"Newbloods - once your armour is equipped, move onwards to the next room; here, you shall gain your basic equipment." said Dionus, beckoning with one plated fist for them to follow - through gates made for what could be guessed as being Dreadnoughts or Predator tanks, they had moved into a new room that seemed a proper armoury. Albeit, an emptied one.

Dozens of racks lined the left side, all filled with weapons of all sorts; crates filled with large, stubby pistols were given to them one by one, the bolt pistols being massive bludgeons in their own right and were comically large compared to the human helpers that worked alongside them; it was the one weapon that undoubtedly, everyone recieved similarly to one another, but where the equipment similarities ended.
Afterwards, Dionus raised his right hand and halted those who were equipped, speaking out, his voice magnified through the vox grilles.
"Henceforth, you shall differ - should you wish to reign carnage from afar, move leftwards to gain your Boltguns, and the magazines to go with them. If you desire to be in the midst of battle, your chainswords shall be on the right; move quickly, recruits - we haven't all day. The Loyalist filth in the galaxy won't roll over and wait for your slow asses, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!" -- a small bit of vigour and energy came through the Newbloods at these demands, each now moving with a speed that was at the least, adequate; unfortunately, the other handlers were not so kind as Dionus was, whom even he was a strict - even if admirable and awe-inspiring - man. Those who faltered in their decision on where to turn, whether for chainsword or boltgun, was yanked and shoved towards a direction that was based more on their efficiency; if one's training had shown them to be adequate shots, they were given a bolter, whilst those who fared better in rending opponents in close quarters were pushed to getting a Chainsword.

All the same, by the end of it, they had all been given their weapon and regrouped as one into the groups they had been assigned; each now with their own proper weapons, given a true fighting chance against the Imperium of Man. Each a true Angel of Death in their own right; ones who would be on their own, more than a match for any seasoned squadron of Imperial Guardsmen. Each squad, rivalling a company.
With their mass-reactive bolt rounds, there was little that many in the galaxy would be able to do to defend against the weapons. Dionus looked upon the eighty-two supersoldiers at his disposal and were it not for his blank helmet, one could imagine that he may have been smiling. Such a thing was not to last, however.


Minutes passed before the massive door at the far end of the armoury opened, harsh & cold winds rushing in, buffeting some of the workers around the newbloods; large, boxy aircraft roared into the hangar-like structure, each of them in various states of repair; dozens of them, all with dents and scratches, and with varying shapes and paint jobs. A blood-red Thunderhawk with a missing cannon, or a coal-black Stormraven, its upper turret having the guns replaced with vicious reaper autocannons. Other forms of Imperial craft of different make throughout the millennia - and even those that had their own angled designs, unique to the forces of Chaos or those stolen from other Xenos forces.

From there came the 'buyers' - Astartes of all varieties, just as their ships were. One of them was a bloated giant, covered in massive plates of armour with a twisted helm, one bulky arm holding a gargantuan axe; his very presence was nauseous even at a distance and it was clear that the mere sight made the entirety of the human assistants all leave en masse, and as he came nearer the very scent was powerful enough to almost gag even Astartes despite helmet filters.
Another that moved forward was a slimmer Space Marine, his garnet-red power armour shining in the light, his right pauldron glittering with rubies. The scarred, grinning face that he wore was surprisingly handsome if anything, yet his confidence was perhaps the most notable feature - despite his lack of any 'battle-worn' scratches upon the plate or any weapons aside from a single bolt pistol, he acted as though he controlled the scene as a whole.

Many more came through, well over a dozen of Astartes, and most of which even having their own guards, each armed with a dangerous array of weapons; Dionus stepped forward and with but a raise of his fist, he had called for order. It took a few moments as the Chaos Lords butted heads - figuratively, had it been literal there would have been bloodshed - before they calmed down and faced their 'auctioneer'.

"Brothers of the Long War - our years of progress, have finally come to a success - look now upon the newbloods before you, and see their eagerness. Look upon them and see their energy. Look upon them, and see their power! Come, come and see them for yourselves; we have not all day for the event."
And just like that, the Chaos Lords ambled towards the recruits, eyeing the separated groups with a bit of intrigue- a Black Legionnaire looked at the Newbloods, or so came a Khornate warlord. A Sorcerer Lord with smoothed plates and a staff came by, smiling 'knowingly' at the Son of Horus, while a Word Bearer - bits of scrolls and human flesh littering his pauldrons and vambraces - stared contemptuously at them all.
Soon, bartering and auctioning started to happen. Squads of the Newbloods were being fought over with the prices, some of them seeming adequate whilst others were ludicrous.

