Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim, dark future there is only war.

Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Thu Apr 18, 2013 6:42 pm

Time for another loose anthology series - so far, these stories were competition entries for the monthly story competitions, but eventually there might be longer stories, too.

The Splinter in my Brother's Eye

Deathwatch training is hard. It is not just about learning to combat unfamiliar threats in unfamiliar ways with unfamiliar weapons. Ways to wage war are what Space Marines have been created to master. No matter how new, no matter how badly the deck is stacked against them, they will deal.

The problem is far more mundane, and far more insidious. Ego. Ego and prejudice. Space Marines are geneforged demigods of war - but that does not explain all of their effectiveness. It all comes down to Brotherhood. In exchange for giving up a human life, with all those things humans consider important, Space Marines gain something else: a family that will support them unconditionally.

Like all families, battle-brothers will bicker, bait each other or quarrel. When push comes to shove, though, when lives are on the line, battle-brothers stand together. Grown from one geneseed, raised through the same nightmare of hypnoconditioning and battle, a Chapter stands by its own. Battle-Brothers die for each other.

In the Deathwatch, this natural advantage does not exist. Here, Space Marines do not share geneseed or upbringing. All brotherhood they have, they must develop from scratch. This is often difficult, as there rarely is a clean slate between Chapters, and differences in style, in tradition, even in beliefs lead to clashes.

And then there are the cases of genuine bad blood…


“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers? What did you do to them?” The rough, scorched voice of Navarre, the Black Templar, reverberated from the grey marble tiles of the ablutorium. The Veteran stood at an angle, feet planted solidly on the ground, leaning slightly forward and bracing his massive hands against the wall, while cold water rained on his shaven head, wide shoulders and scarred and branded back. Without leaving this position, he turned his head to the side, glaring over the impressive bulk of his biceps in the direction of the Space Marine who had just entered.

Asphodel, the Dark Angel Apothecary, much younger and less heavily built, showed no sign of having heard the question. He calmly strode into the room, a towel over his shoulder which he placed on a hook, before picking another sprinkler and turning it on. He turned his head up and allowed the water to fall on his face and broad chest, still completely ignoring the glare of the Black Templar, who now turned from his meditative position so he could watch his maligned brother.

Still the water rained down, cold and slightly salty, forming streaks over his broad face, beading on his jutting brow and dropping onto scarred cheeks. Some of it pooled in the grooves formed by the bulky muscles on his shoulders, before overflowing and splattering on the stone tiles. Several drops carried a faint red tinge they had picked up while travelling the geography of old and new wounds scattered over the canvas of the veteran’s body.

“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers?” He repeated, his tone stone cold, the grinding of gears broken centuries ago.

The Dark Angel lowered his head and turned around, before rubbing water into his short dark hair. His body, slighter yet than the older Space Marine’s, offered much less structure to the falling drops, allowing them to swiftly flow over swarthy skin and pale scars, although they were just as pinkish in colour when they fell onto the grey marble and made their way towards the drains.

“They helped your brothers. They won that war for you, and you threatened them. You stole their victory from them. You killed them when their backs were turned.”

This was the moment when the other Space Marines in the Ablutorium began to take notice. A dozen eyes, light and dark, in human colours and much more exotic hues, turned towards the Black Templar veteran and the younger Dark Angel. Bad blood between Chapters, prejudices, baiting and arguments were nothing new. This, this straight accusation was.

And still the Lion’s son showed no reaction. He had taken one of the scrub brushes and was working the bristles over the exposed parts of the black carapace, turning his back towards his accuser as well as the spectators.

“I will not turn my back to you, Dark Angel. I have sworn an Oath to fight here, and if that Oath demands I fight with a member of a rotten Chapter like yours, I will. But I will not trust you, nor allow you to watch my back. In Dorn’s name, be glad my Oath protects you, you scion of traitorous curs.”

Now, the drops raining from the Black Templar’s fists were a deep red, congealing on the tiles as he ground his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The massive muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck bunched, the tendons standing out like white ropes. His voice had dropped ever lower, and yet, everybody in the ablutorium had heard his speech.

Finally, the Dark Angel stepped out of the water, picked up his towel from the hook where he had hung it and wiped himself dry. Then he turned and walked towards the door, still giving no notice, no sign, however miniscule, he had heard any of the insults and accusations.

