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What's this then, ey?! You'd best not be a manhunter!



I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.

As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)

So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.

Most Recent Posts

I intend to get this rolling by Friday, so if anyone else is interested, do get in touch. Grazie mille.
@NuttsnBolts Many thanks, Nutts.
@Jaredthefox92 Couple of things; can you put your CS in a hider? It's neater that way. Secondly, please delete your sheet from the character tab. Lastly, could you please join the RP Discord thread.

Many thanks.
Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap!

A Necromundan Bounty Hunter RP

This RP is now accepting new characters

Discord Link:

In Character Info:

There was a point where I honestly believed that work might dry up around here, but did it feth, nah, I was a fool to think it – there's always work in the underhive – but, while I was happy as a Greenskin in his own filth, I might not have taken the contract if I knew what it would mean.

Seemed like your everyday contract: go to a certain place and get your instructions from the employer, follow their directions all proper like, carry out the job and the God-Emperor's your uncle and the Lord-Protectors yer aunt! But nah, I should have realised something was rotten when I was told I'd need to work in a group, a group! Me! I hadn't worked with others for nearly a decade, and that had been one Warp of a job.

So too, it turned out, would this one be.

Was just another scummy day in the cesspit of the underhive, and I found me self on my merry way to an 'office' of the Mercator Pallidus – or to us uneducated swine, the spine chilling Corpse Guild – prepared to take on an apparently well-paying contract (that I'd need to split with others) not knowing that ultimately I'd regret it.

Out of character info:

Welcome, one and all, to the grim darkness of the future where their is only war!

This time around we're heading to the depths of the underhive and the warring factions of Necromunda where, amid the smelted iron and the ever present danger of death around every corner, there are those that hire themselves out for coin, resources, and reputation... and you just so happen to be one of these Bounty Hunters yourself.

Something probably interested you about the contract, as sparse as it is on details, a bounty contract put forth by none other than the Corpse Guild itself. Why? Well, from what you can gather from the contract, someone or 'some ones' have been cutting into their business, bodies disappearing without ever being found, save for blood spatters and incoherent scrawling written in blood nearby.

As a hired killer there is likely one thing that attracted you above all others, and that is the reward that comes with completion of the contract. What with being direct from a Guild, and requiring more than one blade or gun-for-hire, the rewards are considerable.

In the dank belly of Hive Primus is where you must go, to contact a shady Guilder known only as 'Mortis', apparently awaiting eager hunters at his 'offices' in an infamous bar called The Inside Joke.

So there we are.

I'm looking for in all probability six writers as a maximum, to form a Venator Gang of Bounty Hunters for this here roleplay; I'd also like to enforce a rule that characters are drawn from the primary six Clan Houses, so as to avoid many complications and keep it grounded in the 'Mundaverse – should you wish to take on the role of something other than, then we can discuss it, but outside of an Ogryn (or other Abhuman) or the like that can be found on Necromunda, it'll probably be a no-no.

If you've any questions then please feel free to ask, until then come one come all and let the hunt begin.


The contract will be explained in greater detail in the first post.

Character Sheet

Please submit your character sheets by posting them in the OOC thread before posting them to the Character tab.

Name: Your character's name. A pretty obvious one, so enough said.

Clan House: From which House do they hail?

Personal Demeanour: What kind of person is your character, what are their motivations etc, and how do they interact with others? Also please include any hatreds, grudges, and so on.

Description: A written description of your character's appearance. No pictures. Please include here any armour or clothing as well.

Skills: What skills do they possess, how did they come by them, what have they used/been using them for? Please include any specialist/specialised skills as well.

History: A sketch of your character's life and history, preferably until they were made aware of the contract. Give me three solid paragraphs, at least, please.

Equipment and Armament: What do they bring with them/carry on their person? This includes weapons. Be sensible when deciding, as weight can be an issue even for a Goliath.

Miscellaneous: Anything you want to mention but haven't been able to cover yet.

Several hours must have passed since their entry into the palace, thought Victorine to herself, pacing down yet another corridor and watching with satisfaction as another las-round burrowed through the mask and into the skull of yet another orange-clad heretic.

Much like the hours, they must surely have dispatched every heretic within the confines of the palace walls! How could they not have? She had already dried two-to-three ammo packs, leaving them hissing on the floor as she moved with her comrades-in-arms, toward an area that all woman jack of them would know when they got there.

