"All those souls extinguished" as he spoke the dreadnaught looked at marmorath "i would have done the same thing, i have before" with that he walked to stand next to the creature and watch the others
Standing on the bridge along with the rest of the squad, Sigismund listened intently to the chaplain's words. If only the Inquisition had been able to stop the malignancy before it had taken over the weak minds of Onpuku's leadership. His eyes stayed riveted to the planet as Angelfall's deadly payload danced closer and closer to the surface, eventually striking it and unleashing a titanic explosion that he swore he could feel even from orbit. So many innocent lives wasted because of the guilty few, but the Emperor would find his own, He always did. The knight felt sickened, filled with sadness, guilt and a hint of fear at not being able to stop the corruption before such measures had to be taken, though he reminded himself that by the time they arrived it was too late, the cancer had already grown too large for a mere killteam to root out. This was the only way to stop the Unholy Alliance from gaining an entire world of industry and minions to destroy the Imperium. It reminded him of what a priest once said to him: 'Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hatred, hatred leads to the suffering of His enemys. Feeling fear for a moment is but human, yet not forging it into anger and hatred against the enemy is weakness. Dwell not upon weak emotions and turn them into fury, into a weapon of the Emperor's divine justice!' Molten red colours played across his dusty armour, but he still kept starring into the fury that enveloped Onpuku, almost mesmerized by it. (Who sees the reference?)
~~ Sirius Jules ~~ "Just like Salinas..." Sirius commented to his comrades. "May at least the souls of the handful loyals not return this time to bring vengeance to those that did what had to be done. And may nobody befallen under such curse like my comrades did." The Apothecary sighed deeply. The events that murdered a squad of his chapter, plus brought the Grey Knights upon the world - twice, still in his mind. Especially since he was to go with them, but couldn't because he was moved to oversee new recruits and their ascensions to Astartes. "Let's hope the warp is done with feasting upon this poor world, so they truly can rest at the side of the Emperor, or at least be done and perish for their treason, rather than be further tormented by the entities of the warp." He clenched his fists. Feeling once again useless. If there would be something occurring in the future, he would be capable of doing nothing. Perhaps the deathwatch or his own chapter - especially given they are fleet-based - should learn of this so they could ensure nothing returns from that maw of death. OOC: This is total exception, so shhhh! Plus, I have no idea where the Apothecary is running around, his condition, etc. So if he isn't nearby => Vox; seeing the stuff from observational deck - deal with it.
<Feron> Standing before a massive viewing port Feron stills himself as his own heart slows to the numbness infesting his body like the wash of death spreading out below. Hands gently grasped together he has ignored medical treatment for now to watch. Billions of souls cry out for mercy, to the Emperor, to the Warp and every cold edge of space seeking some divine intervention. A billion more yet call for justices even as they drop like flies, yet neither group knows this is both one and the same. Flames of judgement have fallen on the wicked while those who would rot away under their whips and chains collapse to a merciful death that shall send fleeting traces of activity into the great sea, so many dead but a drop in the bucket for whatever lays beyond. Bowing his head a prayer was offered for those fallen whom might still retain a shed of decency, for those whom had no ploy in such machinations but instead were lead as sheep to a slaughter that even their shepherds nor hunters could have imagined. Lips drawn into a thin line while eyes sew themselves shut for a time the Salamander submits himself fully to the numb feeling locking away into his mind for introspection during such a moment of crisis and despair lest he find himself tempted into welcoming hands demanding some great show from him, something unbecoming of an Astartes; something dangerous to even their reinforced minds.
The destruction of Onpuku signaled the end of the mission. The Chaplain dismissed his team and went to the prison in order to extract the necessary information, after which he went into seclusion of his sanctum. Lord Commissar Straus was left in charge and he dealt with everything that required his attention, the native Armageddonian proved once again to match whatever was thrown at him. The rest were given their freedom as the "Angelfall" slipped into Warp. So ends the mission #3 and the intermission phase begins anew... It would take them at least a week to reach their next destination, the time which everyone spent on their own accord. Sirius, after being recovered from his comatose state, disappeared into the bowels of the ship, not to be seen for some time. Son of Guilliman busied himself with paying the price of his sins, getting lost into work of finding the thing he so desperately needed. Because of that, it fell to Gaius to take his old mantle once again, alongside his Narthecium, and show everyone that it was his Apothecary skill that made him eligible to join this crew. Investigator Lysander said his goodbyes to the team and departed, his reasons being that he was needed elsewhere. There was no bad blood between him and the Chaplain and they concluded the business in appropriate manner. Steinar was also the one who spent the time focused on himself, spending endless hours in the training cages, trying to further increase his skill... OOC feel free to chill, I'll probably start the next mission in couple of days during which I'll send you equipment choices etc
the dreadnaught remained in the apothicarian asleep where he could be moniterd by medical staff and awoken if anyone wanted to speak to him
