Grijs
Breezi
Fetzen
Hos
Little Bill
Master EffeX
Lauder@Lauder
Event: Meeting of the XIX and XIII Primarch - Steel and Sand
Location: Terra - Inner Imperial Palace
Date: M30.862
Parties Involved: XIX Primarch Usriel, XIII Primarch Zaphariel, Adeptus Custodes, Remebrancers of Terra
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Terra.
The penultimate center of humanity that had struggled to rise from the ashes of strife and ignorance. It’s golden clad capital, the Imperial Palace, built upon the formerly frosted mountains known as the Himalazian Mountains. Once a mere conclave to shelter the Master of Mankind on his infamous rise to power, now it was a glorious continent spanning bastion of administration and military might. No other world could possibly replicate what the Emperor of the Imperium had turned Old Terra into. For only Terra could truly be crowned as the Throneworld of the Imperium.
Deep within the golden halls of the resplendent continent-capital, the companions of the Emperor walked ever vigilantly between the vast infrastructure with hyper focused fixation. Administrators, those underlings of the Sigillite, rapidly maneuvered between the vast Scholariums and the furthest walks to the Sentaroum. Even as the members of the War Council assembled to deal with the most pressing issues of the Imperium, it was minute in the grand scheme of things to come. In the gargantuan courtyards of the Palace, Legion Masters prepared their yet to be reunited legionnaires for war abroad. Strangely, despite the industrial scaffolding in the furthest reaches of the palace, the snow fell across the structure’s length in a scene of serenity.
Although the unfinished Imperial Palace held many denizens of great power, none were as great as the Emperor and his geneforged children. Two, of which, currently reside on the Throneworld with their godly father. It was these powerhouses of genetic might that had returned to learn their origins, reunite with their Legion, and train in the fabled halls of the Adeptus Custodes. The Thirteenth Primarch, who was found a decade ago, and the Nineteenth Primarch, who had only recently been discovered, closed themselves within those illustrious training halls on this day. Left to their devices by the Captain-General of the Custodes, the duo sweat in their respective corners of the square arena.
On the eastmost edge of the square, the lithe form of a tanned deity leaned up against the decorated wall with a manner of darker bruises on his visible skin. A dark, silken robe clung to his otherwise stark body, while one of his hands held aloft a weighty training blade. Opposite of him, another deity much larger than the first silently drank from a skin of water. Similarly, the much lighter skinned giant was donned in a robe with lightly tanned colors. This titan, too, held a weapon of similar weight in this hand. The tanned one swept back his length of unkempt, black hair to blast the wall with a vibrant spray of sweat. Mimicking the smaller, the gargantuan deity rolled his shoulders back in preparation.
“Well, brother, Valdor has left us to hang and dry like rags. I will never grow accustomed to the way that he fights. Every single movement of his is efficiently timed without fault.” The tanned deity finally broke the silence between the two, widely smiling as he approached the center of the small arena. The crunch of sand crackled beneath his bare feet as he stepped onto the inner edge. Predatory, vibrantly orange eyes met with the other’s tired orbs. “Could you believe the way he threw me like a child’s toy? He even managed to physically push a titan like you!”
“Only once has the great Zaphariel ibn Varranis, Malik of Pandjoras, been trounced so completely!” He gestured wildy above him in a dramatic display of himself. The shoulders of the tanned deity, properly recognized as Zaphariel, slumped. The primarch then indicated the opposite primarch with his hands. “At least you only got pushed a mere few meters, my titanic wall of a brother.”
“I was still brought out of the ring,” Usriel stated, knowing his own folly of being defeated and already coldly calculating corrections for further training. The nineteenth son looked to Zaphariel, not matching his kin’s more grandiose nature, lingering on his defeat just a bit longer. In a reserved motion, the primarch narrowed his blue eyes at Zaphariel before ultimately closing them - attempting to relax his mind. Usriel would speak once more, “It seems my nature of being but a brute upon my enemies must be put behind me, lest I lose those Astartes our lord has gifted us in some quagmire.”
The words would hold an echo in the training room as Usriel breathed out, mentally reciting the canticles that had been taught to him for so long. They did little to ease him, but he would still focus on them and use them to focus himself away from worrying about the weakness of flesh. Augor had already gone into great detail with him about such and he did not wish to hear a repeat of the memory in his mind again. Yet, what did soothe him was knowing that there were others that were like him, not a replacement for his family but a connection was there nonetheless.
“Ah yes… the Astartes. Our children in a strange sense. I met with them when I first arrived here. They were quite dour originally, but they open up once you crack into their figurative ceramite shells. Mini versions of ourselves cast in a mold of conditioned loyalty. Our father has quite the imagination to devise such warriors.” Zaphariel mused aloud as he began to slowly encircle the ‘brute’ in question. Slowly, the foot of the tanned deity was drawing new lines in the sand. The weighted blade in Zaphariel’s hand twirled several times over as he limbered up once more. “I doubt you’d lose them so handily, Usriel, you have a knack for being unbreakable with those sorts of things.”
“Valdor soundly beat us. That much is true. I wager that if we had attacked together, then perhaps we could’ve beaten him profoundly.” With a new circle drawn in the sand, wide enough to accompany two demi-gods, Zaphariel stopped at his original position before the chanting giant. His words dripped with creeping excitement at the prospect of his next act. The weighted blade finished its final twirl, planting itself into the ground next to the King of the Dunes. “With that in mind, brother, we will need to ascertain our combat proficiencies against one another. What say you? One final training session to tag team the Captain-General?”
Usriel let out a singular utterance of a chuckle, the edges of his lips almost curling into a sly smile. Though, formality would run its course and the cold face of the nineteenth would become calculating once more as he lifted his own blade from the ground. He shifted himself, readying for the bout the two would have as the giants stared each other down. The primarch would utter the start of their training, his voice flowing off the sands of their arena, “Begin, Zaphariel.”
True to his nature, Usriel held his ground, feet firmly planted within the sand as his blue orbs darted across his now opponent’s form. It seemed the Primarch was studying Zaphriel before any movement began, holding defensively as he raised his blade. The only thing that stood between the two was the very air and sand grains that made up their arena.
“Excellent.” The small smile that had been playing across his lips burst into a wide grin. His pupils widened like a feral creature on a hunt. The eyes of Hassan appeared more vibrantly than before, playing to the emotion of the Thirteenth Primarch. Zaphariel rapidly stepped back several paces within their circle, drawing the training blade from the sand. As his retreat slowed, the Dusk Warden lowered his stance in a half-crouch with the training weapon outstretched before him. The Malik of Pandjoras emulated Usriel by closely watching his movements. Defensive, non-aggressive, and composed. Every wall, however, must have a crack in its foundation.
The Dusk Warden encircled the Titan of Vion 5 in a slow, methodical dance that shifted the sands. Each step was spritely, threatening to evolve into a thunderous lunge. The training blade remained composed throughout Zaphariel’s fighting form, never wavering from its outstretched position. His gaze never faltered from its hunting guise, nor did his form reveal any hints of overt weakness. It was a lure, however, a powerful stance that falsified confidence in the opponent and baited them into a trap.
As the dancer rounded the circle for the first time, Zaphariel realized with dawning reality that Usriel had no crack in his defense. Truly, he thought, a wall of steel and unbreakable will. With a small laugh about to break his lips apart, the Warden of the Dusken World pounced into action, sweeping under the sands and into an overhead cleave. The blade scraped the bottom of the fighting pit, scattering sand in the air while Zaphariel’s body twisted into a nefarious leap that caught the weapon to reverse it downwards. A sudden attack boasted with extreme agility that could enrapture a feral carnosaur. The fight had begun in earnest with the opening attack.
Even as the suddenness of the attack had come, Usriel had already been prepared - having seen the double image of Zaphariel’s strike before it had truly happened. Rather than leave himself open to being pushed out of the ring, the Titan stepped to the side, his blade being held close as to not touch his opponent’s own. Without the swiftness of the first attack, but with the brutality of titans, Usriel brought his own blade down as Zaphariel landed. The Father of the Nineteenth would not be caught so easily from an assassin’s attack, for none have struck him down yet whilst he has dispatched enough to form a small graveyard.
“Well dodged, brother!” The Malik of Pandjoras spoke, laughing at the impossible speed of the primarchial brute. The strike should’ve produced more results than to simply be dodged, but the umbral sheik predicted it was a lucky sidestep. Zaphariel utilized the momentum from the leaping strike to deftly maneuver away from Usriel’s strike. The Dusk Warden’s Primarch swept his leg against the arena’s floor to stir up more of the sand into the air. With a cloud of particles between the fighting deities, the tanned god brought the training blade into a low uppercut aimed at the Father of Steel’s weapon. If the unbreakable wall would not fold, then perhaps its emplacements could be shattered? Yet no steel was shattered.
Usriel had once more foreseen the attack in perfect clarity and had moved his blade away just in time for Zaphariel to catch nought but air. No amount of sand or smoke could have saved Zaphariel’s attempt to shatter Usriel’s impregnable defenses - no wall would crumble under a storm. The giant danced backwards, quickly catching his feet before propelling himself forwards in a counter attack. Blindly stabbing forwards into the sand that had erupted between them, hoping that a strike would land true against the other Primarch. Steel would be unyielding to the sands of dusk, unbreakable and unstoppable for what was sand but a grain?
