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“I do not like it,” came the bass-tone words of the first gigantic figure, coming from the one half of his mouth that actually moved, just one of the pair of veterans currently stalking the halls of Watch Station Nemesianus.

“You like very little, Brother-Chaplain, or so I have discovered after so many centuries of serving alongside you.”

“Brother-Captain Acacius,” snorted the ruin-faced Astartes, “only you could walk away from such a remark with your life – you know precisely what I mean.”

“I understand perfectly.”

This second warrior-giant was the perfect vision of humanity, if spread a little too broadly across a transhuman skull, his curling blonde locks matched by a face that could have been chiselled from marble – a face that had become commonplace to see across the galaxy over the last half-millennia or so.

In a brief flicker of one of the wall brackets was illuminated a white 'U' set upon a blue background, the bearer a proud son of the returned Lord Protector and Regent of Terra; the other could be identified by the wise as a son of stalwart Dorn, if they knew what to look for.

“You share the same fears as myself, Teliomedes – you fear that these 'Primaris', the work of my great father and Archmagos Cawl, possibly agreeing with many in our organisation that they are inexperienced warriors...abominations even.”

“I made so such claim!” Snapped the Chaplain sharply, his brow furrowing in annoyance, “it is not my place to criticise the Lord Protector and his works.”

“Calm yourself, I was simply voicing commonly held concerns,” one gauntlet moved up to place itself on Teliomedes' shoulder plate, a sigh coming from between overly large but otherwise perfect lips, “there are to be few of them, all taken from the Unnumbered Sons – a force that has already seen action with the Primarch – and I believe they shall prove themselves in time.”

“Let us hope so, brother.”

“So, shall we introduce ourselves?”

The door to the stations hangar loomed ahead, heavyset servitors moving to open them ahead of the pair, revealing the hangar beyond.
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Brother Uriel Kelmorian, that was his name. It was millennia ago, it was when he awoke by the hand of the Archmagos, when he joined the Black Templars and it was now. Truth be told it sometimes confounded him how someone psycho-conditioned as extensively as he found difficulty in retaining identity after all his... surreal experiences. Indeed a Marine had little identity and need of one to begin with, but forgetting the past was not something he could so readily do.

When he was told he would be joining the Black Templars he was simply told they were Sons of Dorn embodying his heroism, his self-sacrifice, his fury, a Chapter that retained massive size almost in memory of the Great Crusade. It seemed more... romantic, as archaic and mortal of a word as that was. But he was not quite prepared for the full extent of what he came up against. Unlike many of the unnumbered Sons he grimly accepted the fact that mortals now venerated the Emperor as divine, but that Astartes, of his own Gene-Sire no less could succumb to such? It was the unthinkable incarnate. On his first day as an integrated Chaplain of the Black Templars he was scrutinized with much suspicion and confusion for he was after all a new breed of Marine, the next step in the evolution of the Emperor's Angels. That was natural and expected — things he had prepared for. Yet when he was expected to recite litanies directly referring to the Emperor as a God, as a Holy Father? That was wholly different. He obeyed naturally, for he could in truth do nothing against it. But he despised the state of affairs, he hated it!

Especially the fact he was slowly beginning to lend authenticity to their Prayers.

But a chance came up. The Deathwatch needed more warriors, and he was an excellent specimen. Uriel was a Chaplain and naturally a good orator, but when compared to other Chaplains he always stated that his prowess was not in his speech but in his ability to maintain it in combat, the true calling of any Marine. So he was selected as one for the Deathwatch, for it was known the furor and particular brand of zeal that other Chaplains of the Chapter would provide did not always go so well with comrades in the Deathwatch. For Uriel the honour of the Deathwatch was in truth inconsequential, he had fought the lion's share of his battles before it existed and thus he did not have the hallowed image of it ingrained into him. Instead he saw it as an opportunity to again fight with his former Greyshield comrades, and perhaps he could even once more stand alongside more... conventional Sons of Dorn.
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Hidden 11 mos ago Post by Ollumhammersong
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Randuin knelt in silent prayer to the Emperor of mankind. Before a humble altar to his glory, represented by a bronze Aquila wreathed in a halo of candle fire. His armour stood stark contrast, being painted in a deep sable black, mostly devoid of gilded decorations and bright metals other than polished steel. His bare head giving away his parentage. Skin paler than most brothers around him and short mohawk strip of hair as black as his armour, and his eyes for that matter. He was a son of the great lord Corax, proud to bear his blood and share his legacy. His mighty rifle stood upright in his grip, it's butt resting on the ground and his muzzel pointed skyward and it's magazine removed respectfully before this incarnation of Imperial majesty. Here Randuin knelt and prayed along with several other brothers as he was bidden to do before his taking of the watch oath. To offer his revered thanks before the mighty ruler of mankind for permitting him to accept such an gloried undertaking as a member of the Deathwatch.

