The Waye of the Dead

[Wargamer]

Prologue:

6-138-308.M41
The cells lining the hall were so devoid of comfort and character that, were it not for the occupants, a visitor might have mistaken them for Arbite holding pens. Two wings of sixty rooms provided personal living space for the Sixth Company, giving each warrior a simple cot and a place to store their wargear when not in use. Most had a handful of trophies tucked away, but the rooms were not places that were occupied for any more time than necessary.
From a room that made the prison analogy all the more apt, two Astartes studied the newest member of the Sixth. The first, seated at the console, was the fresh-faced Sergeant Aykon. Behind him, resplendent in gleaming deep blue corvus plate, was Captain Meryn of the Sixth Company.
"I don't know what to make of him," Aykon confessed. "Roxn insisted the boy was lazy, insular and un-cooperative; a poor soldier in all respects."
Meryn nodded in agreement. "And yet Idaf claims he has a sharp mind. I've noted how much time he spends in the Librarium; normally I have to hold men at bolter point to go there."
The Captain leaned over to tap a side screen, bringing up a digital copy of a hand-written report. "I don't know... the Company's under strength as it is, and I'm concerned that he might be a disruptive influence. Yet if Idaf told me the sky was pink I'd take his word for it. What do you think?"
Aykon shrugged. "I don't want him in my unit, sir. Idaf sees potential there, so perhaps Idaf should take him?"
The Captain took another look toward the screen. The young Marine's expression was difficult to read behind the mess of oak brown facial hair, but his eyes were shining like those of a wolf. He stared at the back wall of his cell with the calm demeanour of someone who could happily do so all day.
"Agreed," Meryn replied at last. "Make it so."
An hour later, Sergeant Aykon rapped his power-armoured knuckles on the metal door of the new Marine's cell. It swung open slowly, as though the occupant half-expected to be jumped by his visitor. He took in Aykon's markings and said, "Sergeant."
"You have a squad, brother. You are to report to the main firing range; Sergeant Idaf and his brothers will meet you there."
"Understood," Ximo replied, and let the door swing closed without another word.

6-477-346.M41
The Thunderhawk was shaking hard as it cannoned through the dust-laden skies of the mining world. The occupants cared little for its name. Officially, it didn't even have one, just a designation – LM-44-313-Secundus. It didn't exactly roll off the tongue.
Two squads sat opposite one another in the Thunderhawk's troop bay.  On the port side was Squad Ximo, on the right, Squad Aykon.
"Don't forget who's winning," Aykon said with a playful chuckle.
"Hmm?" Ximo glanced up from admiring his helm. "I believe I've beaten you in the last three games of regicide, brother."
Aykon gave a thoughtful nod. "True, but my squad has beaten yours in kills for the past three engagements."
"Perhaps, but Squad Ximo believes in quality of kills, not quantity."
"It's a shame your high standards don't extend to personal grooming."
"I happen to like my beard."
"You are the only one who does, I assure you; it looks like you're trying to swallow a tundra-cat."
The two sergeants exchanged familiar smiles and quiet laughter. There was no true animosity between them; Ximo respected Aykon's considerable battle experience, whilst Aykon had to admit that Idaf, may the Emperor guide his soul, had been right about Ximo's potential. A sergeant after less than forty years service – it was a remarkable feat. It wasn't quite a friendship, but it had the potential to become one.
