<Sirius Jules - after having 'Uber' fixed everyone>
The man as usual, after treating everyone, retreated into his office, lazily reading through some random report - or so it would seem to anyone who would join him. His offices door was literally open to anyone.

<Steinar Greywold - after being fixed up>
The Space Wolf, in surprise to everyone, retreated to the observation deck, isolated from everyone. The door was closed but not locked. He sat in the lounge and starred outside into the bed of stars, the necklace not around his neck, but in his hand, inspecting the tooth.

<Angelous - after repair of all armors & gear>
After his business of making Bionics, repairing armors and such was done, he moved to the bridge. "If Hera still complains about the Void Generator, there is nothing we can do until we reach proper Imperial Navy docks." The Techmarine warned ahead and crossed his arms as he took a seat on one of the empty consoles.

A tall figure clad in armor walked off his transport. The Power Amour reflected the Hangar lights. The sound of the Hangar repais from the reason battle barley masked the sound of his steps.

He took a wide scan of the Hangar, it was obvious that a recent battle had happened here. It smelt of Xeno. While his eyes picked out certain details of the large airfield, he spotted a large Astartes chaplain. He was also Donning the arm of the Deathwatch. Marmaroth. Icelos made his way to the Chaplain, moving aside anyone or anything that stood in his way.

He stood only several feet from the Chaplain. His helmets Vox grill and lenses showing no emotion, but blank despair. The hissing of the helm being released from its holding, interrupted before the Chaplain could get a word in. The Black shield hair was black, his eyes were a unnatural gold. He was obviously of an older age, probably almost as old as Marmaroth.

With his helm placed on the floor, his hand resting on it. He knelt to the ground. His head down at Marmaroth's feet:

Chaplain Marmaroth, I am placed before you with nothing, but the plate I don and these holy relics that were accorded to me. I have lost all else, pride, honor, and Chapter. I have only my purpose as one of the Emperors Angels. In my mind I am already dead, my only value Is how I may serve my Watch Commander. I kneel in front of you now to ask if I may serve under your watch and continue my Vigil, that I might slay the enemies of the Emperor and Imperium until I am worthy of my former cachet and able to proudly proclaim my sins. Possibly return to my chapter if they will take me, but for now I am yours. So I ask you, Chaplain Marmaroth, Commander of this warship Angelfall. How may I serve?

(OOC: I'll just assume amraphela bionics have been fixed, if thats not the case i'll just cut it you and post it aggain later)

Amraphel was standing in a dark maintenance corridor with his sword drawn. He looked a but ragged, a part of his white robes had been cut off and another was stained red with a mix of eldar and his own blood. He was trying to get used to his new bionic arm. He tried a few swings with his sword, which seemed to work fine. But when trying some more complicated moves, amraphel immediately noticed the difference. Something, but he didn't really know what exactly was wrong.
Frustrated he hacked of a lamp hanging from the ceilling and cursed the eldar who had shot off his arm.

No, this was pointless, he would need better practice. Amraphel decided to go to the training cages and fight a few servitors, or maybe even another astartes. That would surely be better practice.

OOC: anyone up for PVP?

<Feron>
Once Sirius had finished rooting around within his nervous system to properly connect his new arm the Salamander had swung his feet free of the med-bunk, mind a light with a great many things to do. Feet finding solid ship beneath him he looked to their Apothecary. "Excellent work as before Brother, I apologize for my haste but I've quite a few things to tend. I assure you I'll return later as I do intend to take you up on that offer about the training. " Little time was left for reply as Feron had rolled off like a plains storm sluggishly tearing a path across the sky as it ravage the landscape below. Priorities first he needed to retrieve the hammer from his quarters, had it not already been confiscated, figuring it best to try and figure out what would be done with such a relic seeing as he had merely looted it mid-mission. Suppose it would be best to speak with a Chaplain regarding the matter.

In a moment Feron had found himself succumbing to one of those very human moments of weakness that even so long into life molded as so much more still could hit home at a moments notice. Slowing his pace some his brow creased harder and dull embers of eyes lit that much more in thought as everything slammed home at once. All he had witnessed, trials faced beneath the collapsed crypt in catacombs guarding a fallen Saint. Armor, bionic limb and even weapon forgotten. Arriving just beside his quarters the Salamander hummed, deciding to rearrange his priorities a touch, he needed a confidant and only one person on this entire ship fit the bill for what he felt inclined to share. Dipping in Skull Splitter was taken in hand, the veteran freezing a moment as he closed his fingers around the grip. They weren't his own not in the most literal sense anyways and the disconnect that failed to register everywhere but the upper reaches of his arm where steel met flesh was disconcerting to say the least. Switching his hold over to his still very real left hand a reassured smile took hold and he hoisted it high noting a few pounds more heft needed with the lack of power armor to amplify his strength. Setting it firmly to his shoulder with toothed pick curving back just above his form he wandered out, a visit to the Chaplain was in order.

