Commander's pet.

Barron found his jaw setting in an annoyingly familiar way as he listened to Kenemon's words, eyes glancing over to the boy on the ground. Seemed he could stand to mouth off some more. His Olympian Peer's persistent snark and arrogance both impressed and exasperated the boy. City folks just don't get it. Surely there was a better way of proving one's self without being an ass?

Or, perhaps there wasn't. The day was young yet, and Barron had no doubts he would soon bear witness to many more scenarios more improbable than this one.

Even then, with the bitter taste of jealousy lingering on his tongue, Barron realized he'd felt better than he had in days. That spark of competition had returned, unobscured by the haze of exhaustion or confusion, and his thoughts were suddenly thrust back to the simple days of his childhood: a pleasant time, shared with his brother, when the words "anything you can do, I can do better" seemed less like a childish taunt, and more like a serious command, pushing Barron to do better and better.

Barron choked back a wolfish grin as the orders finished, Tiro's aside included, and he hefted his bolter up once more with aching arms and a newfound well of determination. He was used to being the runt, after all, and patience was a virtue the good God-Emperor had the graces to bless him with. It may take time, but Barron knew he'd be the one in Tiro's place one day, albeit hopefully with a little less blood (of his own, at least). Who knows. Maybe he'll even grow a little taller.

Commander's Pet​

"Course I like em young and tender, chews easy." Kenemon spoke without a hint of irony. Soon enough a small crowd of wide eyed initiates had gathered. Reactions were appropriately mixed to the sight of Tiro, bloodied and lapping at himself like an animal. Disdain and jeering looks or smirks from his fellow Olympian descendants, Zeussinites grimaced or smirked at seeing one of the city folk brought low, while Qurians and Islanders looked like it was business as usual. Another Olympian initiate opened his mouth to laugh, the familiar smack of a bolter casing slapping against skin cuts it short, gagging follows before the boy spits up a tooth knocked loose by the blow. Bolters were racked and raised with varying levels of challenge, and Kenemon stepped aside to open up the range, Tiro once more left on the cave floor to endure the next barrage. All the while the rest of Squad Kenemon rips into Servitors wandering aimlessly about the neighboring range, hard pressed to say if the lack of attention is insulting or relieving.

Welcome (back) to the Jungle​

Barron's wish had come true. Three years had passed since the fated aspirants had reached the fortress monastery, and they had all grown immensely. At a mere thirteen summers each one was the equal of any full grown man, granted Barron remained the shortest among them, but such was the Emperor's will apparently. For all that had changed within and upon them, very little of their surroundings had changed. None of them had ever been deeper than the most superficial parts of the Torch of Atlos, having yet to even see the Armory. Most their time was balanced between the various training fields built in cored out caverns, their own spartan barracks similarly carved from the stones of the mountain, the Reclusiam where Temperer Agenar stood ready to both judge and support their spiritual development, and finally curt trips to the heart of the fortress where the Apothecarium and its lord Chief Apothecary Anaviosi oversaw their transformation into space marines.

For many their training was not entirely as expected. While the ways of the Astartes were secret to the common man only a fool would expect their transformation to be an over night process. Work was constant and as appropriate their status, never ending. They must be educated in the arts of war and the history of the Chapter, astonishingly short as it was, and extreme physical development honed so that they were more than glorified Ogryns, as Kenemon so often put it. Day in and day out blades were sharpened, dulled, and sharpened again. Their bolters became dearest weapon and companion, and by now they had seen multiple different weapons cycle through their care. All the while the familiar faces of the Scout Sergeants, and once in a blue moon the stern Captain Akar himself, peered over every shoulder and filled each ear. For the first time in a long time, those same voices were ordering them to form up for departure.

Thunderhawk's hold was a spacious affair for the recruits. Three Astartes and twenty seven Initiates barely dented the craft's carrying capacity, able to store the same number in full grown battle brothers encased in power armor or heavier plate. Current destination was the fern green ring of dense jungle that circled Zeussar's central land locked sea. Late into the journey all three Scout Sergeants assembled at the head of the hold, standing before the couched youths.