Proximity alarms began to scream, causing the Marines to don helmets and perform last-minute weapon checks. The shaking became ever more violent as the Thunderhawk began to take fire, presenting as it did an easy target while coming in to land.
"Ramps down! Move out! Cleanse and purge!" Aykon's urgent roars were almost lost amidst the thunder of guns. The painful crack of the Thunderhawk's turbo-laser joined the downpour clatter of lasguns, the chugging of autocannon and the bass tone booms of battle cannons.
Ximo broke left and led his squad to a corroded iron fence that marked the boundary of one miner's plot from another. Beyond, amidst the smog, he could make out the fire-blackened ruins of a hab unit. His genetically-enhanced vision picked out a lithe shape amidst the ruin; a figure in ebony spiked armour. Without thinking, Ximo put a bolt round between its eyes. "First blood to me." he smirked into Aykon's private channel.
"That's soon to change," the sergeant replied, his armour already caked with dust and soot. Via blink-clicks he activated his armour's vid-feed and sent it to Ximo, allowing him to see what Aykon saw. A trio of open-topped skimmers, painted in the same ebony livery as their crew, were soaring down through the ash clouds above. Beams of pure darkness lanced out from them, striking Imperial Guard vehicles and burning clean through their armour as though it wasn't there.
At once, Ximo began to formulate a battle plan. Ledix, bearing the squad's missile launcher, was ordered to fire upon and bring down the lead raider. Half the squad broke away to chase it as it fell, tumbling end over end into the grey-green dirt. Most of the passengers had survived and, had they been given just a moment to recover, they could have begun to outflank Squad Aykon. As it was, they were slaughtered before they could bring their guns to bear.
The Thunderhawk claimed a second raider, but the third came down amidst the Guard line and unleashed its cargo of half-naked fanatics. Aykon ordered his squad forward, leaving Ximo to cover their rear and protect from the Eldar's second wave.
In reality, there was little for them to do. The Eldar were flighty as ever, dancing in and out of weapons range but never holding ground. The moment they came under fire they fled; not a tactical redeploy, but a full-on rout. Their losses had been heavy upon the arrival of the Space Marines, but Ximo had read up extensively on the nature of the Eldar threat. He could believe many things, but he could not accept they were being defeated so easily.
Through the vid-feed, Ximo watched as Aykon routed the last of the Eldar's assault troops. They scrambled back aboard their skimmer and raced away, only to be brought low by a lucky bolt shot. The vehicle hit the ground hard, bounced up in a plume of soot and vanished from sight behind a slag heap.
"Squads, move out! Let's mop up these xenos!"
Ximo fell in beside Aykon and placed a hand on his shoulder to halt him. "I don't like this," Ximo said. "This attack... it was halted far too easily. The Guard have suffered heavy losses, especially in their armour strength, yet within the space of a few minutes we routed their entire force?"
Aykon's expression was unreadable beneath his helm, but his body language suggested he was about to crack wise. Yet as he turned his head back toward the Guard and took in the blistered shells of battle tanks and the bloody mess of what had once been heavy weapon teams he began to share Ximo's concern. "No harm in a little pre-planning, yes? Ximo, secure that hab unit. We'll mop up the crash site and, if the Eldar return, you can cover our flank from there."
"Agreed," Ximo answered.
Aykon gave him a curt nod and gestured to the hab with his boltgun. "Get moving; you've got thirty seconds before I begin my assault."

