Part I
Feed the Horses
One
Mundane divinity
The too human familiarity of Angels
Survived by
i.
"At the beginning, in my younger years, I did not think it possible that man alone could change the way of the stars.
"I thought it the purview of His great Angels, and those iron behemoths shaped in His image. That only they, in His divine power, could reach out their hands and wring from the stars the yokes of their fortunes and bounties and treasures so that Mankind might prosper.
"It wasn't until Anchreus that I saw just what Man could do.
"Men, flesh, blood, of tissue and sinew unchanged and unblessed. By their thousands. By the very tide of their bodies, I saw as they stacked one another up, chewed through by bullet and las, they changed fate.
"A rout made into victory by flesh. An unwinnable battle won, because of the bounty of flesh Man had to offer. Castles unassailable, assailed unto ruination, by Man.
"It tore me to my foundations. The sight quite literally drove me to a sort of personal madness, an affliction of the spirit my liege would say. He is like that, both painfully aloof and vague, but blunt unto the point that it borders on rude, even accusatory.
"You are welcome here, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. The Spite Crusade welcomes all pilgrims. I cannot take you to the lord Spitewielder now, nor his commanders, but I can take you to his knights.
"My dear, are you well? You look rather, I'm sorry, not pale, but a…mauve?"
Acenya Bhabli caught the shoulder of the older man, steadying herself. Translation fatigue, she thought. She could picture the shipboard medicae advising that her new medication would aggravate the symptoms.
The liaison, an aged man in a cream robe with a black woolen rope around his waist, older in feature if not gusto, was still staring at her, a look of paternal concern tugging at the folds and wrinkles of his eyes.
"I'm well, sir, thank you. Translation fatigue, I'm told." She smoothed out the crinkles of her tunic, clearing her throat to make up for the lapse. "His knights, you were saying?"
The liaison, Tyren, turned to stern, his crooked nose preferred over his finger in directing her.
"Follow me this way, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. There are few on board, him, the Castellan, their squads. The rest are below, completing the last of their preparations before departure."
He led them away through various corridors, both immense in scale and claustrophobic in its immediacy. She had been led to believe, before her master had sent her on this task, that the Templars were somewhat ostentatious. That the insides of their vessels were gilded bow to stern, and that every panel inside would be lined with a sector's worth of gold and jewels decorating them.
Most areas were spartan, left bare, save for the heraldic cross of the Black Templars Chapter and candles left in their loneliness. Almost every archway and door carried the icon. Either acid etched, carved, or embossed, each one was different from the last. Some were deep stones of jet, others dull and uninteresting blackened iron.
The Flail was old, and she showed her age in the cavities that ran throughout her bones. Ancient prayer scrolls from thousands of years ago, barely tattered moth-scraps left on grisled wax seals that were much more grime than purified wax. She sensed an air of melancholy running through it, which she found both highly perplexing of an Astartes vessel, and profoundly sad.
She spent many months aboard shift ships, and the last handful aboard the mass transport vessels of civilian ships. Crowded, teeming, so full of life. Certainly cramped, and containing very little privacy. And the noise, so many people corralled together, confined to claustrophobic quarters.
She hadn't seen much on the approach to the docking hangars, but she heard the pilots almost fawning over the sight of the ship. On more than one occasion, she had heard the term "halcyon" used by them before landing. Now that she was inside, she felt something between let down and intrigued.
She came to appreciate quickly that most starships were, in fact, ships and shared a great deal of mundane familiarity amongst each other. Halls were just halls, no matter their grandeur or ornamentation. Scaffolds were just scaffolds, regardless of the intricate, painstakingly hand etched blessings carved into their handrails.
However, there were some places that demanded reverence. Ancient places that floated out amongst the stars, sheathed in the ships they called home. Tyren had brought her near the threshold of such a place.
Black and white checkered tiles led on until her vision could only see where the narrowed walls met. Worn from years of use, yet not a single stain or crack hobbled their surfaces. The walls themselves were brushed brass, with black iron sconces burning at regular intervals, the flames throwing arcs and moors of light, cascading onto forever in the dim glow of millions of trillions of reflections proliferating on and on and on.