Only when he stood under the doorframe connecting the ablutorium to the dimly lit antechamber, he turned and looked at the tense, seething figure of the veteran, and addressed him. His voice was deep and smooth, calm, without emotion or judgement and his eyes were cold and quiet. “Consider this, brother. When we are in the field, I will hold your life in my hands.” He paused, and suddenly smiled, a thin expression, twisted downwards by the duelling scars on his cheeks.

“If I was the debased, traitorous cur you insist I am, consider this, too.” The Apothecary placed a hand on his chest, right where the progenoid lay craddled underneath skin and muscle and bone. “I will hold your legacy in my hands.”
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Dannymac247 » Thu Apr 18, 2013 8:50 pm

I have always found Deathwatch fascinating, and have it in mind for one of my future prospects. I'll be watching this series of stories with great interest!

I would definitely like to see more of this particular interaction... I feel like you have taken us right to the point of conflict and stopped. What is said next? I MUST KNOW!
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Thu Apr 18, 2013 9:10 pm

I'm a roleplayer, and we had our share of conflicts between different chapters. (Including a trial, once) So, it was easy to get inspired here. The characters in this story are not based on RPG-Characters, though.

What happens next? Nothing much, probably, otherwise the story couldn't have ended there.^^
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Regius Manus » Fri Apr 19, 2013 12:01 am

Great scene, never thought of Astartes taking a shower but I guess they must. Looking forward to more stories.
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Fri Apr 19, 2013 7:41 am

Of course they do (you can even find some references in other stories, too). It is quite necessary :p
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Tue May 07, 2013 8:55 am

I actually wanted to put up a story that has some of the same characters as the first, but that wasn't possible. So here is another DW story, this one inspired by something that happened during an RPG-session.

On Innocence

There is an old, old belief, found in many cultures, that an innocent, a true innocent is capable of stopping a raging beast. That maybe pure Innocence, unable to contemplate the thought that any harm might come to it, renders the destructive will impotent, unable to maim the thing that gazes at it with absolute trust.

I used to scoff at this. Or rather, I would have scoffed, had I known about this sort of idea. I didn't, for where I come from, there is no room for innocence. The thought that naiveté might stop a raging carnosaur is absurd – or rather, it would be absurd. It could never be put to the test on my world, because nobody is innocent there. Even the smallest child is aware of the ephemerality of its existence.

Life is fragile, short and worthless there. On Cretacia, from the moment you are born, you know that all you can aspire to is to leave enough of a mark on the world that when you succumb to mortality, you will be worthy of a burial, instead of being left to the jungle. And even if you are one of the chosen few, one of those taken in by the gods to become one of them, it does not change.

Innocence is not anything we contemplate. Not until something happened to me that makes me wonder now.


Battle was over, for now. The Tau and their gue'vesa lay dead on the floor of the Apothecarion. The smell of blood was strong in the air. Some of the dead were still burning... Watch-Captain Thomasius saw the flames, and other flames, too. Flames that were only burning in his mind.

Flames that shouldn't stop him. There were traitors to kill. He tried to get up. Useless, his armour was all seized up, heavily damaged. If his scorched lungs had permitted it, he would have roared his frustration.

"Captain."

A soft voice, lilting. A strange accent. "Captain, let me look at those wounds."

Thomasius growled, raising his powerfist. Enemies. That was all he could see with his half blinded eyes. He was dying and he wanted to take them with him; nothing else mattered.

A strong grip took hold of his arm, gently, but inexorably, pushing it down. "Captain. It is me, Juhani. The Apothecary."

Thomasius lashed out with his other fist. Too slow, he did not connect. The other continued to talk.

"Captain. The battle is over. The Tau are dead. You were hit badly. I can help you."

"No... help. Dying... It's over..."

"Absolutely not. It is not over, Captain. We have a lot to do still. Do not give up."

Pain crept into his senses, as the voice forced him to concentrate on it. The flames began to die down. The stench of burning flesh began to drown out the smell of the blood. His eyes focussed a little.

The Apothecary was kneeling in front of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other still immobilising his Powerfist. Clad only in Power Armour, he seemed so slight. Too slight to stop Thomasius in his Terminator plate, had he not been wounded so badly...

"Captain. Do you hear me now?"

"Apothecary..."

"Yes. You took a plasma shot to the face, Captain, the Emperor damn those Tau..."

