Jb

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

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!"

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

"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."

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

Milo 'the Deathless'

Name: Milo 'the Deathless'

Chapter: Sons of Antaeus

Chapter Demeanour: Unlike most of their kindred of the Twenty-First founding, the Sons received a mutation that was in many ways much more of a boon to them than a curse – as far as those outside the Chapter know, anyway.

To this end they have not the fatalistic streak of the Lamenters, the protrusions and monstrous (unless you count their physical size) mutations of the Black Dragons, nor the xenophobia of the haughty and successful Minotaurs.

As it is, the Sons are much like many other Chapters in terms of their overall outlook on things – they worship the Emperor, respect and pay homage to their Primarch Guilliman (even if those of the Primogenitors disown them at every turn), and lay low every enemy of the Imperium both within and without.

This is not to say they are without flaw, not at all, for the very fact that they are part of the so-called 'cursed founding' had led to an isolated and insular attitude Chapter wide. It was not by their own choice, but fate has caused others to look at them and their founding and stain them all equally.

Their so-called invincibility, the very mutation in which they both take pride and recoil from in shame, marks them out as different, and within the ranks of the Astartes this is not always a good thing to be; it has even seem them clash with Inquisitorial operatives and Mechanicus biologists on more than one occasion, giving them a healthy Chapter-wide cautiousness about both arms of the Imperial machine respectively.

Personal Demeanour: Milo epitomises the 'friendly giant' archetype; though he will often speak little unless spoken to, once he is spoken to he becomes as open and jovial as one can get from a Space Marine. Even so, there are things concerning his own Chapter of which he does not speak, and there are prejudices that he bears other Chapters for past transgressions – most notably those of the Ultramarines and the Black Templars, though for two very different reasons.

In battle he is exactly as he has trained and lived to be, a colossal avatar of the Emperor's wrath, a veteran of a hundred wars who, in spite of this, had no notions of leading others. His style of combat is flexible, adapting and overcoming as and when the need arises, a consummate warrior who takes pride in his work but realises when he has overstepped a bound and is humble enough to apologise for it.

Having said that, there is a certain coldness about him at times – somewhat ethereal and... airy as it may be - a time or a moment, usually when he is reflecting, that reveals a moroseness (perhaps even a loneliness?) shared by most of his brethren. Very rarely does this slip into the view of others, but when it does it is thoroughly obvious when compared to his otherwise gregarious behaviour and attitude.

Speciality: Terminator, though can fulfil most combat roles.

Rank: First Company Veteran

Power Armour History: The standard suit of Mark VIII 'Errant' armour worn by Milo is, as with most of these particular mark, without a significant history to it. Having been produced in a most limited amount, and replacing the Sons Mark VII armour only a century or so before he entered the First Company and subsequently the Deathwatch, it has nevertheless kept him alive and more-or-less in one piece throughout his elongated life thus far.

Of more interest, and with a far more refined pedigree, is the suit of Indomitus Pattern terminator armour which Milo has warn into combat since receiving the honour of the Crux Terminatus and permission to be gifted with what is essentially a relic; as a Chapter of the cursed founding, one looked down on as faulty to the extreme, the parent Chapter of the Sons of Antaeus – the noble Ultramarines – gifted their malformed progeny with but a small portion of terminator armour, this armoured shell being the one which Milo wears to this day.

Each name of a deceased wearer is inscribed in minute script inside the breastplate of the suit and, given the obvious but little renowned resilience of the Sons, his own carries within it but five names; considering it has seen service for millennia, these are odds which seem extremely good indeed.

Description: Milo is quite literally a colossus, standing nearly at the same height as a Primaris marine outside of his armour – in fact he has often been mistaken for one, or queried on why he does not simply take a suit of Mark X armour for himself. Swollen with muscle in a way that dwarfs other Firstborn Astartes only adds to this delusion in others, a side effect of the Sons mutated gene-seed, his fists the size of most other marines heads and his limbs capable of tearing lifeforms apart without the assistance of weapons.

Facially he is much like his sires in the Ultramarines, albeit in a vastly engorged skull and countenance, his features all the same being those that one may see on marble statues of Guilliman and his ilk. The same perfect symmetry, full lips under an aquiline nose, a jaw and cheekbones that mere mortals would kill for, flawless flesh and eyes of slate grey, all topped off by chestnut hair longer than stubble but shorter than a crew-cut.

Out of his armour it is plain that every other part of him has received damage at some time or another, very few parts of his body without thick scars and puncture marks, healed bullet holes and a particularly nasty looking wound from right shoulder to abdomen.

