<Feron>
"More than half bah! You've the walk of a trader from Skarokk with a spine of obsidian rammed up the back. " Snickering to himself as he snatched the locket from Draconion greedily, popping it open with a smirk. "A few particularly desperate, drunk or loose women on board? Might of needed to be all three knowing you. " Shaking his head he offered the keepsake back. "But go on, I suppose I'll let you try and one up me with the aid of progeny, only chance you've got so I'll play fair. " Waving him along the Salamander began pacing back toward a section of the Forge he had cordoned off with his armor and a few crates of supplies to form his own work cubicle. "Enlighten me so I don't fall asleep while I work. "

"Trader?! I am insulted, sirrah! The proud scion of a Tahken warrior house on my mother's side, I am! Only we nobs get the privilege of obsidian rods up the backside, I'll have you know!" replies Draconion in mock offence.

"As for the grandsons, well, as it turns out, being descended of nobility is not without its privileges. My grandfather Jubei Retsunosuke was without sons of his own, and I was his favourite grandson. He adopted me as his heir at the age of ten and intended me to take over as head of house Yamaryoku upon his passing. My recruitment by the Chapter put paid to that. It was a great honour, but it left him right where he started. So, the very night it was announced I had graduated to Scout cadre, the old man pulled some strings with Master Prebian, who gave me enough time to get married...and do the necessary."

Draconion chuckles at the memory.

"I gave grandfather - rest his soul - even more stress by refusing to marry the daughter of one his vassals that he'd lined up for me. I think my comments on inbreeding didn't go down too well, either. Instead, I insisted on a girl I'd grown up with in Epimethus - we'd spent the summers sailing and fishing in the bay and cutting purses on the docks. Emperor knows, I was nervous that night - never mind that I was a grown man of fifteen. Thank the Emperor for the good Captain M'hor'gan. Granted, we had a month to make sure - Master Prebian was generous. "

Draconion's eyes stare off into the distance as he recalls some long-distant memory.

"Eliana'a...proper Epimethean shipwife, that girl. Climbed like a monkey, swore like a pirate, haggled and pinched pennies like a merchant. She bore me twins - a son and a daughter. I saw them both once and her only one last time - on her deathbed at the ripe old age of eighty-nine. She'd refused all aid from my grandfather and raised the two children by herself, sending them off to Kiamat when they came of age. Remained sharp to her dying day - took one look at me and commented I'd gained weight, then spitefully died on me so she'd have the last word. Emperor bless her, but she did a fantastic job. Eraklion and Tatsumaru were both young children then, but already apprenticed to the Chapter. As it turned out, they both passed Novitiate and made full battle-brother just before I took the Deathwatch black. Eraklion has a way with machines and was earmarked for apprenticeship to the Forge, while Tatsumaru has the Gift. So there you have it - the full, sordid family history of yours truly. "

Draconion concludes his story with a laugh.

"So, what are these mysterious projects you have lined up, Uncle? You know I'm going to bother you till you spill, so you might as well spill now."

<Feron>
Listening along Feron shared in what laughter came, picking up on everything even as he seemed to be deep in the midst of assembling a rather delicate firing mechanism. "Prebian, Emperor rest his soul that was a kindness I don't think any of us would remember after the runs across black trenches. Must admit I'm a tinge jealous of you, don't believe I've gotten to meet any of my own spawn if they are out there, bastard here or there who knows if the line carried on. " Going still for a moment his eyes narrowed and tongue pushed from the corner of his mouth as he turned over his current project. His hands dwarfed it by a fair degree but he maintained a gentle grip as if it were vulnerable flesh beneath his finger tips. With a sigh that very well could of been relief he set it down off to the side and pulled over two different parchments, one was rolled up and passed toward the Librarian, the second was unfurled and stretched wide for reference: The inner workings of an Inferno Pistol. "This here is something our Captain requested after our the incident on Sombor, progress was admittedly slow going until our last trip through the warp. Didn't feel like doing much after we exterminated that world so I finally got around getting my sketches down, cross-referencing with data archives and of course actually molding the parts. As for what I just gave you? Plans for a bit of workmanship I've wanted to do for a long time, but held off until I had commanded something greater than just a skirmish or ambush. No mere raid on an Ork encampment or cleaning of a hab but a proper major assault. "

