Grey skies occupied the horizon as a cold wind from the Eastern seas blew over the rocky moors. A pattering of water on stone maintained a solid infrastructure of sound as the rains continued for days on end in what seemed like a marathon of sunless weeks and weeping skies. Patches of moss and wild grass stuck to the stones like a plague, covering the ground in a soft padding of sorts that had abrupt protrusions of jagged rack here and there. 

Sacris. 

The home-world of the Storm Wardens was as hard and tough as the humans that lived and died on it. Craggy moors and wind-swept plains provided sparse land that bred only the toughest of men and women. The seas to the north and east were as turbulent and salty as the spirits of the warrior tribes of the continents, constantly pelted by waters and snows from cold overcast skies. Daelon MaCcullach, son of Braedon and ascended son of the Emperor remembered his youth fondly as he stepped along the highland moors in a modified suit of Astartes scout armor, watching the trials and tribulations of ascension unfold once more among the tribe's best and brightest warriors. It was not so long ago that he had been in their same position... or was it? A century at least. 

Two of his squad leaders flanked him on either side. Both men wore their full battle plate, beautifully painted royal blue with steel grey trim and Oaths of moment still pinned to their shoulder pauldrons. Their heraldry shined proudly on their right shoulders: a steel shield cut across by a bolt of lightning. Wardens against the oncoming storms. Justice made manifest. Storm Wardens. Mark 4 bolters accompanied mark 7 "Aquila" battle plate, and both Marines stood still as statues as they observed the games below. One of them unconsciously moving the fingers of his Narthecium ever so slightly. Daelon's own battle plate was currently with the Chapter artificers and war smiths. Even now he knew they would be beating out the dents and smoothing over scars on his ancient suit of mark 5 "Heresy" armor, taking care of it as one would the legend of the oldest chapter hero. The armor itself dated back to the forbidden times - times of deceit, lies and betrayal - times of heresy. And through that heresy it had held fast. Across a sea of light years and countless thousands of battles, that plate had withstood every enemy known to mankind, from traitor Astartes to foul xenos without name. His armor had weathered countless storms and would shield against countless more. Daelon was as proud of his access to such a relic - to the trust and honor bestowed upon him - as he was of being one of the Emperor's ascended. To wear such a piece of Imperial history was an honor he could never hope to live up to, but would never stop attempting to. And even now it was being embossed with yet another honor the newly promoted Sergeant did not expect, and would have traded in the blink of an eye if it meant former Sergeant Rayden would still be breathing. The grey Iron Skull being fitted and soldered onto his battle-helm, his promotion to acting Battle-Sergeant was unexpected and in his mind, unwanted. 

"The honor is now mine, brother. I hope I lived up to your tutelage." He spoke silently into the wind, knowing it would carry his words to the halls of the Emperor and beyond. He spoke as though he knew Brother Rayden was listening. If his squad leaders heard him they made no show, standing as still as stone as the rain pattered off of their armor like so many enemies before. 

Below them the tribe's warrior hopefuls raced through mazes and deadly battlements, leaping over spiked pits and dead falls as well as dodging various booby traps. Daelon felt odd out of his armor as he watched, but he enjoyed being in the lighter, more exposed scout armor. Helmetless and feeling the wind and rain on his battle-painted skin, he was reminded of his time as a warrior-hopeful. He had run through death-mazes and hazards similar to this, brushing off the chill of the air and the sweat and rain in his eyes as he crossed quicksand pits, swamp gas fields and millions of swarm leeches. He remembered slaying a fen-troll in single combat - the next challenge that awaited the men below. Most would not survive to become aspirants, but that was the point. Out of the dozens who competed, only a handful would make it through this. The Storm Wardens needed the strongest men, the toughest men. The best men. Only a handful would make it to Daelon and his Brothers at the Thunderhawk landing site. Sgt. Rayden had been the best and now, he was no more. 

Daelon held his Sacris claymore out in front of him, blade in the ground, resting his muscled arms on its hilt. He stood two and half meters tall and even out of his power armor gave the two Astartes with him a run for their money. His large imposing frame was made all the more menacing given his long held tribal inclination to paint himself in the customary blue woad paint of the initiates. His heavily muscles arms, neck and even armored chest were painted in various patterns. Blond hair, a rarity for most sons of Sacris was pulled back into a warriors knot that fell down to his shoulders. A low cut beard occupied the lower half of his face and two identical fat blue streaks went from his forehead to his jaw, covering both of his eyes. A part of him yearned to be back in his armored body glove, under his second skin of ceramite and flexsteel; back inside of his battle plate he felt at home. A clang from the trial grounds below brought him out of his reverie as a tribesman swung his claymore at an enormous fen-troll. The clang, having brought him out of his reverie, only acted to send him into another one. 

Steel on steel. Shots fired. Incoming. 

