Introduction: Old Dogs, New Tricks (IC)

97 posts / 0 new
Last post
drumandfight
drumandfight's picture
Introduction: Old Dogs, New Tricks (IC)

In the grand scheme of things it occurred in the blink of an eye. For most of you, your days had been spent earning glory for your Chapter and the Emperor. Planning planetary assaults, holding dug-in positions against overwhelming odds, dead-dropping from low orbit directly into the heart of an enemy force, or charging the front lines of a wave of Xenos filth – the sharp whir of your chainsword and the screams of the fallen assaulting your enhanced senses. And each of you survived; no, you did not merely survive, you thrived. Your enemies were smashed aside, great bastions of Imperial space and citizens were saved, and as a result, you were noticed.

It was not long before the summons came. It came in the form of an astropathic code with the highest security clearances attached to it. One by one you were called before your Chapter Master and given your sacred mission. Or it did not come at all, your Chapter Master personally sending you away on one of his fastest frigates out of your home system and on your way to Glory. For some, the night before your departure was one of silent reflection, kneeling before a shrine of the Emperor of Mankind in meditation and prayer, seeking the strength to fulfill the nigh impossible tasks you will be entrusted with. Others sat in similar reverence in front of their hallowed Codex Astartes, taking in its sacred words as absolute authority in matters of warfare, while simultaneously honoring the Machine Spirits of your trusty weapons and armor. One of you seemed disappointed – not because you would be serving in an elite unit of the best of the best, but because it would take you away from the hunt of your Chapters most hated enemy and on the hunt for new enemies. And yet still, one of you stayed up for twenty-four Terran hours, the entirety of your Chapter feasting and drinking and brawling, immortalizing you for one last time as the chances of your reuniting were known by all to be slim. And still they cheered, hailed your name, raised you up on their shoulders and swore to Russ that they would honor your name in battle, just as you honored the Chapter in missions that would never be retold outside of the fabled Deathwatch.

And then, silence. You sat alone on a small frigate, manned by servitors as Chapter serfs meticulously maintained primary systems and fidgeted with dials. As they sang hymns to the machine spirits of the ancient inter-stellar craft, you sat alone, unmoving, unblinking. Your weapons were racked near you, forever within reach. Your armor shined for the last time, for you knew that as soon as you arrived and took your Oaths to the Watch, it would be painted jet black – unseen, unheard, unknown. The only reminder of your past portrayed proud on your right shoulder. Perhaps you prayed. Perhaps you meditated. Perhaps you smiled a grim smile, content that no matter what became of your life, the flame of your ending would be told within the Deathwatch for millennia to come. A chill ran through your body, for if you were ever one of the mightiest beings in the galaxy it was now. You were one of the Emperor`s mighty Angels – warriors from the depths of space that appeared without warning; doomsayers to the enemies of the Emperor, the Primarchs and the Imperium. But as you envision your new life, with your proud armor painted a black reminiscent of a black hole, you know that you are truly now an Angel of Death: wrath incarnate.

One of you sits alone in a Spartan cell you call your chambers. Your armor sits magnificently on a rack built to display its might. This suit of armor is already the color of night, and from the battle scars across it, it has been for some time. You wear simple robes from head to toe, keeping with the tradition of your Chapter and covering your head. In silent reflection, you study the holo-file that had been waiting for you on the small table in the corner of the room. It is a new assignment. Recent activity within the Jericho Reach has deemed your relocation to a new Kill-Team necessary. Aside from the pain of separation and the unity shared by your previous Kill-Team, one word sticks out aside all of the others. You, a mighty Astartes, unnerved by one word contained within the data in your hands:

***New Assignment: Kill-Team transfer
Status……Integrated. Knowledge pertaining to -------- of --------: Not currently known. Need to know basis only. Oaths in place to protect assets. Make your Primarch and the Emperor proud. Good hunting, Marine.***

And so it began. You arrived on schedule and met before the mighty Watch Commander individually. It was within his presence you made your vows and oaths. You know the importance of your mission and have been briefed on how serious the Xenos threat to the galaxy really is. You now know the truth, and as a result, may never speak of your actions and involvement within the Deathwatch to anyone outside of it… ever. Your silence ensures a tiny amount of peace throughout the Imperium, for if the truth of the threats you face should ever spread, panic and chaos would surely ensue. You are the glue holding it together, you are the light in the dark. You are the shield against the unending waves of the End Times. You are the Deathwatch.

For one standard week you have called Watch Fortress Erioch your new home: training, studying, undergoing a brutal regiment of hypno-therapy entrusting you with vital secrets known only to the Watch and waiting impatiently or apathetically to meet the rest of your new Kill Team. You have been told little of them or their pasts. You simply know one thing: like yourself, they are the best. You know this only because they are in the same situation as you. As you sit and contemplate within your personal chambers, a single knock brings you out of your meditations.

A small servitor sits outside of your door, its twisted cybernetically-integrated form painting it as vaguely human. Or rather, what used to be a human now in eternal servitude to the Watch Fortress. A cracky monotonous voice emits from a grated hole where its mouth used to be.

In High Gothic it begins, “My Lord Astartes, you have been summoned by Watch Captain Angellion to meet in the eleventh level training grounds. Your orders are to come in full battle regalia. The Emperor Protects. Good day, my Lord Astartes.”