“You honor me, brother mine, with the quickness of your step!” The darker Primarch jeered, a backhanded compliment for successfully being able to move the steel titan backwards. Skill, speed, and tricks weren’t favoring his combat as the other had somehow managed to slip by each offensive. When all else fails, he thought, simple luck will have to run its course. Each blind stab at Zaphariel was met with ophidian veers, slithering by each strike into the thin veil of sand. The patient hunter of Pandjoras doffed his guise to wildly counterattack with a barrage of lightning quick slashes. Every driving attack was an attempt to disorient Usriel by simultaneously combining aimed slashes at the hands, feet, and abdomen. Despite this onslaught, the Malik of Pandjoras was reckless in his assault leaving as little balance as possible in his indiscriminate assault.
The only response from Usriel was but the harsh clash of metal upon metal - calm focus persevering against such reckless desperation. Each strike bounced away, blocked as an impregnable defense gave the assassin no ground to take, no advantage or weakness to be spotted. As the final blow of Zaphariel came, the counter-attack of the giant came just as swiftly as his opponent’s strikes - a singular strike with purpose. Overwhelming strength came down upon the master assassin as none would be held back from the strike that travelled along Zaphariel’s blade, casting sparks into the sands that erupted around them.
Death. The overwhelming feeling of nauseating dread flowed within the tanned deities lungs. An alarm that rang like a battlecruiser’s klaxon overloaded his thoughts in a consistent, relentless tone. His skin prickled with bumps, his hair stood on end, and his eyes sharpened to slits as Usriel’s blade clashed with his own. Zaphariel’s muscles bundled tight as an ambull’s carapace in anticipation of the recoil; however, it would prove to crumple under the leviathan strength of the XIX’s Primarch. The blade cracked in a shower of sparks and sand, splinters of metal scattering across the arena in sporadic chunks. All in a manner of seconds as the Steel Sentinel’s might broke through the training blade in a destructive wave of force. A shockwave cascaded through the broken blade, jettisoning the Thirteenth Primarch backwards out of the ring. The handle egressed to the left, penetrating the indomitable golden wall of the Custodes’ colosseum. The rest of the fragments either bore into the sand, Usriel’s psionic barrier, or Zaphariel’s tanned skin. A small crater of crunched metal smoked in the spot that the Malik of Pandjoras had last resided.
Zaphariel groaned, plucking the pieces of metal from his skin, before picking himself up from the ground. “Not a single strike on your person, Usriel. Are you certain you are not Valdor himself, or perhaps you are the Sigillite playing an illusion on me?” The words were spoken with a jest, but sourness lay beneath the waves of his etiquette. Dusting the sand from his robes, the Primarch straightened himself out to properly face the other Primarch. Suddenly, the dusken warrior gave a courteous bow before the Vionborne.
“You are victorious, my brother. I underestimated your raw power and you have my apologies.” Zaphariel swapped from his usual Pandjoras Low Gothic to a formal, respectful High Gothic. Every syllable spoken was ceremonious praise from the bowed primarch. Only when Usriel approached from the center of the scattered sand pit did the Primarch rise from his bow. “Perhaps you will fill me in on how you managed to evade every single one of my blade strokes once we’ve exited the training hall, brother.”
Usriel wordlessly planted his blade into the ground - steel sinking into the yellowed sands of their arena as a proclamation of its victory over the dunes. His face did not portray happiness over the victory, there was no relishing the defeat over the Malik despite how crushing it was. There was a moment as the sands calmed themselves, Usriel’s blue eyes scanning over Zaphariel to make sure that he was not hurt too badly - albeit the amount of damage a Primarch can endure is enough so that a training meant nothing. Yet, the colder of the two would still show some fashion of warmth to the defeated, clasping a hand on the shoulder of the assassin though not giving a smile or sign of other emotion.
“The battle was decided from the start, Zaphariel. The power of foresight is potent tool,” Usriel revealed, showing that the chance of victory for the assassin was near little. The Primarch took his hand away, beginning his march out of their training ground. He would offer a few more soft spoken words, “It was an admirable fight nonetheless.”
“Truly, Usriel, you would level prescience against me? For shame, brother, I thought we were fighting on equal footing. You wound your elder brother, stabbed both of his hearts with a steel dagger.” Zaphariel spoke with a tone of feigned pain, shaking his head in fake disappointment. The Primarch dramatically gestured every word with a mimed action of his own. He then quickly scurried after the Lord of Vion 5, easily matching pace with the titanic individual. Even as he walked the short distance to the other Primarch, the wounds left by the metal shards closed up as quickly as they had opened. “The next time that we should fight, I will hold nothing back. Now come, friend, I know a recluse scholarium perfect for relaxation.”
Despite his threatening statement, Zaphariel capered around the gigantic warrior while dodging the patrolling Custodes with practiced ease. The Pandjorasborn led their path further down the training halls of the Emperor’s companions. Distant sounds of blood splatter, concussive shockwaves, and shifting sands filled the partially empty corridors. As the duo of Primarchs passed, they witnessed the martial ka’tah famously known to the Custodes in their training. Precise movements, pristine strikes, and powerful blows were exhibited by the stark champions. They paid no mind to the genechildren of their Master, nor did the warriors halt their practiced combat.
Their voyage brought them through several golden arches engraved with the armor of the Custodes, topped only by the Master of Mankind or the aquila itself. Grand, brilliant banners with the eagle and lightning bolt unfurled in a patterned sequence along the walls. The sounds of the sanctimonious whispered in the distance were replaced by the whipping winds of the Himalazians. A stupendous pair of golden doors gated their exit, aureate champions flanking the gateway awaited their presence. Out of respect, or duty, the grandiose gates were opened to them to reveal the stubborn snow-capped mountain range. A length of immeasurably extensive stairs wound down from the gilded colosseum behind them. As an unfinished part of the Imperial Palace, there were no enclosed corridors to protect travelers from fragments of the environment.
Wisps of silver snow sprinkled the causeway, painting the primarchs in small shawls of soft flakes. The tanned deity rubbed his shoulders as he led Usriel towards another pair of gargantuan gates with a bastardized version of Malcador’s symbol above it. No golden champions awaited their arrival, the majority of the Custodes opting for several different routes in the palace. Instead, slack-jawed servitors heavily shrouded in layers of yellow robes immediately processed their advent. The gateway unsealed, allowing the twin warriors to properly enter the sanctum of the Palace once more.
At first glance, it was a typical scholarium with a plethora of data vaults in the form of enormous shelves. Glow-globes in the fashion of chandeliers hung from the circular ceiling tiles, while red carpets of vast length clung to the floor. Usually laden with parchment for later translation, the gigantic bookcases now stood empty save for single scrolls or thick grimoires that were ferried by adepts of Malcador’s administratum. Cogitators quietly hummed in peace as junior remembrancers studiously coveted knowledge at their stations. As if in a trance, none of the mortals moved to greet and bow the primarchs on their arrival. Zaphariel raised a silent digit to the other titanic deity.
“Let us say that I’ve struck a deal with these mortals. They get some alone time with me for their chronicles in training. I get a peaceful corner of the palace where mortals aren’t bowing at every corner.” The Malik of Pandjoras said, a sly smile replacing his already amiable demeanor. Zaphariel gave a short wave to a passing mortal, gesturing to a closed off room to their immediate left. The charcoal robed individual gave a deep bow before disappearing into the scholarium. “I’ve spent a decade in the Imperial Palace under the tutelage of our Father, but truthfully I only found this little sanctuary two years ago during one of the Custodes’ wargames.”
Usriel noted the humans around them, shifting uncomfortably by the lack of the Mechanicum’s presence around them. He had always been more comforted by the red and mechanical minds of those within the cult - a mindset that he had been raised upon and worked with for as long as he could remember. Yet, he would not allow the weakness of flesh corrupt his mind - for he was a direct creation of the Omnissiah and so he could not afford such weakness. Usriel looked to Zaphariel and studied his demeanor, noting it’s gradual shifting. He let out a singular breath as he entered the scholarium.
The room, while a natural part of the palace, felt unnatural and unnecessary to the Primarch who dealt with strategy and fortresses. He noted how the room provided little in the way of aid should the palace be put to siege, more of a hindrance to his mind. Usriel would scoff at the thought, the Primarch’s, a ‘Wolfram’ as far as the Father of Steel was concerned, designs could be improved upon. To break his focus, Usriel spoke to Zaphariel in a cold voice, bringing his attention back to their conversation, “Ah yes, their war games. I hear a custodes could butcher an entire army of mortals should they need to.”
“More than armies of mortals, Usriel, they are without peer, even comparable to us. Blood Games are what their games are called, but that is a discussion for another time. Relax, brother, your face is as set as weathered stone.” He spoke, noting his behavior on arrival to the scholarium, as the robed mortal returned to lead them to the room gestured to earlier. With the Terran leading the way, the trio stopped short of a door with a biometric cogitator beside it. A robed hand pressed against the terminal’s interface, lifting only to slap their digits against several runes. The portal slid open to reveal a cacophony of furniture, terminals, and assortments of shelves in a tight cluster. Glow globes, hanging from a chained chandelier, lit the room as they entered.
