Ah, Aridan. One of the brothers Barron had hoped to spar with, he must admit. The scout held his fellow Zeussinite in high regard: With their familiar origins, it was no surprise that Aridan also took to close quarters combat readily, an aspect of warfare that too many of his other brothers neglected in lieu of flashier, and more explod-y methods and tools. A damn shame, if you asked Barron. There was a certain rush in feeling your enemies yield to an assault from your own two hands, face to face, steel to steel—A sensation that Barron was sure awaited him soon as he dropped easily into a relaxed stance, visage expressionless but sword at the ready. Despite the boy’s casual pose, not a single muscle would twitch out of place as he sat and waited, all but beckoning his brother to strike first.

En Garde, fuckboy.

@WanderingJester

Aridan watched as his brother got into his readied stance, seemingly more relaxed in close quarter's combat than in even dismissed stance. Smiling to himself, he hefted his weapon off of his shoulder, before studying Barron's stance. It all seemed neutral, though a sense of elegance came from his scout brother. Barron made close quarter's combat into an art form, whereas the versatile scout Aridan was, preferred the practical.

Charging forward, the weapon swung at a horizontal arc through the air, aiming for the torso, replacing grace with power and speed. Felling trees back on Zeussar required both, and thus he familiarised himself with them. The village didn't cared about how good you looked as you chopped timber, just that the job got done, and Aridan brought home much of it during his youth.

Following the swing, he would shove his shoulder forward, anticipating Barron to leap back or to the side, and thus aiming a shoulder charge along with the attack's momentum towards the center of his brother's mass.


@RuinaImperii

No grace. No thought. No chance. Pathetic.

No flinch from Barron as the scout shifts his weight backward in an instant, tended muscles exploding into action at the first sign of movement as, well, there were a lot of signs. To his trained eye, the swing came from a mile away, each twist and twitch of Aridan’s shoulders alerting Barron to what was ahead. The way his eyes moved. The tensing of his legs. Like a lion, ready to strike.

Too obvious.

The chop itself was powerful: propelled by his brother’s augmented strength, every muscle in Aridan’s body flexing to push the axe forward, and backed by solid instinct.

Not good enough.

Barron had spent enough time at the training ground to have a fairly good grasp of Aridan’s fighting style: straightforward. Utilitarian. All results, and no method. A respectable form, at times, but unsuited for facing swordplay. No match for Barron’s own lightning reactions and prepared form. Barron was ready to respond, and had been since the moment he stepped onto those training room floors.

Especially when Aridan had an axe.

Dodging the swing was simple: Barron had barely began to plan his counterattack before his body instinctively leaned backwards, and his shoulder tensed to bring his sword up. Even from afar, Barron could tell that the momentum behind the axe was incredible, the force only elevated as his opponent followed the blow with his shoulder, seeking to knock Barron to the ground. But an axe is an axe, after all, and Barron was hardly a tree. This was a game of reach.

Barron’s stab came first, then conscious thought. The sword would fly above the trail of Aridan’s strike, the tip of Barron’s seeking solid contact with his brother’s forehead to knock the boy off balance. Aridan’s swing, as powerful as it was, would be his downfall: even if there had been a chance at recovery after such a brute attack, the momentum of the swing would only carry him further off-balance, a fact that would be amplified by the boy’s foolish addition of an attempted shoulder-check. Was that it? The best he could do?

“I do believe it’s time to get serious, brother.”

@WanderingJester

Aridan felt his axe hit nothing but air as it sailed across where Barron stood, and even as his shoulder bash rushed in, his brother had already stepped back and out of reach. His battle-brother (though neither of them yet achieved full astartes status, he had already thought of most of Squad Kenemon as such), as expected, had the elegance to simply backstop to avoid his double attack, gracefully dodging before thrusting his sword point forward. Fortunately the weapon, like the axe, had been dulled for sparring practices.

Barron's weapon flew at Aridan's head, and here the contrasting style came into play again. Where he agreed that the best way to heal an injury is to prevent one in the first place, where Barron would dodge everything, he utilized every advantage available, including his armour or, in this case, his hard skull. The scout would tilt his head just enough for the sword tip to slide to the side, glancing his head. Had this been an actual fight, it would've been over: Aridan's head sliced open and likely his brain dripping out past his ear.

However, this was a spar, something that Aridan had kept in mind. The glancing blow would only result in a light bruise, and he had both his balance and momentum on his side now. "I do believe it's time-" The scout had already spun most of a full rotation by the time Barron had spoken half the sentence, using the torque to swing his axe in a diagonal uppercut in order to provide maximum chance of contact with the weapon, where as a traditional uppercut, while devastating, had a smaller percentage of success. Still, he had not left success on this one attack. Barron, instead of sidestepping, had moved (or leaned) backwards, something Aridan hoped to take advantage off.