Without waiting for a response, the servitor rushes off on mechanized treads to accomplish one of many mundane, yet essential, tasks. As it whirs awar ignorant of its own existence, you hear the rustle of others donning armor and checking weapons. The Watch Fortress is alive today. Perhaps you will finally be allowed to meet your new Battle-Brothers.

Edited by: drumandfight on 11/25/2013 - 23:27
mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock scowls at the puny servitor as it scampers away, feeling slighty annoyed at being disrupted from his contemplation. Today must be the day, he thinks as he closes the door and sits down within his quarters. He looks down at his hands, still containing the weak flesh on them and begins to pick nervously at his right hand with his nails, pulling bits of skin off.

"Very well..." he sighs, trying to ignore the need to tear at his flesh. He looks over at the black armor sitting in the corner of the room, pristine, not a scratch on it. A smile twists onto his face, glittering teeth showing in full width. Time to make some scratches on that new suit.

The feeling of the armor comforts Sarlock, the metal covering up his hideously weak skin. The coolness of it brings him to a calm, and fixes his attention away from his thoughts. The seconds roll by. His high pitched voice screeches out a sentence: "Time to see what the others are made of."

Sarlock stands up, looks down at his bionic hand, flexing the fingers, and pushes open the door, calmly walking in the direction of the eleventh level training grounds. He spots others going in that direction and begins to follow them, curious as to which of these are his new Battle-Brothers.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

Agamemnon allows the door to close behind the servitor, giving the pathetic creature no further thought. He returns to the far side of the chamber and takes a knee, resuming the posture of prayer.

"As it be your will, Great Machine, I go to meet my new allies. I ask that you guide us over the path of righteousness, that we may further your will and understand the great puzzlebox of the universe. I swear to acquit myself well and to never lose sight of my place in the great plans." He pauses only long enough to trace the outline of the Cog Mechanicum branded onto the flesh of his head, a ritual he has completed thousands of times before. "In your name, this cog maintains."

Finished with his supplication, he rises and begins the protracted process of donning his arms and armor, offering suitable prayer to the machine spirits contained within each item as though he expects to enter battle as soon as he steps through the door. The ritual complete and his gear checked and ready, he exits his chamber, heading with purpose toward the Eleventh Level Training Grounds.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Gunter observes the servitor in silence and watches it depart impassively. With no visible trace of emotion, Gunter dons his armor and weapons. Whatever prayers and invocations he makes are equally silent. Once fully equipped he allows himself a slight grim smile, hidden entirely beneath his helmet. He flirted briefly with an emotion - perhaps anticipation? For anyone else it might reach the level of raw excitement, but Gunter seldom felt anything more than the faint whisper of emotion, unless it was in regard to his devotion to the Emperor.

Gunter proceeded to the 11th Level Training facility.

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha watched the servitor leave, rolling the words in her mind. It was time.
Her suit of armor was black and married with dents and scratches. She had already paid tribute to the Emperor with her battle sisters in this armor. Now, she thought to herself, comes the true work she was made for. She knelt before the armor and prayed silently, mouthing the words, “glory for the Emperor, glory for the Mother Primarch, death to the diseased and heretical.” Over and over she promised glory to the Emperor with the promise of blood to be spilled in his name.
After a short time she rose. The screen no longer displayed her mission but vividly she remembered the words. Integrated. This would be the first time away from her battle sisters. There would be no moments of doubt on the battlefield, no time to worry how these new strangers would react to her.

She quietly donned her armor. With each piece she thought to herself, “I live to bring glory to the Emperor. I live to bring glory to my brethren.” When she was fully suited she squared her shoulders and exited her cell making for the 11th Training Grounds.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

Yngvar rises from his cot, energized. He stretches his arms out, shaking them and throwing each hand down his side, towards his waist, so that his bicep claps his lat, loudly. "It's too warm in here," he mutters, while scratching his whiskered throat. The servitor's presence was anticipated, not because he could hear it scurrying down the corridor, though he could, but because he'd been creating alternate moments of his meeting with rest of the Deathwatch for some time.

Considering the week he'd had to think of the future adventures to bestride and enemies to vanquish, created an eagerness that he hoped would quell the yearning he always feels when away from the Vlka Fenryka. "And so we return and commence anew", he says with a raspy chuckle. The prospect of greeting new mates is a welcome prospect. He knows he might not ever again achieve such a celebrated outfit as the Deathwatch.

After rustling through the equipment and checking it, piece by piece, Yngvar puts it on, acknowledging all those before him to fight in service of the Emperor. Feeling the heightening of his senses as well as the almost imperceptible increase in adrenaline activity fills him with electric allegiance. Exiting the cell door, he stops letting the others pass. Then begins a slow trot towards the Grounds.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

One by one you make your way through what seems like kilometers of hallways, corridors and marble floored auditoriums. The air is crisp and sterile, having been recycled countless times over and pumped into the hundreds of thousands of air ducts throughout the facility. It is a smell you have become well accustomed to during your long journeys between star systems on your way to various battlegrounds and killing fields. While the starships and battle stations may change, that sterile crisp air never does. You suspect that gravity on the Watch Fortress is maintained at a level constant with that of Terra. And even though this is not your home, there is something comforting about the smooth Rockcrete walls and Adamantine ceilings. The ever curious nature of this place, this Fortress that was built around the great mysterious Omega Vault, surrounds you, yet it is not unpleasant. It is as if this environment was specifically tailored to suit the needs of Astartes with astounding accuracy; indeed, in many ways it was.