“Behold, my brother, quarters outside of quarters! A small sanctum within the Sanctum Imperialis! A lavish paradise away from the throng of mortals and liveries of the Palace.” Zaphariel excitedly roared as he ducked under the doorway into the confined space. The mortal remained behind as Usriel inevitably entered the room, but they stood directly outside the portal. Paradise, as he had said, was more accurately an impoverished lounge filled with unnecessary delights such as silken drapes and lavish materials found across the palace. Small banners bearing the mark of the Malik’s heritage - the sword and dusk sun - hung from the walls in random assortments. It was clear from the appearance of its original designation that the room was appropriated by the Primarch. The shelves, usually holding dataslates and grimoires, now held boxes of perishables and freshly shined, antique bottles filled with dark liquid.
“I know what you are thinking, Usriel, but I ask you to hold your judgments. Sit, relax, and let us speak of each other. We’ve barely gotten to touch the surface of knowing one another, and I am voracious to learn more of my little brother.” The sheik’s typical grin returned to light as he fetched a bottle of liquid. Zaphariel gestured to one of the many furniture amalgamations to seat themselves on. A circular table at the midst of the impromptu lounge, draped with a dark cloth, was cleared to set the glass with a pair of chalices. “I do warn you that this is no Saravata brew, nor is it ambrosia of Amn. It is a simple mortal substance for enjoyment. A calming wine that I sequestered from an outer palace pantry.”
Usriel watched the other Primarch grab the bottle, cocking an eyebrow as Zaphariel gestured for him to join in sitting. He made no immediate movement to join his brother as skepticism crept its way through his veins. It was at no fault of Zaphariel but it was hard to trust one that he had met not too long ago, the treacherous nature of Vion 5 sifting through his mind. In a moment of trust, through the skepticism and paranoia that laid concretely in his mind, Usriel moved to sit across from the other Primarch - even going so far as to sit back in a more relaxed manner.
A breath came through his nose, long and drawn as if Usriel were letting out years of stress in a sigh. His eyes scanned his surroundings absentmindedly, after all he could not be too relaxed in such a setting. Though, his inhuman calm continued to be the prime showing of his demeanor as he emotionlessly moved to pick up the bottle. His hands wrapped around it, bringing it closer to inspect it. A slow nod of acceptance of the drink came through, noting the age of the wine and the quality of it. His blue gaze shot back to the orange of Zaphariel - two complimentary coming together in the moment.
“Then, allow me to pour the first drink, Zaphariel. You may ask any question you wish,” Usriel said in a smooth tone, allowing himself a brief moment of relaxation. He leaned over, one hand pouring the smooth liquid into first Zaphariel’s chalice and then his own. Inspecting the drink once more, Usriel would return it to its place, exactly as it had been presented to him. He would break the silence again with a comment as his hands brought a chalice to him, swirling the liquid as he spoke, “It is not often that I am offered to drink, such things are not often presented amongst the clergy of Vion 5.”
“Clergy? Ah, yes, Father told me you had a similar upbringing to Augor. The chapel of the Omnissiah. The holy church of the Machine God. Harbingers of the Motive Force.” The dusken skinned deity spoke in artificial reverence. Truthfully, however, he found the jackals of Mars as little more than cultist puppets. Those manipulators had used their superiority in technology to forge a clever treaty with the Emperor. Deceitful, just as he was. They would’ve proven invaluable allies were it not for the treasure trove of archeotech on Pandjoras. “The techno-scavengers of House Bahamut certainly found allies in the Mechanicum when our Father arrived on Pandjoras.”
Sensing the briefest hesitation from Usriel, the Sultan of the Stars graciously accepted the honor of the first drink. Zaphariel drank deeply of the holy nectars of Terra’s artificial wines. He specifically drowned the chaliced beverage in a single movement. The Malik then revealed the empty vessel as the last drop was drained. A toothy grin formed as the Father of Steel’s pale-blue eyes stared down his chalice. “Worry not, Usriel, these bottles aren’t poisoned by nefarious vandals. If there is one person you should trust with poisons, then it is certainly I. We - the Hassan of the Dusken Sands - were raised to practice mithridatism from an early age. A single, poisoned bite from a void serpent could turn you into an obsidian statue.”
“Now, as for my question,” Zaphariel happily spoke as he refilled his own chalice with the savory, purple liquid. “Where’d you learn to fight with the power of prescience? Does it operate only in combat, or does it function in domestic affairs? It’s a wonderful ability that is certain to help you defeat most, if not all, opponents on the battlefield.” The words were said in good faith of the previous fight, but a twang of raw curiosity and interest pervaded his tone. As much as he disliked being played on the battlefield, the Malik of Pandjoras understood that there were no clear rules in a true fight.
After his question was posed and his vessel was filled, the Primarch allowed himself to recline on the cushioned seat across from Usriel. Zaphariel’s strange, slitted eyes had never left the XIX’s Primarch since they began to sit and drink. A hand crept up to cup the side of his own face, while the other held aloft his chalice in a relaxed manner. His lips forever pulled in a soft, joyful smile as he watched the other Primarch. A single, critical look at the dusken deity could ascertain that he was as vain as his aesthetic taste; however, an exceptionally trained eye could discern that every action was intentionally performed with scrutiny in mind.
And it was Usriel, grown by the very priests of Vion 5 and subtly molded by their hands in his upbringing, who would be able to see through the guise. Though, he made no attempt to make it known, instead seeming to be in brief contemplation over the question presented to him. He strained himself to formulate an answer to something that was so natural to him that he merely forgot about how unnatural it truly was. The Nineteenth Son leaned forwards slightly, cradling the chalice between his two hands as he looked into the deep red liquid. Words seemed hard.
“I -“ he stopped for only the briefest of moments before his deep voice crept back up, “It is not something I call upon. The power merely warns me of impending doom. I can see it, see it in a fraction of milliseconds of how I might be wounded.”
Usriel brought the chalice up and leaned his head back as he drank deep of the wine, allowing some to flow down the sides of his face as if he were a man dying of thirst on Pandjoras. The light Primarch set the chalice upon the table, seemingly done with drinking for the time being, making no motion to refill the cup. Bringing his coarse hands together, a stray finger went to trace the knuckle of his index finger, losing himself in contemplative thought. His eyes went back to Zaphariel, a deathly serious expression plastered upon his face as he continued the answer, “It is a powerful ability that, I admit, I rely upon too much. Yet, it can be overcome, Valdor showed that much.”
“Automatic subconscious prescience? Not even the most enlightened asasiyun could perfect such an art. You never cease to surprise me, brother, even in the short amount of time that we’ve known one another.” Zaphariel spoke, leaning forward as the other Primarch revealed his revelation. His face remained an aloof mask of controlled emotion, but internally he felt uncontrolled interest in the prospect of automated foresight. The concept of his brother representing an impossible enemy stirred unspeakable emotions within him. “I dare say that not even a hassan of Pandjoras could harm you with that latent ability.”
Despite the fact the Father of Steel had not replenished his vessel, Zaphariel had already intended to refill the other’s chalice. No amount of refusal would halt the honor of pouring his most cherished brother another glass of wine. “I will not press you further about it, my glorious sibling. It was an insensitive question on my part. That ability represents one of your greatest martial traits. The fact that you trust me at all with this knowledge is truly, humblingly flattering.” His tone turned soft as he spoke the last words. One of the many times he’d halted his facade when in conversation with Usriel. His unconscious proof of brotherhood.
“In light of that,” the Malik of Pandjoras began as he finished pouring the other Primarch’s wine. “You may ask your question. To you, my brother, I am an open grimoire with secrets buried within thirteen-thousand grains of dusken sand. To you, I give the personal excavation tool to sift through the umbral dunes that are my inner thoughts.” The words were spoken with the typical Pandjoran gesticulation from Zaphariel. His relaxed attitude transformed into a pose of faux theatrics, his arms spread wide to represent an ‘open grimoire’.
Usriel tilted his head for a moment, pondering what he could possibly care to question the most skilled of assassins about. The inner fires of Vion 5’s forges dared him to ask of Pandjoras’ technology, urging him to follow what Mars sought. Yet, he controlled those fires just as Zaphariel controlled the conversation, forcing the thoughts aside, he instead sought another answer. While not the master in the arts that the Malik was, Usriel did share a similar martial thought.
He grabbed the chalice and cradled it in his hands, only sipping from it once he asked, “You fight as one of the Custodes, yet your steps flow as if you are one with the sand. Is this something they taught?”
Excitement filled the orange orbs of the Malik of Pandjoras before quickly returning to a placid guise. “As a young asasiyun, the hassan trained me in furusiyya - an old term for Pandjoran chivalry. It is a form of swordsmanship, a moral code, and a doctrine to shape the martial minds of our people. I evolved the furusiyyan swordsmanship from watching the void serpents of my homeworld. Their movements defied gravity, allowed them to slip through grains of sand, and held no sound in their maneuvers. Their flying forms were difficult to recreate, but my bladework gradually adopted the right motion. I renamed this new martial footwork as the Suma’tah, or Way of the Serpent for Pandjorans.” Zaphariel’s voice spoke calmly, deliberately vocalizing his speech in a teaching manner. The dusken deity smirked to himself as he realized that his speech pattern had reflected the teachings of the Old Man.