There was nothing left alive in the hab block. Its structural integrity had been fatally compromised in the attack, bringing down most of its ceiling. Where this had happened the upper floor had been unable to take the impact and come down with it, along with a large number of internal walls. The resulting structure was one large chamber with ad-hoc partitioning that didn't quite partition. The Space Marines fanned out and took up firing positions at three of the four walls, trusting the remains of the Guard to cover from any attack via the fourth.
Aykon and his squad reached the downed Raider in good time. Visible only to Ximo via the vid-link, the squad descended the slag heap to find no hostiles waiting to meet them. They were soon reacquired at the mouth of an excavation shaft, only now they had Kabalite reinforcements.
"This is going to take longer than I thought," Aykon confessed.
"Duly noted," Ximo replied, and allowed his attention to wander to Novitae Ceren, who was cautiously leaning through a blown-out window to peer up into the sky.
Ximo joined him. The Sergeant slipped out of the front door and scanned the heavens, seeing what had likely caught the Novitae's attention. It was nothing solid, but there was a certain degree of uniformity to the swirling dust above. If one had the mind to see it, one might believe them to be contrails of light aircraft...

All along the Guard line men began to scream. They fell suddenly and violently, their bodies torn to bloody ribbons by storms of monomolecular flechettes. Those who did not die collapsed to the ground and began to scream as they were, wracked with an indescribable agony. The toxins of the Eldar weapons denied them the sweet mercy of unconsciousness, and their torment shattered the morale of the survivors.
Seconds later, the Dark Eldar reappeared. Volleys of white-hot plasma raked the Guard line, reducing men to ash that was quickly absorbed into the ever-present storm systems. With most of their heavy firepower lost to the first wave, the Guard now had little to drive back the hunting Ravagers, nor the swooping, cackling Reavers that flocked around them. The Marines of Squad Ximo watched in horror as an Eldar wraith-construct drifted into view, hosing the Guard with splinter-fire as it came.
Ximo blinked up his own vid-feed for Aykon to see. "We have a problem," he said.
"That's putting it lightly!" Aykon replied from his hunkered-down position behind the crashed Raider. "We're pushing these bastards back here. Hold firm and we'll be with you in a few minutes."
"The Guard don't have minutes. I'm pulling back to support them."
"Negative! Hold our flank!"
"This is not a discussion," Ximo growled. "My squad is moving out. Pull back in good order once your firefight resolves itself."
"Throne of Terra! Ximo, I order you to hold position!"
Ximo shrugged off the demand. "We're of equal rank; you can't order me to do anything. My squad is moving to support the Guard, and I suggest you do the same. If you don't like it you can take it up with the Captain when we return to Tasal. Squad, let's move!"
Seconds after breaking cover, Squad Ximo found itself coming under heavy fire. The Reavers banked around to make a pass, unleashing storms of splinter and blaster fire as they came down for a fly-by strike. Ximo felt a shard punch through the motor fibres of his left hip, and in an instant his whole body locked up as the alien toxins flooded through him. He fell sideways, and ironically that saved him. A blaster bolt meant for his head hit him in the shoulder and span him around as he toppled, but did no lasting harm to his flesh. Slowly, the fire began to fade away, pooled down by his kidneys as his super-human constitution performed an emergency system purge. With a pained grunt he voided himself into his armour, gladly exchanging dignity for enough relief from pain that he could function again.
While their sergeant recovered, Squad Ximo made their presence felt. Ceren gave a triumphant laugh as he opened up with his shotgun at one of the Reavers, who fell from her saddle and was left hanging upside down by a foot strap until she was impaled on a railing. A fluke frag missile found the nose-cone of another; the missile, set for timed detonation, carried on going clean through the fuselage until it became lodged against the power core of the vehicle, where it finally detonated. The explosion atomised both bike and rider, and shrapnel mauled a second. As the Reavers made another pass they lost two more of their number to a volley of bolt shells, and the last three gave up their marks in favour of easier prey.

In twos and threes the Space Marines fell in behind the sandbag line of the Guard position. They checked ammo, barked out orders to nearby Guard elements and beat tar-like muck out of each other's intake grills. Their primary concern now was the Wraith-engine, who seemed to be largely unaware of the world around it. Its fire was indiscriminate; the twin-barrelled gun swung back and forth, aimed at chest height and fired along the line regardless of whether there was a target present or not.
When the missiles and bolt shells began to strike its armour, the machine soon changed tactic. Its talons began to clack open and shut like an enraged crab and its weapons fire focused toward the Space Marines, who hunkered down in what precious little cover was available and returned fire.
"Ximo, we need support here! We have Eldar elites bearing down on us!"
"And we have a bastardised Dreadnought to content with!" Ximo spat back. He didn't have time to check Aykon's feed; all his attention was directed to the war engine floating through the dusty air toward him.
He turned his eye toward the Guard. They were panicked and ill-regimented, fighting in small clusters from whatever fox-hole they could hide in. A few officers and a lone Commissar were trying to reform them into a cohesive fighting force, but it was a futile effort; anyone who stood up to rally the troops was quickly taken apart by the marauding Dark Eldar. In the Commissar's case he was plucked off his feet mid-speech by skyboard riders who carried him up into the clouds and out of sight. There was no help there.
Around him his fellow Space Marines fired their bolters until the mags ran dry. Ceren's shotgun shells sparked harmlessly off the machine as it advanced inexorably toward them. Ledix put missile after missile into the creature, and his were the only hits it truly seemed to notice. Even then it was not enough; the machine would not die as a living creature would, nor was there any clear way to render it inoperable like with the skimmers it supported. Its return fire found a weakness in Kyldon's neck armour and tore open his throat, dropping the Marine to the ground with only a bloody gulping sound to mark his passing.
"Throne! This is not going to work!" Ximo swore from the face-down position he'd adopted to escape a Ravager's strafing run. "Ximo to Thunderhawk: Priority One extraction required! We are overrun! Be advised heavy enemy aircraft and ground forces present!"
"Acknowledged, Ximo. Do you have an extract point?"
"Extraction point is on my vox-position!"
"Understood. Advise you keep your head down. ETA: ninety seconds...

