Editing Republican Commando (section)

===(31.5) Praetors===
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The Blade is already on its way to Rechner, the Sector Capital, for the race. As the day begins, the Gellar Field is running full, the Warp Drive is running at full efficiency, and the Blade is secure. As Cyril begins morning prayers and meditations, he note something - his armor is gone.  Cortain double-checks the reservations he has for the , and notes the same thing. The Alcove containing the Mantle of Ultramar is still occupied, but his old armor, gone. Brynjol and Temur, to their great concern, find the Armorium Alcoves in their quarters is empty as well. No Armor. Gone. Their signature weaponry is still there, in its sacred places.

Brynjol 's voice suddenly bursts out over the team vox onto the duty vox-cuffs.
"WHICH ONE OF YOU BUGGERS NICKED MY ARMOUR?" he yells.
"Likely Thexus," Cyril voxes, "Mine is gone as well. I am uncertain how I was divested of it without waking Notomok or myself."

"He is a very loud robot," Brynjol chortles, "Don't you sleep in your armor anyway?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qbhelu0X_Wk

"Mine is absent as well," Temur mutters over the team vox, "There had better be a good explanation, or someone is going to lose their head."
Cyril keeps breathing deeply rather than contemplate the various horrible ways to inflict gruesome death and pain.
"Not me. Curiously, the Mantle is in place," Cortain notes, "On my person."
"Only our Corvus suits were taken..." Cyril wonders through gritted teeth.
"Perhaps the Squats plan to make a museum piece?" Cortain posits.
"If so, I may revoke my order against eating them," Cyril spits in anger, feeling his temperature and temper rise rise.

Cortain pops out, and notes the halls are empty. Desolate. Not even a servo-automata floats by.
Temur tunes his voxlink, "Thexus, it appears our armor is missing, do you know anything of this?"
Temur receives nothing but silence.
"Rockfist, would you know anything about some misappropriated suits of armor?" Cortain asks over vox.
The vox channel lies dead.
"Weapons, brothers," Temur commands, "We should investigate."

"M'Lord, forgive us," the Chapter serfs kneel to Brynjol, "We lacked vigilance. We...cannot even possibly consider how your most holy rainments were appropriated."
Brynjol peers at the serf.
"Hmm, alright. You don't smell like you're lying," Brynjol loudly announces, "Go... scrub the latrines or something. Penance! And if it's not severe I'll want to hear about it."
"Y...yes, m'lord," the Serf stammers, "If it doesn't hurt, it doesn't count!"

"Brothers, do you think this might be another shared dream of some sort?" Cyril considers, "It is more coherent than the others, but with no automata in sight..."
Temur leaves his personal quarters, and can eye something on the ground shine. A rivet, similar to those used to fasten power armor together.
"I have a clue," Temur states, "Following it."
"Good," Cortain states, "This is concerning..."
"What have you found?" Cyril asks.
"A rivet, like the ones used in our armor," Temur replies.
Brynjol shrugs, donning his clawntlets and tying the crozius to his belt.  Cortain activates Thanatar Omega Rho Decima to act as his defence while he grabs his Gladius.
"Someone has dismantled our wargear without our permission," Cyril speaks quietly and calmly, "Our armour, the most sacred and personal of our equipment. There will be hell to pay. I am going to check the Forges."

Temur can see a clear path. There's a rivet here, a rivet there, and the most damning piece of evidence, a plate of ceramite, painted black. It passes by everyone's quarters, and further into the Blade.
Cortain tries the vox one more time. "Rose, have you any clue about missing wargear?" 
Regrettably, her channel is silent as well.
"Damnable..." Cortain mutters in a rare display of emotion, "Everyone is complicit."
"Or incapacitated," Cyril notes, "Stay frosty."
"Are you implying an iceworlder is ever anything other than uncomfortably warm?" Brynjol asks, eyebrow raised, "The void of space doesn't approach an Arsheim winter, Cyril."
"A saying of my Chapter - it means to stay on guard," Cyril clarifies, "I would be intrigued to experience and Arsheim winter for comparison Nixarteria's polar caps."

