So this has been a bit of a slow write because of real life, writers block, and over active imagination, but it is finally done. For those wondering I have tried to base this as closely as possible to what is available on the canonical Flame Falcon chapter, because yes there are some bit inconsistencies about the canon days, because it says that Falcons were purged only after a century of service, but in the Grey Knight's wiki page it says the Purge of Lethe occurred sometime in M40 or M41, well beyond a century since the curse founding was started. It is always the fun of W40K when you catch an intentional conspiracy like this. Also my next update will be the next chapter for The Lord of the IInd Legion, which I am excited about because I'm actually a fan of both Vulkan and Corax, especially Warp ascended Corax because he is chaotic good Owlman, not Batman, Owlman.
Part One: Brotherhood
A towering figure clad in ceramite power armor stepped gently as his figure and armor's weight allowed. From boots to the collar of his breastplate, the metallic red paint reflected the lights of the passageway. His gauntlets were reflective gold, the pauldrons charcoal black framed by white trim, and on his left pauldron was the proud visage of Falcon's head painted in gold. On his chest in pearl white was not the two headed eagle of the Imperium, but instead a detailed falcon mid flight with a torn in half serpent in its talons. A cape of void black was attached to his armor, bearing both the Imperial Aquila and burning wings. He was Mighta Enfild, Chapter Master of Flame Falcons. He walked somberly the now eerily quiet halls of the Lookout of Eternity, his Chapter's Fortress Monastery. He remembered well when he had first been brought through the hallowed entrance, he had been only eleven summers old back then. Nothing more than a scarred, freckled-faced youth who had just been lucky enough to escape a lifetime spent working in the labor gangs. He owed thanks to a surveyor serf of the chapter's apothecary who had witnessed him fight off an enforcer with a broken arm just to keep another youth safe from their shock baton. Mighta did not recall much of his mortal childhood, but he still remembered that day with vivid clarity. He and the other youth, a girl his age named Rana, had been sent to steal supplies being hoarded by the supervisor clansmen, clean water, nutrient packs, and medicine. Rana and he had been small enough to squeeze into ventilation shafts and crawl spaces. Thanks to the serf seeing his bravery, not even an hour after they had been tossed in a cell, did a Chaplain and an Apothecary arrived. After a short discussion the two Falcons claimed Mighta as a chapter recruit and sent a years worth of supplies back to last the hab he and Rana were from.
He felt his sorrow grow as he remembered the bustle of activity that reverberated through the fortress' interior, the wonders of technology and faith in the God-Emperor he saw around every corner. However, after answering a call for aid from an assailed sector, only half of the 1st Company and a handful of squads from the other nine companies remained, the silence was deafening. It would take them at minimum a full century to restore their ranks to even half of codex approved strength. While Mighta was not concerned about the glory he and his chapter brothers would miss out on, he was more concerned about the lives they would be unable to safeguard. Since their Founding, the Flame Falcons had made it their mission to prioritize the lives of Imperial citizens first and foremost. For much like the Chapter which bore the name of the IInd Legion, the Flame Falcons saw themselves as protectors of the Emperor's people. Unlike many of the Chapters of Primarch Clay's lineage, they had little contact with their fellow Sons of Clay. This allowed them to develop their own traditions, rituals, and rise to prominence by themselves. Their claim of Lethe was a result of their efforts being recognized by fellow Adeptus Astartes Chapters and the High Lords of Terra, despite their origins from the Cursed Founding. That had been a moment of incredible pride for the Chapter, one that Mighta had inherited upon his ascendancy to the position of Chapter Master over two centuries ago.
He found himself standing in the Hall of Remembrance, apparently with gentle mindlessness he had stood directly in front of their statue of the Emperor in his avatar of Death. A mighty giant with a crowned hood, sculpted from black marble holding a thin sword with raven wings as a cross guard and runic writing down the blade. The hundreds of lit candles softly illuminated the features of Mighta's unmasked visage, soft orange light accenting his gently tanned skin. Two crease lines of age above his brow, a soft widow's peak of graying blonde hair, and the steel gray of his left eye. His right eye had been damaged during his tenure as a Champion of 5th Company during his second century of service, and was replaced by a cybernetic with ruby glass. A map of scars that started below his left eye and worked down the side of his throat, left behind by the knives of Drukhari Kabal scum. On his left ear were six studs along the helix of his ear, each representing a century of service, and wore an earring shaped in the chapter's symbol on the lobe of his ear. It was a near perfect representation of the chapter icon wrought in metal. Many outside the chapter believed the Flame Falcons had taken the name in light of the strange yet beneficial mutation of their geneseed, but the truth was greater than that. Though the details have become less clear on the subject, it was written in the annals of Chapter history that the first Librarian that became the Chief Librarian foresaw visions of a great golden falcon swooping down upon a battlefield with the burning light of the Emperor trailing behind the noble predator. Thus a simplified name of "The Flame's Ferocious Falcon" became the Chapter's honored title, which became more aptly fitting once the 1st Company saw their opening to their illustrious battle honors.
Mighta smiled as he remembered the first time the Emperor had blessed him with the Chapter's so-called curse. It was during the Rebuke of the Highway Spine to Aspira's Rest, the primary hive city of Aspira Prime, against the horde led Ork warlord Brakzod Waldblitza. All of 5th Company had been deployed to hold back the Green Skin barbarians from easily reaching the hydroponics treatment facilities that pumped the life saving waters throughout the Hive. The company has established five checkpoints along the highway's entry, each outfitted with twenty brothers all armed according to the Codex Astartes maximums, and Mighta has been stationed at the third checkpoint. The objective of the first four lines was to hold out as long as possible before retreating back to the next checkpoint, only the fifth checkpoint was not allowed to fall. The first checkpoint, and in turn all those who fell back, were under the command of Chaplain Azroc Cordesh, the skull helmed brother was the only one entrusted by the Captain to know when a tactical retreat would outweigh the shame of letting the xeno filth take ground. 5th Company had the support of a Cadian infantry regiment to fight alongside them, which granted the Flame Falcons the support of en masse lasfire and auto-turrets of Imperial Guardsmen. That engagement had lasted for days, and by the third Mighta had lost all of his squad brethren.
The Orks had pushed to the third line. They had been wildly trying to punch a hole through the defense line. Suddenly he was blind. His helmet's visor lenses had been struck and broken. A lucky shot from an Ork's frenzied spray of auto fire. Before he could undo the clasp to remove the damaged helm, his sergeant had tackled him out of the way. Then Mighta heard the boom of a nearby explosive, and smoke filtered in through his helmet's still opened rebreather. With a yank, and cough as the black smoke choked down his lungs, Mighta ripped the helmet off. He saw his brother sergeant's broken charred remains. A krak missile. It punched through his already damaged breastplate, and detonated inside the meat of his gene-brother's body. Rage! Rage like he had never felt before, burned throughout his entire body and he roared as he picked up a fallen chainsword! Still moving, still roaring, he sighted an Ork near the barricade, he charged, and vaulted the obstacle until he was in melee range. He was not even aware that his armor had seemingly been set ablaze with thin golden flames. The Ork froze, dumbstruck by the brilliant blaze barreling towards him, the chainsword struck in a decapitating arch! The weapon roared loudly as it chewed through the meat and bone of the xeno. Gore exploded into the air, but the alien iccor burned away from the gold fire that bathed Mighta's armored body.
"In the fires of obligation!" Mighta shouted, drawing free a bolt pistol, "Our blessed flame is your damnation!" He leveled the sidearm, fired into another rushing Ork, and swung his chain weapon into another one. He was a blur of burning gold, hacking and blasting Ork after filthy Ork! His mind's inner eye was washed by memories of the battle brothers he would never hear chuckle or shout again! More rage! It sparked from the sorrow that only warriors knew! It felt good! The strength flooding him was like nothing he had felt before, and he thanked the Emperor by butchering the green skins! More! He wanted, no, he needed to kill more! They were running. Running away! No! He would not let them! He raised up the gore covered chain sword, and then-then he felt a power hand grip his wrist. He snapped his head back to look back, and the wrathful defiance died in his throat. It was the Chaplain. The skull-faced helmet grinned back at him as the Chaplain's black armor was wreathed in gold flames, just like Mighta.