They were the longest ninety seconds of Ximo's life. The war engine began to pick up speed, kicking up swirls of ash as it hovered across the war-torn landscape. Its firing slowed, perhaps due to exhausting its ammunition supply, but that brought little comfort to the Marines. It fell upon them at long last with a banshee scream and picked up Taxn in its claws, slicing him into three without even trying. Point-blank bolt shells impacted on its underbelly, but the machine took no notice. It selected another victim and lopped off an arm almost by accident, catching the Marine as he staggered backward and tapping his chest with the tip of its free claw. The impact buried the claw deep into his chest, and when it withdrew the Marine's heart was impaled, still beating, on the end.
The sky above them turned a fiery orange. Ximo looked up at the empty space that once contained a Ravager and laughed aloud with relief. A fraction of a second later a second skimmer was hit by a storm of mass-reactive shells and broken in half to make way for the armoured prow of the Thunderhawk. It came down sharply to allow the gunner to bring the turbo-laser to bear on the Dark Eldar construct. The point-blank blast flattened the entire squad as the bolt of energy struck its target. For a brief instant the Talos held firm, but the moment passed and reality came rushing back with cataclysmic results. The engine exploded; its armour shattering and its innards dissolving into a cloud of meat-coloured particles. For a moment, as the engine was sent unto oblivion, Ximo thought he heard it sigh with relief...
The moment passed. Battered and bloodied, the seven survivors of Squad Ximo staggered to their feet. The Thunderhawk swung down with its ramps extended and engines howling. The captain ordered them to board urgently, but they needed no such prompting. They carried their dead with them, hurling their bodies into the troop bay with no thought to their dignity.
"Take us north!" Ximo shouted into his vox link. "Sergeant Aykon needs immediate assistance!"
The pilot obeyed and yawed the Thunderhawk to face the slag heap that Aykon's squad had climbed over in pursuit of their prey. Now they were scrambling back over the hill, though only three remained. The rest were dead, and the Incubi hot on their heels intended to claim three more before the day was done. One succeeded; he shot the legs out from under Dathra with an energy weapon and decapitated him where he lay. Aykon vaulted into the troop space with Otan right behind him. The latter landed hard and rolled forward, coming to a halt on his back with a plasma hole right through him; a parting gift from the Eldar.
With the xenos regrouping, the Thunderhawk pilot chose to flee the battle. The hatches slammed shut and the running lights flickered on, leaving eight Marines to take stock and mourn the twelve dead. For those whose bodies, wargear and Geneseed could not be recovered the mourning was all the more painful.
"You... you bastard son of a whore!" Aykon ripped his helmet free and glared up at Ximo with all the fury he could muster. "You left my squad for dead!"
"I made a judgement call!" Ximo shouted back. "We fell back to support the Guard, destroy the Eldar war-engine and hold the line to push and reinforce your position! How could I have known they had elites waiting in ambush for you, or that our weapons would be ineffective against their Dreadnought?"
"I could have told you that!" Aykon roared, his face mere inches from Ximo's helmet. "I faced the Wraithknights on Acropol! As for the Incubi, had you followed your damn orders you could have moved to support us and I would still have a squad to lead! Your stupidity killed them all!"
Ximo's whole body stiffened at the accusation. "My stupidity? I'm not the one who went running off to earn a kill tally at the expense of finding and securing a defensible position! I promise you, Aykon, the Captain will be made aware of your folly this day."
"As he will yours," Aykon answered. Instinctively, his hand went to the chainsword at his hip. Or rather, where it should have been; he'd left it buried in the sternum of an Incubus on the planet below. "As far as I'm concerned you are a traitor to the Chapter; whatever he decides, you are no longer my Battle Brother."
"I'm sure I'll get over it," Ximo shot back. With a grunt of disdain he stormed to the rear of the troop bay and retrieved the medical kit from the bulkhead. "Now get out of my way, Aykon; I have Geneseed to recover."

[Wargamer]

7-988-600.M41
The Rhino performed a full rotation in mid-air, landing hard enough to bounce back up and somersault onto its roof. Ximo was thrown clear of the initial impact, but not so of the rebound. The surge of agony snapped him back to consciousness, both hearts beating frantically to try and clot his wounds and deliver adrenalin to his sluggish limbs.
His right arm, a mechanical replacement for one lost a century ago, gave a series of protesting squeaks as he began to drag himself clear of the crash. His legs were trapped under the wreck, but fortunately he wasn't attached to them anymore.
He got twenty feet before his body gave up on him. His left arm was broken in a dozen places; his pelvis was a bloody mess of bone shards and punctured organs; his ribs had been folded inward and were puncturing his lungs. He was dead already; even a Space Marine could not survive injuries this severe.
He looked upward to the sky, toward the blighted, soul-destroying rip in reality that hung above them, and prayed to Guilliman that the Daemons could be halted before the entire world was lost.