"And here we are..." muttered the Celestian, pausing briefly and moving into a half-crouch, turning to look at her Sisters with a half-grimace half-smile of fanatacism, "something waits for us within, though I cannot know what as the God-Emperor does, but I can... feel... something... beyond those doors, where we have all stepped before." Her eyes turned to look at the doors ahead, large enough for a dreadnought to pass through without hinderance, and her expression became dark with woe, "prepare your weapons, Sisters and, if it is required, give your lives for the God-Emperor and our Imperium."

Checking one last time that her bolt pistol was loaded, and that the spirit of her powersword was prepared to take further life, Victorine gave a hand signal to proceed up the corridor and straight at the doors.


The audience hall could not have been any more different than it had been the first time they saw it; while previously it had been filled to the rafters with officials, retinues, and the sound of soaring music, the hall now contained no sound but that of the door swinging open to reveal a sight that made the Celestian's hands tighten into fists and her blood run hot through her veins.

There stood before the spreading trio, near enough at the other end of the darkened and empty hall, was the grille-mouthed Emissary - he stood as still as the shadows all around him, and just as uncaring at their prescence it seemed, two robotically strengthened hands clasped on either side of a kneeling figure... none other than Governor De'mange himself! The poor man had obviously been drugged or poisoned, still dressed in his nightwear, his lolling head only kept upright by the trecherous parasite gripping it.

"Welcome Sisters," intoned the puppet-master in a voice as emotionless as the circuits that ran through his nervous system, his hooded head leaving only his ashen face and glinting grille visible in the moonlight, "I am truly sorry that this has to happen, I did not want it to you see. No, believe me, I tell the truth, Emperor as my witness."

With a slight twist of his hands, and a loud crunch of bone, the neck of Diokletian was broken without so much as a thought, and the formerly virile and strong Governor dropped to the floor as no more than a sack of meat.

"Humans, so very fragile. He was a cruel master though, you can rest assured he did not deserve all that the Emperor and his Imperium had given him."

It was then that the Emissary brushed his hands together in an oddly human gesture, as if brushing dirt from his hands, other arms moving beneath the folds of his robes - holding concealed weapons no doubt.

"Speaking of masters, I believe you have mine incarcerated aboard your ship." It was not a question but a statement, also a delivering of terms, "release him, please. I will ask only once. Do so, and not only may you all keep your lives, but the life of your sainted girl will not be forfeit in place of my masters."

Victorine looked to each of her Battle Sisters in turn, her hand moving ever-so-slowly toward the hilt of her bolt pistol, hoping that they too would take the hint.

The time for talking had been over the moment that they entered the hall... now was the time for death and retribution.



"Horacio Mazzini," spoke a far-away voice, a voice made up of a multitude of voices in fact, moving through the Confessors mind as if whatever was speaking to him had him surrounded internally, "you will not... can not... die here, the God-Emperor has not had his fill of you yet, Confessor."

Something began to form within his mind, first nothing more than an outline of blinding white light, before the figure of a young woman stepped into his thoughts and conciousness, her face serene and calm as she gazed into him dressed in no more than a light shift.

"Even now your charges fight for their lives, seeking to save me and to redeem this planet from damnation. They cannot do it alone, Horacio. Not without the spiritual strength you supply to them.

She knelt down beside him then, striking his bleeding head calmly, a warmth spreading into him though he could have been awake or asleep at this point - it mattered not.

"Go to them Horacio, help them push back the darkness! Rise and fight, the Emperor commands it!

A crack and flash of light and she was gone, leaving only Horacio and the corpses of those he had killed some time earlier, the wound on his head naught now but a puckered scar.
@BCTheEntity@Lauder@Lady Selune@Hank@Eldritch Puppy@Kood

Several months later...

The barren surface of the stripped planet was, as with everything else above and below, a perfect training ground - the squad of warriors, now under the overall command of Drill Sergeant Hallr, having come together one night in the refectorum with little time to get to know one another since; the Forgepriest and apothecary especially had had their own training to complete, getting to know the technology and biology of the Watches multiple enemies was something of paramount importance - now they stood once more as a fledgling kill-team with naught but a respirator, gravity stabilised boots, and a weighted create that the Sergeant had bought with him.