Ever present are the Mechanicus servitors, busy at work running diagnostic checks and maintenance on the millions of various work stations, electrical manifolds and cogitator banks throughout Watch Fortress Erioch. But more noticeable are the Chapter serfs – the mind wiped humans who for one reason or another could not pass initiation into the Astartes yet miraculously survived their ordeals. They have shaven heads and wear simple robes. Unlike the servitors, they are fully aware and cognizant in regards to their surroundings. As you pass, they are quick to bow in your honor. Regardless of how many Astartes they encounter throughout their lifetime of servitude to the Deathwatch, they never forget to acknowledge the honor and superiority of the Emperor’s sons; this happens time and again as you make your way to the designated elevator bank.

The elevator ascends at a rapid pace and before you can adjust your position, two doors behind you open. You turn and walk down a long hallway with a ceiling fifteen feet high. You are flanked on each side by enormous stained armor-glass windows depicting hideous Xenos and black power-armor clad warriors battling them with sword and bolter. Some fight with no weapons at all, holding the beasts at bay and tearing into them with their gauntleted hands. One helmetless figure stands in the middle of it all, his face purposely void of detail. His armor is black as night and he carries no insignia of a home Chapter. His left shoulder plate and arm is a masterwork of silver, stark in contrast to the rest of his armor. As his brothers fight and die all around him, he remains still, feet planted firmly in the ground. His right hand hangs at his side clutching a bright blue power sword with an Imperial Aquila hilt and guard, it’s pommel the Inquisitorial “I” to symbolize the Deathwatch’s close relationship with the Ordo Xenos. In his left hand is a large book, clutched tightly across his chest, directly over his heart. Within the book are contained all of the Oaths one must make to earn their sign of status within the Long Watch – the Silver Shoulder Plate. A banner flies high above his head, connected to his back. The banner has been torn in places, and the wind has thrown it to the right, but in clear High Gothic it reads, “Datum Perficiemus Munus. Deathwatch de Fidelis. Imperator Ac Patriae. ”

As you cross the long hallway to a set of large Adamantine doors, you see the extent of the battle portrayed in the stained glass. The enemies are legion. They pour forth simultaneously from the Warp and the bossoms of hideous Xenos monstrosities. Intermixed in the multitudes are heretics and mutants, Orks, Tyranids and a thousand creatures you have never laid your eyes upon. And yet, the brothers remain; they stand against the never ending tide of enemies and continue to fight. When their bolters run dry they pull their chainswords. When the machine spirits of their hallowed chainswords fail, they fight with their hands and their feet. They give no ground and they die to maintain their Oaths. This is the world you have been summoned to, and for the briefest of moments a feeling you have rarely if ever experienced crosses into your minds: doubt. Are you worthy of such an honor, to be among such heroes?

You approach the double doors and notice a large memorial chizzled into the rockcrete wall. A bronze plaque above it reads, “1-1 Battle Brothers Killed in Action/Missing in Action. Imperator Protectoria.” The list is long; names, deeds and Chapter accompany the date and location of the Marine’s final action. As you glance over the length of those heroes that served before you, you almost feel as though you can touch the honor and glory radiating from the names, so palpable that it is. And yet, there is still room for more. You cannot possibly know, but you ponder if your name and deeds will someday be listed there among the fallen brethren of the 1-1. You take a deep breath and push open the door.

***

“It is nice of you to finally join us, brother. Please, approach.”

You find yourself in a large meeting hall, the ceilings twice as tall as the hallway you just exited. Situated around the room are various dojos and training areas. Some are caged and house a variety of melee weaponry, while others are built strictly for hand to hand combat. Others are reserved for physical exercise. Most curious are the doors on various walls throughout the perimeter of the hall. These doors lead into the famous, or infamous depending on your perspective, combat simulation theatres. But your immediate focus is drawn to the figure who first addressed you as you entered.

He is a tall Marine with an eerily beautiful face. Long blond hair is pulled back behind his head and he stares at you with ever vigilant bright blue eyes. His teeth are perfectly straight and his high cheekbones are almost reminiscent of what you remember of a normal human woman. Everything about his features radiates perfection, and the closer you get the more you notice. It becomes clear as you approach a central table and see his right shoulder plate – a bright red drop of blood flanked by two golden wings – a brother of the Blood Angels. During their exceptionally long lives, even for Space Marines, the Blood Angels were alone in their drive for perfection in all things; art, martial arts, and physical appearance were but a few of their many talents.

“I am Watch Captain Angellion,” he says in an equally eerily peaceful voice. All around the table stands your new Battle-Brothers. They wear full battle regalia, including equipped helmets. You are inwardly glad that you decided to keep your helmet secure, for you doubt that anything Watch Captain Angellion does or orders is without cause.

As if reading your mind, he continues, “I have asked you to arrive in full battle regalia and it is inspiring to see that you can all follow orders.” A small smile plays across his face, but his eyes study you intently. He is sizing you up and it is obvious that he doesn’t care whether or not you realize it. Most likely he is betting on the fact that you do.

