[b]Sun and Steel[/b] 001.M31 Council Grounds [i]“Being a Transcription, Accurate & True, of the Meeting of the Masters of the 10th and 17th Legiones Astartes” - Remembrancer Archives, M.31 “Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say that we devise their misery. But they themselves- in their depravity- design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.” - Assigned to a pre-M1 Terran remembrancer, identity unknown.[/i] As the events of the Council wore on, Arnulf Wode, Lancer Primus of the 10th Legion, Primarch, Gene-sire, and other titles he had yet gotten used to, found himself returning to the sparring chambers of the Council buildings more and more. He wore no armor, not even so much as a refractor field. He was dressed in… well. His old tanker fatigues. The same rumpled boilersuit he’d worn during those twenty years of unification on Salient, obviously cleaned and pressed since then. It reminded him of simpler times, which is why he wore it when he was not at official business. Something about the inactive hum of the idling trainer servitors helped him think, and quiet time for thinking had been at such a premium in the last few years. It hadn’t been hard to pinpoint where his internal disquiet came from - like all things in this new life he’d found, it had started during that run across the Southern Wastes that ultimately put him back into his father’s graces. When Arnie Wode the soldier became Arnulf Wode the conqueror. He sighed, picking up a laughably primitive weapon from the wall, a stout wooden club topped by a sharpened steel spike. He turned it in his hands, his fingers running over a switch. He pressed it, and the steel cap of the weapon erupted in brilliant blue light. Well. Maybe not so laughably primitive after all. That was another thing he’d have to get used to. Imperial war was so much more brutal, so much more up close than the sweeping actions of the Salient deserts. Even now, twenty years after that run across the Wastes, he could still see the yellow-armored form of the pre-Pact Lightnings butchering his human soldiers, their fists gripping hammers and chain-swords and bolt pistols turned so the grip could be used as a club, still see the explosive gouts of viscera as transhuman strength met human frailty at arm’s length. He turned the power-goedendag off, and hung it back on its rack, clasping his hands behind his back and walking the length of the room, his thoughts adrift as he inspected each of the master-crafted wonders that hung about the chambers. Close to dying from boredom, the master of the Seventeenth Legion stalked through the halls of the Council building with a small train of specialists in tow. A number of logisticians spoke in hushed tones of supplies and reinforcements, a gaggle of hooded adepts of the Mechanicum blared their cant at as low a level as their synthesizers and casters allowed, and even some of her very own daughters, Company Commanders all of them, talked quietly of training regimes and Neophyte readiness. All of it was far too loud for the Primarch’s enhanced senses. All of it filled her mind with dizzying sets of data and lists, compounded by the fact she was needlessly translating the techpriest’s static bursts and adding their wealth to the monotony in her head. As if by some divine intervention she saw her escape appear before her. So sudden was her stop that one of the hooded techpriests walked directly into her, his meager form rebounding off the armored form of the Primarch and falling to the ground with an inhuman burst of static. Paying no heed to the adept Nelchitl found a smile growing on her face as she peered into what she had thought was an empty sparring room. As she turned to enter the chamber, her Captains took to her flanks and made it clear the others were not to follow as a single Astartes posted themself in the path of the rest of the entourage. “The Liberator of Salient,” Nelchitl spoke excitedly as she came down the steps into the chamber and made her way to the racks of weapons arrayed for anyone's use, “the People’s Hero.” she exclaimed almost mockingly to him with a hand up in his direction as she ran the other across the top of a masterfully crafted power sword. “You have saved me from the monotony of my lesser duties. For this I am grateful.” she hefted a sizable power hammer in a single hand, feeling it’s balance and weight as she swung it easily around herself. “Liberator. More like the euthanist of Salient.” Wode said, pursing his lips at a weapon that resembled nothing so much like a coil of several steel whips. “That world was sick.” He looked away from his ponderings to regard the newcomer to his makeshift fortress of solitude, his face lighting up in recognition. “Saints and Martyrs, that’s not my sister I see, is it? And divorced of your entourage, how’d you manage it? I’ve been trying to actually -talk- to any of my new siblings this whole bloody council, but I never could get close to any of them.” Wode strode across the deck, stopping just out of range of any practice swings Nelchitl might choose to make. He stuck out his hand. “Arnie Wode. