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Castellan Scaro was dead to begin with.

Even as Chaplain Sibrand placed a weary hand over the breastplate of the battered armour, lowering it momentarily onto the inactive power armour before quickly removing it once more, he could not truly believe that the scarred old veteran was dead; it had been a most ignoble death, hissing shrapnel from a rudimentary canister - fired from a traitor cannon no less - had caught the Castellan where the helmet seal met the armour of his torso. Truly it was no way for a warrior of the God-Emperor to go but, as he stood there and moved his fingers over the chains wrapped about his vambraces, he could not help but believe that the Emperor had thought it time to call one of his chosen sons back to his side. 

Even now Isidor Scaro would be standing at attention beside the golden throne, his spirit with the Master of Mankind now and forever more.

For nearly a week now he had lain there in stasis, his pale face looking to the chapel-halls ceiling one - of the largest chambers aboard the [i]Warspite[/i] - with the Tyranid acid-burn marks he had received almost five centuries ago only standing out in even starker contrast to the otherwise serene expression of the deceased warrior-monk.

The notes and lyrics of a muted choral group drifted through the air of the candlelit hall, the powered lights dimmed to the minimum, litanies of devotion, mourning and praise to the Emperor adding an edge of sombreness that went against the usual furore and fanatical fury of the Templars fiery character.

[i]I shall miss you, old friend.[/i] Thought the Chaplain silently, recollecting the events of the last week in particular, the time that had seen Scaro fall sick from some warp-driven infection within his wound and now saw Sibrand as arguably the leader of what was left of Fighting Company Scaro.

In that time until the present moment they had been making their way back to deeper Imperial space, seeking to rendezvous with the primary fleet of the Anhur Sector Crusade, wishing to resupply and to return the body of their Castellan for a proper burial at a Templars stronghold closer to Terra. As it was, they had made a warp-jump that should have taken them to within a close distance of the Crusade fleet, instead being caught up in a sudden and unforeseen warp-storm with barely enough time to raise the Gellar Field.

For what seemed like but a moment they were tossed about as a ship upon a stormy sea, only to emerge - more like 'thrown back into' - realspace with minimal damage to the [i]Warspite[/i] and no daemonic incursions to speak of; what concerned the Navigator and therefore the Chaplain was that their chronometer was outwardly acting most strangely and even producing false readings.

[i]167.M42?[/i]

No, that was [b]at least[/b] a century - nay it was more! - since they had translated into the warp...yet time moved oddly in the warp, all Astartes knew, and it [b]was[/b] said that time moved both backward and forward within it.

For days now they had been at anchor, immovable and still in the blackness of space, a small leviathan floating in nothingness and without direction, all so they could come to grips with their bearings.

"What is that?!" Sibrand had demanded upon seeing the sickly scar running through space, his Navigator eyeing it nervously before informing him that it was a literal tear in the fabric of the galaxy, "and how far does it go?" From one end of the galaxy to the other had been the reply.

Out of time and space, and lacking any idea of their exact location, Brother-Chaplain Sibrand had been forced to convene a council of his personal 'retinue' - Squad Sibrand as it were - made up of those among the Company he believed could serve it most.

Taking one lingering look at the Castellan once more, he made the sign of the Aquila across his chest and left.


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Like some black-armoured crab hunched over the holo-projector installed on the bridge of the venerable Vanguard-class Cruiser, the complete vessel outfitted to complete their missions of long-range combat without the need for more centralised aid - hence the more advanced exploratory instruments and sensors - Sibrand allowed a hiss of air to escape from between his lips. 

With his skull-faced helmet mag-locked to his waist his features were clearly visible, a sight that not even his Brothers got to see all that often, his close-cropped hair once jet black in colour but greying at the temples now, two piercing blue eyes glaring at the projectors readings beneath furrowed brows. His bone structure - well formed cheeks, an aquiline nose, and a sharp chin - all pointed to an origin of patrician standing, but it was something he would never tell a soul upon pain of death.

"We have been able to determine that we are in a sub-sector of the Segementum Obscurus," lisped the parchment-thin voice of the ships Navigator, Eliseo Japheth, his wrinkled and visibly aged face turned away from the Chaplain to peer across the ships bridge - all of the human serfs ignoring their overlords, as was most wise to do at this moment, while continuing like a colony of ants - "possibly Sub-Sector Besepholus, if that is any help."

"In all honesty, revered Navigator," replied the rumbling voice of the Chaplain, "it is not."

Idle chit-chat was not something either indulged in, neither the Astartes nor the hooded Navigator, and so the two sunk back into an easy silence between themselves as they awaited the arrival of the those that Sibrand felt worthy enough to call members of his inner circle.