Paintings of individual warriors, of the Templar knights, hung from the walls, their features jumping between portrayals of stoicism, pride, and unbridled zeal. Most of these were unhelmed, save for a few wearing the most ancient marks of that sacred attire.
Hauntingly, the far, faded echoes of hymnal chanting reverberated from the depths, beyond where the light reached. It was deep, unceasing, coming from dozens of voices. Without knowing why, she felt that she could tell the chanting was old. Old old, from a time long before that the actual grasping understanding of its length was laughable.
Banners depicting richly sewn scenes of triumph, loss, somber humility, and righteous victory hung heavy, looming even, as sentries from the ceiling on thick chains. Here was the depiction of a bold knight in black armor, wielding a mace with the very same death's head the knight wore.
The figure seemed vindictive and righteous, surrounded by knights in uniform black and white checkered armor. The scene was intricately wrought, sewn in the classical Gothic style that dominated most Ecclesiarchal domains and that of nobles. Yet here, it lacked the ostentatious nature. Indeed, all of it held a heavy air of reverence. She looked at the other banners.
There, another this done in fine golden thread, with rich reds and oranges laced throughout its stitching. This knight was hewn into the shape of a giant astride a field of fel corpses, the same mace as before held before him as if in warding.
Her eyes drank more and more in. Each banner detailed a similar skull-faced figure, similar but slightly different from banner to banner, yet all carrying what she believed to be some ancient relic of the Chapter. She craned her neck straight up to look at the closest banner. This one was newer, the fabric still vibrant and fresh.
On its pallid surface, three warriors rested at a respectful kneel, two of their armor trimmed in red, the third in silver. A fourth figure was prone, abasing himself at the feet of yet another warrior whose features were that of a human skull. In its outstretched hands, the skull-headed mace. The scene was surrounded by flames, warriors in crimson armor staked atop black spears.
She let out a startled gasp as the liaison placed a firm hand onto her shoulder, stopping her from taking the step she was unconsciously making onto the checkered tiles.
"We are not allowed here." Tyren said. All warmth had left his voice.
"What is this place?" She asked, entranced now with the mystery of it more than the gaudy nature of the hall.
"It is their temple. Their church is beyond the dark, there. Only they are allowed here, and certainly we mustn't cross the threshold. Do not step onto those tiles, Historitor Acenya Bhabli."
"It's…just Bhabli."
"They will kill you, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. They will kill you and that will be the end of it. Take nothing else I say to heart but this; go no further."
She made to respond but was interrupted by the dim shadows.
"He is correct."
They both startled. The voice came from the blackness beyond the light of the sconces, deep and mechanical. She felt her guts tighten, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her skin.
A slow, steady thump echoed down the hall. The rattling of chains and the teeth aching hum of an active engine crept from the dark. An immense figure of black armor confidently strode into the dull torch light.
"Castellan Kestian." The old man offered a deep bow.
"Why are you here, Tyren?" The giant asked, coming to rest just meters from them.
"Mistress Jasper advised me to take Historitor Acenya Bhabli through here to the Solemn Archive to await the lord Spitewielder." Replied Tyren, not moving from his proffered state.
"This is the Historitor?" The Astartes asked.
"Yes, lord Castellan." Tyren replied.
"This was to be Jasper's duty?"
"Yes, lord Castellan. But she entrusted it to me, citing other pressing matters she needed to attend to." Said Tyren, wrinkling his nose.
"Serf Jasper is a girl of thirteen, Tyren. You are…what? Fifty-seven now?"
Tyren frowned. "Fifty-eight, lord Castellan."
As he made his attempt to abase himself to the Castellan, Bhabli took in the full features of the knight before her.
He was without a helmet, allowing her to see the rich ochre skin, like a fine, deep leather. A well kept beard trimmed his features, only giving way to a trio of diagonal scar tissue, reaching from the crest of his bald scalp, carving just near his left eye, catching at the corner of his lip, before finally disappearing into the collar of his gorget.
Slung over his shoulder was a finely crafted ax that gave a faint reflection of blue in its recesses. It was heavily ornate and finely decorated, but she could make little of its features from the light.
