The boys here at A Galaxy in Flames have been partaking in some DeathWatch Roleplay. The games have been so much fun, and so engaging and cinematic at times that we have often been talking and talking about what happened in each session for days after. Our guest writer, Dean Ferguson has expanded upon our post game chatter to write some fiction depicting what happened during the games. What he wrote was so good that we decided to try keep a running story of the dramatic encounters of Kill Team Praetorus Gamma.
Hope you enjoy.
Hope you enjoy.
Dramatis Personae
Astartes of the Deathwatch:
Kahn-Sarro: Squad Sergeant, White Scars Chapter
Rylath: Techmarine, Salamanders Chapter
Ezekiel: Devestator, Dark Angels Chapter
Kayzar Solaro: Tactical Marine, Raven Guard Chapter
Galmech Kaargul: Apothecary, Iron Hands Chapter
Iagos: Apothecary, Lamenters Chapter
Asani: Tactical Marine, Raptors Chapter
Artemis: Librarian, Lamentors Chapter
Members of the Inquisition:
Hurtz: Inquisitor, Ordos Xenos
Sorenzo: Inquisitor, Ordos Hereticus
Crew of the Corvandus:
Alrich Van Drachnolovic: Ship Captain
Argovix 241: Techpriest Engine Seer
Servitor 416: Skiff Pilot
Prologue
“Even Angels must
face their own daemons...”
-Inquisitor
Hurtz
Blip.... Blip.... Blip....
His old mentor, the late Harkon Valschevique, once stated
that patience was the greatest virtue of
their order. That despite all the authority and power that the
inquisitorial seal afforded them, there were many aspects beyond the control of
a single Inquisitor to which patience was the only solution. Despite the old
man's sermon-like lectures, it was the most fundamental lesson Hurtz had ever
cherished since his mentor's passing.
Despite all of his inherited authority however, Inquisitor
Hurtz was currently powerless.
He ran his left hand through his shoulder-length hair, its
glossy black hue from the products that kept it slicked were wet to the touch.
He could feel the sweat slowly beading down his forehead and felt a degree of
irritation that it was his own nerves that had caused such perspiration.
The vox signals were sporadic and in one instance, had gone
quiet altogether. This did not bode well to their progress, but there was
little Hurtz could do to change that outcome. Despite their new induction to
the Deathwatch, each Astartes was a veteran of many campaigns and such a task
he bestowed to them was not beyond their capabilities. In his more confident
moments, he would have boasted that such could be completed by a platoon of
experienced guardsmen, that utilising Astartes was overkill considering the
dangers in the galaxy. But, it was only human to want success, particularly for
such a... sensitive, political task.
The vox link finally opened with an aggressive hiss and
Hurtz breathed a long, slow sigh of relief.
“Squad aboard with the target, my lord.”
A cunning smile slowly crept upon the Inquisitor's lower
facial features.
All is going according to plan....
Chapter 01
“The
snake strikes first so that its prey does not strike back,
That way the snake never fears being struck.
Thus we be like the snake, and have no fear of
being struck....”
-Kahn-Sarro,
White Scars
The Corvandus stalked quietly through the void, its
black hull near invisible as inertia shot it forwards in the silent, star
speckled vacuum. A modest ship by all means, the reasons for choosing a Sword
Class frigate as his personal vessel were many for Inquisitor Hurtz. Although
it was well within his rights to request the mightiest battleships of the line
in the Segmentum fleets, flaunting such power was as much a detriment as it was
a boon for an Inquisitor. Of course, if such was the intention of the Inquisitor,
in particular the puritanical zealots of the Ordos Malleus, then such abuse of
precious resources would be acceptable... but for gentlemen who appreciated a
degree of discretion, the Necromundan proverb of bringing a knife to a party
opposed to a rocket launcher felt extremely fitting.
The Corvandus was complimented well with strong port
and starboard batteries, its original service
escorting larger cruisers and defending them from threats too small for
their city-shattering weapons to target. But, the Corvandus' strength
was not in its firepower, but in its ability to outrun its foes. Heavily
modified by the Mechanicum priesthood of Metalikus to increase their output,
its engines hummed as its plasma batteries fired their star-forging bursts into
the void, propelling the ship speedily back to the core worlds of the Thandius
system.
”We shall reach geosynchronous orbit of the Thandius
shipyards in fourty eight hours lord,” stated Alrich Van Drachnolovic,
Captain of the Corvandus. The aging man rubbed his eyes, the neural
locks of the captain's throne releasing as he began to stand to address the
Inquisitor. “With the stealth fields and servitor-guided pilotry active my
Lord, I shall retire to my quarters...”
Hurtz gave a curt nod and clasped the aging captain on his
shoulder as he walked by. “Do check upon our new guest before you do,”
he stated. “I wish to make sure that he is comfortable, and that our
hospitality is generous before being greeted by our soon-to-be host.”
“And what of the others my lord?” A mug raised to his
lips as the Captain took a greedy gulp of fluid, his lips parched from being
linked to the ship's systems for the greater part of the ship cycle. “The
four whom were recovered also?”
“A by-product of misplaced pity from a genetically forged
weapon” Hurtz stated curtly, if not a little bluntly. “Transfer them to
the crew decks once they are fed. Consider it... payment, for their
liberation.”
“And if their liberator notices lord?”
A rogueish smile crept across Hurtz's handsome face. “He
won't.”