“I will be overseeing your training as Captain of the 1-1. This facility is mine, and if you impress me today it will be ours. You may notice that your armor is the color of night, the color of death, and you may think this means that you are now in the Deathwatch.” He looks each one of you in the face, “I would ask you not to be so foolish in the future. Only one of you among us has been granted the silver and they have been asked to remove it for our purposes here today.” He allows his words to hang in the air, and let you ponder to whom he is referring. Then he picks up again, “Now, you have all been given time to adjust since coming to the Watch Fortress. This is a luxury that will most likely not occur again. You have received preliminary implantation of Deathwatch protocol and classified xenos intel via hypno-indoctrination. Now we will be implementing that knowledge in a live-fire arena.”

He smiles a beautifully perfect smile. “The Watch Commander will be watching. I will be watching. You are here for a reason, make no mistake about it. You are the absolute best at what you do. Now prove it. Any questions before we begin?”

 

mruozu
mruozu's picture

The silence that permeates the room after Captian Angellion finishes his question is absolute. Sarlock grins and turns his head to look at the other members of his Kill Team. His cybernetic eyes catch everything there is to see in his field of vision. A taller space marine stands to his right. Unfortunately, he can't see the chapter emblem from his position. He quickly switches to the left as if feeling an intense need to look in that direction.

He thought he felt the presence of metal.

To his right stands another member who enjoys metal over flesh. Ah, an Ultramarine...Excitement at first, and then a twinge of disappointment grasp at Sarlock, for this must be another soul who entertains the thought of a metal god. The Omnissiah. Hmph, what a joke. He flexes the fingers of his bionic hand.

The other two stand on the other side of the mechanical one, and he can't get a clear view of them from where he stands. He leans his head back to try and get a better view. One with no emblem...however, there was a white stripe down the center of the helmet. Sarlock is completely puzzled by this, despite his centuries of service. The other, to the strange one's left, dons the Space Wolf emblem.

Lots of old chapters, Sarlock thought. Lots of history here.

He turned his head back to the Captain, waiting for the next thing to happen, aware of his surroundings, and starting to feel the itch. It feels like things are about to get interesting.

"No, sir. No questions here," his voice screeches out, breaking the silence.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Gunter stands impassively. If there was anything more he needed to know, Angellion would no doubt have revealed it already.

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha makes no comment. Her armor stood out from the pristine regela of her brothers. "Not for long," she thought to her self.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

"Negative, Watch Captain," exclaims Agamemnon, his autotuned voice hiding any emotion he might be feeling.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

Yngvar exhales forcefully through his nose while staring straight ahead. "None, sir," he replies.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

The smile fades from Angellion's face and he grasps his hands behind his back, "Good. Figure out among yourselves who is leading the Kill-Team for this exercise, then follow me to the Alpha-Simulatorium." As he turns to walk towards the live-fire training arena, you notice for the first time the detail of his armor. It is a master crafted suit of black Artificer Mk. VI plate. What appears to be inlaid rubies sparkle across the gorget, each one reminiscient of a drop of blood with the largest of them in the center, slowly falling into a golden chalice in the middle of his massive chest. His left arm is adorned in silver, etchings of battle fought and enemies slain travel from his left wrist up to the massive Shoulder Plate with its golden Inquisitorial "I" in the center. On his hip are sheathed two identical Power Swords and he carries no ranged weapon of any kind. If he wears a helmet in battle, it is not currently on his person and you can all see the worn down areas of paint on his back where his regularly equipped Jump-Pack hangs.

His words hang in the air as he makes his way to an adamantine set of double doors. You stand, facing one another in anticipated silence. If you have anything to say to one another, now is the time. Otherwise you step out of parade rest, with your weapon in tow, and follow the Watch Captain to your destination.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

"Follow me", Gunter waits a moment for objections or questions.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock turns his head towards the tall one, curiosity peaked by this immediate volunteer. It'll be important to see what this one and the others can do.

He has no objections. Sarlock nods curtly and waits for the others.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

"You are confident," says Agamemnon. "Tell us why we should follow you into an engagement you know as little about as we do."

His voice being what it is, it's difficult to tell, but it doesn't sound as though Agamemnon is issuing a challenge so much as speaking his mind.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Gunter appraises the Ultramarine Techmarine through helmeted eyes. With his face hidden behind his helmet his indifference is hard to read, and the pause before responding could be incorrectly attributed to surprise at being challenged in this matter. But when he does speak, it is clear that it is without anger or reproach. "You are correct - we know little about the challenge or each other. We can waste time debating or we can seek out our challenge and take the measure of our companions under live fire. I prefer the later. I expect that those who feel confident in leading would have already stepped up. Since only I have done so, I conclude that I am the most qualified."

As if resigned to a lengthy debate that seems the preference of most every other chapter, Gunter waits for comments from the rest of the team.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

Agamemnon smirks under his helmet and inclines his head slightly. "Then we will see what manner of leader you are. Do not disappoint us, Black Templar."

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha takes a moment to study the Black Templar insignia. From the little intel she has, she gleans they are men devout in their service to the Emperor. That proves an easy choice for her to follow.

She listens to the chatter for a moment without saying anything. All service to the Emperor is honorable and those that take that first step even more so. The true value these chapters bring to the Emperor's glory remains to be seen.

