Castellan Scaro was dead to begin with.

Even as Chaplain Sibrand placed a weary hand over the breastplate of the battered armour, lowering it momentarily onto the inactive power armour before quickly removing it once more, he could not truly believe that the scarred old veteran was dead; it had been a most ignoble death, hissing shrapnel from a rudimentary canister - fired from a traitor cannon no less - had caught the Castellan where the helmet seal met the armour of his torso. Truly it was no way for a warrior of the God-Emperor to go but, as he stood there and moved his fingers over the chains wrapped about his vambraces, he could not help but believe that the Emperor had thought it time to call one of his chosen sons back to his side.

Even now Isidor Scaro would be standing at attention beside the golden throne, his spirit with the Master of Mankind now and forever more.

For nearly a week now he had lain there in stasis, his pale face looking to the chapel-halls ceiling one - of the largest chambers aboard the Warspite - with the Tyranid acid-burn marks he had received almost five centuries ago only standing out in even starker contrast to the otherwise serene expression of the deceased warrior-monk.

The notes and lyrics of a muted choral group drifted through the air of the candlelit hall, the powered lights dimmed to the minimum, litanies of devotion, mourning and praise to the Emperor adding an edge of sombreness that went against the usual furore and fanatical fury of the Templars fiery character.

I shall miss you, old friend. Thought the Chaplain silently, recollecting the events of the last week in particular, the time that had seen Scaro fall sick from some warp-driven infection within his wound and now saw Sibrand as arguably the leader of what was left of Fighting Company Scaro.

In that time until the present moment they had been making their way back to deeper Imperial space, seeking to rendezvous with the primary fleet of the Anhur Sector Crusade, wishing to resupply and to return the body of their Castellan for a proper burial at a Templars stronghold closer to Terra. As it was, they had made a warp-jump that should have taken them to within a close distance of the Crusade fleet, instead being caught up in a sudden and unforeseen warp-storm with barely enough time to raise the Gellar Field.

For what seemed like but a moment they were tossed about as a ship upon a stormy sea, only to emerge - more like 'thrown back into' - realspace with minimal damage to the Warspite and no daemonic incursions to speak of; what concerned the Navigator and therefore the Chaplain was that their chronometer was outwardly acting most strangely and even producing false readings.

167.M42?

No, that was at least a century - nay it was more! - since they had translated into the warp...yet time moved oddly in the warp, all Astartes knew, and it was said that time moved both backward and forward within it.

For days now they had been at anchor, immovable and still in the blackness of space, a small leviathan floating in nothingness and without direction, all so they could come to grips with their bearings.

"What is that?!" Sibrand had demanded upon seeing the sickly scar running through space, his Navigator eyeing it nervously before informing him that it was a literal tear in the fabric of the galaxy, "and how far does it go?" From one end of the galaxy to the other had been the reply.

Out of time and space, and lacking any idea of their exact location, Brother-Chaplain Sibrand had been forced to convene a council of his personal 'retinue' - Squad Sibrand as it were - made up of those among the Company he believed could serve it most.

Taking one lingering look at the Castellan once more, he made the sign of the Aquila across his chest and left.

---

---

Like some black-armoured crab hunched over the holo-projector installed on the bridge of the venerable Vanguard-class Cruiser, the complete vessel outfitted to complete their missions of long-range combat without the need for more centralised aid - hence the more advanced exploratory instruments and sensors - Sibrand allowed a hiss of air to escape from between his lips.

With his skull-faced helmet mag-locked to his waist his features were clearly visible, a sight that not even his Brothers got to see all that often, his close-cropped hair once jet black in colour but greying at the temples now, two piercing blue eyes glaring at the projectors readings beneath furrowed brows. His bone structure - well formed cheeks, an aquiline nose, and a sharp chin - all pointed to an origin of patrician standing, but it was something he would never tell a soul upon pain of death.

"We have been able to determine that we are in a sub-sector of the Segementum Obscurus," lisped the parchment-thin voice of the ships Navigator, Eliseo Japheth, his wrinkled and visibly aged face turned away from the Chaplain to peer across the ships bridge - all of the human serfs ignoring their overlords, as was most wise to do at this moment, while continuing like a colony of ants - "possibly Sub-Sector Besepholus, if that is any help."

"In all honesty, revered Navigator," replied the rumbling voice of the Chaplain, "it is not."

