"I do not understand, you summoned me here to view this dead planet?"

Shipmaster Apolena Jelka held back a small chuckle from her throat, entirely unphased by the presence of the bio-engineered killing machine at her side. Although only young as far as servants of the Imperium went, at a mere eighty-five Terran years old, she had spent the majority of those solar cycles doing just as she did now - that was transporting of battle-brothers from various Chapters to-and-from the God-Emperors Deathwatch. Now she looked out the window of the viewing deck aboard her Hunter-class Destroyer, shifting a little from one leg to the other, and smoothing down her pressed black uniform, before constructing a reply.

"It is certainly decieving, my lord," she admitted with no reluctance, her tone one of mild amusement, "Jorval was once home to a substantial population, Imperial citizens all, before it was stripped of life by a tendril fleet of the Tyranid menace."

Milo allowed his handsome features to twist into a sneer, making his visage instantly more ugly, his grey eyes peering at the similarly coloured planet - the dead rock listless and still amid the stars - and the ever-present galactic scar of the Great Rift beyond it.

"Where is the Watch-Fortress? For that is why I am here, is it not. To look upon my new 'home'."

Apolena cleared her throat and gave a curt nod, not looking at the over-large face of the Son of Antaeus while she spoke again, "you were expecting a Ramillies Starfort, perhaps?" It was a flippant question, and rhetorical, one she had asked of many Astartes during her lifetime.

A grunt of affirmation was all she recieved in return.

"This planet is the fortress, lord. It was scoured of life, then scoured of Tyranid bioforms in turn, Watch-Fortress Jorval lies beneath the crust of the world, for there is no core to worry the Deathwatch and no life for lightyears in any direction."

He had to admit that he was impressed, preconceptions about orbiting arrays bristling with armaments dashed by the mortal officers words, his mind and eyes now peering at and analysing the planet before him.

"I can discern no defenses... What can you tell me about them?"

Two piercing blue eyes now looked at Milo from beneath thin brows of straw-blonde hair, the Shipmasters lips forming a smile once more.

"Lord, you know I am forbidden to speak of such things; all I may say is that we are as well defended here as we would be in any Chapters fortress-monastery. Now, if you will excuse me, we will be sending down your shuttle at your leisure."

Milo did not trace her as she walked away, at least not with his eyes, his hyper-swift mind taking in both her fading footsteps and his own thoughts in the blink of an eye. He heard her pause, knew she looked back, before keying in something on the doors control panel and exiting the deck with a small hiss.

Here he was then, clad in simple black robes adorned only with his Chapter symbol upon his chest and nothing more, moments away from what could be a glorious opportunity for he and his Chapter or a failure in both respects.

---

---

Several weeks earlier...

Harsh and unyielding light picked out the stern features of the two behemoths, their footsteps causing the underplating of the ships corridor to shake with each stride, each facially identical and yet they could not be more different.

"How many is that, Apothecary-Prime?"

The older of the pair, his face as creased and worn as a piece of old leather, as craggy as the face of a cliff, turned his blue eyes to the other look at the questioning grey orbs of the other. In them was a look of professional pride, yet it held a sadness that few other Astartes would or could ever feel.

"Twelve, twelve more than we can really afford to lose. They died in the usual manner, their bodies too weak to cope with the alterations."

Milo placed a hand on the pauldron of the Apothecary-Prime, a figure of both scientific and esoteric knowledge within the Sons, and gave what mortals may take for an empathetic smile.

"This is not so bad... why, I never believed I would survive my own evolution, but I did."

"You did, and our Chapter is ever thankful that it was so, but..."

"But now I must take my first oath and leave, leave my brothers for the Deathwatch."

"Yes," the tone of voice was more fatherly now, as Alkmaion sought the right words to say, "we made our pact with the Ordo Xenos, with the Watch, and now we must honour it."

Brother Milo, present yourself at the airlock S-15-98/82, the Deathwatch are waiting.

"This is where I take my leave then, my friend."

"It is," agreed Milo, clasping his own grey armoured hand around the bone-white armour of his comrade-in-arms, "see to our survival until I return, old one."

Both went their seperate ways, not a word between them or a look back given, time was of the essence and the Watch did not like to be kept waiting.

In the back of his mind Milo pictured the successful aspirants, the few victors in the Chapters trials, strapped to tables in sterile surroundings as their entire bone structure altered itself, with a little help from incense-wreathed Apothecaries and skull-faced Chaplains.

He could feel his own body giving a receptic twitch to his thoughts, shifting his focus rapidly away from it and back to the moment at hand.

"Brother-Veteran Milo."

It was a statement directed at him by an emmissary of the Ordo, a thickset and experienced looking man dressed in nearly featureless black bodyglove - only the embellished =][= of the Ordo Xenos glimmering in the ships light, one gloved hand rising to present a rolled item to the gigantic marine.

Milo took it in one hand, carefully cracking the wax seal and unravelling the scroll, his eyes working over the spider-like handwriting there in less time than it took a man to blink.

"I, Brother-Veteran Milo - called 'the Deathless' - give myself to the Deathwatch as fulfilment and assurity of the pact between the Sons of Antaeus and the Emperor's holy Ordo Xenos, this is my first oath."

"So be it," intoned the emissary, "please board the shuttle, and we shall see your oath completed."

---

---

Jorval was as lifeless as it had appeared from orbit, nay even more so, the whole expanse a barren landscape of grey rock underfoot and the twinkling stars and blackness of space above.

Milo marched in a column of figures, eight servitors carrying his arms and armour - fitted with gravity-giving emitters - while tech-adepts moved silently beside and around them; for his own part he had been given the largest enviromental suit they could find, and a rebreather mask, only his own gravity emitters stopping him from being launched into the space surrounding the atmosphere-cleansed rock.

Eventually they came to a rock that appeared to be much like any other, the emissary that that had rejoined him during their embarkation now moving forward and placing what looked to be a rosette against a part of the rock. Moments passed before he took a step back, a hollow coming to life and before long the entire rock had sunk into the earth, leaving a lift shaft in its wake.

Down, down and down they went, the ceilingless lift large enough for an entire platoon of Stormtroopers, the machinery churning as they descended down a shaft of featureless rock as smooth as obsidian or marble.

Milo remained unimpressed, or that was until they began to be lowered into what he assumed was the central area of the Watch-Fortress...

From his vantage point he could see everything, a million small details picked out that a human eye would have missed, the nearing intersection below them a bustling metropolis of vehicles and men, the towering figures of black-clad Astartes wading through groups of red-robed Martians and lower stooped menials, figures garbed in bodyglove holding Hellguns in their hands and looking out through masks shaped like leering skulls.

And the noise... oh the noise!

The intersection itself had clearly once been a cavern of great size, tunnels large enough for tracked APCs or battalions of Militarum snaking away into darkness - no doubt connected to an even further network of corridors, chambers and arenas - a hundred turrets whirring back and forth from every angle, not a few even now keeping pace with the lift as it came to a halt on the caverns floor.

"Welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, Brother-Veteran Milo."

Was that a smile from the emissary?

"Your armour and weapons shall be taken away, cared for by our own menials until your second oath is taken and all returned, likely in even better condition than you left it."

Milo was not so sure of this, his eyes focusing on the emissary even as he made a note of the several Kill-teams stooping their way into a Rhino APC some yards away.

"Oh it will all be fine," assured the nameless guide with another smile, preempting the Son and his questions, "we like our new arrivals to get used to training without their armour, you see."

A grunt was all he got in reply, the trail of menials and tech-adepts disappearing into the hustle and bustle of the surrounding crowd along with his second-skin and the equip ment he had used in war for centuries.

"Very well, please, allow me to show you to your chamber."

---

---

It appeared to take hours for the two figures to find themselves in the antechamber of Milo's current living quarters, moving through weaving corridors and over several crossroads of pathways - so much so that even the Sons superhuman mind had trouble following every twist and turn - until they reached a corridor on which twelve Astartes would find their new rooms to be.

"Large but spartan, much like you Space Marines yourselves," half-chuckled his erstwhile guide, "through there is a prayer area and, once you gain permission to paint your armour, a personal armoury is through that archway there."

Milo had to admit that the chambers were well constructed, the ceilings high and the walls crafted of a smooth stone which didn't seem native to Jorval, and even his sleeping-cot had been adjusted to fit his prodigious frame.

Had he been permissed to view other chambers he would have noticed various distinctions, those of Vulkan's seed had within their quarters braziers of intense flame, while the Black Templar sons of Dorn had more elaborate religious chapels, and those cursed sons of Sanguinius slept inside specially crafted sarcophagi.

"Thank you, I think I shall rest for a time."

He did not require it, indeed he had not slept for some time, but if it would allow him to be left alone with his thoughts then so be it.

"Very well," said the Emissary with a nod of acceptance, "you shall be summoned within forty-eight Terran hours for initial training, please do not leave your chambers until then."