"Three years ago all of you arrived at the Torch of Atlos, freezing, half-dead, starving, and probably expecting something more exciting than endless firing drills, sparring, and studies. I am of mixed feeling to announce that the latter group will be getting their wish today. You will all be undergoing your second great trial: a journey into the Quriq and its deepest recesses on a data retrieval mission in the very same cities that some of your ancestors originated from." First to speak was Sergeant Javeran, a man known for his seeming ability to be everywhere and nowhere at once and the most draconian disciplinary any of them had ever encountered. His deadpan made Kenemon's rare snarl look friendly. Speaking of, our (possible) heroes' own Sergeant began speaking next.

"As all of you should know the ruins are densely populated by the fiends we refer to as Wendigo. Several warp sensitive monitors and a web of surveillance units have been helping researchers in Khaz Thrane study the situation and the Wendigo themselves. The lot of you will be broken up into your individual squads and deployed at the Quriq's edge. From there you trek into the actual jungle and infiltrate the city. Each squad will have a designated sector to cover, advancing towards the various apparatus and downloading the most recent findings while also uploading new measurement parameters and resetting the old. Any questions?"

@DeranVendar

"Look sergeant, I only need to know one thing...."

Within the close confines of their aircraft transport, a voice, louder, and deeper then what it had once been, would sound out among the initiates. Standing up from the grouping of the other relative youths, Tiro would fundamentally resemble the boy he'd been, yet cast in another lens, as the workings of the Chapter's apothecaries already made themselves know upon his figure. Like most of the others, the young man was in the full grip of adolescence, his body having grown into something more suitable for The Emperor's Wars, muscles enlarged, frame taller, and his overall body only further pushed into manhood by the medical treatments he was undergoing. It was a thing of almost childish vanity, that Tiro had taken pride in his growth, as he now stood as the tallest among his brothers. Truly, the blood of The Old World ran strong in him, as throughout these past years, his constitution and strength, constantly put to the test, would only thrive under these intense conditions. Tiro had a drive, a passion, for seeking to push himself to his physical limits, and an attitude that still reflected his impudence, only empowered further by the hot sensation of youth that ran through him. When he wasn't training, he was practicing his bolter drills, and when he wasn't practicing his bolter drills, he was working out, a tireless, ravenous hunger to be the best soldier, to be placed at the head of his peers. Indeed, it was a drive he'd seen in many of the eyes of his fellow city born nobility, for theirs was a destiny made to lead, to excel, and it would only serve to further prove their mettle.

With this said however, it had been a long three years, a grueling process of elimination and stress that had seen the young man tested in a variety of ways, beyond just the physical. While he proved to be strong, he was never swift, and while good with a bolter, he found himself lacking the finesse needed for great swordplay. His ability to seemingly absorb technical information had not translated as well over to his actual studies, and if his crude manner of thought was a credit to anything, it was that his own philosophies and growth in wisdom remained a distant goal at best. Here, he would have to admit, he had come to rely on his comrades, those other boys who he'd been thrown together with. It had been difficult at first, taking so many backgrounds and meshing them together, but, even at their lowest point, misery loved company it would seem. He might not particularly enjoy the company of his brothers just yet, but at his core, he could respect them, and at the end of the day this would matter the most.

Now, standing here, fully outfitted for the dangers that awaited them in the jungle, Tiro would be prepared. He'd done the readings on the environment, on the fauna and deadly creatures that dwelt within. He'd gone over, somewhat begrudgingly with his team, the objectives they would have to complete, if they were to be successful in this major trial. He'd listened, as his compatriots spoke of the Wendigos, a near mythical being he himself had the pleasure of never confronting, in hushed tones, learning of the threat to them. It would be with all this information in mind, that Tiro would speak, letting all know just what he thought of this, the jungle, the mission, even the lethal, and bloodthirsty Wendigos most of all.

"Where. They. Are."

The smirk upon his face would be matched in it's amusement, only by the intensity of his eyes. Tiro was getting ready to battle, and no matter how mythical, or legendary their foe would be, if it bleeds, he would kill it.​

@DeranVendar

Over the past three years Charon would be surviving and training in physical training until one day he was pulled away from his brothers for a separate training, Taken by a marine in blue armor by the name Maxson, A librarian of the chapter that took Charon away to train him in mental training of a librarian, Apparently the chapter had a place for his kind a special roll that peaked Charon's interest, Others of his kinda having a purpose and role to fill and scorned less about there power.

