Harbringer

Feral

The house wasn't exactly crawling with guards, but there were enough of them to impede Garran's progress. Swinging one man by his legs, he slammed him into another man, who dropped his sword out of reflex in an attempt to save his comrade. The makeshift flail and its victim slammed heavily into the wall, where they remained immobile. The corridor was littered with unconscious bodies, both seraphim and human, and one of the walls bore scorch marks from an attempted spell which was rudely interrupted by the pirate slamming his head into the man's face. Opening a door, he found a room with two women in maid outfits, one clutching a younger one. "Stay away you brute!" the older one shouted. "Sorry ma'am," Garran said, shutting the door again. Taking another few steps forward, he opened another door, thif time occupied by a single turkey that gobbled at him. Closing the door without a word, the pirate moved on. "It be a fra'kin' maze in h're!" he shouted as another guard rounded the corner.

A full ten minutes later, and after systematically checking every door, Garran arrived at the last door. "This had b'tt'r be it," he muttered under his breath. Throwing the door open, the pirate shouted before he even saw what was inside. "'LRIGHT YE LANDLUBBIN' PIGEON! WHAR BE THE LASS!?" With a horriffic screech, Garran ripped the door from its hinges...and there was no reply. Instead, he almost fell into a giant gaping hole."Wh't th' bloody hell!?" he exclaimed as he fell backwards to avoid tumbling into the abyss. Looking up, he saw his target. "Fi'ra? How're ye doin' tha'?" he asked as she floated within a cage.

Feral

"I don' be likin' this, lad," Garran said as he looked around at his surroundings. Usually, people would feel uneasy around the cutthroats and brigands of a port bar but...Garran's fears ran in the complete opposite direction. "Why, whatever do you mean, my dear friend?" Caelum asked monotonously as he brought a finely decorated porcelain cup to his mouth, delicately sipping at the fragrant tea within before placing it back onto a saucer. Garran turned around and glared at the Seraphim, whose nearly atrophied wings flapped gently in the breeze. "Ye know what I mean," Garran shot back as he glanced briefly at their surroundings. In a famous restaurant of Aldarich, the Wings of Daelon, deep in the merchant's district, an unlikely pair sat together at one of the more isolated, rear tables, a third seat going unoccupied. Going to great pains to disguise Garran so he could enter the establishment, Caelum had hung a talisman around the pirate's neck which changed his appearance. For one thing, the giant gaping wound on Garran's face had been patched up with illusory magicks, but it also gave him a pair of broad, muscular wings. Purely for decoration of course. He had even been forced to dress for the situation. His hair had been combed, de-liced and tied back in a long white ponytail, while his usually bare chest was covered with a thin sheet of cotton and a tie, the dress shirt doing nothing to hide his form.

The pirate shifted uncomfortably in the padded seat. "Why 're we here 'nyways?" he asked as he wrapped his hand around the tiny tea cup, lifting it up to his lips and draining the contents in a single sip. Grimacing as he put the tea cup back down, he signalled for one of the waiters to bring him more tea. "To meet an...old acquaintance of mine," Caelum replied, placing the saucer onto the white tablecloth after a short pause, "I have matters to discuss with him and...well, he's known to be rather temperamental...and I'd rather have someone by my side if something happens."
"So...he be a dick?" Garran said bluntly. At the mention of the foul word, a lady from the next table over spat out her tea and looked at him in open mouthed indignity. Garran didn't notice. "I would never say it so openly...but yes, I guess you could say that," Caelum replied, a small smile appearing over his face, despite his paralysed muscles, as ever entertained by the pirate's simple mind. "His emotions change rapidly, and as such he's hard to predict..." Caelum said as he stared blankly into the chair in front of him, as if expecting something, "he is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, bound by a conundrum..." Garran raised an eyebrow, not exactly understanding what his friend was saying, but hmmed thoughtfully anyway, stroking his clean-shaven chin. "So when's he goin' t' get here?" he asked. "He's already here," Caelum replied, calmly sipping his tea again. "Hello, Valiance."

"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me," chuckled a rich, mellow voice from beneath the table. With a disgusting squelching sound, a puddle of red pooled beneath the table and then climbed the chair, eventually pooling on the upholstery before morphing into the form of a Seraphim and solidifying, colour taking over some of the scarlet. Alarmed, Garran was holding the neck of the vase, about to attack the strange apparition, but at a shake of the head from Caelum, sat back down. "Hello old friend," Valiance said as he placed a wide brimmed red hat on his head, trimmed with white and decorated with a single feather of the same colour, "how long has it been since we last-"
"Don't give me that," Caelum replied as he took another sip of his tea, "last time we were together you let the Kill Teams to my house and tried to convince them that it was me who killed the Marquis." Despite the accusation, there was little emotion in Caelum's voice.
"Ah yes...that old hijink...hehe, it was fun to watch you reason your way out of that," Valiance replied, crossing his legs and leaning forwards.