Aridan's free hand followed the swing, compensating for the opening that his swinging weapon would leave his body. It could follow up with a punch to the kidneys, as a free hand to grab something on Barron should the opportunity appear, or just move out of the way should a low counter attack come so that his foot could intercept it.


@RuinaImperii

Dedication, if nothing else. Commendable.

Barron momentarily finds himself trapped by his own strategy as the axe unexpectedly swings back his way for round two—but no matter. One strong step pivots Barron’s body back and out of the way of the assault, swordless arm reaching out to catch and knock aside Aridan’s own. A bend of the knee and Barron is coiled, crouched and ready to spring the moment Aridan’s axe swings wide—too wide.

As the dodged swing and parried strike left Aridan wide open, Barron’s retaliation would come in a strange twist of irony. With his sword held cautiously across his chest, the scout would duly remind his brother of a mutual lesson remembered just moments before: to use his head. Barron rose in an instant, using his own hard skull to try and careen into the underside of Aridan’s chin (hard enough to ache, but not to maim) before looking to his opponent back with the side of his blade.

That’ll teach him to interrupt.

@WanderingJester

Under Attack​

The shackles of hibernation bound his mind. Visual feeds, audio aids, and life support systems all activated with a sterile swiftness that made the entirely organic mind preserved by the web of tubes and neural links briefly panic. His mind was not up to task just yet, a few more seconds Techpriest, that was all he needed. A voice both different and exactly the same as his own translated like thunder heard from beneath water. Ammunition hoppers cycled, running dry already as iron form had been unloaded before the Rites of Awakening were even begun. Not good, not good. We are under attack, they were not able to feed my arms any bolts.

"I hear and acknowledge Apothecary Marcus, what is the situation? Who dares assail the chariot?" What band of heretics have we run across this time? Is it the Death Guard again? It's too quiet for the World Eaters...strange, the vaults are so calm. Why do they not awaken the others? It was only after a moments worth of weary stares from a few bystanders that Brumdar began to embrace the absolute lack of significant to his awakening. He missed the chapter vaults, he never woke up there anymore.

"Ahh... I - I forget myself. Do we prepare for drop?" Where would they drop? These were not the vaults, his vaults were quiet, filled with empty shells forsaken of any wounded warriors, whom in turn were forsaken by the comforts of death. These vaults he could sense movement, deep down in his tube threaded stomach, crushed as it had been by Perturabo. He had been transferred here, briefly awoken for strategic education, brought up to speed only for the sleep to drown it all away like it had so many other things. The cog-heads had not released him to serve on Yuka-Rie, his wakefulness was a resource to be husbanded carefully; a consciousness to be lobbed into the fray and abandoned to the all consuming rest outside of it.

@Vlayden

Aridan saw Barron step back, before moving forward. Deftly dodging his axe once more, he spotted the incoming skull for his chin and grinned. Barron might be elegant with his fighting style, but with this blow, he decided to step into his brother's field. The scout, rather than moving out of the way or blocking, merely cocked his own head back and threw it forward with as much force as possible onto the incoming forehead with his own. The collision rocked through his own head, but he had been expecting it.

Vision blurred for a split second, Aridan's free hand came forward. He didn't allow his brother to back up in order to get the effective range for the sword. Where a sword swing or stab was impossible due to the closed distance, the scout threw a tight hook directly towards Barron's kidney, aiming to knock the wind out of him before following up with another attack after. Still, first things first: gotta land a substantial hit on his brother first.


@RuinaImperii

"We are not under attack - however we are on the attack, in due time. It may take days or weeks, but we shall move more of our brothers onto the offensive. I have called you, personally. I..."

Theodosius' -- no, Marcus' -- hesitation in his words was clear, even moreso with the large form of the Contemptor 'subtly' (for its size at least) stepping onto its front foot, the Vox caster echoing his voice considerably. He had wished to speak to an old friend once more, the veteran feeling shadows grasp and gnaw at the very edges of his sanity, of his mind; even he knew that he could not remember things, even if he did not know what they were. He simply felt as though things were missing.

Marcus worried as to what he forgot that he didn't feel missing - he hoped that was very little, if any.

"...Walk with me. I wish to speak with you - matters critical and not." He raised an arm in a gesture towards the doors -- gates, more like, the room so vast that it had to be able to possibly contain the mighty Leviathan dreadnought. He did not know if it truly was here or kept someplace safer, but he knew it did not matter; none would be able to awaken it in the first place, not without specifically the Chapter Master's demand of its use. He almost shuddered, imagining whoever may have been interred into it..

All the same, he walked, now with Brumdar at his side. Two mighty dreadnoughts, sending shockwaves with each footfall in their midst. It was a rarity for people to see one dreadnought, even with trusted serfs who may have aided the Techmarines - it was wholly another thing to see two alongside one another. Their path did not lead to anywhere in particular, though it was preferably routes that were out of sight of the majority of the crew; not for any privacy's sake, but more so as to not alarm them. If they were to pass by of course, he would not mind. It was more of a courtesy, than a necessity.