She inclines her head toward Gunter and turns her head to the general, then stands at attention. She is clearly ready to proceed.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

"For the Emperor!" It is clear that Gunter expects a call response from the full squad.

Once received, he instructs, "Shoot anything that moves."

mruozu
mruozu's picture

"For the Emperor." Sarlock's high, screetchy, mechanical voice pounds out the words. A smile comes to his mouth underneath his helmet. Let's get on with it, he thinks, quietly anticipating, with great pleasure, the fight to come.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

"I can respect the initiative" Yngvar states, motionless. "Your burly presence will certainly command the attention of all but the most near sighted Xenos scum. Perhaps it may then fall to the rest of us to take the initiative in utilizing such a diversion. Perhaps you alone will slay all members of the horde," Yngvar says giving an imperceptible sidelong glance towards the Brothers.

"In either event, it is as the Emperor may will, so it shall be. For He Who Protects!" With this affirmation, Yngvar is certainly ready to move along with Gunter as the Kill Team leader.

Drawing his combat knife and hoping that his fundamental desire to galvanize and cohere the team will be felt amongst the Brothers, he pursues the Watch Captain through the doors to the next room.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

Sarlock waits as Gunter passes by and then falls in behind him, as do the rest of the motley bunch of Astartes one by one.

With nothing else to be said, the group makes its way to the high arched adamantine doors. Watch Captain Angellion turns to a console by the wall and enters a secure set of numbers into a pad large enough to be manipulated by a gauntled Astartes. The automated voice of a woman speaks as Angellion enters the last number of the code, "....Vocal recognition required....."

Angellion lifts his chin slightly, "Watch Captain Leonarus Angellion." There was a brief pause as the Machine Spirit analyzed the Captain's voice.

"Approved, May the Emperor Guide you, Watch Captain Angellion."

With a small hiss, the doors open and Angellion guides you all inside. As the lights in the floors and ceilings activate, you find yourselves in a large octogonal room. It is apparent that this is some sort of command/observation center. Most of the walls are covered in monitors of various purpose, and throughout the room simulation servitors sit permanently hard-wired into their stations. As you make your way deeper inside they begin to "wake," as is evident by a multitude of lights and noises emitting from their pseudo-human bodies. A large spiral staircase stands in the center of the room. A cursory glance reveals that it continues both up and down for many levels. From what little you can see, the upper levels contain more hard-wired servitors and electronic control stations, but the majority of their outer walls are some sort of reinforced transparent view ports. Whatever they look out onto you can only speculate.

Immediately to your right is a large lift of some sort. It can easily hold your entire squad and many more Astartes. It is not out of the realm of possibility for you to imagine a mighty warmachine being driven onto the lift for one form of mechanized warfare training or another. Opposite of the lift is a shrine. Angellion walks over to it. It is as tall as a Space Marine and floats in the air unmoving, suspended by some form of stasis field. It is made of ceramite, marble and what looks like gold. In his eternal glory, the Emperor floats as if descending from the heavens. His golden armor is accentuated by the look of snarled determination on his chiseled face. Long black hair flows back behind his head as he descends, green laurels sit atop his furrowed brow as the mighty power sword in his hands are raised against an unseen foe.

"I assume you have elected a leader... and apparently you did so without coming to blows." Angellion smiles and looks directly at Yngvar, "I must admit, I did not put it past your breed to come to blows against a fellow Astartes over something far less trivial." With a sideglance he looks also at the mighty Iron Hands warrior Sarlock, "Or yours." It is clear that he is attempting to make a joke, but for one so perfectly formed and radiating of an air of superiority it is surprising to say the least. Without waiting for a response he carries on, "This is where I will receive your Oaths for the time being. It is not as grand as perhaps you are used to, or ordanate. But it will do. If your hearts are true the Emperor will hear you regardless of where you happen to be. Besides, unorthodox is your new perogative; you would do well to remember that. The Deathwatch will teach you to be more independent and more cohesive as a unit than you may have ever thought possible. I expect you to adapt, or you will not overcome. Of this, you have my word."

Angellion says nothing more. He stands in front of the Emperor, staring at all of you with an equally deadly stare, waiting for whoever was elected leader to take the initiative and commence the Oath.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Gunter spares no words for Angellion, instead leading the team...his team, for this mission...in the oath to the Emperor. He invokes the High Gothic as he begins the standard litany. While he expects there to be minor variations between the chapters, the oath is ancient beyond reckoning.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

Within only a few words, Agamemnon is chanting the litany with Gunter. What minor variations there are in phrasing pale by comparison to his mechanical voice reciting the words, the auto-tuning not quite covering the emotional power behind the words.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock's strange, higher voice chants along with his new brothers. It might seem like a strange sound, but his heart is fully behind the words for the Emperor. The words flow forth easily, for he has spoken them thousands of times. And each time, the same feeling jolts through his body. The Emperor will guide him through this mission. The Emperor will protect him through this mission. The Emperor will course through his veins. And it will all be for the Emperor!

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha joins with her brothers. Her voice is low and androgynous. As they chant her voice blends into the litany.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

Yngvar, though fighting an itch in his throat and repressing the urge to hack in relief, intones the sacred oath to the Emperor, in concert with the others.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

As you all finish up your Oath you feel envigored. Your mind sharper, your will stronger. And for the briefest of moments you can feel the tangible power of your undying Emperor's psychic manifestation within the Warp touching you. As soon as it registers within your minds it is gone, but it is enough to strengthen your resolve and your nigh already unbreakable spirits.