While the two talked, Garran couldn't help but feel a chill run through the room as they spoke, as if their mere speech required heat to operate, but still, Garran felt like he had to examine the newcomer. Dressed in a well tailored red suit, the front of his body was hidden under a long red cloak that was fastened with a golden brooch on his left shoulder, bearing a blood red jewel in the shape of a tear drop. His face was smooth and unmarked by scars and age, and his silvery blonde hair, hidden under the large red hat, flowed over his shoulders and halfway down his back, covering one of his piercing blood red eyes. His hands, which were neatly folded in front of him, were hidden under a pair of well maintained white gloves, and his face always seemed to be smiling. "Garran...meet Valiance Sengris, a blood mage," Caelum said, Valiance granting a nod of his head and a pleasant smile to the pirate who replied with a grunt. Blood mage...the mere name brought up old superstitions of people sacrificing creatures and people alike to some greater god. Not exactly someone he wanted to meet.

After a waiter refilled Garran's tea, which swiftly disappeared once more, and gave Valiance his own, deliberations began. And Garran was swept away by the speed of their negotiations. Words passed between them in a flurry noises, and Garran understood why he would never be a diplomat. Their tongue was elegant and refined, and bore nothing that was similar to common, the language that was mutually shared. Instead of spending his efforts futilely listening, Garran instead scratched the side of face. As much illusory magic helped to hide the wound, he could still feel the raw flesh of his ripped face. Still. He didn't want it completely fixed. He would bear it proudly as a symbol of his fallen comrades. Lost in his reverie, he continued feeling the wound.

Meanwhile, the two Seraphim spoke in a tongue seldom heard outside of the northern marshes. "So why have you called me here today?" Valiance asked, a devious smile on his face as he brought the tea cup to his mouth, but his tone indicated that he knew exactly why he had been called, and he had chosen to entertain this knowledge seeking seraphim. Caelum looked straight at him, he facial muscles unable change, but finally his lips moved, forming the difficult and arcane words. "You know very well why you are here, Son of the Herald of Aelthanion," he said as he mixed in a little bit of cream, the spoon slinking against the sides delicately as he rotated his wrist, "surely, you have felt it too. He has risen once more." Valiance chuckled quietly, cutting himself a piece of the cake on the table. "Indeed I have, rune mage," he replied, moving the brown slice onto his plate, "the tides of change are blowing. The blood shed by your friend over there," he said, jerking his head inconspicuously to Garran, "has awoken my former liege from his slumber, the former soldier that the Seraphim now regard as, 'The God of War'. He was not kidding when he said that he was eternal." Caelum cocked his eyebrow quizically. "Former liege?" he asked. Valiance bowed his head and spread his arms mockingly. "I am now referred to as the 'Pariah' by my peers," said with a self-mocking chuckle, "I refused to listen to the Oracle and herald the arrival of my lord to the world, and thus, I was ostracised." Caelum nodded his head, but then came the inevitable question. "Why would you do this, Pariah?" he asked, using his new title. As if stung, Valiance visibly winced, but that was the only reaction he had. "The seraphim...are no longer ready for war as Aelthanion knows it...under his leadership, he would bring our kind to ruin. We are knowledge seekers through and through, not soldiers...but my bretheren think differently...they desire him to lead the Seraphim into a new age of prosperity...but all I can foresee is sorrow..." as if to punctuate his words, Valiance drained the rest of his cup, before looking to the sky. "And what do you plan to do about it?" Caelum asked. Valiance scoffed. "It is not what I am going to do about it," he said, looking back down to Caelum, "it is what you are going to do about it."

Smiling sadly, the seraphim stood up. "Time has passed quickly...if I am gone too long, my brethren will suspect my actions," he said in common tongue. Caelum did not react, instead, he sat pensively in his chair. "If further contact is needed, use the discrete channels. The Sanguine are growing suspicious of my absences, and there is no need to stain my relations with them further." Looking over to Garran, who waved him goodbye, he chuckled. "Oh, and my large friend...I have two parting gifts," he said as he strode closer. Caelum made no attempt to stop him, and Garran, his name having been mentioned by this utter stranger, leaned in closer out of curiosity. Moving his hand, Valiance gripped the talisman around his neck gently...and then blood began to flow, causing Garran to try and shrink back, but the seraphim bore surprising strength, holding him in place as rivulets of blood ran all across the mage's hand, winding their way into his palm. A slight tingle on the side of his face and all around his body was felt, before there was a collective gasp and more than one scream. "You cannot hide who you are," Valiance said with a mischevious smile as the talisman's power faded, to be replaced with a blood red jewel similar to the one set into the seraphim's brooch, having grown over the talisman. Garran, surprised, looked into the glass in the side of the wall and saw his face in its original form, scars and all, before looking back to Valiance, about to rise and knock his teeth out, but he was stopped with a look from the seraphim. His eyes were glowing brighter than before, and Garran found that his limbs refused to obey him. "And here's my second present," he said as he leaned in closer, almost able to kiss the pirate on the forehead. Garran growled as he bared his teeth, but instead, Valiance lifted his hand over Garran's cup, and let a few drops of blood trickle in. The drink steamed and boiled loudly, before clearing into a blood red fluid. "Look deeply into the liquid...and you will thank me." he said, laughing loudly, turning back into a blood red liquid before sinking into the floor.