“Forgive me for the long context, but I promise that it is relevant. When I arrived on Terra, I began the arduous road to learning under our Father, Malcador, and the Captain-General. During our first combat, Valdor recognized the fighting form as an imitation of their martial ka’tah - the warform of the ten-thousand. He was only marginally impressed initially. His guidance took on many forms. I’d spent nearly a decade here participating in Blood Games and training within the Colosseia Auris. It was worse than walking the black sands of Pandjoras without power armor, water, and food.” The primarch’s eyes dropped down to the chalice before swallowing another mouthful of the draught. The memory of the events played through his eye, reflecting to the other primarch as an eternal exhaustion on his facial features.
“To firmly answer your question: yes and no. It is an accidental recreation that has been further remade to properly reflect the Custodes’ fighting style. It is unfortunate that decades of learning and practice were undone in a matter of seconds, Usriel.” Zaphariel’s voice was steeped in faux venom as the last words were spoken. He allowed the chalice of empty wine to settle on the round table before continuing. “Now it is my turn, dear brother.”
The air suddenly grew tense as the next question was posed by the Malik of Pandjoras. His facial features darkened as he leaned forward into his seat. A predatory look overcame his placid gaze. “What do you think of the Master of Mankind’s divinity? You were a clergyman of Vion 5, so I assume you have your views of the Omnissiah. If you do not wish to answer this question, then I will not force you to do so.” The words that emanated from Zaphariel’s mouth reverberated twice over on themselves in a natural manner. A compulsive melody permeated his tone as a savory, sweet inflection.
“I am no clergyman,” Usriel corrected, setting the chalice down and reclining into his seat once more as he looked upon his hands. Brief memories shot through his mind, before he rubbed the hardened limbs together. Looking to Zaphariel, the Father of Steel would speak once more, “I was raised amongst the workers and dredges of Vion 5, only holding faith as it was what was taught to me. They believed me to be a descendant of the Machine God, unrivaled and unmatched in the skill of producing their machines and weapons.”
The larger of the Primarchs turned his gaze upwards, blankly staring at the ceiling as he pondered the actual question of his views upon the Emperor, the Omnissiah. No detail upon his face gave away his feelings on the matter, only cold contemplation of what it was that he thought. Usriel would take a deep breath as the answer would begin to come to him, a final thought now that he was away from the guidance of the Fabricator-Technis of Vion 5. He spoke in a tone as cold as any tech-priest, “The Emperor is the Omnissiah, and our creator. However, he is not our father, merely our Lord to whom he will guide us in the name of his Imperium.”
“A rational view on faith. A rare trait among the Mechanicum in regards to the Omnissiah.” There was a brief flash of disappointment that crossed his eyes, but the look was swept away by a lifted chalice to his lips. The everlasting linger of the orange orbs fell away as the question was answered. Zaphariel’s eyes now lingered on the empty bottle that remained on the circular table. It failed a second time to coerce, he thought quietly to himself, perhaps primarchs are immune.
“It was an insensitive question, brother, you have my apologies. We’ve only met recently and I decided to poke at your core values. For this indignation, I will share with you my beliefs without fail.” The dusken deity lowered his head in a short, apologetic bow. He had expected a cold reaction from Usriel, but he was glad the Father of Steel’s expression was remarkably more tame than his expectation. “In the dune sands of my world, there are no gods. It is said, in the words of the Old Man, that only the individual can become the fateweaver and changer of their own ways. We’ve never held any love for higher powers, nor were we under the illusion that psionic powers were magics. The only time I’ve ever seen my people bow in religious worship was when the Emperor set foot on Pandjoras. Their bowing forms disgusted me. I do not perceive deities of any kind. Our genefather, the Master of Mankind, is certainly a powerful man but he is no divine avatar.”
The perfect masquerade of the Pandjoran Malik refused to break under the threat of otherworldly disgust; however, Zaphariel felt a losing battle at the mental image firmly lodged in his mind. In an attempt to stave off the imagery, the primarch breathed deeply to himself while reaching under the table to remove an object. He delicately placed a long, thin box designed with ornate imagery of the dusken world over it. The box was a charcoal frame engraved with tidal waves of sand, bulbous palaces, and figures in heavy robes. A wax seal of House Varranis - the blade and dipping sun - was pressed into the corner of the gift.
“My brother, this is my departing gift to you. The Great Crusade calls me as it had been since my arrival. In truth, I knew this would be our last day together before it had even begun. Do not even think of refusing this, it is an incredibly articulate piece of clothing from Pandjoras. To you, I give my first shroud of dusk.” Zaphariel, rejuvenated, spoke with a bound of energy that failed to betray his internal chaos of leaving Terra. He thematically gestured to the box presented to the Father of Steel, anxiously awaiting the juggernaut to reveal its contents.
Usriel looked upon the box, a brief glimmer of excitement toiling behind his eyes and attempting to manifest itself upon an otherwise impassive face. His hands moved forwards to bring the box closer to him and admired even the make of the container, inspecting the carved dunes and running his hands along the ridges. It was certainly a master craft and while he could relish the task of inspecting every portion of the coffer, he would reel back his eagerness. The Primarch looked to the other, his blue eyes giving away his true emotion, before quickly farting back to the present.
Preparing his hands to open the gift, Usriel would barely begin to reveal its contents - yet, he stopped. A sigh escaped his nostrils as he closed the container, closing his eyes for a brief moment as lightly he slid the box away. It was not his intent to toy with Zaphariel or to even deny him the chance of brotherhood, but Usriel looked away. His voice would usher in his reasoning, in a solemn tone, “I am sorry, Zaphariel, I cannot accept this gift. It would be improper of me to accept something so dear to you whereas I have nothing to give. Truly, I have nothing from my home to match this for all that I cared about upon that planet had been taken by the sands of time and the ashes of war.”
Zaphariel swiftly, with the speed of a void serpent, slid his hand over Usriel’s own as the primarch began to push away the gift. Although the Malik of Pandjoras knew that the Father of Steel was stronger than him, he stubbornly held the other’s hand down on the coffer. “I know you don’t mean to dishonor me, but I must insist on this. You are my brother, Usriel, and you will accept this gift. You don’t need to open it now, or in the future, but reveal its contents whenever you wish. I want you to have it, or should we settle this in the arena once more?” The dusken deities voice was a raspy trill of emotion, wavering between pleading and beseeching. The eyes of Hassan were fiercely vibrant in their stare. The orange globes eagerly caught Usriel’s pale blue in an attempt to force his visage onto the gift.
The tanned deity released the Father of Steel’s hand to allow the primarch his space. A breath of air flooded the nostril of the Sultan as his typical masquerade of emotions returned to their stable state. Zaphariel pulled himself back into his chair as the coffer was released. The Malik of Pandjoras made no move to reclaim the small chest given to the other primarch. The Thirteenth Primarch’s eyes never left their gaze as he maneuvered away from him. Dusken hands fell to the side of his chair to anxiously grip its metallic arms.
Seeing the determination and the desire, the nineteenth son was moved as a genuine look of surprise came to his face and forced him to reconsider. While stern, Usriel was not immune to the pleading of those that were like him, certainly not wishing to offend Zaphariel by any means. He leaned forth and laid his hands upon the box once more, gazing at his brother all the while. Slowly, he began to bring the gift to him, speaking in a soft tone, “I shall accept this, Zaphariel. But know I shall not wear it until I have a proper gift for you. It may be many years before I can offer such a thing, but I promise you that I shall.”
A short chuckle passed across the softly smiling lips of the dusken primarch. He felt his hearts rapidly beat out the anxiety that had driven through his chest. “I will eagerly await your gift, my brother, even if it is a thousand years later. Awaken the coffer at any point that you so wish to. It will bring me endless joy knowing that one day you will wear the shroud of my people.” Zaphariel spoke in the warmest tone he could muster behind his breaking veil of emotion. Internally, he felt gnawing dread that he would not be crusading by Usriel’s side. The unspeakable, incomprehensible bond that they shared tied them through their souls.
As the Primarch of the Dusk Wardens finally picked himself up from his seat, a servo-skull entered through a hidden canal above their heads. It glided down beside Zaphariel as a silent, macabre orb of gravitational defiance. A single, crimson lens turned to regard the Malik of Pandjoras with a flurry of information through its vox-hailer. In place of an actual voice, another spoke through it’s hailer with a monotone +’Your assignment to NG Twenty-Three-Forty-One is prepared, Holy Primarch. The Omnissiah is awaiting confirmation of departure immediately.’+ A toothy grin replaced the formerly soft smile of the Primarch. The Great Crusade was truly calling for him at that moment.
“I’ve overstayed my welcome in the Imperial Palace then. Inform Legion Master Zaid to muster the Astartes in the Outer Palace Starport. Confirm assessments with the Excertus Imperialis for their support. Time chronometers for departure within the cycle.” The leisurely attitude of the Thirteenth Primarch had disappeared, replaced by the appropriate demeanor fit for a scion of the Emperor. His eyes of hassan turned to the previously seated primarch before him. “Glory to you on the fields of battle, Usriel Andredth.”