The Watch Captain walks with purpose to the large lift you noticed upon entering.

"This is your means of insertion. Alpha Simulatorium has a particularly...unforgiving Machine Spirit. The structure itself is as ancient as they come, and as a result has simulated virtually every battle type imaginable. What this means is that you are advised to maintain sealed Battle Plate at all times." He looks directly at Yngvar, "I understand that your pack prefers to travel helmetless, with their noses in the wind. For this exercise, I would not reccomend it. The Machine Spirit has a tendancy to identify weaknesses in the Team and exploit them. If you did so, you may soon find yourself in a vacuum."

Angellion stands at the lift entrance and invites you to board the massive conveyor.

Once you are all standing aboard the lift he turns to you, "Be ready for anything, Astartes. The Watch Commander and I will be watching. The Emperor is watching. Good hunting, Marines."

With this, he turns and walks to the staircase in the middle of the room, ascending to the next level up. As the doors to the lift close you see him look your way once more - that perfect grin never leaving his face. It is unclear whether he has total faith in you, or is mocking you as you go into an unknown battle. With a hydrolic hiss the enormous blast-doors of the lift close and you descend in silence, illuminated only by the red glow of the lifts tactical lighting systems.

An artificial voice comes over the intercom within the lift, the same female voice you heard as Angellion entered the access verification for the Simulatorium control room, "Lift descending to lower Battle grounds. To ensure your safety, please do not exit the lift until the doors have fully opened." A metalic buzz and slight whirring dance on your enhanced hearing. The red tac-illuminators in the elevator start to spin. Hydrolic releases hiss as the lift starts to slow. "Exit procedures commencing in ...5..." the tac-illuminators drape over each of your helmeted faces at equal intervals, painting you in red; the color of blood.
"...4..." The color of victory.
"...3..." You take a deep breath, "...2..."
And prepare to meet your enemies with the fury of the Primarchs.
"...1... The Emperor protects."

The lift shutters to a stop. The large blast doors open in their entirety in under a second, slamming against the ground outside and kicking up dirt and grass. A lush green landscape opens up before you. For a moment, your helmets automated vision enhancements dim to deal with the influx of light that pours in.

It is a clear day and thick white clouds float harmlessly across a sky illuminated by two suns. Immediately in front of you are grassy hills and small shrubs. 100 meters past the hills, you notice a gradual slope that turns into small plateau. From this distance you can easily make out rock formations atop the plateau.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock looks into the distance, but can't quite discern anything. He turns his head to the others around him, observing them once again, trying to see if they seem to notice anything. He tries to decipher small flinches and slight movements in his new teams actions. He stares off into the distance once again.

"The plateau seems quite a distance away. Do any of you perceive anything out of the ordinary?"

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Gunter is focused mostly on the team. "If there is anything there, we should attack. If there is nothing there, we should take and hold the high ground." He begins moving in that direction careful to maintain formation.

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha alerts toward the hills and palms her Asartes knife. She can't be sure she heard anything but she feels the immediate need to be at the ready.

"Sounds like moving water ahead."

She immediately steps into formation behind Gunter.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

Agamemnon comes out of a momentary reverie with only a slight, possibly involuntary twitch of his servo arm as evidence that his mind was elsewhere. With no plan better than Gunter's, he also falls into formation, both bolt pistols at the ready.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

Yngvar's gaze and attention towards the cover dotted hill is momentarily broken as he hears Aisha say something about water ahead and Gunter advances towards the hill. He proceeds with the others.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock falls in line at the back, his usual position in formations for as long as he can remember. He slings his Heavy Bolter into both hands and follows the rest of the group, taking in his surroundings on either side, watching and waiting.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

With their minds made up, the group follows the their squad leader, Gunter, toward the plateau.

As if sensing your motives, the weather abruptly changes before you have crossed a quarter of the distance to the upward sloping hill. The machine spirits of your armor pick up the changes in humidity and air density immediately. In an instant the clear skies turn grey and water pours forth. Your helmet readouts display an extreme rise in humidity and temperature. However, while it would be uncomfortable if you were walking about unprotected and exposed to the elements, it is apparently not life threatening.

As the rains increase into what appears to be a torrential downpour, visibility drops substantially. Your optical scanners quickly adjust and recalibrate to provide you with the best visual layout of the land available. As you move and scan, your sensors continue sending you various readouts: heat signatures, distances to objects, and optional optics modes. For now, you are able to see almost as well as when it was clear and sunny thanks to your remarkable Power Armor.

Moving with the speed and assuredness of the most elite athletes, and simultaneously as graceful as someone not donning hundreds of kilograms of armored plating (thanks to your black carapace armor interface), you cross the distance to the hill in no time. You quickly make your way to the top of the plateau and see that the rock formations ring the perimeter of the hilltop with the center being mostly flat and muddy. The rocks that ring the perimeter of the plateau are large enough to provide cover up to your torso, should you choose to kneel in front of them. Should you stand, they cover your legs only. One rock sits alone in the middle of it all. As you approach, you see that a small steel object roughly six inches across sticking 1 meter out of the center of the boulder.