Allowed to sit back down again, Garran swore viciously, despite the fact that all eye were all on him now, and rubbed his head. Look into the liquid? What could that possibly...was that...Fiora? Leaning in closer to his tea, Garran, saw a familiar form, but from below. Blood ran lightly from her wrists, and the view was intermittent. Only in the shape of droplets of liquid, but with every drop from her wrist, the image grew larger. Soon, it became larger than the cup could reveal. "Cael'm! Make th' thin' bigger!" he demanded of the rune mage. Caelum looked over to Garran but shrugged. "I am not privy to the workings of blood magic...but logically if you gain a larger surface area then-"
"ENOUGH A' YER SCIENCE TALK!" Garran said, standing up and shaking the table, "JUST TELL ME WHAT T' DO! ONE A' ME MATES IS BEIN' HURT HERE!"
Staring at Garran, Caelum finally chuckled. "Pour the tea onto your plate, Garran," he said as he put his own teacup down. He hadn't seen Garran this angry in a while...not since someone had hurt one of his crewmates.

Doing as he was told, Garran poured the tea out from the tea cup and onto the small plate before him. Like Caelum had said, the image grew larger. "That be Fi'ra!" Garran said, peering closer, trying to spot something that would give him a location. Damn this new city! As another drop of blood fell, something became vaguely visible, and Garran pounced on it. It seemed to be...part of some sort of heraldic emblem..."C'mon lass..." Garran hissed, clutching the table and, as bad as it sounded, willing Fiora to bleed a little more. It seemed that the gods we're on their side though. A final drop of blood fell before he could see the wound close up with magic. "Cael'm! What be th's sign?!" Garran demanded. Casually, the Seraphim glanced over. "That...huh...Garran...we depart now," Caelum said, his tone definite as he and Garran stood up. "Sirs! You have not paid ye-" the waiter started, before Garran threw a bag of gold to him. "Keep th' change," he said angrily as he stormed out behind Caelum. If anything...the Seraphim seemed angrier than he did...but this was a different sort of anger. It was invisible, but the hidden flame burned all the hotter.

As they walked along the streets, Calum started to talk to Garran. "That was the seal of Sir Garen," he said, dodging a passing human merchant, "a brown nosing little bastard who campaigned for the reduction of funding to the University of Magic to hinder my parents' research, for little other reason than to spite them." Moving down a smaller street, the seraphim continued, explaining further. "Our rune magics are now the primary defence of Adalrich, displacing his own field of magic, and so we cut his luxurious funding. Something he hates us for." Pausing at an intersection, he pointed to his left. "Now he's barely holding onto his power, and if word got out that he was kidnapping a young lady...well..." Caelum said with an evil smile on his face, "his credibility would decline...and as would his campaign progress. Besides, if he's kidnapping someone who's important to you, I have a duty as a friend to assist you in stopping it, do I not? It is merely coincidence that he is my enemy as well, is it not?"
"...Caelum, ye scare me som'times." Garran said as he trailed behind the seraphim, feeling the flames of hatred spilling out of him, "b'sides...Fiora ain't anythin' special t' me..." a small blush came onto Garran's cheek as he upped the pace. "If I remember correctly from our old meetings," Caelum said, calling up a mental map, "his residence should be in the west wing..."

Thankfully, the layout of the city had not changed too much and they pair managed to make it to a large mansion, protected by a large iron gate and a pair of guards. "This is the house," Caelum said as they emerged from an alleyway. Immediately, the two guards reacted. "Halt! You two there, what business have you here?" shouted the first one, a seraphim, raising a staff to point at them. "We must have words with Lord Garen." Caelum said gently. "O' w'll be havin' a lot m're than words!" Garran shouted, prompting the second guard, a human to raise his blade. "Quiet Garran!" Caelum hissed angrily. Garran growled in compliance, but the human slowly lowered his blade. "Garran? As in Captain Garran?" he asked, almost reverently. "Aye, what's it t' ye?!" the pirate shouted. "You...you rescued my family from the capital...they're staying in Xerxes right now...I must thank you!"
"Quiet human!" the seraphim replied, echoing Caelum's earlier mood, but Garran didn't care. "If ye want t' thank me so much, l't me in!" he shouted, stepping forwards, but the human raised his blade again. "Sorry sir...but I need this job...to support my family now more than ever," he replied. Angered, Garran stepped forwards, about to crush his skull, but the sign of a carriage flying overhead drew all of their attention. It bore the same mark to the one Garran had seen in his tea. The seraphim guard looked back down. "Leave now, or I will be forced to make you leave!" he warned. Neither Garran nor Caelum moved an inch. Raising his staff, it started to give off a yellow light. "Last warning!" the seraphim said. Too bad that he was focussing entirely on Caelum, who had his Grimoire in his hands. With the crunch of breaking bone, Garran's fist slammed into the side of his jaw, sending him flying and his staff tumbling away. The human guard, to his credit, reacted immediately, slicing down with his blade. easily, it cut through the woven cotton of Garran's shirt and sliced into Garran's flesh, but powered by berserk fury, the pirate turned on him. Grabbing his face with his large hand, the pirate threw him to the side, where he was knocked unconscious against the wall of the gate, the blade clattering onto the flagstones.

When the two people stepped out of the carriage, one of them ignited something in him. But it wasn't anger. "Fi'ra!" Garran shouted, catching her attention. The other person, a male seraphim, saw his two guards lying on opposing sides and then back to the pirate, whose right arm was dripping with blood, both his own and the Seraphim's. "Guards! Seal the gates and stop the intruders!" he shouted, dragging Fiora bodily into his home. "C'mere ye little bastard!" Garran shouted, diving straight towards them, but as he took a step forward, he found his body's movements frozen. A rune circle had been placed at his feet. Looking back towards Caelum, he snorted out rage. "Traitor!" he shouted, but Caelum shook his head. "This much i can cover up with my own political influence...but killing a nobleman is sure to have repercussions, Garran," Caelum said, stepping forwards, "think about your little party, and how it would affect them." Hearing his words, the analytical part of Garran's mind processed it, but his rage centre was just blocking everything out. "I d'n't care!" Garran shouted as he tried to resist his magical bonds. "You can't be a pirate forever Garran," Caelum said as he walked towards the gate, "one day, you will have consequences for what you do." Garran growled. Deep down he knew he was right, but he still refused to admit it.