"Welcome to the surface of Jorval, recruits," he spoke in a blank monotone, sweeping an arm over the grey and craggy landscape, a very grim reminder of just what a Tyranid hive fleet was capable of, "hopefully you shall get to know one another a little better after this exercise"

Taking a knee next to the crate, he opened it to reveal a number of well-used training weapons - bolters modified to shoot non-lethal rounds, and combat knives with dulled blades, though all would work just like the real thing against simulated enemies - and handed a pair to each of the Astartes standing nearby.

"Over that horizon," he announced with a finger pointing approximately north-east of their current position, "is an outpost, an entrance to a larger subterranean complex we believe. Your objective is to enter the complex, locate and retrieve the cache of Imperial weapons taken by the foe, as well as bringing back a hostile for further study. As to the nature of the foe, we believe a cult of Tyranid nature to be in operation there. Questions?"

The directions were straightforward, though other details were left deliberately vague, so should any of the present Marines require clarification now was the time to ask.
Near silence reigned in the grand hall of the Watch-Fortress - the only sound the steady tramping of oversized feet and the light swishes of identical black robes worn by all recently arrived initiates to the vigil - the vast and expansive cavern having once been nought but barren rock, now it was barren rock from which dangled the banners of fallen heroes and the displayed trophies of previous missions well done only, otherwise empty of furniture and with only a plateau rising over the heads of the serried congregation; standing upon the raised rock dais and coolly casting a red-lensed gaze over the hundred-or-so mustered recruits was Watch-Commander Erazmius Kade, veteran of a thousand battles and specialist when it came to the killing of the Tyranid menace, most of his face damaged by Tyranid bio-acid during a particularly nasty skirmish some forty years ago, leaving a mass of angry scarring and a bionic left eye.

While not formally a part of the 'training' that the newest Astartes had been promised, an address by the Watch-Commander was a traditional greeting, welcome, and warning before the heavy lifting began - whether anyone chose to listen to him was their own choice, but they would be wise to do so.

A tense electricity filled the air as he now stepped to the fore, the fortresses chief Chaplain and Librarian remaining in the rear while their overlord - resplendent in his gleaming black armour and the silver pauldron of the Deathwatch, a deep crimson cape brushing the rock floor behind him, and the singular blue pauldron of his Chapter bearing the 'U' and adding a splash of colour to an otherwise sombre uniform - made ready to speak.

"Brothers of a hundred Chapters," he began in the resonant voice of a trained orator, the natrual acoustics of the cavern allowing every marine to hear him no matter where they stood, "my greetings to you and my strongest welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, now let me impart to you some advice, to help you during your service here."

"Firstly, always listen to your superiors, everything they do is in your best interests - though it may not appear so at the time - they are professionals, veterans and conssumate warriors, and their word is law within these walls."

"Secondly, you may be from differing Chapters, you may have feuds that run to beyond living memory, but here you are all Deathwatch. This is your brotherhood, those around you are your battle-brothers, and unsanctioned conflict will result in reprimand and punishment."

"Thirdly and last of all, you may believe yourselves to be superlative warriors, prime exemplars of the Emperors finest, without peer. You may even delude yourselves into thinking you have seen all that this galaxy has to throw at you... trust me that you are wrong, and will soon come to know it."

Pausing to take another look over the robed ranks before him, the larger Primaris recruits easily seen among their firstborn brethren (warriors he had decidedly chosen not to point out as 'other'), Erazmius gave a accepting nod and half smile before a long intake of breath, "may the Emperor watch over you all."

So it was that forty-eight hours from their arrivals, technically forty-nine if you counted the Watch-Commanders welcome, that one-hundred or so new initiates began their formal training to become members of the secretive but venerated Deathwatch; sundered into exactly twenty randomly selected groups of five-man kill-teams, the Astartes were then taken on their assigned path by one of the thousands of cloaked and hooded menials that kept Jorval functioning as it should - they were serfs like any other, as far as any outsider knew, but never revealed their faces and spoke only in hushed tones if at all, communicating with hand signs and an assortment of hisses and whistles.

Some teams would be sent without delay to one of the multitude of firing chambers and ranges, others escorted quietly to the halls of the archives sunk deep into the planets hollowed core, and even more taken to the hypno-induction chambers to sit for hours on end and consume data and knowledge perhaps more widely known, and reams that were most certainly not.

