Futuristic Malignant Powers (Main IC)

[darth]

The flotilla arrived three solar days prior. The small fleet has been sitting idle in orbit around the silver planet. Euclid seems peaceful and serene, at least from this distance. The ghostly ship, The Ardent Sword, floats aimlessly, its bow is dipped at an odd angle. It’s metallic plating now silhouetted against the surface of the planet.

The servants of the collective Inquisitorial forces grow restless. An Astartes, tall and proud, stands stoically at a viewport. His helmet is under his arm, revealing his scarred face and thick black hair. The space marine stares at the lifeless vessel, half expecting the machine to suddenly spark its engines, or flicker its lights. Instead, the ship meanders slowly, offering only a glimmer of what it once was.

“Watch Captain…” a voice said.

The voice was meek and fragile. The Astartes turned his head and found the eyes of a young deck officer. He was new, the space marine could tell, written plainly on his anxious face. The young man tried to stand as tall as he could. The space marine wheeled to face him, and the young officer had to strain his neck to look the Astartes in the eyes. The Astartes said nothing, giving only a pale stare.

“The order has been given, sir,” the officer said, “You are cleared to deploy...”

At first, the Astartes said nothing, still keeping his cold stare. Droplets of sweat formed on the officer’s forehead, waiting anxiously for a response. The officer began to think that the Astartes would not answer until a broad grin stretched across his face.

“At last,” the Astartes said, “We are to do what we do best..."

The Watch Captain nodded to the officer, before walking away. He slips his helmet onto his head and accesses the Vox channel.

“Kill-Team Gladius, there is work to be done, prepare yourselves, brothers.”

“Report to the launch bay, you will be briefed shortly...”

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The Deathwatch Kill-Team, "Gladius," has been selected to deploy first. You are all currently aboard the ship OBERON.
This a preposition post to get everyone in the same location and introduce your characters.

 

[Zeth]

The shipboard diurnal cycles ticked with glacial pace, their malleable grip on reality even more flexible to the perception of one with the altered state of mind. As the flotilla plied it's way through madness and then the welcome void on approach to Euclid, Ekteliar spent that time either sitting on the floor on one of the hangar decks for what felt to be several dozen Martian days, communing with the collective of machine spirits present onboard and among the flotilla. Magisterial Lord immersed himself, in what he discovered to be, a sussurating overlap of information sources that communicated in such sublime harmony with each other, that it made Ekteliar feel right at home. Beneath the surface of a somber and sterile atmosphere there was an incredible presence of mind and will in everything that occurred on the ship.

Experienced in the many ways of Imperium, Ekteliar found this deliberate atmosphere refreshing. This purity of purpose, this sublime care with which each function on the ship occurred according to an underlying design, was surprising to Lord Ohm not only in its synchronicity to the doctrines of the Machine Cult but also in fact that even the most mundane of operations on the ship, performed with such precision and efficiency, provoked an emotional response in him. When not in deep state of hypno-meditation, Ekteliar roamed the corridors in almost trance-like state - the blessed lattice of human and machine activity superimposed over his transhuman vision and present everywhere he went. What started as a quest out of desperation from Triplex Phall turned - or rather transmutated - into a spiritual journey.

From his experience, the most vile usually saw the hand of the Omnissiah everywhere and as such were assured of their own self-righteousness. As part of the faithful, he did not had the luxury of disconnecting from his conscience like many of those that skirt or break the Universal Laws do, but there was something on this starship, on this mission, that made him not only feel at home, but it has infused everything with sublime quality that brought incredible focus and certainty. It made everything it touched re-calibrate itself, until it re-arranged itself and was ready to perform at peak efficiency.

Techpriest restlessly stalked the corridors, finding that he often, half-consciously, emitted few verses that had no conscious request for from his data-bank. The vibrations from the vocoder-box accompanied him on subsonic levels as he bonded with mortals, machines and transhumans alike.

++ Exloading data and preparing it for noospheric shunt to you, Magos. Plasma reactors functioning at peak capacity. ++

The Twelve is Supreme, being divisible by the cardinal and the binary.

'... of course. Precisely my Lord! That is why I have called for you. Lord Pyrrhus will have need of your skills. Magos? Are you listening?'

Upon the vox do we hear the voice of the Machine-God rendered mortal.

++ ACCESS DENIED. ADDENDA: CLEARANCE VERMILLION-6 REQUIRED ++

Unto every Design is laid Wisdom. Beneath every Wisdom lies a Design.

++ “Kill-Team Gladius, there is work to be done, prepare yourselves, brothers.” ++

No machine is arbitrary, for in its workings is found the faultless logic of the Omnissiah!

