@DeranVendar

He knew he was going to be the first.

As the metal boot of their new sergeant would come crashing down upon his back, Tiro would brace himself for the impact, only finding that the anticipation seemed to hamper none of the pain. It did however, further fuel the heated hate he nurtured in his heart, as he pushed himself up upon his arms, chest pounding, as he swallowed bile to get to the task at hand. To be frank, he found Kenemon to be a bastard, bearing none of the nobility that he'd heard filled the ranks of the Emperor's Angels, and was convinced his cybernetics had removed any form of human empathy and grace that should have been there. Since his arrival, he'd been shaved, beaten, berated, and thrown about like a sack of grain, a farcry from what he'd expected a noble from the line of Old Zeussar to deserve. Regardless, in the short time he'd been within The Crown, Tiro had become impressed beyond his wildest dreams, from what little he'd seen, yet also, his young blood, fired up with the shifting into manhood, was burning with impudence and the desire to be seen as more. It was a small boon to Tiro, that he'd noted his growth spurt, his impressive size already shifting to become even larger, so that he stood as the tallest among the other youths.

Regarding his fellow aspirants, Tiro was ambivalent of their stock, for most came either from the wilds of their primitive and less civilized brethren, the downright tribal forests of a land none would even want to posses, and worst of all, the islands of myth where savages ate their babes for want of survival. No, among these people, Tiro only relied upon his fellow man of Hermes, Alexander, the bigger frames of the boys a testament to their superior upbringing. For now, he played nice enough with the others, yet, at the end of the day, when push came to shove, Tiro knew only Alexander could be trusted.

Getting to his feet, his jaw clenched, and eyes narrowed, Tiro raised his boltgun, feeling it's reassuring weight in hand. Of all the development since his arrival, it hand been the exchange for his old autogun for a new weapon that he'd enjoyed the most. It had been only weeks, yet already he could name off all the components of the the weapon, and could clean and service the gun with an enthusiasm of one truly in his element. Feeling the weight of his magazine, Tiro would return to the practice of his old militia training, thankful that unlike some of these other folk, he had experience with firearms and their usage, before setting his sights on the targets before him. He pushed out the annoyance at Kenemon, the chill that ran through his body, the sounds of the echoing cavern around them, looking to focus entirely on his task at hand. Recalling the words of his uncle, he'd steady his breathing, until he released it and fire.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Two shots fired down range, each striking at their intended targets, the principles of aim thankfully translating well from autogun to bolter. His shoulder would ache at the shots, and the force of the gun kicking back, yet, the young man would merely grunt at the sensation, as he indeed was no simple weakling. As he paused in his firing, letting the moment hang, allowing for his aspirants to wonder if he'd heard the correct order, or forgotten his final shot. With a quick snap of his body, he'd twist his aim about, not down at the targets, but at an icy stalactite that hung above them. With another crack of his weapon, a bolt round impact against the base of the icy spear, letting it drop down in one fell motion, to stab into the head of one of his targets.

Turning around in what could only be described as a swaggering saunter, Tiro rested the boltgun's stock against his hip, before flashing his sergeant a sly smile, as he spoke in a dry tone.

"Iced that guy."

He waited for the inevitable reactions, knowing deep down, it was worth it.

​

No, THIS is a Guy​

"That was a target dummy. Not a guy, Initiate. You however are a guy. Hop the barrier and go stand out there."
Kenemon looks down at Tiro, expression flat and not just because most the skin on his face were artificial grafts. It stands out all the more considering his neatly trimmed 'Zappa' style facial hair. There were a lot of flat faces among the few trans-humans they had interacted with as of yet. The only ones that smiled were those who wore the rictus grins of skulls for helms... or were their heads actually stripped down? Spooky. Back to Tiro though, Sergeant does not give him much time to react, instead grabbing him by the collar and chucking both young man and his bolter over the waist height (for an Astartes) cold stone barrier and into the snows lightly sprinkled with scrap.

