[@DepressedSoviet]


Koldobika was about to reply when a coterie of figures, lead by an individual bearing the same grimacing skull-mask helmet as Zaphiel himself, came within a couple of feet of the group. There was a short series of clicks, communication through internal helmet vox no doubt, and the helmet of the Crimson Fist turned to leer at the Iron Champion in their midst.

“Brother Cornelius is to go with Chaplain Azariah immediately,” he announced for clarification, the Iron Champion guided both by the robed and hooded Dark Angels Chaplain and his entourage of armed Chapter serfs.

For a moment the First Company Veteran simply watched them leave, knowing he would never see the freshly minted Deathwatch brother again.

“Well, Brother-Chaplain, if you will follow me.”

The walk to the Chaplain's chambers was one of silence and inner reflection, deliberately passing through the fortresses Reclusiam so that Zaphiel could get a sense of what his duties would entail later on, passing others of his distinguished rank from a dozen or more Chapters. They ceased their walking eventually, pushing down a corridor where it appeared that others had already come and halting at one of the identical doors.

“Only you can enter first, Brother.”

With a hiss the door slid upward and out of sight, revealing a perfectly identical chamber to those all around it, except for the inclusion of a small chapel in one corner; from the modest statuette of the God-Emperor hung the very Rosarius which the Chaplain sought.

“We have time before we gird ourselves for battle, is there anything else you would ask of me?”


[hr]


[@Zelosse][@Andreyich]


For the very first time since being presented to the newcomers the regal face of Cylaris twisted into something akin to an expression of genuine vexation, the aryan-looking Astartes moving forward until his own chest-piece pressed against that of Victar and his blue eyes looked unwaveringly at those of the Harbinger before him.

“Your pardon be damned,” he announced in his smooth voice, “there are few things I can stand, and disrespect is among them, as is a blatant disregard for ones betters.”

For a moment, and only a moment, the Ultramarine thought of striking this impudent whelp where he stood – it was only his own self restraint and unwillingness to damage what was now more or less the 'property' of the Deathwatch that held his fists.

“Speak to me in that manner again, and you will find yourself looking up at me from the floor.” It was no idle threat, but a promise, “you want to go to the armoury, new-blood? Then let us go.”

The armoury was closer to the hangar than one might think, and the long strides of the Space Marines carried them swiftly to the thrice-armoured doors of what was possibly the most valuable room in the fortress after a  number of others; behind those closed doors were weapons of Imperial origin, xenos origin and even vaguer points of creation that were still unknown to the Deathwatch.

“Now we wait,” intoned the son of Macragge, for he was not going to let these fledglings inside the arsenal before the allotted time, such a thing would have been against all protocol and [b]that[/b] was something that an Ultramarine could never break.