“And glory to you, Zaphariel.”
Steel and Sand
Event: Meeting of the XIX and XIII Primarch - Steel and Sand
Location: Terra - Inner Imperial Palace
Date: M30.862
Parties Involved: XIX Primarch Usriel, XIII Primarch Zaphariel, Adeptus Custodes, Remebrancers of Terra
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Terra.
The penultimate center of humanity that had struggled to rise from the ashes of strife and ignorance. It’s golden clad capital, the Imperial Palace, built upon the formerly frosted mountains known as the Himalazian Mountains. Once a mere conclave to shelter the Master of Mankind on his infamous rise to power, now it was a glorious continent spanning bastion of administration and military might. No other world could possibly replicate what the Emperor of the Imperium had turned Old Terra into. For only Terra could truly be crowned as the Throneworld of the Imperium.
Deep within the golden halls of the resplendent continent-capital, the companions of the Emperor walked ever vigilantly between the vast infrastructure with hyper focused fixation. Administrators, those underlings of the Sigillite, rapidly maneuvered between the vast Scholariums and the furthest walks to the Sentaroum. Even as the members of the War Council assembled to deal with the most pressing issues of the Imperium, it was minute in the grand scheme of things to come. In the gargantuan courtyards of the Palace, Legion Masters prepared their yet to be reunited legionnaires for war abroad. Strangely, despite the industrial scaffolding in the furthest reaches of the palace, the snow fell across the structure’s length in a scene of serenity.
Although the unfinished Imperial Palace held many denizens of great power, none were as great as the Emperor and his geneforged children. Two, of which, currently reside on the Throneworld with their godly father. It was these powerhouses of genetic might that had returned to learn their origins, reunite with their Legion, and train in the fabled halls of the Adeptus Custodes. The Thirteenth Primarch, who was found a decade ago, and the Nineteenth Primarch, who had only recently been discovered, closed themselves within those illustrious training halls on this day. Left to their devices by the Captain-General of the Custodes, the duo sweat in their respective corners of the square arena.
On the eastmost edge of the square, the lithe form of a tanned deity leaned up against the decorated wall with a manner of darker bruises on his visible skin. A dark, silken robe clung to his otherwise stark body, while one of his hands held aloft a weighty training blade. Opposite of him, another deity much larger than the first silently drank from a skin of water. Similarly, the much lighter skinned giant was donned in a robe with lightly tanned colors. This titan, too, held a weapon of similar weight in this hand. The tanned one swept back his length of unkempt, black hair to blast the wall with a vibrant spray of sweat. Mimicking the smaller, the gargantuan deity rolled his shoulders back in preparation.
“Well, brother, Valdor has left us to hang and dry like rags. I will never grow accustomed to the way that he fights. Every single movement of his is efficiently timed without fault.” The tanned deity finally broke the silence between the two, widely smiling as he approached the center of the small arena. The crunch of sand crackled beneath his bare feet as he stepped onto the inner edge. Predatory, vibrantly orange eyes met with the other’s tired orbs. “Could you believe the way he threw me like a child’s toy? He even managed to physically push a titan like you!”
“Only once has the great Zaphariel ibn Varranis, Malik of Pandjoras, been trounced so completely!” He gestured wildy above him in a dramatic display of himself. The shoulders of the tanned deity, properly recognized as Zaphariel, slumped. The primarch then indicated the opposite primarch with his hands. “At least you only got pushed a mere few meters, my titanic wall of a brother.”
“I was still brought out of the ring,” Usriel stated, knowing his own folly of being defeated and already coldly calculating corrections for further training. The nineteenth son looked to Zaphariel, not matching his kin’s more grandiose nature, lingering on his defeat just a bit longer. In a reserved motion, the primarch narrowed his blue eyes at Zaphariel before ultimately closing them - attempting to relax his mind. Usriel would speak once more, “It seems my nature of being but a brute upon my enemies must be put behind me, lest I lose those Astartes our lord has gifted us in some quagmire.”
The words would hold an echo in the training room as Usriel breathed out, mentally reciting the canticles that had been taught to him for so long. They did little to ease him, but he would still focus on them and use them to focus himself away from worrying about the weakness of flesh. Augor had already gone into great detail with him about such and he did not wish to hear a repeat of the memory in his mind again. Yet, what did soothe him was knowing that there were others that were like him, not a replacement for his family but a connection was there nonetheless.
“Ah yes… the Astartes. Our children in a strange sense. I met with them when I first arrived here. They were quite dour originally, but they open up once you crack into their figurative ceramite shells. Mini versions of ourselves cast in a mold of conditioned loyalty. Our father has quite the imagination to devise such warriors.” Zaphariel mused aloud as he began to slowly encircle the ‘brute’ in question. Slowly, the foot of the tanned deity was drawing new lines in the sand. The weighted blade in Zaphariel’s hand twirled several times over as he limbered up once more. “I doubt you’d lose them so handily, Usriel, you have a knack for being unbreakable with those sorts of things.”
“Valdor soundly beat us. That much is true. I wager that if we had attacked together, then perhaps we could’ve beaten him profoundly.” With a new circle drawn in the sand, wide enough to accompany two demi-gods, Zaphariel stopped at his original position before the chanting giant. His words dripped with creeping excitement at the prospect of his next act. The weighted blade finished its final twirl, planting itself into the ground next to the King of the Dunes. “With that in mind, brother, we will need to ascertain our combat proficiencies against one another. What say you? One final training session to tag team the Captain-General?”
Usriel let out a singular utterance of a chuckle, the edges of his lips almost curling into a sly smile. Though, formality would run its course and the cold face of the nineteenth would become calculating once more as he lifted his own blade from the ground. He shifted himself, readying for the bout the two would have as the giants stared each other down. The primarch would utter the start of their training, his voice flowing off the sands of their arena, “Begin, Zaphariel.”
True to his nature, Usriel held his ground, feet firmly planted within the sand as his blue orbs darted across his now opponent’s form. It seemed the Primarch was studying Zaphriel before any movement began, holding defensively as he raised his blade. The only thing that stood between the two was the very air and sand grains that made up their arena.
“Excellent.” The small smile that had been playing across his lips burst into a wide grin. His pupils widened like a feral creature on a hunt. The eyes of Hassan appeared more vibrantly than before, playing to the emotion of the Thirteenth Primarch. Zaphariel rapidly stepped back several paces within their circle, drawing the training blade from the sand. As his retreat slowed, the Dusk Warden lowered his stance in a half-crouch with the training weapon outstretched before him. The Malik of Pandjoras emulated Usriel by closely watching his movements. Defensive, non-aggressive, and composed. Every wall, however, must have a crack in its foundation.
The Dusk Warden encircled the Titan of Vion 5 in a slow, methodical dance that shifted the sands. Each step was spritely, threatening to evolve into a thunderous lunge. The training blade remained composed throughout Zaphariel’s fighting form, never wavering from its outstretched position. His gaze never faltered from its hunting guise, nor did his form reveal any hints of overt weakness. It was a lure, however, a powerful stance that falsified confidence in the opponent and baited them into a trap.
As the dancer rounded the circle for the first time, Zaphariel realized with dawning reality that Usriel had no crack in his defense. Truly, he thought, a wall of steel and unbreakable will. With a small laugh about to break his lips apart, the Warden of the Dusken World pounced into action, sweeping under the sands and into an overhead cleave. The blade scraped the bottom of the fighting pit, scattering sand in the air while Zaphariel’s body twisted into a nefarious leap that caught the weapon to reverse it downwards. A sudden attack boasted with extreme agility that could enrapture a feral carnosaur. The fight had begun in earnest with the opening attack.
Even as the suddenness of the attack had come, Usriel had already been prepared - having seen the double image of Zaphariel’s strike before it had truly happened. Rather than leave himself open to being pushed out of the ring, the Titan stepped to the side, his blade being held close as to not touch his opponent’s own. Without the swiftness of the first attack, but with the brutality of titans, Usriel brought his own blade down as Zaphariel landed. The Father of the Nineteenth would not be caught so easily from an assassin’s attack, for none have struck him down yet whilst he has dispatched enough to form a small graveyard.
“Well dodged, brother!” The Malik of Pandjoras spoke, laughing at the impossible speed of the primarchial brute. The strike should’ve produced more results than to simply be dodged, but the umbral sheik predicted it was a lucky sidestep. Zaphariel utilized the momentum from the leaping strike to deftly maneuver away from Usriel’s strike. The Dusk Warden’s Primarch swept his leg against the arena’s floor to stir up more of the sand into the air. With a cloud of particles between the fighting deities, the tanned god brought the training blade into a low uppercut aimed at the Father of Steel’s weapon. If the unbreakable wall would not fold, then perhaps its emplacements could be shattered? Yet no steel was shattered.
Usriel had once more foreseen the attack in perfect clarity and had moved his blade away just in time for Zaphariel to catch nought but air. No amount of sand or smoke could have saved Zaphariel’s attempt to shatter Usriel’s impregnable defenses - no wall would crumble under a storm. The giant danced backwards, quickly catching his feet before propelling himself forwards in a counter attack. Blindly stabbing forwards into the sand that had erupted between them, hoping that a strike would land true against the other Primarch. Steel would be unyielding to the sands of dusk, unbreakable and unstoppable for what was sand but a grain?