++ “Report to the launch bay, you will be briefed shortly...” ++

He stopped. The received vox-transmission snapping him back to lucidity away from the cycle that took hold of his powers these past few days. It took a moment for Ekteliar to compose himself, one ocular feed showing him the immediate environment, the other - the playback of recent events. He considered himself pious but not a firebrand. Outbursts of religious zealotry he left to those with less command over their faculties. He logged the interruption of conscious stream of thought as a reminder to check himself to one of Cybernetica Magi. If he is to perform he must be fully operational.

Mercifully, the playback assured him he maintained his soft-spoken composure, despite the turnmoil within him. Magos Juris moved with vigorous haste to the launch bay.

* * *​

Amid the august gathering, a figure robed in rust-red was dwarfed by the ceramite-clad brethren of Deathwatch. However, unlike the similar robed personnel that moved in a flurry of activity around the hangar, this figure was neither a Rune Priest, Enginseer nor Munition Adept. The robe stopped short of it's knees, in that regard looking more like a very thick coat then floor-sweeping robe of other Techpriests.
There was no hood, the coat encapsulating the sinew-less metal skull as a single piece with no overt evidence of extra limbs protruding from the silent Techpriest apart from a servo-arm housing a ranged weapon of baroque yet unknown design. It appeared to be powered-down.

Despite the figure's static posture, there was small movement beneath the coat, bringing to notice the light-absorbing runes embroiled on the hem of the coat, that apart from making interesting shapes, revealed little else. Usually secretive, this unusual Techpriest, apart from it's obvious Martian background, revealed nothing of it's Forge, purpose, levels of attainment within techno-mystic lore or even the Legion it is attached to - for the more militant-orientated Magi.

Despite it's static posture and opaque yet gentle manner, the red pinpricks danced left-right from within oculars that were like sunk satellite dishes into the depression of it's metal skull. It gave the impression that the figure is alert and was careful about it. Unsurprisingly, the focus of it's attention were those that stared at him as well as the ceramite-clad legends around him. Surprisingly, not all of the Kill-Team were Space Marines. Preparing for the mission ahead, what appeared to be a Battle Sister in crimson power-armor edged in auramite.

No, no - not a Daughter.

Something wormed around the remains of his spinal cord, the nauseating feeling snaking to the back of his cerebellum. Pariah!
However the sensation that usually accompanied the nulls found no purchase on his perception, the discomfort made manageable no doubt by stringed mental discipline and digitization of a large portion of his mind away from such frailties of flesh and impulsive bio-chemistry.

I am a Magos Juris - I will not allow an un-permitted phenomena to skew my perception and taint the information with weakness!

It did not open teeth, yet a flesh-voice was heard, unmarred by mechanical distortion. The figure made the Sign of the Cog, clasping metal fingers one over each other, gently bowing:

"Gladius, I salute you. I appreciate the patience demonstrated by inviting me to be a part of your squad and the singular honor of allowing me to accompany you on this task."

 

[Viper Actual]

Travelling on one of the Imperium's battleships was perhaps one of the greatest ironies a Null-Maiden could experience. For someone whom had spent the better part of their adult life locating and striking down rogue psykers and abhumans with psychic abilities there was a certain cruel irony to allowing themselves to entrust their life, their very existence, to the psykers and astropaths navigating the mighty vessels through the warp.

Sephia had been reminded of this numerous times though she often tried to ignore it altogether and place her focus on something far more healthy. In this case it was meditation. For the better part of her time onboard she had spent her time carefully meditating and maintaining her wargear from the comfort and privacy of her own quarters. She preferred the silence, which itself was yet another irony considering which organization she served.

Having just began the rite of blessing her power sword Sephia grimaced ever so slightly as the vox transmission echoed inside the room. Very well, it is time.

With a controlled haste she collected her wargear and donned her crimson armor. Rather unorthodox compared to the armor worn, or lack of thereof, when compared to her sisters Sephia much more preferred the more standardized armor patterns used by the Sisters of Battle. She did not doubt in her abilities but she never really felt like risking her life recklessly neither.

As Sephia left the room the doors slammed shut behind her.

* * *
​

Sephia was perhaps not dwarfed by the other members of her party though from a quick glance any onlooker would have no trouble distinguishing Astartes from Sororitas. Her presence would no doubt spawn questions of varying nature as her order rarely worked with any other organization- if ever- and seeing a Sister of Silence with an Inquisitorial Kill-Team was surely no common sight.