Aodh was quiet for much of the trip to Jorval. Certainly, he addressed those who addressed him, keeping his tone reasonable and light, but he did not then go out of his way to seek those who he would likely not see again in future, or even his fellow Battle-Brothers who had been seconded for their vigil. In truth, his interactions were perfunctory - his mind caught somewhat on the events leading to his secondment, and whether or not this represented rightful honouring of his deeds, or subtle punishment for a breach of honour.

---

Weeks before...

'Congratulations, Sergeant Aodh.'

There was not much time left before the announced arrival of the Deathwatch's transport shuttle - it would present itself within the next few days, if the call for battle brothers to serve was correct, though even with every precaution taken, travel near the Cicatrix Maledictum remained ever a challenge, inconsistent to a fault as far as timing was concerned. And yet, the tithe of Space Marines owed to the Deathwatch remained ever unfulfilled - every individual who was deemed fit to contribute was a necessity, and according to Brother-Captain Calum, Aodh himself fit the bill.

A normal human would likely have been left reeling by an announcement of this magnitude, presented by Captain, Chaplain, and Apothecary, all at such short notice. They'd need time, maybe more than they had left, to process the situation and respond properly. Aodh merely blinked, then responded 'I am honoured, Captain,' in a neutral, almost pleased tone. Indeed, to enter the Deathwatch was a great honour, to both Marine and Chapter. 'I never believed I'd be offered the opportunity to fight such vaunted battles... though, you are certain I am worthy?' he asked to clarify. It was almost a redundant statement - he knew his own abilities, and he knew what he was capable of fending off. Indeed, the Captain himself chuckled somewhat as he asked. Really, the only reason he asked was Chulaine's earlier statement about the Tempest Blades eyeing him for, potentially, future recruitment, a thought he had privately been enjoying. Secondment to the Deathwatch would at best delay such progress, and at worst prevent it outright.

'Well, if we must be sure, Sergeant, let us reconfirm our beliefs.' He gestured for Chaplain Ruaraidh to speak, the old brother-priest stepping forward and solemnly stating 'I have known you since your time as a Neophyte, Sergeant Aodh. I have seen your very soul, and I know what prowess you have strived toward in spite of what you consider your weaknesses and limitations. The Imperialis you bear on your armour proves your heart is true to the Storm Wardens, and to the Emperor. If there is any who would thrive in the Deathwatch, it is you.' A very heartfelt statement, it seemed.

'I, in turn, have examined your body as thoroughly as possible,' the Apothecary stated. Brother Murchadh had never been one for excessive statements, and his appraisal was correspondingly brief: 'You are genetically pure, and physically as capable as possible for your age. You'll fit right in, Sergeant.' He concluded with a nod.

'Indeed so,' the Captain continued, smiling blandly. 'And of course, I cannot simply suggest you aren't an incredible warrior, and a great asset when it comes to slaying the xeno threat. Why, when I witnessed your rapid and masterful defeat of the Warboss Dreddnort, even in the face of your own demise, I couldn't help but think your skill would be wasted outside of the Deathwatch. And you have suggested that Brother Edan would be a worthy Sergeant in his own right, have you not?' The moment the Orkish Warboss was mentioned, Aodh felt his features fall just fractionally - a fact Ruaraidh and Murchadh failed to note, but which Chulaine certainly witnessed. He had suspected that might be the case, but...

Captain Chulaine leaned forward just so, smiled that bland smile, and uttered 'You will do brilliantly, I am quite certain.'

'...likewise, Captain,' Aodh responded, betraying no further emotion than what he'd already shown. It was an honour, after all.

---

He'd thought back to that moment a lot since then, moreso after the Deathwatch came for him and his kin than before. The first oath had been as heartfelt as any - because of course it was, oaths were invaluable, and the pact between Adeptus and Ordo moreso than most - but beyond that, he had largely been left to his own devices. A lot of time was spent in training, and a lot more in focused prayer, meditation, and mixed in with these a sort of internal debate. It had taken him a while to come to any semblance of satisfaction about the matter in his mind, but debate was what Storm Wardens excelled at: he'd created figures in his mind to represent the various sides of the argument - heavily in favour of and opposed to Calum's actions, lightly in favour of and opposed to the same, and a neutral participant chipping in to ensure fair debate - and used them as devices to process his thoughts on the matter as best he could. He'd have much preferred to discuss with another Storm Warden on the ship, of course, but given its sensitivity, that seemed... unreasonable.

Ultimately, a couple of days before he made planetfall, the debate petered out to each arguer's own opinion, cycling back to each statement over and over with no further progress: those in favour proposed that he ought to take the task of the Long Vigil as a challenge, and as suitable penance in the extreme case; the neutral party maintained that even without the Tempest Blades' eye on him, he would earn great honour both personal and for the Chapter through his actions in the Deathwatch, provided he maintained the standards that were expected of him, perhaps even greater than kinship with the Blades could offer; and those against continued to hold that it was absurd for Chulaine to hold them back from the Tempest Blades like this - though the less extreme arguer made it clear, too, that if such an indirect, almost underhanded method was how the Captain chose to avenge his grudges, then really, he was the one who showed a lack of honour, and not Aodh.

Aodh was very tempted to agree with that last argument, but couldn't bring himself to settle as such when he had technically interfered with the Captain's oath first. Instead, he forced himself to at least agree with the neutral participant: he simply needed to be aware of the oaths others in his Kill-team had made, and ensure his spur-of-the-moment vows of slaughter did not override any of those.

Nonetheless, whilst he forced himself to be ready for arrival well prior to reaching the Watch-Fortress, even the relative lack of resolution did not override Aodh's surprise with how utterly dead Jorval was. He'd heard, of course, about the Tyranid splinter fleet that had passed through the area, but he had expected their destination to be a planet or moon that hadn't been devoured wholesale. An inability to support complex life was one thing; a total lack of atmosphere or indeed anything worth saving, especially when it had previously possessed value, was quite another. Not least the lack of an obvious Watch-Fortress, either on the planet's surface or orbiting the world. A small amount of questioning, however, revealed the truth: the planet had been hollowed out by the Tyranids before their destruction, making it more than suitable to become the Watch-Fortress wholesale. It was, he reckoned, an impressive means of protection, ensuring many kilometers of bedrock between a potential threat and even the most rudimentary protections on the fortress proper - not to mention the ease with which weapon systems could be hidden beneath its surface.

---

As anyone who had ever worn power armour in a vacuum knew, their environmental seals ensured that one could wear them indefinitely in the most inhospitable environments, and mag-boots ensured the ability to remain attached to most surfaces. Aodh therefore couldn't claim that he was pleased to be approaching the apparent entrance to the Watch-Fortress in an environmental suit, wearing a rebreather, and tied to the planet's surface by gravitic emitters lest it fling him away. One of Watch-Fortress Jorval's many defensive measures, no doubt - assault would be nigh-impossible if one could not approach to begin with. Nonetheless, his armour and equipment was separated from him, borne by servitors and a cadre of tech-priests, and the idea left him rather discomforted even with understanding of what the Deathwatch's intent was. His blade, after all, was of great value to him; to not have it on his person could mean defeat clutched from the jaws of an otherwise simple victory, even in a battlefield as blasted as this. He doubted any of his fellows did not feel the same, even with the assurance from the Inquisitorial emissary escorting them to their destination- an older scion, maybe twenty decades or more in terms of age- that their equipment would eventually be returned to them "better than new".

The disguise of the lift, in hindsight, was not surprising. The fortress was hidden in the planet, so it was unlikely that the entrance would be simple to find. What did finally raise an eyebrow was the sheer scale of operations within the entranceway alone: dozens of Marines in black armour, hundreds of Mechanicus adepts, maybe over a thousand menials, a small battalion of weapon turrets no doubt operated by a great many machine spirits...

'Welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, Storm Wardens,' the emissary announced gravely as the platform neared the end of its descent. 'As of now until the end of your Watch, your former rank is irrelevant. You shall be instilled with the knowledge you are required to know, trained until the Watch sees fit to let you engage the enemy, and fight alongside your cousins as commanded.' It still grated somewhat to be reminded that his fellow Storm Wardens would not be a part of his own team, but the reasoning made sense - flexibility came with variety, of course.

'Training will officially begin in forty-eight hours; your first sessions of hypno-therapy will begin in due course after. Until then,' the emissary advised, 'you shall be shown to your chambers to await further instruction.' He couldn't help but ponder whether hand-to-hand training would help him much, given his preferred combat style, but better at least to be prepared for a brawl than to fall victim when caught off-guard. With but a final glance at his Brothers, Aodh followed the man requesting his attention away, and into the Watch-Fortress proper.

---

---

"Burn." The undergrowth curled and blackened. The shriek of whatever insects hadn't gotten clear in time rang true, and then would fade. In the marine's armour, calculations ticked and whirred. Movement, 243. His servo arm swung around and lit itself with the whining hiss of plasma initiating, only to shut off when a squad of guardsmen burst through the undergrowth. They initially raised up their arms, only to drop them once they saw the towering figure standing before them, Flamer held almost casually in his arms as he continued to eradicate the growth that the xenos filth hid themselves in.

