Editing Conservators (section)

==Writefaggotry==

===Armored Woes===
“See boys, the thing is we barely have enough armor even for our Full Brothers.” The scout squad marched in something approaching silence, though their armor didn't help. “The supply Mackentire found is just enough along with what we have reclaimed over the years. Though funny thing about standard scout wear---” The group slowed to ford a small river. “---stuff is just not as sturdy in the long term, breaks down you know." "Too much organic material right?" "Reason we're in plate.” Their armor clanked softly with each step, deadened slightly by the cloth strategically placed between layers. “Blacksmiths can make some damn good steel here, and with an ablative finish it is just as good. Loud as hell though.” 

The squad reached their position. They took a minute to check their arms, praying that they would at least get a little surprise this time. Bows were strung, arrows checked, blades made free in their sheaths.  “Ready boys, they're supposed to be here any minute... Now.”

Into the small clearing, across a gentle brook, the first of the boyz stepped out of the forest. A big beast, though only carrying a wooden club. An arrow took it in the neck, before the explosive tip exploded, beheading the Greenskin. With a cry of "WWWAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" Orks poured into the clearing, making towards the brook. More fell to the explosive arrows, but there were always others. Finally bows fell, and swords were drawn. Battle was joined on the far side of the water from the orcs, forcing them onto uncomfortable footing. Still, sheer numbers let them keep pressing. The Conservators' blades hued through their foes. Their armor was enough to fend off the majority of blows, but still, a brother fell to a particularly nasty blow to the head.

The brothers began to gather the orc corpses to burn them. “Still, one thing standard scout armor lacks that we get.” The Sergeant said as he shook the groaning fallen scout awake. “Helmets.”

===Knighted, Part 1: The Forge===
Scout Marcus Killian breathed deeply of the forest air as he traveled along, the clip clopping of his steed's hooves on the dirt road the only sound besides birdsong and the wind in the trees as he made his way along the path. To his right of him stretched a great green field, cattle grazing here and there. To his left lay a great green wood, a thick and untamed forest of tall oaks, teeming with life. He turned his gaze to the road ahead, thinking on the long path which had lead him here.

It had been twenty years ago that he had been first inducted into the ranks of the scouts of the Conservators. This followed four years of training and education at the hands of more senior battle brothers, and their approved aides. He learned the art of sword and bow, of stealth and infiltration, of dramatic assaults and mounted combat. He learned mathematics, philosophy, metalworking, weapons maintenance, medicine, a host of skills which would aid him in his long life to come.

He had yet to leave his homeworld of Gallorn, or Gallorn III as it was officially known. He chuckled, in his great grandfather's time nobody would ever have thought that, because the idea of leaving one's world simply would never occur to anyone. So much had changed over the past two hundred years.

It had been over two centuries ago that the Conservators first came to the world of the Asharn March, a young chapter looking forwards to a glorious history of service in the Imperium's name. Unfortunately a series of disasters robbed them of that destiny before they had even set the foundations for their fortress monastery. The Ork WAAAGH, the embargo of the Mechanicus, the total cutoff of all supplies and support beyond direct military intervention from other chapters or the Imperial Guard, all of it had left the young chapter destitute.

But as much had been lost, much had since been rebuilt. New members had been inducted, remaining weapons had been cared for with utmost care, even replicated where possible by tech priests and skilled artisans working with hand tools by firelight. Now, over two hundred years later, the Conservators were a true fighting force to be reckoned with.

Marcus had spent two decades in the service of the chapter, as a scout marine. He had received all of the implants successfully, making him in body a full Astartes, a superhuman beyond the ken of ordinary men. Clad in masterfully crafted steel plate, sword at his side and bow in hand he had spent years fighting the feral greenskins who still sometimes arose to plague his world's beautiful green fields and peaceful folk.

It had been an eventful twenty years. He had built a home with his own hands, inherited his father's tavern, taken a wife who was currently with child. And now he was about to take the greatest step of his life, to becoming a full battle brother. He turned his horse down a cobbled path deeper into the woods, towards the sound of rushing water.

