In the meantime.
Try blowing this outta the water, Dukey.
"Leave this Chapel Colonel. Now." He responded, with oddly little emotional retort in his voice. The usual pretentious readings were missing, and any sign of remaining ire was oddly beaten out of his voice. The Chaplain continued to mutter an unfinished prayer, his voice masked in near silence. No further attention was drawn to the colonel, on to the statue before him as he was caught in the trance of utterly conflicted thought process.
This was neither a unusual sight for most of the remaining faithful, the doggedly, mad, and even insanely devoted willful. But it was the last thing keeping them from rending every stupid, sodding, utterly misunderstanding Imperial officer, who's cynicism did not allow them to feel what the Astartes feel. To know what the Astartes knew.
The death of a planet was the anguish of the Imperial Officer. The death of a planet was the statistical victory for the Astartes. The death of a family was the anguish to the Imperial guardsmen. The death of a family was the wave to the Emperor, where each Astartes hoped to join them. The death of the Emperor was a complete tragedy to Colonel Dragus Griffin.
The Death of The Emperor was each Black Templar's failure. And no one else but Chaplain Ferras knew this better.
----------------
Black Templars Castellan Andreus Philemon stood silently as the hulking battle barge cruised through the asteroid field. Rocks of immense size, powerful enough to tear the ship in two, passed by the shielded view-ports. He wasn't worried about those. The Fury's crew, experienced soldiers and officers of dozens of campaigns, guided the ship seamlessly through the field, with the gracious aid of it's hallowed Machine Spirit.
The situation was dire indeed, to put it meekly. It was only a year before when he had led his Fighting Company, a full hundred of his brothers, into battle against the enemies of the Imperium on his own terms. Look how the tables had turned. The stable government known as the Imperium of Man has all but collapsed, and the Great Enemy now roamed free across what was once secure Imperial Space, slaughtering and killing all those they find. It made the venerable Castellan sick to his stomach.
But not as sick as when he thought of the Emperor. No words, in any tongue, could ever describe the bile in his stomach that rose whenever he thought of that topic. Like all the surviving Astartes, he blamed himself personally for the Tragedy of Holy Terra. It was his fault, his doing, his...heresy. After all, what was a Space Marine without an Emperor?
But he would not take his life, like so many of his brothers did. No, when he thought of the Emperor's tragic demise, he did not feel the great sorrow and fear some his brothers did. No, his sadness was replaced with a deep, burning desire.
A desire for revenge.
And revenge was exactly their mission. His ragtag force, damaged by an assortment of traitor and Xeno raids, had been drifting aimlessly, gathering the survivors of the Imperium to it, the latest edition being a black Inquisitorial cruiser belonging to an Inquisitor...Karah? Well, whatever his name, his ship contained a full compliment of the dreaded Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, but the real prize had laid with the Astartes on board. A Chaplain, from his own chapter no less! The two had spent two days together, while the Chaplain told him of his adventures. Since then, the Chaplain had spent almost a week in the chapel, and wasn't seeing anyone. Well, he certainly had a good reason to do so. But there was still much to do.
It wasn't long after they found Ferras then they had received an astropathic communication, instructing those "Faithful to Humanity" to gather at the Armageddon system. Chances was, someone was mustering the remaining Imperials to a single location.
Was it a trap? Most likely. In fact, it probably was a trap. But Andreus Philemon was going to go there, anyway. If he was going to die, at least it would be in battle.
"Castellan." Captain Simeon Micah approached him. An Imperial Fist, his golden yellow power armor struck a sharp contrast to the Castellan's black. The second highest ranking Astartes officer present on the ship, he had assumed the position of second-in-command. It just went to show how disorganized everything was at the moment. The ship itself, a Black Templar's battle barge, had lost it's captain during the Tragedy at Terra.
"What news, Simeon?"
"We are approaching the Armageddon System. We're preparing for the Warp transition now."
Warp-based travel had become a lot harder since the Tragedy, the safety and protection provided by the Astronomicon all but lost. However, that did not mean it was totally impossible. By taking a 'dive' into the Warp, the fleet is able to touch only the surface of the dimension, effectively flinging the ship a great distance like a stone from a catapult. While this was much safer then the warp travel of old, it was also much slower. However, the Armageddon system was only a few systems away, so it wouldn't take too long.
Philemon turned his head toward his subordinate. "Summon the Chaplain."
The Captain bowed slightly, before turning on his heel and marching from the bridge, his power armor clanking on the metal grille.