After the mission debriefing had been done, and their *freetime* had been given, Dorallius began the same process he did in between every mission, and atleast a couple of times a week, atleast he only needed on hand, until his bionic replacement came to be completed, he had retrieved his whip, and made his way to the chapel.
Perhaps after embracing Drons mantle, he would make his way to the training cages, he needed to really hone his skills, the fight with the banshee exarch had been much too close a fight.

Sitting alone in his cell, naked except for a loincloth, Draconion prepares to tend to his wounds. His face is drawn and sunken, a pallour underlying his onyx skin - all signs of struggling against severe injury for too long. It has been several days since the end of the last mission, during which he worked on his post-action reports to Marmaroth and also preparing the Eldar wargear he took as trophies for further study. During all that time, he silently avoided Sirius and the Apothecarium, his offended pride causing him to subsist on combat stims and sheer bullheaded stubbornness until his work was done, at which point he collapsed in his cell for a full day and night.

Unable to put off the looming medical emergency any longer, he scrounged up medical supplies along with a trio of servitors in order to perform self-surgery. Swabbing down the abdominal wound left by the Dire Avenger's sword and made worse by the Autarch's shots, he makes the first cut into the cauterised tissue - an emergency precaution he took soon after the battle to prevent bleeding out - sectioning skin, muscle and fascia layer by layer until he has re-opened the aperture into his viscera. Judging by constantly recurring - and lately worsening - pain, fever and inflammation, he judges the shuriken rounds lodged inside him have been causing further trauma and likely peritonitis, a diagnosis confirmed as one of the servitors inserts a fibre-optic scope into his abdominal cavity to peer around. Biting down on a piece of hard plastek so hard his teeth sink in, he steels himself against the pain as the scope slithers against traumatised and inflamed visceral structures. Plugged into all three servitors via a MIU that feeds into his Black Carapace, he finds himself thankful for all the times he volunteered to assist in the Promethean Apothecarium, and attended Chief Apothecary Fugis' lectures. Though by no means the equal of a full-fledged Apothecary, he was quite the dab hand at field aid and had performed more than his fair share of emergency procedures during his time in the Deathwatch, generally while serving on Kill-Teams with no assigned Apothecary.

This self-surgery is a first, but, in his stubborn Vulkanian determination, he refuses any alternative. The knowledge itself is easy enough to come by, with his natural predilection for academics, eidetic memory and the ship's librarium to draw upon, not to mention the cumulative results of his past reading. All the same, he finds himself thankful for the MIU filtering out the tremors of his pain as he manoeuvres the surgical dendrites into his abdominal cavity. With painstaking slowness, he maniplates the mechanical limbs to resection necrotised tissue, flush infections with antibiotics and suture ruptured organs. A crude intervention at best, but one that will at least stabilise him enough to fight what may be his last battle.

Several hours later, he at last lays his head down on his pallet, drenched in febrile sweat. On the surgical trays beside him lay gobbets of resected tissue, used swabs and several wafer-thin discs of serrated crystal that were shredding his insides with each movement.

I think I'll just close my eyes for a bit...

...how long was I out?

Glancing at the chrono on the wall, he realises he has been out for a full twenty-four hour cycle of ship's time. Grimly, he sets the servitors to cleaning up about his cell while, from a chest of petrified wood, he withdraws several items he never thought he would have to use in his time as an Astartes. A snow-white hakama, or split and pleated skirt - the formal wear of the sameru-mono of Tahken - with a haori or formal jacket to match, double-breasted with large, stiff, decorative epaulets. Next emerges a long rope made of the same white fabric, twisted together into a hawser of multiple strands - a tasuki, for tying up the voluminous sleeves for work or battle. Finally comes a hachimaki - a strip of fabric, also white, to wrap about the forehead, traditionally used to keep hair and sweat out of the eyes. First pressing a pad against his surgical wound, he winds a bandage round his torso to bind it tight before beginning to don his traditional costume. Over his haori, he wraps a lengthy strip of broad fabric many times over - his obi, or sword-belt, into which he thrusts a great, coal-black length of what appears to be stone, but crudely carved like wood into the rough shape of a curved sword, edge upwards. Round his depilated head, he ties the hachimaki.

Sitting on his knees at a low table, he lays out a sheet of fine, unbleached paper, along with an inkstone and a writing brush. Composing himself for a few seconds, he pens three verses on the paper and rises, leaving the writing table as it is for the ink to dry. Triggering his vox-bead, he contacts Marmaroth on his private channel.

"Draconion to Commander Marmaroth - requesting permission to meet to discuss a personal matter. I can be at your location at any time suiting your convenience."