+++++++++++ 

Bolter in hand, Daelon lined up a shot and squeezed the trigger. A chest plate exploded. Rotten skin and fragments of bone and organs sprayed over the ground where the heretic and the two behind him had been eradicated by a single .75 calibre round. The mass reactive had gone straight through the first target before detonating into a cloud of shrapnel that enveloped his two comrades. The Battle Sgt, Rayden, voxed orders through the squad-to-squad. The attack was going as planned. 

1st Company was heavily engaged en route to the munitorium and 3rd Company was making head way along their flanks. The mission was simple: open up a second line of attack on the enemy's flank to take pressure off of the First. Eradicate any and all opposition. Retake the munitorium and install loyalist Guard elements to hold it before moving on to secondary targets of opportunity. Sgt. Rayden's squad - 3rd Co., 4th tactical squad - was en route to engage the heretic's flanks. There had been problems with some of 3rd Co. drop pods and as a result most of the Storm Wardens 3rd were separated from one another by some tens of kilometers. That was not a problem. All eventualities had been discussed and debated over the night prior to mission drop. In the case of drop pod malfunctions, all squads were to continue on their set mission parameters and reestablish with one another at or en route to the munitorium. Securing the munitions plant was mission critical to ensuring a loyalist victory on the moon. 

The squad, with Rayden at its head, moved along back alleyways and crumbling, bombed-out shells of buildings. The Guard regiments attached to the Astartes had done their part in drowning this area with artillery fire. Sky-flower anti personnel rounds, high explosive, and bunker busters had all been liberally applied to the positions around the munitorium. Bodies of the heretics lay strewn about. Daelon took in the scene. The heretics still wore their PDF uniforms, only most were now painted in the dark dried crimson that could only have been blood. Ruinous symbols and blasphemous litanies had been painted on themselves and tattooed onto their flesh. Some had the tell-tale taint of mutation about them, but none had been able to withstand the might of Imperial Artillery. Those who had somehow managed to avoid the worst of it fell like rotten wheat against the Emperor's mighty scythes. 

"Movement." The point man of the squad, a Marine by the name of Callidar with exceptional scouting abilities, voxed into his battle-helm mic. Immediately, positional information from what his helm was seeing was transmitted to those of his battle brothers. "Two. Moving fast into the water tower up ahead. Clumsy. Non-human. Bigger." Callidar had taken a knee while he transmitted, finding cover behind a fallen piece of a nearby apartment hab block. His bolter was trained on the water tower, practically begging for something to stir again. Nothing moved. Perhaps they had changed positions on the back side of the tower. 

Seconds turned to minutes but nothing reappeared. "All clea-" the vox cut out as Callidar's head and battle-helm exploded into fragments. The first shot had struck before its report met the ears of the Marines, followed by what seemed like hundreds more. Callidar's body remained kneeling as five more heavy bolter rounds slammed into it, causing the armor to buckle and give as some of the enormous mass reactive rounds found weak spots and tore into his midsection. 

"Contact!" Sgt. Rayden screamed as he reacted, firing with one hand into the destroyed water tower as he grabbed the dead remains of Callidar and threw himself into cover. "Apothecary, up!" It was unnecessary. 4th squad's Apothecary was already moving, his Narthecium coming to life as inbuilt saws and grasping mechanisms unfolded. "You can save his geneseed, Narfell. His legacy must live on." 

"Aye, sergeant," said Narfell as he scanned the ruined armor of his fallen Brother. "His memory and his life will fuel the Chapter on." 

Rayden was barely listening, beeming with pride as he watched his well-trained squad move without orders. They had set up over lapping firing positions on the water tower while taking cover. "Daelon, report." 

Daelon had jumped behind the side of the ceramite foundation of one of the apartment habs. Already he was getting the squad's Devastator into position. "Sir, heavy bolter up in that water tower. Has to be. But the report and flashback of the weapon keeps changing positions. No human gun team could move a heavy bolter that quickly and maintain fire on our position. Making ready to frag out." Daelon knew what they were up against the moment he saw the flash from that heavy bolter moving position while firing. The arch enemy. Traitor Astartes. 

Rayden knew it too. "Bring that water tower down now, Daelon." 

Daelon didn't need to respond. The soundstrike on his Brother's shoulder was in position and ready to fire. Three claps like thunder rang in his ears. In one second the soundstrike was down and so was the Marine holding it. The heavy bolter rounds chewed up the ground around him and blood was pooling in great buckets from the wounds in his stomach and chest. He clawed forward, hoping to grab the launcher and complete his orders. Three more rounds contacted with his head and back and he ceased moving altogether. 

Daelon simply reacted. Dropping his bolter he dove forward, taking up the soundstrike and rolling into a kneeling firing position in one move. He fired once, then twice as the mechanical auto-loader pushed another missile into the firing tube in the blink of an eye. Both missile screamed out toward the water tower at incredible speed. 

