Even if we were accepted, it would mean our duty would be to help with rituals and read a lot and wait very possibly centuries before a chaplaincy opened up AND Sigismund finally has seniority over the other Novices who as mentioned are all distinguished battle veterans with commendations for devoutness.
Rarely did Astartes deign to visit the serf library, preferring instead the Reclusiam if they wished to read about tales of valor or see the rolls of honor.
See, there's not holding in high regard, and there's outright disregarding useful stuff because it's not epic enough. Sure, Roboute was not the most approachable of people (understatement of the century), but he knew his stuff.
+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+ Service is its own reward.
The Hierosolyma system was weeks away. Years ago, warp travel had plagued your sleep with terrible, vivid nightmares - some, you were certain, had been more than figments of imagination. Now, with the hypnotherapy and conditioning, the transit through the Immaterium was more bearable. But you knew the nightmares were still there; they existed even after sleep.
They existed on Hierosolyma. What at first was a heretical uprising was rotting into something far worse. The Fury's astropaths had heard the death-throes of millions of souls, and the inhuman cackling of the Archenemy.
You hadn't faced more than heretic cultists and rogue psykers - this crusade was to be unlike anything you had faced before, and there was nothing in the Imperium that would stop you from joining it.
Astartes could go weeks without sleep without it affecting them too much, but you might have been pushing it. Resolutely, you trained hours upon hours, putting all that you learned in the library into practice.
Even your superhuman body was sore from the hundreds of stances you had attempted to perfect. You had worn combat knives to bluntness just as you had with chainsword teeth. You had spent round after round, magazine after magazine in the shooting range, until the heft of the boltgun and the kick of its roar were as familiar to you as breath and heartbeat.
Soon, you had become the most formidable amongst your closest brothers thanks to the great breadth of your knowledge. True, you lacked Gottfried's unprecedented size and strength, nor Bayard's sheer tenacity, but such singular qualities did not a victor make. War had many faces, many as beautiful as they were horrifying, and a victor had to know them all and see them in the mirror.
Word had spread, this time of the bizarre neophyte who was invariably at the training grounds, if not the library. In the history of the chapter, the initiate imparted his experience and wisdom onto his ward, who in turn would become the initiate and take a charge of his own. Thus, the war-craft of the Templars had been passed on for ten thousand years.
Tradition had been broken here. Many saw you as an ingrate, a disrespectful cur who spurned the teachings of his master in favor for the books of dead authors. But you knew you were different.
You recalled the freak-beast's head, many years ago. You had tracked it, hunted it, killed it alone. Some hunts, even the hunt for knowledge, needed to be done in solitude.
"Brother Sigismund," Theobald said, snapping you from your reverie. "I was told you wished to prove yourself once more?"
You swallowed. "Yes, Sword Brother. Please, I ask this favor of you."
"This upstart," muttered a Templar beside Theobald. "He barely respects his master, then has the audacity to pull this stunt?"
The other Astartes in the arena murmured agreement. Theobald was as stoic as ever. Heads turned to the entrance as the door opened. Reynauld barged in, his face was fiery with anger.
"Cur!" he roared, then remembering his brothers were in the arena as well. His voice quietened, but lost none of the rage. "How dare you attempt to dishonor me this way? You swore to obey me!"
"And you swore to teach me all you knew. It seems written words can do that better than you," you spat.
Reynauld's raging eyes widened with disbelief. The Templars in the room tensed at this unprecedented disrepute. Such was the tension in the arena that you could taste combat chemicals in your throat, and smell it in the air as it emanated from all the Astartes.
"How? How dare..." Reynauld stammered.
"I dare. I just do. Reynauld, my brother and master," you said with a rueful smile, "I challenge you to a duel."
"I accept!" he yelled. "Years, years you've scurried around this ship and polluted its air. I will break you."
"Enough." Sword Brother Theobald had stepped forward. He unsheathed his chainsword. "This childishness shames us all. Reynauld."
"Yes?" he answered warily.
"Why did you choose this neophyte to take under your wing?"
"I saw the potential in him," he lied. "I see now that I was wrong to place my trust in this savage wretch."