At least.... that is what he should have been doing. Randuin didn't understand the purpose of prayer. Granted he didn't remember much about his boyhood from the time before his long slumber. He could not even recount the year it was he was taken by father Cawl to undergo his current Apotheosis. In truth he barely remembered his world but he was certain that whatever it was like, it was very much different to how it was today. If it even still existed.

What the Coraxian marine didn't understand was prayer, He never prayed to the Emperor as a boy that much was certain. He knew of him certainly and was awed by him as one would be awed by their most idolized hero, but he was no god. As far as he could tell most astartes did not believe he was a god either, so.... why did they continue to offer prayers? It was not as if the Emperor on his Throne far away could hear any of them. To bow and kneel before his likeness was something Randuin was only too happy to do. To pay homage as a warrior would before his liege, and reflect on the nature of his glories achieved and his glories to come. But talking to a comatose man half a galaxy away made less than no sense to him.

Still it was, as was said by a now dead greyshield brother, 'An unstable subject' in this day and age. And he knew that he still very much had something to prove to the existing stock of astartes officers and masters. So not wanting to ruffle any feathers he knelt, quietly observing his 'prayer' whenever it was required of him though never actually speaking anything aloud.

Here he knelt, waiting and waiting to be given leave to rise again and bring this foolish observance to an end.
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Among the other Deathwatch members, cloaked in black stood Brother-Sergeant Tyros Maxim - he wasn't in prayer before a bronze aquila nor was he attempting to comprehend the existence of why he was here. The only thing identifying his 'former' Chapter was the symbol of a green dragon his shoulder. Although even that was open to debate - as one of the Primaris Marines, he had been far older than some of those serving in the Salamanders Astartes Chapter.

They had locked away thousands of men like him, those whom had been augmented beyond even the capabilities of the legendary Space Marines. Their past eons ago, that it might as well have been a time of myth by now. But they now stood as the newly forged blade, ready to cut down the enemies of Man. They in particular, had been serving in the many numerous Chapters that had been desperately needing reinforcements.

Tyros had been delegated to the Salamanders, as Sergeant in a Tactical Squad. Whereas the regular Space Marine made any human seem like a mere insect, a Primaris did so for the Astartes. He hadn't been there long, since it hadn't been long before Deathwatch had needed replenishment and he had been one of those picked from the Salamanders - but he had been there enough to pick-up certain...quirks that had been common for that Chapter.

Namely, he had been taught how to handle his war-gear on his own, without requiring the aid of Tech-priest or Techmarine. As the Salamanders had taught, any Marine could be stranded, any weapon could break on the field and any armor could be pierced in heat of battle. For an Astartes to be beyond that of mortal men, he would need to know both his body, mind and arms to be an effective shield and sword for the Emperor. Thus, compared to others - he was currently making sure that his bolter was in working condition and checking it for any defects or damage. Almost like his own ritual and prayer - except this was for the lord of practicality.
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For the seventh time in as many minutes one huge digit moved to place itself upon the insectoid head painted onto the right pauldron, the single finger of Brother Yijun Mah tracing the outline of the glaring mantid, while his eyes - narrowed in thought behind his skeletal visor - may have been looking into the depths of the hangar bay but, honestly, looked at nothing.

While Randuin lent his prayers to the ether, and Tyros checked his weapons in the thorough manner expected of all Astartes, the Reiver had his thoughts turned more in the direction of the Chaplain among them. To the past, to what had come before.

He had been awoken some ten-thousand years after being taken from the windswept plains of his home world, the forces of the Ruinous Powers being pushed back by the likes of Dorn, Russ and his own gene-sire, the Khan; after awakening he was clad in the pristine white ceramite of the White Scars and driven into war with the others that would come to be known as the Unnumbered Sons, his pauldron bearing the grey chevrons and his blood as pure and undiluted as it was possible for a Marines to be.

Upon the 'breaking' of the Sons he believed he was destined for the ranks of the Scars - or at the very least the all-Primaris Chapter known as the Storm Reapers - carrying within him the genetic coding and warrior spirit of Chogoris. It did not matter to him that he had neither seen the planet, its inhabitants, or even fought beside true Scars before, he knew fate would not see him wrong...

...but it did.

"Mantis," he muttered inside his helmet.

Guilliman, Son of the Emperor and Lord-Protector of the Imperium, sent him to join an accursed and shameful Chapter that was below even company strength due to their stained past.

The Mantis Warriors.

Little-to-nothing was known about this enigmatic and shrunken Chapter (at least not in the records he had been able to study prior to assignment), his only joy being the large number of fellow Primaris accompanying him.

