JabezP METAL BAWKSES

Geschlecht:  Anmeldungsdatum: 29.06.2008 Beiträge: 1727 Wohnort: the grim darkness of the 41st millennium
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Verfasst am: 15.02.2016, 18:33 Titel: A Leave and a Lament |
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...oder was passiert, wenn man sich mal kurz hinsetzen will, um ein paar Hintergründe zu seinem Lamenter aufzuschreiben, und dabei plötzlich fast 1800 Worte rauskommen. (Zur Info, das ist in etwa das Doppelte von dem, was ich sonst an einem Tag schaffe...)
Björn und Manu dürften einige der Charaktere wiedererkennen Ente auch, wenn er sie nicht schon wieder vergessen hat
(Und sorry, mal wieder auf Englisch)
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It felt good to wear his armour again, although it came with a tinge of guilt.
Aition stretched his arms and took a few cautious steps. During the time of imprisonment, he had wondered whether the black carapace below his skin could lose the ability to connect his nervous system to power armour if the links weren't used for too many years. He had never heard of such a case, and in his clearer moments found the notion to be rather absurd, but it wouldn't be the first unbelievably unlucky thing that happened to one of his Chapter.
Now he quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Being back in armour felt as if he had shaken off a debilitating illness that had rendered him weak and exhausted for years, and returned to his former strength. Of course he would never actually be weak, not in a physical sense. Astartes physiology did not allow for that, not even after a while of forced inactivity, although Aition felt that he should return to regular training schedules as soon as possible.
He looked around the vast hall where the rest of his Battle-brothers were assembling. Both doors were locked, and on the gallery running along the bas-relief covered walls, at least two dozen guards were patrolling. Aition had felt the lingering distrust among the Imperial officials that had escorted him here. Sure, they had been as polite as expected towards a member of the Adeptus Astartes, but their furrowed brows and tense posture had betrayed their emotions. Some of them had averted their gaze whenever he had looked into their direction, as if they believed he had some kind of Evil Eye and would pass his Chapter's curse on to them.
In contrast, only a handful of his brethren wore their helmets right now. He could see many an eye scan the room, looking for friends and comrades that had survived the Battle of Optera and the following confinement. Although the hall seemed to be swimming in yellow, giving the impression of a full Chapter being present, Aition estimated them to be a few hundred at most. And the doors had been locked minutes ago, meaning the Imperial officials were not expecting any more Astartes to join them.
His hearts sank. A wizened human scribe had briefed him upon release, had told him the exact number of living Lamenters - three hundred and eleven - and the sentence that had been passed about them. Aition was aware they had avoided being declared Excommunicate Traitoris, although a considerable number of representatives had clamoured for it, and has instead been sentenced to a penitential crusade. A marginally better fate, he thought gloomily, but seeing that they would be forbidden to induct new recruits for a century, the court could as well have executed them here and now.
Three hundred and eleven. His jaw clenched. Barely more than three companies, doubtlessly still afflicted with the ability to find trouble where none should exist and jump right into it.
Someone tapped his pauldron. Aition spun around and looked into a pair of familiar, grey-blue eyes framed with deep wrinkles. "Loukian!" Smiling half against his will, he grabbed the older warrior's vambraces, and they exchanged a warrior greeting.
"Aition. I was sure we would meet again." Loukian's voice was deep and slightly raspy, just as he remembered it. It had accompanied him into isolation, time and again uttering those last words he'd heard before bronze-clad Astartes had dragged his near unconscious frame away. This is not the end, brother. Stay strong. Aition had recalled them every time desperation threatened to overcome him, adding more and more pledges as the days went by. This is not the end. Stay strong. I have to stay strong. Lamenters don't just give up. We never did. We never will. I never will.
"You told me so, and you have never been a liar." Aition let go of Loukian's vambraces and looked his former company brother up and down. "Is that a Sergeant's red I spy on your helmet? I guess a congratulation is in order."
Loukian raised his hands, grinning. Even though fate hadn't been kinder to him than towards the rest of his Chapter, most of his wrinkles were actually laugh lines, which deepened now as a glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. "I was just one of the first Fifth Company brothers Kephas saw, and didn't run away quick enough."
Chuckling, Aition shook his head. "Self-mocking as usual, Sergeant. So Kephas is Captain now? How is he taking it?"
"Not well, but he knows he has no choice. The Fourth, Fifth, and Seventh will remain active for the time being. The Mater Lachrymarum" - he referred to the enormous Warp Barque that served as both the Lamenters' flagship and base of operations - "has been overhauled and will be provisionally commanded by the remaining Torchbearers."
Aition felt his hearts sink again. The Torchbearers were the elite of the 1st Company, Malakim Phoros' personal guard. If they were in command now, it could only mean one thing. "So Chapter Master Phoros is dead for sure?"