Most frequently he is seen in his suit of Errant armour, the grey and black of his Chapter and then the all-black of the Watch, his Chapters symbol of a skull on a grey background – two lines representing the earth and the sea flowing into and out of the skull on either side – remaining the only part left untouched.

When called for he shall don his terminator armour, the most distinguishing feature being the cross on one shoulder plate – the Crux Terminatus - concealed within it, a sliver of the Emperor's own holy protection.

When out of armour he, like most of his brothers, dresses simply in a black robe tied about the waist.

Skills: Milo is possessed of very few what people might call 'unique' skills, the range of most he possesses being simply enlarged versions of standard Astartes training. Of course he could not have reached his rank without superbly refining them, as well as going above and beyond what was required of him, but little of this was due to innate skills that he possessed.

Apart from his proficiency in the use of terminator armour, Milo is considered one of the greatest wrestlers and unarmed fighters of his Chapter, second is this only to his 'skill' as a bulwark in battle about which others frequently rally.

Equipment and Armament: Beside whatever load-out is given them for a particular mission, Milo prefers to wield a heavy form of weapon (bolter, plasma cannon etc) as well as his standard-issue combat knife. In Indomitus armour he favours a 'classic' approach, wielding a storm bolter in one fist and leaving his other as a chain-fist to crackle and whirr with deathly intent.

History: Milo Trophimus began life on a civilised world in the Five-Hundred Worlds (on a planet the name of which he cannot recall, to a family he no longer remembers), hoping one day to join the ranks of the Ultramarines or one of the Primogenitors, neither of which was to be his lot. No, he was selected to be one of the few candidates to undertake initiation into the Sons of Antaeus – a Chapter of which he had never heard, and, perhaps if he had, may never have allowed himself to be taken so easily to join.

His life was torn apart, much like his fragile adolescent body, by giants amongst giants.

The section of his life before induction is not one that shall be discussed here, needless to say he passed trials laid before him and, eventually, was tied down and moulded as the apothecaries of the Sons saw fit.

While it is not known by what method – esoteric, genetic or otherwise – the Sons become so large and so resilient, it is clear that their apothecarion retained the knowledge needed to propagate their number. Indeed, had it not been for gene-seed compatibility and the survival rate of those implanted, their would no doubt have been many more of them.

His first combat was a 'simple' affair, his squad assisting regiments of the Imperial Guard, pinning the enemy in place while the Hammer of the Emperor smashed them asunder. Those were good days, heady days, days that Milo would often look back on and smile about during moments of quiet contemplation.

Those days would not last, nor fully would his humour.

Slowly but surely he rose through the ranks of his Chapter, fighting and slaying whatever foes wherever he was sent, time and again steadying a line or taking the fight into the heart of an enemy.

It was during an operation alongside the Ultramarines and his own Primogenitor cousins of the Sons of Orar that Milo encountered a feeling of bitterness he would come to eventually accept; his Chapter were the mutant collective, the remnants of an experiment on the perfect design of Guilliman which had failed and which his 'relatives' would never look upon with anything but pity and often-times scorn.

Centuries passed, battles and conflicts rushing past like a blur, when ultimate promotion to the First Company was granted.

“Milo,” he was told, “now is your time to take your experience and share it with others, to show them that we are not a Chapter to be ridiculed, detested and despised. We share the blood of the Lord-Protector, and by the Emperor they shall know it. An embarrassment? I think not.”

Ceremony and sombre ritual accompanied his receiving of the Deathwatch missive, a shuttle coming for him within the week, and with as much good humour as he could muster he left the Sons homeworld of Genethlios he set off for an uncertain future...

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

@Lady Selune By the forge! Post him up. :)

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

Current Kill-Team Squad Members

Aodh Cailpeach - Assault Sergeant of the Storm Wardens - @BCTheEntity

Milo Trophimus - First Company Veteran of the Sons of Antaeus - @Jb

Lelandros - Forgepriest of the Salamanders - @Lady Selune

Parion Sharratar - Fourth Company Veteran of the Black Swords - @Eldritch Puppy

Atrias - Veteran Tactical Marine of the Imperial Fists - @Kood

Baruchiel Ventarian - Second Company Apothecary of the Disciples of Caliban - @Lauder

Yndrasil - Stalker-Master of the Third Company (The Unseen), Void Master of the Venom-class Destroyer, the Phantom, and member of the Black Guard of the Void Stalkers - @Hank

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

An End to the Alien



A WH40K Deathwatch RP

This RP is currently not accepting new characters

Discord Link: discord.gg/aGysEsv4qr

In Character Info:

The domain of man is truly standing upon a precipice, even with the return of the Emperor's favoured son to lead it, and enemies take their turns at picking apart the ever-more fractured Imperium of Man – Orks carve empires for themselves in the backward sectors of the galaxy, the T'au casting an always covetous eye over the Eastern Fringe (and now further afield...), Necrons awakening on once dead worlds, Genestealer Cults rising across the guts of the Imperium like a parasite – now more than ever the Xenos-hunters of the Deathwatch are needed to stem the onrushing tide, and to plug the gaps through which such foulness seeps.