As time went on Charon would even grow to trust Masxon and even the others in his squad a bit more though Charon still was reluctant to show his squad mates any of his special training, Part of Kenamon's training stuck to him, Show them nothing, and if he didn't need to show it he would not to the others. As Charon grew in both body in mind he would find himself be able to block out the voices or keep them at bay that had once haunted him in a different life.

Learning in training physically and mentally he would find himself training many days in the training cages against other initiates or training servitors learning how to use many different types of blades and melee weaponry even at one time a staff that he almost became accustomed to before it being swapped out with a odder more exotic weapon of a scythe.

Then the teachings of history, He would learn what little he was told was told by the chapters chaplains and Librarian Maxson of the rise of the Imperium during the great crusade and the disaster of the Horus hersey, learning of the chapters primarch Guilliman a son of a figure called the emperor one if not most important Person? God? in the imperium.

Charon would find himself at odds once asking the Temper Agenar about him and him telling him that the Emporer was a man that created them and the entire imperium, Though when Charon asked another Sergeant about him he spoke of him as a god like figure, Maxson on the whole deal seemed neutral telling Charon to believe what he wanted to about the emperor. As there was more important training and learning to be done besides questions on ones divinity.

As the thunder hawk shook Charon would be brought back to reality being the near the back besides there smallest of the squad Barron, Trio's boasting bringing him back to reality of there next mission something that with most of his training and skills and possibly with the help of his squad mates they would all walk away from to live another day.

Charon's gut turned as he heard the mention of Wendigo, He had heard many tales of them and learned bits about them from Maxson about these creatures something nasty that would likely be after them all. Charon kept to his bolt gun glad he had become accustomed and used to it now the device he became intimately with over the many years of training.

Charon stood up as he heard the time was questioning was now, taller then Barron but not more muscle bound them him Charon stood beside Trio only a bit shorter then him and just a bit less muscle bound, The former islander looked on to there sergeant a few questions in mind less prideful then Trio.

"A few Sergeant, when we reach these Devices, What will we be using to download the information and upload the new measurements, Will be able to contact the other squads in the other sectors? are there any other dangers we may meet within the ruins? and is there anything else you can tell us that will help us on this mission?" Charon asked his questions and looked to the sergeant a part of him wondering if he would be following the things he taught them in training to not show everything at once and show only what you need to, It was possible there was and they would likely meet a few surprises along the way of there mission.

Good God-Emperor, what would it take to shut Tiro up?

The Olympian's words, as always, prompted an immediate inward sigh of exasperation from Barron, though he'd long since learned to keep it to himself. Three whole years, and the city slicker's holier-than-thou spirit hadn't faded one bit. Something to be said about persistence, if nothing else. Or maybe he was just that thick. Either way, three years was a lot of time for Barron to come to terms with, accept, and rapidly lose interest in the Olympians personal going-abouts. He respected and admired (some aspects) of his brother in arms, sure, but he suspected that paying attention to the boy's attitude for too long at a time killed entirely too many brain cells. A disappointment, really. The faint hint of a rivalry Barron had once harbored hopes for had long since extinguished as the boy realized the pair's unignorable differences: The two had the same drive to excel and improve, sure, but even at a glance it was obvious that the two had focused their energies entirely differently.

Where other lads stood tall and toned, bolter clutched in hand as naturally as an extension of their frame, the firearm had never fit quite right at Barron's side. Despite the boy's efforts and dedication towards improving his technique, his time spent at the firing range had only brought Barron to the middle of the pack. Alas, the Good God-Emperor had not graced this one with the gift of accuracy (though, recently his groupings had improved enough that Barron would be willing to go out on a limb and proclaim himself precise). But, thankfully, when the God-Emperor closes the door, He opens a window: whatever natural talent Barron's trigger finger sadly lacked was made up for in his skill with the sword. Just as in his life before, Barron found himself entirely more comfortable when the subject at hand was the martial arts, and while other boys hid away behind their mountain of spent shells at the firing range, Barron studied the blade, slowly proving himself to be more than capable when combat came down to the wire. Even now, as the initiates faced their trail, the boy's faith would not stand entirely with the bolter in hand, but with the knife at his side. Perhaps it was a naive sentiment, but to be able to feel what one accomplishes with his hands was entirely more satisfying than simply pulling a trigger.