The first exploded on one of the support struts holding the unstable structure up. As it crumpled under its own weight and began to fall some forty meters to the ground, the second missile impacted the ruined water tower itself. It detonated in a ball of fire and shrapnel, shredding the insides of the ruined holding tank and everything inside of it. Daelon was pleased to hear the terrified shrieks of whatever lay inside with his enhanced senses. He only hoped that they had met a terrible, painful end. Justice. Honor restored. 

Silence followed the booming crash and dust cloud of the collapsing tower as Sgt. Rayden's 4th squad regrouped. "Daelon," he said after he had assessed casualty reports and gathered weapons and ammo. "That was quick thinking and steadfast resolve. Remind me to promote you one day." 

There were laughs around the squad-to-squad vox. Rayden had a way of inspiring the men, and this day was no different. "Doing my duty is reward enough, Sergeant." Rayden had expected such a reply. Daelon was steadfast and proud, a Storm Warden and son of Sacris to the bone. He did not let ambition cloud his duty. If promotions came, they came. They were not sought after. The mission was all that mattered. 

*** 

They knew they were getting close to the munitorium as the sounds of fighting intensified. Closer to the munitorium the artillery assault had been much weaker in order to stave off any excess damage to the facility itself. As a result, the enemy had proven to be dug in much more securely. Narfell had done what he could for the other Marines - he had removed their geneseed with precision and marked the locations of their fall so quick-reaction-forces could come claim their remains and repurpose their arms and armor for future initiates. It was not much, but the mission came first. In the distance the rumble of armor and heavy cannon could be heard decimating packs of heretics and, apparently, renegade Astartes. The fire in Daelon's heart burned bright as he thought of the traitors. The honor they had betrayed made him grit his teeth in hatred. Bastards, he thought to himself. You will pay. 

At last, 4th squad broke free of the alleyways and into a scene of panic and chaos. The 1st were stalled along the northern approach to the munitorim and if they did not receive assistance fast, there was good reason to believe the assault could be halted completely. The heretics had set up heavy weapons nests along the outskirts of the munitions plant. Some were supervised by massive power armored figures painted black and gold with 8-pointed stars emblazoned across their armor. The black legion. The sight of them made Daelon's blood boil, but he almost stutter stepped when he saw the "champion" they had chained near the entrance of the plant-proper. 

A massive four armed Xenos biped with a collar displaying the same 8-pointed star around its neck ran along the entrance driveway of the munitorium. Around it lay dead Storm Wardens. Most had been ripped apart or apparently crushed inside their armor. The monstrosity had a red hide covered in scaled plates and a bifurcated lower jaw that dropped spittle and Astartes blood as it gnawed on the head of one of the fallen. 

"Abomination," whispered the Marine to Daelon's left. 

"Orders sir?" Daelon waited patiently for the order to open fire. It could not come soon enough. 

"Stow your weapon, Daelon." Sgt. Rayden was pulling his massive Sacris Claymore out of its scabbard on his back, his bolter mag locked to his left thigh. As one, the Astartes of 4th squad stowed their bolters and unsheathed their claymores. It would be an honor duel between the Sergeant and the beast, and the Marines of 4th squad would ensure it was not interrupted by any outsiders. 

"Sir, are you sure? A decisive strike from our undetected position would catch them off guard." Daelon was not being insubordinate. It was the Storm Warden way to debate combat actions to ensure the most effective choice had been made. Rayden, however, would not be swayed. 

"Aye, Daelon. Aye. It may do just that. But cutting the head off of a snake is the surest way to ensure the body dies, my boy." 

"But, sir-" 

"Enough. The order has been given. One day, Daelon, you will have to choose between the tactically smart decision and decisive action. Either way, Astartes will die. Our honor, however, will live on through the Chapter for eternity. Until the Primarch returns." 

"Until the Primarch returns," echoed 4th squad. Daelon, resigned to the decision of the Sergeant, gripped his claymore and followed Rayden into the belly of the beast. 

*** 

4th squad formed a fighting ring around Rayden and the Xenos monstrosity. The heretics had not taken to firing at them, instead focusing on the fight between the 4th's sergeant and the beast. It was stupid on their part, as the 1st continued to butcher them on the northern front, using the stall in the fight to gain the advantage. The Black Legion traitor Astartes had formed a ring around 4th squad as well, chainswords drawn. It was an odd stand off and it took every ounce of discipline not to crash into them and make them pay for breaking their sacred vows. 

Rayden and the beast clashed back and forth like a beautiful symphony of violence and warrior spirit. Already the beast had lost one of its arms and was spitting blood from an internal injury the sergeant had dealt. It would be over soon and Rayden's honor would be preserved. A flicker of movement caught Daelon's attention. Something was moving on the roof of the munitorium. He saw the black of their armor - the 8-pointed star. Treachery. A stalker shell left the muzzle of a bolter before Daelon could call out. It slammed into the weak spot of Rayden's armor under his right arm as he moved to make a killing swing on the Xenos. Instantly one of his hearts was destroyed and many vital organs punctured by the sniper's round. He swayed on his feet, maintaining his balance but just barely. The xenos moved quickly. With its remaining hands, it picked the 4th's Sergeant up into the air and squeezed, its massive strength issuing groans and squeaks as the ceramite between it bent and buckled. 