Truly it appeared that they would be this Chapters salvation!

What short time he had spent with the Mantis Warriors had shown him many things, not least of all the steel-strong bond between them and the Deathwatch, the very reason that he now sat on a crate within a hangar in an out-of-the-way Watch Station manned by none other than the Ordo Xenos and their black-armoured allies.

"For the Emperor...for Redemption...for the Mantis Warriors!"

He could still not even think the words without a sense of unearned shame crawling over him...and he had no idea why.




@Ollumhammersong@Andreyich@NecroKnight

"Two Intercessors, a Reiver and a brother Chaplain," growled Teliomedes through gritted teeth, his one organic grey eye and artificial replacement both glancing over these newest sacrifices to the Watch, "at least they painted their armour the correct colour."

Brother-Captain Acacius allowed the tactless demagogue his small outburst, coming to stand before the clutch of Primaris Marines and marvelling once more at the works of the Arch Magos and his sire; having fought alongside the new breed of Astartes before - which Ultramarine had not? - he did not find them as curious or damnable as one such as Teliomedes may do, nevertheless he gestured for them to abandon what they were doing and form up before him.

"Welcome to Watch Station Nemesianus, brothers," announced the Ultramarine almost jovially, "I am Captain Acacius of the Ultramarines, and this is Chaplain Teliomedes formerly of the Imperial Fists. We welcome you as new recruits and new kinsmen, and hope that your acclimatisation shall be swift and without incident."

Footsteps, easily heard even over the movement of slack-faced servitors around them, approached and presented a third figure in the black of the Deathwatch. This newcomer was clearly of the Primaris type, at least a head if not more above the two veterans he came to stand beside, his head covered by his helmet but his Chapters pauldron showing the familiar marking of the Raven Guard but on a white background.

"I am Veteran Brother Ayuri, and you," he gave them all a moment to dress their line and such, "are now Kill-team Ayuri, until I die or it is said otherwise."

Acacius gave a curt nod to the larger Marine and spoke again, his voice soft but hiding within it an adamant core, "before you are all subjected to the training required before you may become fully-fledged brothers of the Watch, you may ask any questions that play on your minds and they shall be answered as best they can be."
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There had been no questions, and so there had been no need to hold back the newcomers from further training - training which would be much more familiar to them than it would have been to any actively serving members of non-Primaris stock.

They were shown their chambers first, simply furnished but housing all that they may need in the form of racks and stnads for weapons and armour, a small chapel, a cot and a cogitator unit for research and the like.

From there they proceeded to be shown about the station- not that there was much to look at, as it was a small and simple structure created for a small group of Deathwatch assests, and not a larger fortress.

Eventually they would find themselves strapped down into Astartes-sized chairs, cables running from various points about the dim-lit one-man chambers to various points throughout their bodies, multiple screens flickering to life before their eyes and the black-robed humans who acted as machine operators insisting that it would all be over quickly.

Before long the entire kill-team was being subjected to hypno-indoctrination concerning information that only the Deathwatch were privy to, about xenos species that outside the Deathwatch went from being mere rumours to being entirely unknown, information that would stick in their subconscious memories even if their wider mind had forgotten.

Time passed quickly and, after innumerable sessions such as these, the squad was given permission to train their bodies as well as their minds...

Several months later...

The 'training area' was small, at least as far as the Astartes present were concerned, shelves of weapons bolted onto all four walls of the expansive room (actually a spare hangar bay commandeered for the purpose) and enough room for all of them to take to the floor if they wished.

Slack-faced servitors looked on nervelessly from their alcoves as Ayuri paced in front of the assembled Primaris, he being the only one clad in armour, the four novices dressed from head-to-toe in form-fitting robes.

"Time to test your mettle, newbloods!" Announced the pale-skinned veteran, a look of almost mirth crossing his usually dour features, "thus far everything has been hypothetical, but now we shall see what you are made of."

"First I shall test you, then we shall introduce an adversary," his finger pointed to two of the assembled Primaris, "Brother Tyros. Brother Kelmorian." Next he pointed to a space behind him, "until first blood, if you please, if you wish to choose a weapon..." his hand drifted to the line of melee weapons on a nearby wall, "...then so be it."

It would be a test of Marine against Marine until first blood was drawn.
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Tyros soon enough stepped forward and soon enough looked over the wall of melee weapons that had been hung up and to choose from them. He didn't waste time thinking over whether or not it would be more fair or honorable in fighting unarmed or with a blunt weapon at that.

Namely he walked over and soon chose out the best weapon for such an occasion. A power sword, that he gave a good feeling and a few swings at that. They were ordered to take it to the first blood - but if the indoctrination had taught them anything. It was that, against their enemy - the xeno - then no honor was there. Except in victory and success. Pride wasn't much use on the battlefield and neither was taking this as anything then one-hundred percent.

