[IC] Warhammer 40k: Kill-Team Epsilon, a Death=][=Watch RP - Currently Open!

[Jb]

"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 shmoothing 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 in 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."

[BCTheEntity]

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, Brother-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, Brother-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, Brother-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, Brother-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, Brother-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, Brother-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.

'Your first sessions of hypno-therapy will begin tomorrow. 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.

[Lady Selune]

"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."