Before the mounted marine sat a solid wooden building with a stone chimney gently issuing smoke. It sat beside a coursing river which turned a large waterwheel connected to he structure, which looked to be both home and workshop. Marcus dismounted, walking his horse to the stable and penning her there, patting the animal before he walked back to the building. It seemed he had been noticed, as a stout man in an apron was waiting for him, his arms crossed over his chest. "So, you are the latest scout they have sent to me, Killian was it?" He asked.

The marine nodded. "Yes sir, Marcus Killian." He said politely, standing before the man. Despite how the marine towered over the human, the smaller mortal was in no way intimidated. The Conservators had long since become part of the general population of the worlds they oversaw. While there were still few of them, seeing one about the village in their daily life was nothing too extraordinary. Almost two centuries of constant casual contact had worn out any awe left at the sight of the superhumans. Marcus could tell when someone in his tavern was new by the moment of surprise in their eyes when they saw an Astartes serving mead at the bar, as everyone in town had known him for years.

"Very well, Scout Killian, come with me and let us begin." The man said, leading the Astartes into the building behind his solid little home. Inside it was clearly a smith's forge, large stone furnace set up in the back wall, the waterwheel cranking a small generator, neat wires hanging from wooden rafters as they powered some of the more exotic devices in the smithy. "Tell me, marine, what blade do you envision yourself wielding?" He asked, leaning slightly against a large table.

The Astartes nodded, having thought long and hard on this subject, testing various blades out in the chapter armory in the nearby city. "A hand and a half sword, small enough to wield one handed but with a large grip for two handed fighting, sharpened on both edges and with a straight blade until the point." He said, picturing it clearly.

"Draw it." The smith said, putting out a piece of charcoal and pointing to a hide on the table. The marine nodded, taking the stylus and marking out the image he saw in his head, a simple, sturdy two sided blade, sized for his armored hands. The smith nodded. "Elegant but powerful, versatile and strong. I approve." He said, thinking over the image for a few moments. "Then let us not waste time, I have the forge prepared already." He said, going over to a set of shelves. He got out a strange looking device, some form of exoskeleton which he fit over his right arm, powered by cables dangling from the rafters.

He pointed to the forge. "You work the bellows." He instructed, getting a steel bar and working some arcane looking controls on the side of the forge. The marine worked the bellows as the forge as they heated the metal. When it was red hot the smith removed it, setting it upon the great anvil and swinging his servo assisted arm, the deafening crash of hammer on glowing steel echoing around the forge.

Time faded away as the two worked the forge, hours and days ceased to matter when time was measured by the pounding of hammer on steel, the fiery breath of the bellows and brief moments caught in breaks when food and drink was shared between smith and marine. The steel was heated, beaten, folded upon itself and hammered flat again. Twisted and turned, folded and bent, slowly the sword took shape over days and nights of constant working.

Steam rose from the quenching bucket as the blade was plunged into it, tempered as it cooled. The smith smiled as he drew out the cold blade, laying it down as he took a cloth to polish it. "Almost done." He said with satisfaction. Marcus was impressed, his enhanced body had carried the exertions easily enough, but the smith was an unaugmented human, yet somehow he had been able to shoulder the burden of such an intensive labor with little rest.

The sword blade was polished until it shone, and sharpened until each side carried a deadly edge. It was fitted with a solid cross guard and a slightly pointed pommel that could shatter a skull easily enough. The hilt was wrapped in rich brown leather, thick enough to withstand the wear of power armored fingers for some time before needing to be replaced.

At long last the smith and marine looked at the sword laying on the table. "It is finished, and a fine blade it is." The master craftsman said with pride. Marcus nodded.

"I will be honored to carry it forth, you have my thanks master smith, I only wish that I could have your skills." He said truthfully, never having been one for forging.

The man nodded. "Aye, we each have our talents that's for sure." He said, sheathing the blade and handing the sword to Marcus, resting in its sturdy leather scabbard. He longed to draw the sword, but knew he could not, hanging it on his swordbelt.