"Though hatred is one of the purest gifts He bestowed," Azroc Cordesh recited perfectly, "The Emperor gifted his warriors with reason so hatred would never swallow their souls whole." The words were from a sermon the Chaplains had given Mighta and others hoping to become chapter neophytes every morning meal. It gave the young battle brother pause and he realized for the first time he was on fire. Many base fears had been drilled out of Mighta now that he was a full Astartes. So while he was concerned that he was covered in golden flames, he was not afraid. He was however curious as to why he felt neither pain or his flesh cooking.
"Collar your wrath brother," Azroc said sternly, "I admire your zeal, but the mission remains unfinished." Behind Mighta there was a loud ugly roar from an Ork, and the burning chaplain raised his heavy bolt gun, squeezed off three shots. Three wet bursts reached Mighta's enhanced hearing, but still he kept his eyes on his chaplain brother. It took an effort, but Mighta ignored the adrenaline whispering silently in his ear, in favor of the trained instinct to obey a senior battle brother.
"A-As you command, Brother Chaplain." Mighta stuttered from the tingle of adrenaline, and Azroc nodded before releasing the younger Falcon's wrist. As his twin hearts calmed themselves to steady rhythm, the young battle brother watched in fascination as the golden flame gradually put themselves out. By the end of that bloody battle, he had begun learning how to concussionly activate and deactivate the phenomenon. Mighta learned what the chapter had called their blessed curse, the Mantle, and 5th Company's Apothecary showed him data readouts he barely understood. All to assure Mighta that the Mantle was a natural development of their gene seed. It was not until recently, where for the first time in the four millennia of the Flame Falcons loyal service that they had finally met fellow sons of Arwyn Clay. The Oathkeepers. A second founding chapter, whose honor and victories nearly eclipsed that of the Bale Hounds, the primogenitor chapter. The Oathkeepers had sworn an oath to sail the stars in eternal vigilance of the Emperor's realm, and if Mighta was being honest, the Flame Falcons owed their continued existence to their elder brother-cousins. The Chapter Master felt a soft smile spread across his lips, and then heard the sound of armored footsteps with the undertone of live power armor behind him. He turned gently towards the sound.
"Your Chapter's hall to the fallen is beautiful, Master Enfield," came the soft yet inhumanly deep voice of Commander Godfrey, "Are all the honored dead represented here?" Godfrey was just as tall as Mighta, although his skin a rich brown, with green eyes, and shaved down black curled hair interrupted by a adamantium plate shape to replace a portion of his skull. Unlike Mighta's armor, the Oathkeepers' armor was painted in vibrant gold, save for the arms, pauldron, and helmet. Both the helmet and arms of Godfrey's warplate were the purest silver. The pauldrons were pure white, framed with black trim, and on the right one was a depiction of two crossed swords with a yellow flame above the swords. Upon his breastplate was an onyx black winged skull of the Adeptus Astartes.
"Some, but not all," Mighta admitted somberly, "We have only called the Lookout home for the 771 years it has stood on Lethe. Memorials of the fallen from before our claim to this world were scattered throughout our chapter's fleet." Godfrey nodded, his face blank, yet his eyes shone with sympathy. The Flame Falcon's had lost all but their battle barge, Crucible of Light, and a single strike cruiser called the Talon of Flames. Godfrey belonged to the Oathkeepers' Vanguard Crusade, under the command of Lord Bertrand, and had sworn with blood upon his Lord's blade to escort the surviving Flame Falcons to their homeworld. Though his own rank was comparable to a Lieutenant, he had not the authority to give his long lost gene brothers gifts of boons to help restore their forces.
"How shall you honor the newly fallen?" He asked the Chapter Master, who looked from the Oatkkeeper to a stained armor glass mosaic window. It showed a brother of the Flame Falcons fighting back to back with a space marine in white armor, a pauldron of green trim and a blue silhouette of a bird. A brother of the White Consuls, one of Primarch Guilliman's lineage, and sworn honor brothers of the Falcons. The two marines were firing their bolters into an artistic depiction of the accursed Black Legion as black ugly brutes with horns.
"The High Chaplain and Chief Librarian will decide that matter," Mighta said before signing heavily, "We are lucky that seven of our Apothecaries survived, but they informed me they could not recover the legacy of all the fallen. We will begin recruitment once more, most likely after you and your brothers depart from us." The verbal reminder that their newfound brotherhood was destined to be enjoyed shortly before duty called Godfrey and his battle brothers away, gave the Oathkeeper a bitter taste in his mouth.
"You have my sympathies, Chapter Master," Godfrey said yet his regret was still audible, "I would be happy to fight beside you when your Chapter is next able to deploy. You and your brothers have the fiery resilience that the scriptures describe in our Primarch." Those words struck a chord in Mighta, as something swelled and ached within his chest. Since their birth, the Flame Falcons had never known the brotherhood of any from the other IInd legion, and had rarely heard any word of praise that compared them to their Primarch. Now, Mighta Enfield, the 41st Chapter Master of Flame Falcons, had been the first in that illustrious line to be praised for emulating their gene sire! It took a moment for him to reign in his emotions, to maintain the composure expected of an Astartes Chapter Master, but it was a challenge even for one who had six centuries of practice.
"I-We, have no accurate accounts of the Primarch," Mighta confessed softly, "Our Chaplains have pieced together what consistencies in what lore we found of Arwyn Clay across the Imperium. If it is not too much to ask, I would ask your Chaplains or Librarians to lead what remains of us in prayer." He turned to face the Oathkeeper, and registered the surprise on the dark skinned warrior's face. The Chapter Master knew that it would be more of an honor for the Oatkkeeper Chaplain to lead the Flame Falcons in prayer, no matter that they were of an older founding.
"I will inform our Warpriest of your offer," Godfrey said with an earnest grin, "I'm certain they would be pleased to share the wisdom from pages of the Book of Clay." Mighta gave the Oathkeeper a puzzled look, but not one of disbelief.
"The Book of Clay?" He repeated, "I was unaware our gene father left behind any written works?" The Oathkeeper nodded.
"Aside from those who have served alongside one of the Sons of Clay," the Oathkeeper explained, "Not many know the true complexity of our Primarch. I would venture to say that he, Russ, and Jagahati Khan are the most misunderstood of the Emperor's sons." Godfrey walked forward, until he stood beside the Flame Falcons' Chapter Master, and looked up at the statue of the Emperor as an avatar of death.
"According to our most ancient tomes," he continued, "Before the God-Emperor reunited with him, Arwyn Clay was both a warrior, shaman, teacher, and general who freed his world from the plague of darkness. Although it is said he denied having such talents for it, he wrote many maxims, poems, and philosophies, many of which centered on the harnessing of psychic abilities with disciplined control. There is even evidence that he was the one who helped shape the core tenets of the Librarius utilized by all Adeptus Astartes. That he sought to instill a balance of all that made the human race great into the societies he brought into the Imperium's light." Mighta felt his breath on the very real threat of being stolen by the pride in Godfrey's voice as he spoke of their Primarch. What lore the Flame Falcons had unearthed of their sire painted him as a dual faced protector of humanity, gentle and kind towards the innocents of the Emperor's subjects, while becoming wrath incarnate towards those who brought blades to said innocents. That lore alone had been enough for the earliest of the Chapter's brotherhood to emulate what they hoped their Primarch would have approved of. To hear that their father was more than a dutiful warrior who would sacrifice himself for others, was a revelation that only made Mighta more proud to be amongst the IInd Primarch's lineage.
"We Falcons still have much to learn it seems," Mighta commented softly, "For millennia we have known what it meant to be the Emperor's Space Marines, but we have only done guess work on what it meant to be Sons of Arwyn Clay." While he paused in a rare moment of not knowing what else to say, the Oatkkeeper officer grinned and chuckled.
"Most of us simply go by the "Sons of Clay" Chapter Master," Godfrey said warmly, "Though our time together will likely be short, we would be happy to spend that time teaching you all we know." Mighta felt himself smile, an instant reaction to the fraternal warmth in the other Space Marine's tone, and glanced over towards him.