The gate had been sealed, both physically and magically. "Hmm...this could be troublesome..." Caelum said as he examined the gate, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there were now house guards closing on him. With a wave of his hand, the prison encapsulating Garran was released. "Deal with the bugs for me, Garran...I must crack Garen's codes," he said as he opened his grimoire. Growling in assent, the pirate walked to protect Caelum's back while he worked. "Cease and desist!" shouted a seraphim as he closed, a ceremonial staff held out before him. The tip glowed red hot. "Don't make me use-" he started, before he was promptly cut off, his staff suddenly snapped in half as Garran wrapped his massive hands around it and bent it. "Wha-wha..." the seraphims tarted, before he was slammed across the head with the mace-like head of his owns staff. The scent of burning hair was prominent as the mace followed its master. More guards appeared, this time human. The seraphim probably didn't think themselves low enough to live their lives as guards. The first one approached, swinging a small sword, but being the experienced fighter that he was, Garran sidestepped and brought his fist crashing down onto the man's head, flattening him into the ground. The next one swung another blade, but Garran used the momentum of the swing to dodge and sent him sprawling with a kick to the ribs. The third one hesitated as he licked his lips, his clammy hands sweating as he held the knife in his hands. "Ssss-surrender now!" he tried. Turning to him, Garran bared his yellowed teeth. "Run," he said, prompting the man to flee for his life.

"Done," Caelum said, finally undoing the magical seals of the door, "now time to figure out how to physically op-" Without warning, a pair of massive arms appeared over him and gripped two of the iron bars. With a low groan of effort, Garran pried the bars apart, the metal protesting all the way as the pirate made a gap large enough for Caelum to pass through. "That works," the Seraphim said, stepping through, "although i could have just flown over. There was no reply. Instead, the gate opened out further, until the two bars broke from their housings, allowing Garran to step through. He was silent. Striding past Caelum, the Seraphim watched him pass...It was probably better for him to go alone at this point. "Try not to kill him," Caelum said, "remember what I told you. There is only so much I can cover up...I'm going to go erase the memories of the guards. Be careful." Garran replied only with a hand wave.

The doors were locked. As expected. Not to mention they were heavy oak doors. Running his hand over them, Garran felt their solidity. Well. That never stopped him before. Grinning vindictively, he took a step back, before running forwards and crashing his entire bodyweight onto the door.He felt it give a little, but it was immediately pushed back. Probably people were barring it shut with their own bodies. Taking a few more steps back, Garran tried again, and the door gave again. Taking a deep breath, the pirate took a final few steps back, before screaming loudly and charging straight towards the door. With a heavy crash, one of them splintered inwards, and the pirate found himself slamming into two armoured guards, one of which was swiftly knocked unconscious by a piece of door. The second one took the brunt of Garran's heavy weight and was also knocked out cold. "FIORA!" Garran shouted, his voice echoing in the darkness, "I BE COMIN' FER YA!"

Feral

Well. After some well executed excuse crafting, I have managed to get shit done for Uni. Now to get shit done for this. Faeces.

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Dang. Black Templar be tough.

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Gaiz. Mayhem told us not to interact with each other.

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Hmm...Corvus Armour and Last Man standing...not a bad combo...

EDIT: Not enough pants shitting terror in chaplain part. Will edit after work

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Many cycles passed with Alaric kneeling with his back to the entrance of the cell, his hands locked together in prayer and his lips rapidly flapping to silently intone the appropriate catechisms and mottos. The wound he had received from the kroot across his brow had healed over with very little scarring, only the small white puckering of flesh showing its effect. His short cropped blonde hair matted against his brow from sweat as he kept his Scholar’s robe over his body, the humidity of his cell getting to him. “My faith is my shield, and my faith in the Emperor the barrier which guards my mind,” he muttered as he stared at the wall in front of him. The cell was lit by a single guttering candle that flickered, casting ghostly shadows upon the walls, dark, questing shadows that reached for the Dark Angel, but never seemed to reach him. It was then that he thought about his Chapter Master’s parting words. “Find the fallen, and make them repent, Brother.”

Finally reeling back into his own body, Alaric quickened his death-like pulse with a few deep breaths and stood up, taking a seat on his bed. Clenching his hands into fists, he gritted his teeth and thought about the traitors of Caliban. He had only learned about it recently, but the more that Azrael had told him, the more that it angered him, but the further the rabbit hole went down, the more it scared him. The thought that one who had been so close to the Lion, and so faithful to the Emperor could stage a rebellion, turning brother against brother…it lit a spark of fear in him, fear that he too could quickly be turned away from the Emperor’s light into the Dark Powers’ service, that he too would become…Unforgiven…Grinding his teeth and shaking his head, Alaric rejected the thought. His faith in the Emperor was absolute, and his belief unwavering. He would not fall into the same pit that those scum had willingly dug themselves. He was pure, he was a guardian of their geneseed, a position given only to those who were trusted. He would not turn to the Fallen.