The knight wore a tabard belted at the waist by a chain. The same symbol shown on his chest as she had seen at every entryway of the ship. A chevron adorned his right pauldron, three stylized morning stars the color of sage over a field of white.
He would have been handsome had his features not been enlarged by the transhuman reshaping that forged him into homo Astarte.
"The Primarch sent you?" He asked, turning his brown eyes upon her for the first time.
That direct look shot a bolt of pain into her chest from the terror response. Transhuman dread was still difficult to shake off even for those who were more accustomed to being around them. You weren't being looked at like another person. You were being meticulously killed a thousand times over as efficiently and brutally as possible in their gaze.
She was held steady, impossibly immobile by the giant's hand engulfing her shoulder. Without her even seeing it, he had bent to a knee and held her steady. His eyes were now directed to the top of her shawl that hid her face.
"My apologies, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. Too many days spent with those used to marching beside us. Are you well?" The Astartes sounded genuine.
When the shaking had left her bones, she took in a deep breath and nodded.
"I'm fine, thank you. I've a touch of translation fatigue, it'll pass, and I'm smart enough to admit that, yes, you did terrify me just then, and no, you do not have to apologize again."
"Lady Historitor! Mind yourself, that is the-" Tyren was cut off from his chastisement by the warrior's single raised finger.
"You are expected to meet with the lord Spiteweilder in the Solemn Archives?" Bhabli nodded as the Templar rose to his feet.
He turned to Tyren, gave him new orders, accepted the elder man's bow, and turned.
One massive gauntlet rested against her back and she was being led further down the hallway, away from the decorated hall they had met.
"I was actually intending to meet with my brothers there. I will take you."
ii.
The Solemn Archives were the names given to the vast halls that contained all repositories of information, lore, history, and documents collected since The Flail was a fledgling warship in her birth-anchor.
The entrance was guarded by a single knight. His armor was largely unadorned save for a single chain of silver hanging from his left pauldron. The charm at the end was a heavily stylized version of their Chapter's heraldic cross.
Drawing his sword in a left handed grip, the Templar came forward. In his free hand, a beaten lantern of black-iron barely illuminated the hallway. A strong smell of perfumed smoke crept from the bent and tattered corners that met the candle box's glass surface. Inhaling the smoke made her eyes throb and her pulse became a beating tattoo in her temple.
"Halt ert name thyselves!" The warrior's voice was strong, assured, almost cocky as it carried away into the blackness they had traversed.
"Step aside, boy." Came the Castellan's reply. The Templar did not waver, though he hesitated before activating the sword.
"That pause would have cost you, Initiate Hunfrid." Clapping the guardian knight on his pauldron, Kestian pushed past him. "It is a good thing I am not the one seeking admission into the Reclusiam. The Spitewielder would not have found your familiarity with me a virtue."
Chastised, the knight saluted, jogged past to open the door, his head dipped in dogged resignation as they left him.
They were greeted with towering shelves spanning into the hazy dark. Distantly, softly, the sound of a heavy organ rang hauntingly throughout the endless isles of contained knowledge. The space towered above her, yet she felt compressed, consumed by the vastness that stretched forever upwards and forwards.
She could see stretches of finely crafted wooden floors, corralled by beautifully wrought iron banisters creating balconies in which different shadows played host to the lights its occupants inhabited. Corners flickered with candles, robed and isolated figures that were certainly other Templars, poured over books and scrolls and patches of torn cloth.
Pieces of art were displayed in their own cabinets. As they walked past, she would appreciate them, hungry for any details she could glenn for future recording.
In one she saw an intricately detailed landscape in miniature. Small figures of what seemed to be Black Templars amongst a broken city's garden district fought against armored Astartes in oceanic green, of whom were adorned in spikes. Though the Templars looked odd, their armor etched in black and Imperial gold, icons of thunder bolts and fists as frequent as the heraldic cross.
A second held what, at initial glance, looked to be battlefield detritus. A rusted piece of barbed wire, a chunk of burned rockrete painted in hazard stripes, and another item that caught her curiosity. A symbol she had spent much of her recent life around.
