speaking, intoning what must have been ancient words that secured the loyalty of the Astartes before him. Daelon's Oath of Moment had come. He faced the Watch Commander taking a knee and bowing his head. "I, Sergeant Daelon McCullagh, Storm Wardens 2nd Company, Fourth tactical squad, swear before you today on my honor that my life is dedicated to the Long Watch for as long until my service is no longer needed or I die in the line of duty. I swear to stand loyal beside Astartes of any creed or Chapter. No longer bound by ancient feuds, I swear Brotherhood to any and all who wear the Black against any threat to the Imperium of Man." The cadence of his voice grew as the magnitude of the Oath rested firmly upon his heart.

He looked up to the Watch Commander and stood, his arms folded over his chest in the sign of the Aquila as he spoke. "I pledge my soul to the keeping of the Deathwatch's traditions, doctrines, laws and secrets. In the eyes of all of my Ancestors who now stand at the side of the Emperor, I pledge my service to the Deathwatch. I pledge my honor to the black."

There was movement to his side, but Daelon didn't take his eyes off of the great wolf in front of him. He saw his future in the eyes of the Son of Russ, and he saw greatness, honor and service. A voice trailed to him from the left. Archomedes.

"Do not forget about our conversation, Sergeant. Carry it with you always. Constantly remember my face and with it the weight of which we spoke." He pressed the brand into the Storm Warden's arm, holding it there. Daelon grit his teeth and took it, but the Chaplain did not let up. "Should you fail, remember that you had the chance to prevent it. We always have the chance to prevent it." The brand remained in place and the smell of burning flesh filtered through with the incense. Daelon thought of failure, he thought of dead worlds and broken Astartes, and he screamed.

None gathered so much as flinched, such was their discipline. Daelon stood and the entirety of the group saluted the newest brother to take the black. With a return salute, he walked on legs of pride through the doors to re-arm himself.

***

Servitors and war smiths toiled and moved with purpose. Each piece of his Mk. V battle plate was meticulously polished and form fitted onto his armored body glove. Each time an interface plug was fitted to his black carapace from the corresponding piece of armor, a thrill of exhilaration surged through his veins. It had felt like decades since he had donned it last and the refitting of it was very much a reuniting of old friends. Daelon could practically feel the ancient spirits of his often unfairly named "Heresy" armor surge with excitement as interfaces were re-united with carapace.

It had been repainted black as promised, the color of the void. Gone was the dark blue and gray hues consistent with the legacy of his Chapter. A jet black sheen covered the layered ablative-ceramite, flexsteel and adamantine layers. The tell-tale studs of the Mk. V plate seemed to blend with one another, so black they now where. The left arm and shoulder pauldron sported a new electro-plated silver sheen. The silver, bright and shining and emblazoned with the "I" and skull of the Deathwatch and matching couter would take some getting used to. But, as far as Daelon could tell the ancient Machine Spirits of the armor were well-pleased with the care given to them from the Deathwatch artificers.

However, with a careful eye he could still see where the blood stain on the lower left of the abdomen was almost covered up by the new paint with only the slightest hint of an outline remaining. It was a stain that had been there for as long as he could remember and try as they might, no artificer could remove it. He did not mind; it was a constant reminder of the price of duty and the ultimate price each and every Astartes would someday have to pay. This suit had history indeed, and history was rarely a story of glory without cost. The blood was testament to that.

He felt whole again standing in the full splendor of his terrifying armor. Enhanced external vox-amplifiers had been reworked into the collar some centuries prior and a brilliant heraldry of battles won and enemies bested had been laser-etched into the breast-plate. He donned his battle-helm last, staring hard at the Iron Skull Honors situated in the center of it. He knew Brother Sergeant Rayden was watching from the Emperor's side and took heart in that. He took the helmet and touched his forehead to the Iron Skull. It felt cold against his skin and he welcomed the sensation. "I will do your memory proud, brother."

Speaking the proper rites, he donned the battle-helm, feeling the hiss of compression as it sealed him off from the outside environment. His HUD readout shined a soft light green inside of his lenses, giving him readings and information on everything from environmental conditions to distances and windage as well as a live-feed of his life support and armor's vitals systems. He was ready.

Armed and armored for war, Daelon was a sight to behold. His Mk. IV Bolter rested around his large frame from a leather strap and his bolt pistol hung off of his left thigh in a drp holster. Extra ammo magazines had been laid out next to the weapons and he took his time locking and loading his primary weapon platforms, ensuring the the proper rites had been adhered to. His Sacris Claymore was sheathed at his back and he itched to pull it forth once more. Fragmentary and the anti-armor Krak grenades looped off of his belt, as well as two blind grenades supplied by his benefactors. He itched to get into an armory to get properly kitted out with everything he would need for whatever mission was ahead, but he had confidence that he would do exactly that soon enough.

It was time to move out. There would be ample time for armament requisition after his mission briefing, and Daelon was as eager as a brand new scout to meet his Kill Team and engage the enemy.

He marched back into the hall of initiates, and spared a glance at the grizzled Space Wolf Watch Commander. He gave a nod of respect, feeling both prouder and more able again in his armor. He spared a moment to stare into that leering skull-helm of the Chaplain Archomedes. He said nothing, going over again in his head the conversation they had had. If the Chaplain had any parting words he kept them to himself. Taking his leave, the Storm Warden sergeant made his way past the other initiates and off to the landing bay.

***
The Thunderhawk whined and screamed quad core extra-atmospheric engines primed and warmed up for take off. The ship itself was as black as night and Daelon caught the faint glimpse of Serf pilots prepping the machine spirits inside the cockpit. Without a look back, the invigorated Storm Warden made his way onto the boat.

Captain McGarrack had somehow beaten him to the punch. Daelon should not have been surprised, but still found himself gawking slightly under his battle-helm. McGarrick stood and slammed a closed palm against his breast-plate: the ancient salute of the tribesmen of Sacris. "Well done, brother Daelon," he said with a toothy smile, his battle-helm clipped at his belt. "I was pulling for you, lad."

"I think your judgement may have been slightly biased from the start, Captain." Daelon nodded his head slightly to the right, indicating the matching shoulder pauldron they each shared.

"On the contrary, it is because of that heraldry on your shoulder that I did not like you from the moment I laid eyes on you. What would be more shameful than a young Astartes from home coming here and making an arse of himself, mucking up my name and that of the Wardens. But you didn't do that, did you, sergeant?"