Despite the fact that she stuck out like an Ork in snow Sephia remained humble and open-minded. Noticing that one of the members, a techpriest no less, stared at her for a brief moment she smiled faintly and bowed her head in respect to the servant of the Omnissiah.

Sephia followed up with another set of gentle bows directed towards the others while also signing a greeting using quick, determined hand-movements and gestures. "Greetings, brothers." She said using the silent language of her order. Hopefully some or at least one other in the party were proficient in using the sign-language themselves.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

In the darkest shadow on OBERON, sat a silent space marine. The space marine, Athanaric, had submerged in himself in deep meditation in preparation for the coming task. His arms rested on his legs, elbow to knee. Athanaric's helmeted head nestled neatly in the power armor's gorget between the pauldrons, eyes closed beneath. On the marine's right ring finger dangled two, small avian skulls from a string of carbon-ceramic polyfibre. His left hand gently enclosed a similar trinket with the added exception that his had a ceramite chain that connects to the power armor he wore.

These 'totems' are known as Corvia amongst the Raven Guard chapter. In essence, they signify a warrior's genesis and honor as a Raven Guard. Each Corvia is fashioned from the skull of a raven from Kiavahr. When a brother passes, his corvia must be retrieved alongside the brother's gene-seed. The one who collects it, must carry it until he can return to Kiavahr to bury it, preserving the original owner's memory and honor.

Athanaric has witnessed a myriad of battles, his armor alone shows that, however there is only one conflict that stands out for Athanaric. The conflict which cost him, his two brothers. The clash forever echoes in his mind. This being who stands far above the normal human, asks himself "Was there more that could be done?". A brother's death isn't foreign but theirs were, by the simple fact that Athanaric may have had the ability to prevent their demise. Regardless whether Athanaric's lamentation is concluded or not, nothing must interfere with his service to the Emperor and the glorious Imperium, not even their deaths.

The Vox channel blares the call to arms message and Domitius emerges out of his meditation. The dimmed crimson eye lenses lit up as he lifted his head. He rose off the ground yet there was a certain elegance that could not be found in his brothers from the other Chapters, a quiet grace. Stepping out of the shadows, Domitius startled one of the auxiliary guardsmen stationed aboard the OBERON.

***​

Domitius had uncharacteristically decided to remain in full-view, not obscured by the shadows as he always was when on board. It is but one effort to combat a genetic malfunction of the Raven Guard that being their predisposition to favor their mentality and way of war, so much so that it imposes reclusiveness, arrogance and similar undesirable traits upon the Raven. It is unacceptable combat-wise in Domitius' eyes.

He stood tall and proud alongside his team. His onyx-black bolt pistol maglocked to his belt, with a similarly colored bolter resting beneath his backpack.

When the techpriest expressed his gratitude, Athanaric returned only an approving nod. Then the Sister of Silence, Sephia Vyle, communicated to him and his other battle-brothers in sign language. He made a short series of gestures to her albeit his hand-movements were sharper and quicker as Corspake was different than the Sister's sign-language. He attempted to convey "Salutations, sister."

 

[CatJones]

"Where there is uncertainty, I shall bring light." Erartes Trismelis began the litany, the steel censer dangling from his open hand, billowing a thin veil of condensed smoke, holy ungents, over the bolter laid out before him. A sacred weapon and the most basic yet reliable there was. Gunmetal gray with only a symbol of a winged skull along the barrel to distinguish it from it's brethren. Though he wasn't a chaplain he had little issue with citing the more widely used litanies when the mood called for it.

"Where there is doubt, I shall sow faith. Where there is shame, I shall point atonement." He finished with the censer, placing it to the side to lift the weapon. In his power armor it felt like lifting nothing more heavy then a book. Not a book of the Munitorium, those catalogs could kill a man if thrown at the right angle, but a smaller tome. He placed a magazine into it's empty well, leaving the first round unchambered.

"Where there is rage, I shall show its course. My word in the soul shall be as my bolter in the field." Having finished the Litany of Devotion, he placed the bolter against his thigh, allowing the maglocks there to secure the weapon for him. It was within easy reach, giving him some sense of closure to the growing anxiety that he felt. It wasn't fear, he noted, but the rising sense of duty. He felt like centuries had passed since his last engagement, since he had carried himself in battle. It was somewhat unnerving to be off the field for so long, even if only a few days. Im his mind, he likened the feeling to leaving a spear to rust.

In that, he found solace. Knowing that he wasn't being left out to rust. He had never been as competent as his brothers in warfare. He was Astartes, of course, so he stood head and shoulders over the common man bother literally and figuratively. Yet he was Astartes. To his surprise, his hope for combat came sooner then later. Their Captain had summoned the squad over the vox. Erartes walked quickly out of the armory, easily navigating the halls of the Oberon to the launch bay. He entered with his helmet on, seeing his squad mates alone with a two outsiders; a sister of silence and a techpriest.