"Trachery!" Daelon screamed and swung his sword in a brutal two-handed sweep in front of him. The traitor Astarte's head had not yet left its shoulders as Daelon drew his bolter and emptied its magazine onto the roof of the munitorium. The sniper disappeared as twenty-eight mass reactive shells ate its ancient body into red mist and pulp. He dropped his bolter to the ground and took his sword in both hands. Around him, the 4th fought valiantly against the arch-enemies. "4th squad, kill them all!" 

He turned and ran to the honor duel. 

*** 

Rayden lay on the ground, his body broken. Even with his enhanced Astarted physiology he knew that unless he was immediately evacuated to the Strike Cruiser in low orbit, he would not survive his injury. The stalker-round had simply caused too much internal damage. The beast loomed over him. Its maw of ragged teeth forming into a rudimentary smile as its limited intellect realized it was about to feed. 

"On my honor, Xenos," Rayden weezed between wet bloody breaths, "You will die before the day is done." 

It roared and reared up onto its hind legs, ready to deal the death blow. It stopped abruptly as it crashed toward the Sergeant. Rayden's vision was going blurry, but he saw a beautiful blue armored form in front of the creature. Two hands held onto the hilt of a mighty sword that pushed into the xenos' mouth and out of the back of its head. With a wet pull, the sword flew free and arched around to connect with the creature's neck. A wash of blood and gore spewed forth as the beast's head rolled from its body. With a few muscle spasms it lie on the ground twitching as its bowels and bladder let loose. 

+++++++++++ 

Under his leadership, Daelon had taken the reigns of 4th squad sergeant and led his Marines to victory that day. Rayden had died in his arms as the 4th butchered the traitors around him to a man; his Astartes body was fighting a battle it could not win. Even with the aid of Apothecary Narfell, he had been wounded too grievously. The Marines who had been witness to the event saw Sergeant Rayden smile, his helm having been taken off by the Apothecary and place his gauntleted hand on Daelon's chest. On the private channel they had spoken to one another, with only Daelon being privileged to hear the sergeant's final words. 

*** 

Even now they were fitting the Iron Skull honors onto his battle-helm and he hardly felt worthy of it. He stood proud on the wind blown moors, snapping out of the memory of battle's fought and honor preserved. The sergeant had been slain by treachery, and his honor in single combat had been upheld by Daelon. The promotion had been unanimous and bestowed upon him by the 3rd Co. Captain, but had come with a caveat. He was to oversee the newest trials of the aspirants while his arms and armor were repaired from the previous battle. Following this, he was to be sent to take the Black where his skills, but most importantly his honor, would be put to the test in the most elite fighting force the galaxy has ever seen. When his vigil was up, he would return to the Chapter as one of its most knowledgeable fighters and the pride of the 3rd Co. 

"They are finished, sergeant Daelon." The Marine behind him, Narfell, had spoken. Daelon watched as six tribesmen walked toward their position, bloodied and tired, with their claymores in their hands. They looked hardened by battle and only now would their true trials begin. 

"They will do," said Daelon, hefting his claymore which was twice as large as the largest of the aspirants onto his back. As he spoke a black Thunderhawk gunship armed to the teeth sat down near the Storm Wardens own. "It appears my ship has come." 

The Marines flanking him spared a glance at the ship and at the tribesman kneeling in supplication before their war gods. "Sergeant," said the Apothecary, "It was an honor to serve by your side. I will see you again, in this life or at the Emperor's side." 

"Aye," said Daelon gripping the Apothecary's forearm in a warrior's embrace. "I believe you will. Marines, make me proud while I am away and I will do the same for our Chapter." 

Without a word, both Marines made the sign of the Aquila and bowed deeply to their sergeant as he made his way to the black Thunderhawk and onto glory.

[center]+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++[/center]

The Thunderhawk passed through the Void of space as it had done a thousand-thousand times before. Black as pitch, the only light it produced was a tiny glow of barely visible after-burn from its modified silent-engines. Sergeant Daelon McCallugh of the Storm Wardens sat as stoically as ever as he reflected on his last moments standing proud on the grounds of his ascension. As soon as he had watched the war bird touch down on Sacris, with its stylized "I" cut by horizontal hash marks three times and death's skull overlaid on top, he knew that nothing would be the same. No longer would he toast and deliberate battles won and yet to come with his brother Storm-Wardens in the great hall. No. The days of past glory were gone. The days of future glory were yet to come.

