Watch Fortress Erioch

The duties were grueling, but an Astartes endures. Training is as the forging of a blade. Neglect the duties of the forge, and it will break in battle. The knowledge being imprinted in his mind did not trouble Ar'Mat. It was a tool that was only dangerous in the wrong hands. But his mind was strong and forever holding the depravities of the Warp at bay. To him, it was but another bolt shell in his magazine.

Other matters weighed on his mind. The absence of Nocturne and his people and family was a distraction. His mind pondered matters of state and dispute left unfinished. He chastised himself for the distraction. He would not return for years if not decades to come, if ever. He would rely on his brothers grandchild, Be'at, who he had left in charge in his absence. He was a patriarch of the family and well prepared for the task whenever Ar'Mat's duties had called him away. But his mind still wandered to his home. Some might say it was natural, but a Librarian could not allow such thoughts to turn into distraction and doubt.

And so he had found his way to the armories and their forges. He had selected personal serfs. In the fury of the forge, emotion was washed away with purpose. His personal arms and armor he repainted in the black of the Deathguard, and its purity and blessings were remade from the ground up. It is the pride and duty of a Salamander to see to his own equipment. He would see it no other way. All his personal time in those first weeks went into this project. Other personal niceties would have to wait, like his other projects in the armory that he had brought along from Nocturne. His first mission could arrive at any time, and preparing for this duty had been his foremost priority. He was ready.

The corridors were narrow, and his foes numerous. The trance of battle deluded his mind, the timeless rhythm of combat defying the timer in his peripheral vision that insisted it had been a mere minute since the first shot had been fired. He was hunched, his bolter tucked tightly to his body, his feet moving in a graceful roll-step that landed silently as he twisted around a corner. Without hestitation, he snap fired two bolts, even as his visor highlighted the two forms as targets.

He pushed past the intersection, the sound of footsteps echoing in his helmet. In a single, smooth motion, he took his bolter by the foregrip, uncasing his combat knife, and thrust it around the corner, just below chest height. He felt a tearing as he flicked his wrist, ripping the unseen target open. Sheathing his blade, he reversed his bolter's grip, letting him pivot around the corner gun-first. One hostile exploded into a fine mist. The other, he grazed at the shoulder, sending it wobbling, but not quite off its feet.

As the buzzer sounded in his helmet, his hand flickered at his thigh, the combat knife flipping out of its sheath, turning once in the air and sinking to the hilt into the padded ballistic cloth target. Around him, the faux corridor walls sank back into the floor, revealing the vast expanse of the training gymnasium. He approached the target, sliding his knife free, absently shaking off fibers before returning it to its sheath.

The echoes of boltguns and the occasional scream of chainsword penetrated his perception as he switched off the simulated sound, and reemerged from his imagined battle to the real one. He approached the vestibule near his designated training field, reaching down to his belt and starting to sleeve empty magazines into a waiting case. A nearby serf watched in confusion and horror, as the Adeptus Astartes wasted his valuable training time sorting ammunition, but knew not to question the Marine.

Petrix knew that loading, sorting, and distributing ammunition swiftly could be just as important as being able to land it on-target. They did not always have the luxury of a full staff of Chapter serfs in the field, after all. More importantly, he was eager to begin squad exercises - and those did not begin with bolters drawn.

He exited the gymnasium and approached the armory, skulking through the mostly empty corridors. He moved silently, endeavoring not to be seen, even by his new brothers-in-arms. (Dedication to wraith-slip training was just another Raven Guard idiosyncracy that alternately irritated and unnerved the sons of other Chapters.) Bearing the case in one hand, he silently slipped into the armory, scanning the room, and finding the green-edged armor in a service vestibule. Moving with a purpose, he put his hand on Ar'Mat's shoulder - among Ravens, a friendly reminder to remain vigilant, and a silent greeting; though he did not know how the other Marine might interpret it...

Slowly looking up from his work at the blazing forge, Armat's red eyes were aglow with the reflection of its radiant heat. Around him his serfs bowed to his visitor where their work allowed the distraction. The Librarian studied his battle-brother a moment before he spoke in his sonorous deep voice, calm and focused on duty. He placed the tools of the forge aside in a precise arrangement as he spoke.

"Brother Petrix. I welcome you. Have you come to soothe the aching scars of your armour?"