"How long shall we share brotherhood, Commander Godfrey?" Mighta asked without any sign of malice, jest, or even disappointment, just the honest eager hope for kinship.
"We cut through rough tides," the Oathkeeper said, "Then the damned Drukhari tried to make our two fleets into easy prey. With the help of your resources added to our own, our Tech-Priests say it will take only a Terran month, maybe a few days less." Mighta nodded, his mind instantly comparing the difference in time between Lethe and Terra. A standard day on Lethe was 29 hours, and with the average Terran month having 720 hours then the Flame Falcon calculated it would take at minimum 25 Lethe days. He smiled.
"Then my gene brother," Mighta said with pride, "Consider me and my chapter your students until you must return to crusade."
In the chaotic churning tides of the immaterium a vessel of mankind's design sailed through the psychic realm and half formed neverborn hands burned away with screaming pain around it. The ship was thirty kilometers long, most of its body was impossibly polished silver, with large sections of the haul painted a radiant viridian green, and bore only two symbols in large jet black. The first was the double headed eagle of the Imperium, with both its eyes open, a call back to the Emperor of Mankind's personal sigil, and the other was a canine shaped head. It resembled the head of an ancient Germanic canine breed from Ancient Terra, recorded as Doberman Pinscher's blacked out silhouette facing forward with piercing eyes and the empty shape of an upside down triangle with rounded edges on its forehead. It was a representation of a Cú Sith Lupine, the mystic animal that the Bale Hounds took their name from, a symbol that for over ten millennia had stood defiant against all that threatened humanity. The humble majesty of the vessel had barely diminished since it had first been born in the orbital dockyards of Mars all those countless centuries ago. Once it served as the flagship of the IInd legion, as well as the personal warship of Arwyn Clay, second born but third found son of the Master of Mankind. Now it served as the mightiest vessel at the Bale Hounds' disposal, only ever awakened and crewed to answer the most dire battles or to mark a historic moment in the chapter's ongoing history.
Beneath the layered skin of ceramite and adamantium, inside the skeleton of reinforced metals were the 600,125 souls protected by the Arcadian Retribution. 600,026 of those souls were baseline humans, one was a member of the Navis Nobilite, all dutifully sworn to serve the Bale Hounds, and each felt some semblance of awe at being allowed to sail such a vessel. In the command bridge embedded into the center of the chamber were three thrones, arranged in a v formation facing towards the reinforced armor glass, with the tallest in the back. The largest had been designed for a being that easily dwarfed an Astartes in full terminator plate, and though it had not been sat upon in nearly 10,000 years it was spotless. It was wrought from ancient silvered metals, sculpted with simple elegance and yet had various runic symbols finely inscribed into its skin. The smallest had been designed to accommodate a standard human, outfitted with neural cables for a well versed voidsmen to interface with ancient and sacred machine spirit of the ship. That throne was made from polished bronze metals, topped by a marble white skull with silver wings attached to it. Its occupant was a brown haired woman who looked to be in the midst of her third decade, wearing a uniform that would not be out of place from Imperial Navy dress uniforms if not for the green of similar shade on the panel's on the ship's haul. She had a few strands of grey streaking through her otherwise brown hair, her face was hard set and her eyes coldly surveying her bridge crew going about their duties. She was Flag Captain Marika Rahek, she was still adjusting to her new rank and role. She had previously served in the Imperial Navy as first mate to Admiral Panius Adrexin aboard the Victory class battleship Broadsword of Mercy.
Marika had never expected to find herself in such a position, but then again only the most arrogant officers of the Imperial Navy think to be requisitioned to sail for the God-Emperor's Angels of Death. Just over a year ago, she had been a part of the Imperial Fleet answering a call for aid against Heretic Astartes. A piratical fleet flying the tarnish colors of traitor legion now called the Leviathan Raiders, once known as the Nova Tridents. What few classified intel her clearance granted her, Marika had deduced the Nova Tridents had likely once served as the best of the God-Emperor's interstellar tacticians and warriors. Now after the seduction of the Ruinous Powers they were little more than glorified corsairs, and Marika counted it as a blessing she had never seen one of the foul traitors in the flesh. The Broadsword of Mercy led a small fleet to fight the heretics and were pleasantly surprised to find two battle barges of the Bale Hounds already engaged with the heretic pirate fleet. Her role during the engagement had been to coordinate bomber squadrons and the battleship's lance batteries operators, with the aim to cripple the enemy's capital ship. An Executor Grand Cruiser that registered as the Heart of Avarice, and Marika had no idea who had been aboard that vessel during the battle.
Seated in the second largest throne on the bridge, was a Space Marine clad in the green and silver of the Bale Hounds, was Fynn Mac Ulsterla, newly appointed Chapter Master. His face still resembled that of a man in his mid twenties, despite being ten times older, yet there was almost no dull luster to his long blonde nearly golden hair. His eyes were a deep emerald green, and if the Flag Captain was being honest he had a face that was easy to like. Rumor had it that his looks had charmed more than a handful of Imperial noblewomen, and they had pined for his affections only for him to politely decline in favor of his sacred obligations to Imperium at large. If it were not for the constant smell of alcohol, gun oils, or rank sweat that always clung to him, then Marika would have likely entertained such pointless daydreams for herself. Like the majority of his Chapter, Fynn was not a man so easily swayed by such baser desires and always seemed to have the concerns of the galaxy on his mind. With his armor inscribed with ancient Arcadian runes and symbols of protection, along with the bronze colored circlet atop his head, he looked like a pagan warrior prince of old myth. Fierce, loving, protective and powerful all at once. Despite its plain appearance the bronze circlet was Fynn's symbol of office. Not only as the Arg Righ or High King of the Chapter, but as High King of Arcadia along with the first and last authority in the protection of the Hounds' Protectorate.
Marika was no nonbeliever or naysayer of the Emperor's divinity, but she had always assumed he was a god made distant by the necessity of the war raged for the species' survival. That said, she could see no other way to explain her current position other than the Emperor had smiled upon her. During that engagement over half a year ago, one of pilots in the bomber squad under Marika's command had detected something unusual on their auspex. It had been Fynn, jettisoned from the Heart of Avarice and into the void as he wrestled some abomination from the nightmares that plagued the insane. The instant said pilot communicated the sight, did the Broadsword of Mercy receive a transmission from the Bale Hounds' ships requesting the Navy's assistance in locating their commander. With no real time to waste, Marika had ordered her squad to break off their attack vector to intercept Fynn, and luckily he had beheaded the creature with a gladius. Instead of returning to the safety of an Imperial vessel as was standard procedure when recovering live soldiers from the depths of space, Fynn had insisted they fly him back into the traitors flagship. Apparently, the traitors had managed to steal one of their most sacred relics, a weapon that had been with their chapter since before the dawn of the foul Horus Heresy.
Before her superiors could contradict her, Marika had ordered her lace gunners to target a weak spot in the Heart of Avarice's void shields to provide Fynn the opening to resume his mission. After the execution of her orders had been accomplished, she switched her focus to getting her bombers to cripple but not destroy the traitor's ship. By the end of the engagement, Fynn and twenty five Bale Hounds requested to come aboard the Broadsword of Mercy, so that they could thank the crew in person. Admiral Adrexin had seemed annoyed but politely granted their request, while also issuing orders for pilots, gunnery personnel and herself to clean themselves up. After which they were to gather in the hanger bay designated for Imperial dignitaries, and she had never seen her pilots dressed so properly. Fynn carried a weapon none of the humans had ever seen before, a long metal polearm with what looked like a bolt gun attached to a blade outfitted with an energy field. Later, Marika would come to learn that it was a guardian spear, the iconic weapon of the Emperor's elite bodyguards when he wore a mortal shell. Fynn smiled warmly at Marika and her fellows, despite the warmth in his expression the woman found something unnerving in seeing an Angel of Death smile. He presented the pilots, ammunition loaders, the engineseer and the gun operators all with medallions of silver with their chapter's icon in bronze. He asked each of them their names and had them engraved by a servo-skull equipped with a laser. No medallion for Marika, no Fynn offered her something far more meaningful, to serve as a captain of the chapter's most sacred warship. Apparently her quick thinking and decisive leadership had earned the respectful admiration of the soon to be crowned Chapter Master.