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, N… Nelchitl.” He butchered her name, admittedly. The Serpents had names unlike anything the 10th’s master had ever pronounced before. “Many planets require the Imperium to adjust them, lest they stray from our Father’s path.” she responded to her Brothers musings on his title. She continued her small swings of the hammer, each one tighter and faster than the last as she came to regard its nature. Smiling she turned to regard Wode as he approached, near as tall as her and built like the famous tanks he so dearly loved. She grinned and shrugged as he continued to muse, “I have been busy for sure, the Crusade continues beyond Nikaea. Though,” her grin grew wider as she inclined her head to Wode, “I did manage to have a short exchange with our dear brother Micholi.” she finished with a laugh before her eyes set on Wode like a predator on prey. “Sister is fine.” she added as she hefted the power hammer towards his outstretched hand. Not waiting to see if the Primarch of the Tenth would catch it she spun in place, grabbing up the power sword from earlier and igniting its thrumming energy field. As she finished her spin she brought the weapon around in a simple killing blow toward her new brother. For a fraction of a second, Wode stood with the hammer in his hand, resembling more a carpenter than a warrior as the sword hissed through the air towards him. However, a primarch is a primarch, and his reflexes did save him what his instincts told him was a fatal blow. He lept backwards, dropping the hammer as he did so, the weapon leaving a dent in the plasteel plating of the floor as he skidded backwards. Wheeling his arms for balance, he snapped to his right, looking for something that’d give him a better chance against a sword. He was no expert, but someone like Nel could clearly cut him to ribbons before he’d even indexed the hammer for a swing. He grabbed a longer blade, single edged, with no guard. He lit the power field, face locked in a feral grimace. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” He snarled, “Did handshakes go out of fashion in the Long Fucking Night or something?” He charged forward, intent on meeting her, even if he was unsure he could win. He held his warbrand over his head in a telegraphed blow that an expert could surely dodge, but one that would no doubt be cataclysmic if it landed. If Nel let him, he would cut her in two. Nelchitl’s eyes lit up as Wode dodged away, the hammer falling to the floor as her brother dropped it in favor of a better weapon to take on her own sword. “What better way to introduce ourselves than this?” she exclaimed proudly as she slid out from under Wode’s falling blade while her own came up to meet it at an angle. Sparks lit the room in blues as the competing energy fields slid off one another in a wild display of arcing energies. “Tell me Brother,” she brought the sword back out in a quick stab as she spoke, “tell me of you! Of your legion and their accolades!” she laughed as she pressed her assault. Accolades could wait for a split second, Wode thought deliriously. He wrenched his blade around, clumsily deflecting the stab a little too low on the guardless blade, several of the leather wraps surrounding the grip falling to the floor. “I’m Wode, I’m a soldier, and my legion are soldiers!” He bellowed, transitioning his blade to a single handed grip and swinging it front of him at waist level, hoping to drive her back. The power field made a beautiful arc in the air, thrumming as the ionizing field swooshed through the space between them. You could really fall in love with a sight like that, Wode thought, before he spoke again. “Accolades are for parades, for liberty, and boxes consigned to attics! The only thing that goddamn matters is winning!” Nelchitl smirked as her strike came up only just short, singed leather straps dropping to the floor as they continued to dance around one another. “We’re all soldiers Brother!” she jumped back from his swing, “but tell me of the kind of soldiers you lead!” she pushed her question further. In a flash she brought her own sword to bear once more, the weapon reaching out toward Wode in a shallow slash. “My Daughters are magnificent, they crave the field of battle!” she continued as their weapons flashed, “They do not want accolades, but I give them anyway, for how else do I keep tally of their deeds? How else do I show that I recognize their excellence?” she questioned. Her slash met steel, Wode blocking the blow, notching his own blade. The impact was so strong it kicked up a circle of dust, the hammer-blow of it rattling the other weapons in their wall-racks. Even the idling servitors nearby briefly woke up from the dispersed kinetic force, querying the room with a menu of training regimens, but the two superhumans locked in seemingly mortal struggle took no notice. Joints popped. Veins stuck out in Wode’s head, his teeth gritted so hard he thought surely one would crack. He met Nel’s gaze with his own, eyes locked, teeth bared, but something in his head changed. He laughed. “My men, human and Astartes, ain’t glamorous. They’re tank men.” He spat, “They operate machines. And they don’t do much beyond that, but they’re the best in the goddamned galaxy. A hundred of them on their rides could take on anything, and I’d bet my life on it.” He leaned forward, butting his forehead against Nel’s, pushing with everything his body had to keep from folding like a cheap table. “And I have bet my life on it. They’d follow me into hell and I’d lead them there.” “Outstanding.” Nelchitl stated simply as their swords met, the space between them shortened to a far more intimate embrace of the demigods’ dance. Energy fields sparking as the two strained against one another, Nelchitl gave her brother a grin as he cracked his head against her own, a small mark growing on her skin just a moment later. “I appreciate a good tank.” she spoke to him far softer than before, “I’ve seen destruction in this life, from the God Machines of Mars, and the most lowly mortal. Though the venerable super heavies have always held a spot in my chest.” she pushed back into his sword as she spoke before her eyes went wide. Suddenly, he reared back, breaking forehead contact with his sister. Then, he brought his head forward again, so fast he could hear air whistle in his ears, a rhinoceros striking with it’s horn, a hippo trying to smash the lion that hunted it into the old Afrik plains. Wode moved faster than she’d expected him