Watch-Fortress Jorval is where you are currently heading to begin your vigil, an already veteran warrior within your own Chapter, but with far more still to learn in the militant arm of the Ordo Xenos; beneath the surface of the Tyranid-stripped planet is where you shall undergo the training required before blackening your armour and taking your place amongst the ranks of those that even the Xenos fear.

Out of character info:

Welcome, one and all, to the grim darkness of the future where their is only war!

As part of a group, you shall be forming a newly recruited Kill-team (3-5) of the Emperor's (or should I say the Inquisitions) militant arm, the Deathwatch; you have been chosen because you are exceptional, steadfast in your faith and loyalty to Terra, and above all capable of taking on missions that even your average battle-brother would likely be unable to complete successfully.

Nevertheless, no marine works alone – with your battle-brothers you will be forming an elite unit to act as the last resort against Xenos, heretics and threats from both within and without. Your faith must be strong, and your trust in one another unwavering. Even the simplest doubt can lead to Chaos.

To begin with, as stated above, we will have a short section where you all take the oath to the Deathwatch - basically getting everyone together - on an unyet decided Deathwatch fortress, from there we shall go ahead with a narrative I have prepared and see where it takes us.

We will be starting very much from scratch, so if you're adverse to potentially elongated training sections/montages, I'd recommend skipping this RP.

I expect everyone will have some knowledge of Warhammer 40K, but for those that might lack a little, I have always found warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Warhammer… and warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Deathwatch to be one of the best places to look. Just make certain that the information has a source, otherwise it is very likely fan made and therefore not canon.

Character Sheet

Please submit your character sheets by posting them in the OOC thread before posting them to the Character tab.

Name: Your character's name. A pretty obvious one, so enough said.

Chapter: To which Chapter do they usually belong? If unsure about selection, please ask.

Chapter Demeanour: What is the character of their Chapter, and therefore themselves? What quirks does it give them, etc?

Personal Demeanour: What kind of person is your character, what are their motivations etc, and how do they interact with others? Also please include any hatreds, grudges, and so on.

Speciality: E.G. Tactical, assault and so forth. This includes Chaplains and the like.

Rank: His rank, obviously.

Power Armour History: What deeds has it seen? Who has it protected and armoured? Why was it given to this particular marine? Or is there nothing special about it at all...

Description: A written description of your character's appearance. No pictures. Please include here any armour or clothing as well.

Skills: What skills do they possess, how did they come by them, what have they used/been using them for?

History: A sketch of your character's life and history, preferably until their arrival at the fortress. Give me three solid paragraphs, at least, please.

Equipment and Armament: What do they bring with them/carry on their person? This includes weapons. Be sensible when deciding, as weight can be an issue even for a marine.

Every marine is issued, as basic, a bolter or bolt Pistol with shot selector, frag grenades and krak grenades; anything specialist - such as heavy weapons etc - are issued out for particular missions.

Miscellaneous: Anything you want to mention but haven't been able to cover yet.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask.

The Emperor Protects.

The Blackwood

Five long hours dragged by as Wēlanandaz and his human companion awaited both their workspace and their accomodation, the Dwarf puffing away on his pipe as he dangled his legs over the end of the horse-drawn cart, his eyes seeming to be staring off into some other place or perhaps some other time; from time-to-time he would mutter something to himself, seemingly unaware of things going on about him but safe in the knowledge that, if they had any sense at all, the so-called 'lords' of this place would put he and his companion where they were supposed to be and make use of them.

Once the five hours had abated they were taken to their most recent place of work, even the grumbling Daurgrim inwardly surprised but equally happy that they had been given rooms to go with the acceptable (by the lacklustre standards of men anyway...) smithy.

"I've seen better workshops made by Dwarf children," he grunted at Emilio as he made a whirlwind tour of the abode, running a hand over almost everything, opening his nostrils to take in the scent of the place, "but it will serve, it will have to."

Nonetheless there was undoubtedly a superiority over their last location - the buildings around them built neatly from well-carved and quarried stone, sturdy and stable looking, and even Wēlanandaz could appreciate that the courtyard had a certain charm to it, if you liked that sort of thing and were lazy enough to use it.