Daelon remained quiet. He had learned in their interactions to let Captain McGarrack talk out his entire line of thought without interruption; there was more to this Marine than just strength and toughness. On rare occasions, he had been capable of vast insight as well. Daelon suspected this might be one of those moments. Soon enough the Captain continued, "You impressed me, lad. Throne, you even impressed old Haeron with your stubbornness to succumb to his meds while you were under the knife. I wonder, did you impress Chaplain Archomedes?"

Daelon motioned toward his neck and a few moments later the hiss of depressurization fills the air. Taking off his helm and clipping it to his belt, Daelon looked McGarrack in the eyes. The moment seemed to go on forever, as if McGarrack were about to bear the brunt of Daelon's anger.

He leaned in close to the Captain. Unblinking. Unflinching.

"...Has he been talking in his sleep again?"

The roaring laughter from McGarrack startled the serf pilots as they made the Thunderhawk ready for flight. After he calmed down from the tense moment turned comedic at his expense, he motioned for Daelon to strap in. Daelon did so and offered a nod of respect to the Captain. He highly doubted he left an impression on the pious Silver Skull, and if he did he very much doubted it was anything positive. The memory of their last meeting was still fresh in his mind, and he imagined it would be until the day he left his more-than-mortal shell to stand beside the Emperor and the unknown Primarch. Putting it out of his mind, he focused on what was to come. He would earn glory for the Deathwatch, for his brothers and for the Storm Wardens.

"Lo' there and so it begins, lad," said the Captain, hints of a smile still played at the corners of his mouth.

"Lo' there do I see the line of my ancestors, back to the beginning, in the halls of the Emperor," replied Daelon, repeating the ancient Storm Warden chant.

"So, it begins."

Time ebbs and flows with the passing of memories fond and feared. It was no challenge to be left to his own devices, for the Guardians of the Covenant were always finding ways to sneak off and learn a bit more than the rest. Makradon was no different from his brothers. He had calculated the many cycles that passed from his trials against the human genestealer hybrid, each cycle giving him the opportunity for study and reflection. Well, that and hard training. During this time, Makradon focused on intelligence as much as he focused on physical perfection and monotonous drills. Intelligence was key to the destruction of enemies. It was the key to life. Eventually after the weeks of solitude and drills, tests and sparring practices, studying and tinkering with his mechanical inputs, Makradon’s solitude and focus is interrupted by a knock at the door.

A solid figure enters the room, as Makradon stands to greet him. The Chaplain holds up a hand as the tech marine is about to speak, silencing him. There would be no need for introductions or common courtesies. No, none of that mattered in this room for the time being. The Silver Skulls Chaplain seals the door behind him and steps into the room, his satchels and scrolls, trinkets and parchments dangling from his waist. He stands tall over Makradon, which is not a task easily accomplished. The tech marine peers into the gleaming helm, catching a glimpse of his mechanical features, naked for the world to see without his beloved Power Armor. Through the permeable silence, the Chaplain’s voice stays low and to the point. “You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.” His voice is light with a gentle cadence to his inflection.

The Apothecary motions for Makradon to sit down across from him. This isn’t going to be fun… Makradon thinks to himself before taking the seat and staring once again into the Silver Skull’s helmet visor, awaiting the first of many questions. For hours and hours, he tries to find the inkling that will set Makradon off. He berates and questions, blames and vilifies, stinging accusations towards the tech marine. A mental pounding of his inner sanity takes place, but the Chaplain can’t seemingly pinpoint any flaw in the Initiate before him.

Until finally, he hits home.

“Makradon, tell me about Hephaestus.”

The words hit Makradon like the talons of a Carnifex, straight to his core, reaching down to the very fibers of his soul, wrenching them apart and stirring up emotions long buried beneath the metal of his mechanical body. For a moment, Makradon brings his right hand up, balled into a fist, but quickly he dismisses the idea and lowers it once again. How?

“Must I repeat myself! Tell me of Hephaestus!” The Chaplain’s soft voice curdles into a violent scream, the fury of it rebounding off the walls and filling Makradon’s ears.
In an instant, Makradon’s memories flee to the surface of his mind and he catches them all into a single solitary teardrop, falling down and splashing onto the surface of the metal table in front of him. He brings his mechanical arms up and cradles his head, ready to burst with anxiety and anger, rage and loathing. Sadness and fear.
“Was he not a great friend of yours in the early days of your initiation into the Guardians? Were you both not sent to Mars to train as Adepts of the Mechanicus? Were you both not enamored with the pursuit of knowledge?” The Chaplain keeps his voice raised, penetrating and cold.

Makradon breathes heavily into his hands, before looking straight at the Chaplain, his eyes red and bulging. No…no…shut your mouth…you know nothing…

“And did he not---,”the Chaplain starts.

“---fall into Chaos. Yes, that is the Hephaestus you are referring to, is it not?” Makradon finishes for the Chaplain before banging his hands down on the table, crushing in the metal and creating indentions that would not soon come out.

“Twisted by corruption and Chaos, turned into the very embodiment of evil and ruin, right before your very eyes. Turned not by some sorcerous item, nor by some other foul Chaos-driven Astartes whispering into his ear. But by the very knowledge he loved so dearly. Driven into the realm of the Ruinous Powers by the very intelligence he wished to gain.” The Chaplain reaches out and grabs the Tech-Marine’s hands holding him in place, unable to move from his current position. He gets up close to the mechanical eyes implanted in Makradon’s face, inches away, before whispering a silent, solitary handful of words.

“What makes you so different?”

And with that, he pushes the hulking Makradon out of his chair and onto the floor, standing up from the table and looking down on the would-be Deathwatch member.
“Knowledge is power, my dear Tech Marine. Knowledge is life. Knowledge is illumination. Oh yes, it is all these things and more. But knowledge is also deceit. Knowledge is insidious. Knowledge is death.” He flicks down a black robe, the cloth hitting Makradon in the stomach.

“Remember what knowledge is, Makradon. Remember what it can be. And most importantly, remember what it can do.” He pauses for a brief moment, and Makradon knows that the mighty Chaplain is caught in his own web of thoughts. He shakes his head and looks back down.

“It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.”
And with that, the Chaplain leaves, expectant that the studious Tech Marine knows what to do next.