Brynjol and Cortain rally behind Temur, as Cyril moves to check the Forges first. He notes the occasional servo-automata float by on patrol as normal. Cyril considers trying to interrogate one, but decides it would be a waste of time when any answers he can extract from the robot would be more easily gotten from fleshy people, and reunites with the rest of the Commandos.

Temur follows the path, which gets harder and harder to follow as the Commandos sink deeper into the Blade. But as they see the occasional Servo-automata float by on patrol, they begin to hear voices echo down the halls. Squat voices, singing and chanting. Cortain accesses the Servo-automata's recordings, and notes that its patrol is nominal. No issue detected. Every squat that it detects, however, is heading into the ship's deepest decks.

"Deeper into the belly of the beast then," Cortain says, "The Squats are congregating."

As Cyril reunites with everyone else, Temur as the vanguard, all follow the trail and see a piece of fallen cabling.  The cabling lies in front of an ornately carved door. All Craftsquatship is of the highest quality. The door menaces with carvings of obsidian. The door depicts a squat. The squat is raising an axe. The squat is screaming.

"Hm," Cyril admits, "Commendable craftsmanship."
"Now to see where this leads..." Cortain muses.

Beyond the door, the Commandos can hear chanting and prayers. Cyril shoves the doors open forcefully. The way into the Squat's Sanctum is opened.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cFIa29FXfM

Cyril stalks in, black eyes glittering with fury over a neutral expression. Great stained glass of ancient squat heroes line the walls. Above them all, the Emperor Ascendant shines. Numerous Squats, just about every one on the Blade, stands to the sides in the pews, singing their praises. Lines of Castellax, completely motionless, flank the sides of the Sanctum. Looking down the aisle, the Commandos can see bits and pieces of armor strewn about. And at the head of the Sanctum, Executor Thexus.

"This...they would not dare..." Cortain gurgles.
"YOU HAVE ARRIVED," Thexus announces.
"We have. What is this?" Cyril asks.
"You bugger, you," Brynjol spits.
Cortain raises an accusatory finger, "YOU HAVE SOME EXPLAINING TO DO, AUTOMATA."
"YOUR ARMOR HAS BEEN DISASSEMBLED AND REPURPOSED FOR A GREATER CAUSE," Thexus states, "A FAR MORE EFFICIENT CAUSE."
Cyril gestures at the scattered armour bitz, "Why has our wargear been treated with such DISRESPECT?"
"Is that my bloody armour?" Brynjol asks, fists clenched, "If that's my armour, you're getting a walloping, Thexus, Executor or no."
"It was, lad..." Rockfist sighs, marching in from the side.
"Don't blame him!" Rose says, "We...we all agreed. The Executor, he was readying something."
"You have the resources to produce a hundred such suits," Cyril asks, "Why desecrate ours?"
"Cyril, you hold his arms, I'll administer a thumping," Brynjol commands, rolling his sleeves up.
"There are twelve hundred penalties I can think of for this crime," Cortain says, "And this is only on Ultramar."
"Explain. Now," Temur says flatly.
"Yeah, let's give him chance to explain before a disassembly," Brynjol says, stepping back.
"YOUR ARMOR CONTAINED PIECES I REQUIRED. NEWER MARKS CANNOT SUBSTITUTE," Thexus explains, "I REQUIRED COMPONENTS WITH HISTORY TO THEM, FORGED IN A CONCURRENT TIME. NONETHELESS, THE GREAT WORK IS COMPLETE. ARE YOU READY?"
"Ready. For. What?" Cyril repeats, his temper failing.
"It's all on ye now, Beardlin's," O'Malley says from a side seat.

Brynjol walks forward, claws flexing rhythmically. He seems annoyed.  Executor Thexus steps back, his Arm and twin Mechadendrites gesturing behind him. Cyril folds his arms and casts his gaze past Thexus. Behind the Executor are four banners - Legionary Banners of the V, VI, IX, XIII.

"ENTER."