"My thanks again, I should be returning home now, it has been a privilege." He said with a bow of his head.

"Fare thee well marine." The smith said with a bow of his own head. "That is a fine blade you have helped to forge. I am honored to know you will carry it forward, beyond this world to your battles amongst the stars."

Marcus smiled, the prospect was as exciting to him as it was to the man before him. Giving his thanks once more, Marcus mounted his horse and rode back down the path towards his home.

===Knighted, Part 2: A Fine Sword===

Three days later, the hour of ascension was nearly upon him. He stood before a full length mirror, looking himself over. He wore his steel plate armor, his scout gear, polished until it shone like a mirror. He looked himself over, checking every bit of his armor and adjusting it slightly, trying to make sure that everything was perfect.

"Oh stop your fidgeting, you look perfect." A voice beside him said.

He looked over, seeing his wife standing there, a brown haired beauty who had stolen his heart one day. He had returned home, fresh from a scouting expedition in which he had slain a number of greenskins in the high fells, back to tending his tavern when in she had walked, into his bar and into his life.

"You know me, I have to make sure everything is perfect, today of all days." He said, adjusting his belt, the blade he had helped to forge hanging from it in its scabbard.

She shook her head, reaching up to make some minor adjustments. "Hush now, this is just a ceremony, to think that someone who slays orks by the dozen would be nervous over a little public display like this." She tisked at him. He tried to find something to object at, but her adjustments seemed to have made his armor truly perfect. He nodded.

"I have been working towards this day for the past twenty five years, I think I'm entitled to a bit of nervousness." He said, making her chuckle.

He looked at himself in the mirror, armored bulk dwarfing the woman next to him. "My love... do you have any regrets?" He asked, looking to her. "About us... I truly have been blessed to have you in my life but... I do worry that a Conservator may not make the best husband. My duties to the Imperium may well take me far from home for Emperor alone knows how long. I may leave for years at a time, or simply never return. I fear that my duty to my Imperium will prevent me from doing my duty to my wife." He said, holding her hand gently in his armored gauntlet.

She smiled. "My only regret, is that you did not give me this child sooner." she said, placing his massive hand on her swollen belly. "So that our son could see his father on his knighting day."

"Son?" He asked, nervously.

She nodded. "The medicae confirmed it." She said with a smile.

The corners of Marcus' mouth quirked up in a somewhat goofy grin. "That's... that's nice to know." He said, holding her close. A few moments later he heard the trumpet outside. "Time to go." He said, his wife nodding before she slipped away out of the room. A few minutes later a second horn sounded. Marcus nodded to his reflection one last time, before he stepped out of the door.

Before him was a cobbled street, packed on each side with people. He was in the city of Arcarun, capitol of Gallorn and naturally the seat of power for the Conservators on the planet. The crowds were quiet, only excited murmurs heard on either side of him. He walked alone down the street, colorful banners flying from rooftops and off of walls, flower petals strewn on the street before him.

He walked up to the temple at the end of the street, a great majestic building of stone. On the front steps stood seven hulking figures, battle brothers in full power armor. Six stood upon the steps, three to a side, clad head to toe in Mk V armor, their impassive helmets betraying nothing. At the top of the steps stood an elder brother in his Mk VI armor, his helmet off to show his weathered features.

The crowd grew totally silent as he slowly ascended the steps of the temple, passing the unmoving battle brothers on each side. He reached the top and stood before the elder marine. The sergeant looked him over.

"Scout Marcus, you stand before us today a marine who has proven your worth. In the service of your world you have shown bravery, in the service of your Imperium you have shown duty, in the service of your Emperor you have shown loyalty. For all of these you have been noted, and for all of them you have been judged." He said, reaching out his hand. "Give me your sword." He said.

Marcus unclipped the blade from his belt and handed the sheathed sword to the veteran marine, who drew it from its scabbard, examining it.

The sergeant examined the sword, setting the scabbard down and taking it in both hands, moving it around his body in a fluid form, feeling the weight, watching the steel shimmer in the summer sunlight. "This is a fine sword." He said, holding it up so the crowd could see. "It has been forged with skill and patience. The proper time and tools were used to forge it. So too is a marine forged, with time and care and skill." He said, as he began to pace, Marcus standing in place.