At the end of that thought, he heard the sound of his cell unlock, the telltale clank of bars and stone dragging him out of his reverie. Standing up, Alaric spotted the figure of a giant moving towards him, its large, metalshod feet clanking on the ground towards him. Finally, its form was illuminated by the guttering candle. A chaplain. Alaric was at once both relieved, yet terrified. His limbs froze in place, and his face locked into a scowl. As the Chaplain drew closer, Alaric spotted the heraldry of the Silver Skulls on his shoulder, but that view quickly disappeared as the leering skull helm came closer. As it drew into range, Alaric could see his face reflected in the polished silver. His hood obscured most of his face, but he could see rivulets of sweat, almost tear-like, running down his face, as well as his pearly white teeth ground against each other. In the Dark Angels, the appearance of a Chaplain, especially Master of Repentance Asmodai, rarely meant anything good. It often meant that the higher echelons of the chapter doubted your faith or sanity, and that fear was transferred to Alaric now which, compounded with his previous fear, froze him in place, his body refusing to respond to any commands. Finally, the chaplain spoke, his voice refined and light, with a pleasant cadence to it.

“You have been tested, brother. The Apothecary made sure your body was pure. The Watch Captains confirmed your spirit. I am here to weigh your very soul.”
“I…I submit myself into your keeping…” Alaric stammered, his voice uneven. The weak reply seemed to disappoint Archomedes , which Alaric could sense even through the rictus skull mask. “Take a seat, Apothecary Alaric of the Dark Angels,” he said, pulling the metal chair over from the simply study desk and taking a seat, “my name is Chaplain Archomedes of the Silver Skulls, and I expect you to be completely honest with me. I know how you Dark Angels are, after all.”. Behind him, two servo-skulls hovered into place, one writing something down on parchment while the other seemed to just stare at Alaric, but after a quick examination, the Apothecary could not spot anything wrong with it. The words, however, shook the Apothecary, making him narrow his eyes at the Chaplain. Did the man know about their past? Impossible. The brothers who know about it all swore complete secrecy, even at the cost of their own life. But… something about this man made Alaric think that he would be the one to out his Chapter’s secret. He inwardly gulped as his eyes met the Chaplain’s. Slowly, Alaric sat down onto his hard bed, his eyes never leaving the twin red slits of the chaplain.

“The Apothecary tells me that you are knowledgeable in your use of medicae and instruments,” Archomedes said, taking out a scroll from his belt, presumably with gathered details about Alaric. Wordlessly, Alaric nodded, but it seemed like the Chaplain did not accept it. “Answer me, Apothecary,” the chaplain said, a hint of impatience drifting into his otherwise stoic voice. The sheer aura of hatred that the man gave out overwhelmed Alaric, choking his throat with its miasma. “I..I am, Chaplain,” Alaric said after a moment’s hesitation, his mind still reeling from his earlier heretical thoughts. Would this chaplain find his doubts? Feeling a bit of confidence as the conversation strayed into familiar grounds, Alaric took a deep breath. “I am aware of the workings of the Astartes body and the mechanisms of its healing. I have constructed my own Narthe-“
“I did not ask for the content of the knowledge, Apothecary, simply that you knew of it,” the Chaplain said evenly, the servo-skull behind him chattering as it wrote something down. The sound unnerved Alaric when it was combined with the intimidating atmosphere of the Chaplain. A moment of silence passed as their eyes locked. “He also told me, however, that you are too zealous in your duty,” Archomedes said as he moved further down the vellum parchment. Alaric’s mind drifted back to the words of Apothecary Haeron back in the Apothecarium. Alaric glared at the Chaplain. “My decision remains the same, Chaplain. I stand and fight with my brothers. I do not flee with my tail between my legs. With the divine providence of the emperor I-“ A sudden punch to his gut, enhanced by power armour, winded the Apothecary. The Chaplain sat down again, the miasma of hatred thickening in the air. “You misuse the emperor’s name, Dark Angel,” the Chaplain hissed, “your youth betrays you, and you blaspheme against the Emperor.” Gasping for air as he dragged himself back up to a standing position, Alaric continued to glare into the eyes of the Chaplain, his gaze unrelenting. “Know your place in the squad, Apothecary, if you are the singe surviving member, and the mission is not able to be completed, your duty is to return the geneseed of your brothers.” Archomedes said as he reopened the scroll, “do not forget this.”
“I shall…keep…it in mind…” Alaric managed in between gasps for breath.

As Alaric managed to regain his breath, the Chaplain finally said something after what seemed like an eternity of silence. “What do you know of…the Fallen, Apothecary?” Archomedes asked, his voice once more calm, even and sibilant. His mental defences already buckling under the constant assault of the chaplain, the simple question visibly riled Alaric, whose eyes widened in surprise at the mention. His mouth flapped open before he mastered himself, managing to stop anything coming out. “The Fallen are another name used for the followers of Chao-“ he started, before he was abruptly cut off.