Near the corner of the display case, atop a cushion of black velvet, sat a broach in the shape of the Ultima symbol of the Ultramarines Chapter. Though this seemed more archaic, more ornate, indeed, there was a certain air to it that spoke of something both painful and merciful.
They walked for what seemed like an hour before coming to a closed door nestled between two shelves stacked either side with helmets. Each bore some grisly damage, no doubt the killing wound to its former bearer. Some were black, others gold, sprinkled throughout where she could see were a handful of cream and checkered patterns as well. Fewer still were faint suggestions of red helmets further up near the ceiling.
The Lord Castellan opened the door and held it for her. A hiss of escaping air greeted her. Inside were several more Astartes, each tending to their own interests.
"Greetings, brothers. I've brought with me Historitor Acenya Bhabli, sent to us from the Primarch himself. She has assured me that our lord is interested in meeting her." The proclamation was greeted with silence. Every eye turned to look at her, but this time, she turned her gaze to their boots, tucking her eyes further into the recesses of her shawl.
"He'll be another hour, says his herald." One of the warriors spoke, a seated Templar with long, curled hair. He was square jawed and stoically featured, closing the book he had been reading as he addressed them.
"Should you not be with him, brother? Being our Castellan and what not?" Asked another, this one of paler complexion. A thin beard trimmed his chin, with a buzzed mohawk of dirty blonde scything his head. He offered the Historitor a toothy, confident grin.
"He dismissed me." Replied Kestian, closing the door behind him.
"Dismissed you?" The two asked simultaneously.
"Did you talk reason to him?" Asked a third Templar, looking over his shoulder from the cogitator he was stationed in front of, his silhouette made more absurd by the many snake-like appendages jutting from his backpack.
"I did." Said Kestian with a knowing smile.
"That would do it, then." The knight turned back to the glowing monitor, the sound of heavy mechanical clicks emanating from his corner, one of the appendages made a machine buzz sound as it turned within its arm housing.
"I'm sorry. May we slow down?" Bhabli finally managed, trying very hard to follow the conversation. Sweat crept down her neck, making the shawl stick to her uncomfortably. Her head hurt and there was a twitch in her eye she didn't appreciate.
"My apologies, Histo-"
"Just Bhabli, please. Please." She interrupted, turning fully to emphasize her point.
"Very well. My apologies madam Bhabli. Brother Kybert is inquiring as to my presence. Our lord is particularly choleric as of late, and has dismissed me from the current fleet junction going on."
Spoken so plainly, Bhabli balked at the casual nature of the remark. Especially coming from what was a lord Castellan.
"You were not sent to fetch me?" She asked.
"No, madam. I was simply leaving my meditations from the chapel and happened upon you and Tyren."
"Tyren?" Asked the warrior Kestian had indicated was Kybert. "What was he doing at the chapel?" He looked appalled, the other Templars almost motionless. The Castellan raised a hand to calm them.
"Outside the Hall of Legacy, not the chapel itself. Tyren was escorting her on Jasper's orders."
"I have more questions now." Said Kybert, his face pinched in confusion.
"Lady Bhabli, could we offer you a seat? I can hear your pulse. You are under immense stress at the moment." The Astartes who had been sitting in one of the stone benches arrayed in the room rose, gently taking her hand in his silver gauntlet, and gave her his seat.
"You are surprisingly gentle for Space Marines." Bhabli let the words come freely, feeling from the gathering of warriors that simple plainness of word was welcome, even encouraged, here. She winced as she saw how the three unhelmed warriors' eyes collectively twitched.
"Our lord has made mortal interaction and etiquette mandatory training within the Crusade." Replied the warrior as he bent back up from aiding her down.
"How very Macraggian of him."
The Castellan laughed, as did Kybert. The warrior helping her let slip the edge of his lip in the flash of a smirk, but nothing more.
"He would probably find that both incredibly humiliating and painfully true." The warrior turned, the edge of his silver arm catching the light from the other seated Templar's display. He poured a small amount of wine into a pewter cup made to scale for Astartes. She took it with both hands, lifting the folds of her shawl before taking it up, and drank.
"I am Altus, and this is Malgur of the Forge. He is poor company, but not a displeasure to be around. That is Kybert. Him and I, as well as another of our brothers, are what remains of our founding of the Spiteful."