With that, he exits his cell and begins walking as he awaits Marmaroth's reply, the hakama obscuring his steps so he appears to be floating, turning him into an unearthly vision carrying a long club in place of a sword, the symbol of his determination wrapped about his forehead. Even those who do not know the symbolism of colour and attire of the Tahken clans would comment that he looked like a man dressed for his own funeral.

The experience had left Sigismund somewhat scarred, as soon as he was able he said adieu to the medbay and his carer, first heading to his room to finish off the report he was writing before being so rudely interrupted, adding in this mission's report along with:

At the end of this operation, the apothecary of Marmaroth's vessel had to perform a surgery upon your loyal acolyte as apparently my appendix had to be removed. When I woke up, I was under the impression that I was a xeno, eldar to be precise. "Sirius", the apothecary, helped snap me out of it and explained that he had given me an antibiotic made out of eldar blood to stop an infection, causing memory loss and changes. He did not mention any permanent effects. Team 2 was on a mission planetside, unsure what results, will investigate if asked.

The Emperor protects.

With that finished, Sigismund tried to find the chaplain when he had a spare moment, preferably in the chapel. "Lord Marmaroth, if you have a moment I would like to speak to you. While I have recovered well from the operation, certain practices of your apothecary were... Less then standard."

"He says that I had been infected with some type of virus during the procedure, the only solution he had was to inject a antibiotic made from eldar blood into me, causing false memories and emotions. I come before you to seek two things, one for myself, for the inquisition.

"I ask of you to bless me and purify my soul from any weakness that may still survive there. Though Sirius said that no effect should be permanent, On the behalf of my organization, I would like to send this to inquisitor Soldevan of the ordo hereticus, my employer." The knight produced his report and handed it to Marmoroth, it included everything that the knight had seen, done or even been a part of. From the first battle at the civilian column to Manner and Philites betrayal to the xenos infiltration of their ship. Everything.

As the surgery on the battle damaged marine malevolent was finished his sight in his left eye began to return but more Digitally. "Thank you brother apothecary. For returning the sight into my left Eye and patching me back up." he said as he then went down to the training pits As he returned down into the pits he took his bolt pistol with him and decided he would now need to get used to his new sight. as he then began bolter training.

OOC so you guys don't have to wait for me, all of these convos are happening in different points in time and place.

<Marmaroth vs Feron>

Feron found the Chaplain in front of his inner sanctum, where his personal armory was. The Flesh Tearer was busy fixing couple of new Eldar heads to various trophy spikes around the chamber, spoils of the last hunt. At the sound of the steps, he turned around and nodded to Salamander.

"Brother Feron, what might be bringing you here to this place?" he asked but then he saw an unknown weapon in Salamander's hand. "I take it that ground mission bear some fruit?"

<Marmaroth vs Blackshield>

Marmaroth first placed a hand on the man's shoulder, returning the honor. "Every secret you have or any sin you might have committed in the past hold no sway over me. Before me, I see not a man without honor but a man dedicated to his service and Him on Terra. As long as you hold Him close to your heart, you will have place here, Icelos Mega. The only thing I ask of you is your loyalty, not to me but to the Emperor Himself. Now arise, and let us look each other in the eyes like equals."

<Marmaroth vs Draconion>

The Librarian found on the hangar deck, where he assessed the damage caused by the Eldar boarding party. Many servitors, under watchful eyes of their taskmasters went around the place, trying to fix what needed to be fixed. "Greetings Draconion," the Chaplain waved him over as a piece of broken Wraithguard was safely ferried away. "I didn't receive a report of you visiting the Apothecarion after the battle while I do remember those Eldar hurting you while we fought together. Something only Salamander's tenacity can heal, eh?" he smiled, his tone being quite friendly. "Also, I must say - you fight with great skill, something I haven't seen on many warriors of Adeptus Astartes. You give a great honor to whoever thought you swordplay."

<Marmaroth vs Sigismund>

The Knight indeed met the Chaplain in the chapel, the man busy with praying for men lost during this battle. After hearing Sigismund's words, he simply nodded. "You are free to send the report back to the Imperium, it is your choice of course and whatever we do here is no secret. Or at least, I don't want it to be. Now about the other thing...Sirius can be like that. He is utterly committed to not lose a man under his care, so he is quite capable of going the road some might look as dubious at best. But he would never intentionally corrupt you in the process. Also, if you try to perhaps condemn him in the eyes of others, remember that after all, he is in my service therefore be sure to mention me as well, since I will take all the blame for my men. Including you of course."

"As for purifying you, it'll be a process. I don't sense any taint on you, but the time spent in prayer can never hurt. Come, join me," the Chaplain said to him as he knelt down, focus shifted once more to continue communing with his Lord and Master.

*repairs*
as he was being repaired he was put to sleep for a few hours and as soon as he awoke he decided to open a vox "marmorath, i would like to talk to you in private if you have time"