All this would be done without armour and sticking to the second of a schedule specially crafted so that within the confines of a week all would have experienced the same.

Rising early, a marine would then join the rest of his kill-team who would have been barracked nearby, they would then join the other teams in morning prayer/devotion to the Emperor, Primarch or whomever, before being taken away to begin the days work. There would be a short respite in the evening, teams circulated to the refactorum to consume what they wished - the standard fare being a nutrient rich gruel-like paste - more picky Chapters granted permission for more flavourful sustenance if they so wished. It was then back to training, evening devotionals, and back to the chamber.

For nearly a month the newcomers will have gone through this with the own kill-teams, the five Astartes alone and trained separately from others, but now it was time to allow a little mingling of the formations... and it was usually here that the friction truly began.

"Brothers, your attention please."

Sergeant Saewine of the Executioners bought Kill-Team Saewine to the present, their focus upon him and only him, though they were presently engaged in unarmed combat practise that had even Milo breathing heavily. Opposite the gigantic marine stood a moustached marine of the Marauders, equally out of breath, but also thus far unable to land a blow that even moved the 'cursed' battle-brother who fought him to a stand still each time.

"Welcome to Veteran-Sergeant Revaz and his charges, come to see how it's done?"

An Astartes bearing a stylised black tome with a white, four-pointed star in the centre, sitting upon a bone backdrop upon one pauldron took a step forward and inclined his covered head.

"Well met Saewine, it appears you have quite the assortment of savages here, perfect for you."

Saewine took the jest in good humour, glancing back at the two Blood Angels, one Son of Antaeus, one Marauder and singular Aurora marine that made up his given kill-team.

Milo smiled full-toothed smile, sensing some competition in the air, able to pick out the unknown faces of Baruchiel Ventarian @Lauder, Lelandros @Lady Selune and battle-brother Atrias @Kood from among several others.

"What say a friendly bout then?"

Revaz gave a helm-boosted chuckle and turned to his own squad, "what say you, my students? Show these curs who the superior fighting force is?"

Drill-sergeant Odilon Hallr gave another shake of his pale head, noting down multiple weaknesses in the performance of his students in the carrying out of his simulated operation - that being the assassination of a high-ranking T'au official. It was a mission he knew went against all codes of warfare the majority of Space Marine Chapters practised, for although they were the Emperors scalpel they were blunt for all that.

Annihilating enemy forces, tearing them apart with bolter and blade, these were things for which the physiology and mindset of the Astartes were formed and perfected but sneaking into a guarded chamber to lay an enemy and then make it out alive? It was another task entirely.

Being judged by one of the Mentor Chapter meant that there were notably more points to work on than would be the case in different circumstances.

"We shall reset the course, and I want it done perfectly."

The course as it was consisted of a perfect replica of a walled T'au diplomatic compound, holographic projectors emitting eerily lifelike Fire Warriors and even a couple of XV8 Crisis suits, their shots not able to kill but more than capable of disabling a marine dependant on location and calibre of weapon; set within one of a thousand subterranean arenas, it was just one example of the cutting-edge facilities used by the black-clad Xenos-killers.

In itself the scenario was simple; abseiling onto the domed roof of the compound, removing a number of sentries while avoiding patrolling drones, entry into the main building and room-by-room until the diplomat was located, dispatch the envoy and then extraction over the wall and out - it was unfortunate that with each failure and reset the diplomat was moved to another room, the pattern of the drones changed, the behaviours of the Fire Warriors switched to another.

Parion Sharratar @Eldritch Puppy, Aodh Cailpeach @BCTheEntity, and the unknown component of Yndrasil @Hank - member of a Chapter that not even Odilon had ever heard of in his centuries of service - were to undertake the simulation once more alongside the two others of their kill-team.

A mournful klaxon sounded, all was ready once more.

"Right, Kill-Team Hallr, again!"
"I do not understand, you summoned me here to view this dead planet?"

Shipmaster Apolena Jelka held back a small chuckle from her throat, entirely unphased by the presence of the bio-engineered killing machine at her side. Although only young as far as servants of the Imperium went, at a mere eighty-five Terran years old, she had spent the majority of those solar cycles doing just as she did now - that was transporting of battle-brothers from various Chapters to-and-from the God-Emperors Deathwatch. Now she looked out the window of the viewing deck aboard her Hunter-class Destroyer, shifting a little from one leg to the other, and smoothing down her pressed black uniform, before constructing a reply.