“You honor me, brother mine, with the quickness of your step!” The darker Primarch jeered, a backhanded compliment for successfully being able to move the steel titan backwards. Skill, speed, and tricks weren’t favoring his combat as the other had somehow managed to slip by each offensive. When all else fails, he thought, simple luck will have to run its course. Each blind stab at Zaphariel was met with ophidian veers, slithering by each strike into the thin veil of sand. The patient hunter of Pandjoras doffed his guise to wildly counterattack with a barrage of lightning quick slashes. Every driving attack was an attempt to disorient Usriel by simultaneously combining aimed slashes at the hands, feet, and abdomen. Despite this onslaught, the Malik of Pandjoras was reckless in his assault leaving as little balance as possible in his indiscriminate assault.
The only response from Usriel was but the harsh clash of metal upon metal - calm focus persevering against such reckless desperation. Each strike bounced away, blocked as an impregnable defense gave the assassin no ground to take, no advantage or weakness to be spotted. As the final blow of Zaphariel came, the counter-attack of the giant came just as swiftly as his opponent’s strikes - a singular strike with purpose. Overwhelming strength came down upon the master assassin as none would be held back from the strike that travelled along Zaphariel’s blade, casting sparks into the sands that erupted around them.
Death. The overwhelming feeling of nauseating dread flowed within the tanned deities lungs. An alarm that rang like a battlecruiser’s klaxon overloaded his thoughts in a consistent, relentless tone. His skin prickled with bumps, his hair stood on end, and his eyes sharpened to slits as Usriel’s blade clashed with his own. Zaphariel’s muscles bundled tight as an ambull’s carapace in anticipation of the recoil; however, it would prove to crumple under the leviathan strength of the XIX’s Primarch. The blade cracked in a shower of sparks and sand, splinters of metal scattering across the arena in sporadic chunks. All in a manner of seconds as the Steel Sentinel’s might broke through the training blade in a destructive wave of force. A shockwave cascaded through the broken blade, jettisoning the Thirteenth Primarch backwards out of the ring. The handle egressed to the left, penetrating the indomitable golden wall of the Custodes’ colosseum. The rest of the fragments either bore into the sand, Usriel’s psionic barrier, or Zaphariel’s tanned skin. A small crater of crunched metal smoked in the spot that the Malik of Pandjoras had last resided.
Zaphariel groaned, plucking the pieces of metal from his skin, before picking himself up from the ground. “Not a single strike on your person, Usriel. Are you certain you are not Valdor himself, or perhaps you are the Sigillite playing an illusion on me?” The words were spoken with a jest, but sourness lay beneath the waves of his etiquette. Dusting the sand from his robes, the Primarch straightened himself out to properly face the other Primarch. Suddenly, the dusken warrior gave a courteous bow before the Vionborne.
“You are victorious, my brother. I underestimated your raw power and you have my apologies.” Zaphariel swapped from his usual Pandjoras Low Gothic to a formal, respectful High Gothic. Every syllable spoken was ceremonious praise from the bowed primarch. Only when Usriel approached from the center of the scattered sand pit did the Primarch rise from his bow. “Perhaps you will fill me in on how you managed to evade every single one of my blade strokes once we’ve exited the training hall, brother.”
Usriel wordlessly planted his blade into the ground - steel sinking into the yellowed sands of their arena as a proclamation of its victory over the dunes. His face did not portray happiness over the victory, there was no relishing the defeat over the Malik despite how crushing it was. There was a moment as the sands calmed themselves, Usriel’s blue eyes scanning over Zaphariel to make sure that he was not hurt too badly - albeit the amount of damage a Primarch can endure is enough so that a training meant nothing. Yet, the colder of the two would still show some fashion of warmth to the defeated, clasping a hand on the shoulder of the assassin though not giving a smile or sign of other emotion.
“The battle was decided from the start, Zaphariel. The power of foresight is potent tool,” Usriel revealed, showing that the chance of victory for the assassin was near little. The Primarch took his hand away, beginning his march out of their training ground. He would offer a few more soft spoken words, “It was an admirable fight nonetheless.”
“Truly, Usriel, you would level prescience against me? For shame, brother, I thought we were fighting on equal footing. You wound your elder brother, stabbed both of his hearts with a steel dagger.” Zaphariel spoke with a tone of feigned pain, shaking his head in fake disappointment. The Primarch dramatically gestured every word with a mimed action of his own. He then quickly scurried after the Lord of Vion 5, easily matching pace with the titanic individual. Even as he walked the short distance to the other Primarch, the wounds left by the metal shards closed up as quickly as they had opened. “The next time that we should fight, I will hold nothing back. Now come, friend, I know a recluse scholarium perfect for relaxation.”
Despite his threatening statement, Zaphariel capered around the gigantic warrior while dodging the patrolling Custodes with practiced ease. The Pandjorasborn led their path further down the training halls of the Emperor’s companions. Distant sounds of blood splatter, concussive shockwaves, and shifting sands filled the partially empty corridors. As the duo of Primarchs passed, they witnessed the martial ka’tah famously known to the Custodes in their training. Precise movements, pristine strikes, and powerful blows were exhibited by the stark champions. They paid no mind to the genechildren of their Master, nor did the warriors halt their practiced combat.
Their voyage brought them through several golden arches engraved with the armor of the Custodes, topped only by the Master of Mankind or the aquila itself. Grand, brilliant banners with the eagle and lightning bolt unfurled in a patterned sequence along the walls. The sounds of the sanctimonious whispered in the distance were replaced by the whipping winds of the Himalazians. A stupendous pair of golden doors gated their exit, aureate champions flanking the gateway awaited their presence. Out of respect, or duty, the grandiose gates were opened to them to reveal the stubborn snow-capped mountain range. A length of immeasurably extensive stairs wound down from the gilded colosseum behind them. As an unfinished part of the Imperial Palace, there were no enclosed corridors to protect travelers from fragments of the environment.
Wisps of silver snow sprinkled the causeway, painting the primarchs in small shawls of soft flakes. The tanned deity rubbed his shoulders as he led Usriel towards another pair of gargantuan gates with a bastardized version of Malcador’s symbol above it. No golden champions awaited their arrival, the majority of the Custodes opting for several different routes in the palace. Instead, slack-jawed servitors heavily shrouded in layers of yellow robes immediately processed their advent. The gateway unsealed, allowing the twin warriors to properly enter the sanctum of the Palace once more.
At first glance, it was a typical scholarium with a plethora of data vaults in the form of enormous shelves. Glow-globes in the fashion of chandeliers hung from the circular ceiling tiles, while red carpets of vast length clung to the floor. Usually laden with parchment for later translation, the gigantic bookcases now stood empty save for single scrolls or thick grimoires that were ferried by adepts of Malcador’s administratum. Cogitators quietly hummed in peace as junior remembrancers studiously coveted knowledge at their stations. As if in a trance, none of the mortals moved to greet and bow the primarchs on their arrival. Zaphariel raised a silent digit to the other titanic deity.
“Let us say that I’ve struck a deal with these mortals. They get some alone time with me for their chronicles in training. I get a peaceful corner of the palace where mortals aren’t bowing at every corner.” The Malik of Pandjoras said, a sly smile replacing his already amiable demeanor. Zaphariel gave a short wave to a passing mortal, gesturing to a closed off room to their immediate left. The charcoal robed individual gave a deep bow before disappearing into the scholarium. “I’ve spent a decade in the Imperial Palace under the tutelage of our Father, but truthfully I only found this little sanctuary two years ago during one of the Custodes’ wargames.”
Usriel noted the humans around them, shifting uncomfortably by the lack of the Mechanicum’s presence around them. He had always been more comforted by the red and mechanical minds of those within the cult - a mindset that he had been raised upon and worked with for as long as he could remember. Yet, he would not allow the weakness of flesh corrupt his mind - for he was a direct creation of the Omnissiah and so he could not afford such weakness. Usriel looked to Zaphariel and studied his demeanor, noting it’s gradual shifting. He let out a singular breath as he entered the scholarium.
The room, while a natural part of the palace, felt unnatural and unnecessary to the Primarch who dealt with strategy and fortresses. He noted how the room provided little in the way of aid should the palace be put to siege, more of a hindrance to his mind. Usriel would scoff at the thought, the Primarch’s, a ‘Wolfram’ as far as the Father of Steel was concerned, designs could be improved upon. To break his focus, Usriel spoke to Zaphariel in a cold voice, bringing his attention back to their conversation, “Ah yes, their war games. I hear a custodes could butcher an entire army of mortals should they need to.”
“More than armies of mortals, Usriel, they are without peer, even comparable to us. Blood Games are what their games are called, but that is a discussion for another time. Relax, brother, your face is as set as weathered stone.” He spoke, noting his behavior on arrival to the scholarium, as the robed mortal returned to lead them to the room gestured to earlier. With the Terran leading the way, the trio stopped short of a door with a biometric cogitator beside it. A robed hand pressed against the terminal’s interface, lifting only to slap their digits against several runes. The portal slid open to reveal a cacophony of furniture, terminals, and assortments of shelves in a tight cluster. Glow globes, hanging from a chained chandelier, lit the room as they entered.
