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Punished GN“Neophytes.” Gedeon’s hoarse, drab voice pierced the ceremony hall’s deep silence. It was a room in the setup of a chapel, a consecrated ground with gleaming floors and lavish furnishings, a hall which stretched on yet carried sound perfectly, yet it resonated with silence. A few dozen men, Neophytes, clad in their ceremonial robes, had been packed into rows on kneeling pews, attention now fixed steadily forward to the figure at the podium.
Gedeon stood lumbering above an altar fit for a cathedral, adorned heavily with the effects of the Lions. Lion’s heads were carved of gold and bronze, manes buffed so they seemed to flow readily beyond open, hungry mouths. Angelic wings of embossed silver harkened to their lineage, and symbols of similar theme seemed to coat the walls of the ceremony hall.
But yet, the thing that stood out was Gedeon himself, who, at the altar, stood at his stature of a modest 7’7” for an Astartes. He was the Master of Recruits. He was the one who had rend and broke all these Neophytes which sat before him used to be, and rebuilt them. Drill after drill, combat after combat, and many had not survived. This group which was soon to graduate paled in comparison to that which they had begun with. But these men were hardy. Not of Caliban, but all had come from societies similar, Feudal and Death worlds giving the harsh upbringing which the Unforgiven desired.
Gedeon, adjusted the beige robes which flowed over him, clutching in one hand a tome which he did not once look at, for he did not have to. Such texts were long committed to memory. In the other hand, in a reverse grip, a blade which pulsed with idle electricity, its exterior masterfully crafted of some dark metal.
“Let us begin with a story. Yes, a story which began in the Rock, some years after the Heresy. The world of Caliban had collapsed, its very essence consumed by the taint of the Eye of Terror itself. Of it, only our grand Fortress Monastery, the Rock, had survived, and fleeing such horrors as that of the very Warp itself, it found itself aloft above the lashing sands of Al-Baradad. In the change of gravities, the Rock found itself assailed by a hail of meteorites, but yet avoided all hits save one, which on impact split open like a mighty beast and ejected a core of pure obsidian.”
Gedeon embellished his points, his voice achieving a crescendo with motions of occupied hands for emphasis.
“And such, a sign of the protection of our Lion and indeed the Emperor himself, the Angels of old forged from that core a series of blades dubbed Heavenfell. Blades which accompany the Angels and all the Unforgiven, and at one time indeed our own chapter. Wielded by our Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, the blade was a feared weapon which was the bane of all taint of Chaos. And it is in our story that it meets such foes. Traitors, Astartes which betrayed their Emperor in the name of false gods and empty promises, they often dared to challenge the Lions, taunting the lineage of the Angels. They were not prepared to meet our steel. And at that crucial moment, in the killing blow struck, when all traitors laid dead or dying, the blade shattered.”
He lowered his voice, taking a more somber tone, firmly bracing himself on the altar, tracing his two dull brown eyes across the rows of Neophytes.
“Its pieces gathered, its spirit was reforged. Ten blades were, one for each company of the Lions, and at its pinnacle, the Blade of Benediction, that which I wield before you today, the fabled induction tool which shall this day see you all become Brothers. Not just to the other companies, not just to your fellow Neophytes, but mine own Brothers, worthy of the title of Lions!”
Crying out the final stanza of the story, he raised the Blade to chest height, and commanded heartily.
“Neophytes, on one knee!” Immediately, almost robotically, all Neophytes came to a single knee, heads bowed in pseudo-prayer.
“I, Master Gedeon of the Tenth Company, the Lions of Absolution, do dub all Neophytes here with the title of Brother, and their own right to keep and bear the title of Lions! Go forth, hunt for the Lion!”
The cry echoed back.
”We hunt for the Lion!”
Gedeon stood lumbering above an altar fit for a cathedral, adorned heavily with the effects of the Lions. Lion’s heads were carved of gold and bronze, manes buffed so they seemed to flow readily beyond open, hungry mouths. Angelic wings of embossed silver harkened to their lineage, and symbols of similar theme seemed to coat the walls of the ceremony hall.
But yet, the thing that stood out was Gedeon himself, who, at the altar, stood at his stature of a modest 7’7” for an Astartes. He was the Master of Recruits. He was the one who had rend and broke all these Neophytes which sat before him used to be, and rebuilt them. Drill after drill, combat after combat, and many had not survived. This group which was soon to graduate paled in comparison to that which they had begun with. But these men were hardy. Not of Caliban, but all had come from societies similar, Feudal and Death worlds giving the harsh upbringing which the Unforgiven desired.
Gedeon, adjusted the beige robes which flowed over him, clutching in one hand a tome which he did not once look at, for he did not have to. Such texts were long committed to memory. In the other hand, in a reverse grip, a blade which pulsed with idle electricity, its exterior masterfully crafted of some dark metal.
“Let us begin with a story. Yes, a story which began in the Rock, some years after the Heresy. The world of Caliban had collapsed, its very essence consumed by the taint of the Eye of Terror itself. Of it, only our grand Fortress Monastery, the Rock, had survived, and fleeing such horrors as that of the very Warp itself, it found itself aloft above the lashing sands of Al-Baradad. In the change of gravities, the Rock found itself assailed by a hail of meteorites, but yet avoided all hits save one, which on impact split open like a mighty beast and ejected a core of pure obsidian.”
Gedeon embellished his points, his voice achieving a crescendo with motions of occupied hands for emphasis.
“And such, a sign of the protection of our Lion and indeed the Emperor himself, the Angels of old forged from that core a series of blades dubbed Heavenfell. Blades which accompany the Angels and all the Unforgiven, and at one time indeed our own chapter. Wielded by our Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, the blade was a feared weapon which was the bane of all taint of Chaos. And it is in our story that it meets such foes. Traitors, Astartes which betrayed their Emperor in the name of false gods and empty promises, they often dared to challenge the Lions, taunting the lineage of the Angels. They were not prepared to meet our steel. And at that crucial moment, in the killing blow struck, when all traitors laid dead or dying, the blade shattered.”
He lowered his voice, taking a more somber tone, firmly bracing himself on the altar, tracing his two dull brown eyes across the rows of Neophytes.
“Its pieces gathered, its spirit was reforged. Ten blades were, one for each company of the Lions, and at its pinnacle, the Blade of Benediction, that which I wield before you today, the fabled induction tool which shall this day see you all become Brothers. Not just to the other companies, not just to your fellow Neophytes, but mine own Brothers, worthy of the title of Lions!”
Crying out the final stanza of the story, he raised the Blade to chest height, and commanded heartily.
“Neophytes, on one knee!” Immediately, almost robotically, all Neophytes came to a single knee, heads bowed in pseudo-prayer.
“I, Master Gedeon of the Tenth Company, the Lions of Absolution, do dub all Neophytes here with the title of Brother, and their own right to keep and bear the title of Lions! Go forth, hunt for the Lion!”
The cry echoed back.
”We hunt for the Lion!”