"It is certainly decieving, my lord," she admitted with no reluctance, her tone one of mild amusement, "Jorval was once home to a substantial population, Imperial citizens all, before it was stripped of life by a tendril fleet of the Tyranid menace."

Milo allowed his handsome features to twist into a sneer, making his visage instantly more ugly, his grey eyes peering at the similarly coloured planet - the dead rock listless and still amid the stars - and the ever-present galactic scar of the Great Rift beyond it.

"Where is the Watch-Fortress? For that is why I am here, is it not. To look upon my new 'home'."

Apolena cleared her throat and gave a curt nod, not looking at the over-large face of the Son of Antaeus while she spoke again, "you were expecting a Ramillies Starfort, perhaps?" It was a flippant question, and rhetorical, one she had asked of many Astartes during her lifetime.

A grunt of affirmation was all she recieved in return.

"This planet is the fortress, lord. It was scoured of life, then scoured of Tyranid bioforms in turn, Watch-Fortress Jorval lies beneath the crust of the world, for there is no core to worry the Deathwatch and no life for lightyears in any direction."

He had to admit that he was impressed, preconceptions about orbiting arrays bristling with armaments dashed by the mortal officers words, his mind and eyes now peering at and analysing the planet before him.

"I can discern no defenses... What can you tell me about them?"

Two piercing blue eyes now looked at Milo from beneath thin brows of straw-blonde hair, the Shipmasters lips forming a smile once more.

"Lord, you know I am forbidden to speak of such things; all I may say is that we are as well defended here as we would be in any Chapters fortress-monastery. Now, if you will excuse me, we will be sending down your shuttle at your leisure."

Milo did not trace her as she walked away, at least not with his eyes, his hyper-swift mind taking in both her fading footsteps and his own thoughts in the blink of an eye. He heard her pause, knew she looked back, before keying in something on the doors control panel and exiting the deck with a small hiss.

Here he was then, clad in simple black robes adorned only with his Chapter symbol upon his chest and nothing more, moments away from what could be a glorious opportunity for he and his Chapter or a failure in both respects.

Several weeks earlier...

Harsh and unyielding light picked out the stern features of the two behemoths, their footsteps causing the underplating of the ships corridor to shake with each stride, each facially identical and yet they could not be more different.

"How many is that, Apothecary-Prime?"

The older of the pair, his face as creased and worn as a piece of old leather, as craggy as the face of a cliff, turned his blue eyes to the other look at the questioning grey orbs of the other. In them was a look of professional pride, yet it held a sadness that few other Astartes would or could ever feel.

"Twelve, twelve more than we can really afford to lose. They died in the usual manner, their bodies too weak to cope with the alterations."

Milo placed a hand on the pauldron of the Apothecary-Prime, a figure of both scientific and esoteric knowledge within the Sons, and gave what mortals may take for an empathetic smile.

"This is not so bad... why, I never believed I would survive my own evolution, but I did."

"You did, and our Chapter is ever thankful that it was so, but..."

"But now I must take my first oath and leave, leave my brothers for the Deathwatch."

"Yes," the tone of voice was more fatherly now, as Alkmaion sought the right words to say, "we made our pact with the Ordo Xenos, with the Watch, and now we must honour it."

Brother Milo, present yourself at the airlock S-15-98/82, the Deathwatch are waiting.

"This is where I take my leave then, my friend."

"It is," agreed Milo, clasping his own grey armoured hand around the bone-white armour of his comrade-in-arms, "see to our survival until I return, old one."

Both went their seperate ways, not a word between them or a look back given, time was of the essence and the Watch did not like to be kept waiting.

In the back of his mind Milo pictured the successful aspirants, the few victors in the Chapters trials, strapped to tables in sterile surroundings as their entire bone structure altered itself, with a little help from incense-wreathed Apothecaries and skull-faced Chaplains.

He could feel his own body giving a receptic twitch to his thoughts, shifting his focus rapidly away from it and back to the moment at hand.

"Brother-Veteran Milo."

It was a statement directed at him by an emmissary of the Ordo, a thickset and experienced looking man dressed in nearly featureless black bodyglove - only the embellished =][= of the Ordo Xenos glimmering in the ships light, one gloved hand rising to present a rolled item to the gigantic marine.