One group of the Newbloods hadn't even bothered to argue against their buying, the lot of them raising their boltguns and chainsword to the Warsmith, shouting the battlecry with pride, "IRON WITHIN! IRON WITHOUT!" - another almost rebelled against their selling for their number in tanks, while a lone recruit was brought in by one of the Chaos Lords and his champions, almost treated like a son rather than a trophy.
Hours went by with little change; two to three groups were bought, as the rest were either ignored or some being squabbled over by the majority.


The Newbloods that this story is about, however, had a different Chaos champion come to them; a tall, powerful man in armour similar to theirs - were it not so, 'new' in some fashion, something that they could not quite point out - a sword resting at his hip, his knighted helm staring at each of them in turn. Behind him, was one who without a doubt, his Lord.
A tall, armoured behemoth in pitch-black Tactical Dreadnought armour - Terminator armour - of the Cataphractii pattern, one fist bulked beyond comparison with powerful arcs of energy crackling over its fingers, the power fist's talons flexing every so often. A long, flowing cloak of crimson came from under his pauldrons, the helm's crimson eyes staring down upon them; even taller than Durek or Nykton, the man - if his presence could even be called that - demanding respect.
"...They seem... Adequate, Sir." The lesser champion had commented as they stopped nearby. The deep snarl that replied had come from the Chaos Lord himself, little more than a snort coming through.
"They are adequate." He agreed, "But they may be gnats with the hides of lions. YOU!" The taloned fist came up and pointed at the Son of Horus, as though demanding his attention. "What is your name? Who are you recruits, your Gene-fathers?

It seems they have a buyer, after all.​

Nykton, quick to act when the situation demanded it, swiftly joined the queue for a distance weapon. It wasn't the scoped unti that would feel most natural in his hands, but it was lethal and that was what he needed. Think twice, aim once, strike silently and fast. He had yet to really test the aphorism's utility but he had no wish to linger.

There was something about the process that got under his pale skin. The idea of being bought and sold - like so much ore or ammunition - more than irked him. It seemed wrong on a baseline level. But though he rebelled against it, he held his tongue. No-one here was going to be impressed by a raw recruit with a big mouth and loud opinions. That brought a small, fleeting smile of its own: plenty of his fellow across the room seemed to think otherwise. Or perhaps they were simply confident. The Iron Warriors certainly knew where they should be If he was honest, he rather envied them that. Nykton slipped back to his group, the small cadre the only place he belonged for now.

He looked up at the huge warrior in Terminator plate. There was no hiding this one. But, in Terminator armour, the only thing this giant needed to hide from would be one of the loping war-machines. The lanky Rsven's son hadn't felt so much like a gangling adolescent in months. Nykton unconsciously stepped back a little. Out of notice.

This action was completely unneeded. because the Son of Horus beside him was immediately the focus of all eyes.

"Good luck, Brother," Nykton murmured, straighening a little just in case he was next. He turned to Lezan and nodded towards the towering figure in black and his smaller aide. "Is that what you mean to be?"

"I can get behind the colour scheme, at least."

The large, Terminator-Lord immediately glared over towards the Raven Guard. "You as well - All of you. What are your names? Your Gene-fathers? You intrigue me amongst this rabble. I demand to know who you are before I make any decisions."

@Jorimel

Nykton straightened up at once. They shall know no fear. He lifted his head up, not as a gesture of defiance, but as one would on a parade ground, looking ahead with his shoulders back.

"I am Nykton Ateraax, Lord," he said, "Corvus Corax, the Pale Raven of Deliverance, is my gene-Sire. I have been raised to stealth and marksmanship. I have been chosen to fight oppression, Lord, and assist in delivering us from the slavery of the False Emperor." He smacked his clenched fist against the centre of his chest both as emphasis and salute. "To free us from the chains forged by the Corpse-Emperor from the blood of his sons!"

the chance to get his hands on weapons was not one that Shabran was going to miss, or be last in line for, he also made it to the lane up, but dident shy away from shouldering through where an opening was, he picked up the bolt pistol, allmost light as air despite its bulk, though the chainsword was what truly called him, the weapon called to him on an instinctual level, maybe it was like that for everyone here, or maybe just the sons of Angron.