“Behold, my brother, quarters outside of quarters! A small sanctum within the Sanctum Imperialis! A lavish paradise away from the throng of mortals and liveries of the Palace.” Zaphariel excitedly roared as he ducked under the doorway into the confined space. The mortal remained behind as Usriel inevitably entered the room, but they stood directly outside the portal. Paradise, as he had said, was more accurately an impoverished lounge filled with unnecessary delights such as silken drapes and lavish materials found across the palace. Small banners bearing the mark of the Malik’s heritage - the sword and dusk sun - hung from the walls in random assortments. It was clear from the appearance of its original designation that the room was appropriated by the Primarch. The shelves, usually holding dataslates and grimoires, now held boxes of perishables and freshly shined, antique bottles filled with dark liquid.
“I know what you are thinking, Usriel, but I ask you to hold your judgments. Sit, relax, and let us speak of each other. We’ve barely gotten to touch the surface of knowing one another, and I am voracious to learn more of my little brother.” The sheik’s typical grin returned to light as he fetched a bottle of liquid. Zaphariel gestured to one of the many furniture amalgamations to seat themselves on. A circular table at the midst of the impromptu lounge, draped with a dark cloth, was cleared to set the glass with a pair of chalices. “I do warn you that this is no Saravata brew, nor is it ambrosia of Amn. It is a simple mortal substance for enjoyment. A calming wine that I sequestered from an outer palace pantry.”
Usriel watched the other Primarch grab the bottle, cocking an eyebrow as Zaphariel gestured for him to join in sitting. He made no immediate movement to join his brother as skepticism crept its way through his veins. It was at no fault of Zaphariel but it was hard to trust one that he had met not too long ago, the treacherous nature of Vion 5 sifting through his mind. In a moment of trust, through the skepticism and paranoia that laid concretely in his mind, Usriel moved to sit across from the other Primarch - even going so far as to sit back in a more relaxed manner.
A breath came through his nose, long and drawn as if Usriel were letting out years of stress in a sigh. His eyes scanned his surroundings absentmindedly, after all he could not be too relaxed in such a setting. Though, his inhuman calm continued to be the prime showing of his demeanor as he emotionlessly moved to pick up the bottle. His hands wrapped around it, bringing it closer to inspect it. A slow nod of acceptance of the drink came through, noting the age of the wine and the quality of it. His blue gaze shot back to the orange of Zaphariel - two complimentary coming together in the moment.
“Then, allow me to pour the first drink, Zaphariel. You may ask any question you wish,” Usriel said in a smooth tone, allowing himself a brief moment of relaxation. He leaned over, one hand pouring the smooth liquid into first Zaphariel’s chalice and then his own. Inspecting the drink once more, Usriel would return it to its place, exactly as it had been presented to him. He would break the silence again with a comment as his hands brought a chalice to him, swirling the liquid as he spoke, “It is not often that I am offered to drink, such things are not often presented amongst the clergy of Vion 5.”
“Clergy? Ah, yes, Father told me you had a similar upbringing to Augor. The chapel of the Omnissiah. The holy church of the Machine God. Harbingers of the Motive Force.” The dusken skinned deity spoke in artificial reverence. Truthfully, however, he found the jackals of Mars as little more than cultist puppets. Those manipulators had used their superiority in technology to forge a clever treaty with the Emperor. Deceitful, just as he was. They would’ve proven invaluable allies were it not for the treasure trove of archeotech on Pandjoras. “The techno-scavengers of House Bahamut certainly found allies in the Mechanicum when our Father arrived on Pandjoras.”
Sensing the briefest hesitation from Usriel, the Sultan of the Stars graciously accepted the honor of the first drink. Zaphariel drank deeply of the holy nectars of Terra’s artificial wines. He specifically drowned the chaliced beverage in a single movement. The Malik then revealed the empty vessel as the last drop was drained. A toothy grin formed as the Father of Steel’s pale-blue eyes stared down his chalice. “Worry not, Usriel, these bottles aren’t poisoned by nefarious vandals. If there is one person you should trust with poisons, then it is certainly I. We - the Hassan of the Dusken Sands - were raised to practice mithridatism from an early age. A single, poisoned bite from a void serpent could turn you into an obsidian statue.”
“Now, as for my question,” Zaphariel happily spoke as he refilled his own chalice with the savory, purple liquid. “Where’d you learn to fight with the power of prescience? Does it operate only in combat, or does it function in domestic affairs? It’s a wonderful ability that is certain to help you defeat most, if not all, opponents on the battlefield.” The words were said in good faith of the previous fight, but a twang of raw curiosity and interest pervaded his tone. As much as he disliked being played on the battlefield, the Malik of Pandjoras understood that there were no clear rules in a true fight.
After his question was posed and his vessel was filled, the Primarch allowed himself to recline on the cushioned seat across from Usriel. Zaphariel’s strange, slitted eyes had never left the XIX’s Primarch since they began to sit and drink. A hand crept up to cup the side of his own face, while the other held aloft his chalice in a relaxed manner. His lips forever pulled in a soft, joyful smile as he watched the other Primarch. A single, critical look at the dusken deity could ascertain that he was as vain as his aesthetic taste; however, an exceptionally trained eye could discern that every action was intentionally performed with scrutiny in mind.
And it was Usriel, grown by the very priests of Vion 5 and subtly molded by their hands in his upbringing, who would be able to see through the guise. Though, he made no attempt to make it known, instead seeming to be in brief contemplation over the question presented to him. He strained himself to formulate an answer to something that was so natural to him that he merely forgot about how unnatural it truly was. The Nineteenth Son leaned forwards slightly, cradling the chalice between his two hands as he looked into the deep red liquid. Words seemed hard.
“I -“ he stopped for only the briefest of moments before his deep voice crept back up, “It is not something I call upon. The power merely warns me of impending doom. I can see it, see it in a fraction of milliseconds of how I might be wounded.”
Usriel brought the chalice up and leaned his head back as he drank deep of the wine, allowing some to flow down the sides of his face as if he were a man dying of thirst on Pandjoras. The light Primarch set the chalice upon the table, seemingly done with drinking for the time being, making no motion to refill the cup. Bringing his coarse hands together, a stray finger went to trace the knuckle of his index finger, losing himself in contemplative thought. His eyes went back to Zaphariel, a deathly serious expression plastered upon his face as he continued the answer, “It is a powerful ability that, I admit, I rely upon too much. Yet, it can be overcome, Valdor showed that much.”
“Automatic subconscious prescience? Not even the most enlightened asasiyun could perfect such an art. You never cease to surprise me, brother, even in the short amount of time that we’ve known one another.” Zaphariel spoke, leaning forward as the other Primarch revealed his revelation. His face remained an aloof mask of controlled emotion, but internally he felt uncontrolled interest in the prospect of automated foresight. The concept of his brother representing an impossible enemy stirred unspeakable emotions within him. “I dare say that not even a hassan of Pandjoras could harm you with that latent ability.”
Despite the fact the Father of Steel had not replenished his vessel, Zaphariel had already intended to refill the other’s chalice. No amount of refusal would halt the honor of pouring his most cherished brother another glass of wine. “I will not press you further about it, my glorious sibling. It was an insensitive question on my part. That ability represents one of your greatest martial traits. The fact that you trust me at all with this knowledge is truly, humblingly flattering.” His tone turned soft as he spoke the last words. One of the many times he’d halted his facade when in conversation with Usriel. His unconscious proof of brotherhood.
“In light of that,” the Malik of Pandjoras began as he finished pouring the other Primarch’s wine. “You may ask your question. To you, my brother, I am an open grimoire with secrets buried within thirteen-thousand grains of dusken sand. To you, I give the personal excavation tool to sift through the umbral dunes that are my inner thoughts.” The words were spoken with the typical Pandjoran gesticulation from Zaphariel. His relaxed attitude transformed into a pose of faux theatrics, his arms spread wide to represent an ‘open grimoire’.
Usriel tilted his head for a moment, pondering what he could possibly care to question the most skilled of assassins about. The inner fires of Vion 5’s forges dared him to ask of Pandjoras’ technology, urging him to follow what Mars sought. Yet, he controlled those fires just as Zaphariel controlled the conversation, forcing the thoughts aside, he instead sought another answer. While not the master in the arts that the Malik was, Usriel did share a similar martial thought.
He grabbed the chalice and cradled it in his hands, only sipping from it once he asked, “You fight as one of the Custodes, yet your steps flow as if you are one with the sand. Is this something they taught?”
Excitement filled the orange orbs of the Malik of Pandjoras before quickly returning to a placid guise. “As a young asasiyun, the hassan trained me in furusiyya - an old term for Pandjoran chivalry. It is a form of swordsmanship, a moral code, and a doctrine to shape the martial minds of our people. I evolved the furusiyyan swordsmanship from watching the void serpents of my homeworld. Their movements defied gravity, allowed them to slip through grains of sand, and held no sound in their maneuvers. Their flying forms were difficult to recreate, but my bladework gradually adopted the right motion. I renamed this new martial footwork as the Suma’tah, or Way of the Serpent for Pandjorans.” Zaphariel’s voice spoke calmly, deliberately vocalizing his speech in a teaching manner. The dusken deity smirked to himself as he realized that his speech pattern had reflected the teachings of the Old Man.
