Part 1: A Greeting
"From the stars, the hero descended,
Clad in silver, he came to rest in the Mountain of Skulls"


– From "Silent Saviour", a Varsavian poem.

Laktaq checked his power-armour for blemishes as the shuttle quaked with the final stages of re-entry. Satisfied that there would be no scratch or smudge to mar its surface and embarrass him, he straightened up and tried to calm himself.
He wasn't quite sure why he was so nervous and excited. Certainly the prospect of joining his new Chapter was something that evoked alternate spurts of delight and foreboding, but he had overcome most of that shortly after Sergeant Kyaerus had given him the news, four months ago. He suspected that he was simply anxious to get a look at the Chapter's fortress-monastery, and Varsavia itself.

It was an odd feeling, to know of a planet you had spent your whole childhood on only through the tales told by others. But the initiation and indoctrination programmes were as harsh on your memories as they were on your body, and his stint on Varsavia with the 10th had been all too brief.

He remembered some images, though. Snow settling across a harsh and beautiful landscape, a herd of elk treading carefully over lichen-covered rocks, a starlit sky blazing with constellations...

He twitched. The shuttle was approaching the ground now – his training allowed him to identify the distinct engine-throttle as the pilot began to level out the craft. Time to make sure he was ready to meet his new Captain. As the landing-boosters fired, he checked one final time that his chainsword was securely attached at his belt, and picked up his boltgun, slinging it into the 'at-ease' position he had been taught to adopt when he was in friendly territory, and marvelling once more at the responsiveness of his armour.

No matter how many times you had it explained to you, you always secretly expected the power-armour of a full battle-brother to be more restrictive than the lighter-looking carapace armour worn by scouts. Laktaq had been pleasantly surprised to find that the opposite was true – his bulky silver armour felt like a glove, even allowing him to feel the texture of his bolter's grip through his gauntlets.

There was a crunch, and a sudden jarring sensation. The shuttle had touched down. He stood still, controlling the urge to fidget, as the ramp descended, then slowly made his way down it, into the light.

His optics adjusted automatically to the glare, and he found himself stood in the middle of what, but for the surrounding walls and turret emplacements, he would have called a snowfield. Glancing down, he saw that the area around the shuttle was free of the white blanket, and instead a mixture of slush and water lay over the rockcrete floor, where the landing boosters had melted their mark during the touchdown.

Two figures were approaching from across the field of snow, having emerged from a squat grey building at the far side. He waited, uncertainly. Was it impolite to remain here and have the greeting party walk the whole way to greet him? He took a few steps forward, and stopped, feeling a fool. They were nearly here, anyway.

"Greetings," said the first figure, an impressive-looking figure bedecked in similarly impressive armour. Purity seals hung from its pitted surface, and two skulls were affixed to the pauldrons by spikes, one monstrosity undoubtedly the hefty skull of an Ork, the other seeming human, perhaps Astartes. However, what drew Laktaq's eyes most was the intricate tattoo on the Astartes' forehead. A blaze of fire surrounded a single powerful figure, who held a snake in one hand as another snake, growing from his right arm, devoured it. Behind this, a skull lay shattered. Laktaq couldn't help but shiver. On closer inspection, the skull was actually the symbol of the Silver Skulls.

"I am Captain Amarok," said the marine. "This is Brother-Sergeant Aumanil." He indicated the second figure, who seemed unusually tall to Laktaq, but perhaps this was accentuated by his somewhat slender build. Just as Amarok's intricate tattoo had alarmed him, so too was Aumanil's lack of them a surprise. Five service studs dotted his shaved head, which, from what Laktaq remembered of the conventions of other Astartes, meant that Aumanil had been with the Skulls for over two-and-a-half centuries. Then again, Veteran-Sergeant Atellus went untattooed, so perhaps it was not so unusual.

"Welcome to Varsavia," said Aumanil, his dark grey eyes scanning Laktaq, as if searching for something.

"And welcome to 3rd Company," continued Amarok. Laktaq was about to thank him, when he caught himself, and bowed instead, turning to do the same to Aumanil. Sergeant Atellus often allowed even untattooed Scouts to speak in his presence, as co-ordination was needed for effective training, but these marines were unlikely to be so tolerant. His position at the moment was an issue of confusion for him. Was he a full battle-brother of 3rd, capable of speaking unasked? He did wear the armour of a full Astartes, now, and had claimed his head. Or did his unmarked skin still prevent him from speaking to his superiors? His rapid progression to 3rd had prevented him first seeing the Cruor to have his achievement marked in ink. It was best to err on the side of caution, and remain silent until asked. Amarok and Aumanil did not seem surprised by his silence, so perhaps he had chosen wisely.

"Aumanil will see you to your new squad," said Amarok, glancing up as the serf that had piloted Laktaq's shuttle began unloading crates. Aumanil nodded, a curious expression crossing his face.
"Follow me," he instructed, turning to walk back the way the two had come. Laktaq hurried after him.

"You may speak in front of me, Brother," said Aumanil as they reached the doorway. "I am not worthy of your silence."