A small click came from Marcus' vox-link, connecting directly with the Sarcophagus of his Battle-brother; using the chassis' vox-casters would practically announce their conversation down entire hallways, and while it may not be understandable a fair ways away, it would certainly make their presence known.

"We both know that our previous stations, matter little in our current states - but it is still within our blood, our minds. That said... How do you fare, Friend??" He asked. "We have not spoken in a long time, and as I recall, aside from my other brethren, there are few who speak to us; we are left to only awaken upon crucial matters, and then set to slumber once more. I worry for our health - not only mine, but yours as well. You and whoever else is interred within the Sarcophagi; I have been unable to check the rosters lately, to see who else may have joined us."

"If you have any questions, or concerns - I would suggest asking them. I may not be the Soul Smith, or the Chief Apothecary or upcoming, as I am sure Herstius will be," he said, a bit of confidence coming to him in saying his pupil and other friend's name, "but I know that I still at least, may do my best to aid you." - even as Iron Warriors Herstius & Marcus were close, and it was the memories of such friendly times with not only Seventh Squad, but those outside it such as he, who made him strive to remain strong.

Perhaps I should see to visiting him as well, and see if all fares well.. I'd feel grief, if our last meeting was to be one of nothing more than a nod as it was upon my awakening.

Walk of the Ancients​

"I do not enjoy wakefulness." Brumdar responded after several minutes of walking in silence. He had awoken with a hundred questions all his own, and in the time he and Marcus casually thundered through the cavernous halls of the Astra Drakon he had concluded none of them were worth asking; they would only depress the both of them. "Not like this anyways. Too much time to think off the field, too much talk, too little doing, too little distraction. Moments like these allow me to remember that I am forgetting things, and I can only guess as the magnitude of what I have forgotten. Marcus, the last time I was awoken I had a small period in which my mind wandered while they prepared me for sleep; it was after the Pacification of Thyrm the Frozen King and his small empire was put to the torch. Do you know how far my memories reached back?" Brumdar halted, last step echoing off into the empty halls. "The Iron Blood, when I stood on a stage with men whose faces I cannot even put a name to. When my armor was stripped, my title torn from me, and my body sundered. I remember our father's rage, and something else I cannot place in his expression. I do not remember assigning you to Seventh Squad, my promotion to Captain, becoming an Iron Warrior. Everything before the Heresy escapes me, and even that is not sacrosanct. My memories of Warsmith Odiaus calling us to arms against the traitors on the Chariot of Zeussar do not include even a quarter of the deeds I am told were performed." A marine whose memory could only be measured in centuries, so rare had Dreadnoughts been among the old legion, was this perhaps another reason why they were never kept around? Or was Brumdar's state a reflection of missing skill and expertise in interment?

"My mind rots in this cage Marcus. Almost a hundred years ago I asked the Iron Master to transfer me to the Leviathan; the Chapter Master denied me this. I was told I am too valuable to risk for a surgery that may fail. Yet in time Marcus I will be little more than a Servitor decorated by the chains of a history I will not remember. Nothing but death shall take my ability to fight, but my spirit? My spirit bleeds away in my dreams, with every thought lost a bit of myself goes too. I wanted that shell, to wring myself of this slow soul-death all the quicker, and to settle into my ultimate form as soon as possible, to spare another fallen brother, one who is not already so damaged, from having his spirit and voice stolen by such a machine." Brumdar resumed his steps, somehow weightier and louder than before.

@Vlayden

A Pang of frustration and pain welled up in the former Apothecary's twin hearts, a pain that frustrated him all the more - not only for the fact that he was unable to help an old friend, one who had pushed him onto his path, but frustration that he continued to feel such human emotions so freely.

Sometimes, he wished he took after his gene-seed's persona far more, as Akar and others had. All the same, he clicked on the Vox-link and gave a gentle sigh. "This... Troubles me - I knew of its existence, old friend, but it troubles me that for some reason, this technology all the same was made and never acted upon. None bothered to try and fix such issues, to keep their trusted warriors whole so that they could remain as they are."

"I will see to speaking to the Apothecarion, in hopes of finding out a source for this, whether it is the machine or the man who is causing this... Schism. I am sorry if we are unable to find a way to prevent this in time for you to remain as you are; but I do vow to you, Brumdar, that we shall try. If it is the last thing that I do, if it wastes away my years; we shall try."

A few moments of silence went by, tense and solemn, before he chuckled now, turning the helm to look over at his friend's chassis.

"...Did you hear of what happened to Akar, with the initiates last month??" He asked - eventually going on towards a small rant of humour. The initiates may have been new, but that always meant something interesting happened; and it was a wonderful source of lighthearted conversation, to pass such times.

Perhaps Brumdar was right - he would be nothing more than a servitor. But if that was the case, Marcus would at least try to make such times a friendly one until that fate came.