---

The servitor came in the next few hours, silent and blank-faced as ever. Makradon greeted him nicely, knowing that even the men made into machines had some life left. He always liked to believe that anyway. He follows the servitor down the hallways and into a grand hall, the likes of which Makradon could never have imagined, the rocky formation carved out into an immense room. 66 Astartes stand stationary in the room before him, clad in black with their hoods down, obscuring their faces from view. Makradon walks down the lines and finds his place next to five other brothers at the front, coming to a parade rest like the rest of them. Strong incense wafts into the room, braziers lit in all the corners creating an immense amount of light and equal number of shadows.
Well, this is the end. One way or another…

Makradon looked up before him and spied the familiar faces of the Watch Captins Kyro and McGarrack, along with his newfound friend Haeron and his newfound torturer Archomedes. They all faced the assembly before them with reverence and calm, bowed heads in deference to a giant statue sitting in between them all. But wait…And before he can finish his thought, the statue begins to move about, forming into the most massive Astartes that Makradon had ever seen. His eyes went wide at the sight, as the ceramite scratched on the stone below.

The Watch Commander.

With a deep, throaty growl, one of the most revered and respected leaders in the Imperium begins to speak.
“One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of the his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whores-son Horus saw to that.” He said with a dark chuckle.

Makradon stiffens at the mention of the foulest enemy to ever give breath in the Imperium. Horus.One couldn’t measure the amount of loathing that filled that grand hall in the mentioning of his name. One wouldn’t want to.

“The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten. But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor.
All-Father willing, we will all return to the Chapters we hail from; ready to strengthen our brothers from what we have learned, more adaptable to their needs, all because we were Deathwatch! You will have stood as a bulkward against the never ending dark. It is in our strength that mankind finds it salvation. They will never know, there will be no thanks. We have stood the Watch for over ten thousand years, and if the Throne needs, ten thousand more. Accolades should matter little to us, for we fight in the shadows and so in the shadows we must remain.”

Makradon smiles beneath his hood. The Watch Commander’s words resonate through him with a pride and intensity most likely not felt by others in the room. For a Guardian of the Covenant to join the ranks of the Deathwatch was a rare event indeed. Not many had served the Long Watch, but those that had brought honor and strength back to the Guardians. Makradon was eager to do the same. Knowledge wouldn’t get in his way. He would be damned to let the same fate consume him. Knowledge would only bolster him and his squad. He would master it, it would not master him.

“Once you pass through these doors,” - gesturing to a set of massive doors behind him-“there is no going back. You will be bolted into power armor. You left shoulder will bear the icon of our holy order. The right will remain the icon of your Chapter. Your service honors both and betrayal is a betrayal to both. The rest of your armor is black, expect for left arm, made silver. You don the black to cloak yourself in darkness, for the shadows are your ally. Think on that a moment.”

As the Watch Commander continues his speech, servitors come forward and bring braziers filled with red hot coals in them. Archomedes steps forward and fishes an item from one of his many bags, resting the tip of the instrument into the flaming hot coals. He peers into the eyes of Makradon.

“I, Tech Adept Makradon Ipsum, Guardians of the Covenant 1st Company, swear my service to the Deathwatch for as long as I am needed or until my death. I swear to stand beside my brothers and to never let ones’ Chapter bear any reflection of his character, and, in so doing, fight against the xenos threat side-by-side at the cost of my own life. I swear to uphold all the doctrines, secret or otherwise, for it is my sworn duty to protect these doctrines with my very life. On my honor as a Guardian of the Covenant, a Space Marine, and a Mechanicum Adept, I swear these things to you.”

At the exact moment he finishes, Archomedes moves in, speaking a short phrase that many had heard before and many would hear in the future. “Ready yourself to accept the mark of your covenant. Duty and honor are never to be forgotten.” He presses the brand to Makradon’s arm, pushing down with a mighty force, willing the Tech Marine to scream out in pain. Makradon holds for as long as he can before emitting a sharp cry of pain. Archomedes steps back, eyeing the marine and nodding his head in apparent satisfaction. The ritual was complete.

Makradon stepped forward and made his way through the giant doors in front of him, eager to get back to his sacred power armor.

---

The steam and oil in the air reminded Makradon of Mars, the Mechanicum, and all those memories flooded into his mind as each piece of black armor connected with his mechanical body once again. The Mk. VII may not be one of the oldest models of Power Armor around, but this piece was one of the most fearsome. The black paint could not blot out the splashes of blood and gore that covered the beautifully crafted armor. Makradon had heard tale of the great Guardian of the Covenant Malacore, 2nd Company, who wore this armor before him.

Malacore had been an assault marine, the best of the bunch, excelling through his Neophyte training and initiation by cleaving through his enemies and trials alike. This did not stop on the battlefield for he took it to the enemy every chance he had, leading his assault team through the thickest fighting in the Halo Stars. He assailed the enemy, butchering their limbs and crushing their heads. The blood splatter on his armor was apparent after every engagement and it would never wash off, despite the work of the servitors and adepts. It appeared that the Power Armor had taken a liking to the gore presented to it. Still gives me chills every time…

Once armored, Malacore positioned his mechadendrites and other cybernetics in the right position, strapping his helm to his belt. He said a quick prayer to the Omnissiah for the protection and care of his armor and weapons, and another to the Emperor for the protection of his body and soul. After all was said and done, Makradon stepped back through the hall looking at none before him and heading for the Thunderhawk that would take him to the stars.

---

As he boarded the Thunderhawk, Makradon noticed another Storm Warden with Captain McGarrack. He nodded to the both of them as he took a seat next to the one whose name he did not yet know.

“Makradon, Guardian of the Covenant, Tech Adept. Pleasure to meet you, brother Storm Warden…or should I say…Deathwatch Battle Brother instead?” Makradon smiles at the last part of his dialogue, knowing that all the trials and tribulations were over. He had made it and was eager to get on with it.

“You may not be the best with a chainsword or a bolter, my tech marine friend, but you sure as hell could always talk me to death in those training sessions,” the Watch Captain says as Makradon sits beside him and the other. “Haeron always told me about your talks and how that big old brain of yours would do well for the Deathwatch. Glad to see you made it to us.”

“An honor to be here.”

[OOC: Not sure if this is breaking protocol, feel free to delete it if you please, GM]

Daelon extends his forearm in a warrior's shake, this newcomer now as close a battle brother as any of the Wardens of his company back on Sacris.

"Neither," he says responding to the question of which title he should be addressed.

"Call me Daelon. Well met. Storm Wardens, 2nd Company, 4th Tactical Squad." He gives the Techmarine a once over and nods in approval. To a Storm Warden, Techmarines were always a boon to have on a squad. He was glad that they would have that level of technical support on their missions. "We are brothers now, but I prefer to keep things simple." A first name basis was how Daelon preferred it; each brother was now reliant on the other and the mission would change considerably from how they were used to training. The closer the faster the better.