Next came the auctioning, a rather strange affair to his liking, but then again he had no experiance or ideas of how things like this went, nor did he really care too much about it, soon enough they would be chosen and be off to the long war, wherever it brought them.
Not shortly after they where indeed approached, a giant in the biggest set of armour Shabran had yet seen in his short life, an a much smaller champion beside him, still imposing and powerfull, but the lords bulk made most things look small.
Despite the commanding voice, and the one carrying it, Shabrans posture might be that of one slightly too undaunted, a stance that fell to him naturally when not in the fighting pits.
"My name is Shabran, my gene farther is Angron, the red angel. My hunger for war is unquenchable even without the nails" he said, might as well get that he was unfinished out of the way immediately.

The eyes of the sorcerer from earlier still seemed to linger on the soul of Dyromedes, or so he felt. That intense stare when he walked by. He couldn't help but be... Mesmerized, curious. Desiring answers of what the look meant. But then the giant of giants who could be compared to a walking tank addressed him. A king amidst lords. An emperor amidst kings.

It was like his muscles locked up. Not out of fear, but the lack of being able to express himself properly. How should he address such man? Boltgun in hands and Bolt Pistol on the hips he stared at the man, listening to the way he talked and addressed the other newborns.

He at last tucked on every bit of courage and took a step forward, gulping before speaking up. "Dyromedes, Sir! Son of Horus, in blood, aspiration and mind!" He stood straight, lowering his boltgun and banging his right fist atop his twin hearts.

"These fine brethren of mine hail from other primarchs but we are the finest squad you will be able to find today. Gaze upon the other squabblers, but us! We are demanding to fight. Not to die in purposeless glory. But to die for a better tomorrow. A tomorrow of a liberated Imperium. True freedom, away from the shackles of the false Emperor!"

He took a gamble, proposing to be the best of the best of all these newborns. In fact, he couldn't really tell if there was a difference in skill levels, outside of combat preferences. Dyromedes proceeded to turn his back and point at the individual members. He would face the purchaser once more, when he was done addressing his comrades.

"Nykton of Corax' seed, reconnaissance specialist. Shabran of Angrons' seed, close combat specialist. Lezan of the Lions' seed, as well close combat specialist. Durek of Mortarions' seed, ranged specialist. And then there is I, while I focus on to bring maximum death from afar, my mind is unwavering and I strife for nothing less than avenging the true warmaster, the conqueror of Ullanor. I assure you, your lordship. We will fulfill your every given order to your satisfaction."

Lezan followed the group of astartes, momentarily separated from the group he had been assigned to, past what he assumed were armoured vehicle gates and into the armoury. While the contents within consisted more than just the local brand of rodents and dust, he felt none too impressed about the quality of the basic weaponry given to them. Standing in line, the astartes wrapped his digits around a bolt pistol, inspecting it quickly for any obvious faults, before mag locking it on his belt.

As the orders came through, most of the group quickly moved in either direction, heading for the bolt guns or the chainswords. While the loud voice of their trainer might ushered many to quicken their paces, Lezan walked forward calmly and decisively. His helmet still attached to his belt, his schooled expression betraying none of his feelings. Each step carried not a note of arrogance, as others keeping to their natural paces might infused within their strides, but a cold, calculated precision. The astartes moved toward the racks of chainsword, every moment reminding the more observant of those around him of a chess master's move on a board.

Suddenly, Lezan felt a grip around his arm, as well as the beginnings of a shove towards the close quarters weapons section by one of the trainers. He shrugged out the grip quickly, continuing his pace yet turning his slightly narrowed eyes towards the trainer, who seemed unimpressed. The grabber had opened his mouth to say (or more likely, scream) something, but the young astartes had already left, reaching the racks of the chainswords long after the majority of his 'brothers' had taken their share of the weapons.

Ignoring the few that had been passed over in the first couple of racks, Lezan travelled towards the back, where the weapons still filled out enough to make the armoury seemed well kept, to an inexperienced eye at least. His green eyes gazed over the weapons, scanning over each to take in seemingly insignificant details. By all accounts, each of the brutal weapon were pretty much the same: serviceable, yet standard issue. Still, this didn't stop the astartes from going through each of them, some he gave an extra few seconds of observation, others he passed over without a second glance.