Idle chit-chat was not something either indulged in, neither the Astartes nor the hooded Navigator, and so the two sunk back into an easy silence between themselves as they awaited the arrival of the those that Sibrand felt worthy enough to call members of his inner circle.

The words were in a tiny scrap of paper on the walls of Brother Karolai's tiny dormitory. The Apothecary was kneeling in Prayer, his chainaxe upon his lap. He had yet to properly serve with his Black Templar brothers after his time in the Deathwatch. It took him so long to adjust and at last be comfortable with service in the Deathwatch, and Klaus wondered if now he would face readjustment to his home Chapter to be just as difficult. The Apothecary knew he would do his duty regardless but he knew that it was so much simpler to do when he was as one with his comrades. He would go to duty in the squad Sibrand he was assigned to and he would do all demanded of him. The Marine merely wanted guidance as to how.



He was cut off as an Initiate entered the candle and incense Chapel where he was praying. The youngling hurried over to him and notified the Apothecary that his presence was needed. With a grunt he made the sign of the Aquila, lit a candle for a Brother lost and after letting the sweet smell drift to him for a few moments he opened his eyes. He would now be meeting most of the Brothers he would serve with for the first time. He needed to make a good impression. Carefully locking his helmet in place, the Chaplain sprinted across the ship with the super-human speed all Marines were known for towards the room where he was called to. When he arrived - now slowed to a calm and gracious walk - he entered the bridge with a bow of respect to the Chaplain and a nod to the others present. Klaus said nothing and instead simply took a position close to the door where he could lay eyes upon whoever else entered, and be ready to swiftly leave whenever the talking was done. For now he gazed at the Chaplain, meeting his blue gaze with the red-amber glow of his helmet's eyeslits.

Oberyn’s body may have been in attendance at the meeting but his mind was elsewhere. He did not need to be a forge master to feel the confusion of the Warspite. It hummed through the bulkheads and the very deckplates, to those trained enough to sense it. The Warspite was an ungainly beast trying too orientate itself from a violent and sudden hurling through the warp like the rest of them were. True, It was a magnificent and ancient spirit, far older than any of the brothers on board, and this was but one of hundreds of translations made by its engines over the centuries of its service. But this was a particularly violent translation, And the engines needed to be soothed properly before they could be relied upon to jump again. A duty Oberyn would happily be attending to were it not for his involvement in this gathering.

Still, he arrived on time. Precisely when he was expected to actually. Time his departure and travel perfectly to arrive at the meeting neither later nor early. He supposed it would actually be good for him to arrive to the command bridge anyway, to view the informations and incoming data streams for himself to better understand what was putting so much stress on the soul of the vessel.

“I have come brother chaplain.” Oberyn remarked shortly as way of greeting, and a stiff bow as offered pleasantries. The keepers of the forge were not ones for formalaties and ritual beyond what were extended to the omnissiah and his machines. “Though my hands are needed elsewhere. The Warspite struggles with this change and I must sooth it's pain lest it begin to feel neglected. Or it grows too agitated.” Neither was a particularly attractive prospect. Either the machine became moody and unresponsive or would start to turn it's confusion to frustration and anger, and find small ways to lash out said frustrations.

---

Tiberius intoned the prayer as a daily invocation, aiding a sense of clarity to his faith, which in turn brought a sense of clarity to his mind. His Mark VII Power Armor swelled as he breathed in deeply, the armor grafted onto him acting as a second layer of protective skin, so in tune to his every movement. The previous master of the superb armor wasn't well documented in the archives, but by all accounts he was a decorate hero of the Imperium. Tiberius only hoped he could live up to that ideal.

He lifted himself off the floor of his room, his powersword held firmly within his gauntleted fist, unactivated yet still as deadly as the Emperor's judgement. He sheathed the blade with a solemn slowness, and placed his helmet back on upon his head. He had felt the reverberations of the ship moments ago, and wherever they were, he wasn't to be caught off guard in his duties to the Chapter. They had already lost more than enough good Chapter members. They are by his side now, in glorious triumph. I can only hope I have the honor of such a position one day.

A ping within his helm began to beep incessantly, and it took his enhanced mind only a fraction of a second before he realized he was being summoned to the deck for a matter of importance. He pressed his finger to his temple, and replied. "Affirmative. I am en route, honorable Chaplain." Within moments, he was stepping into the hallway and making his way toward the deck.