"Venerable space marine! Praise the Emperor!" The head of the guardsmen, a tall buzzcut man with a chainsword still whirring in his hand would shout out. "Please, mi'lord, do you happen to know the wherabouts of..." Before he could finish his sentence one of Lelandros' arms had come out, pointing back towards where the jungle path had been cleared. His arm would adjust itself back to his flamer as he let out another jet of liquid purity, watching as a tree's trunk was taken over and began to creak-topple towards the ground. He was not the only one assigned this operation, strictly speaking this was a guardsman's job, but the space marines had taken to burning out more of the undergrowth faster whenever they had the opportunity.

It was menial work, but essential, and the cybernetic parts of Lelandros' mind reminded him how essential they were. The enemy laid spores. Every square foot of scorched earth meant an average of 7 less enemy fighters to contend with in the future. This was the sort of vital operation that should be left to a skitarii incinerator team, but this would have to do instead. One last gout and his flamer would wail dry, the marine letting the weapon swing down and magnetically clamp itself to his leg. "I shall escort you."

He would turn and begin to stalk back through the undergrowth, guardsmen hurrying in his shadow. Here and there the sound of flames and occasional booming comment would mark out another Salamander searing the planet of its impurities, but as they drew closer to the central command station, he would quickly realise something was wrong. Holding a fist up, the guardsmen would stop themselves. "This is Forgepriest Lelandros, is ever-" He wouldn't even be able to finish his sentence before the radio would crackle its reply.

"Forgepriest Lelandros, Astartes Designation SLDT-54011?" The voice that crackled through was not the regular officer, nor a Salamander that Lelandros recognised.

"Correct. Speaking to?"

"Your oath is required." Deep within Lelandros' mind, something primal stirred. The forgepriest would indicate forward with his hand and press onwards, the guardsmen falling back into step with him. The prefabricated structure of the base would rise out of the jungle's undergrowth, the Salamander standing in front of one of the loading docks. A blast of cool air would send his cape fluttering out behind him, the space marine seeing his new comrades before anything else. Four of them stood there- three helmeted, one with his helmet under his arm, all in the black. A Blood Angel, the blue of an Ultramines successor, and the last with the beaked helmet and piercing gaze of what could only be a son of Corax.

Forgepriest Lelandros would bow his head slightly, hands reaching up to his helmet. There was a hiss as the locks that held it in place released themselves, and then he lifted it up, revealing skin as black as coals and eyes as red as embers underneath. The other unhelmeted marine would look at him, their eyes boring into Lelandros' own. Then, silently, he would hand over a scroll. Lelandros would take it in his hand and reluctantly open it, eyes scanning across the scratchy High Gothic slowly.

Then, he would clear his throat. "I, Forgepriest Lelandros, Son of Vulkan, bearer of the Fire of Ry'lan, give myself unto the Deathwatch. In doing so, I fufill the ancient oaths between the Salamanders and the Emperor's own Ordo Xenos, and in doing so give myself to the defence of the Imperium in a new capacity. This is my first oath." Once he had spoken, he would bring his hands up into an aquila, the four space marines across from him making the shape as well.

Idly, he realised, the gobsmacked guardsmen that he had been escorting hurried to make the motion themselves, the reduced squad shuffling away quietly once they thought the superhumans too occupied to care.

---

He was thankful for one thing, and that was that there had been a significant contingent of techpriests aboard the ship that he was being transported on. Now, they stood around him, the forgepriest naked apart from a simple cloth wrapped around his loins. Heat buffeted around him, and he brought the hammer in his bear-like hand down over and over again. Around him, the red-robed priests chanted.

"01001111 01101101 01101001 01110011 01110011 01101001 01100001 01101000" The forgepriest mouthed the words. The litanies and cants drilled into him whilst on the red planet echoed through his mind, even as he brought his hammer down again and again. Frustration, perhaps, but also meticulous detail made every hit a precise execution of the machine's will.

"01000010 01101100 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000 01110101 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100011 01110010 01100001 01100110 01110100" It reminded him of Prometheus. Of home. His fingers tightened around the haft of his tools. Another crashing hammerblow down onto the anvil, before the marine would put down his hammer, the chanting of the priests slowing as he did so.

"Is it done?" Said one, their grindingly mechanical voice sounding like a sweet melody to Lelandros.

"As close as it will be. I leave the finishing to you." He turned away from the craft and looked towards the door, where a figure stood, examining him. It was the Raven, he realised. The two space marines- one fully armoured the other anything but, would allow the infinite differences between hem linger, before the other figure would speak.

"We have almost arrived, Brother tec-Forgepriest." The self-correction would be met with a thankful incline of the Salamander's head, the latter padding across the floor towards the figure. Outside stood two serfs who would hurry to place a cloak around Lelandros' form, and then two more would step forward holding his Omnissian Axe. The symbol of his rank, and the only item he had left. He supposed they couldn't do anything to it that he hadn't already done, and so his midnight black fingers would curl around its shaft, Lelandros bowing his head slightly in thanks.

In silence then, the two would proceed towards the front viewing port. The only noise was the clank of the power armour on the metal floor and the far quieter chinks as the bottom of Lelandros' only remaining weapon tapped against the selfsame floor. When he reached the viewing port, he blinked a few times, initially believing himself to be looking at some abandoned moon, rather than the Watch-Fortress. The explanation would soon come though, and the forgepriest had to admit that it was quite the construction.

The craft they were in would come closer and closer to the seemingly lifeless lock, and then more serfs would arrive. An environmental suit. Of course. His armour was still not with him. Reluctantly giving his axe across to the strongest looking serf, he would don the suit without any complaint, his axe handed back to him. They would land on the surface and he would be escorted down towards the exit of the ship, noting his armour being borne by yet more serfs. His prized combi-bolter, his cloak... Good, it was being treated well. Then, the vaccum of space would open up to them, and he would walk forward, mag-locks in his feet keeping him grounded.

Down and down and down and down they went. The Tyranids had scoured deep... And he was reminded of his first deployment after Mars. The flames, the tunnels, the chitters and cackles, the tearing of metal and flesh. His grip tightened on his axe, the head rotating a single time. The door to the escalator would open, and... By the Omnissiah.

"Welcome to the Watch-Fortress." An emissary was already talking to him, before the marine had the chance to take everything in. "We are glad, as always, to have another familiar with the machine-spirits join our rank. Your expertise will be expounded upon, your knowledge lifted to further heights." The man would clear his throat, Lelandros's suit-covered face showing no emotion.

"For now, please, we will escort you to your quarters where you will receive further instructions."

The sound of clashing steel echoed across the open ground on the flattened top of one of the mountainous peaks that harbored the Astartes Fortress-Monastery. Seeing little point in training and testing each other's strength in a controlled environment, the Black Swords had built their arena to be exposed to the elements; thunderstorms, blizzards, and hailstorms regularly swept the bare stone. Those were the best times for combat, but on this day the sun shone brightly and made Parions' sweat glisten on his body, only covered by a loincloth as he sat on a stone bench and gulped some water down from a terracotta jug. Drops of blood stained his pale skin; some of his, and some of another.

"At least you're easy to find. Esklados is going to have you thrown in a cell for a few weeks if you keep avoiding the chapel so much."

Another had spoken, clad in a grey tunic and approaching from behind. He looked similar, with long red braided hair that fell to his shoulders and black eyes with no white.

"Our dear Chaplain would tell you that the only prayer worthy of the Emperor is a battle. This is the next best thing." The gladiator answered, gesturing towards two other Astartes who were linked together by a chain wrapped around their left arm as their blades impacted upon each other. "Are you here for a rematch, Orsa?"

The sergeant shook his head. He looked more serious now.

"Not today, Parion. The old man wants to see you." Orsa turned around and started walking towards the stairs that led down into the fortress. He stopped after a few steps, looking over his shoulder. "You'd better hurry and clean yourself up. I wouldn't make him wait if I were you."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Light from burning braziers reflected on the smooth black stone walls and bronze pillars of the throne room, in which three figures stood immobile. Chapter Master Sagramor Kohr gave off an aura of savage strength and power, clad in a dark Terminator armour that was worn by all of his predecessors. If one was to get close enough to the golden engravings that covered the armored plates, one could see minuscule letters: the written names and deeds of all the Chapter Masters who walked these ancient halls. Even for an Astartes, his weathered and scar-ridden face told a story of many centuries of war.

To his right, a skull-faced Chaplain looked like he was a shadow emerged from the darkest corner of the room, his facial features concealed behind his helmet's skeletal grin. The one to his left had a distinctive psychic hood over his head, and the scarlet robes he wore over his blue armor marked him as the Chapter's Chief Librarian.