She blinked. She felt utterly naked without her quill or servo skull. There was an aching pain to write everything she had just heard, to catalog and to push and to question.
"What-" She began.
There came a knock on the door. All heads turned. The lord Castellan went to the door, pushing it open on silent hinges.
"The lord Spitewielder comes just before me. Please make ready." A man of middling age came through the door, half his face covered by a gorgeously carved mask hewn in the features of fury. He turned and nodded upon seeing her. "Excellent. Please rise, Historitor Acenya Bhabli."
She did so. He made for the door, disappearing behind it. A final warrior joined the congregation.
A chorus of rattling chains and the smoke of burning candles filled the room. Adorned in black armor, a different, more profound black from that of his brethren, it was hard edged and cumbersome looking. Atop his backpack were three headstones, each of which hosted a skull fashioned from bronze. Atop these were votive candles, their flames strong and bright. Spikes adorned the vents of the massive generator.
Secured to his shoulder by chains was a human ribcage. She was oblivious to the symbolism of it. But it was a chilling site to see such a grisly trophy displayed on a warrior of the Emperor. This was not the gothic touch the Imperium festooned upon everything. It was simply a butchered man's rib cage chained to the Templar's shoulder, the charm's heraldic pendants shaped into crosses.
Hanging from behind his tasset, set at the waist, hung a black tabard showing the white crest of his Chapter.
His helmet was like the one seen in the banners she had looked at before crossing Kestian. The singular gleaming red eye lens. The black cross branded onto the scowling forehead. The vox caster clamped between grinding teeth. All of this collectively, almost instinctively upon making the connection to the banners, forced her to look at his hip.
Hanging against a loop of brass, a war maul shaped into a grinning skull, a halo of spikes cresting it. A limp chain connected it to his vambrace. An aroma came off of it, deeper and more pungent than the smell of incense or the smoke from the candles.
It was the smell of centuries of blood. Of slain foes and retribution. It stank of malice and hatred and something very specific, something more personal than resentment, but more meaningful than vengeance.
There was a palpable scornfulness to its casting. It wasn't just a lump of steel or iron or ceramite. From its recesses and in the pools where the light didn't quite catch it was a deeper color still. The weapon was unlike any she had seen in her handful of years documenting the fighting edges of the Imperium, where the Primarch sent the very mightiest of the Emperor's armies to fight and wage war against the encroaching darkness.
This here was the man she had been sent to meet with, and to document and make historically accurate texts of, as per the laws of her newly found Order. Here was the curator of an Imperial Crusade Army, and of that, a particular kind of Crusade Army.
This was what the Templars would cite as a True Crusade Army. One commanded by the Black Templars, the scions of Sigismund, and sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn. Here were warriors who had never left the Great Crusade. These warriors claimed a legacy that dated back ten thousand years.
And she was ignoring him entirely.
"Lady Bhabli, are you well? This is not the first time you have been asked this, I am told."
"You are the warrior from the banners I saw."
The skull faced helmet tilted to the side ever so gently.
"Yes, but no."
"Yes, see, he has a fancy necklace." Kestian pointed to the golden cross, studded with rubies and ambers, hanging from yet another chain, though this, too, was gold. "The others were more humble."
A chorus of laughs came from the gathered knights.
"It is a long story, and one many Chapters have done since the time of Legions. Armors are passed down from generation to generation, from dead knight to risen squire. The face of a Chaplain will carry on even further than that, thus you recognize me. You see the face of my master, and his master before him."
The Spitewielder ran a hand over the skeletal visage of his face.
"This helmet looked upon the face of my father when he still walked amongst us. It has seen the face of the Arch Traitor himself, and the whoresons he sired. It has bled the foe under the skies of Terra. I am the face of the warrior from the banner, yes. But, I am a faint echo of an eternal spite."
"He also," Grumbled Kestian, "says a lot of exhaustive shit like this."
Bhabli's hands clenched and unclenched with the ache to begin writing. Seeing this, the masked man who had accompanied the Chaplain, quietly spoke into the hem of his collar before stepping to the door, retrieving a small yellow satchel, and offered it to the Historitor with a servile bow.