6-033-601.M41
Captain Lata So Leyr, the First Captain of the Supernovas, returned to the Apothecaries as he had done hundreds of times since the Daemon Horde had been vanquished. Many of the Chapter had died halting the Daemonic incursion known as The Slaughter; many more were wounded, if not outright crippled.
No-one was a finer example of this than Ximo. He'd been found on the brink of death and placed within a stasis cell aboard the Wrath of Tasal with the intention of transferring him to a Dreadnought's sarcophagus. By some miracle, the Apothecaries had been able to rekindle the spark of life within him, though it required extensive augmentation and biomechanical implants. He had spent three months in a surgeon's cot undergoing the long, hard process of healing. Even now, as his healers declared him fit to return to service, they did so with a heavy heart.
"How do you feel, brother?" Lata asked.
Ximo's augmentic eyes glowed furnace red as he was roused from his slumber. "I hurt," he rasped through synthetic vocal chords. "Although... the pain is not as bad as it once was."
"Perhaps that is because there's not much left to hurt?" Lata asked with a forced smile.
Hesitantly, Ximo swung himself out of the cot and planted his feet on the deck. He wobbled upright on unfamiliar legs and tested his balance. "You may be right," he conceded remorsefully. "Most of my head, chest and both of my legs have been replaced. The ordeal has left me so very tired, yet every time I fall asleep I fear I will not wake."
"That will pass," Lata ensured him. Together they left the apothecarium and stepped out onto the green marble floors of the First Cloister. They were not as Ximo remembered them; the layout was the same, yet the senses by which he perceived them were not. It felt as though he were trapped in a waking dream, forever wondering when he would awaken.
"I am glad you are back with us, Ximo," Lata confessed as they walked toward the great hall. "We lost too many; Master Yros amongst them. The Chapter needs every warrior now, and warriors like you especially."
The news made Ximo falter in his pace. "The Chapter Master is dead? How did he die?"
"He was crushed beneath the hoof of an arch-Daemon of the Blood God," Lata's words carried a portion of his inner pain. He bit down on it and forced it back beneath the surface. "The Chapter has decided upon a replacement. We are very glad you survived to adopt the station."
Twice in as many minutes, Ximo's pacing faltered. "You want me as Chapter Master? Sir, I am not even a Captain."
"You are a Captain in all but name, Ximo; you have commanded the Company in battle enough times to prove that beyond all doubt. You would have succeeded me had things been different, but we both know you are in no state to lead a Company in war."
"And so I shall lead a Chapter from Tasal," Ximo finished, his mind jumping to the same conclusion his superiors had. "Still, it is unorthodox. Exactly how many of the Chapter Council approved of this decision?"
Somehow, he knew the answer before it was given. "All but one."

The chambers of the Sixth Captain differed from those of his men only by the number of trophies that lay therein. Relics from almost four hundred years of war adorned the walls of the cell; Ork skulls and Eldar wraithbone vied for pride of place amidst the artefacts and earthy remains of Hrud, Loxatl and a dozen other species. These were the bedchambers of a consummate warrior.
That warrior stood with his back to the door when Ximo entered, engrossed in the cleaning and maintaining of his Bolter. "Can I help you, 'Master' Ximo?" Aykon asked.
"I came to try and reconcile our differences. Now that I am Chapter Master, we cannot allow this... feud to continue."
"I agree entirely," Aykon answered coldly. "That is why I intend to embark upon the Waye of the Dead."
Before Ximo could say anything more Aykon turned sharply to face him. His eyes were cold and devoid of emotion. The Captain's face, never the most welcoming due to the dozens of battle scars, was a mask of fury and spite. "I will not serve under a Traitor!" he spat.
"We need to discuss this," Ximo's emotional state was unreadable between his featureless faceplate and synthetic voice.
"There is nothing to discuss. Now stand aside and let me pass!"
The Chapter Master bent all his will into forcing some emotion out of the vox unit in his throat. "I am Master of the Novr Aestra, and you are oath-bound to obey me! Renounce that oath and you renounce your brotherhood to the Chapter and loyalty to the Emperor! You will listen to me!"
The rasping shriek faded away into a tense, hostile silence. Aykon's hardened eyes stared into the red lenses embedded in Ximo's new, metallic face. "So be it," he answered, his voice a barely audible hiss.
For many long seconds Ximo was silent. He did all he could to think of some way to convince Aykon not to abandon the Chapter, but he knew in his heart there was nothing that could be done; the wounds had been left open too long, and in their pride neither man had sought to heal them. It was too late now.
"I wish you well on your journey," XImo said at last. "I hope you find what you are searching for. Go with my blessing, Brother."
Aykon's lips peeled back into a sneer. "You just cannot resist twisting the knife, can you? Well... at least now the Chapter is spared your ridiculous facial hair."
With that Ximo stepped aside, allowing Aykon to storm away down the corridor, and fade into memory.

[Arguleon-veq]

Really enjoyed this, any other work about the eventual fate of Aykon?

[Wargamer]

The rest of the story.