Parion could not help but wonder what such an assembly wanted with him as he opened the large bronze door and walked into the throne room, a place usually reserved for the greatest honors and harshest punishments, as well as welcoming the rare guests who ever deigned to visit in person. Even as one of the Angels of Death wearing his ancient suit of power armour, he felt like he was a mere man in the presence of giants as he lowered himself to one knee before his master and bowed his head.

"I come to your summoning, my lord."

"Rise, Parion Sharratar of the Fourth Company." Sagramor's voice was deep and rumbling. "You have been summoned for a matter of importance, and a mission for you to accomplish."

Parion stood up and removed his helmet, keeping it under his arm. Chaplain Esklados' words echoed in the chamber with his usual unflinching tone.

"His Majesty's Holy Inquisition has come knocking at our door once again. As always, we answer. We have spoken with your captain and have found you worthy of being sent to accomplish a vigil in the Deathwatch."

"Deathwatch?" This came as a bit of a shock to the young Space Marine. "You honour me, and I mean not to question your judgement, my masters, but it seems to me that those who are usually selected are quite older than I am." Parion did not hide his surprise, like most of his brothers he rarely made an effort to conceal his emotions.

"You are young, yes. You are also a great warrior already, the suit of armour that you are wearing is proof of that." Mirish, the Chief Librarian, was a soft-spoken and eerily gentle man. "We have agreed that your youth will not prevent you from accomplishing this mission we give to you. Maybe, will it even turn out to be an advantage? This vigil is not merely a service to the Inquisition."

Sagramor spoke up again. "We have little favours within the Imperium, you know this. By binding ourselves to the Ordo Xenos, we gain much-needed allies, as fickle as they may be. You will not only fight for them. You will learn, learn everything you can. Those of our brothers who returned from the Deathwatch came back with invaluable skills and expertise, and now your turn has come." The Chapter Master stepped forward and placed his hand on Parion's shoulder. "Represent our Chapter, show that we are mighty and valuable allies. And return to us when your vigil is over, to share your knowledge."

"So shall it be, my lord." Parion felt both pride and a hint of disquiet swell in his chest. "I will not disappoint you."

Sagramor nodded with an approving grunt, a faint smile showing through his red beard.

Mirish stepped to the young Marine's side, speaking quietly without looking at him as if nobody else was meant to hear. "Take great care, Parion. You may uncover secrets that best remain buried. I cannot say what may happen or what truths remain to be seen, as I dread to gaze too far back. Do not allow yourself to be changed by whispers from the past. Remember who you are, no matter what."

The Librarian then smiled amicably, as if they had just been discussing the lightest of matters.

"Go now. Say your farewells to your brothers. You are leaving tomorrow."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Check."

The trooper grinned and laid the cards that he had onto the table.

"Tough luck, Space Marine. Imperial flush."

Parion's own cards seemed minuscule in his armored hand as he made a disappointed face. "You are good, Armsman. I couldn't read you at all." He said, letting the cards fall on top of the others.

"I've been on this ship for three decades. Ain't too many things to do during Warp travel, you know." The man laid back on his chair. "Suffice to say, I have more training than you do in this domain."

The Astartes chuckled. It took weeks for the ship's crew to stop avoiding him whenever they could, even longer for them to stop calling him 'lord'. In time, the mortals got used to the sight of the Black Sword exercising in the hallways or walking around in his dark armour, even if the grinning skull hanging from his belt, the chains wrapped around his arms and the strange gem strapped onto his right shoulder pad still made them somewhat uneasy. Still, the Imperial Navy soldiers on board eventually made for decent companionship for the remaining travel time.

His vox earpiece came to life as he heard the voice of the ship's captain. "Sir? We have arrived at your destination. Your shuttle and compartment for your equipment are ready, entering low orbit in thirty minutes."

"On my way, captain." The Black Sword rose to his feet and lowered his gaze towards the small mortal. "This is my cue. Safe travels, Armsman."

The trooper stood up and offered his hand. "I wish you better fortune in war than in gambling, Angel of Death."

Human and Astartes shook hands before parting ways, never to see each other again.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hours later, Parion found himself in his assigned chamber, where his guide left him to wait until initial training. What he had seen of the Watch-Fortress was impressive indeed, a feat emphasized by the fact that it was built into the dead planet itself. A work befitting of the secrecy and paranoia of an Inquisitorial organisation, and evidently a powerful stronghold capable of serving as headquarters for considerable force projection.

But the Watch-Fortress itself had little presence in Parion's mind at the moment. Instead, the words of his masters rang in his head, along with newfound loneliness. He didn't like it. He didn't like having words dancing around in his mind either.

The Black Sword took a deep breath and assumed a fighting stance, starting a warrior's ritual. An arm thrusts forward. Muscles that bend steel. A kick is thrown, swift as lightning, and severs a spine. Fingers grab and rip through flesh, crush bones to dust. Each part of the body accomplishes its duty as a soldier in a war against the enemy's. Punches weaken his defenses. A feint goads him into an ambush, and the killing blow comes unseen. The ritual of war cleanses the mind and brings peace as doubt is washed away by blood.

“Damage to the second heart, not destroyed though near such a degree,” came the voice of an astartes, looking through a hole ripped into the chest of one of his battle-brothers. Ventarius was tending to a wound that had been sealed in the heat of an intense battle, not one that he been in, not that he goes into such forays with the cursed armor. The apothecary let loose a sigh before looking at his overseer, commenting in a soft tone, “I doubt I will be able to salvage the heart, it may be best to replace it.”

There was silence as Ventarius looked over the body more, seeing that whatever fight that the astartes in front of him had been in left the heart in a bad condition. It was barely able to hold a steady beat and what movement it did provide was exceptionally weak, though still functioning. If Ventarius allowed this heart to stay, there was a chance that it may heal properly, but the odds were greater that it would never recover fully and be more of detriment to the health of his battle-brother. It was not an easy choice, as rejection of the gene-implant could still very well kill the astartes, but it was better than forcing him to live on a single heart that would not be able to keep up with the demands of a space marine.

“As you wish, Ventarius. Have you thought more upon what the Company Master had said to you?” The Lead Apothecary asked, watching Ventarius work.

“That of the Deathwatch?” Ventaruis inquired as he began to open the chest of the Astartes, in front of him to get easier access to the secondary heart.

“Correct.”

“You know my answer,” came the quick reply.

“You cannot refuse this, Ventarius. To deny Deathwatch is to go without additional experience that you will need,” the Chief Apothecary stated.

Ventarius allowed silence to pass for a moment before he looked to the wounded secondary heart, watching it beat weakly. He could see that heart’s movement getting slower and slower, nearly unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but he knew it was there. The view brought death into his mind, a death that he was forced into once he had been forced into the scarred armor that killed all of its previous bearers. The Astartes stopped for a moment, he was not afraid of death, but he knew he would not be able to serve if he did, and Ventarius intended to serve the Emperor for as long as possible.

“I will die, they shall send me into battle,” Ventarius finally said in a grim manner.

“Indeed, however, you have a chance to serve the Chapter well. Make sure that no Fallen have infiltrated its ranks and, should you survive that vigil, you will be free of the armor,” the Chief Apothecarian said, matching the grim tone of the younger apothecary.

“Very well, then. I shall give my oath to Emissary once this procedure is done,” Ventarius stated, almost instantly following the words of the other. The heart had all but stopped now, its beat was irregular happening every few seconds as it weakly tried to do its share of work in the body of the Astartes. Ventarius allowed his mind to go to the vigil, to his future death in a Chapter that was unlike his own, no longer hunting the fallen in a manner that he was used to. Cipher would be nowhere near the fields that he would operate upon, only Xenos and their weaponry that would kill him in a matter of seconds should he let his guard down.

However, it was his duty.

It was upon this realization that Ventarius noticed that the heart had stopped, becoming nothing more than a useless piece of muscle in a body that needed two to operate.

---

It had not been long since Ventarius had given his oath to serve Deathwatch, but already was he thinking of the gene-seeds that he would need to memorize in order to best serve those that he would fight besides. He knew that these gene-seeds were a closely guarded secret, knowing that it was a matter of corruption and becoming one of the Fallen that worried many of the other Astartes Chapters. Yet, he knew that he would be able to know his charges quickly enough, figuring that the manner of was similar if not an identical process between the chapters. Ventarius looked upon a screen to see the fortress that he would likely be housed in.

Ventarius knew that he would not belong, but he had to serve the Emperor as was commanded upon him by his superiors in his parent chapter. That had been the only reason he ”wanted” to join Deathwatch, as well as the added benefit of, perhaps, getting rid of the cursed armor and returning to one that he would not feel the dread of death weighing upon him. It was a constant feeling that had nearly killed him in his last engagement, fighting those who would seek to undo the work of the mighty Emperor of Mankind. The Tau had almost gotten him, one of their abominable rounds grazed his armor as he was making his way to a fallen brother. He knew that it was the armor’s doing that he succeeded in getting to his brother and retrieving his glands, after determining that he could not be saved.