Many cycles passed with Alaric kneeling with his back to the entrance of the cell, his hands locked together in prayer and his lips rapidly flapping to silently intone the appropriate catechisms and mottos. The wound he had received from the kroot across his brow had healed over with very little scarring, only the small white puckering of flesh showing its effect. His short cropped blonde hair matted against his brow from sweat as he kept his Scholar’s robe over his body, the humidity of his cell getting to him. “My faith is my shield, and my faith in the Emperor the barrier which guards my mind,” he muttered as he stared at the wall in front of him. The cell was lit by a single guttering candle that flickered, casting ghostly shadows upon the walls, dark, questing shadows that reached for the Dark Angel, but never seemed to reach him. It was then that he thought about his Chapter Master’s parting words. “Find the fallen, and make them repent, Brother.”

Finally reeling back into his own body, Alaric quickened his death-like pulse with a few deep breaths and stood up, taking a seat on his bed. Clenching his hands into fists, he gritted his teeth and thought about the traitors of Caliban. He had only learned about it recently, but the more that Azrael had told him, the more that it angered him, but the further the rabbit hole went down, the more it scared him. The thought that one who had been so close to the Lion, and so faithful to the Emperor could stage a rebellion, turning brother against brother…it lit a spark of fear in him, fear that he too could quickly be turned away from the Emperor’s light into the Dark Powers’ service, that he too would become…Unforgiven…Grinding his teeth and shaking his head, Alaric rejected the thought. His faith in the Emperor was absolute, and his belief unwavering. He would not fall into the same pit that those scum had willingly dug themselves. He was pure, he was a guardian of their geneseed, a position given only to those who were trusted. He would not turn to the Fallen.

At the end of that thought, he heard the sound of his cell unlock, the telltale clank of bars and stone dragging him out of his reverie. Standing up, Alaric spotted the figure of a giant moving towards him, its large, metalshod feet clanking on the ground towards him. Finally, its form was illuminated by the guttering candle. A chaplain. Alaric was at once both relieved, yet terrified. His limbs froze in place, and his face locked into a scowl. As the Chaplain drew closer, Alaric spotted the heraldry of the Silver Skulls on his shoulder, but that view quickly disappeared as the leering skull helm came closer. As it drew into range, Alaric could see his face reflected in the polished silver. His hood obscured most of his face, but he could see rivulets of sweat, almost tear-like, running down his face, as well as his pearly white teeth ground against each other. In the Dark Angels, the appearance of a Chaplain, especially Master of Repentance Asmodai, rarely meant anything good. It often meant that the higher echelons of the chapter doubted your faith or sanity, and that fear was transferred to Alaric now which, compounded with his previous fear, froze him in place, his body refusing to respond to any commands. Finally, the chaplain spoke, his voice refined and light, with a pleasant cadence to it.

“You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.”
“I…I submit myself into your keeping…” Alaric stammered, his voice uneven. The weak reply seemed to disappoint Archomedes , which Alaric could sense even through the rictus skull mask. “Take a seat, Apothecary Alaric of the Dark Angels,” he said, pulling the metal chair over from the simply study desk and taking a seat, “my name is Chaplain Archomedes of the Silver Skulls, and I expect you to be completely honest with me. I know how you Dark Angels are, after all.”. Behind him, two servo-skulls hovered into place, one writing something down on parchment while the other seemed to just stare at Alaric, but after a quick examination, the Apothecary could not spot anything wrong with it. The words, however, shook the Apothecary, making him narrow his eyes at the Chaplain. Did the man know about their past? Impossible. The brothers who know about it all swore complete secrecy, even at the cost of their own life. But… something about this man made Alaric think that he would be the one to out his Chapter’s secret. He inwardly gulped as his eyes met the Chaplain’s. Slowly, Alaric sat down onto his hard bed, his eyes never leaving the twin red slits of the chaplain.

“The Apothecary tells me that you are knowledgeable in your use of medicae and instruments,” Archomedes said, taking out a scroll from his belt, presumably with gathered details about Alaric. Wordlessly, Alaric nodded, but it seemed like the Chaplain did not accept it. “Answer me, Apothecary,” the chaplain said, a hint of impatience drifting into his otherwise stoic voice. The sheer aura of hatred that the man gave out overwhelmed Alaric, choking his throat with its miasma. “I..I am, Chaplain,” Alaric said after a moment’s hesitation, his mind still reeling from his earlier heretical thoughts. Would this chaplain find his doubts? Feeling a bit of confidence as the conversation strayed into familiar grounds, Alaric took a deep breath. “I am aware of the workings of the Astartes body and the mechanisms of its healing. I have constructed my own Narthe-“
“I did not ask for the content of the knowledge, Apothecary, simply that you knew of it,” the Chaplain said evenly, the servo-skull behind him chattering as it wrote something down. The sound unnerved Alaric when it was combined with the intimidating atmosphere of the Chaplain. A moment of silence passed as their eyes locked. “He also told me, however, that you are too zealous in your duty,” Archomedes said as he moved further down the vellum parchment. Alaric’s mind drifted back to the words of Apothecary Haeron back in the Apothecarium. Alaric glared at the Chaplain. “My decision remains the same, Chaplain. I stand and fight with my brothers. I do not flee with my tail between my legs. With the divine providence of the emperor I-“ A sudden punch to his gut, enhanced by power armour, winded the Apothecary. The Chaplain sat down again, the miasma of hatred thickening in the air. “You misuse the emperor’s name, Dark Angel,” the Chaplain hissed, “your youth betrays you, and you blaspheme against the Emperor.” Gasping for air as he dragged himself back up to a standing position, Alaric continued to glare into the eyes of the Chaplain, his gaze unrelenting. “Know your place in the squad, Apothecary, if you are the singe surviving member, and the mission is not able to be completed, your duty is to return the geneseed of your brothers.” Archomedes said as he reopened the scroll, “do not forget this.”
“I shall…keep…it in mind…” Alaric managed in between gasps for breath.

As Alaric managed to regain his breath, the Chaplain finally said something after what seemed like an eternity of silence. “What do you know of…the Fallen, Apothecary?” Archomedes asked, his voice once more calm, even and sibilant. His mental defences already buckling under the constant assault of the chaplain, the simple question visibly riled Alaric, whose eyes widened in surprise at the mention. His mouth flapped open before he mastered himself, managing to stop anything coming out. “The Fallen are another name used for the followers of Chao-“ he started, before he was abruptly cut off.