"I have had a change of heart. Expecting flawless accuracy out of every single one of you on day one is harsh even by the standards of the Adeptus Astartes." Sergeant scans them all visually, a false eye glinting as he seems to literally scan them. Same arm that tossed Tiro grabs bolt pistol, limb creaking thanks to the influences of the cold as he aims at the roof of their frozen cavern. "Watch carefully." He gets about three quarters through 'carefully' before firing. Bolt explodes the base of a stalagmite, spraying a large area with shards of ice coated stone that does a fine job mimicking a frag grenade. None of it reaches Tiro surprisingly. "There are roughly eighty three stalactites and stalagmites out there around Tiro. I want them thinned out, but only the ones close enough that they will spray our 'guy' out there. Try to kill him with the shrapnel." Kenemon looks up. "Tiro, try not to die." Aridan suddenly had a boot in his chest, kicking him upwards and towards a standing position. "Eight shots!" Alright, Tiro was testing himself against Aridan first, surely the noble could prevail over the backwoods simpleton! About three seconds after Aridan was up Kenemon placed his boot into Barron. "Six shots!" Oh, they were not firing one at a time, but Kenemon was turning it into a full squad exercise....

Aridan breathed heavily, steam coming out of his mouth, blurring more of his vision as he continued his ascent up the Crown. He had severely miscalculated how quickly he could make it up the mountain and now he was paying for it. The sun had already begun to lower itself over the horizon when a snowstorm picked up, and by his estimation, the young villager had only reached a little under the halfway point of the mountain. Worse, a snowstorm had picked up, catching him in the middle of the side of the massive peak. A rookie mistake; he should have camped at the base of the mountain and waited for dawn before climbing. Now, he had little choice as to continue on, even as the numbness began to set into his extremities.

In any other circumstances, Aridan would have turned around and gone back to the base of the mountain rather than risk losing a finger, a limb or worse. Yet, knowing that there was a refuge at the top, even one from legend, pushed him forward. The young villager remembered the advice the veteran woodsmen gave to all new members joining them "if the sun's going down, head home. Don't stop and don't look back." To get caught in the forest in the dark meant near certain death if refuge was near, and while his survival skills were adequate, a sanctuary was always preferable to the wilderness. So Aridan kept climbing, one hand reaching forward after the other in the darkening slopes, the flurry of white blocking vision past anything more than a few feet in front of him.

When the sky finally fell dark, Aridan kept climbing. When it grew so dark he couldn't actually see past his hands in front of him, Aridan kept climbing. When he first lost all feeling in his hands, then feet, then arms, then legs, Aridan kept climbing. When he realized he was probably going to die on this mountain and got nothing to lose, Aridan kept climbing. When his mind went blank, only concerned with taking the next step, Aridan kept climbing. Just as he thought he had spent the last of his strength, and he thought about all the disappointed friends and family back in the village, as well as his mother and brother, his hand gripped something too sharp and broad to be a natural formation.

The confusion snapped Aridan out of his morbid thoughts, and he moved his head side to side, brushing off some snow in order to see what it was. Steps, wider than any he had ever seen, greeted him. The young villager's eyes widened slightly at the evidence of the sky warriors, breaking the frost forming on his face. He was close, which meant that he might survive after all. Aridan would just have to convince them to let him into their fortress, maybe get some sustenance. What would seem an impossible task seemed simple in his cold, nearly frozen brain, and he pushed on, finding renewed energy in the midst of rekindled hope. The steps, though well kept, still required him to use all four of his limbs most of the time, given their size.

Strangely enough, the more steps he climbed, the more Aridan began to feel his limbs again. Muscles burned as he pushed himself past his limits, ever ascending the slopes. Soon he reached a plateau in his ascension, and the wind died a little in the midst of a source of light in front of him. The young villager approached the light and soon found a fire in the middle of the mountain's side. Any thought of caution got driven out by instincts for survival, and he quickly scurried as close to the fire as it was safe, warming himself up and using it dry his clothing. The lack of a fuel source might have bothered Aridan in another circumstance, but now he just felt grateful for the source of heat and light.

Aridan got out the last of his food: a piece of root good for chewing. Back home it was a snack at best, something to favor your saliva on the way to the woods or when you were hauling logs back home. Now it was a veritable feast for the hungry villager. He chewed a bit on it, letting the delicious juice soak his dry mouth, while getting out a piece of wood from his pack. Aridan had grabbed it back before he began climbing the Crown, and now he found himself glad. His water-skin had long been emptied during his climb, and would likely have frozen if it wasn't anyways. The young villager held the bark over the flame, allowing it to lick the insides of it until it turned charcoal black. Then he did his best to wash out the burnt bits out with snow before dumping more of the white substance into it. Once done Aridan spat the root, half-chewed, into the snow before gathering a few dry rocks near the fire, tossing them into it.