…
The walk back to the arming chambers were a tiring affair
for Kahn-Sarro. The smouldered ruin that was once a crested MkVII chest plate
had taken a direct hit from an energy-based weapon during the recent mission
and had short circuited the power outlets. He thanked his stormseer's token for
sparing him from such an injury: such a shot would have felled a
terminator-clad were it not for the divine intervention of the sea of storms
from his charm. With no power left to dampen the armoured plating however, he
was carrying dead weight... lots of dead weight.
He nodded towards the Raven as his brother crawled into his
own arming chamber, the sniper nodding curtly as the door closed between them.
Where the Raven shared Kahn-Sarro's lean form, the two were like sun and moon:
the Raven kept to himself at distance whereas Kahn-Sarro preferred to be close
to the heart of things. Such had been his habit since his earliest memories of
the Chogorian steppes and like all Chogorians, he was slow to change his ways.
The look the Raven had given him prior to his self-confinement had been one of
self-disgust: being out-witted by their previous foes had left a sour mark upon
the brooding son of Corax.
Kahn-Sarro had always been fascinated by the Ork species.
For all of their primitive habits, he respected them for their often surprising
capabilities. In the past he had walked upon the surface of Cardrim with his
Khan and had witnessed their speed and ferocity as their ancient foe did battle
with the brotherhood upon the ash plains. Their psychotic killer instinct that
drove them to fight had matched the 4th Brotherhood consistently
throughout that conflict. With great relish, he had conducted the dance of
death with the green-skinned beasts and had found them foes worthy of his
Quan-Dao blade on every occasion it had been drawn.
It shamed him that the wound he now bore had not been
inflicted by the dance of death.
“We should have the tech-priest repair that for you,”
Kahn-Sarro heard from behind him.
In his armour, Rylath the Nocturn-born stood a head taller
then the White Scar. Dense bolted plating, whining servo harnesses and external
hydraulic stabilisers betrayed the Salamander's links to the machine cult and
his armour hummed like a caged fusion core as his heavy feet thudded down the
metal deck plating. A cowl of thick, scaly tissue hung from iron pins to his
helm's faceplate and despite the newly blackened plating of his armour, it only
served to heighten the fiery patterns of the Promethean cult that were carved
into his armoured plating.
His servo arm hung forward over his left shoulder, a heavy
bolter clasped in its grip as the tech-marine meticulously began his
maintenance. The White Scar smiled at the beeping light from the pict feed on
his brother's armour: the image was feeding directly into his helmet optics,
allowing the Astartes to multi-task and make efficient use of his time.
“It is just a flesh wound,” he stated in his thick,
Chogorian accent. The use of the gothic dialects was still foreign to the son
of Chogoris, even after centuries of life and interaction with the greater
Imperium.
“Indeed? Perhaps it is a flesh wound for you brother, but
that bodes bad tidings for the armour itself.” The Salamander finally
looked towards him since they had started talking. “If the Tech-priest is
unavailable brother, I shall make the repairs for you... but first my attention
must be drawn to our brother's heavy bolter.”
“I shall see the Martian priest,” he curtly stated. “It
will be days through the Sea of Stars before we return to the keep...”
And in the meantime, he desired to practice the dance of
death.
…
The blade gleamed as bright as the stars as the cloth
brushed gently across its surface.
Athanalon was a beautiful blade by any culture's standards,
the rapier elegantly carved in a form equally aesthetic as it was practical.
Many creatures had died by its sharp tip, from misshapen humanoids to other
Astartes. It disappointed Iagos when he found himself hiding its beauty beneath
its scabbard once more.
The robed Astartes stood and sighed once he reached his full
height, placing the weapon back upon its designated place on his private weapon
rack. The journey from his Chapter had not been a pleasant one: being parted
from those of his gene seed had laid heavily upon his mind. All of his brothers
were prone to dark thoughts and being absent from them only enhanced the
isolation of the lone Astartes.
“You understand how important this duty is,” his
Captain had said to him. “The Chapter's existence is at stake...”
Iagos felt the fury simmer deeply in the back of his mind.
He had resented the necessity of such a duty, knowing full well his chapter's
standing from recent events in the eyes of his fellow Astartes. He would find
little brotherhood amongst such company, if at all beyond the borders of his
dying chapter.
Calm... he told himself. I am at peace.
The metallic voice of a grinding, augmented vox ruined the
stillness in the arming chamber:
“Are you ready?”
Iagos nodded once. “I am.”
He walked away from the weapon rack and stepped upon the
central dais of the armoury room. Mechanical servo harnesses rose from
motorised compartments and began the meticulous work of attaching his armour to
the black carapace. Pain jolted through his body as the neural synaptic links
engaged with the armour systems and he felt the surrounding air from the
augmetic sensors in the armour's surface.
After ten minutes of meticulously precise machine placement,
the servo-clamps rotated back into the claw tips and ejected a series of large
airbrushes that began to spray thick, black paint across the smooth armoured
plating. Spray by spray, his chapter was being washed away and he felt a moment
of betrayal over the simple, symbolic gesture.
He paused one moment to take one last look at his left
shoulder-plating before it was removed by a third servo claw, its chequered
surface disappearing into the machine's motorised compartments. He then felt a
hard nudge as a new symbol was bolted in its place:
The Inquisitorial seal signifying the vigil of the watch.
“So it begins...” Iagos muttered. “So it
begins...”
Written by Dean Ferguson.
Written by Dean Ferguson.
Some of those names! X'D
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