The armoury. The very heart of Maiden of Sorrow. Without it, the Space Marines on-board would be left defenseless. And deep within the armory, is Var. But he is not just within the armoury, he is the armory. He shares a bond with each and every tech-adept, Tech-Priest and Servitor working within the armory, and indeed the ship at large. To him they are all intricate pieces of the vast machine that is Maiden of Sorrow.
Var himself is hunched over a worktable, shadowy and mysterious as he always is. Around him his Servo-arms move fluently, almost as if they are living. They react to his every whim, before he even commands them to do so. They are one and the same, the bond between them is so close that the barrier that once existed, ceased to and they formed into the same being.
On the worktable is the mangled shape of what was once a plasma gun. It is all but wrecked, the once proud weapon, wielded by an Adeptus Astartes, now nothing more than a molten heap of metal upon the bench before him. Bile rises in Var's throat. To see any machine wrecked through ignorance sends lances of anger through his fiery mind.
Overheating. Or at least, that is what they told him when they brought him the mangled weapon. Blew Brother-Sergeant Theng’s right arm off and melted his eye from its socket. Only a fool could overheat his weapon, only a fool could not feel the burning beneath his fingers, only a fool could not hear the screams as the machine died. Fools. All of them.
Var turned away from the plasma gun and looked towards the bench beside him, where there lay the bare skeleton of a bionic arm, intended for the very Sergeant that had destroyed the weapon that lay before Var. Commissioned by Veptus Szland, the "Corpse-Master", Primus Medicae of Fourth Companies Apocatherion and Apocathery of Var's own claw. Titles, just as words, are nothing but wind. The Apocathery spent too long working with the flesh, too long working with the weak. Var was proof that machine was stronger than flesh, metal stronger than bone.
But Var could not voice this. Not when so many around him had been helped by the Corpse Master. But not here, not in the armoury, where all those around him had taken the path of the Omnissiah, the right path. Many had been given the gift of machine by Var himself, making them stronger and more able to serve the Machine-God.
But Var had to leave his place, he had to go to battle with those that called themselves his Battle-Brothers, those that considered him one of their own. Var was not one of them, they were weak, their flesh easy to rip, their blood easy to spill. Not Var. Var was strong, he was machine, and machine was him.
Turning away from the beginnings of the bionic arm, Var focused once more upon the molten weapon before him. His bionic eye, another gift from the Deus Mechanicus, focused and detected areas of damage and rupture. Var's Servo-Arms paused as he surveyed the damage, analyzing the information flowing into his brain.
But this process, his thought pattern, was shattered by a bolt of pain. Var's fists clenched and his jaw clamped shut as he felt one of the pieces of machinery, one of his Tech-Adepts feel pain. Pain was for the weak and the un-pure. But something had harmed a part of the machine, and whoever it was would suffer a thousand times the pain that Adept had felt.
A voice broke through the throbbing of the armoury, a voice that Var recognized as belonging Fundae Ignescunt. Another fool who cared nothing for the weapons and armour that kept him alive in battle. It was not skill at arms, or tactics that made a warrior great, rather his weapons. It was not his endurance or grit that kept him alive, rather his armour. The Night Lords flamer, brought to Var as nothing more than a mound of molten metal, resembling nothing of the great weapon it once was. A fractured fuel canister, his own fault. In fact, Var would have preferred it if had been Fundae that had lost his arm, better to wipe that smile from his face and show him what pain and defeat really means. Var knew pain. He never forgot the days of constant agony so long ago upon his homeworld.
"Var, I hope you have repaired my flamer by now.”
Rage built within Var, and it took all his strength to beat it down. It would not be right for Var to kill the marine here, within his inner sanctum. Var needed to be part of the Night Lords, for them to take him to his final destination. And that meant avoiding driving his 'tail' through the Space Marines throat and watching him bleed like the weak flesh he was. When Var responded his voice was metallic. But it was low and dark, any of even average intelligence would be able to detect the hatred unsaid.
""You cannot rush my work. Be grateful you still live, and let me deal with your weapon"
Var turned back to the plasma gun resting before him, expecting the Marine to leave his armoury and leave Var in the peace. But instead the fool spoke again, his voice joking, the voice of a weak idiot.
"Forgive me scrap head. I thought you were the fastest Tech-Priest in the Company."
Now the rage that surged upon Var could not be held back. Var turned upon the impudent Night Lord, his eyes blazing with pure, unbridled fury. Var's 'tail' whipped around at the whim of its master and hung, poised a few meters from where the Astartes stood. When Var spoke now his voice was a roar, one of anger and rage.
""You forget your place. Veteran you may be, but accidents happen, and they can be fatal. NOW.GET.OUT.OF.MY.ARMORY"
The last statement was accompanied by Var grabbing his Axe from where it rested beside him and placing his feet in a solid stance, the idea of a fight obvious.
However the Night Lord seemed to realize his mistake, as he turned from Var and stormed off down the corridor once more, returning to the world that existed outside of Var's own. Var let a breath escape him, his 'tail' relaxing and sliding back to where it rested behind him. He placed his axe down once more the floor and turned once more to the mangled weapon on the bench before him.
Fools. Weak fools.