Crack. Crack.

More rounds had bounced off his armor, a miracle that he should live to see another day in the galaxy that was always at war.

The door behind him slid open and the voice of an emissary brought him out of his memory, “We have arrived, dear apothecary. We can never have enough to fill our ranks and I am sure your expertise will be put to the test soon enough. I welcome thee to the Watch-Fortress.”

Ventarius turned from the screen and began marching, asking, “I trust that I will be briefed upon the gene-seed of my charges soon enough?”

“Of course, apothecary. As a Deathwatch Apothecary, it will be your-”

“Duty to memorize my charges’ gene-seed and tend to them in an appropriate manner, I know, Emissary,” Ventarius stated, stopping in front of the emissary for a moment before looking past him in silence.

“It is good you understand, now come, I shall escort you to your chambers,” the emissary said, turning on his heel and leading the apothecary to the fortress proper. The sounds of the metallic boots hitting the ground filled Ventarius’ ears, but it was not the sound of walking that had the attention of the apothecary. It was the sounds of his two hearts, their beating and rhythm filled his mind to an incessant point of making sure he knew of his own mortality with each movement.

And he swore with each step into the fortress he could feel his hearts slowing, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.

Even when flanked by his Inquisitorial retinue and an honour guard of Primaris Space Marines, composed of the two Chapters that had been sourced for the defense against the Tyranid hive fleet, Lord Inquisitor Roxtius had to admit to himself that he found the Eclipse, the fortress-monastery of the Void Stalkers, quite intimidating. It was a mobilized shard of a shattered planet, the faint curvature of what was once its surface still visible in the arch of the behemoth vessel’s spine, and he had not been able to take his eyes off it through the void-shields of the gun-cutter that ferried them there. The interior had not been any more reassuring; dark, spartan and strangely empty. No honour rolls, no bas-reliefs to memorize ancient battles, no statues of saints and heroes. Just cold, hard stone, and where the occasional image of the God-Emperor appeared as a protrusion from the stone, Roxtius felt like he was being judged.

The Void Stalkers had awaited them in the hangar with an honour guard of their own, headed by an Astartes called Asmodal, whom Roxtius understood to be the equivalent of the Captain of the First Company. The Void Stalkers were inscrutable behind the snarling faceplates of their helmets and Asmodal spoke only a few words before motioning for the visitors to follow him. The savant besides Roxtius spoke up and the Lord Inquisitor leaned over slightly to better hear the man’s rapid whispers. “No ceremonial weapons, no purity seals, no armor decorations,” he said, and Roxtius noticed that he was right. The Void Stalker escort appeared to be wearing their regular power armor, which looked quite worse for wear, and wielded bolters that were scorched and blackened by use. “Some honour guard,” the savant muttered. Roxtius hushed him to be quiet.

The light continued to fade as they went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Eclipse. Most of the doors they passed were closed and hallways were darkened and empty, but on occasion Roxtius was able to spot other Void Stalkers engaged in sparring exercises, gear maintenance or silent prayer. Some of them were unarmored and Roxtius eagerly studied their faces as they looked up to observe the visitors, but he saw nothing useful there either -- down to a man they were pale, gaunt and as unreadable as stone. Only their eyes seemed alive.

Entering the heart of the great vessel, the vast, circular chamber where the most important audiences and gatherings were held, Roxtius’ gaze was immediately drawn to the figure at its center, sat upon a barren throne on a raised dias, purple artificer armor polished to a sheen: the Chapter Master. An iron halo silhouetted his helmet, a black cape was draped over the arm rests of the stone chair, and a massive black sword was laid across his lap. Around him, half-shrouded in the gloom, stood the rest of what Roxtius assumed to be the officer cadre. “Sixteen,” he heard one of the Marines next to him whisper to himself. The Inquisitor and his retinue stopped at an appropriate distance from the dias and he inclined his head and folded his hands into the aquila across his chest.

“Chapter Master Gorseval,” Roxtius said. “It is an honour to meet with you.” It was better to be polite and deferential, even when he couldn’t shake the feeling he had walked into a trap of some kind.

He was greeted with silence and stillness. The armored lord did not stir or speak for several moments and Roxtius felt the tension in the room grow. The Astartes next to him balled a fist, and his savants and interrogators shifted uneasily.

“Lord Inquisitor,” came the reply at last. Gorseval’s cold, high voice snaked around the room, returning and echoing in ways that the Inquisitor’s had not. “Welcome. The honour is mine. Congratulations on a well-fought victory. And hail, brothers,” he continued, moving at last to lift a hand as he gestured to the Primaris Marine honour guard. “You are most welcome here too, though you have not come in the shape I expected…”

Unsure of what to say, the Sergeant of the Marines looked sideways at Roxtius, and the Inquisitor stepped forward with a smile. “Much has changed in your… absence, my lord,” he responded. “A new breed of Astartes has awoken, to reinforce our great Chapters in this dire hour of need. The Great Rift has opened across the Galaxy, and Warmaster Roboute Guilliman has returned to lead the Imperium against the forces of the Enemy.”

Gorseval’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. “Has he?” The rhetorical question hung in the air for a moment, and Roxtius felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up when it seemed like the Chapter Master repeated the question directly into his ear. Something was very wrong with the acoustics of the chamber, or there was something more sinister at work. “Good. The Imperium needs its… finest leader. But enough about that,” Gorseval said and got to his feet, the cape sliding silently off the throne, and his gauntleted hands grabbing the sword across his lap. In the shifting light Roxtius could see the glittering psi-matrix that spiderwebbed across the inky black surface of the blade, and he realized it was a force weapon: the largest he had ever seen.

“Chapter Master appears to be a psyker,” the savant muttered and tapped away at a wrist-mounted data slate.

An attending Void Stalker stepped forward to take the great weapon from Gorseval with visible reverence before retreating back into the shadows. The Chapter Master’s hands went up and with a soft clink and a depressurizing hiss, he removed his helmet.

Roxtius gasped, as did many of his retinue.

A spitting image of the God-Emperor himself looked upon them. Long black hair framed a noble and powerful face on either side, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a severe brow -- a face that Roxtius knew well, for it had been immortalized in sculpture and illustration across the breadth of the Imperium. But this face was as pale as snow, and the eyes were dark, impenetrable pools of black ink. There was nothing there but the void. Was it a hollow mockery? Blasphemous vanity? Or was it something else entirely?

“What has really brought you here, Lord Inquisitor?” Gorseval asked, and Roxtius nearly withered under the force of the Chapter Master’s voice and the scrutiny of his gaze. It was like being questioned by a twisted vision of the Emperor. But he was an agent of the Throne, damn it -- not the chair from which Gorseval had just risen, but the real Throne, back on Terra.

He cleared his throat and straightened his back, meeting Gorseval’s gaze without faltering this time. “Your Chapter has not been seen or heard from for more than three hundred solar cycles. In that time, the opening of the Great Rift has been accompanied by Warp Storms raging across the Imperium. Entire worlds, nay, sectors, have been lost to the Arch-Enemy. Your participation in the extermination campaign against the Tyranid splinter fleet was…”

“Exemplary,” Gorseval interrupted.

Roxtius frowned and sighed. “Unorthodox. It is the duty of the Inquisiton to safeguard the Imperium against threats from without, as well as threats from… within. Therefore, with the authority granted to me as Lord Inquisitor by the seal of Terra, as an agent of the Throne, I command the following: a detachment of Inquisitorial forces will be attached to your Chapter for a time, however long it will take, to satisfy that the Void Stalkers remain dedicated and that your gene-seed remains pure.”

One could’ve cut the tension with a knife in the silence that descended over the audience chamber. Gorseval’s nostrils flared and something sinister moved in the depthless abyss of his eyes. “You dare question our dedication?”

“It is my duty to question everything,” Roxtius retorted simply.

Slowly, Gorseval sat back down on his throne, and the flare of defiance that had burned brightly within him for a moment faded away. “Yes, of course,” he said softly. “You have our full cooperation. What else?”

Outwardly stoic but inwardly relieved that it had not come to conflict, Roxtius cleared his throat. “You shall pay tithe to the Deathwatch.”

“The Deathwatch?” Gorseval repeated and lifted his gaze back to Roxtius, moving from where it had fallen in his lap. It was clear that he recognized the name, but that it had been an eternity since he had last heard it. For a moment, the Chapter Master looked around the room, before he nodded. “We, too, shall honour our vow. Yndrasil, I call upon you.”

A Void Stalker appeared to materialize from the shadows as he stepped into the light of the dias, a long cloak wrapped around his armor. Roxtius heard the Primaris Marine next to him breathe in sharply and grip his weapon tighter. “Seventeen,” he grumbled. Had the Void Stalker been here the whole time, invisible to even his Primaris brethren? The thought made Roxtius uneasy, and he stared at the armored warrior with a sense of trepidation.