Barron still found it hard to let go of little things like that.

Three whole years had proved entirely enough time for the boy to step away from the ways of the old, and to grow into the place he now held in the God-Emperor's ranks. Their training was excruciating, yes. Designed to rip their very foundations out and start anew. In the past months, Barron found himself ground down daily by drills, wounds, exhaustion, and even his peers. Each grueling step forward required ten steps back first. To build something better than humanity from mere mortal flesh, it seemed, their very mortality had to be beaten out of them. To hone their minds, their thoughts, and their bodies to become perfect weapons of the God-Emperor's arsenal... And yet, the warmth had never quite gone from Barron's eyes the way he'd seen it disappear from some of his peers', replaced by a hardened gaze of solid steel. Maybe he was too sentimental.

Sometimes, Barron feared that he was wrong, defective somehow, that somewhere along the line he'd failed to mature and forget his childish ways the way the others had, that perhaps he'd missed something important. Maybe he hadn't been prepared to leave mortality behind yet, to abandon his humanity. There are times when Barron can't help but quietly question himself, but it never gets far. The day always begins anew, and those doubts and worries are shoved aside for yet another lesson on tactics, strategy, geography... Life goes on. Day by day.

Here and now, however, the boy felt sure of himself. The lush greenery that once may have reminded Barron of "home" now only evoked images of the creatures that prowled within its depths. Objective knowledge. Obstacles to overcome. A task to complete. He was familiar with the quest, of course--the same scenario had already been discussed and dissected a thousand times during their studies on strategy and tactics. It was a simple matter, but the promise of Wendigoes would pique the boy's interest. No one from the village had ever quite agreed on what the appropriations entirely were: beasts? Men? Beastmen? The only thing that had ever been clear about them was that they were an obvious affront to the God-Emperor's glory, though neither Barron nor Ikitaros had ever dared dream that they would one day meet one as it's equal in strength and lethality. A hint of excitement arose in Barron now as he watched the sprawling jungle eagerly, the promise of the challenge quietly thrilling the boy. He trusted himself. He trusted his training. He trusted the boys (men?) that stood with him now. He trusted that the God-Emperor would guide their path and lead them one step closer to their goal, and that was all he needed. Though he hadn't quite found him yet, Barron would stand his ground, and make his brother proud--wherever he was.

Aridan kept quiet for most of the trip, though he paid attention to all the questions asked as well as the briefing from their Sergeant.

Aridan had kept the words of Sergeant Kenemon close to heart after the mishap with the bolter, and began training in earnest with his brothers. Unlike his brothers' unknown reasons, he didn't trained with glory or fame in mind, nor in competition with the others, though he had no doubt the full pledged brothers of the chapter observed him and his progress to match upon the other aspirants. No, the young ex-villager from Zeussar's mountains trained so that he wouldn't let his comrades down, so he wouldn't let his Sergeant down, so he wouldn't let himself down. Whatever little free time the young boys got, most could see him practicing the latest drills, exercises, and training taught to them over and over again, like a machine.

Aridan had taken upon different parts of the training the last three years differently, like all the others around him. Some came easier, such as rappelling, breaching and close quarters combat (at least when they put an axe in his hands), while others not so much, such as shooting, piloting and ritual maintenances with the machine spirits. Still, the young initiate would continually practice those that he fell behind in so that even their overseers would consider his adaptability and persistence impressive as he honed his skill, as well as push those that had already come naturally to him. He quickly rose to be considered one of the more adept of the future astartes, though never standing out in any particular fashion, blending in with the upper echelon yet remaining relatively unknown.

A jack of all trades, perhaps.

Shifting, Aridan felt the stretch of skin and scars from the latest trip to the apothecarion. Over the course of the last few years, he and his comrades had new organs placed within them, or so they were told. Most of the trips to the interior of the mountain had been blurred memories, barely any difference between the more familiar decorated hallways of the fortress. Yet a single thing always bothered him. Opening his eyes wider, the initiate glanced quickly over at the dark corners of the thunderhawk, as though double checking the empty darkness.