----------------
Cross his mind on topics vast, what was the prayer that exited his mouth? To a dead God? What was a Chaplain with no holy device with which to impart on the willing? And what was the rage that fueled the crusade? The rage. It must be the rage. But why this rage, why when it was known...
Of course. All along, it was them. They started the first corruption. They took their Chapter's father, Rogal Dorn. They took the Emperor, with which each Black Templar held a ten thousand year long crusade for, a never ending wave of battles that killed who took part or made them into champions, worthy of any foe. Live or die, they crusaded. And they had never stopped.
Why did they Crusade? For the Emperor. The Emperor is dead. But the crusade continues? That doesn't make sense. Why do we kill all xenos? To keep our kin safe from corruption. But the Xenos have been silent since the Emperor's death throes. Do they perhaps seek parlay? No. Not every Xeno is like the other, despite the misgivings. Some may not be reasoned with. The dark end. Necrons. They seek no parlay. They must be entrapped with blood and soil again, for however long possible. The Tau. Naive, foolish, proud, perhaps cunning, but untrustworthy foes. They must be taught to hold breath or hold for all. In death. Only in unagressed silence and the Rites of the Imperium, given on to each traitor human that had sided with the Xenos.
But what of these humans? They did not believe in the Emperor? Heresy. But the Emperor is dead. Perhaps they knew this would happen, and they went to the Xenos for aide. Unlikely. The Chaplain had heard of how each human was treated within the Tau Empire. Trained as shock troops to be disposed of on the first waves of battle, used as a workforce, and worse, sterilized, taken their gene passing, something which the Space Marine, unable to bear the same traits, could not understand fully, yet the sentiment of your gene being utterly useless from there forth was...understandable enough. Such fury for these Xenos was understandable, yet the fury directed, could be more powerful. What of them? They are a foolish race, and the jaw set of an Imperial could not sit in peace with them. Perhaps. Or perhaps not.
What of the Eldar, the dying breed? Kept alive on their artificial constructs sung from other ghostly material, vanishing from whence to where. They certainly could not be trusted. That was actually a serious thought. The Eldar cared to protect their kin, and not only are they willing to fight Imperials for it, they are wholly willing to use Imperial deaths to their own gain. If there is something to be gained from something, they will be there to reap the reward, from the webway. Besides being caught up with destroying or protecting dangerous artifacts, stopping Daemon Princes from reawakening from their sleep, or keeping planet hidden from the eyes of the so called gods, they offered no practical aide unless entirely unavoidable. They were best avoided and fought where needed. At least in the Chaplain's mind. Resources however were better spent on the great problem.
As to a last for Xenos, one thing was comforting, in that the behavior of Orks would not change, God-Emperor or not. They were the same enemy, and they were still a worthy foe to slay, without discrimination; Such few unchanged things were so far between, that you grab hold of such ideas by the neck and squeeze the life out of them.
It was little oversight though. Xenos were not the problem now. The Legions of Chaos must be restored with order. But how? They had failed. Their Emperor is dead. The shame on every single Astartes' shoulders weighs them down greatly.
Returning to some semblance of sanity, Chaplain Ferras stood, and darkly thought.
Besides. What are they going to do with only twelve ships?
----------------
Initiate Gabriel Demos marched silently through the corridors of the ship, his bolter held pointing downward. He had only been promoted to the rank of Initiate a few weeks ago, after a shortage of fighting individuals forced them to press what Neophytes they had into service. While already veterans in combat, Demos did not certainly feel like a Space Marine.
Oh no. A Space Marine had an Emperor.
He stopped at the door of the chapel, pushing open the massive doors with his armored hand. Light flooded into the room, illuminating two figures near the altar.
"Chaplain." He said, bowing politely. "The Castellan summons you."
Ferras turned around. Slowly. "Yes. Neophyte Demos? From Riker III? The one who crushed the skull of that Caldarian behemoth who should have passed from hopeful to Neophyte, except not for if he was killed by your hand? Well. At least some can hope for a passing. Inform Quarter Master Pontius that the Chaplain saw him discarding his Aquilla. Space Wolf bastard." The Chaplain walked past the Initiate, putting a hand on his shoulder, his red visored eyes staring at the initiate with great intensity.
"Isn't it your fifteen minutes?" The Chaplain looked back at the Statue, and then back to the Marine again. "Unless you had something else to do..."