He did not glance back at the brothers who had accompanied him to the hallowed grounds of the training rites. He knew Apothecary Narfell was already administering the first in a long series of medical examinations that would ensure the aspirants were fully fit and ready to become initiates. He walked with pride in his modified scout armor, his Sacris claymore fit over his back in its grox-hide and flexsteel sheath. Long blonde hair was pulled back into a tight warrior's-knot that gave his yellow bearded face a more imposing look, highlighting the blue woad paint crisscrossing each of his bright emerald green eyes. 

The loading ramp on the front of the massive war-machine lowered with a mechanical groan and hiss of hydraulics. The air inside was warm and stuffy compared to the chilly sea-winds that blew over the ritual moors of Sacris. No human or servitor life awaited him inside the troop hold. Even still he smiled; this Thunderhawk had already been to the fortress monastery, for at the back of the troop hold stood his ancient suit of Mk. V "Heresy" Armor. It had been recently repaired, and the royal blue of the Storm Wardens shone like a beacon in the dark stuffy interior of the Thunderhawk. Studded shoulder pads showed his heraldry and livery, company and unit; but even still the Chapter artificers could not get the blood stains off of the left shoulder pauldron and side of the waist. It had been there as long as he could remember and would simply not clean off no matter how hard the serfs worked at it. Some part of him wished it gone, while another part was glad it remained as a constant reminder of his duty and what would happen should he fail in that duty; the blood of a battle brother was almost a moment’s weakness away from spilling. His battle-helm showed the newest addition. Daelon smiled as he approached it, noting his weapons laid out beside it on a simple stone table covered in a white linen cloth embroidered with the heraldry of the Storm Wardens and the Imperial Aquila. The weapons too had quite obviously recently come from the Fortress-Monastery's war smiths; they were in excellent shape and Daelon could feel their machine spirits practically begging for release against an enemy of Mankind. 

He turned and gave one last look at the world of his birth, fully prepared for the eventuality that he may never see it again; nor may he ever see his brothers again. The thought had barely crossed his mind as Apothecary Narfell turned to salute the gunship as it readied for its ascent off world. Arms crossed over his breast in the sign of the Aquila, both Marines shared a moment of mutual respect and brotherhood as the Thunderhawk blast doors closed. With a roar, the engines fired up and Sgt. Daelon stood like a statue as he watched Sacris grow smaller through a starboard view port. It was time to take new colors, and make new brothers. His Vigil had begun.

+++++++++++

The flight had been long and uneventful. His trip through the Void was not as bereft of life as he had first thought; upon taking off his scout armor, a team of servitors had moved into the troop hold to assist Sgt. Daelon in re-equipping his Mk. V battle plate. It had been a solemn moment. Feeling his armored body glove slip over his skin had been akin to reacquainting a longing child with their warm blanket. As the armor had begun connecting with interfaces on his black carapace, plugging into his nervous system, he felt at home again. He was back in his own skin - back in his battle plate. The ancient design of the armor had made plenty of those affiliated with the Inquisition look on brother Daelon with suspicion, but it had never failed to rally those Astartes who looked upon such a relic, regardless of Chapter of origin. The plate was as much of Daelon as any appendage, and he would be damned to the Warp if he let anyone who looked down on him for donning it affect him.

The Iron Skull honor was freshly fitted onto his battle helm, the grim steel skull staring out at him from top of the helm's forehead set in between two studs that looked like small raised horns on a ceramite and flexsteel skull. He stared at the honor long and hard. "I hope you are watching, sergeant Rayden," he said to himself. "Through this distinction I will do your memory the honor it deserves." He then picked up the helmet and donned it, feeling more than hearing the hiss as it sealed him inside the life support systems of his suit. His HUD read in a soft light blue that all systems were functional and he was one-hundred percent battle ready. 

That was exactly how he felt, inside and out: Primed for war.

From an outside perspective, he looked imposing. He was a huge figure of legend in an ancient suit of armor that very probably saw first hand the atrocities of the Horus Heresy. A soft blue glow from the optical lenses of his battle helm helped silhouette the ghastly Iron Skull honor that denoted his rank and reputation. The Mk. V plate was heavier than the newer marks and it showed, yet it did not slow him down one bit and he could, and often did, keep up with the best of the scout units in battle. His Sacris Claymore was sheathed over his right shoulder, his bolt pistol holstered on his left hip while his holy bolter was held firmly in his massive gauntlets. It was all formality, of course. Daelon knew he would have to remove all weapons and armor upon entering the Watch, but formalities had their place and he would walk into his Long Vigil looking as proud as any Astartes before him and any that came after.

The ship began to slow as lights whirred within the troop hold. They were approaching their destination. Daelon saw that the levels of static electricity had doubled inside of the troop hold, indicating that the ship had just passed through the void shield of a landing bay. The void shields were massive containment fields that kept the death-chill of space separate from the insides of a landing zone. After a few moments, the engines idled down and Daelon felt an audible thump as the Thunderhawk sat down. He had arrived.