"Vox Mistress, Security Captain," Marika said loud enough to cut through the song of an active command deck, "Status reports." The Vox Mistress, a tall, lanky figure of various cybernetic replacements, clad in a hooded robe of red with a breastplate with cog halo of the machine cult, took careful steps to be closer to the trio of thrones. She bowed slightly, in respect for Marika's position as the Arcadian Retribution's ultimate mistress, and after a brief crackle of vox distortion her voice filtered through her rebreather mask.
"Captain, there was a recorded disturbance of 3.0456 seconds in the vox relays on Recreation Deck Delta," she reported, and her digital voice clicked as she paused, "My subordinates have located the source of the issue. A burnt out nod placed in Gallery-15-Zeta. They are performing the blessed rites of replacement now." Marika nodded as her mind quickly cycled through her still growing mental map of the Retribution's layout.
"That is the ship's memorial to the Great Crusade?" She asked in a curt manner that welcomed any to answer, but she had not expected the inhumanly deep chuckle that answered.
"One of many, Flag Captain." Fynn answered with a smirk, and left his comment at that. Marika turned back to the Vox Mistress and nodded her thanks, then dismissed the cyborg. She then turned her attention to the Security Captain, Belico Myron, a tall, stern faced man creased by age, with gray hair starting to go white, he wore a standard issued navy trooper uniform and armor. Even aboard vessels belonging to the Adeptus Astartes, there was still a need for navy troopers to fulfill both the role of ship security and discipline in the areas where their space marine masters were not. When the Chapter Master had first explained this to her, Marika had found herself still surprised by the practicality of the practice despite utterly agreeing with it, and determined that it was because of the Astartes' mythic prowess for combat that caused this surprise. Belico saluted by forming the sign of the aquila with his hands over his chest, then bowing slightly.
"Ma'am, no concerning reports from any of the habitation decks," he said with a gravelly voice, "However, there were reports of strange whispers down in the primary engine room. I've already deployed a platoon detail and they have been joined by a Tech Smith and a Druid from the Arg Righ's cadre." Marika narrowed her eyes at that report, the primary engines perhaps one of the most important chambers of the mighty vessel, and if the accursed neverborn had managed to find a crack to slip into, then this could very well lead to disaster. Were this any other vessel in the Imperium, she would have simply ordered those who made the report to be observed further then executed at the first hint of madness. She suspected that were the Retribution under the flag of another chapter, then such methods would be more tolerable, but not for the Bale Hounds. The Bale Hounds took their role as fierce protectors of mankind with more compassion than their reputation would have led Marika to believe. She looked back to Fynn, who despite the calm facade upon his lips had also narrowed his eyes at the security captain's report.
"Belico," intoned the Chapter Master, "Which of my brothers have answered your request." Belico did not blink nor looked to the flag captain for permission to answer their lord's question.
"The honored Tech-Smith Weylan McMars," the Captain answered, "And the revered Druid Leer Samon." Fynn raised from the throne, the guardian spear grasped in his armored gauntlet, and his armor softly snarled with his movements. To Belico's credit, the older veteran did not flinch at all in response to his lord's movements, and Marika had seen tough as nails veterans shrink like frightened children from a space marine's stature. She could not read the chapter master's mood outside of combat or at least what she had gleaned from the rare moments she had free and decided to watch the Astartes spare. In the year since their acquaintance, Marika had only ever seen Fynn spar with those that wore the mark of company captains or champions. During those training matches it was hard for her to not notice how relieved the Chapter Master was, and how he smiled. It was not the smile of one who hungered for blood, as Marika had seen plenty of such wretches on both sides of Mankind's war for survival, but instead it reminded her of one who was at peace. Now Fynn smiled almost somberly at the voidsman.
"Leer is a wise man," he told Belico, "Powerful with a sound mind and tranquil heart. Smith Weylan's skills are as sharp as the weapons he has forged, rest assured Captain, your men are in good hands should they encounter anything." Belico nodded before he briefly bowed his head in respect to the Chapter Master, then returned his gaze to Marika. The flag captain looked at her security captain with a professional demeanor.
"That will be all Captain Myron," she informed him calmly, "Keep me apprised of any developments." He saluted, then turned around to return to his duties. Marika looked over towards Fynn, and could not help but feel that he had been disappointed upon hearing which of his brothers had answered the call. It was a brief feeling, and was in contradiction to the praise he gave them, yet still she could not shake off the suspicion. She wondered briefly if she had only imagined it, after all she had only known the Astartes lord for less than a year, and was still green in her dealings with the transhuman warriors. She decided to leave the matter for now, and to cautiously broch the subject later. Instead as she returned to her seat, the Flag Captain cleared her throat to address another question that had been on her mind.
"Permission to speak freely Chapter Master?" Marika asked politely but loud enough for even unagumented ears. She could not see Fynn smile at her question, yet somehow she was certain he was.
"By all means," Fynn replied with a soft chuckle, "After all you captain this ship now." She still could not get used to the strange lacity the Astartes of the Bale Hounds held when it came to social conduct, and could barely tell when they were being sarcastic. So for now, she stuck to the familiar safety of protocol.
"Forgive me for saying, my lord," Marika said with her eyes dead ahead, "Is this truly the best usage of the Retribution's capabilities? Surely there are other theaters of war that would benefit from our presence." The Chapter Master merely chuckled again as his power armor softly snarled as he walked to take back his seat, and when he did she did not flinch at the dull impact of his armor in the throne.
"Aye ya might have a point there," Fynn admitted gently yet his voice reverberated deeply, "This ship was forged with enough firepower to break a world without using traditional planet-killing munitions. Every clan of the chapter, including the garrison clan, could fit aboard this mighty vessel, and we could likely end more than a few wars in less than a week." It was clear to the Captain that the Chapter Master had given this line of thought a great deal more than she had originally expected. However, she did not miss the pause he left in his words nor the expectant look aimed at her. So she relented.
"But?" Marika asked, and watched as a toothy yet somber smile formed on the Bale Hound's face.
"But that is just one battlefield," he explained, "There are countless others where the Emperor's loyal subjects cry out for help. Most of these calls are beyond our reach, and so we are often forced to focus on those closer to our Protectorate. Not to mention it is more expensive and time consuming to repair a Gloriana-Class Battle Barge than the other ships in the Chapter's fleet. Which is why we awaken the Arcadian Retribution to be the heart or heavy support for new crusades. Or on the rarest occasion play the centerpiece of a more ceremonial undertaking."
"So this is to honor the, um, Flame Hawks?" Marika asked with an uncertainty that became more pronounced as she uttered the words. Fynn furrowed his brows and shook his head lightly.
"Flame Falcons," he corrected patiently, "And yes it is. I will honor them for the heroic sacrifice that has seen them near extinction with a suit of mark III artifice armor, and a copy of the Book of Clay. As well as our chapter's deepest apologies for our ignorance of their existence." Marika frowned, not in disapproval of the Chapter Master's intentions, rather in confusion.
"Is this standard procedure for the other 1st Founding Chapters?" She asked not hiding her puzzlement, "Because forgive me lord but this all feels highly irregular." For a moment she silently cursed herself for speaking so far out of turn and prepared her to be reprimanded for uttering such words. Instead of a reprimand Marika heard the Bale Hound let out a short earnest laugh.
"A fine question, Flag Captain," Fynn laughed before recomposing himself, "Of our cousins of that ancient founding, the Ultramarines have the largest number of successors, but we have no true records of how they handle such a responsibility. For we, the inheritors of the IInd legion, it has always been our way to mark and celebrate the founding of a new chapter of our lineage. We were…unaware of the Flame Falcons', and our honor demands we amend this error." She looked the blonde demi god in his green eyes, studying them as she read his mood, and found that there was still something he danced around. The sudden thought of one in the bulky armor of a space marine painted such a clumsy and hilarious picture in her mind, that she almost failed to fight down a chuckle. To mask it, Marika cleared her throat, and earned a raised brow from the chapter master.