Thomasius merely growled again. Talking was too hard. Concentration was still fleeting, and the flames had not yet withdrawn completely.

Unhesitangly, the Apothecary began to work on his face, cleaning off the dead tissue, sealing the open wounds, applying painbalm and drugs to aid the healing process.

Halfway between here and there, the Captain barely felt a thing. He didn't remember the battle. He barely remembered being shot. He gasped. He had been almost gone, he must have been... Why else was he missing so much? He had been wounded before... This had to be a last moment of calm...

"Apothecary." He grabbed the younger Space Marine's gauntlet in his large fist. There was the bulky Narthecium affixed to his vambrace and the storage units for the progenoid glands that were removed upon a Battle Brother's death. Most of them were full.

"Mine. You must take mine. Now."

"No, Captain. Never." The boy recoiled. Boy... No, he was not a boy. He was a Space Marine, though he was so young. Thomasius fixed those calm blue eyes through the other's lenses.

"I was almost lost. I tried to attack you. No choice. No chance. Take them. Now. Before... I am lost, they are lost..."

"NO." The voice was still soft, still gentle, but full of steel now. "I will not kill you. You are not lost. We need you." The Apothecary held the Captain's gaze unflinchingly. "You are still here."

Thomasius snarled. His breath hitched in his throat, and he struggled against the others grip, but Juhani never faltered. Finally, the flames died down. The pain subsided to a dull ache. The Watch-Captain shook his head to clear it.

"You do not understand. It..."

"I do not need to understand." The Apothecary finally let him go and got up. "You are hurt, but not so badly. You can still fight and there are a lot of enemies left." He held out his hand.

To this day, I don't know why I took his hand and let him help me up. I don't know why I followed him. I wonder why I had not killed him, while I was gone so far. All I know is that on this day, my time had not yet come. Maybe Sanguinius was with me, or the Emperor. I don't know what it was that stopped me.

Maybe a certain old belief is true.

---From the Memories of Watch-Captain Armin Thomasius of the Deathwatch, formerly of the Flesh Tearers
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Regius Manus » Fri May 10, 2013 1:07 am

Liledhe,

Once again a great scene, thank you for sharing it.

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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Mon May 13, 2013 9:36 am

Thank you for the comment. Here is another story, the one I originally wanted to put up.

Fuses

Brother Thranis of the Blood Ravens stirred his tasteless, odourless gruel without enthusiasm and then raised the spoon to his mouth. Clear liquid the consistency of petroleum jelly dropped from its sides. With a grimace, he swallowed, lowered the spoon again to take another mouthful and reconsidered.

As a Space Marine he could eat pretty much anything organic. It wasn’t really the food that offended him, but the atmosphere in the Watch Fortress Refectory. Where the mess hall aboard the 3rd Company Battle Barge Litany of Fury was full of laughter, good-natured teasing and the susurrus of animated conversation, this place was quiet and depressing.

With so many different traditions in one place, the camaraderie that pervaded a Chapter was missing. Some didn’t talk at all, just prayed silently over their food and ignored their surroundings. Those who did talk usually limited their interactions to a select few brothers, often their 'cousins'. Some were shunned completely, especially Librarians and those marked by geneseed anomalies. Unfortunately Thranis shared their fate, even though he was neither a psyker nor marked by mutation. Going by the jeers of 'Witch' that followed him around, he was considered a Librarian by proxy, since his Chapter valued them so.

And even if conversations happened in the refectory, they were different. Good-natured teasing became stinging insult. Friendly rivalry gave way to serious power plays which could erupt everywhere at any time. Duels or brawls were forbidden and punished, but a determined soul could always find a way to assert their superiority.

At this point, a raised voice cut through his musings. He looked up and saw – without any real surprise – the Space Wolf Skrallan drop into an unoccupied seat and place his elbow on the table in a universal gesture of challenge.

“Well, old man” – under different circumstances, the Wolf’s laughter would have been infectious, while here it was merely obnoxious – “let’s see what you are made of.”

The subject of Skrallan’s ire, Navarre, the veteran Sword Brother of the Black Templars, raised his shaven head from his meal and threw a glance that should have seen the troublemaker eviscerated on the spot. “Get lost.”

Thranis got up, unclear on his own intention. Did he want to leave before all of this devolved into ugliness that might see him caught up in it, too? Was he going to step in and try to defuse the situation, before it escalated? Or was he simply trying to find a front row seat for the fireworks?