Cortain takes a moment to check for danger. None of the Squats or the Support Crew are armed, except for Thexus. Cyril is the first to enter, passing the banner of the IX. Temur follows next, beneath the lightning bolt of the V, holding his rage for the moment. Brynjol steps forward under the VI, while Cortain is last to pass under the XIII, only to make sure nobody was armed. The Squats continue to relay their prayers to Ancestor and Emperor as the Commandos disappear in the darkness.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRidt_Yhp2Y

Stepping behind each veil, is a small hall, engraved with Squattish eikonography. Continuing forward, each Commando reaches an opening. The lights flash on, focusing on the center. Each sees a suit of armor, waiting.

[[Special:Contributions/24.205.112.238|24.205.112.238]]
Within Cyrils chamber is a blue and white set of armor, its white flawless helm bearing a golden crown. The tubes glow red as blood, while the chest bears a winged crimson drop, contrasting the armor itself. The right pauldron is completely red, with silver trimmings, the icon of the Blood Angels Legion emblazoned proudly, while the left displays the heraldry of the Ice Wraiths Chapter.

Cyril smiles, walking up and lays a hand on the breastplate. He can feel the strength echo from the armor, Cyril. It's like nothing he's ever felt before. He dons the helm and inhales deeply. With the proper intonements, Cyril begins to don the armor. He feels the bloodlust of ages past flow, before an immense calm flows over him.

"I am still dissatisfied with treatment of the... scraps," Cyril relents, "But this will do nicely."
[[Special:Contributions/24.205.112.238|24.205.112.238]]
Within Brynjol's chamber lies a dark grey set of armor, engraved with Fenrisian runes of protection on its chest. The Wolf Skull Helm has been seamlessly integrated into the armor itself, and the dull bronze trimmings and belt have been polished to reflectivity. The icon of the Space Wolves Legion shines proudly on the armor's right pauldron. Curiously, to his near-unnatural senses, it smells a bit...burnt?

"What was wrong with the old stuff?" Brynjol mutters annoyedly. Giving in, he dons the armor. It fits just like his old armor, but it feels...different somehow. He's not quite sure how. Perhaps the wave of Hoarfrost surrounding him has something to do with it.
[[Special:Contributions/24.205.112.238|24.205.112.238]]
Within Temur's chamber is a perfectly white set of armor, its chest bearing a winged skull flanked by lightning bolts, its red trim helf with silver rivets. Atop its helmet flies a red tassel, between the armored sides. Upon the waist is an armored gold plate, sigils of Chogoris emblazoned upon it. While the right pauldron bears the icon of the White Scars Legion, the left pauldron merely displays a yellow lightning bolt.

"The finish is excellent, my concern however is the function...." Temur muses. He begins to carefully don the legion armor, noting any differences to the workings and functions of his repurposed suit. Donning the armor, it feels...light, lighter than anything he's ever felt. Power armor normally feels like a second skin, but this, there is simply no contest. It fits on both a material and spiritual level. One thing he realizes as he places the helmet on, is as he moves his head, the targeting augurs lock on to things almost instantly. The faster he moves his head about, the quicker the lockon. Moving around to test the suit's responsiveness, he notes the same idiosyncracies his old suit displayed when moving heavy weapons.
[[Special:Contributions/24.205.112.238|24.205.112.238]]
Within Cortain's chamber is an iridescent green set of armor reminiscent of the Auroras of Cypra Mundi, projecting a golden winged eagle, wrapped closely by a golden laurel. Its helmet bears a mighty red crest to accentuate the white faceplates. Additional layers of armor denoting Techmarine status are seamlessly blended into the armor itself. The right pauldron bears the Ultima of the Ultramarines Legion, while the left shows the upright Alpha within the twelve-pointed white star of the Aurora Chapter.

"What...is...this?" Cortain asks in awe. He collapses on his knees, overcome by the relic before him. He takes a moment to collect himself, before mounting this new armor in place of the mantle of Ultramar. He notes the strange alloys within as he fits it, donning it as if second nature.
[[Special:Contributions/24.205.112.238|24.205.112.238]]

Each armor bears a black cloak, underlaid with silver chainmail, to represent service with the Deathwatch. Each set of armor also bears, behind the helmet, a shining iron halo, connected directly to the armor's power pack.