Suddenly, the Chaplain’s gauntlet shot out and gripped the front of Alaric’s Scholar’s Robe, lifting him up off his feet and closer to the Chaplain’s mask, its silver skull glaring angrily at him.”Tell me. Now.” the Chaplain hissed as he drew the Apothecary closer. His mind scrabbled for something, anything. “The Fallen Angels are another name that we Dark Angels give to the traitors of Horus-“ Alaric tried again, his hands gripping the armoured gauntlet of Archomedes as he righted himself. Now, however, steeled by duty, he was a little bit less terrified of the Marine in front of him.
“Your lies are as visible as your false faith, Apothecary,” The Chaplain replied, shaking him by the robe, “I know that this term bears special meaning to your Chapter, and I will stop at nothing to find it!”

Looking down at the Chaplain as he held him above his head, Alaric locked down his remaining mental barriers and stared into the Chaplain’s blank eyepieces. “You are better off asking someone else, Chaplain,” Alaric replied as he released the Chaplain’s hands, letting him have full control, “I am but a lower member of my Chapter’s Apothecarium…you would do better to ask Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai.” The Chaplain paused for a second, before throwing Alaric into the wall, where the stone cracked beneath him, as he slowly slid back to the bed. “Let us continue the cleansing,” Archomedes said, contempt poorly hidden in his voice.

Another few cycles followed and the Apothecary was brutalized, demoralized and broken repeatedly, but his mind remained set, and he replied only with catechisms and his faith in the emperor. The Chaplain’s miasma of hatred was almost physical now, but even then, one day, he finally relented. Throwing the Apothecary onto the bed, a black robe followed. “It is almost time, brother. Don the black and meditate on our words. You will be summoned.” The words seemed to come out almost with poison, as the servo-skulls hovered behind the Chaplain who stood up. “Your will is strong, young one, but do not that that betray you. You are too easily cowed into obedience. We will meet again, Apothecary.” With those parting words, he slammed the cell door shut behind him. Rubbing his new collection of bruises, Alaric unfolded the black robe and simply stared at it for a few minutes. It was of the finest cloth, comparable to the beige one he currently wore, but the bitter taste of defeat still remained in his mouth, along with the ferrous taste of blood. Spitting out a large glob of the phlegm blood into the corner, the Apothecary gritted his teeth. He had been tried. He had been tested. And he had failed. In his eyes, the ability to keep the Fallen a secret was but a tiny victory amongst a sea of defeats. The Chaplain had defeated him utterly. He had broken down his mental barriers, questioned his faith in the Emperor, and…quite frankly terrified Alaric. Not even the ministrations of Interrogator-Chaplains of the Dark Angels could compare to what he had just gone through. Sighing deeply, the Apothecary stood up and undid the clasp on his robe. He might as well get prepared for the inevitable time to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time came sooner than expected. A blank-faced servitor opened his cell door and proceeded to lead him down empty halls which echoed only with the treads of the servitor and the dull thud of Alaric’s own footfalls. They seemed to wind through the corridor for hours on end before they managed to find a large opening in the black basalt walls. The servitor led him to the front row of a large collection of Astartes, all similarly dressed and standing at perfect parade rest. Joining the growing line of Astartes already there, Alaric hissed slightly as he pulled his hood down and stood at parade rest. Perhaps the Chaplain had harmed him more than he had thought. Nevertheless, Alaric stubbornly refused to let it show on his face. If the Emperor could survive upon the Golden Throne for decades, centuries even…he could bear this much pain for as long as it took. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, he allowed his eyes to flicker around in their sockets, taking in the objects in his field of vision. Rocky pillars extended from floor to ceiling, bearing the weight of incensed braziers that spread a familiar scent into the air. Mugweed. An antibiotic plant used sterilise wounds in an impromptu operating theatre. Also contained a slight narcotic. The diaphanous mist dissipated into the air as cherubic servitors flew past, bearing more incense, this time a different one to Mugweed, but the Apothecary could not seem to place his finger on it.

Alaric seemed to stand in the line for hours on end, and the row of Astartes swelled as more joined its ranks, but Alaric did not see how many in the end stood shoulder to shoulder with him, for his eyes remained locked forwards on the figures in front of him. The flames of the candles and braziers flitted and guttered in a silent breeze, but every Battle-Brother remained motionless, their gazes turned forwards, as if ever-looking towards the future. Or perhaps more realistically, they were staring at the forms of the Watch Captains and Auxiliaries which had put them through hell and back again. Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, Apothecary Haeron…and of course, Chaplain Archomedes. They had all donned their battle gear, and seemed to be bowing in reverence to a statue in front of them, but as the last of his brothers filed into the room, taking his place at Alaric’s shoulder, the statue seemed to grind around on an axis, before revealing itself as a Space Marine himself in Tactical Dreadnought armour. Just the mere image of that hallowed armour made Alaric bow his head in reference, but his look hardened as he saw the heraldry on the shoulder and the fangs. Space Wolf. He had had precious few encounters with those savage beasts, but one of the few times that he did, Alaric settled a duel between their chapters, emerging as a victor in a fair 1vs1 scenario, to much cheering from his comrades and superiors and jeering from the Space Puppies. Holding his tongue with a small effort, Alaric locked his eyes on the wolf as he moved around.

As the Wolf drew closer, he grew in Alaric’s vision, causing the Apothecary’s eyes to widen. Never had he seen such a large Marine…had there been a problem with the Ossmodula in his body to cause him to grow so large? Impossible. If there had been a mutation, he would have looked gangly and skeletal, if he were allowed into the Marines at all after that. Purity was demanded highly in the Dark Angels, but perhaps it was not so in the barbaric warriors of Fenris. Finally, he spoke. “One unbreakable shield against the darkness. One last blade forged in the defiance of fate…the All-Father spoke these words during the creation of the his legions. Heh, how have things changed. That whores-son Horus saw to that.” Like the scene back in his cell, the air thickened with a miasma of hatred at the single declaration of the archenemy’s name. For Alaric, it manifested as an inward snarl. Such a name should never be spoken. Despite the sudden tension in the air, however, the Space Wolf continued.