She tore into it, tossing the bag onto the stone bench, fetching her slate and quill. The Templars had already begun talking amongst themselves.
She made quick and short snippets of dialogue, explanatory and contextual notes, and maddened scribbles. Her head shot up once she had emptied the brewing storm of words in her skull, threatening to burst from her ears and eyes if she did not release them onto screen or parchment.
The knights were departing, the last words she caught mentioning a formal inspection before mass boarding. Castellan Kestian offered her a polite bow of his head, before donning his studded helmet.
"Well met and best of luck, madam Bhabli."
Then the doors shut and she was alone with the man of highest authority in the entire sector.
"Where shall we begin, Lady Historitor?"
iii.
"You are coming from Demeter IV, with the armor reinforcements? That was several months' travel for you, Lady Bhabli."
They had retired into one of the anterooms adjacent to where they had met. Here, several chairs designed to both support an armored Astartes, but also provide some semblance of comfort to an unarmored warrior, it was still laughably too large for her.
The Chaplain was seated, his hands resting against either armrest. Wine was near and available, but he had not removed his helmet. She had not yet mustered up the courage to ask him to.
There was a quality to him that made it somewhat more difficult to be around him. There was a heightened awareness that there was something other about him. Between the transhuman dread, and her bout of translation fatigue, she accepted two things; firstly, she was human, and ultimately susceptible to those mortal limitations.
Secondly, the warrior before her was a great many things. A Chaplain of an Astartes Chapter, the architect of this Crusade, and a living weapon set before her in an intimate setting. There was much to be unnerved by.
"I am, my lord." She said, picking up the lapse before it lingered too late. "My master gave me instruction to join your fleet, to embark on your Crusade. Document its goings-on and analogize what can be given back to humanity, when so much knowledge and lore has been lost."
Even saying it, she felt a tinge of home-sickness. She perfectly recited what her mentor would quote to her small class at every chance he could when describing the nobility of their cause, and the justness of its execution.
"Quite so. What is it you know of us?" The Chaplain drummed the fingers of his right hand in a steady rhythm. The knuckles of which were banded with brass spikes, the brutal stumps fat and acid etched with minute scripture. It sounded like a piston hammering into stone.
"Of the Black Templars? Only what the Primarch's office provided us. Basic organization structure - more so, what your ranks were and how I might address you - but otherwise, nothing much more than the name of your Chapter Master, which legion you hail from, and your progenitor."
She swiped through her data slate, clearing her throat and read from it.
"It is known that the Black Templars are devout followers of the Imperial Creed, and that you are some of the most sought after and requested warriors of the Era Indomitus. The Imperial Regent, the Primarch Reborn, impressed upon my master, who impressed it upon me, that the Knights of Dorn would do well to raise the hearts of Imperial citizens, and offer hope in these dark times. So, it is my thanks that you accepted this proposal. I have heard tales from my colleagues that many of the other Crusades denied them."
She went to sip from her wine, embarrassingly remembered the cup's size, sat the data slate down, and lifted the cup up slowly with both hands.
"I imagine many, if not most, were denied. We are sons of Dorn. What else is there needed to be known from us?" The Chaplain's mace sat in his lap respectfully across his knees.
Occasionally he would run his thumb along its leather handle, fidgeting with some unseen imperfection.
"Well, first and foremost, my duty is to document the Crusade. My master was particularly enthused by your acceptance to our request. He claimed that it was special in some way." Bhabli's fingers held the quill firm to the dataslate, ready to transcribe everything. The Chaplain did not reply for many moments. He simply stared at her, the one eye lens showing with a pinprick of red.
"Many Crusades exist amongst the Imperium. Mightiest is the Eternal Crusade. The one our sire, the first High Marshal Sigismund, vowed to continue. Amongst some of that mighty number are peculiar beacons of history, myth, and legend."
He stood then, taking the maul near the base of the head into his fist and carrying it with him to where a fireplace did its poorest effort of illuminating the room they were in.
"The Black Templars are an old Chapter. We existed even in the time of the legions, inside the order of the Imperial Fists. Many of our artifacts and heirlooms come from such times, so we are dedicated and watchful stewards of these curios."