Demos' eyes widened a little bit, and he flinched a little as the Chaplain's large, armored glove touched his shoulder plate. He was surprised that he remembered his name, even after all these years. While only an Initiate, Demos already had more skill in combat then most Imperial Guardsmen. He looked into the darkened chapel, then back at the Chaplain, then did it again for good measure. He could pray there for his time, but what was the meaning? There was no Emperor to hear his prayer.
Wasn't it all pointless?
But, however pointless, he still had a duty to do. Regaining his composure, he nodded and stammered "R-Right away, Chaplain."
The Chaplain nodded, taking his hand off of the Initiate's shoulder, leaving the chapel, but not before opening the doors wider, sending withering stares at passing Marines who did not enter during their Sanctioned time slot. A few even fled into the chapel to escape a possible, if unlikely, reprimanding. Nodding again, he made for the bridge, to meet the Castellan who had met with the Chaplain on that Cruiser, and discussed topics the Chaplain hardly gave attention to in his weary trance.
Finally escaping such a trance, he walked with purpose, to meet his summons. The Castellan probably had something important to say at anyrate.
----------------
The bridge of the Relentless Fury was a massive room with a high marble, arched ceiling. It's walls were lined with cogitation machines and the sort of techno-sorcery that was expected to keep a ship alive. At the panels of these machines sat several crewman from different Chapters, their eyes fixed on their screens. Servitors, directly infused into their machine, sat in others, their bodies linked to the ship through a complex series of cables and wires. An emtpy command throne stood in the center, elevated by three steps, each step fifteen centimeters in length, while an Actuality Sphere sat de-activated a few meters in front of it. The entire front of the bridge was a shielded and reinforced viewport, with two console machines directly in front, manned by Black Templars.
Captain Micah looked over as the Chaplain entered, nodding in greeting, and gesturing towards the Castellan, who was standing in front of the view-port, arms folded, and legs apart.
"Brother." Micah greeted. "The Castellan will see you now."
Approaching the Castellan, Ferras would notice that the asteroid field was clearing out, the last bits or rock clearing out. Their speed had slowed, while the ships were re-grouping, preparing to make their jump into the Warp. Well, half-jump. They couldn't risk a full jump anymore.
As Ferras approached, the Castellan's gaze remained fixed into space.
"Why do we fight, brother?" Castellan Philemon suddenly said, not moving an inch.
"What are we but warriors Castellan? Answer me this. Why did you not kill yourself? Do you really think that rage and lust for vengeance is the reason? Really? No. Tell me. Why do we live when we have nothing to crusade for? Its our nature? No. Because it is Order. Instilled into every single on of us, what are we taught first? Order. Natural or martial. The small and weak are protected by the big and strong. This is the first lesson of order we are taught. The big and strong are guided by the smart and cunning. The smart and cunning are kept in place by the Practical and the Wise. And Practical and the Wise..." The Chaplain let that hang in the air, as if he was contemplating whether to laugh for instilling a value into the Castellan, instead continued. "Are also guided. By either the Tyranical, or the Magnificent. We believe in this order more than our lives, and all of those fools who took their lives momentarily forgot of Order."
"Tell me Castellan, let me answer your question with another. Who is the one enemy of Order?"
"Order is Tradition. Order is Loyalty. Order is Duty. Order is Honor. Order is Hope. Order is a Battle. Order is a Trial. Order is a Divine Comedy. Order is a War. Order is a Victory. Order is a Defeat. Order is a Stranglehold. Order is a Charity. Order is a Fortress. Order is a Siege."
"Order is being Human. But. We aren't Human. Are we Castellan? Is this your point? That the only thing tying you to the pathetic and hopeless, to the defenseless and the weak, was the Magnificent? And now that the Magnificence is gone, all of these things, no longer matter to you? I can't make you believe in destiny, in survival, in valor and in good deeds for the sake of good deeds, but this is merely a question of what person you are. Are you really telling me that your personality, your heart, or hearts as it were, mean nothing, and only the Emperor is what you were? We believe in the Emperor, his Mortal, yes, mortal, holiness, godhood, was real. He is gone. But you are still here."
"So tell me Castellan. Are you, a Champion? Because..."
Ferras turned shoulder, matching the Castellan's position, and stare, out to space, before they made the jump. "We need as many Champions as we can get."
All stars fall away to darkness eventually.
Perhaps.
The last few words rang clear in the Castellan's mind as a slight jump rocked the ship. The Navigators and Astropaths have put the finishing touches on their path, and the ship transited into half-warp.