“The Second Oath, brothers, is more significant than you can yet comprehend. Your individual trials have been intense – a time of testing mind, body and spirit. Our doctrines are a hard thing to learn, old grudges not easily forgotten.
But it is today that you are truly Deathwatch! Take pride in what you are: first amongst equals! You were Space Marines, Angels of Death, but now we surpass even that. Think on how few, even among the greatest ever known, get to bear this honor.
All-Father willing, we will all return to the Chapters we hail from; ready to strengthen our brothers from what we have learned, more adaptable to their needs, all because we were Deathwatch!
You will have stood as a bulwark against the never ending dark. It is in our strength that mankind finds it salvation. They will never know, there will be no thanks. We have stood the Watch for over ten thousand years, and if the Throne needs, ten thousand more. Accolades should matter little to us, for we fight in the shadows and so in the shadows we must remain.”

The words caused pride to swell in Alaric’s breast, but he forced it down. Hubris is the downfall of men. Faith in the Emperor should be maintained at all times. To fight in the shadows tirelessly and without thanks…the Dark Angels were used to it. To tread the fine line between good and evil, loyalty and rebellion…the remnants of the 1st legion…the Unforgiven…they were already deeply immersed in between those razor thin lines and there was little chance of them breaking out again. As the Space wolf gestured to the set of double doors behind him, Alaric nodded silently. He would finally be reunited with his old battleplate, scars and all…as well as his old Narthecium. Hopefully it had not been altered in any way. He had just adjusted the Narthecium himself.

As the first recruit walked towards the Watch captain, he swore his oath, before the Chaplain branded him. Words passed between them, but Alaric could not hear anything of what was said. Nor did he want to. After the moment of speech, the recruit screamed as the white hot brand was pressed into his skin. None of the assembled recruits flinched. After the branding process was completed, Alaric slapped his fist to his chest and bowed his head in respect to the newly initiated marine. There was no shame in revealing pain amongst your brothers. Only when revealing pain to the enemies in torture. It was one reason why Alaric had refused to show weakness in front of the Chaplain. He was neither a friend, nor an enemy, but Alaric was leaning towards one side with him. The second recruit underwent a similar process, and it was time for him soon

As the first and second recruits passed through the doors, Alaric took a deep breath, before stepping up himself, striding from the ranks of his brothers and approaching the Chaplain, a hard look in his eyes. A pair of servitors replaced the set of coals and trundled back into the shadows as Archomedes reheated the brand. The Watch Captain repeated his words as Alaric stood impassively, the time for the Second Oath having come. Taking a knee, Alaric removed a thick package from under his robes, beige in colour. “I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, Apothecary of the 3rd Company of Dark Angels, hereby swear before the Emperor to complete my Vigil with diligence and pride, until such a time when I am released from service, or fall in the line of duty,” Alaric said, placing the folded package onto his hands, “I swear to stand by my brothers, be they from my chapter or otherwise, and…swear to discard the ancient feuds which may hinder my service, pledging my loyalty to those who wear the Black in service against the Xenos and the Heretic until my last dying breath.” Like a practiced speech, the sibilant tones dropped from the end of Alaric’s tongue like honey in a similar way in which he would calm his brothers when under his care. Closing his eyes, he continued his Oath.
“I swear as a Battle Brother to watch over my fellow Deathwatch members and smite the enemies of the Emperor.
I swear as an Apothecary to watch over my charges with care and deliberation, and maintain their health, as well as to provide the necessary advice to my comrades when needed.” He saw an approving nod from Haeron here.
“I swear as a member of the Deathwatch to uphold the laws, secrets and doctrines of the order, upon my honour as a member of the Dark Angels.” Inwardly, he whispered to himself. “I swear this as a member of the Unforgiven…”
“Once more, I, Apothecary Alaric Epollinus, swear my service to the Deathwatch.”
Holding up his robes to the Space Wolf, almost as if a peace offering between their chapters, Alaric remained kneeling.