He chose to keep his helmet on as he approached, bringing a hand up in an informal salute.

"Hail, brothers." His helm shifted to face the other two in the group. The Sister of Silence was signalling to the squad yet he could make nothing of it. He assumed she could hear of course.

"Sister. Servant of the Omnissiah." He finished his greeting.

(Sorry, my laptop kicked the bucket and I had to do this one phone. Emperor forgive me)

 

[Keidivh]

"Emperor, watch over your faithful servants as they go to the sacred field of battle. May our fury burn the filth of the Heretic and Xenos alike, that the galaxy be brought closer to your vision. May our faith shield us from the foul taint we are sent to cleanse. And may our deaths bring you glory." Much of Zuriels time had spent spent in the chapel aboard the Oberon, watching over the spirits of Astartes and mortal servants alike. While his duty lay solely in steeling the spirits of his cousins, he couldn't simply turn away fellow servants of the God-Emperor when they were in need. As his prayer was finished, those with him in the chapel slowly funneled out, keeping a respectful silence as Zuriel remained kneeling to continue his own personal meditations. To say the coming trials would be taxing was an understatement. Not only was he separated from his blood brothers, but he was entrusted with the spiritual well being of Astartes from a plethora of Primarchs, each Chapter having a unique culture all its own.

Of course he had done his research, ensuring he had a full understanding of his cousins that would be accompanying him. Sons of Dorn, of Corax, of the Gorgon. Yet it didn't end here, with a Sister of Silence and Adept of the Adeptes Mechanicus. A strange gathering indeed. It was more difficult unsurprisingly to find information on these two so that he could provide watch over their resolve, but what he had found would have to suffice. No matter the barrier, he would perform his duty. After all, he was a shepherd to those who were truly lost. This would be no challenge.

“Kill-Team Gladius, there is work to be done, prepare yourselves, brothers.”

“Report to the launch bay, you will be briefed shortly...”

A small smile crept over the weathered face of Zuriel. It was time. Raven Lord, grant us your subtlety and wisdom, that our strikes may land when and where they are needed. Unyielding One, strengthen our resolve, that the enemy may break upon our bulwark. Gorgon, grant us strength to smite the unworthy. Father, grant us your spirit, that we may see our task done.

His meditations finished, Zuriel made his way to the armory. Dissambling his bolt pistol, he sliced open his hand, pouring blood over the pistol and Crozius Arcanum, awakening the machine spirits within with the scent of blood, bonding them closer to himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
​

Arriving in the launch bay, Zuriel was fully arrayed and ready for battle. Even in the colors of the Death Watch it was declare from whom he descended, his armor a near work of art, a testament to the proud artisans found within his Chapter. Approaching his squadron, Zuriel removed the grim skull helm of his office, a serene smile on the Chaplains face. A feeling of unease attempted to find some purchase within him as he neared, but it quickly found its task futile. Glancing over to the source of this feeling, Zuriel offered the Sister the sign of the Aquila. "It is an honor sister."

Turning to the rest of his squadron, he offered them a hearty greeting before adorning his helm once more.

 

[RayPurchase]

By the time the call to assemble rang out across the vox channels, Feirros had already been in the launch bay for a quite considerable amount of time. Astartes were a breed apart from humans, and aside from a few gregarious chapters such as the Salamanders, often kept a distance from your average unaugmented humans. Whilst the Astartes were bred above their mortal brothers, the Iron Hands went down an even further path, carving and improving themselves through technology and steel, to the point where they now stood apart from many of their brother Marines. To many their flesh and gene seed was near sacred, a connection going down the generations, from their grandfather the Emperor, to their father Primarchs. The Iron Hands alone knew however, that the Flesh was weak. Even their father, Ferrus Manus, had fallen, due to the inherent weakness built into his very being, that of his very Flesh and Blood. This didn’t exactly make the Iron Hands good companions, happier amongst machines than the living, and Feirros was no exception to this rule.