Knowing that the trainers had little patience for the things he valued, Lezan made his inspections quickly, before finally picking up the fourth chainsword from the right on the sixth rack from the front since he began his inspection. The astartes then turned and promptly rejoined his assigned comrades, each step, though seemingly faster than before, actually taken with the same pace as before. He weighed the weapon in his hand quickly, judging that it was slightly off balanced with more weight towards the point, but still much closer of a ratio than any of the others he saw. The fraction of an additional application of oil upon its chains might just make the difference between him being headless in a ditch or living long enough to replace/upgrade the weapon in the next engagement.

Or he might get his head taken off by a bolt round, who knows.

Rejoining the others, Lezan managed to turn and assumed a formal but comfortable stance as the trainers' guests began arriving. Placing the tip of the chainsword to the ground just beyond the tip of his boots, he leaned slightly upon it. One hand placed on top of the pommel while the other curled its fingers around the grip. Each finger wrapped around would lift momentarily, before squeezing the weapon once again. A usual sign of impatience, but the astartes had that virtue in spades. Like his footfall, the action, to the detail oriented, was reminiscent of the steady breathing of a predator as it laid in wait for its prey, gathering information every second in the meantime.

The transports arrived, along with the various esteemed guests and their entourages. At the introduction, the viewing began. The various Chaos Lords wandered around, picking and choosing, some not unlike Lezan's selection of his weapon moments ago. The astartes' eyes wandered, occasionally taking in the closest individuals around him before darting out to the masses once more. The only external expression during this had been a slight twitch in his eyebrow as his gaze lingered over the champion of Nurgle. While Lezan did not prefer to serve under such a master, Nurgle did provide his own boons that surpassed others, such as durability beyond anything any other faction might boast.

Just then, the Raven Guard, Nykton, Lezan seemed to remembered, turned to address him. The scout, whether he knew it or not, had the Lion's lost progeny's respect. His role existed to collect information, to think before he acted. Indeed it would be hard pressed for a scout of any sort to be headstrong and still alive. There was something to be reckoned by the berserk sons of Angron, but even the greatest of their fighters has an eye for detail. Looking over the approaching titan of an astartes in his terminator armour, as well as the knight style second accompanying him, green eyes swept over all of equipment of the approaching figures, especially the sword at the second's side for a second, and returned back to his comrade's black eyes. "I mean to be me; I simply wish for better equipment is all, regardless of the source."

At the bark of the Chaos Lord, Lezan waited his turn, as his more eager brothers spoke up, each adding their background as though their buyer had not already know of the deeds of each primarch. Still, he could not fault them for their pride in their gene father; after all, it was really all they had outside of the weapons in their hands, the power armour wrapped around their bodies. As the Horusan spoke up, introducing each of them, the astartes waited until they finished, before looking the terminator in the eyes, and inclining his head in respect. To have not only acquired but retained such a prize as the equipment upon their bodies required skills, strength and a certain amount of fortune, all which demands acknowledgement and deference, more so than attitude or strength of presence even.

Yet, Lezan held his gaze; he would not cower. Should it be taken as disrespect, then he shall accept his death at this lord's hand without complaint. The astartes wished to live of course, above nearly all else. Yet what is life without self respect as well? He opened his mouth, and an even tone came out from the golden haired framed face. "Lezan. Lion El'Jonson. Please do not lump me in with the Horusan. Unlike him, I wish to remain amongst the living, where one might still be able to enjoy the spoils of war. Be that material or immaterial rewards, or just the chance to taste victory upon another day, on another world." The fingers upon the grip stopped their movement, and a stillness set upon the Lion's ill begotten son as he watched the Chaos Lord and his second in front of him, awaiting judgment.


@Jorimel

Nykton was naturally soft-spoken, and the influence of his gene-implantations had seemed to make him more so. It was, he supposed, a legacy of whatever character his Primarch had. It had often occured to him to wonder what kind of man Corax was, but this wasn't the time. He spoke quietly back to the man who'd introduced himself as Lezan.