The pilot's voice crackled over the vehicle's Vox system, "This is where you get off, Brother Sergeant. The Emperor Protects." 

"Aye," responded Daelon on his armor's external Vox, "The Emperor protects, indeed." 

With another hiss, the loading ramp door slowly made its way down to the plasteel and rockcrete floor and Daelon makes his way out of the ship and into the watch station.

***

Five Astartes made their way toward him in perfect formation, but that was to be expected. Anything less might suffice for a Guard unit, but these were the gene-children of the Emperor Himself: anything less than perfection was failure. Daelon smiled as he saw the beautiful blue and silver shield heraldry of the Storm Wardens on one of the Marines in front of him. And a Watch Captain no less. It was apparent that the bar was set high, but that mattered not to the Tactical Marine. Daelon enjoyed, no, he needed a challenge. 

As the Marines made their way to him, he remembered fondly his litany of hate. 

[i]To be cleansed, that is the fate of the Xenos.[/i]

The Librarian spoke first. A Novamarine; a solid Chapter of Astartes, steadfast in their protection and adherence to the Codex Astartes, not so much in their reverence for the Emperor as Divine. It mattered not. Daelon had fought beside them before and knew a Chapter worthy of respect when he saw one. 

"On my honor, on the honor of my Brothers and on the honor of my Chapter, before the Emperor of Mankind, I swear this Oath..." ((#1))

After his Oath had been taken, Daelon returned Brother Librarian Archilochus' salute and fell in behind Brother Octavius with Brother Gregor taking up the rear position. He had nothing to say to either of them. Now was a time to speak less and pay attention more. He had always been keen to watch and absorb before acting; now was no different. He made his way into the Apothecarum. It was as expected. The stale sterile air cut only by the burning of an incense brazier marked the room as an area of healing. Tools that looked more akin to torture devices than healing instruments lined the walls and the Gauntlet of an ancient and scarred Astartes whose plate displayed the equally proud heraldry of the Marines Errant - Brother Apothecary Haeron.

Servitors moved about and immediately began removing Daelon's armor. Even though this was an expected measure, he had to resist the urge to snap the servitors necks for touching his hallowed Mk. V battle plate. He denied them the chance to touch his battle-helm, moving to unlock the enviro-seals and speak the appropriate rites of disarming himself. The Apothecary, Haeron, instructed him where his plate was going and what was to be done to it; it reeked of insult and Daelon did his best to keep his wits about him. The way the man spoke of such things showed a disregard for the past, as though the plate [i]needed[/i] to be upgraded. 

[i]Typical Marine Errant,[/i] thought Daelon. [i]Always looking to improve their tech rather than appreciate its legacy of victory.[/i] 

"Brother Apothecary Haeron," started Daelon in a level tone. "This armor has seen battles waged while the Emperor still walked among our forefathers. Resplendent, aye, it is definitely that, but the stories it could tell would keep a dreadnaught in awe. I trust that when I see it again, it will have added yet another story to its saga." As he removed his helmet, the Iron Skull honor seemed to stare at him. The burden of its weight was his now and he would not let those that came before him down. He had a job to do here in the Deathwatch and he was eager to get started. But they would not touch his helm. He sat it down next to him with a very clear message delivered by body language only: Do Not Fething Touch. And while he knew they would inevitably take the prized helm from him as he was anesthized, it made him feel better knowing it was near him now.

Stripped of his armor and body glove, Daelon lay his naked form on the table in front of the Apothecary. Blue woad paint still covered most of his body, and even out of his armor the two and a half meter tall Marine was quite an imposing figure. He had been shot, stabbed, burned and broken before. The Narthecium of the Apothecary mattered not to this veteran of the Storm Wardens.

"Do your worst, Marine Errant," he said with a slight smile, trusting in his fortitude and strength to keep him well above par with whatever the Apothecary had in store for him. He laid completely still as the Narthecium began its grisly work. Daelon held out for a surprisingly long time, his innate toughness being something of a surprise even to the veteran Apothecary. Most recruits had gone under long, long before and Brother Haeron seemed just as curious as he did frustrated that Daelon had refused, perhaps through stubbornness alone, to give in to the mixture of drugs and pain applied to his system. He vaguely heard Brother Haeron whisper, “Let’s start with the neural reconditioning restraint,” before fading into black. ((#3))

***

Daelon awoke on his cot in nothing but a gray flight suit. It fit his form as well as it could, he supposed, with his Chapter colors emblazoned on one shoulder and a stylized "I," the same as the one on the Thunderhawk that brought him here, on the other. His brain swam with memories of fights against Xenos that he has never participated in. Names, stats, physiologies, biologies, geneologies, all ran through his head. Most importantly, weak spots and how to kill each and every species he could think of ran through simultaneously. He smiled again, knowing that he had been made a better killer; a better servant of the Emperor; a better Astartes - a god of war in the eternal battle for Mankind's rightful dominance in the galaxy.