“He” – the Space Wolf pointed at a Battle Brother of the Salamanders Chapter – “said he had heard him” – now he indicated an Ultramarine – “say that you said you could take me. Well, show me what you've got.”

A mere glance at the Templar should have told anyone how amazingly unlikely this claim was. He went rigid, massive slabs of muscle straining against the fabric of his black fatigues. Clearly, he had never heard of these allegations and resented them.

‘I’m going to regret this.’

The Blood Raven crossed the hall in a few long strides, and dropped into the seat beside the Templar, startling him from his obviously mounting fury.

Then, everything happened at once. The Space Wolf perked up, grinning “Oh, a challenger”, while Navarre growled “I fight my own battles, witch”, and Thranis swallowed a sigh.

“This isn’t a battle, and I’m not a witch.” He put his arm on the table. “I just need to work up a little appetite, to be able to deal with this food.”

Grinning, Skrallan slid over and grabbed the offered hand with calloused fingers. “Whatever you say. Brother Navarre, give the signal.”

By now, several more brothers had come over, watching. Armwrestling wasn’t exactly spectacular, but it beat the dour silence that afflicted the Refectory otherwise.

The Templar glowered at both of them as he got up, but he didn’t refuse. “Second hand on the table. Fight clean. In the name of the Emperor, GO!” As the referee, he had to watch closely and he did.

Thranis felt the weight of his gaze more than the Space Wolf’s efforts to force his hand downwards. He pushed against the other Space Marine, planting his feet solidly on the floor so he wouldn’t be unbalanced, never taking his attention off his opponent's yellow animal eyes. It had been years since he had last done this, back when he’d been a Scout.

Now, as trainee in the Deathwatch, the situation wasn’t that different, he realised, as he shored up his will against his opponent’s enthusiasm. He had no idea if he could win – Skrallan’s Chapter was renowned for their physical strength. And yet, the Blood Raven held his own, as his body began to react to the situation. The challenge had been impulsive, but now the bout was underway, he was unwilling to lose which surprised him. Seemed like there was still enough of Scout Thranis left…

He gritted his teeth and had to concentrate not to show them in a gesture of dominance or to add his growl to the Wolf’s, who bared his fangs and began to show strain, too. Skrallan's reddish mane was dark wet already, and he blinked furiously to clear his eyes. Sweat soaked Thranis's fatigues, collected on his bald crown and ran down his face and arm. Slowly his second heart began to pick up pace in answer to the physical exertion. Only loosely was he still aware of Navarre prowling around them, and the other brothers watching.

The tabletop was getting slippery. Distantly the Blood Raven heard encouragements, and he noticed most of them seemed to be for the Space Wolf. “Take the witch!”

Adrenalin peaking in his system, Thranis finally abandoned his self-control and forced his burning biceps into supreme effort. “I’m not a witch”, he snarled.

That didn’t mean he was stupid. Teeth bared, he changed the angle of the force he brought to bear on his opponent a minute amount and gave one last heave: As Skrallan attempted to counter, his elbow slipped a fraction and the Blood Raven exploited the opportunity. Their hands crashed down and it was Thranis who was on top.

To the credit of the present brothers, they were cheering him, as the Templar announced in his death knell voice: “Winner, Thranis.”

The Space Wolf rubbed his hand. “Not bad for a witch.”

And with a speed that nobody would have believed the bulky Black Templar capable of, Navarre caught Thranis’s fist before he could lay Skrallan out.
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Tue Jul 02, 2013 2:11 pm

And a new episode from the fun-filled world of the Deathwatch^^.

Ratione Peccati

Thranis, Battle Brother of the Blood Ravens on secondment to the Deathwatch, was moving through the rite of safe maintenance, carefully taking apart his bolt pistol, polishing each component, greasing where necessary and putting it back together. His lips moved as he called up all the ritual entreaties and blessings while his hands followed the movement pattern he had committed to memory back when he had still been a Scout. Neither took up enough of his attention to screen out the argument happening in the corridor in front of his cell.

He knew the voices, he knew the pattern of the altercation and he knew the outcome. Unless somebody decided to vary the litany for the 6th repetition, which he did not consider likely.