"Why was this hidden from us?" Cortain wonders over vox.
"I believe I understand what the Executor did," Temur considers, "This armor is both new and old, keeping the history and battle-tested nature of our old suits, but improving them, making them stronger for the tests we now face."
"Why indeed?" Cyril asks, "To witness the forging would have been a great honour."
"He mentioned that the marks that are made do not work," Cortain wonders, "But where would he find more armour that would fit unless..."

The sudden realization hits him.

As the Commandos finish donning the armor, they note the chanting outside stops.
"Can anyone explain this to me?" Brynjol asks,  "I mean, it's nice and chilly, definitely an improvement, but..."
"New armour" Cyril replies, "Does that answer your question?"
"I'm still thumping Thexus, but it'll be much gentler," Brynjol admits, "More of a lovetap, really."

Cyril drops down to the floor and walks towards the door. "Is everyone ready?"
Temur takes the helmet back off and clips it to his belt. "Under the circumstances, yes."
"For the time being," Cortain clarifies.
Brynjol sighs, "Still thumping him. But okay."

The Commandos step outside, where the Squats are all staring at them.
"Lad, when we chose to support ya, we took an oath," Rockfist begins.
"ACCORDING TO OUR STATION! ALL WITHOUT EXCEPTION!" the Squats declare in unison.
"On the blood of our Ancestors, on the blood of our Descendants, we swore to assist ye," O'Malley continues.
"EVEN TO OUR DYING BREATH!" the Squats continue.
"THOSE WHO THREATEN THE CRUSADE AND THE IMPERIUM ARE WORTHY OF NEITHER PITY NOR MERCY," Thexus blasts.
"WE SHALL GRIND THEM INTO DUST!" The Squats conclude.
"And continue our march to this sector's salvation!" Rose cheers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ1pBzPZips

"For all our ancestors, for the people of this sector, and for the Emperor - the Hellstar shall be crushed, and after it all other enemies of Man," Cyril announces.
"Lad, we are the arm of the Emperor, but YOU are the blade," Rockfist kneels, "I reaffirm my vows to ya, ta assist in any way ya need."
"Beardlin's, ye've done well," O'Malley kneels, as do the entire Squat congregation present, "Wherever ye command, we'll follow."
"When I got here, I was lost, afraid," Rose whispers, slipping to her knees, "But I also make a vow, I will continue to help you until this place is safe once more!"
"WHEN YOU FIRST STEPPED FOOT UPON THE BLADE, I WAS CONCERNED THAT THE LEGIONS WERE WELL AND TRULY DESTROYED, THAT NOTHING REMAINED BUT PALE, WEAK SHADOWS. I WAS INCORRECT. YOU BEAR THEIR WEAPONS, THEIR ARMOR, AND THEIR CRUSADING SPIRIT AS WELL AS THEY DID 10,000 YEARS AGO. I CANNOT ASK FOR BETTER WARMASTERS TO SWEAR FEALTY TO."
Thexus sinks to one knee, the automata within the halls dropping in perfect synchrony.
"The Astartes had a Warmaster once... he failed in his duties. We will not," Cyril states, "Not with all of you supporting us."

Off in the very back of the Sanctum, the Commandos can see something. Hazy figures. Ultramarine. White Scar. Vlka Fenryka. Blood Angel. Their armor almost identical to the ones the Commandos bear now.
"Are those...the legionaries we recovered?" Cortain whispers.
"They are Astartes," Cyril nods, "And theirs is Astartes business."
They stare, regarding the Commandos, for a while. And then they walk, out the door of the Sanctum, fading away.

Content.

"There is no doubt in our hearts," Rose says.
"Lead, and we will follow," Rockfist nods.
Thexus is last to speak.
"WE AWAIT YOUR COMMAND...PRAETORS."

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