“He will serve,” Gorseval said.

“Just him?” Roxtius asked, incredulous. A single Astartes was not what he had in mind.

For the first time, the Chapter Master smiled. “Just him. The Deathwatch will be satisfied. You have my word.”

---

“Well? What do you think?”

The empty, scoured planet that housed Watch-Fortress Jorval hung before them, suspended in the void, filling most of view from the deck.

Yndrasil glanced at the shipmaster, but said nothing.

“You must be wondering where the Watch-Fortress is. It’s--”

“The Watch-Fortress is beneath the surface.”

Astounded, the shipmaster raised an eyebrow, and reflected again on how unreadable this particular Marine had proven to be. They’d had to fetch him from the farthest possible edges of the Imperium, from a Chapter that the shipmaster had never even heard of, he’d barely spoken a word the entire journey, and now suddenly this?

“And how do you figure that?”

The Void Stalker looked at the planet again. “Because we would have done the same.”

With that, he turned around and walked away -- to inspect his gear one last time, no doubt. The shipmaster watched him go. “They’re not going to like you,” he whispered.

---

“Your chambers,” the emissary said. Yndrasil stepped inside and looked around -- they were not so different from his chambers back on the Eclipse, given that they contained practically nothing and appeared to be utterly unadorned. He could sense that the man behind him had more to say, and turned around to look him in the eye.

“Given… that you are one of the first of your Chapter to serve with us in… well, a long time, we have no records of particular practices or… rituals, that you might observe. So if there something lacking, please feel free to put in a request, and we will see what we can do.”

Yndrasil shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “This is fine,” he said. He spoke in short, clipped tones and with barely any inflection. The emissary shifted on the spot before managing a smile.

“Very good. You shall be summoned within forty-eight Terran hours for initial training, please do not leave your chambers until then."

The Void Stalker watched him leave and waited for the door to close behind him. Then, he turned around, stepped up to the middle of the chamber and sank down on his knees, pulling up his robe so that his bare knees touched the stone. Yndrasil clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and…

Felt nothing. The long journey through the winding tunnels of the Watch-Fortress had made him forget. The Brand was nothing more than a small splinter in the back of his mind now. It had been for months. Without his Chapter Master nearby, his psychic guidance and presence disappeared. Yndrasil felt an all-too familiar pang of loss that he brushed aside as quickly as he could.

Prayer would have to do.

“Void Father, heed my words,” the Astartes began in a breathless whisper, “and protect me in my hour of need…”

Near silence reigned in the grand hall of the Watch-Fortress - the only sound the steady tramping of oversized feet and the light swishes of identical black robes worn by all recently arrived initiates to the vigil - the vast and expansive cavern having once been nought but barren rock, now it was barren rock from which dangled the banners of fallen heroes and the displayed trophies of previous missions well done only, otherwise empty of furniture and with only a plateau rising over the heads of the serried congregation; standing upon the raised rock dais and coolly casting a red-lensed gaze over the hundred-or-so mustered recruits was Watch-Commander Erazmius Kade, veteran of a thousand battles and specialist when it came to the killing of the Tyranid menace, most of his face damaged by Tyranid bio-acid during a particularly nasty skirmish some forty years ago, leaving a mass of angry scarring and a bionic left eye.

While not formally a part of the 'training' that the newest Astartes had been promised, an address by the Watch-Commander was a traditional greeting, welcome, and warning before the heavy lifting began - whether anyone chose to listen to him was their own choice, but they would be wise to do so.

A tense electricity filled the air as he now stepped to the fore, the fortresses chief Chaplain and Librarian remaining in the rear while their overlord - resplendent in his gleaming black armour and the silver pauldron of the Deathwatch, a deep crimson cape brushing the rock floor behind him, and the singular blue pauldron of his Chapter bearing the 'U' and adding a splash of colour to an otherwise sombre uniform - made ready to speak.

"Brothers of a hundred Chapters," he began in the resonant voice of a trained orator, the natrual acoustics of the cavern allowing every marine to hear him no matter where they stood, "my greetings to you and my strongest welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, now let me impart to you some advice, to help you during your service here."

"Firstly, always listen to your superiors, everything they do is in your best interests - though it may not appear so at the time - they are professionals, veterans and conssumate warriors, and their word is law within these walls."

"Secondly, you may be from differing Chapters, you may have feuds that run to beyond living memory, but here you are all Deathwatch. This is your brotherhood, those around you are your battle-brothers, and unsanctioned conflict will result in reprimand and punishment."

"Thirdly and last of all, you may believe yourselves to be superlative warriors, prime exemplars of the Emperors finest, without peer. You may even delude yourselves into thinking you have seen all that this galaxy has to throw at you... trust me that you are wrong, and will soon come to know it."

Pausing to take another look over the robed ranks before him, the larger Primaris recruits easily seen among their firstborn brethren (warriors he had decidedly chosen not to point out as 'other'), Erazmius gave a accepting nod and half smile before a long intake of breath, "may the Emperor watch over you all."

---

---

So it was that forty-eight hours from their arrivals, technically forty-nine if you counted the Watch-Commanders welcome, that one-hundred or so new initiates began their formal training to become members of the secretive but venerated Deathwatch; sundered into exactly twenty randomly selected groups of five-man kill-teams, the Astartes were then taken on their assigned path by one of the thousands of cloaked and hooded menials that kept Jorval functioning as it should - they were serfs like any other, as far as any outsider knew, but never revealed their faces and spoke only in hushed tones if at all, communicating with hand signs and an assortment of hisses and whistles.

Some teams would be sent without delay to one of the multitude of firing chambers and ranges, others escorted quietly to the halls of the archives sunk deep into the planets hollowed core, and even more taken to the hypno-induction chambers to sit for hours on end and consume data and knowledge perhaps more widely known, and reams that were most certainly not.

All this would be done without armour and sticking to the second of a schedule specially crafted so that within the confines of a week all would have experienced the same.

Rising early, a marine would then join the rest of his kill-team who would have been barracked nearby, they would then join the other teams in morning prayer/devotion to the Emperor, Primarch or whomever, before being taken away to begin the days work. There would be a short respite in the evening, teams circulated to the refactorum to consume what they wished - the standard fare being a nutrient rich gruel-like paste - more picky Chapters granted permission for more flavourful sustenance if they so wished. It was then back to training, evening devotionals, and back to the chamber.

For nearly a month the newcomers will have gone through this with the own kill-teams, the five Astartes alone and trained separately from others, but now it was time to allow a little mingling of the formations... and it was usually here that the friction truly began.

---

---

"Brothers, your attention please."

Sergeant Saewine of the Executioners bought Kill-Team Saewine to the present, their focus upon him and only him, though they were presently engaged in unarmed combat practise that had even Milo breathing heavily. Opposite the gigantic marine stood a moustached marine of the Marauders, equally out of breath, but also thus far unable to land a blow that even moved the 'cursed' battle-brother who fought him to a stand still each time.

"Welcome to Veteran-Sergeant Revaz and his charges, come to see how it's done?"

An Astartes bearing a stylised black tome with a white, four-pointed star in the centre, sitting upon a bone backdrop upon one pauldron took a step forward and inclined his covered head.

"Well met Saewine, it appears you have quite the assortment of savages here, perfect for you."

Saewine took the jest in good humour, glancing back at the two Blood Angels, one Son of Antaeus, one Marauder and singular Aurora marine that made up his given kill-team.

Milo smiled full-toothed smile, sensing some competition in the air, able to pick out the unknown faces of Baruchiel Ventarian @Lauder, Lelandros @Lady Selune and battle-brother Atrias @Kood from among several others.

"What say a friendly bout then?"

Revaz gave a helm-boosted chuckle and turned to his own squad, "what say you, my students? Show these curs who the superior fighting force is?"

---

---

Drill-sergeant Odilon Hallr gave another shake of his pale head, noting down multiple weaknesses in the performance of his students in the carrying out of his simulated operation - that being the assassination of a high-ranking T'au official. It was a mission he knew went against all codes of warfare the majority of Space Marine Chapters practised, for although they were the Emperors scalpel they were blunt for all that.

Annihilating enemy forces, tearing them apart with bolter and blade, these were things for which the physiology and mindset of the Astartes were formed and perfected but sneaking into a guarded chamber to lay an enemy and then make it out alive? It was another task entirely.

Being judged by one of the Mentor Chapter meant that there were notably more points to work on than would be the case in different circumstances.

"We shall reset the course, and I want it done perfectly."

The course as it was consisted of a perfect replica of a walled T'au diplomatic compound, holographic projectors emitting eerily lifelike Fire Warriors and even a couple of XV8 Crisis suits, their shots not able to kill but more than capable of disabling a marine dependant on location and calibre of weapon; set within one of a thousand subterranean arenas, it was just one example of the cutting-edge facilities used by the black-clad Xenos-killers.