A year ago, as they made their way towards yet another operation, Aridan had suddenly felt eyes watching the group. When he asked the others about it, all he received had been strange looks, if not outright ignored. They passed yet another dark archway when he suddenly looked to the right, and there, in one of the dark corners of the Crown, stood a large statue, as tall as an astartes himself. While the initiate had gotten used to the various skulls and morbid decorations of the Imperial style around the fortress, this statue seemed different. A near black robe obscured most of the features on it, saved a massive scythe it carried. Out from under the darkness of the hood came the white of a skull, as well as eyes that seemed to burn themselves into him, through him. Aridan had faced one of the Dark Ones and knew danger, yet this was a completely different feeling; one beyond the feeling of fear, or alarm. He felt as though he stared at death itself.

When Aridan finally persuaded another initiate to look over at the statue, it was gone.

Since then, Aridan had not been able to shake the feeling of being watched, and when he told Sergeant Kenemon about the statue, the astartes simply shrugged and told him to get on with his exercises. Now, as they sat there, told that they would be collecting data about the Dark Ones, these "wendigos," he collected the information in his head and kept himself vigilant. Yet no fear rose within his hearts, just a heightened sense of alertness. The initiate knew there were greater terrors in the universe than the wendigos now, greater terrors even on Zeussar. So Aridan checked his bolter once more, as well as the various equipment on his flak armor. Not a lot, maybe not even enough to deal with a wendigo when they encounter one.

So, what is a wendigo compared to death itself?

Briefing: Conclusion​

"Do we look like maps to you Tiro? Each of you will be assigned a sector but it will be up to you to actually find the A.O and your targets. Interacting with the various devices will be simple enough, Squats being pragmatic sorts have provided data chips that you need merely plug in and run through a basic set of commands. This will be your first outing involving the use of common tech you will all be responsible for in the field one day. This includes an auspex unit and a cartograph unit, before anyone gets their hopes up these are not models with the holo-projectors." Javeran looks curtly to Charon. "As for your other questions witch, you will be relying on your own knowledge. After three years you had better know what you are liable to face inside the Quriq, would make a poor Librarian whose studies are so shallow."

Jungle's Edge​

Landing was upon them faster than some would of liked. Not everyone shared Tiro's confidence and many stomachs were currently knotted pits of anxiety. The arrival of their special issue equipment alleviated or clouded the concerns for some, while making others feel the weight of responsibility all the more. Squad Kenemon was presented with a chainsword, a flamer, and a shotgun as extra weaponry. The Sergeant himself hands Tiro their Auspex unit, not even bothering to explain his reasoning. Similarly it is Arrauth who is given the Cartograph, the tribal savage and only one with any experience navigating the jungles would be responsible for making sure they did not get lost on the way to their target: The eastern sector of Valedo, the decidedly safer side of the ruined city seeing as it lacked the overgrown arenas and cages that were so mysteriously popular with the Wendigo.

"One last thing boys: called in a favor from the Iron Master and had a demolition charge go missing from the Armory." Kenemon produces aforementioned charge, letting the package rest over his palm a moment before giving it a light toss towards Barron. Neophyte catches the compacted power of a battle cannon in both hands and before he knows it the Sarge slaps him with a joke. "If shit hits the fan and you end up pissing off a whole city of Wendigos then that will make for a good escape. Thing might only tickle the First Captain, but one of those should kill or maybe even maim a Wendigo. Barron gets to carry it, big things and small packages, you know?" Anything with a smidge more humanity might of actually cracked a grin, Kenemon expressed his mirth with a raise of the brow and a lopsided half-almost-a-smile.

"Divide the remaining arms as most appropriate, do not get greedy and make the best use of each others skills. Believe it or not I, and the others, do want you to succeed. For this operation I will be naming Aridan as acting Sergeant in my stead. Remember your training and the teachings of the Codex, such knowledge and skill will see you through if you are worthy." Kenemon turned away and began walking towards the Thunderhawk sitting in a basin surrounded by the shallow hills of the rugged fields that lead up to the all devouring jungle. "Squad Aridan, fall out!"