"Holding fast to one's character in days like these is to be admired." He wasn't too impressed by Dyromedes' attempts to play leader, but neither did he care too much if someone wanted all the limelight. It wasn't for him. "I hope to do the same. I won't shy from close fighting if it's needed, but I work best at a distance and in the dark." Irisless eyes turned back to look at the Lion's son. "Guard that heart of principle, Cousin. It may be sorely tested by the False Emperor in the days to come." It wasn't the admonition of a doubtful cynic, but the concern of a fellow recruit. Not yet brothers in arms, perhaps, but at least under the same scrutinising eyes of the hiring overlord.

From what little he knew of the Primarch of the First Legion, he was a knight, and with the knight's sense of honour. Sometimes such men viewed scouts as less than honourable, but Lezan didn't show any signs of that. After all, a stealthy man does not have to be a thief. Men of honour also feel the need to speak up when their intentions may be in doubt, and so it proved with the Dark Angel.

"Lezan. Lion El'Jonson. Please do not lump me in with the Horusan. Unlike him, I wish to remain amongst the living, where one might still be able to enjoy the spoils of war. Be that material or immaterial rewards, or just the chance to taste victory upon another day, on another world."

Nykton admired that strength to speak out. This was, after all, surely a test of character as well as mettle. The Red Angel's Son had already spoken up with typical blunt flair. The Son of Horus had made his bid for leadership. Should he add more? He had said everything he needed to say about his skills and lineage. But then, they were easily enough guessed.

"While our Cousin's zeal is admirable," he said, in his low voice, "the Son of Horus speaks only for himself, as each man must."

"A Raven, a Hound, a Wolf, a Knight, and a Reaper." The lesser armoured champion spoke, a scoff coming through his vox after a second; both their eyes seemed to scan the recruits with some sense of amusement, before the former looked to his Lord. "I shall get them ready, then; ask about the payments, and we shall be on our way afterwards. I think they may be who we're seeking." With that, the Terminator Lord moved off, his bulk sending shudders through the floor.
Once he'd left, the Champion turned back towards them and gave little more than a sigh - a static-y growl-like noise through the Vox grilles in his helmet. "Our... Companion, had spun tales of names upon the Warp. Some of yours - not your true names, but of titles that may one day be yours, or someone else's, depending on how the future unfolds - shows you all to be... Valuable, enough. Lord Osterios has trusted him and thus, trusted me with... Tending to you."​

"I am Terix, of the Dusk Lords, and from this point forth, you are under my leadership."​

He kept himself quiet for but a few moments now as he let that sink in, before straightening his back. "I will admit; we're... Not quite a warband - starting, if such a term could be used. Some traitor Guardsmen, myself, Lord Osterios and four others; each to start their own... Warband so to speak. At least, the beginnings of them, before we return together in force. You, are to help me with that."
Swiftly, his gaze turned over to the Horusan. "You, Dyromedes. If you were to have the choice between an agri-world and an industrial world, and you had a regiment at your command. Which would you strike? Or any others, if anyone else is quicker on the reply." -- without even missing a beat, he then turned over to Nykton, stepping forward and letting the crimson gaze through the eyeslits of the helmet make his attention known. "--And Raven-son. Should you have the decision between a Warsmith or a Dark Apostle, what would you pick? Why?"
The sudden questioning was perhaps a surprise to some, or not to others; at the least, he was wanting to make sure they weren't too incompetent.

​

"A Warsmith," Nykton replied at once and without hesitation. "A practical man who can build, repair and master weapons and siege artillery is more use in the front lines to a starting warband, whose faith may yet be a matter of moment, but is ultimately less urgent than establishing victory. By that I mean that faith may be carried in the heart, but a gun needs physical care. Take care of one, and the other can gain time to flourish."

"A Dark Apostle is known for his faith and the powers it provides, but they vary and are greatly taxing on manpower. At the beginning, this is something we need to conserve, not spend freely in sacrifice for unknown ends. I say we build with blocks we can feel, see, touch. After all, a temple cannot stand on sand."

Well, it was spoken freely and from the heart. If it was the last thing Nykton ever said, at least he had taken his chance to make an impression.

"We fight as I believe against the Emperor; for this, I contend, we do not need to fight for the Dark Gods."

The Raven Guard paused, taking a moment to orientate himself. "Though of course, many mighty men do both. I do not say we should not respect them or their masters."