In itself the scenario was simple; abseiling onto the domed roof of the compound, removing a number of sentries while avoiding patrolling drones, entry into the main building and room-by-room until the diplomat was located, dispatch the envoy and then extraction over the wall and out - it was unfortunate that with each failure and reset the diplomat was moved to another room, the pattern of the drones changed, the behaviours of the Fire Warriors switched to another.

Parion Sharratar @Eldritch Puppy, Aodh Cailpeach @BCTheEntity, and the unknown component of Yndrasil @Hank - member of a Chapter that not even Odilon had ever heard of in his centuries of service - were to undertake the simulation once more alongside the two others of their kill-team.

A mournful klaxon sounded, all was ready once more.

"Right, Kill-Team Hallr, again!"

---

---

"I apologise." Lelandros spoke, although there was no other human in the room. "Although necessary, they showed you great disrespect, and I can only hope for your forgiveness." Slowly, his tremendous figure moved through the room, pinpricks of light appearing from the incense he lit wherever he moved. "Machine spirit hear my prayers." He turned around, facing his armour. The displeasure... He could feel it radiating from the suit, the incense doing little to placate it. Although he had been as moderate in the application of the black as he could, it had still ended up being rather... Heavy handed. It had to be, for that was the nature of the Deathwatch, but he doubted the Deathwatch often had power armour with machine spirits this strong.

Mounted upon the wall was the removed right pauldron of the armour, left its original green and black. Replacing it was the new silver-and-black 'I' symbol- the Inquisition's own insignia staring back at him. Yet, despite all of the changes, there was still some familiarity. In the empty black space between the silver, he had received permission to show his honours, flames curling up to note his membership in the Fire of Ry'lan. Mounted underneath the power pack of the armour was his drakeskin cape, and emerging from it was his servo arm, the head currently in the shape of a simple claw gripper. It was a deceptively crude weapon, for he knew that the pressure such an attachment could exert was enough to crush ferrocrete as if it were an empty can.

Finishing with the requests to his armour, Lelandros would depart the room reluctantly- feeling the unpowered eyes of the helm behind him follow his movement out.

---

"Observe." The instructor gestured towards the weapon in front of him. Lelandros had to say, rather rarely for him, that he was unfamiliar with the make of it.

"Is this xenostech?" He said, brow furrowing. It had a slightly egg-like barrel design, strange glyphs all over it, a drum-like magazine attached to one end and seemed to be studded with gemstones. His initial reaction was revulsion. It was an abberant thing, lacking a machine spirit, made by foriegn hands.

"It is indeed. Aeldari. Hazard a guess as to its usage." The instructor would indicate for Lelandros to pick it up, which he would do slowly. Turning the gun over in his hands, he would examine every facet of it as if it were any other weapon for him to strip and repair. He brought it close to his eyes, examing the grooves, the curves, the glyphs, anything that might glean some answers. The barrel seemed to be reinforced against vast quantities of heat, and the chamber of the weapon appeared to be a containment field of some kind.

"A plasma analogue?" He held it as if he was to fire, feeling the weight. "It seems too flimsy for that however..." He frowned. "A flamer perhaps?" No, it felt too light for that- and there was no slosh or shift in weight to indicate that there was liquid or chemical fuel within it. He looked to the instructor.

"You were not far off with your first estimate. This is a 'fusion gun,' as the Aeldari call it- a melta weapon used by their elite armour-hunting groups. Now... See if you can dissasemble it."

---

"This is not a weapon." Lelandros looked up at the instructor, confusion evident on his face. "You have placed a pile of workshop miscasts into the shape of a stubber. Do you intend for me to make a stubber?" He could do that quite easily, yet when he reached for the weapon and picked it up, he found it was already welded together. Messily, by the looks of it.

"That junk is an orkish-made 'shoota.'" The inverted commas around the word were audiable. "It can easily punch through flak armour and render a guardsman unto the Emperor. Do not be fooled by its crude construction- these weapons can penetrate the weak spots of power armour and incapacitate Space Marines, and have done so countless times. Never forget- the Deathwatch was founded to contain the threat that is the Orks, and despite their lack of sophistication, they are a great and terrible threat indeed."

Lelandros looked at the gun, then, carefully, eased out a few of the moving parts. "There is no breechblock." He paused for a moment, examining it further. "I... Is there no sear? How... How does this gun..." It was rare that a Mars-trained Techmarine was ever at a loss for words, but this gun had successfully rendered Lelandros so.

"Orkish technology is... Ramshackle at best. From what little we understand of it, Orks appear to be able to make weapons work for them that would jam or fail entirely in the hands of anyone else. There is an Adeptus Mechanicus theory that you may have been exposed to that posits that without a Machine Spirit, Orkoids instead use some form of psychic powers to ensure their machinery works, and much as the Machine Spirit allowed for a Land Raider to operate without a crew, this psychic field allows otherwise worthless equipment to work. This theory has been indirectly supported by xenobiologists confirming Orkoids do, indeed, have race-wide psychic potential, however there are rare examples of non-Orks being able to use Orkoid equipment which puts this argument into doubt."

Lelandros shook his head. "Now then," the instructor continued. "As per previously. Dissasemble. Understand the inner workings- as crude as they are. Assess battlefield viability, and so on and so forth."

---

After the ramshackle device he had analysed last, this new weapon, despite still being xenotech, was almost a relief to get his hands on. "What you now see is a Shas'la Pulse Rifle. The T'au have a more advanced understanding of plasma weaponry than the Imperium does, allowing them to fabricate these small arms. Despite being less powerful than Imperium plasma weaponry, they are safe and stable enough to be used as the standard equipment of T'au soldiers. Do not underestimate T'au- despite lacking the speed of the Aeldari or the brutality of the Orks, they more than make up for it with a combination of these and diciplined firepower. This weapon is fully capable of punching through power armour given the opportunity.

"If what you say is true, the T'au must be a formidable foe to face indeed... I have not had the opportunity to match them myself." There was a soberness to Lelandros' words, and he had to admit a very small part of him was impressed at standardised plasma equipment. That feeling was quickly crushed as he remembered the videos he had seen- T'au forces scything down human populations, rounding them up like cattle, dragging sargeants to kneel over ditches, then sliting their throats and letting them topple into the mud.

"Now. Dissasembly..."

---

Lelandros had not had the opportunity to converse much with his fellows of Kill-Team Revas. As a forgepriest, he had spent much of his time in specialist training, sanctifying xenos weaponry, learning the ins and outs of their guns, how to make their vehicles run... And how to destroy them most effectively. Where to place his melta shots to atomise the crews, or what range bio-sculpted weapons were at their weakest. It had been a challenge- but the sort of challenge that one could relish and appreciate.

Now, he was dragged to the presence. A friendly bout, against other marines. Hm. "Very well." He said with a simple nod.

“Salamander gene-seed of Primarch Vulkan, a quite strange gene-seed,” Ventarian remarked to himself as he read through the texts about the Salamanders and their gene-seed. The apothecary continued reading for a little bit before he looked up to look upon another data-slate that gave a far more brief explanation to the gene-seed of Vulkan, outlining its oddities and such so that Ventarian could gradually take in the facts and now how to treat one the members of his kill team. He scrolled through it, taking note of how the gene-seed altered the pigmentation of the Salamanders, making them near dark or jet-black skin, even affecting their eyes to make them red. Even stranger was their affinity to focus upon heat signatures without the aid of thermal optics, a fact that puzzled the son of the Lion all too easily as he attempted to familiarize himself with the gene-seed.

Luckily, there was nothing else to puzzle Ventarius as the gene-implants were all too similar to him and he would find it easy to operate on such similarities to his own Chapter’s though the risk of mixing them would, of course, be detrimental. Ventarius loosed a sigh as he moved away from the gene-seed, for a moment to instead move to pray to the Emperor wishing to receive his guidance and wisdom so that he may get through the watch without incident. The apothecary was still all too nervous about uncovering any Fallen within the ranks of the Deathwatch and he did not want to have his brothers come to interrogate anyone, not while he was still serving. The Sons of the Lion would be all too eager to catch anything that might lead them to Cipher, all too eager to bring redemption to the entire line of the Lion. That said, nothing yet implied that such were amongst the ranks of the Watch, but he knew that he’d have to remain ever vigilant for such threats as there was still a chance one may be binding amongst them.

“My Emperor and My Primarch, guide my mind through this watch and guide my hands in battle to bring about the destruction of the foes of man. May you keep my soul ever vigilant against the threats imposed by the fallen and may you keep them at bay,” Ventarian prayed, keeping his head low as he attempted to placate his own thoughts. The Apothecary remained silent for a few moments as he hoped that his words would be heard by the Emperor before he would return to his seat and continue his studies of the other gene-seeds. His mind slowly replaced the paranoia with that of a resolute focus that would allow him to study in some semblance of peace for the time being.