Within that second roll were the schematics for a helmet. Specifically one to be built from whatever remained of the warrior's previous one judging by a smaller drawing of a damaged one that fit in line with the condition of piece sitting only a few feet away on an armor trolly. The newer design was fashioned into a Gorladon's skull, surprise surprise. Three curved horns protruded from the stretch of forehead, set against the flaring back crest that made the creature so distinct, while the mouth grille was protected by a beak like overhang. The eye lenses were stretched a bit though in such a fashion it wouldn't hinder vision in any sense of the word. It was a touch ornate for one who had so often kept things simple yet the bestial visage wasn't gaudy with the only real embellishment being linked to a number of scratched out writings that appeared to be meant as engravings on the horns.

"So be it", Amraphel responded, the finality in his words evident. I will not try to change your opinion for that is pointless, but heed my following words, for your sake: You don't want to follow Marmaroth, then don't, but tell him that openly. Seek him out and tell him that you won't follow him. And while you're on the way, please don't try something stupid for the sake of glory. Im am sure charging into the reactor room, sword held high, while being shot to pieces might sound heroic, but it would be such a waste."
That being said Amraphel turned arround and left.

<Uriel don't read the following stuff plis>
Amraphel had learned his lesson from the last fool who tried to stop their journey. He quietly entered a dark maintenance corridor and sat their waiting. He would wait and observe and stop the blood claw, if Steinar tried something. They couldn't afford further interruptions.

"Master Prebian...now there was a paragon of hard within soft, and soft within hard, if ever there was one," replies Draconion, nodding in agreement as he studies the Inferno pistol schematics, "Grandfather was a great admirer and friend of his. I've lost count of the number of times he'd stop by for tea and chess under the eaves during the rains. He was an old sadist, no doubt about that - the volcano trench runs should say it all. But he knew when and how to be kind as well as cruel, and nobody could teach man to man combat like he could."

His mouth quirks in a sly smile and he nudges Feron with his foot.

"I'd have figured you for a sower of wild oats, you old pirate, you. I'm sure you have a great squalling gaggle of spawn floating about out there. Who knows? You might have singlehandedly filled a demicompany in the Chapter by now."

Turning to the helmet schematics, Draconion turns it about in his hands to study it from multiple angles, nodding in approval.

"So you do have ambitions towards command, after all!" he crows triumphantly, "I knew it! The old dragon stirs at last and shakes the dust from his scales. I have to say this is a nice piece - reminiscent of Heresy-era dragonhelms. The aesthetics of the natural bone plating makes it very easy to build reinforcement into the design itself, to say nothing of extra features."

Rolling up the diagram and setting it reverently aside on a draughtsman's easel, Draconion picks up a pair of tweezers for fine work and brandishes them, evidently set on aiding Feron, will he or nil he.

"Tell you what, Force Commander. Let me help you finish that Inferno pistol. Then we can come to my corner of the forge and get started on your mark of rank. I have some ideas already for nifty features for that helmet. For one, those horns and enlarged lenses can definitely accommodate an expanded commander's C3 suite - we can give you almost enough comms and auspex gear to be a walking Damocles Rhino.

Secondly, that mouth is just space begging for a weapon installation...I have extensive notes on Striking Scorpion weapon systems that I think you'll be very interested to see, and, speaking from personal experience, being able to spit more than saliva in someone's face from a posture of locked steel is very, very handy indeed.

Thirdly, if we lathe that helmet as one solid piece, starting from a tensegral framework, I estimate we can optimise the geometry and make it at least thirty percent stronger and lighter than if we were to simply bang it together by hand, or even by machine press."

He clicks the tweezers together for emphasis.

"So - game?"