"Apologies, m'lord," Marika offered, but felt wrong footed by the concern in his eyes, "I-I felt a bit of build." He studied her carefully for a moment, then the Angel laughed, before waving a hand with a dismissive gesture.
"No need for apologies," Fynn laughed gently, "Just sure not to swallow your tongue, flag captain! Though you are right, this response is excessive even by the measure of our proud chapter." She noted the soft weariness in his tone towards the end of his sentence. Marika turned her head and saw that Fynn was staring at the guardian spear, which she recalled being ruled it was named "the Thirsting Spear," but from the glint in his eyes the arg righ was looking beyond the weapon.
"My ascendancy to the Bronze Crown wasn't as readily accepted by the Kings of the other Clans," he admitted with a false smile, "Too young! Too lucky! Too arrogant! Were amongst the least insulting of their criticisms of my character. In truth Captain Rahek, despite our Primarch's warnings to never be shackled by dogma, many fear I will ignore the wisdom in our long standing traditions. That my quick rise to such power means that I hunger only for glory and combat."
"That's why you are doing this," she stated, not bothering to hide her amazement, "You're standing by your traditions, and silencing the biggest concern your critics levied all at once." He smiled more earnestly for a moment.
"And honoring a lost brother chapter." Fynn added casually. Marika's time spent as first mate to an Imperial Admiral had made no stranger to the internal politics within military forces, but to learn that not even the Space Marines were free of such conflicts was a shock. All the stories, mythic legends, and sermons had always painted the Angels of Death as divine manifestations of the God-Emperor's will. By the time of her tuition as naval officer, she had outgrown the notion that Astartes were creatures created from the Emperor's holy light. Her first time seeing a space marine had been with her first decade as an officer, when the Broadsword had briefly hosted three squads of a chapter known as the Black Guard. The Black Guard had been distant and preferred to interact with each other. From what Marika had been able to observe their bonds as brothers in arms mirrored yet far eclipsed that existed between regular Imperial soldiers. So she had assumed it was a staple that held true amongst all the Emperor's Angels. It was only now that Marika felt utterly foolish for such an overly simple assumption.
Druid Leer Samon stood beside Smith Weylan McMarrs inside the large turbo lift with a squad of eight of the chapter fleets' security personnel. Leer only knew Sergeant Lata Filco personally, as she had served aboard the 1st Clan's Strike Cruiser "Stagheart" for thirty years. He liked the woman she had pulled into service from the Hounds' Protectorate's ocean world of Viathan-X. Like many of the populace of that world, Lata had an iron stomach, a natural immunity to motion sickness and more importantly knew plenty of shanties. That fact had been all the librarian brother needed to form a fond attachment to the woman. By use of minimal rejuvenate therapy and cybernetic augmetics, did the maple skinned woman have the appearance of one still in her thirties despite being in her seventh decade of life. She wore a void proof jumpsuit in the chapter's green, with bronze carapace plating in certain areas, with a silver and cobalt skeletal augmetic left hand. She abstained from wearing her helmet, clipping it to her combat belt instead, and wore her long black in a tight tied back bun, not a lock blocking her face. She still possessed the almond colored eyes she had been born with, but her face was now lined with scars and a few creases of age.
Like the majority of her security team, Lata held a pump action combat shotgun that was standard issue amongst navy security, but unlike the norm was loaded with munition of the Chapter's own design. They called it "Bane Shot 12" an early creation of the Chapter's Smiths and Druids after the second founding. The round contained mineralily pure salt rocks stuffed into a containment pouch to prevent cross contamination from the gunpowder. Said pouches were created from negatively charged psychic plastic material created by the Druids via a sacred and clandestine ritual. While Bane Shot 12 was little more than an inconvenience to anything born of the material universe, it was devastating to any creature born from the immaterium, and weakened their hold on a physical form. Lata herself had made use of such rounds at least three times in the past. The first had been when something had tried to form a face from a puddle of coolant and the bangs of her squads' combat shotguns was deafened by a death wail that sounded like the angry roars of starving children. She only hoped that the reports from the primary engine were the result of tired and stress riddled minds.
"T-Minus fifty two seconds and counting," Smith Weylan's machine voice echoed softly, "If you wish to pray, now is an optimal time." Lata looked over her shoulder and would have chuckled if one of her squad had not taken a knee then bowed his head. They prayed softly, and Lata saw a bit of an amused smirk on the Druid. Samon was a child of the polar clans of Arcadia, and so no matter what his skin was always a pale almost ghostly white. A stark contrast to his once red now graying hair and beard. He had lost an eye to a Tyranid bioform a few decades back, and wore a metallic eyepatch instead of a cybernetic replacement. His face had been tattooed with fine blue Arcadian script, and told Lata they were prayers from the polar clans. His remaining eye was blue but had speckles of gold in his iris. He wore a bronzed psychic hood, atop the standard colors of the Bale Hounds, and carried a force maul. The weapon was known as a "Speaker-Maul" and was carried only by those of the chapter's Druids who specialized in soothing the spirit of others. The pommel of the weapon had an adamantium spike coated in synthetic diamonds and had been ritually blessed upon the forges of Arcadia's moon.
"A good suggestion brother," Leer chuckled lightly, "Though perhaps blasting hymns would've been better." Weylan narrowed his remaining organic eye at his brother, glaring in annoyance and a burst of soft static emitted from his rebreather. What remained of his face showed a dark almost ashy colored skin, and two thirds of his face was augmetics. A light blue cybernetic eye framed by bulky gunmetal casing, wired into the bronzed rebreather that doubled as a speaker grill fixed into his skull, and two neural sockets atop his head. Weylan's speaker made three soft whirling clicks before it snarled out in Arcadian with a machine accent.
"Empty be your nets, Fiscod," Weylan growled, "At least one of them is no longer fidgeting." Leer barked a quick laugh. Many of his brothers and chapter adepts had given the librarian the nickname of Fiscod, a quick combination of ancient Terran words "fish" and "cod" , a redundant joke at his clan name sounding similar to an ancient water dwelling species called salmon. As a young initiate, Leer, had hated the joke, but when the name had become said with praise instead of laughter, he had come to welcome it. Now it has become just another name the Druid wore like a medal upon an Astra Militarum officer and wore it with just as much pride. Weylan and him were not friends, not in any true sense, but they were brothers, which Leer suspected was just as good. They would never hold a polite conversation outside of tactical summits, but in the heat of battle they were a flawlessly deadly duo.
"Fair enough Blackhand," Leer replied in Arcadian, before switching back to Gothic, "May the spirits and Emperor smile upon us." As he said the words with a gentle use of the psychic gift, he created a small spark inside the censer filled with sacred herbs from Arcadia. The small lift compartment filled with scent of juper woods soaked in sacred oils to prolong their burning. He began to softly sing in Arcadian, uttering one of the songs of purity, and the words took root in the minds of the humans. As the doors opened they filed out in neat order with the Druid in the heart of the formation while Weylan and Lata led them into the primary engine room. Inside only servators stood at their stations, still working at their consoles to ensure propulsion was maintained at safe levels. The room had been cleared out of unagumented personnel the moment the warning was sent, as was standard procedure in response to possible warp incursions aboard a Bale Hounds' vessel. This was not only to prevent the loss of human life, but to give the neverborn less anchors to further enter the realm, not to mention to clear a possible combat zone. As the Druid continued the song, Weylan and the security squad surveyed the interior with focused eyes. The song Leer recited was infused with his will, each word added his own soul's resilience to those who heard the song, and would finish once he reached its end.
"Anyone got a whiff of the sea?" Lata softly asked as to not hinder the Druid's song, but still clear enough for her squad to hear. To become one of one in ten of chapter fleet security entrusted with handling warp incursions, a soldier had to have some brush with the archenemy, and keep their sanity. That last part was a harder trait to find in humans outside a select few worlds, and even then it was no guarantee of not giving into the dark lies of the daemons. For Lata she had to fight against a boarding warband of heretic Astartes and cultists along with other unspeakable horrors. It was thanks to Leer that the sergeant was still alive, but she could never forget the sickly sweet wrong scent of ozone. Experience had taught her that just because one person had not caught the scent, did not mean it was not there and could be caught by another. "A whiff of the sea" was just one of the many slangs used by those who had brushed yet resisted such darkness.