"Training, dedication, experience. Over decades is a marine forged into a weapon which can be taken into battle. And over the decades and centuries to come he is honed and sharpened and refined into a blade which can pierce any defense, fell any foe." He looked to the sword again. "This is a fine sword." He repeated. "It is simple, and it is plain. It is not weighed down with decoration or adornment. No unneeded pieces mar its perfect lines, nothing upon it keeps it from performing its task to the utmost."

"So too must a marine avoid the trappings of glory, the distractions of medals and honors. It is not for these things he fights, it is for the people of the Imperium, for his battle brothers, for the cause in which he has dedicated his life. He must not allow himself to become weighed down with desire for glory and renown, it is humility and service which make a marine great, not the trappings of fame."

"This is a fine sword." He said again, holding the tip in his gauntleted hand. He flexed it, making the steel bend. "It knows how to bend, to change, to let the forces of the world move about it without compromising what it is. Where a more brittle blade would snap, it can change, and return to what it must be to perform its duty." He said, releasing the blade so it snapped back to its original shape. "So too must a marine know how to bed, how to adapt to the changing world around him. Where others are set in their ways, he must know how to change. It is not blind obedience to ancient custom which shows his worth, but the ability to perform his duty under any circumstance. While the ocean may part around a great stone, that stone is worn down over centuries. It is the leaf on the wind, which can flow and move with the world around it, that soars unimpeded." He said, walking back to where Marcus stood.

"This... is a fine sword." He said for the final time. "It is worthy of a fine marine to carry it forward. Tell me, Marcus Killian of Gallorn, are you worthy of this sword?" He asked with an expectant gaze.

Marcus thought. "Brother sergeant." He said after some thought. "I do not know."

The marine thought for a long moment, nodding his head. "An honest answer." He said, looking to the sword again. "Strive to be worthy with all your heart and soul, and you will be. Now, kneel." He said, raising the sword to the sky. Marcus went down on one knee, bowing his head. "By that authority which hath been entrusted in me, by the Chapter Master, by the Imperium, by the Emperor himself by the action of his servants, do I induct thee, Marcus Killian, into the orders of the Conservators." He said, placing the sword tip on Marcus' shoulder. "Arise, battle brother."

He allowed himself a small swell of pride as he rose to his feet, the crowd bursting into noise and energy as he rose. Several more figures emerged from the temple, artisans in their work clothes overseen by a wizened tech priest in his rust red robes. A small curtain was set up around the new battle brother as his plate armor was stripped off and neatly stacked to the side. The artisans helped him into his undersuit for power armor, and then began affixing the armor around him. Piece by piece the suit was built about his body, until at last the helmet lowered onto his head, the marine blinking as he looked at the HUD for the first time.

The ancient suit of armor felt like it had been made for him, the Mk V suit, made during the Horus Heresy itself, lost for centuries and rediscovered in the chapter's hour of greatest need, and now his to wield. He stood tall and proud on the steps of the temple as the brother sergeant held out his sword, hilt first.

Marcus reached out, and grasped the blade, holding it unsheathed for the first time. The sword gleamed before him as he took it in both hands, turning to the assembled crowd. He held the bastard sword before him, the crowd cheering as the temple bells rang. Behind his impassive helm, Marcus allowed himself a private smile. At long last he was truly one of the Astartes. Soon he would leave his world behind for the first time in his life, he would feel the heat of distant stars upon his skin, walk the surface of alien worlds.

He searched the crowd, after a moment his eyes falling on his wife's face, one hand on her pregnant belly. He gave her a little nod to let her know he saw her. No matter how far from home his duty took him, no matter what wonders or horrors he saw, he knew that one small corner of the universe would always hold a meaning for him that none other could.

But such thoughts could wait. Today he was a newly inducted battle brother. Today he had his whole life ahead of him, and the stars awaited his arrival. Today, life was good.