As the rocks heated up, Aridan would retrieve them with his survival knife and hatchet, carefully tossing them into the snow within the makeshift wooden bowl and watching it first melt, then boil. Raising the bowl, he took tiny sips of the root tea even as he stared into the fire, then past it as a figure approached. Tensing slightly, the young villager watched as the other figure also huddled near the fire, paying no heed to him. So, he contented with leaving his hatchet and knife nearby, continuing to sip his warm tea. The warmth from the drink quickly rushed through his body, refueling and warming him. Suddenly a loud thud caused him to spill the rest of his drink, and Aridan spun around with hatchet and knife in hand to see a block fall nearby. Noticing that the other figure also had his weapon ready, he cautiously made his way to the block, keeping an eye on the other newcomer as well.

Finding some sort of writing on it, Aridan picked one of them up before returning to his place by the fire. Opening the box, he found what looked to be individual packages. Ripping one open, the young villager was astonished to find food within. Stuffing the first bits into his mouth, the young villager than took a look at the other figure, before continuing eating at a slower, healthier pace. Suddenly yet another silhouette appeared, and the shape of it caused him to jump up with weapons in hand. The fur and shape of the hide on the person gave him a flashback of the dark one that chased him, and he almost moved when a booming voice appeared, making him choke on the bit of food still in his mouth. Turning, Aridan's face paled as one of the sky warriors of legend appeared, towering over them all. At the demi god's instruction, he went back to eating his food around the fire, growing warier as more human-like figures appeared. Then the sky warrior gathered them, and together they went into his legendary fortress.


___________________________


Moments like this made Aridan miss his woodsmen's axe.

They had spent a good few weeks within the sky warriors' fortress and still, Aridan found himself dumbstruck by the sheer size of it all. The legends did no favor in describing the halls of glory, covered in banners and braziers, torches and mysterious lights. Of course, that earned him more than few corrective blows from Sergeant Kenemon. Still, bruises would heal and muscle tiredness from the near constant training would recover in time, so Aridan gave not much thought to it. Indeed, one of the first time their Sergeant struck him was when the young villager, now initiate, gulped too long at his cybernetics. The next few times came whenever Aridan froze at the sight of an astartes, and thankfully he didn't end up with a permanent black eye before he learned to keep doing what Sergeant Kenemon ordered him to even when one of the Sergeant's battle brother happened by.

Now, in push up position, Aridan sweated nervously. He had never even seen something like the bolters they had been entrusted with a month or so before, and now they had been expected to fire it accurately into targets. It looked nothing like the las lock from their village, and the initiate didn't even know how to use that. Still, he did his best to pay attention to the proper rituals of maintenance and watched with some awe as Tiro managed to hit both of his targets with only two shots. Indeed, the other initiates seemed to have some advantages amongst the others. Tiro and Alexander took to the weapons training like goats to climbing, and thus Aridan couldn't help but be a bit envious of their upbringing. Still, just meant that he had to work harder.

The envy quickly went away as their Sergeant tossed Tiro over the barrier and into the firing range, before giving them a demonstration and new instructions. "Eight shots!" Caught up with his thoughts, Aridan found himself wholly unprepared for the kick that connected with his torso. Tossed up slightly before landing again, curled up in pain, he did his best to hold in his last meal before straggling onto his feet. "COME ON! I'LL BE IN A DREADNOUGHT BEFORE YOU GET UP!" The initiate raised his bolter up before aiming down the sights, hearing Barron next to him already firing. Doing his best to remember everything from breathing exercises to trigger discipline, he squeezed the trigger twice before he realized he had missed a few things.