“Get out of my way, xenos lover.” That was Skrallan, the Space Wolf. Fenrisian accent, cultivated to be more obvious instead of being ground down by exposure to all the other intonations used by the Battle Brothers from other Chapters, a slightly petulant note to his voice and, as always, an intuitive leap for the next insult he considered fitting.

“There is a lot of room in the corridor, cousin.” The bored drawl of the Flesh Eater, Johash. Thranis had never heard this sort of accent and couldn’t place it, but the manner of speech was easy enough to interpret. The calm did not grow from a phlegmatic temper. Instead, it was a thin layer of self assured superiority covering a bottomless well of violence… And it would be removed the instance Johash found a nuisance to be sufficient to take notice of it.

“So step aside.”

Unfortunately, Johash and Skrallan where on two different training rotations, and their cells lay to either side of Thranis’s, who was on yet a third shift and had his rest cycle when those two started respectively finished their schedules, causing them to meet directly in front of his door. And this was rather thin, so he had a front row seat for this rather pedestrian melodrama.

‘Spirit of Foeseeker, travel gladly through this barrel…’ His rite continued, as he inserted the bore brush into the barrel and moved it back and forth, cleaning out residue.

Outside, there was silence. Thranis imagined both of them were staring at each other now, amber eyes on black ones. Or maybe the Space Wolf was twitching impatiently, while the Flesh Eater would merely look bored. He had never actually seen those altercations play out, just heard them. It was enough to make him sigh.

‘Remove all impurities, so righteous punishment can be inflicted…’

The sharp smell of the cleaning solution made his nose twitch. Sense memories flooded his brain, of all the times when he had followed this rite in less contemplative situations. Deft fingers discarded a soiled cloth and picked up a clean one to be soaked. He wiped the barrel down again.

“What does ork taste like? Like fire mushrooms? Is it true your holy book is a cook book with recipes for preparing them and all the other xenos you like?”

That was a new one. And actually rather… pointed, given the supposed proclivities of Johash’s chapter. Thranis’s hand, about to stopper the solvent bottle, froze. He heard something he didn’t want to hear. A step. Slow, deliberate, ponderous. Nothing like the quick, graceful movements of the Space Wolf.

A second one followed.

Thranis got up. Every time it got so far, he wondered about himself. It wasn’t like he was responsible what his temporary brothers did, right?

Three long steps took him to the door, while the slow footfalls became overlaid by a low, menacing growl, the kind a really big cat would make deep in its throat. On his approach, the door’s machine spirit reacted and opened it, revealing a familiar tableau:

Skrallan, fists raised, reddish mane bristling like the hairs on Thranis’s cleaning brush, eyes almost solid gold and fangs bared, and Johash slowly closing, black eyes blank and his aristocratic, ebon features covered by a sheen of sweat.

The Blood Raven stepped outside, causing both heads to snap into his direction, and held up the hand that still held the oil-soaked cloth he had intended to apply next. “Don’t stop on my account. I can continue the Rites of Maintenance later, when they’ve carted you off to the infirmary.”

It was irrelevant what he said, he knew. His appearance, his calm voice was enough. Some of the tension went out of the Flesh Eater and he shook his head to clear it, before shoving past them both and disappearing into his quarters, his shoulders hunched in shame. At least, that was how the Blood Raven interpreted it.

The Space Wolf, on the other hand, shot Thranis a venomous glance. “This is getting old, Witchkin. I fight my own battles. I don’t need you to protect my hide. Do you think I’m a weakling like you?”

“Protect you?” Thranis scoffed. It wasn’t for show. Even though his interference might be considered to benefit the aggressive Space Wolf, sparing him a possible beating and certain punishment, by now the Blood Raven would have gladly beaten the tar out of Skrallan with his own hands. That he did not was in deference to the oath he had sworn on his induction to the Deathwatch as well as his general dislike of waste. Like, waste of time, waste of energy, waste of resources to patch up Battle Brothers who had not been injured in the line of duty.

“I’m merely protecting my door. It’s so fragile; if one of you falls against it, it will dent so it will be impossible to open. And I don’t want to be late to my own training cycle.”

The Space Wolf made a rude gesture – at least Thranis assumed it was rude, his research had been inconclusive – and stalked off, too.