@POOHEAD189@Ollumhammersong@Andreyich

Sibrand waited for as long as he could before he gestured the assembled group over to the holo-projector, his eyes leaving those of the recently returned Apothecary – clearly still acclimatising to life back among his own brethren – and looking back over a picture slowly assembling itself across the luminous green surface of the machine; it was a sprawling and scrawled image, a map dragged from the deep cogitators of the Warspite and thrown into a static picture before his gaze.

“This is the Sub-Sector Besepholus,” announced the warrior-priest in his rumbling voice, his eyes now picking out each of those that stood gathered – the Apothecary, his squads Techmarine, and a spattering of Sword Brethren and Initiates, the highest and mightiest of the Company left - “or so our esteemed Navigator tells me.”

A flick of his gauntleted hand bought the image rising from the flat projector, the entire Sub-Sector rising from where it lay and beginning to rotate slowly, “one needs only look at the chronometer mark here,” pointed out the Chaplain, “to know that we are not only out of space...but also out of time. A considerable amount of time in fact.”

For a moment he simply let the image spin, taking a deep breath and halting its rotation after a few minutes, once more meeting the gaze of his battle-brothers.

“Our mission has not changed,” came the proclamation eventually, “we shall continue to where we were to meet our crusading fleet and, should they not be there, then we shall decide what to do...” again he paused and took another breath, his eyes flickering with barely contained fanaticism, “...however, for the moment I would ask of opinions from my closest advisors, you gathered here. We shall continue the God-Emperors work, that needs not be said, yet I would know the condition of our vessel and the readiness of my brothers.”

The map held itself there, mocking them in its own way, even as planets and known warp-routes began to appear.

---

---

"Well Midshipman Lal, what do you make of this?" Growled a robotic voice from a throat that had once been flesh-and-blood, the words interspersed with blurts of static and binary gibberish, "it would appear that we have found ourselves a little fishy out here." The lips of the pale-skinned speaker peeled themselves back to reveal sharpened metal teeth within the otherwise motionless mouth.

Midshipman Lal, it appeared, was a broad-shouldered brute who - had he not been warped by the Immaterium to look much older - would have been a young officer-in-training, now dressed in the tattered rags of what had once been a pristine naval uniform. As it was, the once-blue garb was plastered with eight-pointed symbols and the skin beneath with self-scarring from head-to-toe.

"I would be wary, Captain," hissed the Midshipman through a deliberately forked tongue, "I served aboard the Alekto - though it seems centuries ago now... - and I recognise those markings; that is an Astartes vessel, sir."

Captain Madhukar Estrella of the Lunar-class Cruiser Emperor's Mistake reclined back in his chair and eyed the smaller vessel for a moment, taking in the details of the numerous crosses and crusading marks with genuine interest, his fingers tapping lightly on the arms of his command-throne.

"Tell me, what does this one call itself?"

"Warspite, lord," ventured an eyeless helmsman, his sight linked directly into the sensors and cogitators of the ship through wires, "a Black Templars cruiser."

Black Templars...yes, he had heard of those fanatics! They were one of the few Astartes Chapters that considered the Corpse-Emperor to be a deity. Well, best send them to meet him sooner than later.

"Bring us about for a broadside, prepare torpedoes, and charge up our lance batteries; I want that ship crippled in space."

"Captain!" Blurted Lal from beside the command dais, a hint of fear evident in his eyes, "surely we should annihilate them where they sit?"

"No, my dear Lal, we want them for sacrifice - an Astartes pleases the gods most of all."

Lal retained his reservations, feeling a chill up his spine that he had not felt for decades, not when facing the Imperial Navy, Orks or even Tyranid organisms.

Nothing good can come from this.

---

---

The first broadside of macrobattery fire should have been enough to take the Warspite out of action, and would have been had it not already been moving away from the larger ship; picked up by the Vanguard Cruiser the moment it had come within range of the highly refined sensors of the ship, Sibrand had commanded it to be shown on the viewing screen.

"Serf?"

One of the mortals clad in a human-sized Templar tabard had twisted about, needing no further instruction from his transhuman overlord, "it is a Lunar-class ship, lord, original designation "Irae Terra", since changed to "Emperor's Folly. They appear to be alone, and the markings on the hull indicate allegiance to the Ruinous Powers." All this was spoken in a very matter-of-fact tone, for the bondsman who had spoken was a failed Neophyte himself and had seen his fair share of engagements - this was nothing new.