With weapon in hand, Tyros soon stepped into the ring against Brother Kelmorian - armed with a power sword and ready to fight until first blood.
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Uriel was somewhat disappointed at the apparent skepticism of the Imperial Fist Chaplain in his direction, he expected that the most direct sons of his gene-sire would follow in his steps of pragmatism, but it seemed that the Black Templars weren't the only ones of Dorn's line that had lost their way. Still, perhaps his introduction as Chaplain would allow him to... rectify things. All sorts of little ideas about how he would become head Chaplain floated through his head but for now he waved them away as there were more pressing things to attend to.

They went through the simulations and psycho conditioning, the Marines learned to fight all anew, they learned things they would never have learned otherwise and they learned their new duty. With that done it seemed that the leadership of the watch station wanted to see the new Primaris Marines in action. Well, if such was their wish, who was he to deny them?

For himself he selected a weapon typical to his specialization, a Crozius Arcanum. But if this was a duel where only blade and bludgeon could be used he saw no use in a smaller one and thus picked the largest one he could — a particularly long one with both winged flanges quite thin in resemblance of a two handed axe.

Thus he faced Tyros, and decided to take partial initiative; holding the weapon with left hand at the bottom and to his hip and with his right hand in the middle and put forth in a guard. Calmly he walked forward to his opponent to-be closing the distance slowly but surely.
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Tyros quickly struck forward, since he was using a sword against an axe - if he was light on his feet and quick, he could easily make due against Kelmorian. One easy point about using a power sword, was that he could stab forward. As Tyros soon flipped the blade up and soon stabbed forward - aiming at his 'guard'.

Since unlike an Arcanum - he could use a power sword to stab, slice, swing and many other avenues of attack. While an 'axe' like the Crozius needed be swung at that. Still Tyros knew, that if enough mass was to hit his power sword, then it wouldn't last long. Thus he also made sure to have his mind and body ready to either deflect or dodge.
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Tyros did generally as he was supposed to, but so would the Chaplain. As the sword came at him he ducked without making any committed movement with his body. Kelmorian did not commit to any bodily movement, and instead decided to use the fact that Tyros's momentum was more committed than his.

Using his lowered position he pushed up with the centre of his Crozius's haft with getting the sword off-balance and out of reach for a short time in mind. Using the point where the two weapons would supposedly connect as the axis of movement Kelmorian moved the crozius quickly in hopes of pressing the weapon's edge into his Brother's flesh.
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Tyros would quickly step back, before dashing forward again. As Astartes they could move and fight much faster than a regular human. As Primaris, they could do much more than that.

Even though, things might have seemed almost practice for the two, any normal Han watching would see it simply as giants suddenly speeding and withdrawing at that. In the end, it came down to flexibility and the sword could much more easily be used several instances.

Thus it didn't take long before Tyros managed to draw a drop of blood from the Chaplain' hand at that. "First blood!" he declared, before ceasing his attacks.
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It did not seem that Ayuri was all that impressed - although he would not say why, and was likely to silence any that would have sought an answer from him - the dark and deepset eyes of the Raven Knight watching the pair and judging them even as the Chaplains wound began to clot and heal, the weapons placed back in the place that they were taken from, and Brothers Tyros and Kelmorian once more took their place in the line of four.

"Adequate," he grunted, "if you wish to be as the rest of them here."

He took to walking before the group, his bared head turning to look at each of them, his flesh almost see-through in the bright light.

"You are Primaris, do you know what that means? It means that they see us as something other. Possibly even as replacements, as potential enemies, who can say. It also means that you are required to go above and beyond, to do more and to show that you are more...and you are; we have the Belisarian furnaces within us brothers, we have been forged by the Arch Magos to assist our brothers and to defend our sundered Imperium from all enemies, most especially the insidious xenos."

Yijun wondered if their squad leader usually spoke this much, or whether they had forced him to do so by their actions. It mattered little, he listened and acknowledged the words spoken in his firm but soft voice, their differences obvious to all-and-sundry.

"Mah...Randuin."

The Mantis Warrior - now a member of the Long Vigil, with all the thoughts and feelings that it entailed - stepped from the group and swung his limbs to warm them up somewhat. Ignoring his opponent for the most part, he then made his way to the weapons hanging on the walls and plucked a simple combat-knife into one hand, testing the balance and finding it much as their leader had said: adequate.

"Brother," was all he said as he returned to stand facing Randuin, both arms held close to his half-crouched body and the knife - which would have looked more like a sword to any mortal - held in the rear hand with his other slightly further forward.
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