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The Halcyon Incursion
A Space Marine Roleplay
The tragedy of war is that it uses man's best to do man's worst. - Harry Fosdick
War does not determine who is right - only who is left. ~Bertrand Russell
A Space Marine Roleplay
The tragedy of war is that it uses man's best to do man's worst. - Harry Fosdick
War does not determine who is right - only who is left. ~Bertrand Russell
High Chaplain Mikhail Jhonikov stood hunched over the podium staring at the assembled mass of his brothers around him. Seven hundred and sixty-four Battle Brothers of arguably the most terrifying chapter of Space Marines in the Imperium. Of the nine companies of full-fledged Battle-Brothers only the Fifth Company was not in attendance; their continuing conflict with the tyranids in the Zsaz'o quadrant meant that attendance of the Revelation of the Sacred Blood was impossible. But the host assembled here was fearsome nonetheless; seven hundred and sixty four space marines, armour deepest black flanked with grey like fog and crimson red. Each one coated in the blood of the slain and trophies from their honoured predecessors. If it weren't for the fact that he was assembled in front of the entire chapter, Mikhail would begin to weep.
He shook himself. He had a job to do; this was his first direction of the Revelation of the Sacred Blood, the most holy rite performed by any Chaplain of the Sin-Eaters. With the entire chapter, including the Venerable Brothers in their iron tombs and the assembled Chapter Council, watching his rites, he needed to get this totally right. He looked around at the building inside as the Battle-Brothers conversed quietly among themselves. They were inside the Obsidian Sepulcher, the tomb of the greatest heroes of the Sin-Eaters chapter. Built almost entirely out of rare obsidian from Holy Terra, the tomb was massive, easily fitting not only nearly the whole chapter but the hundreds of graves of honoured dead.
The ornate gilded chronometer high in the rafters amidst the stained glass windows began to click ominously. At once, the entire assembled host of marines snapped to attention and raised their right fist above their breastbone. The chronometer began to chime a deep bass twenty times. At each chime, every frater in the room slammed his fist into his chestplate, Dreadnoughts included. The combined sound of the ceremony was like listening to an immense meteor impacting on the surface of the planet. As the last chime faded into silence the assembled host stopped and stared directly at Mikhail. Although he was hesitant to admit it, Mikhail had never been more nervous in his life.
He took one last look around the room at the assembled host of marines before clearing his throat. The sound, magnified by the massive chamber and the silence of his brothers, was like a thunderclap. "Brothers," he began, "we are standing on a crossroads. Two paths, but one traveler, we are. As Space Marines in service of His Divine Omnipotence we are twofold. On the one hand, we are the shield of the Imperium. We are the defender of the weak, yet devout, servants of His Majesty. We are the bastion the frightened, sheltered masses of humanity cowers behind. We are the shield. And yet, on the other hand, we are also the sword. With bolter and blade we deliver sweet death to the heretics, mutants, and xenos scum that assails the Imperium from all sides. Even reduced to our bare fists and savage fangs we tear at the accursed assailants of this Holy Empire with a fury rivaling that of the so-called "gods" they worship. Two paths, one traveler."
He paused, whirring the Maw of Sanguinus anxiously as he did so. "And so we honour that duality today in this, the most holy ceremony in this Blessed Chapter's history. We honour the dual purposes of ourselves...and of our honoured dead." He waved the massive chainfist to one of the walls. "Observe, my brothers, the consequences of our dual purposes, for if we do not view our failings, we may never improve in His Holy Work of Death." With his other hand, he pressed a small button on the underside of the altar he stood at. Slowly, with a groan of shuddering metal, the inlain spade-like discs on the walls slid up to reveal hundreds of armaglas tombs containing the bodies of the Holy Dead. Some contained the bodies of fratres who were still in the condition of their death, unmarred by decay. Others, in the case of those battle-brothers who's bodies were unobtainable, bore simple plaques or personal belongings. None wore armour; the corpses were dressed in black robes and their eyes bound with blindfolds.
"This," intoned Mikhail, "is the price of the shield. Even we, the strongest and most fearsome servants of His Immortal Majesty, do not always succeed. Here lies the remains of the brothers who spent their most valued ammunition in service of the Emperor; their lives. Gaze upon the honoured dead, for they gaze upon us all in eternity, waiting for that day when His Glorious Emminence will walk mortal soil once more. Gaze, and hail the honoured dead." With one fluid motion, the entire assembled mass raised their right hand once again and slammed it into their chest. Returning once again to ordered ranks, the Space Marines turned back to Mikhail.