[i]Suffer Not the Alien to Live.[/i]

Hours of hypno-indoctrination would follow, but Daelon was only excited to learn more, to become better. He rarely stayed inside of his cell. It was sparse and he required very little sleep - as did all Astartes. When he did sleep it was only for a few hours or so every few days; even this he found to be too much. Hours upon hours of hypno indoctrination, followed by physical training, combat scenarios, more physical training, and sometimes breaks for sustenance made up the norm. Daelon's routine was brutal, efficient and he absolutely loved it. This was why he was created; this is what he lived for. Every moment spent honing his mind, body and soul was an edge he would have over his enemies. It mattered not how hard he was pushed, he would not break. He was a son of Sacris; he was the Emperor's sword and light; he was a Storm Warden.

Of all the Astartes he had interacted with, Daelon felt most comfortable around Watch Captain Caeden McGarrack, for obvious reasons. The Storm Warden he had first seen upon entering the Watch Station was something of a legend when it came to training and Daelon desperately attempted to match him in feats of strength, stamina and toughness whenever he could. The Watch Captain was jovial enough and interactions had reminded Daelon of home. In a show of camaraderie, Daelon had continued to paint his face in the styles of Sacris. Perhaps one day he would have the same tattoos as Captain McGarrack, but such an honor was reserved for those who had gone above and beyond the call of duty. As the days passed, Daelon not only matched Captain Caeden in endurance and toughness, but began exceeding him.

***

“You cannot break me!” Daelon screamed at the top of his lungs, standing atop the remains of a combat servitor in a swampy marsh filled with all sorts of Xenos flora and fauna.

Movement in the bush. The shaking of a branch. Watch Captain Caeden emerged, a series of small cuts covering the left side of his face interacting in a lively display of color with the blue tattoos there. He eyed Daelon with a burning stare. He looked ready to pull his combat blade. But instead, he began laughing. The warmth and joviality of it quite out of place in the deadly environment.

“I know that, lad!” He wiped some sweat from his brow and approached the sergeant from his home Chapter. “I knew it the moment I saw you walk off of that war bird. Your colors, the shield, the blue and the gray – they cannot be broken. We are the shield in the night.”

“Aye, the Storm Wardens hold watch over the places most of the Imperium do not know exist. The outer edges.” Daelon was confident in his Chapter’s history and legacy, even if the Imperium at large was not.

“No. You misunderstand.” Caeden pressed a hard finger against the stylized “I” on Daelon’s right shoulder. “We are the shield in the night. The Deathwatch fights against those that cannot be named. You will be tested, brother-sergeant. You will face things that no amount of training can prepare you for. You must be prepared here,” he said while pointing to Daelon’s primary heart. “You will be forced to make sacrifices, lad. You will be forced to make the hard decisions. Your word, your past will mean nothing. I have high hopes for you.”

Daelon had not responded. He pushed it into the back of his psyche and continued pushing himself beyond the limits of physicality.

Brutal runs through the harshest training environments – deadly jungles coated with toxins, brutal deserts with burning sands, harsh tundras of living snow hell bent on murdering whatever crossed over it – stopped being unanimously victories attributed to Caeden. More often than not Daelon would find himself toughing through training regimens that Caeden had hand crafted to break Astartes. Daelon had never felt more confident in his mission. He was at the apex of his training and battle-effectiveness.

+++++++++++ 

It was in a rare moment of meditation and reflection that the Serf came and retrieved Daelon. A slight tapping on his chamber door followed by a data slate with orders on it was the only announcement he received that his training was nigh at an end.

He made his way into the training grounds. It was a familiar place now and the walk took him all but five minutes. He was handed a combat blade and his mission was clear: eliminate all enemy threats. There was no middle ground. He was a member of the Deathwatch and he would eliminate any and all Xenos put before him.

[i]You will be tested. You will be forced to make the hard decisions.[/i]

Captain Caeden’s words ran through his head, and while he knew he had to focus on the mission at hand, they nagged at him. Surely now he would be tested, but the choice between ridding the galaxy of a hostile xenos and living to fight alongside his brothers once more was not even a choice at all.

The training ground was pitch black. Night cycle. [i]No matter. Eliminate your enemies.[/i] He began the hunt. He had barely moved two hundred meters over lightly hilled terrain before he heard it. A sound he was used to, having survived thousands of battles, but not one he was expecting.

Weeping.