The Blood Raven took a couple of deep breaths before he went back inside as well. Despite his apparent calm, adrenalin surged through his body, because it had been prepared to counter the violence in the air if necessary. It wouldn’t do to continue the rite like this, so he focussed his emotions and slowly filtered them out, one after the other. This new focus enabled him to pick up again where he had stopped. He applied the cloth to Foeseeker’s barrel and gave it thin coating of oil.

‘Protect from inimical surroundings, so no tarnish may come to you…’
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Chh » Tue Jul 02, 2013 11:25 pm

One question: would a beating have any real, non-physical effect on a Marine? I thought they were beyond all but Pain Glove-levels of ouch...

Another good short story; the Blood Raven's comments about his door were pretty funny, IMO
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Wed Jul 03, 2013 6:39 am

What do you mean? Will it hurt a Space Marine to get beaten up by another? Yeah, it will. Will he care very much? No, probably not ;) he might care about losing, though. But he can be injured to the point where he needs treatment and that will put him into all kinds of trouble with his superiors, or rather, they will both end up in all sorts of trouble.

And really, the poor door never harmed anybody :P
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Blinded » Fri Aug 02, 2013 6:33 pm

- Well Dark Angels ARE backstabbing curs, and I like to see the apothecary carry his threat and see just just who many of his battle brothers would be willing to introduce him to concept of Friendly Fire.

- Innocence is a matter of perspective as some consider mere existence of that which offends them an unforgivable affront. But the Apothecary there WAS kinda surprising, he reminded me more of idealistic para-medics than battle-hardened Space Marines... Isn't Juhani a girl name from a Galaxy FAR far away?

- I think the Wolf was also bored dead of the Deathwatch's aura and for good reasons. Space Wolves are among the most animated of Astartes and I doubt their "evening feast" ends without a challenge or three.

- A sole sane soul among bunch of overgrown kids... especially Skrallan... what is tis guy, a Blood Claw? Wonder when will Skrallan and Navarre will attend to Asphodel though. Them skirt guys are rather antagonistic.
Worm and W40K are both dieing worlds, but while Worm is barely managing to avoid getting swallowed up, 40K is trying to stab Death in the eye with a chainsaw. - .IronSun.
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Fri Aug 02, 2013 6:53 pm

Blinded wrote:- Well Dark Angels ARE backstabbing curs, and I like to see the apothecary carry his threat and see just just who many of his battle brothers would be willing to introduce him to concept of Friendly Fire.

*g* They just might. Of course, threatening to deliberately harm the progenoids is a very big nono. ^^

Blinded wrote:- Innocence is a matter of perspective as some consider mere existence of that which offends them an unforgivable affront. But the Apothecary there WAS kinda surprising, he reminded me more of idealistic para-medics than battle-hardened Space Marines... Isn't Juhani a girl name from a Galaxy FAR far away?

Juhani is the Finnish version of John. So, not a girl's name. Juhani may be young, but he is not really idealistic. As a doctor, he is a realist - accepting things can get screwed up and still trying his best.

Blinded wrote:- I think the Wolf was also bored dead of the Deathwatch's aura and for good reasons. Space Wolves are among the most animated of Astartes and I doubt their "evening feast" ends without a challenge or three.

Sure, Skrallan is bored silly there^^. And trying to liven things up. :P

Blinded wrote:- A sole sane soul among bunch of overgrown kids... especially Skrallan... what is tis guy, a Blood Claw? Wonder when will Skrallan and Navarre will attend to Asphodel though. Them skirt guys are rather antagonistic.

Yeah, Skrallan is a Blood Claw. An exceptional one, but still a Blood Claw. And yes, eventually they will have to interact with Asphodel... :mrgreen:
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Samnite » Thu Aug 15, 2013 7:34 pm

Enjoyed these. High quality of writing and characterisation. Applause for you, sir!
"There's a special rung in hell for those who waste good scotch..."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Liliedhe » Thu Aug 15, 2013 7:43 pm

Samnite wrote:Enjoyed these. High quality of writing and characterisation. Applause for you, sir!

Thank you very much. Although I'm not a Sir. ^^
"You were a warleader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?"
"I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife," snarled Astelan. "When your witches tried to prise open my mind they opened me for an instant and I stared back."
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Re: Donning the Black - Stories of the Deathwatch

Postby Samnite » Thu Aug 15, 2013 7:49 pm

Apologies, ma'am! Shows how much I pay attention...
"There's a special rung in hell for those who waste good scotch..."
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