Suddenly, the Chaplain’s gauntlet shot out and gripped the front of Alaric’s Scholar’s Robe, lifting him up off his feet and closer to the Chaplain’s mask, its silver skull glaring angrily at him.”Tell me. Now.” the Chaplain hissed as he drew the Apothecary closer. His mind scrabbled for something, anything. “The Fallen Angels are another name that we Dark Angels give to the traitors of Horus-“ Alaric tried again, his hands gripping the armoured gauntlet of Archomedes as he righted himself. Now, however, steeled by duty, he was a little bit less terrified of the Marine in front of him.
“Your lies are as visible as your false faith, Apothecary,” The Chaplain replied, shaking him by the robe, “I know that this term bears special meaning to your Chapter, and I will stop at nothing to find it!”

Looking down at the Chaplain as he held him above his head, Alaric locked down his remaining mental barriers and stared into the Chaplain’s blank eyepieces. “You are better off asking someone else, Chaplain,” Alaric replied as he released the Chaplain’s hands, letting him have full control, “I am but a lower member of my Chapter’s Apothecarium…you would do better to ask Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai.” The Chaplain paused for a second, before throwing Alaric into the wall, where the stone cracked beneath him, as he slowly slid back to the bed. “Let us continue the cleansing,” Archomedes said, contempt poorly hidden in his voice.

Another few cycles followed and the Apothecary was brutalized, demoralized and broken repeatedly, but his mind remained set, and he replied only with catechisms and his faith in the emperor. The Chaplain’s miasma of hatred was almost physical now, but even then, one day, he finally relented. Throwing the Apothecary onto the bed, a black robe followed. “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.” The words seemed to come out almost with poison, as the servo-skulls hovered behind the Chaplain who stood up. “Your will is strong, young one, but do not that that betray you. You are too easily cowed into obedience. We will meet again, Apothecary.” With those parting words, he slammed the cell door shut behind him. Rubbing his new collection of bruises, Alaric unfolded the black robe and simply stared at it for a few minutes. It was of the finest cloth, comparable to the beige one he currently wore, but the bitter taste of defeat still remained in his mouth, along with the ferrous taste of blood. Spitting out a large glob of the phlegm blood into the corner, the Apothecary gritted his teeth. He had been tried. He had been tested. And he had failed. In his eyes, the ability to keep the Fallen a secret was but a tiny victory amongst a sea of defeats. The Chaplain had defeated him utterly. He had broken down his mental barriers, questioned his faith in the Emperor, and…quite frankly terrified Alaric. Not even the ministrations of Interrogator-Chaplains of the Dark Angels could compare to what he had just gone through. Sighing deeply, the Apothecary stood up and undid the clasp on his robe. He might as well get prepared for the inevitable time to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time came sooner than expected. A blank-faced servitor opened his cell door and proceeded to lead him down empty halls which echoed only with the treads of the servitor and the dull thud of Alaric’s own footfalls. They seemed to wind through the corridor for hours on end before they managed to find a large opening in the black basalt walls. The servitor led him to the front row of a large collection of Astartes, all similarly dressed and standing at perfect parade rest. Joining the growing line of Astartes already there, Alaric hissed slightly as he pulled his hood down and stood at parade rest. Perhaps the Chaplain had harmed him more than he had thought. Nevertheless, Alaric stubbornly refused to let it show on his face. If the Emperor could survive upon the Golden Throne for decades, centuries even…he could bear this much pain for as long as it took. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, he allowed his eyes to flicker around in their sockets, taking in the objects in his field of vision. Rocky pillars extended from floor to ceiling, bearing the weight of incensed braziers that spread a familiar scent into the air. Mugweed. An antibiotic plant used sterilise wounds in an impromptu operating theatre. Also contained a slight narcotic. The diaphanous mist dissipated into the air as cherubic servitors flew past, bearing more incense, this time a different one to Mugweed, but the Apothecary could not seem to place his finger on it.

Alaric seemed to stand in the line for hours on end, and the row of Astartes swelled as more joined its ranks, but Alaric did not see how many in the end stood shoulder to shoulder with him, for his eyes remained locked forwards on the figures in front of him. The flames of the candles and braziers flitted and guttered in a silent breeze, but every Battle-Brother remained motionless, their gazes turned forwards, as if ever-looking towards the future. Or perhaps more realistically, they were staring at the forms of the Watch Captains and Auxiliaries which had put them through hell and back again. Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, Apothecary Haeron…and of course, Chaplain Archomedes. They had all donned their battle gear, and seemed to be bowing in reverence to a statue in front of them, but as the last of his brothers filed into the room, taking his place at Alaric’s shoulder, the statue seemed to grind around on an axis, before revealing itself as a Space Marine himself in Tactical Dreadnought armour. Just the mere image of that hallowed armour made Alaric bow his head in reference, but his look hardened as he saw the heraldry on the shoulder and the fangs. Space Wolf. He had had precious few encounters with those savage beasts, but one of the few times that he did, Alaric settled a duel between their chapters, emerging as a victor in a fair 1vs1 scenario, to much cheering from his comrades and superiors and jeering from the Space Puppies. Holding his tongue with a small effort, Alaric locked his eyes on the wolf as he moved around.

As the Wolf drew closer, he grew in Alaric’s vision, causing the Apothecary’s eyes to widen. Never had he seen such a large Marine…had there been a problem with the Ossmodula in his body to cause him to grow so large? Impossible. If there had been a mutation, he would have looked gangly and skeletal, if he were allowed into the Marines at all after that. Purity was demanded highly in the Dark Angels, but perhaps it was not so in the barbaric warriors of Fenris. Finally, he spoke. “One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of the his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whores-son Horus saw to that.” Like the scene back in his cell, the air thickened with a miasma of hatred at the single declaration of the archenemy’s name. For Alaric, it manifested as an inward snarl. Such a name should never be spoken. Despite the sudden tension in the air, however, the Space Wolf continued.

“The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten.
But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor.
All-Father willing, we will all return to the Chapters we hail from; ready to strengthen our brothers from what we have learned, more adaptable to their needs, all because we were Deathwatch!
You will have stood as a bulwark against the never ending dark. It is in our strength that mankind finds it salvation. They will never know, there will be no thanks. We have stood the Watch for over ten thousand years, and if the Throne needs, ten thousand more. Accolades should matter little to us, for we fight in the shadows and so in the shadows we must remain.”

The words caused pride to swell in Alaric’s breast, but he forced it down. Hubris is the downfall of men. Faith in the Emperor should be maintained at all times. To fight in the shadows tirelessly and without thanks…the Dark Angels were used to it. To tread the fine line between good and evil, loyalty and rebellion…the remnants of the 1st legion…the Unforgiven…they were already deeply immersed in between those razor thin lines and there was little chance of them breaking out again. As the Space wolf gestured to the set of double doors behind him, Alaric nodded silently. He would finally be reunited with his old battleplate, scars and all…as well as his old Narthecium. Hopefully it had not been altered in any way. He had just adjusted the Narthecium himself.