"Get us moving," commanded Sibrand, slipping his skull-faced helmet back over his head, "avoid contact with their weapons as far as possible...and bring us within boarding range."

Turning to his battle-brothers, they may have guessed that he was smiling as widely as the skull over his face, "to the launch bay, brothers, the Assault Ram awaits us there! We shall take the fight to the enemy!"

---

---

Several Caestus Assault Rams jettisoned from the Vanguard Cruiser some minutes later, the armoured and shielded prows aimed directly where the Templars knew the weak spots of the enemy ship would be; the Genetorium, the bridge, and so forth. The latter would be where Sibrand and his fellows would be directing themselves, although they would need to fight their way there as the bridge itself was too heavily shielded even for the Assault Ram.

Weapons fire had now began to criss-cross the space between the two ships - the smaller moving the faster, but the larger with clearly more firepower, a duel of speed over strength.

Inside the Ram of Squad Sibrand the titular Chaplain began to intone a prayer, even as their metal box began to shake...

"Suffer not the unclean to live;

Lead us from death to victory,
from falsehood to truth.

Lead us from despair to hope,
from faith to slaughter.

Lead us to His strength,
and an eternity of war.

Let His wrath fill our hearts.

Death, war and blood;
in vengeance serve the Emperor,
in the name of Dorn!"

They were out of realspace? Tiberius did not know what to make of this. He supposed it meant his duty as a mortal servant of the Emperor was coming to and end. Being lost in the warp meant they would soon be devoured by daemons. However, he would fight gloriously and die with their bodies at his feet. He took a breath, breathing in the sacred air of the Astartes vessel, and then opened his eyes, placing his fist upon his chest.

"My duty is my fate. My service, eternal."

Once dismissed, Tiberius would give the customary Black Templar salute and march off to his living quarters, donning his power sword and blessed bolter, hoping he could honor their previous owners by spilling the blood of mutants and traitors this day. Along the way back, he stopped at the barracks of the Cruiser, calling the Initiates to gear up and reciting the litany of the Black Templars. As they gathered themselves, he raised his fist in the air.

"No pity, no remorse, no fear!" He incanted.

"No pity, no remorse, no fear!" The roared back. In the time it would take an Imperial Guardsmen to sneeze, the Astartes of the fabled Black Templar's chapter were arrayed in full combat gear and within formation, vigilant and as still as the baroque statued designs that covered their Cruiser, and their legendary Fortress Monastery.

In an ordered fashion, he let them through the grim corridors of the Battle Cruiser to their designated Assault Rams, filling the fore of the contraptions to the brim. As the Cruiser struggled during the ensuring fire fight, Tiberius could only pray the machine-spirit would hold on but a bit longer.

"You carry the Emperor's will as your torch, with it destroy the shadows!" Tiberius called before all was fire and blood.

The Apothecary was quite unsettled by what he saw. Could they really have traveled that much in time? The warp was a fickle thing and one knew of stories of men meeting themselves because the warp brought themselves years back in time. But was that not the pathetic rumouring of mortals? For it to happen to such an honourable, such a grand Astartes vessel was unthinkable. He hesitated before replying. "My Lord, in all truth this is beyond my ken as an Apothecary. However, I pledge that what I can do to remedy this grave turn of events, I will do to the fullest of my ability." Dumbfounded, Klaus kept looking at the display. Unable to make any sort of sense of it, he gave a tired sigh before resigning himself to the current truth of the matter. With that, the Marine awaited what input the others might have and the next assignment the Chaplain would provide.

It was not too long after the discussion started when the ship rumbled, the solid impacts of macrocannons going upon them. The Apothecary was undisturbed, and said a quick prayer for the humans aboard the ship doing the ordinary naval work. With his newfound Brothers he rushed to the boarding craft, Chainaxe already whirring in anticipation.

Not now.... he muttered, for nor strangling the serpent of anger inside him. Klaus had a more important task for now, and it was quite likely he woudln't even taste blood that day. Just as the Chaplain began to pray, the Apothecary followed, intoning the same words. However, as they began to finish his words trailed off slightly differently.

"Death, war and blood;
in vengeance serve the Emperor,
in the name of Sigismund!"

After his time in the Deathwatch and serving with both an Imperial and Crimson Fist - theoretically gene-Brothers to the Black Templars - and reading texts of the past, his opinion of the Templars Gene-Sire had... changed.