[Wargamer]

Chapter One:

The fields of Talgenjar stank of the aftermath of war. The nomads of the northern steppes, allied to a splinter tribe of the Qwaythian cult, had ridden out into the teeth of the volley guns of Swenrik. Their losses had been immense, but they were many and their enemies few. Swenrik burned; an entire culture erased in a day and night of bloody sword work. The tribesmen had looted and pillaged the region for as long as they dared, but without the guns of the Swenrik they could not keep the plains beasts at bay. With losses mounting and the armourers of Yyth rumoured to be marching upon them, the alliance had fled back to their mountains, leaving the crimson fields behind.
Dyus Ironforged, Captain of the Supernovas 8th Company, surveyed the days old slaughter with unfeeling eyes. He did not know these people, but even if he had he would still not have cared; centuries of war as an Astartes had left him unfeeling to the concerns of mortal men. Below him the Chapter Serfs moved amongst the corpses and the glutinous carrion birds in search of survivors that might be brought to the Trials. There were none to be found; the tribal warriors had been thorough.
He turned at the sound of power armoured footsteps to find a champion in Maximus plate approaching him. An ornate greatsword rested against one armoured pauldron. Behind him walked half a dozen pale faced young men of the now destroyed Swenrik nation. All were walking wounded; all still had the crude manacles of their captors hanging from their wrists and necks.
"I chased down the raiders," Cylaros explained. "I told them that the Emperor demanded they offer up those who had proven themselves warriors in these dark days. I promised the Warlord we would visit them to take any youngblood of their people who was brave enough to face our Trials. Would you kindly arrange that?"
"At once," Dyus answered, and beckoned one of his men over to ensure the task was completed. "It is not like you to join us in a recruitment drive, Brother Champion."
"Master Ximo believed I should spend more time with our people," Cylaros answered.
Safely hidden behind his modified Mk III helmet, Dyus allowed himself an amused grin. "Has the unimpeachable Cylaros done something to earn his Master's ire?"
"It is not a punishment to seek the Chapter's future," the Champion countered in his usual calm, scriptural tones.
"Nor did I seek to imply that it was," Dyus answered dutifully. "I shall take the Novitae for the Trials at once."
The Champion's raised hand halted him as he sought to leave. "I have another task, Brother Captain. A vessel has translated into the system, and I would like you to arrange a detail to greet them. I will join you at the Master's Council when the intruder is dealt with."
From behind the owlish features of Dyus' helm came a mirth laden chuckle. "If they are hostile, Brother Champion, then they will be 'dealt with' before my Thunderhawk has reached high orbit."

*   *   *

Eight hours later, Dyus stepped into the lacquer walled chamber of Chapter Master Ximo's refectorium. Behind him came a warrior adorned in black and gold, a stark contrast to the rich blue armour of his hosts. The warrior marched into the centre of the room and slammed his storm shield against the ground as he came to a halt. His free hand rested upon the hilt of a gilded power falchion. His helmet was mag-locked to his hip, revealing proud, rugged features framed with grey hair. His features were beginning to show signs of age, yet his eyes were diamond hard and every line, nick and scar of his face spoke of confident authority. He was clearly an officer; he would have ordered himself made one if he was not.
"Master Ximo," he said with the slightest of nods. "You disappoint me, sir. My vox operatives informed me that our designation signal was transmitted twenty six minutes late, yet you failed to blast us out of the sky. I've half a mind to strike you for such lax standards of orbital security."
The intricate augmentics that produced Ximo's facial expressions hummed and buzzed their way into an amused grin. "Ah, but if we had shot you down I would have been denied the immense pleasure of watching Cylaros quarter your miserable, honourless hide," came a retort from his throat vox.
The visitor's expression froze into a look of indignant rage, yet as quickly as it came the anger was gone, driven away by a surge of booming laughter. Cylaros stepped forward and offered his hand, which was quickly accepted in a comradely grip. "Welcome to Tasal, Captain Tádor."