"Humph." The Castellan grunted, annoyed at the prospect of not being able to use genuine warp-travel anymore. It was insulting. Something the Imperium has used faithfully for thousands of years, rendered useless in a matter of seconds.
"A champion..." He continued, before finally turning to face his brother. "...or a revenge-seeker. Only time will tell." He stated into the Chaplain's face with a hard, serious glare, before letting out a monstrous laugh. Forced, that is. There was nothing to be laughing about right now. "Well met, my brother." He slapped the Chaplain's shoulder plates with his massive, black gauntlets. "I trust you are well in these dark times?"
"As well as one can be. Only time will tell how well my meditation has kept me. But enough of that subject, Brother, I need you to understand something."
This could only mean the Chaplain wasn't yet done with the Castellan...
"On a level, you and I. Normally, between my own Castellan, and the my extra services aboard the Lord High Marshall's ship...if it even still exists...I would respect my commander as much as his Second should. But seeing as how I am quite literally a lost dog taken aboard a port in a warp storm, let me tell you what needs to be done."
"It has come to my attention that you have mixed Chapters together. I've been noticing more than a few transgressions, and all from one simple walk to the bridge. Was it wise mixing crews to Quarters and anything but Alert drilling and..." The Chaplain held his peace, stopping himself from mentioning Mass. There hadn't been a complete Mass in over the week the Chaplain had been aboard the Battle Barge. He'd seen few wander in, and most of these were under order to persuade the Chaplain out. One even offered mock combat as a means to get the Chaplain away from that statue.
"At anyrate, your decision is yours alone. But if we are to all work together, Brothers United as we should be, then give me one chance. Send everyone not immediately required for maintenance to the Chapel. And have this done on each ship. As a request. We'll link Vox feeds, wire them into congregations aboard all twelve."
"This needs to happen Brother. We either fight together like brothers, or we die like enemies. Imperial Fists. Salamanders. Iron Hands. And even the few Space Wolves who were brought along by the Fists. Together, with the Black Templars. The Emperor's Finest. Along with the Emperor's Shield, the Imperial Guard Remnants. The 437th. The 24th. We're all in the same boat. Now we can either charge out of that boat together in phalanx or in tangled mass."
The Castellan's friendly features hardened into a stone, firm look. The look that had faced down an entire Ork Waaaagh!, legions of Warp-Spawned Daemons, and countless other aliens and beasts this galaxy had thrown at his three-hundred and fifty-two years of service to the Imperium. Ferras knew that look well.
"Your words are not without merit, Brother. Our numbers have dwindled such as we have to resort to mixed chapters and crews, and we have not the proper time required to integrate everyone properly. We haven't even had time to hold such an ev-"
Before he could say 'event such as Mass', he was suddenly interrupted by a sudden shout of "Castellan!" followed by several shuffling feet as the doors to the bridge slid open once again, and a heavy-set man in an Imperial Guard uniform stormed in. He was tall, and well-built, with a balding head, and a black eyepatch over one eye. Apparently, he didn't bother to have it replaced. Maybe he didn't want to. Whatever the reason, he stormed into the room, followed by a smaller, leaner individual with a black greatcoat and a tall hat. A few faces turned to stare at him as he made his way across the bridge. Sidestepping Captain Micah as he moved to stop him, he approached the Castellan directly.
"Colonel Sedichi." Castellan Philemon turned to look down at the pair of Guard Officers that intruded on their conversation, while stopping Micah's advance with a wave of his hand. While a large man by any standards, the Colonal was still dwarfed by the massive Space Marine.
"This is the last straw, Castellan." He said angrily, keeping his ground as he glared up at Philemon. "I will no longer tolerate the behavior my guardsmen receive at the hands of your Astart-"
Of course, before the Colonel could say something along the lines of 'your Astartes!' He thought was broken by another clamping of feet as the bridge doors slid open once again. In stepped a Space Marine, a Space Wolf by the looks of his armor, stormed in, followed by a pair of his battle-brothers. They certainly cut an imposing figure as they stormed their way towards the Castellan, Chaplain, and Guard officers.
"Castellan!" The head Marine boomed, turning more heads then the beleaguered Colonel did. "Do not believe his words, don't blame us if his men cannot stomach some banter!"
The Castellan turned his head to the Chaplain with a 'is this what you mean?' look written across his features.
Heh.
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Topic: Ridiculous Tales of Bay Twelvery (Read 29470 times)