His fellow brothers grunted in agreement, but Theobald held a fist to silence them. "Then you are a poor judge of character, Reynauld. And from the rumors surrounding the neophyte, a poor teacher."
Reynauld's neck tightened, but even he held his tongue against Theobald. You smiled, losing it as Theobald directed his glare at you.
"As for you, boy, you disrespect not only your master, but myself and everyone you had gathered here. You disrespect this entire chapter and its traditions."
"Sword Brother, I-"
An armored fist crashed into your face. The blood of Dorn ran down your mouth in a red river.
"Be silent. I will not tolerate your behavior in my squad, on this ship, or in this chapter. Do you understand?"
You curled your hand into a fist, spat a gob of blood. "Yes, Sword Brother."
"Good. With that said, I challenge you to a duel."
Your eyes widened with surprise. You felt the others' stares, Reynauld's hateful glare. There was only one answer. "I accept."
The Sword Brother, fully armored in warplate save for his helmet, nodded. He revved his chainsword, handed it to you. He extended his arm, waiting as one of the Templars offered his own sword for Theobald to use. Theobald then took a small hourglass.
"One minute," he said, adopting his stance. "Survive."
"But only you are armored," you said, suddenly feeling naked in your threadbare habit.
Theobald placed the hourglass upside down on the ground. His chainsword roared to life. "Begin."
Like a lightning bolt, he lunged. Rows upon rows of adamantium teeth threatened to tear into your torso. You parried it with practiced poise, stepped into your own stance, struck.
His sword struck yours, sparks showering the sands of the arena. His already great strength was magnified by his power armor - his sword pushed yours further and further back, until the back of your blade was centimeters from your face.
You slacked - Theobald was caught off guard, his force now having no resistance. He stumbled forward, you weaved to the side. You brought your blade down for a devastating strike, one he still managed to parry in the same movement as his recovery.
He punched, his power armored fist promising to leave your face a ruin of bone. You dodged it narrowly - Astartes warplate amplified speed as well as strength, and Astartes had great reserves of both. In all rights, Theobald should have been lumbering, encumbered, and you would have had the advantage of mobility. But this was Astartes power armor, the ceramite robes of the angels of death.
You returned a punch of your own. His head was his only vulnerability. You roared in pain as Theobald swiped your arm away with his chainsword. Your left arm was a bloody ruin.
"Do you yield?" he asked in a voice of utter calm.
"No," you answered. The fighting resumed.
Pain rung in your mind, but you pressed on. You were on the defensive now, parrying, dodging, and parrying again. The codices and treatises taught that defenders do not truly win - they relied on the attackers losing.
You flung your useless, mangled arm at him, missing utterly but achieving what you had intended - flecks of blood had found themselves in Theobald's eye. In that moment, the singular moment of weakness, you pounced. You tackled into him with all the speed and strength of a bovine beast, staggered him back, then swung for the felling blow.
"Time!" someone called.
But your sword had stopped even before then. You looked down, saw Theobald's own blade centimeters away from your gut. He would have killed you long before your blow had landed.
You breathed raggedly, drove the chainsword into the sand, and knelt. You felt an armored hand lift your chin up, felt the thrum of his armor in your skull.
"Rise, brother." It was the first time you saw him smile.
---
You were now accepted into Theobald's household, a member of his crusader squad - on the condition that Reynauld continue taking you under his wing (or at least start to). The warning went both ways, and the two of you grudgingly complied.
Sigismund's Fury was finally back in realspace, and the heretic-controlled planet of Hierosolyma was less than a day away. Theobald bade you all to prepare.
Unlike the squad organization prescribed by the codex, the Black Templar crusader squads were bound more by fellowship and familiarity, and the weapons each crusader bore were due to his preferences rather than allotted to him.
As a neophyte, it was your duty to master all the weapons available to you on the field of battle. Today, unlike the skirmishes from before, was the first day of a true crusade.
What weapons did you take with you?
[ ] The holy bolter.
[ ] The cherished chainsword and blessed boltpistol.
[ ] The glorified shotgun.
[ ] The sacred sniper rifle.
[ ] The hallowed heavy bolter.