There was a moment of pause as the assembled Deathwatch members simply looked over each other, but then the grizzled Space Wolf walked over and grabbed the robe, lifting it off of the Dark Angel’s hands. Feeling the weight lift off, Alaric looked up to the approving glance of the Space Wolf, who offered a hand. Taking it, the Dark Angel found himself dragged to his feet, and almost off of them. “Approach the Chaplain, Apothecary,” the granite-like voice of the Space Wolf rumbled. Nodding, Alaric stepped over to the Chaplain, who remained impassive al always, but he could feel the hatred filtering from under the mask. Hatred of the weak. Alaric did not flinch this time. He refused to. Spreading his arms as the Chaplain removed the white hot brand from the coals, he could feel a physical impact from him, almost as if it was the thrust of a blade, followed by a horrid burning sensation as the brand bit into his flesh and seared its mark into him. Alaric’s eyes widened. The bastard had jabbed the stoke onto one of the wounds that the Chaplain himself had inflicted. Gritting his teeth as the skin beneath the mark blistered and boiled, Alaric tried not to cry out, but the Chaplain would not relent, pressing, nay, grinding the prod deeper into Alaric’s flesh. Finally, with a sharp cry of pain, the Apothecary could take no more. The Chaplain, satisfied, removed the brand, leaving the smoking sign of the Deathwatch embedded onto Alaric’s chest. Forever. Breathing hard as he glared at the Chaplain, Alaric said nothing. “Beware of your youth, Apothecary,” the Chaplain warned as he placed the prod back into the flames, echoing his earlier words, “your perseverance and stubbornness does you credit, but it will make you many enemies.” Alaric did not reply immediately, instead standing tall as his brothers saluted him. “Enemies will be dealt with, according to the whims of the Emperor,” he said as he walked off, his back straight and his shoulders widened in pride. The Chaplain said no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As he moved through the door, the thick stench of scorched metal and ozone assaulted his nostrils, along with a wave of heat. For a second it almost overwhelmed him, but amongst those who had already been initiated clamouring around their suits, Alaric finally spotted his own plate, newly refurbished. Slowly, with a smile on his face, like he was meeting an old travelling companion, Alaric approached the armour, but the smile soon disappeared, replaced with a contemplative smile. The classic white design of the Apothecaries had been painted over, replaced with the sleek black paint of the Deathwatch which had been evenly coated over the Mark VI Corvus Armour. Almost reverently, the Apothecary ran his hand over the armour. It was the relic of many battles past. His fingers ran over the pauldron between the molecular studs that characterised the armour, and even as he picked up the beaked helmet of the Corvus, he could see that at the very least that had been left white. The Apothecary was a little saddened to see the Prime Helix which had dominated his left pauldron had disappeared, replaced by the black and silver of the Deathwatch, but his right remained the proud winged sword of the Dark Angels.

“AllOW Us to ASsisT…” chimed the disturbingly mechanical voice of a servitor as he was closed upon by a gaggle of them. Nodding, the Apothecary spread his arms, and the Servitors began the armouring process, connecting the interface nodes to his black carapace, each one causing a small shock as his brain adjusted to the new sensory input. In the meantime, Alaric thought about his predecessor who had worn this armour. His name had been Marius, and like a true son of the Lion, he had refused to take a step back and stoically advanced in the face of their enemy, even as his brothers fell before him. At the conclusion of the battle, Marius was all that had remained of his original squad. After that, the celebrated marine seemed to be blessed, or perhaps cursed, as any battle as fierce as his first always ended up with him as the lone survivor, standing amongst the fields of corpses, of both ally and enemy. Eventually, however, the Emperor’s divine providence ran thin, and Marius was slain in battle, and the armour returned to the Chapter. Every time Alaric put on this plate, he could feel his will hardening, and the gaze of the Emperor watching over his every step. He smiled as the armour finally pressurised. May both Marius and the Emperor continue watching over him.

After finishing the armouring process, Alaric was finally presented with the final item that he had longed for ever since arriving at the Watch station. Finally, his Narthecium had been returned to him, and it looked relatively unchanged, but he would have to check that later. Keeping it in its inert form, Alaric said a quick rite to the Emperor for his blessings and closed his eyes, fitting his helmet over his head even as he chanted the Prayer of pressurisation. His youthful visage was soon replaced with the iconic Corvus pattern beaked helmet, which was painted a stark bone white in contrast to the rest of the black panoply. He was not done yet. Slowly, his voice reached a powerful cadence, drawing eyes to him as he spoke in the old Caliban tongue, heading towards the end of the hall, as he shrouded himself in the beige robe that had been presented to him. A Deathwatch member he may be, but he would forever be a Dark Angel at heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boarding his assigned Thunderhawk, Alaric recognised the forms of both Watch Captains Kyros and McGarrack, along with two new faces, one bearing the heraldry of the Storm Wardens, like McGarrack, and another whose helmet was the colour of rust, various mechanical arms and such dangling from his back. A techmarine. His mechanical counterpart within the Chapter. And a Guardian of the Covenant at that. Alaric passed him a look, wondering if he know of the Fallen and…the Unforgiven…A shared burden would do well to ease his soul. Silently, as the other two newcomers bantered, Alaric strode past them and as he passed, locked eyes with Kyros, who held his gaze, before nodding, as if in approval. A thousand words were exchanged in that single look. A thousand that the two of them would only know. Taking a seat beside the Techmarine, Alaric pulled down the hood of his robe, revealing the white helmet of the Apothecaries. Opening up his Narthecium, he started to tinker with its inner workings, making sure they were all up to his standards, and hopefully had not been tinkered with by that near insane Marine Errant. First the Reductor…then the drill…then the diamntine tipped chainswords whirred faintly. Clicking his tongue, the Apothecary reached for a set of tools he habitually kept on himself, but could not find. Looking over to the Techmarine, he hmmed thoughtfully. “Brother…may I trouble you for some assistance?” he asked through his armour’s Vox-speakers as he continued to fiddle with the diagnostor and the various syringes and drugs that made up his Narthecium.

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Ignore my first roll for armour. My net stuffed up after I sent the roll request and it sent me to a page cannot be found thing. Didn't know my request amnaged to get through before it actually happened.

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

These rolls...

http://orokos.com/roll/m-Harbringer

DEATHWATCH "First Amongst Equals" Advanced RP & Tabletop

Show us on the doll where he touched you.