Laktaq was dumbfounded by the statement, but took up the offer. "Not worthy, Brother-Sergeant?" He asked, as they entered through the gothic arch, and began to walk down a dark corridor. Aumanil sighed.

"Nevermind."

He glanced at Laktaq. "What is your name, brother?"

"Laktaq," Laktaq replied.

"Well, Laktaq, you may ask me any questions you like. I have no doubt you are curious about many things"

He was right there. A couple of questions had been bubbling through his mind.

"Where are we? Is this the monastery?"

Aumanil shook his head.

"This is a tunnel, leading from the landing-pad you arrived on to the rear of the monastery. It cuts down through a sheer cliff, which protects our landing-pad from the roaming tribes and predators. The tunnel comes out in the rear of our revered monastery."

Laktaq nodded, noticing that the corridor had indeed begun to stoop downwards, and was longer than the squat building he had seen would permit. Ornate twisting stonework dotted the walls and ceiling.

"Which squad am I to be joining? Am I a full battle-brother?"

"You are to join Squad Dabaan," replied Aumanil steadily. "I believe Sergeant Dabaan wishes to evaluate your abilities before permitting you to see the Cruor and gain your mark. I will allow him to explain this."

That seemed fair. These marines would only know of his abilities from the reports Atellus had written on him. It was to be expected that they would want to see first-hand how capable he was. Laktaq fell silent. There was only one question remaining in his head, and he was hesitant to ask it. Aumanil looked at him.

"There is something further," he stated, reading Laktaq like his thoughts were tattooed across his fface. "Ask it."

Laktaq shrugged. "I could not help but wonder," he said, apologetically. "The tattoo on the Captain's forehead – what does it mean?"

Aumanil's face looked grim in the darkness, and Laktaq wondered if the Sergeant might not answer. Had he unknowingly broken some taboo? But then the grim face shifted.

"It is my Captain's doom," Aumanil said, a gloomy note settling in his voice. "And perhaps that of us all. It troubles him, and the reading attached to it keeps us bound here, rarely able to strike at our Emperor's foes directly."

Laktaq was intrigued. "What-"

"-I think that may be enough questions for the moment," the Sergeant interrupted, obviously troubled by what he had been forced to speak of.

"Of course," said Laktaq, retreating into silence.

They continued through the gloomy tunnel with no further exchanges, eventually emerging into some kind of hallway. The decorations seemed more ornate, and the hallway built to a different scale to that of the tunnel. Skulls of all races lined the walls, some preserved in the silver metal common to the Chapter's trophies, others left in plain bone, and yet others apparently crafted from stone, perhaps to hold the place of trophies long-since damaged. Undoubtedly, they were now in the monastery itself.

Aumanil appeared to have a destination in mind, and as he led Laktaq through the skull-lined corridors, the new recruit began to get a sense of just how vast the building was. The corridors were a twisting maze that would be a nightmare for intruders to navigate, and where he saw doors and entrances – including, in one case, a downward-leading staircase marked 'Librarium' – they were barred and in some cases guarded.

The biggest marvel yet came, however, when they reached Aumanil's destination. It was an entrance hall like no other Laktaq had seen. Glorious arches passed overhead, and light somehow played from above, despite there being no windows that Laktaq could see. A whole company could easily form up in this space. Perhaps that was what it was intended for.

A lone figure awaited them by the doors. As they walked to him, Laktaq examined the doorway. The thick stonework was riddled with odd runes, and at its apex, a silvered skull was mounted, surrounded by jewels. Was that a trophy being proudly displayed, or a hero's head watching over them?

"Dabaan," said Aumanil formally, as they approached the figure. The squad sergeant was in full power-armour, aside from his helmet, which hung from his belt alongside a pair of Ork skulls, revealing the swirling tattoo-marks on his face and his blonde, short-cropped hair.

"Aumanil," replied Dabaan, nodding his head slightly in what might have been a bow.

"This is Laktaq," said Aumanil, gesturing at him. Laktaq bowed to the sergeant. He might have been imagining it, but it seemed like there was some frost in Aumanil's voice that hadn't been there before. Was that directed at him, or at Dabaan?

"If you'll excuse me," Aumanil continued, "I have other business to attend to." Dabaan nodded again, and Aumanil turned and walked off. Dabaan watched him out of sight, then turned his gaze on Laktaq. He seemed amiable enough, but Laktaq wasn't going to risk speaking out of turn, so he simply waited and accepted the scrutiny.

"Laktaq, eh?" He said, reaching for his helmet. "Well, I have no doubt you're eager to report to the Cruor and claim your tattoo, Laktaq, but before you do, there is a certain trial I want to see you pass. Affix your helmet."

Laktaq nodded and did so, sealing the clasps and listening to the hiss as the pressure equalised. Across from him, Dabaan did the same.

"Just follow me," Dabaan's voice crackled across a private vox-link. "And I'll explain what you have to do."

On that note, he turned and passed his hand over some unseen device in the rock. The great doors creaked open and, his eyes adjusting once again to the bright glare of light off snow, Laktaq followed Dabaan outside. Varsavia and an unknown trial awaited.