Mikhail then reached below the altar to the hidden golden lockbox and withdrew a small gilded vial. "And this," he whispered, voice automatically amplified by the sepulchre's speaker system, "is the price of the sword." At once the entire assembled company dropped to their right knee and bowed their heads, with the exception of Mikhail, who still held the vial. "The Sacred Blood," he breathed. "One of the most sacred relics in the entire Imperium. A single drop of the blood of our Blessed Primogenitor, Sanguinus himself. He was the ultimate sword. He gave his life to strike at the Arch-Heretic, the accursed Horus the Betrayer, and in doing so revealed to Our Beloved Lord the true intentions of his once-Favoured Son. Here we kneel in the presence of our Father. And now, just as we honoured our dead, we must embrace our father."
Walking slowly and deliberately, Mikhail strode down to the assembled crown, cradling the vial. Travelling up and down the ranks of the assembled host, he stopped at each and every Space Marine in the tomb. When the Chaplain stopped in front of them, the marine in question would remove his helmet and gently kiss the vial. Even the Venerable Brothers, entombed in their iron prisons, bent and touched their faceplate to the sacred glass. Stopping at the chapter council, Mikhail watched as the Chapter Master, Methuselah of the Bloodied Fang, bent and gently kissed the glass. Strinding once again to the altar, removed his helmet, and kissed the vial. Placing it gently back in the lockbox, he locked it deliberately with it's gilded key and placed his helmet back on.
"Now, my brothers, go in the service of the Emperor." The host stood as one and stared at the altar again.
"So we go, our blood calling for the enemy, our souls whispering the Emperor's name," he intoned, along with the other marines. As Mikhail watched, the companies dispersed throughout the fortress-monastery, their commanders already returning their attention to the art of war.
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All - All of you, being veterans, are members of the First Company. However your Captain has no immediate assignments and so you all go your seperate ways, as described below...
Aurio Daverin - After the ceremony, you make your way towards the armoury to inquire with some of the Techmarines; your storm shield's power cells have been acting up lately. This has been your second time receiving the Sacred Blood; as you walk away you can still feel the cold glass on your lips, see the dried blood inside the vial, hear the voice of the Primarch; faint and far away, but still clear. You ponder the ceremony as you arrive in the massive chamber, packed to the brim with weapons and vehicles. The chamber is cold. Cold like death.
((Converse with the Techmarine; small-talk really, or problems with your storm shield. Is it hard to fix, or a simple problem? What are your thoughts on the ceremony? How did it go for you? What about the honoured dead? Did you know any? Kind of a bad start, I know, but I'm only playing off of what you gave me.))
Cassius Scipio Augustus - You leave the ceremony in a sullen mood, headed for the drinking halls. As much as the new High Chaplain seems like a good religious leader, the ceremony reminded you of your dear friend Arkuliae. You miss him already, like a brother; the memory of the action on the sulfur fields of Jjojos are fresh in your mind. You can even remember the exact moment he died, pierced through the chest by a bright lance. But the final blow was the ruined shell of Arkuliae himself, entomed in one of the armaglas containers on the sepulcher wall, gaping hole still in his chest.
You grimace. Perhaps some heavy drinking of that delicious sanguine will clear your mind a bit. You enter the drinking hall to find it mostly empty. Grabbing a mug and filling yourself up, you sit and one of the long tables and nurse the red alchohol, thinking of memories past.
((Think of memories you've had with Arkuliae. What did you like about him? What do you think about Mikhail? Also, what were your experiences with the ceremony. Like Aurio, this is your second time experiencing it. Did you recognize the dead among the tombs? How many were your comrades? And the Sacred Blood; what were your feelings about it?))
Michelangelo Mangano - You walk towards your personal quarters in the fortress monastery, strangely tired. You don't know why, but you are experiencing severe fatigue and a very bad headache. Then again, you did return from warp-travel only two days ago; perhaps some of the side effects of warp travel still lingered.
On your way to your quarters, you are stopped by two young Chapter Serfs; the oldest couldn't be more than ten, and the younger was only seven, by your estimate. Giggling at your presence, they hide behind a corner and watch you, huddled in their tiny black robes emblazoned with the chapter symbol.
((How does your headache feel? How tired are you? What happened in your Warp Journey? And the children. How do you interact with them? Do you politely converse with them, or shoo them away as you exhaustedly travel towards your quarters? Do you know them? Perhaps you've met them before.))