capable of, his head smashing into hers with a resounding crack so loud it drew the attention of all outside the chamber. Her own Captains turned to regard the hit as they allowed the entourage to flow past them in a moment of awe. Nelchitl slid away from her Brother, a hand clutching her forehead as she steadied herself against the floor with the other. She wiped a smear of blood from her cracked forehead, swiping it up with her tongue before she rose cackling, “You’re far more interesting than Micholi.” she mused. Far more cautious, she began to circle Wode. The sword spinning idly in her hand as she passed a rack of weapons and took up a second power sword. Rolling both shoulders she regarded the Primarch before her, “If one's own genes refused to follow them into hell, would they even be worthy of the title of Primarch?” she asked before rushing back at Wode, both swords coming at him in a scissoring blow. When Wode broke from their embrace, he came off far worse. The headbutt had mashed his nose, cut his scalp, and broke a tooth. It seemed everything on his head throbbed with dull pain, and he kept spitting gouts of rich, red blood onto the dented plasteel deck. He held his Faussart up in an unsteady guard, trying to track his whipcord-fast sister as she fell upon him with a blade in each hand. In less than a second, the clash was decided. He’d play this combat out the rest of his life, marveling at how fast he’d moved and how it still hadn’t been enough. He’d batted one sword aside, but, the warbrand, no primarch’s weapon, shattered as he did so. The other blade, devoid of a weapon to block it, shot towards him, the other blade of the scissor he was caught in. Lacking any other recourse, he caught the blade with his hand, groaning, then screaming with pain as the power field burned, cut through the thick skin of his palms, but he held it, arms shaking with fatigue even in one such as him. The blade was an inch from his head. He could see the patterning of the steel, up close, in micron-scope level detail. “I may be interesting, but I’m out of tricks.” He said, his voice shaky, “I think… I think you got me.” The room quickly filled with the smell of roasting flesh, a nauseating smell to even hardened soldiers, but Wode held the blade, not willing to surrender it fully until he was sure his sister wouldn’t strike his head from his shoulders. Her brothers block breaking his own weapon and sending one of hers spinning across the chamber Nelchitl pressed in with the second. With a fervor beyond that she had shown through the entire spar, Nelchitl smiled at Wode as he caught the blade in his hand, energy field and all stopped by the superhuman physiology they had been gifted by Him. The Emerald Priestess extinguished the energy field as a collective gasp went up through her entourage as they only now registered what had nearly taken place before their eyes. With a swift pull she brought the sword back out of Wode’s grip, cutting further as she did before she brought it to her own palm. With a simple motion she cut her own palm, as deep and as completely as Wode’s had been, the energy field igniting once more as she did and then tossing it aside. “You are more than interesting my Brother.” she beamed as she brought her hand up to shake his equally mutilated hand. Wode grinned, the slightly silly, punch-drunk smile of a boxer beaten senseless over twelve rounds. He clasped his Sister’s hand, the blood mingling, the Pact sealed. “And you’re crazier than a Salient merchant prince, Sister, but you’re my blood. I love you, you crazy bitch.” Nelchitl cocked her head in confusion as their hands clasped, “It is not possible for me to be a Prince Wode, I am not a man.” she retorted before pulling Wode in and clapping her free hand across his back, “My blood and my daughters would be honored to fight with you and yours.” she added as she broke the embrace. As the embrace broke, Wode laughed. “Sorry, I can’t see all that well through the blood. If your Daughters fight half as well as you, then I want yours on the flanks of my battle line, every time.” As if to prove a point to Wode, a large crash suddenly broke the moment as one of the chamber's servitors skid across the floor in shattered pieces. Gurgling oils and speaking in broken strings of random words, jittering as it died slowly. “I apologize, Lords.” one of Nelchitl’s Serpents spoke as they leaned down to collect the shards of Wode’s broken warbrand. “It was going to recycle the fragments… For the trophy hall Lords, a most honorable duel, worthy of the annals of history.” they added as they bowed and retreated from the floor. Nelchitl smiled at her daughter as only a mother does at a child who, though their intentions were good, had mistimed their actions, “Of course Captain.” “Keep it. Of course.” Wode said to the Serpent, helping her pick up the shards of steel. When he’d picked up all the pieces he could see, he deposited them in the hands of the smaller Astartes with as much reverence as he could summon, despite looking like he’d been hit by a Cargo-12. He dusted his hands off, looking at the destruction they’d caused. “I think I’ll get another blade like that one. I liked it.” He looked to the stricken servitor, then to his Sister. “Don’t you dare ask me for a round two. I’m gonna be feeling this for weeks.” Nelchitl watched as Wode helped pick up the shards of the sword, and felt another form of respect growing for him as he finished. “Whenever you think you’re able again, I’m always available for a spar with a sibling.” she joked. “Oh sure, I think I’ll be ready in say…” Wode mimed thinking, “M.41. Sure, that sounds nice. Give me a solid ten thousand years and I might be ready for another go.” “In ten thousand years.” Nelchitl agreed, the warmth of her new found camaraderie painting her face.