Oberon Accepted the information about the time dilation more easily than most of his fellows. It was common knowledge that warp travel was at best a devil's bargain for the Imperium, and Such occurances were hardly uncommon. It was merely time for it to befall the warspite. The Omnissiah, in his magnificance could still be praised for seeing them all through the warp unscathed, even if they were now a little late... It was not something to be angry or sad over, it merely was. All one could do was accept it as an inevitability of placing ones trust in as fickle a realm as the immaterium. It was like being angry at a star for burning brightly in defiance of the void sorrounding it. A waste of energy.

He had nothing further to say during the meeting until the first first enemy broadside slammed into the warspite's armoured hide. He could feel the rage of the spirit responding to this impudence. Oberon did not like the idea of it being roused while still trying to re-orient itself from reality insertion.

The Techmarine was already heading towards the assault rams. “Agmar” The forgewrite signalled the ships senior forge serf.

“Yes my lord.” The aged voice replied, heavy with defferance to his long time master. “Have a team of servitors sent to Boarding ram sigma-2. Ensure there are two data recovery menials among them.” It was a poor gamble, as any data ripped from such tainted cogitators as found onboard a chaos vessel may likely be corrupted far beyond any hope of proper recovery. But it could also contain invaluable information regarding the last hundred pus years of lost time. It was certainly worth the life of a servitor or two to try.

"Certainly my lord." To his credit the aged serf was remarkably calm despite being as clueless about the current state of affairs as one could be. Maybe it was his indoctrination training or he was simply too old to care much about being under attack yet again. In either case Oberon would regret his soon to be death from old age or violence, the efficiency rate amongst the other forge menials would likely drop at least four percent as a result. An unacceptable fall in productivity for the fighting company to endure. A thought for another day, for now duty must be performed. The Warpsite couldn't be calmed from this newly induced rage even if he tried. Maybe he was wrong and this fight would be a good for it. In any case it was beyond him, So he left it as a problem for the on-board tech adepts to sort out.

@Ollumhammersong@Andreyich@POOHEAD189

Assault Ram Sigma-2 was quite literally spat from the Warspite in a blaze of flame, black and white livery gleaming as it shot through the space between the two duelling vessels, adrift in dark nothingness before slamming into the side of the Emperor's Folly almost as abruptly; time seemed to slow within the Chaplain's helmet, even as his breathing matched his twin heartbeats and recycled air filled his mighty lungs, one gauntlet closing tightly about the haft of his crozius while his enhanced hearing listened intently to the Magna-Meltas puncturing the thick metal skin of the Lunar-class cruiser.

"Prepare yourselves," he voxed to the half-dozen Templars making up his personal squad, Klaus' deviation from the assigned mantra not going unnoticed if he believed it was, "five...four..." the internal helm-chronometer ticked down until it hit 'zero' and the ramp that made up the front section of the ram lurched open and slammed into the interior of a corridor some three sections down from the bridge of the vessel.

With an approximate compliment of ninety-five thousand crew of assorted type and designation aboard the standard Lunar-class, it came as a bit of a shock to the Chaplain - the first out of the ram and into the breach - to find that the corridor seemed deserted.

It appeared to lead off in two directions, both as dark and uninviting as the next...

"Brother Obryn," he voxed to the red-armoured giant he assumed would be moving into formation behind him, the sound of his servitors unmistakable, "please asses our situation - I need to know the swiftest route you can suggest to the bridge, we must cut the head from the snake."

The assault ram possessed a lesser, but no less violatile machine spirit when compared to the vessel which is was subservient too. Not as ancient as the warspite but It was certainly more aggressive more energetic and youthful. It relished carving its way through the hull of the enemy vessel as a young warrior relishes the opportunity to charge into the ranks of the enemy. Heedless of the danger to itself and concerned onoy with the glory of the charge.

In contrast there was the hate of the enemy cruiser. And hate was the simplest way to describe it. Pure, unrepentant hatred towards those blessed souls come to scour its blighted hallways clean. He had no respect for this vessel's spirit, as potent and vast as it was. Only cold pity. It was a literal cancer plying between the stars, a tumour fit only to be cut apart or bombarded from afar.

Stepping forth into its stinking emptiness, the rust armoured brother surveyed the sorroundings. The various icons and graffiti painted along the walls in blood.... or worse. But he heard the chaplain's request and stopped to analyze. It was still a cruiser of a hallowed imperial design, though if that should make him feel better or worse in regards to its profanity he did not know. And navigating it should be a simple enough matter. 'Should be' being the operative choice of wording. It all depended on where exactly it was they boarded. It was hard to tell for certain but....