Tacticus Romus - You leave the ceremony eagerly. Before the rites, one of the more burly members of the First Company, a hulking squadmate of yours by the name of Aleksandr has challenged you to a friendly boxing match in the chapter arena. A few other squadmates of yours are tagging along to watch the fight. Stripping out of your armour, you enter the dirt arena and bare your fists at Aleksandr, who grins at you cockily.
"Maybe you might actually win this time, eh, Romo?" You grimace a bit. As much as you like Aleksandr, you hate that nickname. You're going to have to teach him a lesson...the hard way. You lift one fist in his direction threateningly. "I guess you'll have to find out," you laugh.
((Beat 'em up! Aleksandr's quite a bit stronger than you, being the squad's dedicated heavy bolter man, but you've got the edge in speed. He's gonna rough you up quite a bit but you'll eventually win. But what about the watchers? They may have been betting on the fight...did they win or lose? How did they react to the fight?))
Lucifer Octavius - You've left the ceremony to head to the firing range to practice with your plasma pistol. In your last mission, the pistol overheated three separate times, all three of which were due to personal error. You need more practice with it, and so you're resorting to simple shooting. As the targets slide out from behind the wall, you grimace as memories of the painful burns fill your mind. You'll have to reprimand that source of error.
((Sorry about the bad update, but there's not much to work with. How accurate are you? What exactly happened relating to your burns? When did they happen? Did they affect your mission? And what about the ceremony? How did it go for you?))
Brother Fenix Xentor - As you leave the ceremony, you head to the librarium in search of some reading material. When you enter, you're met by a very different story. Two elderly chapter serfs are sitting across from each other playing a game of chaz, one of your favourite games adapted from an ancient Terran pastime. As the two moved the various pieces one after another, they debate one of your favourite subjects; interplanetary moral code.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" you ask the two. Startled by you, the two serfs nod and wave to a seat perpendicular from them. You sit and watch their game and listen to your debate.
((Watch the game; it is one of your favourite games after all. How is the game going? Perhaps you may want to challenge the winner. What about the debate? Perhaps you might want to interject at some point; what are your feelings on the subject?))
Vitus Cornelius Appirga - You leave the ceremony a bit shellshocked. Being one of the younger members of the First Company, this was your first rite of the Sacred Blood that you've ever experienced. Can you imagine? The Blood of Sanguinus was mere inches from your lips! You head to your quarters and sit on your bed, thinking about what just happened. The honoured dead, the Sacred Blood, the oath; all of it is a bit much for you.
However, that is by no means your only concern. As you remove your armour, you notice the paint of your armour is beginning to flake. You'll have to see the chapter heraldrist to fix it up.
((What are your feelings? The Ceremony was a truly awe-inspiring event, enough to break the hearts of even the bravest men, especially for one who's never seen it before. And what about your armour? You'll have to converse with the heraldrist to fix your armour up; perhaps you might want something enscribed on your armour (keep in mind your left shoulderpad is unadorned).))
Dominus Hasta - You leave the ceremony with creative juices flowing throughout your brain. The majesty of the sepulchre has really gotten some ideas flowing in your head. Heading off to your quarters, you immediately grab a sheet of paper and a pen to jot down some music. You remember one of the serfs mentioning earlier that the servitor choir needed some new songs to import, as the old ones were getting a bit old. Perhaps you might be able to get something new written up.
You scoff. Even if that's going to happen, you're going to have to get to work.
((What happened in there? How did the chamber inspire your musical abilities? What kind of music are you going to write up? And what about the rite itself? How did that go for you?))
Clodius Terentius Vulso - The ceremony has filled your heart with even more devotion to the Emperor, if it was even possible. Your whole mind is filled with the words of the saints of old and preachers of today, but unfortunately you have more pressing matters to attend to. Before the ceremony, you were asked to man the systems comms after the ceremony. You grumble as you head off to the comm chambers. The systems comms were famously boring, as nothing out of the ordinary ever showed up on them.
As you head to the access terminal and log in, mind still filled with faith, you at first fail to notice the almost immediate beeping sounds emminating from the terminal. Only after a solid three minutes of daydreaming do you come back to reality enough to notice the mass of red dots indicating hostiles a mere twenty light-minutes away.
((This one should be self-explanatory; the "Holy shit!" alarms have been sounded! What are you going to do? Can you access any files to see the defenses of the planet? Who will you alert first? Or will it even make a difference?))
((Let the games begin, everyone :victory: ))