He turned the mace over in his fist, looking at it, his back partially turned to her. She didn't move, only her hand making steady, quick traces over the green ambient hue of her screen. The Chaplain continued after a moment's pause.
"Crusades take on titles and names of the system they are conquering, or the foe they face, or the warrior that leads them. Sometimes the essence of the war entire. But some Crusades bear the Titles of Eternity. Meant to be challenges to our enemy, a boast of what we represent, a promise to those that dare foul His realm."
"So the Spite Crusade is such a thing?" She asked.
"It is."
"And so what curio do you house? What myth is carried by the knights of the Spite Crusade?" Bhabli was leaning over her data slate as she wrote, furiously transcribing the Chaplain's words.
The room was then suddenly filled with a dreadful rasp and a baleful light of stark, unforgiving white. From across the room, the Chaplain had activated, and was pointing, the head of his maul at her.
"This is the honored crozius arcanum Spite, wielded against the traitor on the walls during the Siege of Terra. We are the 89th founding of the Spiteful, the oathed keepers who continue the saga that would wield Man's spite in His glory."
He ran the weapon in an arc across the air, sparks snaking out of its head, encompassing the greater ship around them.
"Similarly, The Flail has been the home of Spite and its host since it was gifted to our Chapter at our founding." He finished.
"And so now you are the Spitewielder?" Bhabli's throat was dry, and the active weapon field ate any moisture in the room. It made her gums itch and eyes sting.
Spite deactivated in an abrupt growl, coming to rest at the Chaplain's knee.
"As were the wishes of my master, and the blessed Reclusiarch. Everyday, I must be found worthy of it. You come at an auspicious time, Lady Bhabli."
"Why is that, my lord?"
"I am still young in my years as the Spitewielder. You've met my Castellan?" She offered him a wry smile, one he ignored behind the snarl of his helmet's stylized teeth.
"Yes, well, in most circumstances he would be in charge. Indeed, he should be a Marshal, but he is also…No, sorry, but forgive me keeping some secrets. There would typically be a Castellan or a Marshal appointed to this role."
"And not a Chaplain?" She asked, curiously holding her quill away, looking for a physical cue to continue writing on the lore of his Chapter. When he simply did not protest, but continued talking, she did too with her transcription.
"Chaplains have led Crusades. But these are usually warriors under my circumstance, or due to the death of other officers amongst a Crusade. But yes, as the title of Spitewielder sits upon my mantle, I hold the authority of that office."
The Templars priest let the mace fall into its holster-loop with a dull thud and walked over to her, nudging the dataslate down to read with his middle finger.
"Your handwriting reminds me of my own." He said.
"Thank you."
"It was a criticism, not a compliment."
She blinked, read over her notes, and wrote something down and turned the screen to show him.
"Now, certainly that is something you should avoid calling me out loud. Lest it be inappropriate to a man of my station."
"I may correct it. In the future." She set the data slate down. "So you are new to the title? To the office? And this great collection of ships and what looks to be a jumbled mix of cobbled together troops?"
The Chaplain's head tilted to the side in that curious manner of his.
"How do you mean?" He asked.
"Well you mention my coming here amidst the armored reinforcement."
"I have made a call to war, sent out a Declaration of Arms to the various worlds and systems surrounding us. We have been docked here for years, waiting, gathering, amassing. The last of those to heed the call are here. Those who would answer have sent what swords they could." As he spoke, he reached up to the golden medallion dangling from his neck, running armored fingers down it. The word "Spite" was engraved in High Gothic.
"To gather warriors, especially in these times, can be difficult. I am, due to my rank and title, and the very nature of what I am, afforded more luxuries. But supplies, man power, ships…all so valuable, more so with the return of the Primarch Reborn. Those pilgrims that come to me are welcomed, and brought together under my banner. Even still, I've lingered and cannot spare any more time. We must be the blade unsheathed.
"I take any and all who come. Ours, Lady, is the spite, and I can wield it in any fashion it is forged. Come with me, Historitor Bhabli, I will take you to the world below and show you the many manifestations it has come to me in."