As the first recruit walked towards the Watch captain, he swore his oath, before the Chaplain branded him. Words passed between them, but Alaric could not hear anything of what was said. Nor did he want to. After the moment of speech, the recruit screamed as the white hot brand was pressed into his skin. None of the assembled recruits flinched. After the branding process was completed, Alaric slapped his fist to his chest and bowed his head in respect to the newly initiated marine. There was no shame in revealing pain amongst your brothers. Only when revealing pain to the enemies in torture. It was one reason why Alaric had refused to show weakness in front of the Chaplain. He was neither a friend, nor an enemy, but Alaric was leaning towards one side with him. The second recruit underwent a similar process, and it was time for him soon

As the first and second recruits passed through the doors, Alaric took a deep breath, before stepping up himself, striding from the ranks of his brothers and approaching the Chaplain, a hard look in his eyes. A pair of servitors replaced the set of coals and trundled back into the shadows as Archomedes reheated the brand. The Watch Captain repeated his words as Alaric stood impassively, the time for the Second Oath having come. Taking a knee, Alaric removed a thick package from under his robes, beige in colour. “I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, Apothecary of the 3rd Company of Dark Angels, hereby swear before the Emperor to complete my Vigil with diligence and pride, until such a time when I am released from service, or fall in the line of duty,” Alaric said, placing the folded package onto his hands, “I swear to stand by my brothers, be they from my chapter or otherwise, and…swear to discard the ancient feuds which may hinder my service, pledging my loyalty to those who wear the Black in service against the Xenos and the Heretic until my last dying breath.” Like a practiced speech, the sibilant tones dropped from the end of Alaric’s tongue like honey in a similar way in which he would calm his brothers when under his care. Closing his eyes, he continued his Oath.
“I swear as a Battle Brother to watch over my fellow Deathwatch members and smite the enemies of the Emperor.
I swear as an Apothecary to watch over my charges with care and deliberation, and maintain their health, as well as to provide the necessary advice to my comrades when needed.” He saw an approving nod from Haeron here.
“I swear as a member of the Deathwatch to uphold the laws, secrets and doctrines of the order, upon my honour as a member of the Dark Angels.” Inwardly, he whispered to himself. “I swear this as a member of the Unforgiven…”
“Once more, I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, swear my service to the Deathwatch.”
Holding up his robes to the Space Wolf, almost as if a peace offering between their chapters, Alaric remained kneeling.

There was a moment of pause as the assembled Deathwatch members simply looked over each other, but then the grizzled Space Wolf walked over and grabbed the robe, lifting it off of the Dark Angel’s hands. Feeling the weight lift off, Alaric looked up to the approving glance of the Space Wolf, who offered a hand. Taking it, the Dark Angel found himself dragged to his feet, and almost off of them. “Approach the Chaplain, Apothecary,” the granite-like voice of the Space Wolf rumbled. Nodding, Alaric stepped over to the Chaplain, who remained impassive al always, but he could feel the hatred filtering from under the mask. Hatred of the weak. Alaric did not flinch this time. He refused to. Spreading his arms as the Chaplain removed the white hot brand from the coals, he could feel a physical impact from him, almost as if it was the thrust of a blade, followed by a horrid burning sensation as the brand bit into his flesh and seared its mark into him. Alaric’s eyes widened. The bastard had jabbed the stoke onto one of the wounds that the Chaplain himself had inflicted. Gritting his teeth as the skin beneath the mark blistered and boiled, Alaric tried not to cry out, but the Chaplain would not relent, pressing, nay, grinding the prod deeper into Alaric’s flesh. Finally, with a sharp cry of pain, the Apothecary could take no more. The Chaplain, satisfied, removed the brand, leaving the smoking sign of the Deathwatch embedded onto Alaric’s chest. Forever. Breathing hard as he glared at the Chaplain, Alaric said nothing. “Beware of your youth, Apothecary,” the Chaplain warned as he placed the prod back into the flames, echoing his earlier words, “your perseverance and stubbornness does you credit, but it will make you many enemies.” Alaric did not reply immediately, instead standing tall as his brothers saluted him. “Enemies will be dealt with, according to the whims of the Emperor,” he said as he walked off, his back straight and his shoulders widened in pride. The Chaplain said no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As he moved through the door, the thick stench of scorched metal and ozone assaulted his nostrils, along with a wave of heat. For a second it almost overwhelmed him, but amongst those who had already been initiated clamouring around their suits, Alaric finally spotted his own plate, newly refurbished. Slowly, with a smile on his face, like he was meeting an old travelling companion, Alaric approached the armour, but the smile soon disappeared, replaced with a contemplative smile. The classic white design of the Apothecaries had been painted over, replaced with the sleek black paint of the Deathwatch which had been evenly coated over the Mark VI Corvus Armour. Almost reverently, the Apothecary ran his hand over the armour. It was the relic of many battles past. His fingers ran over the pauldron between the molecular studs that characterised the armour, and even as he picked up the beaked helmet of the Corvus, he could see that at the very least that had been left white. The Apothecary was a little saddened to see the Prime Helix which had dominated his left pauldron had disappeared, replaced by the black and silver of the Deathwatch, but his right remained the proud winged sword of the Dark Angels.

“AllOW Us to ASsisT…” chimed the disturbingly mechanical voice of a servitor as he was closed upon by a gaggle of them. Nodding, the Apothecary spread his arms, and the Servitors began the armouring process, connecting the interface nodes to his black carapace, each one causing a small shock as his brain adjusted to the new sensory input. In the meantime, Alaric thought about his predecessor who had worn this armour. His name had been Marius, and like a true son of the Lion, he had refused to take a step back and stoically advanced in the face of their enemy, even as his brothers fell before him. At the conclusion of the battle, Marius was all that had remained of his original squad. After that, the celebrated marine seemed to be blessed, or perhaps cursed, as any battle as fierce as his first always ended up with him as the lone survivor, standing amongst the fields of corpses, of both ally and enemy. Eventually, however, the Emperor’s divine providence ran thin, and Marius was slain in battle, and the armour returned to the Chapter. Every time Alaric put on this plate, he could feel his will hardening, and the gaze of the Emperor watching over his every step. He smiled as the armour finally pressurised. May both Marius and the Emperor continue watching over him.