@DeranVendar

Stomping down the ramps of their transport, Tiro is granted his first clear vision of the Quriq jungles, and all their mystery. Raising an eyebrow, it would seem the youth was not impressed, as he'd simply shrug, following along with the procession of aspirants to be briefed. Gripping the auspex unit in hand, the youth immediately begins looking it over, running a quick diagnostics check over it's systems, doing all he could to determine it's quality and current functions, as he dreaded the idea of their gear breaking down too easily. Occupying himself with this task, he'd listen in to the words of their sergeant, smirk forming upon his lips at the sight of the explosive handed off to one of their own. He'd be considering ways to strong arm it away from Barron, when Kenemon specifically spoke that he would be it's keeper, and thus would show visible disappointment, knowing that his brother was more adept at beating people with the bomb, rather then actually deploying it properly. Regardless, as Kenemon gave his last words, designated their current leader, Tiro would extend his arms out, stretching himself for the task to come, before striding forward.

Seeing the pile of weapons, Tiro extends the sling on his boltgun, before wrapping across his torso, so that the mighty machine would rest upon his back. Tightening the straps, he'd quickly reach down with his hands to scoop up both the flamer unit, and the chainsword, paying little heed to any outcry his comrades might have, before turning up to face them.

"Chill out, dickwads, I'm not taking it all for me."

Shifting himself around, Tiro takes two quick paces towards Barron, looking down on the smaller youth, his amused look not gone from his face. Facing the runt of the squad, Tiro extends out a full hand, shoving the chainsword into the arms of his comrade, as he quickly explains, in a cool tone.

"Time to see just how good you've gotten with your sword arm, brother."

He didn't wait for a reply, he didn't expect one to be honest, as he turned and went about looking over his own gear. It was no secret he'd proven himself to be among the lower skilled at the blade, yet he'd noticed the dedication Barron had given to the art. If any of them was going to get some chance to shine in that field, it might as well be the runt. Besides, he was going to have more then enough fun with what he'd claimed for himself, the youth grinning as his fingers ran over his new weapon. The flamer had a nice heft to it's weight, but in comparison to Tiro's strength, it was nothing, muscles clearing bearing it with ease, as he quickly performed a function test on the weapon. Testing safety, fuel count, functionality, and finally, a torrent of fire bursting forth from it's maw, heating up the air around him. The quick flash confirming the weapon's readiness for the field, Tiro could sense it's machine spirit's eagerness to gush forth it's burning touch.

Reaching to his belt, Tiro would open a pouch, delving into it's contents, before pulling out a small item. During his brief time serving among his city militia, he'd seen the older men enjoying themselves with lho-sticks, and though he himself had never gotten the chance to participate during his life there, once he'd arrived at The Crown, that had changed. It seemed among some of the mortal serfs, and indeed, the Squats that shared the mountain ranges, there was a sizable population of narcotics moving about, which he'd managed to get his hands on. It was not due to an addiction, of course, the biology of the aspirant and his in progress ascension already proving beyond the touch of such mortal concerns, rather a more mundane reasoning was beyond Tiro's small hobby. The scent of the burning herbs, it reminded him of home, of Hermes, and the life he'd left behind, and the small burning fire at his lip, it indeed warmed him in a way he could not entirely explain.

Thus, as the rest of the squad prepared themselves for combat, Tiro would place the lho-stick in his lips, before twisting the flamer about, before it's pilot light hovered before it, lighting up it's end. Taking a drag of the smoke, the young man would less loose a grin from his lips, as he waited for the action to come.​

Charon would nod to there sergeant his questions answered to the best of the degree, he would be beside Tiro getting off and arming up after exiting the thunderhawk, Deciding to grab a extra weapon that might be good keeping a enemy away or in some case down, Charon would Pick up the shotgun and its respective ammo putting the ammo in various pouches across his chest, putting his bolter on his back he would look at the shot gun for a moment before pumping it chambering a fresh shell.

Looking to his squad mates he would nod to them, "So @WanderingJester Adrian, What are your current orders are? and formation we are to take up?" Charon asked looking to Adrian him now being in command of there team, he would follow his orders accordingly.