Cloten spent only a few seconds in his cloister before making his way to the dining hall. Between services, he made his way into the kitchen, and was soon laughing and telling jokes with the staff. His powerful muscles lifting the heavy pots with ease, his gift for easy manner lends himself here. After all, in forward camps, everyone performs the same duties. In decades of service, he had scrubbed hundreds, thousands of such pots.

Later, their duties finished earlier than anticipated, he enjoys tea with the men, men he now knows by first name. He regales them with another story of life in Cloten Prime, watching the obscenely wealthy live the life of gods, and inevitably look stupid doing so. At least, the way he tells the stories they always do.

He tells no stories of the Necron. He is proud both of the simple accomplishments of easy tasks done deftly, as in absurd victories in the face of overwhelming odds.

You have been in Watch Fortress Erioch the secret headquarter of the Deathwatch chapter in the Jericho Reach, for a little while now. Some of you came back from a mission and finished their debriefing and recovering from the fightings wounds. Others arrived recently to the Deathwatch and completed their hypno and physical training.

You have been called to one of the numerous war room of this ancient fortress. It is time to report for your duty toward honor, Chapter and the Emperor.

Guthroth Hlodvirsson, also known as Guts, was already in the room when Ragnar came in. A ugly smile appeared on his face, not because he wasn't happy to see Ragnar, but simply because his face was already ugly, even without all the battle scars on it. He was currently in scout armor, playing with his combat knife. With his ugly mug and his almost constant sneer in his face, he wasn't the friendliest type around. Still, if you had him in your team, the chances of being abushed where alsmost null.

When Cloten enters, his helmet is off and attached to his leg, below a bolter pistol, and opposite a chain sword. He is ridiculously handsome in a degenerate sort of way, with an easy grin but eyes that have seen the horrors of the deep. His armor tells Deathwatch, Blood Angels before that, and his jump pack and sword alone mark him as an assault Marine.

Lucian enters behind Cloten and is much his opposite. Deathwatch, Ultramarines, Librarian. His face is grim, and while he measures the room, there is no friendliness in greeting his comrades. His eyes ruthlessly pick out their symbols, weapons, gear, and attitudes, filling out away until needed.

He pours himself a mug of hot water and stands at parade rest at the table, allowing himself the luxury of a few moments ease.

The summons found Bannus training, hammering out any weaknesses in his combat skills much like a blacksmith hammers out imperfections from steel. Eager to finally put himself to use and back on the frontlines again, he makes his way to the war room in his impressive, almost ceremonial power armour, helmet still on. Though he doesn't say a single word, the iron cybernetic that is his right hand and the servo-arm protruding from the back of his power armour provide all the information required for introductions, marking him as a Tech-Marine of the Iron Hands Legion.

When you enter the austere war room, you see a Chaplain Jorge Martinez in quiet conversation with a Watch Captain you do not know. When he sees you arrive, the old Chaplain excuses himself and exit the room giving some warm smiles and friendly tap on the shoulder to those of you he knows best, and simple respectful nods to the others.

The Watch Captain takes a few steps toward you. He wears his power armour showing the pauldron color of the Ultramarine. You can notice a particular shine on both the armour's leg as if those parts were just reforged and a clear limp as the Captain step forward."I am Watch Captain Avincus. In 24 hours, you will be leaving with me on the Hallowed Sword for the Rimward region of Jericho Reach where to fight against against the Great Devourer is at its worst. As you know, neither the Achilus Crusade nor the Deathwatch hold the ressources to stops the forsaken xenos advances, but that does not mean we wont make them pay a thousandfold for every world they take.

One of those world is Khnum is one of those world. Having no settlements and no particular assets, it as been left undefended and the unholy hordes of the Hive Fleet Dagon are devouring it. However, as the world of Khnum is dying, an astropathic distress signal
bearing high-level ciphers has been detected, emanating from its surface. To penetrate the Shadow in the Warp, the astropath sending the message must be powerful indeed.

We do not know who sent the distress call nor how they survived the fall of the world. Investigating the situation is a top priority. Your mission will be to discover how they survived and bring back the sender if possible. Do be aware that the sender's presence on this world is not under the authority of anyone in the Crusade and their goals are unknown.

I know that this will be your first mission together as a kill-team, but I have heard great things about all of you. You have been specifically chosen for your experience and skills needed to succeed in this rare opportunity.

Do you have any questions?"

Watch Captain Avincus keep a steady eye on you all, awaiting your reaction.

Bannus is curious as to why such a mission would require a Tech Marine on board, but he keeps that to himself and simply nods in denial. No questions.