Milo took it in one hand, carefully cracking the wax seal and unravelling the scroll, his eyes working over the spider-like handwriting there in less time than it took a man to blink.

"I, Brother-Veteran Milo - called 'the Deathless' - give myself to the Deathwatch as fulfilment and assurity of the pact between the Sons of Antaeus and the Emperor's holy Ordo Xenos, this is my first oath."

"So be it," intoned the emissary, "please board the shuttle, and we shall see your oath completed."

Jorval was as lifeless as it had appeared from orbit, nay even more so, the whole expanse a barren landscape of grey rock underfoot and the twinkling stars and blackness of space above.

Milo marched in a column of figures, eight servitors carrying his arms and armour - fitted with gravity-giving emitters - while tech-adepts moved silently beside and around them; for his own part he had been given the largest enviromental suit they could find, and a rebreather mask, only his own gravity emitters stopping him from being launched into the space surrounding the atmosphere-cleansed rock.

Eventually they came to a rock that appeared to be much like any other, the emissary that that had rejoined him during their embarkation now moving forward and placing what looked to be a rosette against a part of the rock. Moments passed before he took a step back, a hollow coming to life and before long the entire rock had sunk into the earth, leaving a lift shaft in its wake.

Down, down and down they went, the ceilingless lift large enough for an entire platoon of Stormtroopers, the machinery churning as they descended down a shaft of featureless rock as smooth as obsidian or marble.

Milo remained unimpressed, or that was until they began to be lowered into what he assumed was the central area of the Watch-Fortress...

From his vantage point he could see everything, a million small details picked out that a human eye would have missed, the nearing intersection below them a bustling metropolis of vehicles and men, the towering figures of black-clad Astartes wading through groups of red-robed Martians and lower stooped menials, figures garbed in bodyglove holding Hellguns in their hands and looking out through masks shaped like leering skulls.

And the noise... oh the noise!

The intersection itself had clearly once been a cavern of great size, tunnels large enough for tracked APCs or battalions of Militarum snaking away into darkness - no doubt connected to an even further network of corridors, chambers and arenas - a hundred turrets whirring back and forth from every angle, not a few even now keeping pace with the lift as it came to a halt on the caverns floor.

"Welcome to Watch-Fortress Jorval, Brother-Veteran Milo."

Was that a smile from the emissary?

"Your armour and weapons shall be taken away, cared for by our own menials until your second oath is taken and all returned, likely in even better condition than you left it."

Milo was not so sure of this, his eyes focusing on the emissary even as he made a note of the several Kill-teams stooping their way into a Rhino APC some yards away.

"Oh it will all be fine," assured the nameless guide with another smile, preempting the Son and his questions, "we like our new arrivals to get used to training without their armour, you see."

A grunt was all he got in reply, the trail of menials and tech-adepts disappearing into the hustle and bustle of the surrounding crowd along with his second-skin and the equip ment he had used in war for centuries.

"Very well, please, allow me to show you to your chamber."

It appeared to take hours for the two figures to find themselves in the antechamber of Milo's current living quarters, moving through weaving corridors and over several crossroads of pathways - so much so that even the Sons superhuman mind had trouble following every twist and turn - until they reached a corridor on which twelve Astartes would find their new rooms to be.

"Large but spartan, much like you Space Marines yourselves," half-chuckled his erstwhile guide, "through there is a prayer area and, once you gain permission to paint your armour, a personal armoury is through that archway there."

Milo had to admit that the chambers were well constructed, the ceilings high and the walls crafted of a smooth stone which didn't seem native to Jorval, and even his sleeping-cot had been adjusted to fit his prodigious frame.

Had he been permissed to view other chambers he would have noticed various distinctions, those of Vulkan's seed had within their quarters braziers of intense flame, while the Black Templar sons of Dorn had more elaborate religious chapels, and those cursed sons of Sanguinius slept inside specially crafted sarcophagi.

"Thank you, I think I shall rest for a time."

He did not require it, indeed he had not slept for some time, but if it would allow him to be left alone with his thoughts then so be it.

"Very well," said the Emissary with a nod of acceptance, "you shall be summoned within forty-eight Terran hours for initial training, please do not leave your chambers until then."
@Lady Selune By the forge! Post him up. :)
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