Secluded under the wing of a Stormhawk, in front of him lay his arsenal, disassembled and laid out, broken down to a minutiae of working parts. Feirros’s armour was get black, as per both the custom of the Deathwatch, and the Iron Guard, it was the half of the Cog Mechanicus embossed on his chest however that set apart his armour from that of regular Marines, that and the bulky pack strapped to his back. His mouth moved silently, a litany of prayers and sermons on his lips, words to appease, phrases to waken, and couplets to stir to anger. All for the benefit of the Machine Spirits that dwelt within these holy instruments, the Bolter, the Axe, the Auspex, his Power Amour. All of them guided by this force, reloading, charging, firing, each action was through the manifestation of the Machine Spirit’s will, and as such it must be tended to, like any warrior it must recover, and then made ready for battle once more. Currently in his cold bionic hands lay the majority of his power axe, the mighty weapon’s head punctured with half of the Cog Mechanicum. For he was not only of Medusa, but now also of Mars, trained in her mysteries and ways, having spent years on her scorched surface, the bridge between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Astartes Chapters, straddling both but fully committed to neither. The vast servo arm craned from the rear of his shoulder picking up the power coupling for the axe, and with surprising deftness dropped it into his awaiting hand. He pushed it into place with a final litany of awakening, and the Axe hummed into life, a blue shimmer momentarily flaring around the blade before dissipating. Fully awake and ready, Ready to bring swift death to the enemies of the Imperium, the Alien, the Mutant, the Heretic.

He was slotting the final pieces of his bolt pistol together, when the crowd began to gather. There was a faint whir as the red glow of his eye contracted to an intense pinprick of light. The ‘eye’ was a clunky contraption, half embedded in his skull, just another part of him that had been sacrificed in the name of the Emperor under the light of some distant star. A Raven Guard, a Sanguine Templar, a Tech Priest and a Sister of Silence. The first two were unsurprising, the latter pair were an entirely different matter. The Adept was most likely here sniffing about after some rumour of lost tech, eager to add it to the innumerable horde they already had in their vaults, but the Sister of Silence… that hinted at the Warp, of Chaos, Pyskers and altogether more alien and visceral things that could not be fully understood or even described by any who existed in real space. Despite having no inherent psychic ability of his own, he could still feel her presence on the edge of his teeth, an inherent...wrongness. There was no other word for it,

There were still some members of the team left to arrive, but for now he would not be rushed, looking back to the bolt pistol mechanism before him, and continuing the slow methodical process of putting it back together and stirring the Spirit within.

 

[Midrick]

Rell had been in the vessels armory, he was doing a final check on his weapons, he personally tended to the savage looking chainaxe in the lap of his power armored frame, the machine spirit could have been tended to by an admittedly more skilled individual like a tech-priest or their resident techmarine, but Rell treated the weapon like an old companion and it was in a way it had felled the two xenos who's skulls now hung from the jet black deathwatch power armor, various other grisly trophies hung from the armor, a patch of flayed skin from a traitor marine on his right shoulder plate and another patch of flayed skin was attached at his left elbow. Many looked down upon the executioners for their chapter practices, but Rell did not particularly care what others in the imperium thought of him and his brothers, they were the emporers headsmen, and they took their reputation as such seriously.

He heard summons from his kill-team leader spoken over the vox caster with orders to the launch bay for tactical briefings, Rell quickly finished his ritual and mag locked his bolt pistol and axe to his belt, he then mounted his jump pack on the back of his armor before proceeding down the lengthy corridors, scattering inquisitorial personnel in his wake. Rell made it to the launch bay, but quickly found a priest of the mechanicus accompanied by one of the silent sisters. Even in power armor the jump pack he utilized was hard to move in, and it made fighting in confined spaces a nightmare. He still wasn't used to the deathwatch black that his armor was colored in, but he still bore the chapters gun metal grey and twin axe symbol on his left pauldron.

He noticed three other astartes enter the hangar, one seemed to be a Chaplain, and another was a techmarine, the third seemed to be a normal tactical marine. Rell walked over to the small group of kill-team gladius. As he got closer he felt something, almost a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that the sister didn't belong. It was an effect of her unique condition. As he moved the light caught and reflected off of the large teeth of the weapon attached to Rell's right side, the chainaxe was a taboo of sorts among the astartes, it was a trademark of heretics that venerated the blood god, but a weapon was a weapon, and the chainaxe had proven its effectiveness and often superiority of the chainsword. In his musings he finally noticed the chapters of his fellow astartes, one of them, the techmarine was of thr Iron Hands, it was unsurprising given that chapters affinity of war machines and technology. The chaplain was of the Sanguine Templars, one of the successors of the Blood Angel's. The last was of the Raven Guard, a curious one for certain. He had heard that the sons of Corax were predetermined to stealth and aloofness, this one however seemed to be different from his brothers. The last marine there was of the Imperial Fists the sires of the Executioners. Rell walked over to the group and gave a curt nod in their direction, signifying his readiness for the task at hand.