After finishing the armouring process, Alaric was finally presented with the final item that he had longed for ever since arriving at the Watch station. Finally, his Narthecium had been returned to him, and it looked relatively unchanged, but he would have to check that later. Keeping it in its inert form, Alaric said a quick rite to the Emperor for his blessings and closed his eyes, fitting his helmet over his head even as he chanted the Prayer of pressurisation. His youthful visage was soon replaced with the iconic Corvus pattern beaked helmet, which was painted a stark bone white in contrast to the rest of the black panoply. He was not done yet. Slowly, his voice reached a powerful cadence, drawing eyes to him as he spoke in the old Caliban tongue, heading towards the end of the hall, as he shrouded himself in the beige robe that had been presented to him. A Deathwatch member he may be, but he would forever be a Dark Angel at heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boarding his assigned Thunderhawk, Alaric recognised the forms of both Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, along with two new faces, one bearing the heraldry of the Storm Wardens, like McGarrack, and another whose helmet was the colour of rust, various mechanical arms and such dangling from his back. A techmarine. His mechanical counterpart within the Chapter. And a Guardian of the Covenant at that. Alaric passed him a look, wondering if he know of the Fallen and…the Unforgiven…A shared burden would do well to ease his soul. Silently, as the other two newcomers bantered, Alaric strode past them and as he passed, locked eyes with Kyros, who held his gaze, before nodding, as if in approval. A thousand words were exchanged in that single look. A thousand that the two of them would only know. Taking a seat beside the Techmarine, Alaric pulled down the hood of his robe, revealing the white helmet of the Apothecaries. Opening up his Narthecium, he started to tinker with its inner workings, making sure they were all up to his standards, and hopefully had not been tinkered with by that near insane Marine Errant. First the Reductor…then the drill…then the diamntine tipped chainswords whirred faintly. Clicking his tongue, the Apothecary reached for a set of tools he habitually kept on himself, but could not find. Looking over to the Techmarine, he hmmed thoughtfully. “Brother…may I trouble you for some assistance?” he asked through his armour’s Vox-speakers as he continued to fiddle with the diagnostor and the various syringes and drugs that made up his Narthecium.

Makradon notices the Dark Angel enter the Thunderhawk, a mutual unbroken bond of secrecy between them that transcended the secrets of even the Deathwatch. He turns to the Dark Angel, looking down at the contraption before him.

"That is quite a Narthecium you have there, brother. How did you come by it? If you require my assistance, I will be glad to help. These whistles and bells aren't just for show!" He chuckles, as he begins to assist his new brother.

His mechadendrites and various gears whir and whiz about, ready to obey their master.

For cycles after the battle Raimer was alone in his cell, he prayed, contemplated, and prepared himself mentally for the tasks to come, his foremost though of how he would likely be required to work alongside psykers. In the darkness of himself he knew he had to steel himself for the tasks to come, the horrors he would fight, slay, and potentially kill him he was ready for though he must prepare to work alongside Astartes of other chapters his mind was more open than most of his brothers but among Black Templars that meant little for their hatred was renowned. He punished himself as he could for his thoughts but still it was insufficient, he lacked the tools he would normally have in his chapter to bring his blood running thick across his body to atone fr his thoughts. He was restricted as well with no way to exercise his body to the point of exhaustion and purge all thoughts but he did while he could. He prayed nearly constantly to the Emperor and to Sigismund, he would not shame his chapter in this task he had been given.

One cycle in the middle of his prayers to the Emperor at last his door opened, he did not turn though, continuing his prayer. He could sense the silent and immobile man behind him, he was power armored but that told him nothing. He continued on with his prayers for several hours before at last finishing and rising before turning about to see who had come to him. From his polished silver skull helm he knew immediately who the man was, a Chaplain is not easily forgotten and Archomedes manged to stand out more than most with his helmet polished to such a sharp gleam and his armor covered with the scrolls and other writings of his station.

He walked in without a word and the celldoor closed behind him, only then alone confined in the cell and towering over him did the Chaplain speak, "You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.”

For what felt like an eternity the chaplain questioned him on seemingly all things, there was no correct answer to his question and the eyes of the silver helm burrowed into his very soul peeling away the layers of his faith. Everything was questioned and nothing was true. The only thing which kept Raimer from truly breaking during that time was his core faith in himself, from there he built his faith in Helbrecht, from that he reforged his faith in the Emperor. All his fears were laid out, his fear that he was not as skilled as he believed, that he was weak, that he would fail himself, his chapter, and the Emperor. He knew of the rare brother that fell, he knew two who had, corrupted by a fallen Sister of Battle and bound to her will. To know such as possible seemed tantamount to heresy but he knew it to be true and he feared one day he would break fully to either extreme an Astartes walked. He knew of the psykers the Imperium employed and he knew of brothers who had slain psykers of chapters, or those who guided their ships, or once even an Inquisitor in a blind rage. He must control and contain his rage at the enemies of the Imperium while not becoming that which he hated.

At last the chaplain seemed complete, Raimer could remember none of the words the chaplain spoke, only their tearing effect upon his mind and soul as he body glistened lightly with a sweat from the stress of the Chaplain's words. The Chaplain was unconcerned though merely reaching into his satchel to produce a black and hand it to you, “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.”For cycles after the battle Raimer was alone in his cell, he prayed, contemplated, and prepared himself mentally for the tasks to come, his foremost though of how he would likely be required to work alongside psykers. In the darkness of himself he knew he had to steel himself for the tasks to come, the horrors he would fight, slay, and potentially kill him he was ready for though he must prepare to work alongside Astartes of other chapters his mind was more open than most of his brothers but among Black Templars that meant little for their hatred was renowned. He punished himself as he could for his thoughts but still it was insufficient, he lacked the tools he would normally have in his chapter to bring his blood running thick across his body to atone fr his thoughts. He was restricted as well with no way to exercise his body to the point of exhaustion and purge all thoughts but he did while he could. He prayed nearly constantly to the Emperor and to Sigismund, he would not shame his chapter in this task he had been given.

One cycle in the middle of his prayers to the Emperor at last his door opened, he did not turn though, continuing his prayer. He could sense the silent and immobile man behind him, he was power armored but that told him nothing. He continued on with his prayers for several hours before at last finishing and rising before turning about to see who had come to him. From his polished silver skull helm he knew immediately who the man was, a Chaplain is not easily forgotten and Archomedes manged to stand out more than most with his helmet polished to such a sharp gleam and his armor covered with the scrolls and other writings of his station.