"Negative." Said one of her squad, and another then another until.
"Think I got a whiff." That voice came from behind Lata to her right, and she took a step in the direction her soldier pointed out. The instant she did, the sergeant felt the temperature become chilled, and she knew instantly what it meant.
"Smith McMarrs," she called out in a calm she gripped tightly, "Temperature flux." She heard the telltale crackle of a power field as it came to life.
"Acknowledged," Smith Weylan replied, "Orders: Form up behind me and protect the Druid. Objective: Purge the unclean." The Smith moved to take point, a Mechanicus styled power ax in hand and the mechanical limbs harnessed to his power pack unfolded aiming an electro coil weapon forward. As he did Lata and her squad reformed around the Druid in a protective formation. While in this state of singing, Leer's subconscious had been programmed by routine to follow wherever his brothers or mortal aids led him, while he focused his conscious mind on finishing the song. Weylan softly began looping the Litanies of Newton in binary at a soft volume following the wisdom of the Primarch and Martian Priesthood in that logic was a potent weapon against the neverborn. With his organic eye the Smith could see a faint heat shimmers around the cogitator consoles the further they moved into the area. These anomalies were an 85% match for archived warp incursions, and the Tech Smith would need to exchange dialogue with Tech Priest 88-Tho. Weylan had been the whose voice spoke against the Chapter's old bias for only allowing tech priests from the Forge Moon Celwyna to interact with the Arcadian Retribution's machine spirit, and put 88-Tho's name forth. If this incursion was because of an outsider's laxity, no matter how revered in the Martian Priesthood they were, then the Tech Smith would impress the seriousness of such an error, or take measure to ensure it never occurred again.
"Brother, the servator." Leer's gentle yet strained voice caught Weylan's attention, and then drew the Smith's gaze towards the only servator on this part of the enginarium. Its flesh was pale white and skull outfitted with bulky cogitator units to drive the lobotomized creature. It wore dirty baggy orange pants, a reminder of its previous life as a death row inmate at one of the Imperium's maximum security prisons colonies. The Chapter had a tradition of using such prisoners as servators for the most unforgiving labors too dangerous to risk other Chapter Adepts for, and this one was not supposed to be here.
"Acknowledged." Weylan intoned with a modicum of gratitude as he took in more of the details of the servator. Unlike the others in the room, it was miming working at a consol with a single button, lever, or switch. There was also a pool of some thick liquid that was both dull and glitter, not to mention it hurt the Smith's mind when it tried to identify the color. The servator was also drooling. More than should have been physically possible even for a mind wiped cyborg. Weylan's servo harness angled the shock coil gun, and the security team raised their weapons, ready to spring into action. Meanwhile, the Druid's conscious mind was focused on the Warp, he saw the soul fires of his battle brother and the security team. Leer felt the corrupting presence of a neverborn more than saw it, it prickled annoyingly at his sixth senses with visions of promises the Librarian knew were empty. The foul entity seemed desperate to cling to the servator's barren soul, which was impressive given how agonizing most neverborn found the empty calm of a lobotomized soul. Within Leer's sixth sense, he saw the creature as a flickering blue creature with an avian head, but it was burning through its strength just to maintain its wearing hold. As the creature turned to look at the druid, the servator jerked its head with unnatural speed and continued to drool.
"Aaaaah ha ha ha! So one of the whelps arrives," it squawked with a voice that dripped with a schemer's glee, "Singing the hollow songs of their father!" While attuned to the warp, Leer could easily grasp the meaning of the daemon's musings, but those limited to real space watched in horror as the servator squawked out sneering laughter that had no place in a human throat. As a veteran of the Bale Hounds' librarius, Leer Samon recognized that the neverborn bore resemblance to the servants of the dark power that proclaimed itself the architect of fate, but the Druid had dealt with its kind before. His sixth sense allowed him to perceive where the neverborn cur had sunk its ethereal talons into what remained of the servator's soul. Experience had taught the Bale Hound Druid that simply killing the servator would not be enough, in some cases the death of a mortal host gave daemons easier access to the materium. Banishing this cancer back into ever churning tides of the Warp was not beyond his abilities, but it would take time.
"It is the heart that grants my body strength," Leer recited in Arcadian, "It is my strength that fortifies my will." The ancient rite of power was the first component that the Druid would need to begin banishing the daemon properly, and he closed his physical eyes while raising his force mace over his head. With his will infused into his words, slowly a gathering a build up of psychic energy formed around him, and though his use of the rite drew attention to his soul he felt no fear. Not out of arrogance, but out of necessity. Fear within one's heart or mind as they conducted psychic rituals was just as if not more damning than allowing the undisciplined to use their psychic abilities. It would also poison the calm tides of the Warp Leer was calling upon and amassing for the second ritual needed to banish a neverborn.
The daemon shrieked at the Druid as he continued his ritual incantation, which made the servator let out a roar that to mortal ears sounded like a storm of cackling madmen. It made a shambling charge towards the security team and Bale Hounds, as it did more thick strange liquid ran from its mouth like a waterfall. Lata and her soldiers swore they saw howling faces in the liquid now, they did their best to ignore the oddity but their eyes throbbed in light irritation at the impossibility of it all. The servator had been outfitted with mechanical arms tasked specifically for heavy derby lifting, but with a daemon pulling its strings, the cyborg was a match for a conventional Astartes strength. If that was not bad enough the liquid pouring from the cyborg's mouth began to move then formed small giggling creatures. With needing a word, the security team aimed then fired at the liquid forms, destroying them with wet explosions as the pure salt hissed and dissolved the impossible liquid. While Weylan clashed the possessed servator, careful to not outright kill the cyborg as he knew by experience simply killing a host was not enough to remove a daemon from the materium. His job was to deadlock the thing and prevent it from damaging vital systems, all the while his brother Druid worked his craft to banish the monstrosity back to the hell it came from.
"Such gifts you squander," the daemon squawked, "Like him before! Yet it is too late! Your hope's final breath begins! Delay! Delay! Delay!" It cackled as in the psychic realm it tried and failed to generate the energy needed for warp sorcery. At least not without expending the energy it desperately needed to resist the constant tug of the sea of souls upon its existence. The warp jealousy clutched at its natives, and this one thrashed against the pull, desperate to play a part in a conspiracy's climax. Still the Druid continued his chanting, which made the daemon more irritated, and disgusted by the piously focused mortal. It knew well the reputation of these green clad giants, a brotherhood wise to most of the Dark Gods' ways but defied the Gods' with thick headed stubbornness more befitting angry adolescents than the Demi-Gods they were worshiped as. That was why the daemon had come. To be a part of a scheme that would bring such annoyances low, was too enticing to resist. It knew it had overreached by clinging to this vessel of flesh and hollow mind, but it refused to go quietly. It tried to extend tendrils into the weaker mortals, but their minds were coated in the ringing echo of a song that burned harshly against its presence. It squawked in pain.
"And with this breath of mine," Leer Samon boldly declared in Arcadian, "I become the calm within and without the storm!" The Druid drew in a deep breath, and with that widened his sixth sense, extending his perception beyond this chamber. Beyond this deck of the ship, and soon his closed eyes vibrated as he heard chittering madness batting at the Gelerfield. He did not notice the copper scent nor the steady flow of blood running down his nostrils as he searched for a pattern. He cut his focus through the madness, searching for the whispers of jealousy and soon found a name repeated by a thousand jealous hisses. The name was and was not the bubbling acidic hiss of venom burning down the throat of a betrayed coming monarch as their advisor gave a viper's smile. To utter such a name would normally be beyond the capabilities of normal human throats, but Leer was a Librarian of the Cú Sith Arcadia. Using a small amount of the calm energies he gathered, Leer ripped the daemon's name from the aether, instilled it into the separate drop of calm energy, and swallowed it. His throat burned and in the physical universe, the daemon's name escaped his lips as he opened his eyes while his gums bleed.