[At the Burning of Onpuku II] Draconion comes to stand beside Feron, watching the planet burn in silent with an inscrutable expression on his face, the cyclonic flames reflected in his igneous eyes as he recalls the words of Keylarn of Ulthwe. "Tell me, Uncle," he says quietly, "Did you at any time see or hear any references to a rat of any sort while you were down there?" [En Route to Next Mission Theatre] In the bowels of the ship's forge, Draconion stands at the control lectern of a nano-lathe set up in a space he has claimed for his own private use, cordoned off by lengths of sacred shimenawa rope hung on and between pipes, staunchions and machinery. He watches intently as a sword blade - his sword blade, stripped of its fittings - hangs in the midst of a suspensor field while mechadendrites manoeuvre about the length of metal and crystal, spraying additional layers on in precisely-calculated patterns derived from his study of Eldar bladecrafting. Without the capacity - nor, indeed, the inclination - to mimic Eldar bone and crystal-singing, he had hit upon the idea of combining nano-printing to mimic the infinitely precise and elegant geometries that give Eldar constructs their remarkable strength-to-weight ratio, then harden and compact those layers with traditional hammer-forging upon the anvil. This is the fifth cycle of printing, and all has gone remarkably well so far. A momentary vertigo overtakes him as he zooms in on the work with his subtle senses, his eyes exploring the world of atoms and subatoms as they interact and coalesce into new and wonderous forms, his ears singing with the music of quark, boson and electron as they form the nigh-unbreakable bonds that give shape and substance to his enhanced blade. Using his gifts, he works the console to fine-tune the shaping of the fractal serrations - a vicious and functionally infinite row of cutting teeth smaller than the smallest natural subatomic particles he first observed on the edge of the Eldar Diresword, created for the express purpose of cutting through the energetic interactions holding matter and even energy in coherence. Satisfied that all is going well with the mostly-automated process by now, he takes leave of the nano-lathe and goes to the anvil in the middle of his private forge space. Upon it lies the separated plates of the outer shell of an Astartes power fist. Forged with feral styling, the ribbed and serrated plates suggestive of the spiked fur of lupine predators, while its fingers end in short, vicious claws, it appears to be sized for a very large Astartes indeed - much larger than its maker, at any rate. Picking up a blacksmiter's fuller, he manoeuvres a laser burner into place overhead on its articulated arm and, rapidly heating up a plate, begins to bang the final details into shape with patient, masterful strokes, repeating the process on each plate. A passage of some hours finds him standing at a high workbench, fitting together the components of a twin-core power field generator created from the cleansed spoils of war from the team's first mission. Plugging it in to a potentia coil, he tests the power field's viability. Finding it to his satisfaction, he fits it to the servo-armature - the mechanised skeleton of the power fist that give it both its shape and its immense strength - and rivets and welds the outer shell in place over it. The end result is an ambidextrous power fist with a decidedly Fenrisian styling, all knobbed knuckles and clawed fingertips. Slipping it on over his own fist, he plugs it into the potentia coil and triggers the power field. At once, a crackling nimbus of blue-violet lightning surrounds the fist, releasing a sharp odour of ozone into the air. Picking up a nugget of scrap adamantium, he effortlessly squeezes it to shapelessness in the grip of the weapon. Satisfied with his work, he turns off the power field and disconnects it from the power source. Leaving it on the work bench, he returns his attentions to the nano-lathe, where his sword blade is undergoing its seventh and final cycle of printing, leaving only the final cycle of hammerwork to be done. With a couple of hours to go, he turns his attention to the hilt and pommel laying before him, putting the finishing touches on the psy-reactive power field generator he built by overlaying reverse-engineered Eldar designs from the Banshee mask - designed to transmute psychic energy to physical forces - with a Sollex-Aegis template he had found in the ship's librarium, selecting it for its unparalleled compactness, efficiency and output.
The planet below mattered little to him. The amount of innocent lives being tossed into a inferno of rage, was irrelevant. Completely numb to any other feelings, a trait he never found within himself. Normally. The Blackshield barley made it off the Thunderhawk, tripping down to the floor right off the exit ramp. He was immediately rushed to the med-bay. Which required several servitors and help of others(who wants to be a bro?). For him, flashes of memories, reality, and pain followed. Each light he passed to the med-bay just caused more trauma then he already had suffered. As he was brought down to a flat surface, he saw the approaching Apothecary. "Take this damn armor off of me! Get me the Chaplain!" Icelos yelled. His ruined face, teeth, and tone made the humans quickly scatter, but the servitors were not frightened and made their way out. (@Colapse ) Nothing physical hurt him, just mental. Everything was a blur, only something were clear in his murky sick mind. He had never felt this way and wasn't sure what was real or not. Not even that figure in the corner...
OOC not Steinar After being treated, a group of Storm Troopers led the Blackshield towards where the Chaplain was located. They found him in his trophy room\armory, where the Flesh Tearer was in the middle of removing his Terminator armor, helped by an army of servitors. His aristocratic face looked as if it was carved out of stone, not a single emotion being visible of a man who just condemned millions of souls to oblivion. Although he did raise a brow at the approaching Blackshield. "Brother Icelos. How fared the trip to the surface?"
<Feron> Head bowed for a few seconds longer Feron at last looked to Draconion. "Can't say I did, there were a great many rats down there but amongst our own? Nothing noticeable or at all. Was a touch distracted down there anyways. " Shrugging his shoulders he turns his gaze back to the orange sheen washing over the port shield. "Remind me, you ever watch the death of a planet and everyone on it before Young Drake? Or has it been beyond your years till now? "