As the tenth update, I thought I'd take the time to thank you guys for reading, and ask how you feel about the quest. Are you enjoying it? Do you find it lacking? What aspects do you think I should improve?
+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+ Service is its own reward.
The Hierosolyma system was weeks away. Years ago, warp travel had plagued your sleep with terrible, vivid nightmares - some, you were certain, had been more than figments of imagination. Now, with the hypnotherapy and conditioning, the transit through the Immaterium was more bearable. But you knew the nightmares were still there; they existed even after sleep.
They existed on Hierosolyma. What at first was a heretical uprising was rotting into something far worse. The Fury's astropaths had heard the death-throes of millions of souls, and the inhuman cackling of the Archenemy.
You hadn't faced more than heretic cultists and rogue psykers - this crusade was to be unlike anything you had faced before, and there was nothing in the Imperium that would stop you from joining it.
Astartes could go weeks without sleep without it affecting them too much, but you might have been pushing it. Resolutely, you trained hours upon hours, putting all that you learned in the library into practice.
Even your superhuman body was sore from the hundreds of stances you had attempted to perfect. You had worn combat knives to bluntness just as you had with chainsword teeth. You had spent round after round, magazine after magazine in the shooting range, until the heft of the boltgun and the kick of its roar were as familiar to you as breath and heartbeat.
Soon, you had become the most formidable amongst your closest brothers thanks to the great breadth of your knowledge. True, you lacked Gottfried's unprecedented size and strength, nor Bayard's sheer tenacity, but such singular qualities did not a victor make. War had many faces, many as beautiful as they were horrifying, and a victor had to know them all and see them in the mirror.
Word had spread, this time of the bizarre neophyte who was invariably at the training grounds, if not the library. In the history of the chapter, the initiate imparted his experience and wisdom onto his ward, who in turn would become the initiate and take a charge of his own. Thus, the war-craft of the Templars had been passed on for ten thousand years.
Tradition had been broken here. Many saw you as an ingrate, a disrespectful cur who spurned the teachings of his master in favor for the books of dead authors. But you knew you were different.
You recalled the freak-beast's head, many years ago. You had tracked it, hunted it, killed it alone. Some hunts, even the hunt for knowledge, needed to be done in solitude.
"Brother Sigismund," Theobald said, snapping you from your reverie. "I was told you wished to prove yourself once more?"
You swallowed. "Yes, Sword Brother. Please, I ask this favor of you."
"This upstart," muttered a Templar beside Theobald. "He barely respects his master, then has the audacity to pull this stunt?"
The other Astartes in the arena murmured agreement. Theobald was as stoic as ever. Heads turned to the entrance as the door opened. Reynauld barged in, his face was fiery with anger.
"Cur!" he roared, then remembering his brothers were in the arena as well. His voice quietened, but lost none of the rage. "How dare you attempt to dishonor me this way? You swore to obey me!"
"And you swore to teach me all you knew. It seems written words can do that better than you," you spat.
Reynauld's raging eyes widened with disbelief. The Templars in the room tensed at this unprecedented disrepute. Such was the tension in the arena that you could taste combat chemicals in your throat, and smell it in the air as it emanated from all the Astartes.
"How? How dare..." Reynauld stammered.
"I dare. I just do. Reynauld, my brother and master," you said with a rueful smile, "I challenge you to a duel."
"I accept!" he yelled. "Years, years you've scurried around this ship and polluted its air. I will break you."
"Enough." Sword Brother Theobald had stepped forward. He unsheathed his chainsword. "This childishness shames us all. Reynauld."
"Yes?" he answered warily.
"Why did you choose this neophyte to take under your wing?"
"I saw the potential in him," he lied. "I see now that I was wrong to place my trust in this savage wretch."
His fellow brothers grunted in agreement, but Theobald held a fist to silence them. "Then you are a poor judge of character, Reynauld. And from the rumors surrounding the neophyte, a poor teacher."
Reynauld's neck tightened, but even he held his tongue against Theobald. You smiled, losing it as Theobald directed his glare at you.
"As for you, boy, you disrespect not only your master, but myself and everyone you had gathered here. You disrespect this entire chapter and its traditions."