"I am Leer Samon, Druid of the Bale Hounds,"the Druid added, "A shepherd of humanity l, loyal servant of the Emperor of Mankind, son of the Great Druid Arwyn Clay, and I cast you out! You are banished from skulking and defiling this holy vessel so long as she bears the name Arcadian Retribution!" Now the force tugging on the daemon's essence was increased with cruel finality! It desperately dug its talons into the servator's diminished soul! It might as well have been sand, as the hungry energies of the Warp pulled the daemon back into its native realm. It had been banished before, but unlike the previous time, it felt itself being engulfed by a bubble of those calm energies the Druid had gathered. In the Sea of Souls those pockets of true calm were rare, a phenomenon never even the daemon truly understood, these pockets of the immaterium were toxic to all but the most powerful chaos daemons. The energy was infecting the daemon like a virus, sapping at its strength to retain its sense of self, and giving energy to those mortal souls it had swallowed so long ago.
"Noooooooooooooioo!" It let out a bubbling shriek, as its consciousness diminished while being pulled further into the depths of the Warp that it could not feel the gaze of the God wherever the Druid was sending it. It would return, but there was no telling how many eons would pass while it reformed itself. In real space, the servator was practically seizing as the daemon clawed what remained of its soul to ribbons. There was a series of pops that sounded like shattered glass yet nothing in the enginarium broke. The strange liquid the servator had vomited was now crumbling away into nothing. Though the air still felt cold to the mortal security troops, it no longer seemed to grip at their spines. While a thin layer of permafrost covered Leer Samon's armor, as the Druid bled and breathed heavily. Then silence, interrupted when the servator collapsed onto its back, and a loud metallic thud reverberated throughout the chamber. Weylan lowered his power weapon, but kept focus on the servator.
"Query: Is it done, Brother Druid?" He asked in low gothic, giving voice to the question he knew Lata's squad was too disciplined to ask but each desperately wanted to know. Leer had slowly fallen to a knee, and was catching his breath as the room's temperature returned to normal.
"I-Ya-Yes, Brother Smith," the Druid answered through numb lips, "It is gone. I had to extend my will further, but I gathered the energies needed to rid it from the ship." The Tech Smith made the ancient human expression of acknowledgement via a quick nod, and it was more for Lata's squad than anyone else. As a Bale Hound, Waylan had a better understanding of the strange logic held by psyckers, but even then it was only surface level. He knew that sentient energies of the Warp often plague and tested the wills of his brothers in the Librarius. So he surmised that was why his brother looked worse for wear. There were however a few questions that came to the Tech Smith's about the encounter with such a malicious entity, but filled them away for later. For now he had to ensure the purity of the instruments of the enginarium, which he understood far better than the metaphysics of psychic matters. He did make a subvocalized vox hail for a team of tech adepts to send for a retrieval team to collect the servator, and deposit it at the forge he had taken as his personal quarters. He wanted to examine the servator before it was decommissioned in accordance with purity protocols. He felt the sickening suspicion that this was more than an unfortunate turn of chance.
Godfrey grinned softly as he watched Blade Brother Raefilius dueling with Champion Baraqath Ixir of the Flame Falcons. To the Oathkeepers' pleasure, their newly discovered kin were more inspired combatants than any had anticipated before, and came to understand how the Chapter endured so long against heretic forces. The champions were unarmored, using bulky and dull edged training weapons. Raefilius used a bastard sword while Baraqath used bulky gauntlets of iron with claws to mimic the lightning claws typically favored by assault veterans of most codex compliant chapters. It was an interestingly unusual weapon choice for one who was now the only champion of his chapter, yet it was clear from careful observation that the Flame Falcon had trained himself thoroughly with the weapons. However, Brother Raefilius was no slouch either, and had long ago mastered using a two handed blade in a duel where speed was more conventionally required. The Oathkeeper made expert use of the blade to deflect, parry or bash away Baraqath's clawed strikes. The training hall was filled by the echoing clangs, slashes, and bangs of the two champions fighting at speeds a normal human would struggle to follow.
"I still cannot believe any of them can compete with Raefilius." Came the metallic voice of Warpriest Finnius, who wore his full ceramite armor, including the skull-faced helmet of the Astartes chaplaincy. In the week since they had arrived on Lethe, Finnius had been busy with assisting the Falcon's remaining Chaplains, sharing lore from the Book of Clay with them and teaching them how to distill Valorie. The distilling of Valorie was the Oathkeepers most ancient tradition that dated back to the days of the IInd legion, and remained despite minor alterations to the recipe, out of necessity of course. It was a powerfully potent sweet wine that can bypass even a space marine's resilience to toxins, and according to legend it was enjoyed by the Primarch when sharing counsel with the original Oathkeeper. Similar traditions of spirit brewing and distilling was one shared by many of their brothers of the 2nd Founding, serving as a means to instill more humanity in their ranks.
Godfrey had only met one of their brother chapters, the Cerberus Avengers, a dour yet focused brotherhood who mercilessly hunted for the traitor legions. He had the pleasure to exchange drinks with a lieutenant Ivan Stromwak, and drank the powerful yet foul spirit they called Revenge. Thanks to his Astartes physiology, Godfrey was able to identify many components of the liquor, but the most prominent and concerning one was the unmistakable tang of Ork blood. It has been an interesting experience but not one Godfrey was exactly eager to try again. While no two chapters of Clay's lineage have identical practices, the Oathkeepers hoped that by sharing the distilling of Valorie, that the Flame Falcons would invent their own tradition. Even if they opted not to make their own take of the tradition, then at the very least, the Oathkeepers would be proud to have shared spirits with such promising gene-brothers. Godfrey had come to study some of the Flame Falcons' history and was pleased to find that despite their mutation they had battle honors that were a worthy offering to their Primarch's memory. The most glorious honor of the Falcons was their actions during the 12th Black Crusade, where alongside the White Consols the Chapter had wrestled back control of Lethe from the Black Legion's grasp. Now that Godfrey had seen the remaining Flame Falcons trained, it was clear to him how worthy these brothers were of being called "Sons of Clay" but wished he could do more for them.
"They are more than we expected," Godfrey said with a smile, "But now we see how they endured those traitor berserkers. They fight as ferociously as the Old Guard, but with discipline that wouldn't shame an Ultramarine." Many of the 2nd Founding Chapters had their own terms to refer to their original legions, and for the Oathkeepers the term "Old Guard" was the most commonly used. Amongst the descendants of the Old Guard, there were many stories, myths, prophecies and legends shared amongst the Sons of Clay. There was one that all inheritors of the original II legion's successors knew, and each Chapter had their own perspectives on it.
"Do you believe they are the ones?" Godfrey asked softly so that only the Chaplain heard his words. The skull-faced warpriest looked at his battle brother silently, studying the warrior's dark facial features, and after a lengthy pause did his helmet emit a metallic whisper.
"It is possible," Finnius admitted, "There are certain similarities to the legend. Yet without one of our brother Librarians to use their gifts, I cannot say with certainty." The commander did not look at his brother, instead his gaze was fixed on Chapter Master Enfield, who was inside a combat cage surrounded by training servators and outfitted with live weapons. Mighta wore a bulky training model of a power fist on one hand and clutched a short sword in his other hand.
"And from the flames will they rise on golden wings," Godfrey recited softly, "They shall illuminate the darkest hour. Becoming the signal fire for Druid's return. In his treads shall a brotherhood be reborn that shall illuminate the galaxy."
"Need I remind you of the Primarch's warnings about prophecy?" Finnius warned cautiously, and Godfrey shook his head and unfolded his arms.
"You need not," he replied, "I just have hope, brother." The chaplain watched silently as Godfrey walked forward to join the joint chapter exercises, and could not shake a sense of foreboding. Finnius was a chaplain of two centuries worth of experience, and had learned to heed his instincts. During the week they had spent on Lethe, he had conducted his own investigation of the Flame Falcons' purity. Aside from the mutation in their gene-seed, which they had not bothered to hide, the Chaplain could find nothing unbecoming of loyal Imperial Space Marines. Still he could not help but feel a sense of unease. After talking and sparring with a few of the Falcons, Finnius was confident they were honest true devotees to the God-Emperor. Perhaps there had been a treacherous heart amongst them that had met his fate at the hand of traitor blades, but the surviving Flame Falcons showed no sign of any spiritual corruption. So if this disquiet was not from the Falcons' battle brothers, perhaps he needed to expand his vigilance to the Chapter Serfs and Tech Adepts. After all there were plenty of stories of Chapters falling or being corrupted by a single heretic disguised as a loyal serf.