The rain continues to pour down on you, and with a quick glance you can see that there is in fact a river at the bottom of the hill, opposite the side you approached from. However, with the influx of rain it has started to flow violently. Across the river the landscape changes from rolling grasslands into thick forest. The trees shake and blow in an unseen wind while they dance as the rain beats against them.

Fixxxer
Fixxxer's picture

With no obvious threat inbound, Agamemnon slakes his curiosity and moves in for a closer look at the glint of steel.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

"Careful, Ultramarine," Sarlock speaks aloud. " I too enjoy metal, but this doesn't feel right."

Sarlock moves slowly to the right of Agamemnon, but further away from the metal object in the boulder. He keeps his eyes of Agamemnon, waiting for the Ultramarine's next move.

Crimison
Crimison's picture

Aisha pulls her pistol into her left hand and keeps her combat knife in her right. She scans the forest looking for any movement or heat signatures out of the ordinary.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

As the group gathers atop the plateau, a dense fog begins to form around them. First visibility to the treeline disappears, and you watch as the fog slowly condenses and begins to close upon your position.

As the fog rolls in, Aisha surveys the treeline, but a combination of fog and rain disrupts any chances of her gleaning any useful information from what she can see.

[OOC: Awareness check (per)34 +10 heightened senses due to terrible weather]

Before too long the squad finds itself engulfed in fog as the rain continues to beat down upon them.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

As the fog closes in the group experiences a moment of silence. In that moment, all you can hear is the wind and rain beating down upon you. The density of the fog, the intensity of the rain and the air itself is against you. You wait for the inevitable, and it doesn’t take long for it to find you.

Surprise Round

Gunter is the first to hear them. Echoes in the distance that grow into louder screams. Pax and Sarlock also hear it, as they draw their weapons towards the sky. Perhaps because they were so intent on scanning the far tree line and covering the group’s six, Yngvar and Aisha are caught completely unaware as the first rain of living ammunition from the Gargoyle’s fleshborer weaponry falls down upon them. The first fusillade misses Yngvar completely, but manages to pepper Aisha, hitting her squarely in the right leg. While her armor negates most of the damage, some of the vile ammunition from over twenty bio-cannons find weak points and a very real pain shoots up into her leg.

[OOC Tearing weapon – 11 damage (1d10+5=11, 1d10+5=6) plus magnitude bonus (2d10=13) = 24 – 13 AP&TB = 11 damage total.
Aisha has taken 7 damage (Fate Point used to heal 4 damage; FPs 4/5).

Meanwhile the rest of the group is quick to act, popping off single reactionary shots against targets as they appear. Gunter and Pax both fire with astounding accuracy. The single bolter rounds tear into the flying horde, destroying multiple beasts as the mass-reactive shells explode inside their targets, sending shrapnel into the rest of the flying monstrosities.

[OOC: BS reaction shots against Nid gargoyles approximately 20m away. +10 for short range, -10 because they are flying. (1d100=24, 1d100=94, 1d100=8) – Keep in mind that Sarlock cannot use this ability as his weapon only fires on full auto – which is a full attack action
Gunter - Bolter (27/28), Pax - Bolt Pistol (13/14), Aisha - Bolt Pistol (13/14), Yngvar - Bolt Pistol (13/14)

Aisha grimaces through the pain in her leg and fires back with stunning precision, her bolt round punching straight through its first target's neck before exploding and turning multiple creatures into lumps of destroyed flesh, bone and gore. Yngvar, perhaps more angry than surprised fires back as well, but his aim is off and he misses the group of agile creatures completely.

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

Round 1

After previously closing 8 meters after they fired their last salvo of horrid xenos bio-ammunition, the appropriately named "gargoyles" (a name given to them by the first Imperial Guardsmen unlucky enough to encounter them) attempt to deliver another barrage of flesh-devourers down on your position. They target Gunter. Perhaps it is because he reacted first and scored the first kill among their numbers, or perhaps it is because he is the tallest of the group. Either way, the casualties the team caused among their horde is obvious as their shots are wild and unorganized. The few fleshborers that do make contact with you die upon impact with your armor - coming nowhere near the density it would take to penetrate the "weaker" spots in it. The majority of the rest pepper the earth around you or sail past you completely.

The Gargoyles scream in frustration and close another 8 meters, placing themselves directly over (albeit high above) the raging waters at the base of the plateau, and a mere 4 meters in front of the group.

***
Initiative:
Gargoyles 13; Magnitude 14.
Pax 13; Bolt Pistol (13/14).[squad mode]
Aisha 11; Bolt Pistol (13/14); Taken 7 damage; 4/5 FPs remaining.[squad mode]
Yngvar 10; Bolt Pistol (13/14).[squad mode]
Gunter 8; Bolter (27/28).[squad mode]
Sarlock 7; Heavy Bolter (250/250). [squad mode]

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

Round 1

Pax is the first to react, squeezing his trigger and sending a bolt round into the horde annihilating two of the flying Tyranids within. He straightens his stance and carefully aims down the sights of his favored pistol, drawing a bead on the biggest Gargoyle of the bunch. Just as he begins squeezing the trigger, the large Gargoyle jerks to the right and spins downward, seemingly anticipating the shot as it fires and goes wide and misses its mark.