First, Aridan had kept his bolter on automatic firing mode, rather than semi-auto mode. Thus instead of two individual shots coming out, ten bolts flew out of the barrel. He also failed to position the bolter to his shoulder, and with the Emperor's blessing did he managed to hold the weapon hard enough to not have it slam into and shatter his joint. Of course, this meant that the weapon's recoil went up, and while the first shot managed to come within two feet of his target, the rest went spectacularly wide; so while the first shot hit a stalagmite near Tiro, spraying him perhaps even a little too close, the rest went to the ceiling. A line of stalactites fell, each creeping closer to them until the last one managed to pelt the barrier in front of them with a few loose stones as it collided with the ground. Stunned, it took a moment before the young initiate to come to his sense and the embarrassment plus the anticipation of punishment to catch him. Hitting safety on in his weapon, he turned with his head down in shame to their Sergeant, bolter lowered and fully expected to get chucked out into the range next. "I-I'm sorry Sergeant Kenemon."

Charon had been silent with in the demonstration as he watched there instructions, His eyes giving off a cold look as he watched first Tiro take his shots, As he heard them them all to take shots at stalagmites around Tiro Charon was a slower one to the gun slowly first examining his bolter then almost talking to it wished himself and it luck in the shots that they were preparing to send out. Over his armor he kept the old pelt that kept him warm from the travels up here and still kept him warm as they did there training in this armor.

As he aimed down the site of his bolter he spotted Tiro and had his bolter trail up Aridan's shots inaccurate and going off due to him having the auto settings on and another initiates shots finding there marks more or less. Charon kept aim for a moment wondering if he should fire at stalgmites closets or farthest from him to splash him with there debris, He wo- Charon shook his head for a moment, No, likely like him he the other iniatie likely had no trust of him like he had no trust of them either, Maybe it was possible to earn some, A part of him deep down wondering if it would be worth it if they ever found out he was a witch then, that might lead to another knife in the back. "Hurry up witch blood" Kenamon said kicking Charon forward as he did to there shooter that seemed to be taking his time.

Taking aim he breathed and fire, in two shot bursts at stalagmites farthest away from trio stopping as he counted the fourth burst. one burst landing and causing a stalactite to shatter and rain around the left side another hitting two far around one stalagmite to only cause it to loosen but not break, the third burst hitting the stalagmite but only causing a whole one to fall, and the fourth and final one managing to hit a stalagmite further off course of the intial Tiro. "Eight shots out." Charon said.

"Shit."

Is all Tiro manages to say, before he impacts against the cold cavern floor, a loud thud and a grunt following. Due to what modicum of rifle discipline remained with him on his brief flight, he managed to come down while cushioning his bolter, and ensuring it didn't fire off from the impact. Rolling up into a sitting position, he quickly looks himself over, passing a hand along where he hurts most, wincing as he tries to figure out the work. Coming away from his cheek with some chilled blood, he figures he's been scraped up on both face, one knee, and his left arm, overall nothing to major, but stinging like a bitch in the cool air around him.

His head snaps up at the first shot fired from Kenemon, as for a brief moment he wondered if his words had earned him a summary execution. Eyes widened, as he throws himself flat against the ground, instinct driving him to take whatever meager cover he could from the incoming fire. It is only after the sergeant finishes speaking, that he figures out the new purpose of their firing exercise. Gritting his teeth, the young man would return to a cross legged sitting position, as he calmed the excited beating of his hearts, and tried to ease his mind. He was down range of a bunch of rookie shooters, some of whom hadn't used rifles more then they could count on their fingers. The weapons they were firing had the capability to simply pop him like a gore filled bubble, and to top it off, they would be dropping icicles down around him, hopefully not dropping any on his person.

Letting out a breath, his brow still furrowed, Tiro decides that so long as hes being used for training, he can do something productive, as he lays his bolter out infront of him. Pulling out his cleaning kit, as the shots fire off, and his comrades resume their training, the young man uses his time to field strip and perform some maintenance on his boltgun. Even with the imminent threat of a messy end, the lad is calmed by his fingers working over the mechanisms of the weapon, along with the familiar and repetitive drills needed to do the job laid out before him.​

The young boy shifted uneasily on his feet, the bolter in his hands still unfamiliar after weeks of such training. His awkwardness with the weapon had earned him entirely too many boots already, and Barron doubted this exercise would be any different. Indeed, the harsh treatment of his newfound commanders would prove to be a less bitter pill to swallow than the awkward hunk of machinery suddenly thrust in his hands.