*   *   *

In the privacy of his cell, Ximo reflected on days gone by. He sat before a humble shrine of unassuming artefacts, each linked to a warrior of the Chapter who had long since passed from the world of the living. Fragments of armour lay next to venerable bolt pistols or combat blades, which in turn vied with purity seals or Tasalian talismans for the attention of the observer. Ximo took them all in with a single blink-click of his augmented eyes, and knew intimately the history of each.
"Are you ready to tell me what is on your mind now, Master?" came a questioning voice from the door.
Ximo shook his head. "I do not make a point of telling others what is on my mind; I like to keep everyone guessing."
The Chapter Master grinned at his Champion. It was a grin that long outstayed its welcome. The Master swayed slightly, and it was a credit to Cylaros' attention to detail that he knew exactly how to react. Before Ximo could raise any protest an Apothecary had been summoned. "I am fine, Cylaros. I am merely tired."
"You are asphyxiating," the Champion corrected sternly. "That cosmetic device does you no good."
Ximo scoffed at the criticism. "I sit at the Emperor's right hand; I am entitled to a face, if nothing else."
Despite his earlier insistence, Ximo took a seat and made a show of taking deep, slow breaths. "Though why I bother I do not know; it is a bestial visage, though no-one it seems dare say so. If I hide behind synthskin it rots within a week and I look even more like a corpse. Better I suppose to be a faceless machine."
In reply, Cylaros chose to remain diplomatically silent until the Apothecaries arrived. "Master, shall we inform the Techmarines you require your battle mask?"
"That's what they call it these days?" Ximo chuckled despite his grim mood. "Aye, Cylaros, do that. I... I'm finding it hard to wear this face today..."
He was carried into the next chamber, a place that he did not venture by choice. It was dominated by an awareness tank; a cylindrical device favoured by senior Technomagi and Princeps of the Collegia Titanicus. The Mechanicum believed they allowed for superior interfacing with the machines. Ximo saw them as a watery grave that lacked the good grace to drown you. There he lay upon a surgeon's table and mentally slowed his breathing, entering a self-induced torpor as the Apothecaries worked to remove his artificial face and replace it with a more practical, if less impressive visor.
"I think it suits you better anyway," Cylaros said with forced joviality. "And at least you don't have to worry about facial hair."
Ximo's optics refocused on the Champion as the attachment process finished. "I was thinking on the fate of Captain Aykon again. It's been over three hundred years and we still do not know what became of him. That should be rectified."
There was something about the Chapter Master's tone that caught Cylaros' attention. "You plan to embark on a Crusade?"
"I do," Ximo answered firmly. "I know most of our forces are engaged at Hephaestus, but I'm sure we can spare at least one vessel. Kindly have Captain Dyus arrange it."

Somewhat to the Chapter Master's surprise, nothing was arranged. Quite the contrary, in fact; as he returned to his refectorium he found Captain Dyus waiting for him. "I understand you want a ship, Master."
"I do, Captain," Ximo replied, but he knew from Dyus' tone exactly what response was coming.
"We are overstretched as it is, Master. We have only half a dozen strike vessels and one capital ship at our disposal. I am sorry, Master, but I cannot in good conscience give you that vessel. Your quest will have to wait until the fleet returns."
Ximo was about to reply, but a new thought came into his head. "What of Captain Tádor's vessel?"
Dyus shrugged. "It will take at least a week to restore her to full operational status. If you can wait that long, and if the good Captain is willing, then I have no objection."
"Then I had best speak with Captain Tádor," Ximo replied. "Send him to me at his earliest convenience."

[LinnScarlett]

Ohhh very nice going Wargamer! I'll get you a more in-depth assessment when I am not half-drunk. And, by the way, you need to fix and upload your stuff to AO3org! *push shove* Between the 4-5 of us we can be our own little budding W40k author community.

[Wargamer]

Chapter Two:

Since the arrival of the Blade of Light the docks had been full of frantic activity. The majestic warship of the Bright Lords had clearly suffered a great deal on its last voyage, and Master Ximo had insisted that the repair of the vessel be made a top priority. Work crew numbers were tripled, and their workloads doubled. Pallets of food, water and medical supplies competed for deck space amidst macro cannon magazines and chemical bowsers full of fuel or other volatile substances. The loading wagons ran night and day for a full week, and yet each time the drivers came back to fresh stockpiles of supplies.
All over the venerable starship the arduous task of restoring her to battle readiness was undertaken. Movable gantries hundreds of metres long extended out above and below the vessel, assisting Titan-sized cargo haulers in positioning adamantium plates into position. Damaged or destroyed sections of the vessel were gutted; the scrap metal dumped on the Struts not dedicated to inloading before the refit teams were sent in. None of these decks were an uplifting sight, but Eikon Strut was by far the least pleasant work placement for the dock crew. The great gantry had swung into place to collect the refuse from a collapsed hangar bay. The ship's own repair details had yet to touch it, and the Tasalian station teams found entire sections on lock down and devoid of power. When the bulkhead doors were opened repair crews were met with a putrid stench of rotting meat. Over eight thousand souls had been trapped in the wreckage, and it fell to the workers on Eikon Strut to extract the feculent remains for proper disposal. During the week-long operation station chaplains, doctors and supervisors reported two hundred and three cases of 'behaviour to cause concern' amongst men and women of the Strut. Driven to despair by the grim duty, eighty one of those would later commit suicide.
The losses of the Eikon Strut teams went largely unremarked by the station operators, primarily due to being after the fact. They were not the only souls claimed by the ship's repair process. Pushed up to and beyond their limits, stress and fatigue claimed the less physically able of the station's labourers. The Mechanicum Enginseers lost three of their number, along with a dozen Logi-Servitors to a freak overload of the MIU system on the primary gun deck. The lobotomised Enginseers survived with enough of their minds intact to be repurposed as Servitors themselves; a small blessing, as far as their masters were concerned. Labour Detail IS-445308 suffered an unprecedented one hundred percent casualty rate when a dud shell dislodged itself from the hull and dropped onto their work gantry, setting repairs back three days. In total, the work aboard the Blade of Light claimed over six hundred souls; slightly higher than anticipated, but within accepted Naval parameters.
Finally, after all the losses and days of back-breaking labour, the Blade of Light was restored. It was not a true restoration, but enough was done that the vessel could engage in battle should battle find it; the replacement of its artistic grandeur would have to wait for now. Ship crew and dock workers alike were united by their sense of accomplishment, and every detail took a moment to gaze upon the ship with pride. As the great reactors began to spool up once more the whole dock shook to the sounds of celebration. Their work was done, and it was time to present the fruits of their labour to the Astartes.