“That way.” Hefting his power axe towards the right hand direction. He paused as if re-considering his analysis. Calculations whirling in his head in a rather difficult attempt to take in the variables of their transport. “...yes, that way. And up, at least three decks above us.”

Behind him four servitors lurched out of the assault ram with their ungainly mechanized gait. Two of them sported heavy bolters instead of arms, these massive guns and their associated mechanizisms made up nearly half of their torsos. And their other arms ending in vicious industrial pincers that could shear through steel pipe and copper wire as if it were soft flesh, augmented by mechanical muscle. They clunked heavily ahead of the two more mundane servitors, themselves a mess of wiring and connection cables and little else of use. They stood idle, their faces which were already half destroyed by their machine parts blank and stupid as the automotons awaited orders to continue, or to do anything for that matter.

Tiberius stepped off of the assault ram and held his powersword at the ready, gazing about in a swift, almost mechanical fashion. The very muscles of his body honed to a perfect harmony of combat readiness that could not be matched by any mortal man. It seemed the corridor was empty however. He stood at the ready for any enemies that would approach, though from what it seemed, they would go to the enemy.

He would enjoy that.

It would dull the pain of knowing one of the Imperium's cruisers had been so tarnished and corrupted with such degradation. The Black Templars were not known for their care of the common man, but any servant to the Emperor deserved more than to meet their doom by chaos torture. Once Brother Obryn announced the direction of which Tiberius would direct his wrath, the Templar placed his guantleted thumb upon the power button along the hilt of his power sword, and crept as quietly as he could alongside the servitors, telling his men to follow close behind.

Blood would be spilled this day, in the name of the Emperor.

The meltas breached their intended hole, and the Apothecary stood high up to gaze over the shoulders of his Brothers to see what was within. He checked the load on his pistol and gave his chain-axe an experimental whir once more, eager for the scent of battle. Klaus did his role dutifully, but retrieving geneseed from fallen brothers was not something he enjoyed. Every time he'd have to stare into their dying eyes, and almost every time he would have to make the pronunciation that they were unfit to continue life as a dreadnought.

The Apothecary cautiously stepped out, making sure he was mostly surrounded by his Brothers and servitors. A simple-minded man might call it cowardice but in fact it was loyal duty. Oh how the serpent of the anger within him wanted him to charge, oh how he wanted to run forth and cover himself in gore with his chainaxe and fists. But the fact was it wouldn't and shouldn't be. He had an oath to be read to administer treatment to whoever might need such.

Still, he raised his plasma pistol and cautiously scanned the environs for some threat that his brothers and the servitor wetware might have missed. As the Techmarine pronounced where they were to go, he cautiously followed with his pistol raised and his axe prepared for a parry rather than a strike like the blades of his brothers.

@Ollumhammersong@Andreyich@POOHEAD189

“It seems they were not expecting us,” growled the Chaplain into his helm-vox, fingers flexing about the shaft of his crozius as he paced forward along the corridor, icons doing the same as he kept his eyes on his surroundings and his peripherals on the HUD of his helmet, “be cautious brothers...I do not like this.”

According to his helmets sensors, and his own for that matter, there was nothing moving – or even living – in their immediate vicinity, the right-hand passageway seeming as devoid of life as where they had entered.

Something was not right.

There! Footfalls...lots of them.

They came in a ragged mass of bodies, most bearing hard-projectile weapons and ill-kept close quarter cleavers and blades, accumulation of all that was foulest and most bestial in humanity now heading straight toward them. Mutants, heretics, the lost and the damned, they were all present in the morass of ill-fated worshippers of the Dark Gods – a heathen host utterly without human quality, from the largest bovine-headed beastman, to the smallest child-like mutant.

Mere moments passed before autoguns began to chatter and shotguns started booming in the confines of the passage, not all of them even aimed at the enemy, some simply fired into the air.

Sibrand could see a cross-roads of sorts ahead, interconnecting corridors from whence this filth was coalescing, and by the God-Emperor he made a decision there and then.

“In the name of Him on Terra, we press through this filth and secure the junction beyond them. On me, brothers!”