He walked in without a word and the celldoor closed behind him, only then alone confined in the cell and towering over him did the Chaplain speak, "You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.”

For what felt like an eternity the chaplain questioned him on seemingly all things, there was no correct answer to his question and the eyes of the silver helm burrowed into his very soul peeling away the layers of his faith. Everything was questioned and nothing was true. The only thing which kept Raimer from truly breaking during that time was his core faith in himself, from there he built his faith in Helbrecht, from that he reforged his faith in the Emperor. All his fears were laid out, his fear that he was not as skilled as he believed, that he was weak, that he would fail himself, his chapter, and the Emperor. He knew of the rare brother that fell, he knew two who had, corrupted by a fallen Sister of Battle and bound to her will. To know such as possible seemed tantamount to heresy but he knew it to be true and he feared one day he would break fully to either extreme an Astartes walked. He knew of the psykers the Imperium employed and he knew of brothers who had slain psykers of chapters, or those who guided their ships, or once even an Inquisitor in a blind rage. He must control and contain his rage at the enemies of the Imperium while not becoming that which he hated.

At last the chaplain seemed complete, Raimer could remember none of the words the chaplain spoke, only their tearing effect upon his mind and soul as he body glistened lightly with a sweat from the stress of the Chaplain's words. The Chaplain was unconcerned though merely reaching into his satchel to produce a black and hand it to you, “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.”

He did as he was told, if mere words of a Chaplain could do such a thing to him he would need to harden himself against such a thing ever again, he would deny all that went against his most fervent beliefs regarding the Emperor of Mankind and his will as sacrosanct, the power of Helbrecht indomitable, the will of Sigismund eternal, the honor of his chapter unbreakable, and his on faith and pride more powerful than a thousand blades. He recited his litanies by rote, he would make himself reforged stronger than the armor he once wore, never again would he falter, he would be resolute against any threat to him or his faith.

in time he was summoned once more, this time by a servitor. He donned the black robe given to him by the chaplain and followed the machine through the halls of the fortress to a grand hall in which stood many battle brothers of many chapters but almost all clearly Deathwatch. Striding forward he joined a line of six others, he did not look upon those he stood with instead preparing himself mentally for this final task before him. He was mildly surprised as he saw the titan of an astartes stride towards them. Clearly a Vlka Fenryka the man seemed large enough to wear the armor of a dreadnought itself rather than the tactical dreadnought armor he did now. Raimer was listened intensely as he spoke of the Second Oath.

I, Initiate Raimer of the Black Templars 3rd Crusade, Son of Dorne, Warrior of the Emperor swear on my honor, the honor of my chapter, and upon my life that I shall serve the Deathwatch with all my fury and all my strength until I am slain in combat against our enemies or am released from service with my duty fulfilled. I swear upon my faith in the Emperor of Mankind that I will fight beside all brothers of the Deathwatch regardless of their chapter, regardless of their, regardless of their present, and without prejudice against them willing to lay down my own life for any who fight beside me against the threats of The Deathwatch. i swear my soul to The Deathwatch here and now in the sight all in this chamber and by my honor will hold true against any and all The Secrets of The Deathwatch, The Laws of the Deathwatch, and The Doctrines of the Deathwatch and may I be struck down should I breach this oath my name cast down in shame."

The oath spoken Raimer stood and stared directly forward, as the hot iron was brought before him. He felt as it seared into his flesh and smelled his skin and the meat below it cooking as the metal was pressed in. He did not even react to it the pain of the body less meaningless to the pain of the mind or pain of the soul. After a few moments the hot iron was pulled away taking some of his skin with it though he still remained resolute and did not make even the slightest movement or sound to it.

All his new brothers saluted him, their right fist rising across their chest, he had just passed a grand threshold which would leave him forever changed. Those who now saluted him knew this as they had undergone the same experience and respected him more now for what he would do. Raimer could feel the change of the tone of how each astartes looked at him he was one of them now and would be one of them for some time to come unless he died first in the line of duty beside them. He strode forward ahead of those who had yet to receive their brand but behind the few who already had.

In the next room he found himself quickly enough before a pair of servitors and a table of weapons as well as his ancient armor. His helmet still bore the marks from his last mission though it was not the only piece yet marred. Each plate was scarred in a thousand places and even bore the marks of having been reforged. His was ancient Mk. IV armor, a rarity now in the astartes due to it's age but he doubted any warrior had such storied armor as his. It had been used by a warrior in Sigismund's squad during the Siege of Terra and in that grand siege three heroes had died in the armor rushing into the breaches of the defenses to halt the tied of the traitors. There had been no time to wash the blood from the armor to replace the damaged armor of others repaired swiftly between pushes or even during them to reequip those who's armor became damaged beyond use. The last to wear it in that battle had stood firm as the last man of his team against a tide of World Eater's when the enemy was at last pushed back somehow by some strength even in death the warrior stood resolute a banner of the Imperial Fists in one hand, a destroyed chain sword in the other with the banner plunged clean through the armor of an enemy sergeant. The signs of such courage and determination were to be never washed away and as a result the inside of the armor was coated black from the centuries of dried blood over ten-thousand years of warfare and a hundred dead wearers. Repaired and reforged a hundred times the armor was more powerful either from the indomitable will of the wearers or enhancements throughout the ages and despite it's age had the same armor of the most modern of armors.

The servitors switly set about the task of encasing him in his armor. He felt the armor secure to him piece by piece and the black carapace interface flawlessly with it. he had worn this armor for decades and it felt like a second skin to him marrying perfectly to his body. When the servitor grasped his helmet instead of donning it he took it from the servitors hand and maglocked it to his belt. He then set about inspecting his gear. It had been some years since he carried a bolter though took it all the same, his favored weapon was there as well, the chainsword, with that and his combat blade he would be ready for anything. He inspected both particularly carefully, his combat knife was matte black with a 25 centimeters long thick double sided blade. It was a simple weapon lacking some of the symbolism or the Ultramarine gladius or extra showiness many chapters seemed to favor with things such as heraldry or bright gleaming blades had but to Raimer this was a simple weapon with a simple purpose, to kill swiftly and efficiently at close range. At that task the blade excelled.

Fully equipped now he left behind the servitors continuing on to the hangar bay. He put on his helmet for now he needed to steel himself for the mission ahead and for now did not wish to be bothered by any others. Entering the Thunderhawk and sat down near the back by himself and began to recite a litany to the Emperor while he strapped himself in. He could still recall the Chaplain and how he had peeled forth every weakness he had and he refused to let the Chaplain or any others win like that again so he would need to cloak himself in his hate for all enemies of the Imperium.