A great gathering had been arranged on the dock, composed of station officials and a cross-section of replacement crew who had been chosen, with varying degrees of coercion, to replace those lost to war. They were arrayed either side of a cleared path, kept back by two single-rank rows of Chapter Serfs. All eyes turned toward the Astartes as they emerged; three in the familiar blue heraldry of their masters, one in the black and gold of the Bright Lords.
"We have done our best to replenish your vessel, Captain Tádor," Ximo said softly as they walked along the path to the access umbilical. "Fifty thousand men and women all told, with a reserve of ten thousand more able to be shipped in at short notice if you feel it necessary."
"They are Tasalian born?" Tádor asked.
Ximo shook his head. "For the most part, the bulk of them come from Naval facilities oath-sworn to serve us. I believe the majority come from the Jovan fleet yards."
"I would like to get to know them," the Captain said. With that he halted – an act that caught the accompanying Supernovans off guard – and turned toward one of the details. Apparently at random he singled out one of the workers. "You, what is your name?"
The crewman did not respond right away. No-one did; none were familiar with being addressed by an Astartes. "Olan, lord." He managed, his throat having suddenly seized up. "Olan Cul. Detail 036. Identity-"
"That will do, Olan." Tádor replied, noting the man's shaved head and numerous acid-tone tattoos. The Captain surveyed what he concluded was the rest of Detail 036 and came to the obvious conclusion. "You are an indentured worker?"
Olan nodded slightly, as though afraid the Astartes would kill him if he moved too much. "Penal Legion 4508, lord." Olan tried to look into Tádor's eye, but could not lift his gaze any higher than the breast plate. He felt compelled to add. "I was found guilty of assaulting a superior officer, sir."
"I see," Tádor said as he crossed over to the indentured worker. "Do you believe that this duty they assign offers a chance of redemption? Do you believe, if you serve my vessel as you failed to serve your former station, that the Emperor will forgive your past sins?"
Now, at long last, Olan Cul turned his eyes upward into the war helm of the Bright Lord. To his dying day, he would wonder how he'd been able to retain control of his bladder. "I hope so, lord. I really, really do..."
After an agonisingly long pause, Tádor gave the slightest of nods. "Then I am honoured to have you aboard, Olan Cul. Together, we shall do great things in His name."

The procession, once gathered in quiet, respectful awe, now had a sense of urgency and alertness it had preciously lacked. Captain Tádor was on the prowl, seeking to interrogate members of his new crew. He walked on for a time, moving well clear of the Penal workers before halting and picking out a deckhand from the starboard side of the parade. She had been stood four ranks back, but one gesture of the Captain's finger had her stood beyond the barrier of Serfs.
She did not wait for Tádor's permission to speak. "Greetings, Lord," she said with far more confidence than Cul had. "I am Elyr, Daughter of Elyr, born of the Icelands of Tasal." Her Gothic was oddly accented, with stresses and pauses that suggested she had been raised with a very different language as a youth.
"And what do you bring to my vessel, Elyr?"
She cocked a confident smile and answered, "I can pull my weight and more, and I dare say if we came to blades I would take a fair few foes with me before I went!"
"Even if those foes were Orks, or Eldar, or things far worse than both?"
She smiled confidently at Tádor's question. "I look forward to finding out."