"Not for sure", Loukian murmured. "Nobody has found his corpse, which also means that if he died during the assault on the Mater, his gene seed could not be recovered. Some say he escaped somehow and is only hiding. Doubtful, I know, but it gives them hope, and that is what we need the most now."
Aition pressed his armoured fingers against his temples. "You're right, brother. I might even start believing it myself, just to give myself a stronger incentive to fight on." His gaze started wandering again. By now, he had recognized at least a dozen company brothers, plus a handful of Apothecaries and Calices, the latter being a sort of Apothecary-Chaplains who served as morale officers and cared for both the physical and mental well-being of their brethren. Considering their huge losses, there was also a surprising number of Librarians, who had doubtlessly been held under extremely strict security measures. Their faces still showed it - even Brother-Lexicanium Dardanos, whose curly black hair and round face usually made him look like an overgrown child, appeared haggard and exhausted.
"Do you know whether I will stay with the Fifth?" he asked, mostly to distract himself from pondering what the psykers had gone through.
Loukian nodded. "As will the rest of us. The company will be filled from the ranks of the Second and Eighth. To my knowledge it was randomly decided who will join whom to avoid squabble. Admittedly, the Second currently only consists of eight persons, the highest-ranking one being Brother-Epistolary Cathion."
"Holy Terra", Aition blurted out. The one-eyed Librarian's temper was legendary. "Are they aware that his second name is squabble?"
"Oh, don't sell him short, he also gets angry about important things." The Sergeant grinned wearily. "But look, Calix Tarron is approaching. He looks like he wants to have a word with us."
"Maybe he heard us", Aition joked half-heartedly. In truth, he was glad to see the Calix alive. Both his medical knowledge and his level-headed, calming demeanor would be vital for their upcoming journey.
"Sergeant Loukian." Tarron smiled, but it didn't quite reach his bronze eyes. He was wearing white Apothecary's armour, the chestplate showing a stylised prime helix whose upper and lower ends flared out and gave it a chalice-like shape. "Do you mind if I talk to Brother Aition privately?"
The Sergeant raised a greying brow. "As his commanding officer, I do mind a bit."
Tarron sighed quietly, glancing down at a dull black data slate he held in his left hand. He looked about as tired as Brother Dardanos; his tan skin had assumed a sallow hue, and there were deep shadows under his eyes that looked like bruises. "You will be a great commanding officer, Loukian, but not for him."
"What?!" the both of them asked in unison.
The Calix blinked, then he slowly shook his head and ushered them into a corner, away from the rest. "The data slate I'm carrying is adressed to Brother Dalphon Parmenas Aition of the Lamenters."
Aition groaned as he heard his full name. Not that he didn't like it - it just seemed overly formal every time. "Who is it from?"
Tarron lowered his voice. "The Ordo Xenos. Or, more precisely, the Deathwatch."
Aition felt his eyes widen. "You're kidding", he said flatly. "Or they are kidding. One of you is kidding, and I really don't find it funny."
Loukian murmured his agreement. A deep line had appeared between his brows.
"None of us is", Tarron explained calmly. "And honestly, I support their request. They are offering you a chance to redeem yourself in a different way, and they will treat you not as a penitent sinner, but as a valuable asset to the team you will be assigned to."
"How about the Fifth Company?" Aition grumbled, aware that he sounded like a petulant child. "Calix, this is impossible. I appreciate the notion, but I won't leave my Chapter. Especially not right now. We're already down to a third of our nominal strength, and I can't reconcile it with my conscience to lower that number even more. I'd rather die at your side and clad in bloodied yellow than fight someone else's war with the knowledge that my Battle-brothers might be on their last crusade... and I can't stand by their side."
Wordlessly Tarron grabbed his vambraces and held on to them. "You will always be with us in spirit, no matter what happens. But, Dalphon, I'm asking for this as your Calix. You have to go. You're right, it might very well be our last battle we're facing, and I want something to remain. I don't want the Lamenters, my Chapter that has endured against all odds for so long, my Battle-brothers who have never stopped caring for humanity despite our own suffering... I don't want this all to fade out like a candle flame in the dark and be forgotten. Corilia. Slaughterhouse Three. The Unhallowed Heart. I don't want this bravery, this stubbornness, this bold defiance of a cruel destiny to be nothing more than a footnote in dusty archives. And that is why I'm asking you to leave, brother. Take our legacy with you and make it live on. Whatever happens to us, I know you will make us proud."
Aition felt a lump swell up in his throat. He returned the warrior greeting, staring down at his hands until he found his voice again. "I will make you proud", he rasped, lifting his gaze and looking directly at Tarron's pauldron which bore the Chapter symbol, a bleeding heart. Once again it seemed incredibly appropriate. "I will make all of you proud. I promise." _________________ First Brother-Chaplain of Adeptus Procrastinatus
Thou shalt not ask a Lamenter what exactly he is lamenting. It might be thy sense of humour.
COLLATERAL CARNAGE
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