Barron's life these days were shocking different from the life he'd lead just months, but an entire lifetime ago. It seemed that not a single moment went by where something new and breathtaking didn't creep silently from the looming shadows of his new home and sat, patiently, awaiting the boy's awed discovery. If he had the time for introspection, perhaps Barron would've taken the opportunity to examine the confusion he now felt, day in and day out, about where he stood on the spectrum of boys to men. But, not only was there no energy to spare on such frivolous thoughts, it also appeared that when in the company of Angels, the end of the road changed from the standards of maturity he once knew. There wasn't time for much thought at all, actually. He'd been eagar before to find his dear brother as he first stepped into these halls glorious, but that hope was quickly put down (painfully so) by both an intense schedule as well as the existence of helmets. It was obvious his plan for reuniting with his brother was flawed. Still, the boy was quietly glad that at least the anxiety of uncertainty was held at bay as well by the wave of fatigue that constantly nipped at his ankle like some stubbornly persistent pup.

But, at the end of the day, there were still (thankfully) tiny moments during the day reminiscent to the life he once led. He took his instruction and his beatings stoically and earnestly, like a child learning to till the first time. He hadn't imagined training to be this hard, of course--in fact, he doubted anyone could've imagined how harsh it all was--but it wasn't as if he had expected the whole experience to be easy, either. He woke up early, collapsed in bed late. His days were still non-stop, always something new to be done, another unfamiliar lesson to learn. All in all, Barron was glad that what he did was still honest work at the end of the day.

It was just pulling the trigger instead of swinging an axe is all, Barron reassured himself. Simple things.

Aiming, now. That's an entirely different animal.

Barron scrambled up from the ground, pushing the sharp ache from Kenemon's kick aside. The bolter felt odd as the boy jammed it into his shoulder the way he'd been drilled, quite painfully, to do. He barely managed to keep a wince from reaching his visage as he watched... Tiro? One of those aloof city slickers, anyways, bit off entirely more than he can chew, and paid for it with a skid across the cavern floor. Nonetheless, Barron had to admit he was both impressed by Tiro's cool reaction, and slightly regretful at having to subject his peer to his shooting momentarily. He didn't have high hopes for this. Still. Wasn't his fault that there was a human target out there. Six shots may have been a lot, but...

Things couldn't go THAT badly, right?

Right?

Surprisingly enough, it didn't. After an instant's panic and a general sense of immense helplessness as he raised his gun in preparation to actually fire the damn thing for the first time, Barron managed to line up a shot down the sights, and pull the trigger. He had tensed up as he pulled the trigger, the boy realized a moment too late, but thankfully the slight jerk wasn't enough to completely spoil the shot. Barron had been feeling better about the whole affair when a sudden explosion of automatic fire nearly knocked the gun out of his hands with a yelp, the boy recovering the fumble just in time to keep the weapon from becoming close acquaintances with the floor. Scary as that was, Barron was at least clever enough to know that stopping now (mostly to feel sorry about the who had fired those rounds) was not an option as he quickly raised his weapon again, and lined up the next shot.

This may have been a shitshow, but he sure as hell was gonna try and stay out of the mud.

The Forever Recruit​

Playing the part of stoic, fearless recruit was much easier attempted than successfully done. Instead of trying to dodge Tiro opted to sit down in the middle of the firing field, and despite his new brothers' best efforts to not get him killed the Initiate bled none the less. Thick skin and rapidly developing pain tolerance was put to the test as dozens of shards embedded themselves in Tiro. Admirable as his efforts were, he was not a space marine yet and thus the ability to shrug off things like shrapnel eluded him. By exercises end there were few patches of skin left unstained by blood, and Initiate was left hunched over his weapon in pain.

"I-I'm sor-"Aridan's mouth was closed before he could finish his apology, metal fingers pushing against lower jaw, a freezing cold cybernetic palm against his cheek and the wrist settled near his scalp. Giant hand easily encompassed most of the youngling's head just as easily as Kenemon could crush it.

"Do not apologize. Improve. Be plenty of opportunities to atone, Emperor knows." Kenemon releases Aridan and steps towards the barrier. "Tiro, maybe you really have earned bragging rights. You are by far one of the best Initiates I have had in a long time. Already about to help me make two more points. Keep it up Tiro, and I may just have them halt your aging so you can stay here as an Initiate with me forever." Sergeant lets the boy ruminate on that, voice too serious for it to be a joke like those made by his old trainers back in Hermes.