“Forgive me for the long context, but I promise that it is relevant. When I arrived on Terra, I began the arduous road to learning under our Father, Malcador, and the Captain-General. During our first combat, Valdor recognized the fighting form as an imitation of their martial ka’tah - the warform of the ten-thousand. He was only marginally impressed initially. His guidance took on many forms. I’d spent nearly a decade here participating in Blood Games and training within the Colosseia Auris. It was worse than walking the black sands of Pandjoras without power armor, water, and food.” The primarch’s eyes dropped down to the chalice before swallowing another mouthful of the draught. The memory of the events played through his eye, reflecting to the other primarch as an eternal exhaustion on his facial features.
“To firmly answer your question: yes and no. It is an accidental recreation that has been further remade to properly reflect the Custodes’ fighting style. It is unfortunate that decades of learning and practice were undone in a matter of seconds, Usriel.” Zaphariel’s voice was steeped in faux venom as the last words were spoken. He allowed the chalice of empty wine to settle on the round table before continuing. “Now it is my turn, dear brother.”
The air suddenly grew tense as the next question was posed by the Malik of Pandjoras. His facial features darkened as he leaned forward into his seat. A predatory look overcame his placid gaze. “What do you think of the Master of Mankind’s divinity? You were a clergyman of Vion 5, so I assume you have your views of the Omnissiah. If you do not wish to answer this question, then I will not force you to do so.” The words that emanated from Zaphariel’s mouth reverberated twice over on themselves in a natural manner. A compulsive melody permeated his tone as a savory, sweet inflection.
“I am no clergyman,” Usriel corrected, setting the chalice down and reclining into his seat once more as he looked upon his hands. Brief memories shot through his mind, before he rubbed the hardened limbs together. Looking to Zaphariel, the Father of Steel would speak once more, “I was raised amongst the workers and dredges of Vion 5, only holding faith as it was what was taught to me. They believed me to be a descendant of the Machine God, unrivaled and unmatched in the skill of producing their machines and weapons.”
The larger of the Primarchs turned his gaze upwards, blankly staring at the ceiling as he pondered the actual question of his views upon the Emperor, the Omnissiah. No detail upon his face gave away his feelings on the matter, only cold contemplation of what it was that he thought. Usriel would take a deep breath as the answer would begin to come to him, a final thought now that he was away from the guidance of the Fabricator-Technis of Vion 5. He spoke in a tone as cold as any tech-priest, “The Emperor is the Omnissiah, and our creator. However, he is not our father, merely our Lord to whom he will guide us in the name of his Imperium.”
“A rational view on faith. A rare trait among the Mechanicum in regards to the Omnissiah.” There was a brief flash of disappointment that crossed his eyes, but the look was swept away by a lifted chalice to his lips. The everlasting linger of the orange orbs fell away as the question was answered. Zaphariel’s eyes now lingered on the empty bottle that remained on the circular table. It failed a second time to coerce, he thought quietly to himself, perhaps primarchs are immune.
“It was an insensitive question, brother, you have my apologies. We’ve only met recently and I decided to poke at your core values. For this indignation, I will share with you my beliefs without fail.” The dusken deity lowered his head in a short, apologetic bow. He had expected a cold reaction from Usriel, but he was glad the Father of Steel’s expression was remarkably more tame than his expectation. “In the dune sands of my world, there are no gods. It is said, in the words of the Old Man, that only the individual can become the fateweaver and changer of their own ways. We’ve never held any love for higher powers, nor were we under the illusion that psionic powers were magics. The only time I’ve ever seen my people bow in religious worship was when the Emperor set foot on Pandjoras. Their bowing forms disgusted me. I do not perceive deities of any kind. Our genefather, the Master of Mankind, is certainly a powerful man but he is no divine avatar.”
The perfect masquerade of the Pandjoran Malik refused to break under the threat of otherworldly disgust; however, Zaphariel felt a losing battle at the mental image firmly lodged in his mind. In an attempt to stave off the imagery, the primarch breathed deeply to himself while reaching under the table to remove an object. He delicately placed a long, thin box designed with ornate imagery of the dusken world over it. The box was a charcoal frame engraved with tidal waves of sand, bulbous palaces, and figures in heavy robes. A wax seal of House Varranis - the blade and dipping sun - was pressed into the corner of the gift.
“My brother, this is my departing gift to you. The Great Crusade calls me as it had been since my arrival. In truth, I knew this would be our last day together before it had even begun. Do not even think of refusing this, it is an incredibly articulate piece of clothing from Pandjoras. To you, I give my first shroud of dusk.” Zaphariel, rejuvenated, spoke with a bound of energy that failed to betray his internal chaos of leaving Terra. He thematically gestured to the box presented to the Father of Steel, anxiously awaiting the juggernaut to reveal its contents.
Usriel looked upon the box, a brief glimmer of excitement toiling behind his eyes and attempting to manifest itself upon an otherwise impassive face. His hands moved forwards to bring the box closer to him and admired even the make of the container, inspecting the carved dunes and running his hands along the ridges. It was certainly a master craft and while he could relish the task of inspecting every portion of the coffer, he would reel back his eagerness. The Primarch looked to the other, his blue eyes giving away his true emotion, before quickly farting back to the present.
Preparing his hands to open the gift, Usriel would barely begin to reveal its contents - yet, he stopped. A sigh escaped his nostrils as he closed the container, closing his eyes for a brief moment as lightly he slid the box away. It was not his intent to toy with Zaphariel or to even deny him the chance of brotherhood, but Usriel looked away. His voice would usher in his reasoning, in a solemn tone, “I am sorry, Zaphariel, I cannot accept this gift. It would be improper of me to accept something so dear to you whereas I have nothing to give. Truly, I have nothing from my home to match this for all that I cared about upon that planet had been taken by the sands of time and the ashes of war.”
Zaphariel swiftly, with the speed of a void serpent, slid his hand over Usriel’s own as the primarch began to push away the gift. Although the Malik of Pandjoras knew that the Father of Steel was stronger than him, he stubbornly held the other’s hand down on the coffer. “I know you don’t mean to dishonor me, but I must insist on this. You are my brother, Usriel, and you will accept this gift. You don’t need to open it now, or in the future, but reveal its contents whenever you wish. I want you to have it, or should we settle this in the arena once more?” The dusken deities voice was a raspy trill of emotion, wavering between pleading and beseeching. The eyes of Hassan were fiercely vibrant in their stare. The orange globes eagerly caught Usriel’s pale blue in an attempt to force his visage onto the gift.
The tanned deity released the Father of Steel’s hand to allow the primarch his space. A breath of air flooded the nostril of the Sultan as his typical masquerade of emotions returned to their stable state. Zaphariel pulled himself back into his chair as the coffer was released. The Malik of Pandjoras made no move to reclaim the small chest given to the other primarch. The Thirteenth Primarch’s eyes never left their gaze as he maneuvered away from him. Dusken hands fell to the side of his chair to anxiously grip its metallic arms.
Seeing the determination and the desire, the nineteenth son was moved as a genuine look of surprise came to his face and forced him to reconsider. While stern, Usriel was not immune to the pleading of those that were like him, certainly not wishing to offend Zaphariel by any means. He leaned forth and laid his hands upon the box once more, gazing at his brother all the while. Slowly, he began to bring the gift to him, speaking in a soft tone, “I shall accept this, Zaphariel. But know I shall not wear it until I have a proper gift for you. It may be many years before I can offer such a thing, but I promise you that I shall.”
A short chuckle passed across the softly smiling lips of the dusken primarch. He felt his hearts rapidly beat out the anxiety that had driven through his chest. “I will eagerly await your gift, my brother, even if it is a thousand years later. Awaken the coffer at any point that you so wish to. It will bring me endless joy knowing that one day you will wear the shroud of my people.” Zaphariel spoke in the warmest tone he could muster behind his breaking veil of emotion. Internally, he felt gnawing dread that he would not be crusading by Usriel’s side. The unspeakable, incomprehensible bond that they shared tied them through their souls.
As the Primarch of the Dusk Wardens finally picked himself up from his seat, a servo-skull entered through a hidden canal above their heads. It glided down beside Zaphariel as a silent, macabre orb of gravitational defiance. A single, crimson lens turned to regard the Malik of Pandjoras with a flurry of information through its vox-hailer. In place of an actual voice, another spoke through it’s hailer with a monotone +’Your assignment to NG Twenty-Three-Forty-One is prepared, Holy Primarch. The Omnissiah is awaiting confirmation of departure immediately.’+ A toothy grin replaced the formerly soft smile of the Primarch. The Great Crusade was truly calling for him at that moment.
“I’ve overstayed my welcome in the Imperial Palace then. Inform Legion Master Zaid to muster the Astartes in the Outer Palace Starport. Confirm assessments with the Excertus Imperialis for their support. Time chronometers for departure within the cycle.” The leisurely attitude of the Thirteenth Primarch had disappeared, replaced by the appropriate demeanor fit for a scion of the Emperor. His eyes of hassan turned to the previously seated primarch before him. “Glory to you on the fields of battle, Usriel Andredth.”
“And glory to you, Zaphariel.”