---

“A friendly bout?” The apothecary echoed before looking at his teacher letting a small smile come to his lips as he spoke once more, “I do not believe it would be fair to them to go against someone with so much knowledge upon the weaknesses of an Astartes.”

The eyes of the apothecary moved to his would be opponents in a tung and cheek fashion before looking to the Salamander who seemed to answer in a simplicity that Ventarian could appreciate. Ventarian allowed himself to gauge his opponents, wondering which one would be most advantageous for him to go after first in the case of such a brawl, though such thoughts were moot until they were actually in the ring of battle. His head motioned to a small and polite bow, before stating a more polite tone befitting his status of an apothecary, “I do accept the idea of a bout, though I do maintain we should allow caution to remain as I do not desire to be operating upon broken bones quite yet.”

_{Collab between @BCTheEntity, @Hank, and @Eldritch Puppy}



The initial portion of Aodh’s training went as expected. Assigned to Kill-Team Hallr, he and they were taken to the hypno-induction chambers to absorb knowledge of the alien that was hardly known to even the vaunted capabilities of the Astartes. He certainly would have said he knew a fair bit about the unknown, courtesy of the Indomitus Crusade- but if he hadn’t been fully on-board with Watch-Commander Kade’s sentiment that they didn’t know everything there was to know about the galaxy, he certainly was by the end of their first session.

Really, the taking on of knowledge wasn’t the issue for Aodh. Looking through Watch-Fortress archives was just a matter of enhancing one’s ability to debate strategy against a given foe, and hypno-therapy hardly required effort on their part at all beyond willingness to take on what was to be implanted. No, what he found himself grating against was the particular training he was put through by the Mentors Drill-Sergeant. Over and over, they were put into scenarios which he at least was entirely out of his depth for, often demanding stealth or guile or the like; and over and over Drill-Sergeant Odilon seemingly went out of his way to nitpick every detail of their attack plan, forcibly moulding them in some way or another; this latest test mission had left Aodh feeling no desire at all to claim the right to kill the leader, so many times had they already killed him. Worse still, when Aodh made an effort to pursue his usual modus operandi of debating a plan of attack before making it so, he was more often than not seen as undermining Hallr’s instruction, thus reprimanded and disregarded accordingly. What was the point of having so many minds present if they weren’t allowed to consider what to do?

Speaking of which, some other Kill-Team members seemed far more on-board with training than himself. The Black Sword, Brother Parion, was not unintelligent in that respect, and between sessions could be very friendly, albeit becoming rather the aggressive killer on the field proper. Brother Jonas, of the Raptors, seemed to have issues with the close-quarters nature of much of their training, but managed rather well with the stealth aspect, and despite his relative sense of fatalism Aodh managed to form some semblance of camaraderie with him. And the Blackshield, only going by Lucifuge and even so far as to refuse the appendation of “Brother”, simply followed orders, seeming keen enough to interact with the others of Kill-Team Hallr, but remaining utterly silent as to his own background, as one might expect once the concept of a Blackshield was explained properly. Aodh did his best to honour his desire to remain shrouded, ultimately.

And then there was Brother Yndrasil. Aodh, frankly, had trouble liking him - he could acknowledge that behind those bright blue eyes was an extreme intellect and constant assessment of everything, but he had come in apparently malnourished and only filled out in the month since. And unlike Lucifuge’s shrouded history or even Jonas’ grim pragmatism, it seemed like he simply refused to integrate socially, and that made figuring out who he was difficult. What was not difficult was seeing him work, so far as Aodh could tell, almost perfectly within the hyper-confining demands of Drill-Sergeant Hallr’s overwatch. This mission in particular had apparently seen little to no faults on Yndrasil’s part, and he had to admit... that was galling for him.

Not that Yndrasil noticed. He had been grateful for the training and the opportunity it presented to fully dedicate himself to something, and grabbed it firmly with both hands. All of his time had been dedicated to self-improvement, and that meant that there was no time left to dwell on the immense solitude he felt every time he was alone in his room, with nothing but the silent Brand for company. Another marine might have sought the company of his new battle-brothers, but that was not the way of the Void Stalkers. Besides, he considered most of them to be loud and brash, qualities that were abrasive to Yndrasil’s contemplative mind, and he kept to himself instead. Only the Raptor seemed agreeable to him, by virtue of his grim silence and pragmatic dedication to achieving results. Yndrasil understood that.

The sheer amount of information available in the databanks and the hypno-therapy sessions had been daunting at first, and Yndrasil had been a little taken aback to discover how little he knew about the Imperium at large, or even about some of its foes. For example, he had never even heard of the T’au species that they were facing in the current exercise. This only made sense given the location of their territory, but the feeling of being woefully unprepared had been deeply unpleasant for the Void Stalker. More confusing had been his lack of knowledge about the Primarchs, who appeared to be extremely important and played a large role in the consciousness of his brothers. He couldn’t help but wonder why he had never learned about them, or about their bloodied and tragic history, or why he didn’t know who his progenitor Primarch had been, but answers were not forthcoming. Gorseval could not speak to him here, and the Deathwatch knew nothing about his Chapter. So, instead, Yndrasil had focused on the here and now. A month into their training he felt that he had caught up significantly, and that soothed his unease.

While Yndrasil kept to himself and seldom spoke without being spoken to, it was clear that Jonas went out of his way to avoid interacting with Parion. The reason for it was obvious too; both of their chapters claimed to be successors to the Raven Guard, yet one of the proverbial apples seemed to have fallen quite far from the tree. Relations between Black Swords and the sons of Corax were cold at the best of times, almost every Raven Guard successor chapter refusing to acknowledge the Black Swords to be sharing their blood. In turn, they learned to keep their distance. Aodh and Lucifuge proved to be of good enough company at least, and Parion respected the latter's unwillingness to discuss his history.

The training, however, frustrated him to some extent. Stealth was not exactly his speciality, but this was not the issue. He understood that the training was meant to get him out of his comfort zone, so to speak, so that he may become a better tool for future missions. Seeing Yndrasil's expert marksmanship and talent to avoid being detected comforted him in his opinion on the matter. No, the problem lies elsewhere.

No matter how good of an imitation the holographic projections were, they could not be more than only that. Illusions. Moving, shooting training dummies. Fighting them proved to be... extremely unsatisfactory for Parion. His usual bloodthirst was teased by this mockery of a fight, without any way to satiate it. While maintaining high levels of aggression and exhibiting all of the martial prowess that could be expected of an Astartes, his ferocity was not half of what it should be in a real combat situation. The Black Sword had the distinct impression that a part of him was like a wild beast walking in circles in a cage while being prodded and poked at, growing more and more wrathful and impatient with no choice but to endure it.

Regardless, the Kill-Team was ready to begin again. The first task was the easiest - abseil down to the domed roof of the compound from above. Despite the length of the cliff face above, they had practiced it well enough that Aodh, at least, could make it down the full length and to the roof within fifteen seconds, easily half of what he’d been working at initially. And so he did, shaving off perhaps another tenth of a second in the process. Every second did count, too: too long on the cliff, and they’d be spotted and shot down before they even reached the roof. To that end, however, Aodh moved to one side of the roof, spotting a triad of sentries patrolling with one another. All three would need to go down at the same time.

He’d been told over and over again, maintain radio silence for maximum stealth, and a couple of times the failure to do so had cost them. This time, he made hand signals to gesture two of the group over, relaying the information before selecting his target, and aiming his bolt pistol at the holographic sentry’s head. When they were ready, then.

@BCTheEntity@Lauder@Lady Selune@Hank@Eldritch Puppy@Kood

Several months later...

The barren surface of the stripped planet was, as with everything else above and below, a perfect training ground - the squad of warriors, now under the overall command of Drill Sergeant Hallr, having come together one night in the refectorum with little time to get to know one another since; the Forgepriest and apothecary especially had had their own training to complete, getting to know the technology and biology of the Watches multiple enemies was something of paramount importance - now they stood once more as a fledgling kill-team with naught but a respirator, gravity stabilised boots, and a weighted create that the Sergeant had bought with him.

"Welcome to the surface of Jorval, recruits," he spoke in a blank monotone, sweeping an arm over the grey and craggy landscape, a very grim reminder of just what a Tyranid hive fleet was capable of, "hopefully you shall get to know one another a little better after this exercise"

Taking a knee next to the crate, he opened it to reveal a number of well-used training weapons - bolters modified to shoot non-lethal rounds, and combat knives with dulled blades, though all would work just like the real thing against simulated enemies - and handed a pair to each of the Astartes standing nearby.

"Over that horizon," he announced with a finger pointing approximately north-east of their current position, "is an outpost, an entrance to a larger subterranean complex we believe. Your objective is to enter the complex, locate and retrieve the cache of Imperial weapons taken by the foe, as well as bringing back a hostile for further study. As to the nature of the foe, we believe a cult of Tyranid nature to be in operation there. Questions?"

The directions were straightforward, though other details were left deliberately vague, so should any of the present Marines require clarification now was the time to ask.