<Steinar Greywold>

"You don't know your own commander. He already knows. As for trying anything. I am not one who operates in the shadows, that also you should easily know by now. If I was to stop you, I would do it with blade in hand, not like some sneaky Raven, such as brother Icelos is." Steinar said before Amraphel left, shaking his head in the lack of perception of the oh-so-old warrior. Skilled in combat, but little else. And so he remained seated on his bed.

"Fighting beside you was as much a lie as Sombor, Onpuku or the battle at the keep, yes we fought heretics, but on Sombor we gave Aspin the perfect opportunity to kill the govouner. On Onpuku we exterminated the entire planet, during the battle we lost hundreds if not thousands of men and yet the enemy still manifested a greater daemon. What have we actually achieved?"

OOC: Sorry for the long wait, nodded off and then got caught up with RL duties.

<Feron>
"Lets make it so then, this doesn't leave either of us or Angelous there though understood? From what I recall this is meant to be a gift for another as is. " Using a thin nosed marker he reinforces the outline of what appears to be the conversion chamber. "There you can play around with the part most likely to blow up in our faces, I'm sure a little bit of ashen color on that mug of yours might be an improvement. " Giving his foot a firmer nudge back the Salamander rises making for the heated furnace like workings nearby. "Going to get the chamber all spooled up while you deal with that. Now then as for the walking tank you wish to make of my head I'm fond of most those ideas though I might have to pass on maw mounted weaponry. Rather not be carrying extra ammunition stores so close to my head when I'm supposed to be protecting it. " Pulling out a pair of tongs a rather dense piece of plasteel was put forth into the flames for heating. "Very much approve of the C3 Suite, though that would best wait until I saw how the updated armor withstood full combat. Rather not have to sit there dawdling around with the systems after every engagement to be honest. "

It was comforting there in the forge. Despite the darkness that had swept over most the ship he wasn't having an ounce of trouble seeing, at least not where it mattered. The roaring flames of the furnace left them with the outlines of Ignean cave dwellers toiling before an unearthed lava spout. It threw his various ritual branding marks into a much clearer light as if he were part ghost fading in and out during his craft, a man who had never left the forge. "I'm sure you're probably at least a bit curious about the change of heart then? Or did you expect this all along? I'll bore you either way with my rambling as a warning. " The Angelfall certainly was an admirable beast, even with gutted power the forge was still working better than most he had encountered rivaled only by those of Nocturne or the Chalice of Fire itself. "Always was a bit hesitant about the mantle of proper command, for several hundred years I looked amongst my Brothers and always feared the idea of being called upon to send them to their deaths. Even if we may only see a single warrior fall for ten in any other Chapter it was still the daunting thought. As I aged further and further I'm not sure if I just became a bit more jaded or desensitized to it but perhaps it was just a sort of confidence with so much locked up in the mind here. " Tapping his forehead as he drew back the tongs Feron meandered on over to a vice to lock in the holder while he began curling back the softened metal as easily as another might mold clay. "At this stage Draconion I'm one of the oldest members of our chapter, to have survived this long I take a certain pride in. In my more youthful endeavors I only imagined reaching this sort of stage interred in a Dreadnought. " His finger nail deftly rimmed the edge of the barrel sacrificing a bit of his finger to make sure it was as smooth as his finger nail would allow.

"Now that we're here in whatever sort of force you might call us I've a feeling any further engagements might fall into my hands as well. Not to say I'm the only one here capable of it, Dorallius is a fine commander I'd gladly follow if asked, I've yet to get a bead on how the Chaplain might handle leading an in-combat force but if he has been able to draw together an undertaking such as this to begin with I'd be remiss to think him incompetent. So here we are, not quite renegades, not quite 'loyalist' either. Not the sorta force I'd ever envision having some possible responsibility over but so long as we're fighting for the people we've always stood for I'll hold my peace and keep on. " At some point he just got lost in a monologue to himself, as if he were sitting within a Chapel for reflection. In a way he was for a great many of his battle brothers had always found solace in the works of the Forge, where the uncertain was made tangible in real works molded by hand, where idle bodies found a new duty and where one might think to themselves freely, focused by the attentions required of their craft.