"Lesson one boys: Never show your enemy anything they do not need to see. This does not just include fortifications, guns, tanks, plans, forces, ecetera. It extends down to the very emotions on your face and in your body language. Cocky bastards make the enemy try harder, any real enemy that is worth our time anyways, you might scare off some renegade PDF or some shit eating feral worlders; but all arrogance does to ten thousand Orks is make them laugh and start doing real crazy things. You do not want that. More over, you do not want that when you are staring down ten thousand ugly whoresons like myself. Sure taunting your foe can make them do some stupid things, but you never want to motivate your enemy. You do not want to make martyrs, you do not want to taunt and tease, and you never want them to see doubt. When the enemy faces you? A Dawnbringer looks just like me. Like the Scout Captain, like our Chaplains, like Captain Kremnar, or our Chapter Master Diokletious: like he's an unstoppable, unfeeling killing machine and the absolute deadliest thing on the planet. One apex predator among a thousand all standing in formation and bearing down upon you."

Kenemon spoke in High Gothic. Their previous weeks of training had all been building a foundation for the real trials and lessons to be learned. Said build up involved gratuitous amounts of language study and hypno-therapy so that even Arrauth had a firm grasp on the Sergeant's words.

"In that case, Tiro is an excellent example of what to, and what not to do. His attitude got him thrown out into the firing range, and by the looks of it, torn the hell up. However his response to try and calm himself, know no fear, is entirely appropriate and what is expected. In the future though, I would not expose the inner workings of your gun to such debris. Great way to ruin a weapon that, currently, is worth more than you and your entire family's lives. Thusly, Tiro will be partaking in a special training regimen today while the rest of us conduct normal ritual. Squad, advance to the next firing range fifty paces to our immediate right. You will be practicing on mobile targets and I expect everyone to keep firing without any more pause than necessary to reload. I don't care if your arms actually fall off, use your tongue to pull the trigger and brace the gun with your knees. No stopping until you have each exhausted all your remaining ammunition. Now GO!" Kenemon saw them off with a stab of two fingers before rounding on Tiro.

"Sit tight boy. Going to round up the other Sergeants and their youths. Lick your wounds while you can, got another three or four demonstrations to survive."

@DeranVendar

Needless to say, Tiro was getting annoyed. His entire body was coated with a mixture of melting ice and freely flowing blood from Emperor knew how many cuts and slices from this fugging ice. Hissing curses would flow freely from his lips, as he set himself to the task of treating his wounds, ripping what meager tunic he'd been offered up, in order to wrap up the more notable examples. Trading the burning sensation of pain, for the chilling one of the air around him, the young man would be less then pleased with his comrade's display of firing ability. As his sergeant approached the barrier and addressed him, Tiro would meet the veiled threat of the transhuman with a roll of his eyes, before he continued to tamper with his boltgun, responding only with a dry, yet unimpressed few words.

"I didn't know you liked them young sergeant."

Yet, he would heed the lesson of the trainer with some interest, knowing there were quite a few things he could show off right now that didn't need to be seen. Apex Predator, he would grunt at the thought, pondering what kind of Apex Predator didn't show off it's own power? The Snow Lions of the mountain hunted with a strength and might that belied such cowardly motives of hiding, and the Raptors always let loose a shriek as they came down, a declaration of their lethal intent. Though he was not impudent, and courageous, enough to openly challenge Kenemon's statement, the young boy, assured in his own beliefs as youths tend to be, would instead stew on his own opinions. Let the others keep quiet and to themselves, when he attained the stature of Astartes, he would always treat his foes to a grand showing of what he was thinking.

The next point however, would cause him to pause, looking up at the transhuman as he spoke, some measure of disbelief on his visage. His gun before him, exposed to debris, in threat of being ruined? He stifled back a laugh at the thought, for what weapon of The God-Emperor's own choosing could be done in by the ice that even now melted against the metal of it's various mechanisms? As the sergeant ordered off the other boys, and commanded him to wait where he was, Tiro would with some effort, take the time to raise up his still bleeding forearm, before literally licking at the bloody wound. Spitting to his side, the boy would indeed stay waiting, still aching, still annoyed, as he grumbled to himself on the reasoning behind a field strip proving to risky to perform in the field.​