Crossing a small hill, flat on his stomach, his blade covered in dirt to not reflect any light, he spotted the source. Ten men huddled together near a small fire. All wore fatigues of some sort and were lightly armed with knives and batons, with one obvious leader armed with a pistol and blade. He stood with pride while the others huddled and attempted to get warm. Daelon watched them for a long time, unsure how to proceed. Surely, this was a xenos trick. Body morphing? Shape shifting? He knew some species of xenos were capable of replicating human movements and sounds, some could even mimic bodies and faces. He crept closer, keeping his body to the ground and his sound signature to an absolute minimum. He could not help shake the sinking feeling inside his gut.

These are not Xenos. [i]No…[/i]

The Storm Wardens Sergeant crawled off of his stomach and stood tall, only four meters away from the group. “Explain this!” he yelled in a booming voice, at once demanding answers from those in front of him and those undeniably watching his performance from afar. The men themselves looked terrified. Most stumbled over looking toward the source of the outburst, while a few remained huddled near the fire unmoving. For his part, the leader covered his shock with hardened resolve, drawing his pistol and taking a bead on the source of the noise, his vision no doubt having been ruined by the fire.

“Please,” said the leader, “If you have come here to kill us, take us while we fight.”

Daelon did not move. “Who are you?”

“Captain Commissar Ariean Krall, 23rd Newbia Lances, Orpheus Salient, Achillus Crusade. Who am I address-”

“Enough!” Frustration cut through him like a knife. What treachery was this? Was killing these men the test? These were not simply humans, these were the Emperor’s own warriors. They were Guardsmen of the Achillus Crusade.

Silence followed and seconds felt like eons. 

“Daelon,” a voice boomed throughout the training grounds. Immediately recognizing it, the confused Sergeant addressed it.

“Caeden, what is the meaning of this?”

“You know your mission. Will you not fulfill it?”

“Murdering servants of the Emperor? These are Guardsmen loyal to the God Emperor of Mankind in service to the Achillus Crusade! What game are you playing at? What game is the Deathwatch playing at? Storm Wardens do not do this.” Daelon gripped the combat blade in his hand so hard that his knuckles went white. The thought of betraying Oaths given upon his ascension boiled up inside of him so hard that it made him want to lash out. Hushed murmurs passed between the group of men at the mention of an Astartes Chapter.

“Brother Sergeant, these men are loyal servants to the Emperor, yes. These men, however, were in direct contact with a Xenos Warp Entity of classified name and origin; security level Vermillion. The Deathwatch Kill Team sent to deal with the threat all but perished in vanquishing it. The nature of the threat is of such classification that normally these men would have been mind wiped or executed on the spot to contain the breach in protocol… I am afraid their contact with the creature has left them beyond salvation. This is your mission, sergeant.”

Daelon sat in silence, fury building in his chest. Was this betrayal? Was this the murder of an ally? If they were exposed to the Warp, perhaps this was the best solution.

“My Lord,” a voice spoke out barely above a whisper in High Gothic. “What the voice says is true. We saw that beast… and… it shook us to the core.” He spoke elegantly, and no doubt his men could not understand his dialect. “Some of the men will never recover. I will never recover. Please, my Lord Astartes, give us a warrior’s death.”

Daelon faltered. This was not a battle with physical consequence. These men had no hope of overpowering an Astartes, regardless of whether or not he was armed or armored. This was a culling. He heard a click. Faint. Almost imperceptive. The safety catch on the pistol was being released.

“Don’t,” said Daelon, taking a step closer. 

“I have no choice, my Lord. If you will not initiate this, I will.” Daelon could see the miniscule movement of muscles in the Commisar’s finger. He was going to fire. 

“Wai-“ a rush of movement from one of the men almost caught him off guard. One of the few huddling and shaking near the fire rushed him with a club. The look in his eyes showed anything but sanity. He was gone. The combat blade sunk into his heart easily, the mono-edge slicing through the chest plate like it was made of paper. 

Chaos erupted. Men were charging him, shots were being fired. Nothing connected with him. The Sergeant was a blur of movement. He was the leader of a fatal dance, the culmination of decades of service and warfare. The Guardsmen of the 23rd Newbia never stood a chance. 

“Fight with honor! Fight with courage! For today, we are sent to Him on High by one of his chosen! Today is the greatest day of our lives!” The Commissar screamed over the din of battle, rallying his men to greater feats of courage, but it mattered not. As the men fell like wheat before the scythe, the Commissar pulled his sword in his free hand and advanced. He had a grim determination in his eye; he knew he would meet his end on this field of battle, and he had not let the fear of death ruin his steadfast resolve.

***

Captain Commissar Aerian Krall died last. He died proud, fighting like a man without fear, but still only a man against a god of war.

Daelon laid them out on the ground next to one another, taking the time to lay their arms across their chests in the sign of the Aquila, weapons next to their bodies. He took exception to the Captain COmmissar, laying both the Commissar's sword and his Astartes combat blade next to one another under the man's folded arms. He exited the training halls without a word and made his way back to his cell. He had nothing to say to anyone. 

Cracked rockcrete and blood from his fists was all that remained of the northern wall of his cell. ((#5))