"I pray your hope comes true," Finnis murmured to himself, "Our Imperium must do more than survive." As a Chaplain he was both a guardian priest of the Oathkeepers' spiritual beliefs, charged with maintaining the morale of his battle brothers, and assisting the librarius in their mission of protecting the purity of the chapter's soul. If he was of any other Chapter, any of the other ten loyal Primarch's lineage, then Finnius would admit his suspicions were making him overstep the bounds of his authority. The Oathkeepers had earned their name swearing and upholding ancient oaths, but one of the Chapter's most sacred had been one made to the Primarch before his disappearance. They had sworn to remain vigilant against the corruption of the Archenemy, humanity's true foes, and failing that they would relentlessly purge those of the IInd legion who fell to the enemy's sway. Finnius could not call himself a true Oathkeeeper if he did not do his due diligence and ensure the sanctity of a fellow chapter of Arwyn Clay's blood. Especially a previously unknown one with so many centuries of battle honors, and one who seemed to fit an ancient prophecy that spoke of the Primarch's return to the material universe. Finnius had fought and killed many who had fooled themselves into believing that their heresy was to the benefit of the Emperor, so he would rather eat a bolt than see that happen to the Sons of Clay. He wanted the prophecy to be true, what loyal son of the Primarch would not want such a thing, but caution was wise when dealing with the abstracts of psychic foresight.
A flicker of movement in his peripheral is highlighted by his armor's machine spirit, and Finnius allows his head to follow it. He quickly notes the movement of flowing red robes, and flashes of metal moving beneath it. A tech priest whose body no longer resembles a human's from the waist down, at least according to the suggestion of their cloak. It was for just a moment, but Finnius was certain that he had seen a tech-priest pass through an open doorway out beyond the training hall. The chaplain's eyes furrowed, as he recalled passages on standard fortress operations detailed in the Codex Astartes, and mentally cross-referenced them with standard procedures of the tech priests assigned to the Oathkeepers on long crusades. Accounting for a few outliers of those of the machine cult more intrigued by the aspects Astartes training so they may better improve their skittari warriors, Finnius could not conceive of an idea why a priest of Mars would venture so far from the blessed forges. He sent impulse commands to his armor's machine spirit, and it lowered the purr of its power pack to an almost undetectable wheeze. As gently and soft footed as his size allowed, the chaplain made to follow the Tech Priest, curiosity and suspicion flared.
Inquisitor Abelard Ibrallem of the Ordo Malleus stood aboard the Battle Barge Purity of Dawn, the current vessel that the 7th Brotherhood of the Grey Knights chapter called home. He wore custom power armor fitted with dark robes, but opted to leave his aged bald head exposed. One of his eyes had been replaced by a glowing red cybernetic, and his remaining granite colored eye was framed crow's feet. He wore a bored expression and the shape of his nose gave him a hawk-like characteristic as he focused on Grand Master Covan Leorac. The blessed Astartes' already towering height and bulk was further enhanced by the Aegis Pattern Tactical Dreadnought armor. Even without being a psyker Abelard could feel the powerfully divine aura emanating from both the Knight and the sacred armor he wore. The Grey Knight abstained from wearing a helmet, instead he wore a grey cowl that clung to the contours of his head but exposed the features of his face. Covan glared as he studied the dataslate the Inquisitor had handed over, then raised his gaze towards the Inquisitor and his entourage.
To the Inquisitor's right stood an Inquisitorial Stormtrooper in reflective jet black carapace armor, with a helmet of blue visor lenses and a rebreather fitted to it. It was difficult to determine the trooper's gender while they were so heavily armored, but the Grey Knight cared little for such petty concerns. He did care about the Ryza-Patterned Hot-Shot lasgun, which the trooper smartly had strapped to their chest plate, but that was nothing compared to the other companion. It was a tall athletic woman wearing a full bodysuit of false musculature that provided enhanced strength and speed to its wearer. Her face was exposed, revealing a strong square jawed woman who proudly wore a map of knife scars from her right cheek across the bridge of her nose and just barely touching her left cheek. Her eyes were the color of fresh soil, and her short hair was black with streaks of gray trailing down from her crown. She was armed with gear utilized by infiltrators and saboteurs, but none of this was what unnerved the 7th Brotherhood's Grand Master. Unlike the Inquisitor or the trooper, Covan could not sense the woman's soul. It was no trick of psychic obfuscation commonly utilized by others, rather it was like the woman was a walking void of psychic signals.
"I take it you find the details of my request in order?" Abelard asked in a deceptively polite tone. One not unnoticed by Covan, and the Grey Knight did his best to keep his irritation from his expression. Though it was tradition for the Grand Master of the 7th Brotherhood to be the Chapter's de facto representative to cooperate with the Ordo Malleus, this Inquisitor had little to ingratiate himself to Covan. He had brazenly announced his arrival in the system and intention to board the Purity of Dawn, while it was finishing its refueling for a return to Titan. Originally, Covan allowed the arrogant man aboard if only to humble this Inquisitor, but then he produced evidence of a lengthy investigation passed down through generations of previous Inquisitors. The contents of the dataslate soured Covan's already ill mood, but he controlled his voice to maintain an outward calm.
"These reports have been verified?" He asked with a tone heavy with unmistakable scrutiny. The Inquisitor frowned, narrowing his gaze at the Grand Master, unused to being questioned but then again even the normal space marine chapters would question an Inquisitor's sudden brazen appearance.
"Surely, you noted the seals of approval," Abelard stated with only minor annoyance in his tone, "Of not just one, but three other recorded and honored Inquisitors, attached to each report. Make no mistake, Grand Master Leorac, this investigation has been conducted thoroughly by agents of each major ordos. We are certain of every charge listed before you." Covan's gaze did not soften, and his distrust of the man was reinforced by his pet Blank, whose presence made it impossible to read Abelard's soul. No matter how suspicious Inquisitor Ibrallem's choice of retinue, Covan could not ignore the evidence presented, and was duty bound to respond no matter the repercussions.
"If there is anything less than what is in these reports, Inquisitor," Covan warned slowly, careful to leave as little venom from his voice, "Then there shall be consequences." He turned his attention to the crew, and drew a soft breath before uttering commands that made his heart ache.
"Inform the navigator we are to make a joint warp jump," said the Grand Master, "We make for the planet of Lethe." Even as he spoke the words Covan felt his skin crawling with unease, as though some remaining all too human portion of his soul rebelled against the very idea of this investigation. Some part of him wondered, for a nano second, how those Chapters of the 1st Founding would have responded to this. Would the Iron Hands enter one of their storied debates of conflicting logic? Would the Dark Angel even allow the Inquisitor let alone his pet blank to leave alive? Would the Salamanders decline in respect of the targets' honored history? Would the Blood Angels tolerate such an accusation? Would the White Scars laugh at the Inquisitor's face before denying the request? Would the Ultramatines take up the request, confident that they would find nothing? Would Raven Guard have even heard the request? Would the Imperial Fist stoically fulfill their oaths to the Imperium as they had time and time again? How many curses would the Space Wolves levy at the man? More importantly, what would the Bale Hounds do? He shook his head, dismissing the wayward thoughts, and centered himself by reciting the 666 mantras. Using his honed Emperor-given gifts, he informed all of the 7th Brotherhood aboard the Pure of Dawn that they were to report in the war room on the command deck in three hours for a debriefing. Silently, Covan prayed for the first time in centuries, that the Ordo Malleus was wrong.
Sp yes, the Oathkeepers are kinda the Black Templars of the IInd legion, the weird cousin that is super religious but they worship the Emperor and the loyal Primarchs as a holy pantheon. Anyway hope you enjoyed this, I am only doing two more parts of this story, mostly because giving myself a goal helps me write with more of a main purpose and finish. Anyway see you all in my next update of Lord of the IInd hope you all have a happy Halloween.