"Sword Brother, I-"
An armored fist crashed into your face. The blood of Dorn ran down your mouth in a red river.
"Be silent. I will not tolerate your behavior in my squad, on this ship, or in this chapter. Do you understand?"
You curled your hand into a fist, spat a gob of blood. "Yes, Sword Brother."
"Good. With that said, I challenge you to a duel."
Your eyes widened with surprise. You felt the others' stares, Reynauld's hateful glare. There was only one answer. "I accept."
The Sword Brother, fully armored in warplate save for his helmet, nodded. He revved his chainsword, handed it to you. He extended his arm, waiting as one of the Templars offered his own sword for Theobald to use. Theobald then took a small hourglass.
"One minute," he said, adopting his stance. "Survive."
"But only you are armored," you said, suddenly feeling naked in your threadbare habit.
Theobald placed the hourglass upside down on the ground. His chainsword roared to life. "Begin."
Like a lightning bolt, he lunged. Rows upon rows of adamantium teeth threatened to tear into your torso. You parried it with practiced poise, stepped into your own stance, struck.
His sword struck yours, sparks showering the sands of the arena. His already great strength was magnified by his power armor - his sword pushed yours further and further back, until the back of your blade was centimeters from your face.
You slacked - Theobald was caught off guard, his force now having no resistance. He stumbled forward, you weaved to the side. You brought your blade down for a devastating strike, one he still managed to parry in the same movement as his recovery.
He punched, his power armored fist promising to leave your face a ruin of bone. You dodged it narrowly - Astartes warplate amplified speed as well as strength, and Astartes had great reserves of both. In all rights, Theobald should have been lumbering, encumbered, and you would have had the advantage of mobility. But this was Astartes power armor, the ceramite robes of the angels of death.
You returned a punch of your own. His head was his only vulnerability. You roared in pain as Theobald swiped your arm away with his chainsword. Your left arm was a bloody ruin.
"Do you yield?" he asked in a voice of utter calm.
"No," you answered. The fighting resumed.
Pain rung in your mind, but you pressed on. You were on the defensive now, parrying, dodging, and parrying again. The codices and treatises taught that defenders do not truly win - they relied on the attackers losing.
You flung your useless, mangled arm at him, missing utterly but achieving what you had intended - flecks of blood had found themselves in Theobald's eye. In that moment, the singular moment of weakness, you pounced. You tackled into him with all the speed and strength of a bovine beast, staggered him back, then swung for the felling blow.
"Time!" someone called.
But your sword had stopped even before then. You looked down, saw Theobald's own blade centimeters away from your gut. He would have killed you long before your blow had landed.
You breathed raggedly, drove the chainsword into the sand, and knelt. You felt an armored hand lift your chin up, felt the thrum of his armor in your skull.
"Rise, brother." It was the first time you saw him smile.
---
You were now accepted into Theobald's household, a member of his crusader squad - on the condition that Reynauld continue taking you under his wing (or at least start to). The warning went both ways, and the two of you grudgingly complied.
Sigismund's Fury was finally back in realspace, and the heretic-controlled planet of Hierosolyma was less than a day away. Theobald bade you all to prepare.
Unlike the squad organization prescribed by the codex, the Black Templar crusader squads were bound more by fellowship and familiarity, and the weapons each crusader bore were due to his preferences rather than allotted to him.
As a neophyte, it was your duty to master all the weapons available to you on the field of battle. Today, unlike the skirmishes from before, was the first day of a true crusade.
What weapons did you take with you?
[ ] The holy bolter.
[ ] The cherished chainsword and blessed boltpistol.
[ ] The glorified shotgun.
[ ] The sacred sniper rifle.
[ ] The hallowed heavy bolter.
As the tenth update, I thought I'd take the time to thank you guys for reading, and ask how you feel about the quest. Are you enjoying it? Do you find it lacking? What aspects do you think I should improve?
I like the writing, so gritty and catches the upfront personal violence of the 40k universe. Also the light moments so rare, like that talk with the little girl, that it makes it more memorable.
P.s. i remember your slaneshi quest and that baby being killed scene! ( not in so many words of course)