"Oh, I don't know, Uncle - I rather think you're looking a little pale for a son of Vulkan. A little extra blackening would make you that much more fetching," banters Draconion breezily as he settles down at a high workbench, standing up so he can change levels as needed more easily, as his tinkerman father had taught him during the halcyon years in Epimethus. Eschewing a magnifying lens, he instead uses his subtle senses to expand his perceptions, seeing every semiconductor, every gold and silver filigree, every resistor on the master circuitboard of the conversion chamber.

Thinking back, he muses - not for the first time - that his talent had probably manifested at a much earlier age than anyone had realised, just in so subtle a way that everyone had completely failed to notice until its more pyrotechnic aspects manifested in spectacular fashion at the Third Battle of Commorragh more than half a century later. As a child, he had merely demonstrated an eerie affinity for even the most complex of technological devices, able to spot even the most invisible of faults and unerringly able to solder the smallest and most hideously complex of components together on the first try. He had also been brilliant at finding keys and loose change rolled under the carpet or slipped between sofa cushions.

Holding the circuit board delicately with the fine tweezers, he reaches down with a micron-scale soldering tool, applying solder with precise, practiced movements, following Feron's diagram to the letter. Testing the circuitry for conductivity and functionality, he satisfies himself as to its quality before encasing it in a heatproofed capsule, which he then plugs into its socket at the rear of the conversion chamber - the most critical part of a melta weapon, which compresses the pyrum fuel to critical mass, inducing the self-propagating fission reaction responsible for the short-ranged stream of armour-melting plasma projected upon trigger pull.

As he works, he lends an ear to Feron's thoughts, listening in companionable silence as the ancient unburdens himself. He takes his time to reply, letting a few minutes go by while he zooms his vision in closer, inspecting the conversion chamber for microscopic defects that might indeed cause it to blow up in his face, before speaking up.

"It has been said that while mediocre men grasp for greatness, exceptional men have it thrust upon them. I believe Ravenor repeated that sentiment several times in his Spheres of Longing. I would add an addendum - the greatest of all realise when they are the most fit for the burden, and so seek it out, not as a reward, but an onerous duty."

He turns to face Feron, leaning an elbow on the workbench behind himself.

"Think of it this way, Uncle - you were already well on your way to your third service stud when Lord Tu'shan was in diapers. You have survived not far short of a millennium on the bloodiest battlefields known to mankind, and won on a good number of them. If survival and victory are habits, it could be argued that, at this stage in your life, it is practically your duty to communicate that habit to those lacking your wealth of experience."

Reaching over, he places a hand on the older man's shoulder.

"For what it's worth, you have my backing for permanent appointment to Force Commander on this campaign. Brother Dorallius is a fine commander, no doubt, but no one here concentrates so much distilled experience into one brain like you do. If I may counsel, make Dorallius your leading sergeant - he seems perfectly suited to the role. And when we return to the Chapter, know that you have my vote for any appointment to command. I would march into the Eye itself under a captain like you."

<Feron>
"I'd not be inclined to call such a campaign unless Vulkan himself had returned to us. For all that it matters I doubt we'll be returning to our Chapter as anything short of recovering all four remaining artifacts. " With the barrel fully cooled through aid of a simple looking coolant unit Feron preps a container of heating gel that once formed would aid in making the weapon that much more resistant to the sub-atomic heating of its own design. "I appreciate the sentiment none the less and I frankly wouldn't want to undertake such a trip without a trained mind like your own at hand. A strong sort of fire in you, tempered but only just. Really though you make a fine point and if it were allowed? I think I'd like to apply for the Tenth, plot into the rotation of Scout Sergeants. " Slowly lathering up the innards of the barrel he sees to it that distribution is even and smooth with the trained hand and skill that came with centuries of experience. "Tell me though, what do you think of all that has transpired these past few days? I've bared a part of my own thoughts so figure it would be fair if you're up to that sort of vulnerability. "