Having given the bloomery a once-over, satisfied it was not simply going to crumble as soon as he began using it, Wēlanandaz was about to head to the wagon and begin unloading the tools of his trade when both he and Emilio were intercepted by the bespectacled - and very stiff - woman and her paperwork. For his part the Dwarf had never really gotten onwell with contracts and the like, both the prescence of such documents, as well as the way this women flourished them about and presumed already to tell them what they would be doing, getting a little on his nerves.

He listened patiently and stone-faced as she made her feelings known, the look she gave them only making his blood boil further, Wēlanandaz holding out the papers toward the general direction of his human compatriot as he put on his best imitation of a smile.

"Sinä olet töykeä," came Drimgoth words from his mouth, proclaiming in his own language that she was rude, "flytt deg, kvinna."

Not wishing to be impolite, he gave one last nod of his head and, assuming Emilio had taken the papers from him, nudged his way past the 'important' lady and off in the direction of the cart, turning back only to tell the Dre Costan that he was welcome to help shift the anvil if he had the strength to do so.

@POOHEAD189@Tony Pajamas

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

@BCTheEntity@Jamesyco@ShwiggityShwah@Lady Selune@BangoSkank

"You can form your plans in the few seconds between impact and bursting into an alien ship then, Isaiah." Blurted a crackled Traders voice over the comm system, the two-way comm as it happened, Rudyard having rolled his eyes several times at the back-and-forth between his allegedly most experienced crew members.

++Assault Point 10/15 engaging, please enter and stabilize++

Rudyard gave a small nod on the bridge as the fully automated voice rang out across numerous points in the ship, monitors showing him gangs of ratings and armsmen armed to the teeth readying themselves, as well as the group of bickering 'experts' he had been mostly forced.

The circular doorways to the assault pods unlocked with a pneumatic hiss of the seal, rolling away to reveal the red-lit interior of a pod capable of carrying two dozen armed warriors, not as efficient or expensive as Astartes-issue technology but fully capable of chewing through hull plating with a drill and melta-charge in order to get to a vessels soft innards.

"My lord, the enemy vessel is coming alongside us."

A curt nod was given to the bridge officer and Rudyard ran a hand over his chin - this had to be timed to perfection, assuming his crew were boarding the pods and not fussing about.

"Ready broadside, but do not increase power to systems or fire until I give the command. I want those pods launched in tandem, so make sure the aim is Emperor-blessed."

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into beads of sweat, the young Trader keeping his cool even under pressure, giving his boarding parties time to enter the pods and get themselves strapped in.

"Come on you bastards...." he muttered to himself, lifting a hand and them thrusting it down with as much force as he could, "bring all systems online, and in the name of the Imperium, FIRE!"

All along the side of the Sword-class guns opened up, probably to little damage, but it was more about covering fire as the assault pods were shot into space.

"Pod 10/15, we need to disrupt the enemy ship in a large way, if you can reach the engines, weapons systems, or the bridge safely then I would make them your primary objective. If not, then do what you can. You are my elite, I trust you will do all that this situation requires. God-Emperor's speed."

Mere moments after being launched and the pod was hammering into the side of the oddly ramshackle, yet sophisticated, alien ship, burning and drilling into the metal of its shell and opening up to spew forth the invaders...

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

@BCTheEntity@Jamesyco@ShwiggityShwah@Lady Selune@BangoSkank

Rudyard listened to all that was told to him with equal attentiveness, something he had learnt from his father, intaking all relevant information while formulating the basis of a plan in his rapidly moving mind; of particular interest were the nuggets of salty space-dog wisdom passed to him by Isaiah, who had seemingly had a run-in with their attackers many decades before.

Thinking over the words of Hierophox while tapping one gloved hand on the hilt of his powersword, he knew they couldn't simply leap into the immaterium to escape, not without a significant chance of destroying themselves in the process! Nor had Tecca managed to reach help in any shape or form, not that he had held out much hope for reinforcements if he were honest.

"I suppose we shall try something old," he muttered to himself, his eyes wandering to the crafted bone trinket in his hand, his free hand reaching over to open a ship-wide vox channel.

"Hear this, this is the your Trader speaking - we are about to engage in boarding action with an enemy vessel, all armsmen and ratings report to your deck armouries, and then to boarding stations. Wait for the klaxon, and Emperor be with us."

Next he cut the channel and looked to the helmsmen bundled in their own section of the bridge, "power down the engines, but keep our weapon batteries in readiness for a broadside on either side."

Finally getting around to responding to Isaiah, he gave a stern nod and permission for the older man to grab whatever he needed for a boarding action.

A moment later he opened a vox to those he considered would be useful in this action - Tecca, Isaiah, their resident Eldar, their resident high-ranking Martian and so on - instructing them to converge on 'assault point 10/15' and prepare for action.

Rudyard meanwhile would keep an overwatch from the bridge, for the moment at least.