Aisha focuses on the pain in her leg, praying to the Emperor mentally and feeling slight relief as some of the fleshborer ammunition are forced from its thigh and die screeching in agony on their way out - The Emperor Protects, indeed. Not missing a beat, the Marine with no colors levels its pistol at the oncoming horde and fires, missing wide and to the left. Aisha squeezes off two more rounds in quick succession that find their mark in the face of the enormous beast Pax missed. They both detonate almost simultaneously sending shrapnel in all directions causing the creature to crash into its brethren and disappear off the end of the plateau into the raging waters below.

Yngvar doesn't miss a beat. With a simultaneous roar from his own lips, that of his monomolecular diamond-toothed chainsword, and his Jump-Pack he erupts forward in a cloud of fire and smoke that momentarily blinds the rest of the squad. As the smoke clears you see him crash into the underside of the advancing front line of Gargoyles in mid air. The attack is brutal and every bit as fitting for a Son of Russ. "For Russ!!" can be heard between vicious outward archs of the chainsword. Wings are severed from bodies as heads, clawed limbs, and torsos are shorn open and completely off. Without stopping Yngvar swoops into the air and drops right back into the fray once more, finishing off any that may have survived his first attack. With a dull thump he lands on the neck of a gargoyle; back on the plateau, facing the rest of the group, he swings his sword in a downward arc while depressing the activation rune on the sword - cleaning out any gore and filth stuck inside. His armor is filthy with ichor and foul with the smell of the enemy dead. He begins laughing. A deep and throaty noise amplified by his vox caster. With a shake of his head he looks at the group, "Now that was fun."

Victory is yours... for now.

***

Initiative:
Gargoyles 13; Magnitude 0.
Pax 13; Bolt Pistol (11/14).[squad mode]
Aisha 11; Bolt Pistol (10/14); Taken 7 damage; 4/5 FPs remaining.[squad mode]
Yngvar 10; Bolt Pistol (13/14).[squad mode]
Gunter 8; Bolter (27/28).[squad mode]
Sarlock 7; Heavy Bolter (250/250). [squad mode]

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

Yngvar's reckless charge was impressive, and Gunter can't stifle a small appreciative nod. "There may be more." Gunter takes a defensive position behind one of the rocks while scanning the ground and sky for more Tyrannids. To Pax he remarks, "You will not be interrupted."

drumandfight
drumandfight's picture

As if a switch had been turned, and perhaps it had, the rain slows to a drizzle momentarily and then stops. Though you cannot feel it, the readouts inside your helms show that the humidity is rapidly dropping as well [OOC: Weapon Jam chances have returned to normal]. The thick fog begins to dissipate as well and you can all see the dual suns again. The more astute of you can see that they have moved position, although only slightly. A breezes oddly adds to the stillness of the situation. The waters at the base of the plateau have subsided slightly, no longer roaring but flowing smoothly. You imagine you stand roughly 15 meters above the ground where the waters are. With a quick look down, Gunter spots the remains of many of the Gargoyles, some still twitching in their death throes. The forest beyond the river to the west, directly in front of the group in the direction the gargoyles came sways to and fro in the wind. Your readouts momentarily bleep and you see the weather going from stiflingly humid to arridly cold and dry.

Snow is coming, and if the previous weather fluctuations are any indication, it will be on you in full force in no time. However, with no current enemy movement in any direction it is clear that for the moment you have a reprieve from attack. How long the repreive will last is anyone`s guess.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock also takes position behind a boulder, if one is open. He glances towards the Space Wolf, a full smile coming to his mouth underneath his helmet.

"Save some for the rest of us, Space Wolf."

He takes in the surroundings and looks at the dead gargoyles and where they came from. The sensors indicate the cold coming. He holds his Heavy Bolter ready, taking the Black Templar's words to heart.

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

"Cover the Eastern approach," Gunter indicates to Sarlock. "Keep an eye to the North," he instructs the Space Wolf. "Make sure he doesn't kill himself," he follows up to Aisha as Pax investigates the strange technology.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

Yngvar directs his attention at Gunter's behest, to the North. He can feel the prickle of each hair on the skin at the base of his skull as the air cools. Memories of home come flooding back as his awareness momentarily lapses into reverie. The days before the kill-teams, when he was an Aspirant. Before the Power Armor.

When he comes to, he has holstered his Bolt Pistol and taken his helmet off, clipping it to his belt. He kneels and sniffs the air.

Xerb. The Wolfman.
Xerb. The Wolfman.'s picture

"They are near" Yngvar says as he puts his helmet back on. The woosh of the resealing vacuum finally brings his complete awareness back to battle ground. He readies himself, finding the nearest cover available upon the plateau and scans the landscape to the North for signs of movement.

mruozu
mruozu's picture

Sarlock looks in the direction of the Black Templar and nods. As he walks over, he flinches his head slightly. "There is a strange sound on the wind, but I can't quite discern it's direction."

He agrees that the East should be covered and so moves into position behind a boulder to the East.

Once he reaches the East set of boulders, he stands behind one and readies his weapon.

"I sure hope they don't come from the South, Black Templar."

deadDMwalking
deadDMwalking's picture

"The sound is from the East." Gunter redeploys to cover the direction he hears the hoard approaching from.

Pages

Topic locked