The field around his crozius activated at the depression of a finger-pad - pellets, bullets and buckshot causing the shield projected by his rosarius to shimmer as he moved forward and began to pick up the pace – a mighty roar exploding from the grinning deaths head as his shoulder turned itself and made contact with the first of his adversaries, a particularly ugly and scaled mutant, the grotesque face exploding in a shower of gore as the body was flung backwards into the baying mob.

First blood to the Templars.

The Apothecary walked along with his Brothers, already smelling the foul heresy present. Again and again the serpent of the rage within him wanted to lash out, to destroy the enemy, to hurt that which blights the realm of the God-Emperor of mankind. Klaus imagined the all the ways he would bring destruction to the enemy, all the artful parries and feints and punches and ripostes and simple angry charges. So busy in his imagination he was that he only had a momentary notice when human firearms were let loose upon the Templars. He ducked under a slug going for his throat and side-stepped a flechette burst, before taking cover near some of his Brethren.

He returned fire quite promptly, lowering his chainaxe to the ground and taking a two-handed grip on his plasma pistol. One shot, two, three. Each was aimed with perfection, blue balls of death turning men's torsos into puddles of charred ichor with limbs and head flopping uselessly to the sides. Shots four and five were aimed at a particularly nasty hyper-muscled mutant, before the Apothecary stopped to let his pistol cool down for a short period. In this time he went over to a Sword-Brother wounded by a devastating slug the got into his gut.

"Relax, allow the Emperor's creation to mend you." He said, kneeling beside him. In righteous anger the Brother moved to swat him away but under the calm gaze of the Apothecary he was in turn calmed as well. He let Klaus removed the offending bullet, before proceeding once again to fire. Klaus himself knew that the Chaplain and others had for considerable time now closed ranks with the enemy, and while Klaus did not aim to taste blood in single combat just now he knew very well that in moments of frothing fury the Black Templars may lose their temper and care for any wounds. Klaus knew that he would have to be ready to care for them when they eventually realized that perhaps they were missing an arm for the last ten minutes.

Thanks to the machine spirit aiding his Mark VII Power Armor, Tiberius heard, or rather felt the faint tremors along the floors as a veritable horde approached the group in droves. It was his instinct that told him their allegiance, and the large Adeptus Astartes held himself against the wall to strike in their midst rather than before them. It was in the split second when he saw the mutant at the fore that he knew his intuition to be correct.

He stepped out into the main hall, his powersword now lit and thrumming with a fury that matched its wielder. His very steps wrought destruction, crushing some smaller heretic's legs as he waded forward. With a strength beyond them, and a blur of movement, Tiberius had sheared through three heretics and a mutant. "By the Emperor's creed, you shall be punished!" he cried, hacking apart four more and using his free hand to literally bash the skull in of a heretic.

He felt claws and makeshift weapons itch across his armor, but it did little to harm him. Even the autoguns at full capacity gave the lightest of dents in his armor. "To me, brothers!" He called to the other Black Templars, carving a way back toward them, allowing them to spearhead into the enemy's ranks and exploit the chink of weakness in their lines. With a final hack, he had cleared the way, blood pooling along the floor.

It still was not enough for Tiberius' reckoning.

Oberon raised his bolt pistol in time to meet the airborne charge of a howling mutant. It was an insane thing, with skin like poorly aged leather, no eyes and far too many mouths. It gibbered inanely as it bounded over the heads of its equally depraved fellows with speed that belied its spindly frame. Only to be blown out of the air as a bolt shell barked and took it full in the chest. It struggled to rise with this new and vast bloody crater taking up most of its torso but eventually collapse again, reduced to a slow death as it bled from its considerable wound.

Oberon didn’t spare another shell to put it out of its misery. Content to let it die, mewling and pitiful. Better for it to suffer for its shameful existence than to waste holy munitions to expedite the inevitable. His fellows were not as precise in the expenditure of their energies. Shouting warcries and litanies, were these proper foes, which is to say traitor astartes or similarly high profile threats he could well understand. But these were mere chattle, mutants and hate-spawn that needed little of of the grandstanding these brotheren were indulging in.

He stood behind his brothers, But in front of the valuable servitors. The battle servitors were unable to open fire with the roar of their integrated heavy bolters. The IFF signals of the battle brothers standing in the way halted their marksman sub-routines unless Oberon overrode them manually. Though tempted to do just that if it meant bringing this pointless conflict to speedy conclusion, he kept their guns silent. This skirmish was just that, nothing more than a waste of time on the path to his goal, hardly the kind of battle that legends were carved from.