The chain ax halted inches before Gheer's face, the roaring of the blade and the twisting teeth calling death to him should his skills or strength falter. The brother behind the blade was covered in cuts from where Gheer's weapon had scored strike after strike, but to an Astartes, those cuts were minor. Gheer twisted his own weapon, the faithful ax groaning under the strain as he slid his foe's blade into the ground next to his head. He punched the moment his hand was not needed to maintain the bind, his fist crunching into his foe's face as he pulled back and kicked the man off.
Gheer grabbed his foe's chain ax and cracked his neck, his body refreshed, blood pumping new aches from the contest. Bringing both weapons up, it was a shame that the match would be over. His foe, covered in dust, spat out a glob of blood, his eyes shot red with adrenaline as they danced over the pit. His hand clenched around a missing blade. "You did well, brother, but you have been bested." The Astartes did not return the salute and did not acknowledge his defeat. Instead, he ran forward, his hand catching the chain ax headed for him, his arm catching his own blade in a spray of blood as the weapon sunk deep. His head smashed into Gheer's own, sending the legion master back several steps as the Astartes pulled the ax from his hand and swung it around, readying himself for a strike.
However, Gheer was not dazed long from the headbutt, and as the warrior went to claim victory, the legion master took it first. His hand smashed into the Legionary's injured arm and with a vicious snap freed the man's chain ax to cut his own blade free with the end of the swipe, leaving the foe disarmed. This time, in a way that would not be recovered from. The man had no ability to return the salute and the Apothecary came in, taking the Astartes off to see if he could be mended. The head of the Apothecarion came forth and gave Gheer a look.
"Do not ask me not to strike them as I can, brother. If he had wits, he would have known not to strike," Gheer spoke as he cleaned the blood off both chain axes he now possessed.
The man sighed and looked to the walls of the pit around them, the dust and dirt used to soften the metal flooring stained red with the blood of those who have fought here. "Perhaps it is not the wit of our men we should be questioning but these pits."
Gheer laughed and smiled, his face covered in blood from his own injuries. "Brother, have you not seen the reports? We have taken whole worlds in battle with fewer casualties, in less time. We are those that the Emperor calls on when the world is nigh unbreakable."
The medicae gave a laugh of his own, far harsher and without the mirth of Gheer's. "Perhaps, lord, but the casualties of the battlefield have all been moved to the pits. Each drop of blood saved in the wars has been paid for with two here."
Gheer gave the man a far more appraising look. "Yes, but the blood of those are only to one man to those who deserve it. In battle, a fool can kill many an ally. Though the casualties of the pits are inevitable, I will bring it up with the praetors."
The Pits of the War Hounds are far from safe, and in the battles, many have fallen, some have died, and others have broken. Not all who fail here are beyond use to the Legion. What tasks are they put to?
[ ] [War] Even In Death
Those who prove themselves but have fallen are always to be given a chance. The blades and bolters of a dreadnought will be their new tools. The honored fallen will rise again and strike all those who stand against the Legion.
[ ] [War] Legion of the Damned
Those who have been injured beyond even the might of the apothecary to heal are fitted with the right bionics and drugs to get them back up. This force of the damned will be the first to strike at the Legion's hardest targets, the deadliest missions, giving them one more battle to send them out.
[ ] [War] Blade Masters
They may have fallen below the standards of the War Hounds to send into battle but they have not outlived their usefulness. The skilled and trained among them are those that lead the initiates, those that train the neophytes in the ways of the Legion.
[ ] [War] Only the Needed
The Legion is fighting a war. The legion has no time and resources to spend on those who can't keep up. If they wanted to live, they should have fought better.
Torm stood before his foe, the chainsword whirling. The alien champion raised a gun of xenos make and turned it upon Torm. The Legionary was not cowed by the action, his blade lashed as the servos in his armor whirled to keep up with the Astartes in a fight. The xenos blot of orange plasma fired by, and before the hissing gun could turn on his new position, a blade liberated its head from its neck.
He watched the alien champion fall dead to the ground, his company clearing away the honor guard that would have struck Torm the moment the duel had ended. This race had only the pretense of honor. His second came up with the blood of some alien from this battle on his helmet. "Sir, a Legionary from the 12th Company wishes to speak with you."
The mundanity of the world between the battles quickly intruded on the dusk of victory. A night Torm hoped would be short descended. "What does he have for me?" The 1st Company was working with the Twin Legions to clear out a patch of hostile alien empires to the southern coreward expanse, while the 12th had attached itself to a Mechanicus expedition into a cluster with few warp connections for an STC that had been rumored to be lurking there.
"I will let him explain himself, sir." Torm looked up as his second spoke to see a marine helmet missing an interact tattoo on the side of his face and a hard expression.
"Legion Commander, the 12th Company is in need of the aid of the 1st Company to take a world at the heart of the human worlds that stand against us." It was a simple order, and as they were aiding a smaller Mechanicus expedition, it was not unusual that they would need aid for the strike against a stronger foe. Even an Astartes is not immortal, and to know when to gather aid was an important skill. Yet still, even though he would agree, Torm was struck by the Marine and had questions.
"As we are done here, we can aid you there. But answer me this, what is the meaning of the tattoos?" Torm holstered his blade and kicked away the now rapidly breaking down alien weapon as some safety had been damaged in the fight.
"Ah, the Ikorate. It is a tradition of a world we liberated, now five missions ago. They would carve the name of each battle their clans had upon the warrior instrumental in the victory on the face of that warrior. It has become a way to reward the greatest in the company since." Torm was not personally a fan of such a tradition, especially as it has this marine out in the field without his helmet, but he could imagine the appeal. He would have to talk to some of the other companies to see if anything else like this was happening.
The blood of the VIth Legion runs thin, for how could it know when they are no longer a Legion? They are companies, each taking on foes far from the others, with other brothers from other Legions at their side and the ranks and honors of different worlds far removed from each other. Perhaps this is natural, or perhaps more should be done to bind the VIth even as it is the Legion Divided.
[ ] [Space] Unify the Source
The companies are no longer to raise their neophytes in their own ways. The Apothecarion will be built not just to train neophytes but to create and maintain the culture of the VIth. Each company will define itself, but they will all be linked together by the culture their new bloods bring in.
[ ] [Space] The Conclave
The companies will vary, will drift. This is part of the distance the new way of the VIth has formed. However, if they are brought together, they will lessen those changes, spread their thoughts, and share their ideas, binding the Legion together. Every so often, a Grand Conclave will be called and the Legion will conduct the rituals that unify them to their brothers.
[ ] [Space] Perhaps Not
The VIth Legion is a note upon the papers and data slates of scribes and officials. Each company has heraldry, renown, and honors. Each as different from the other as the Legions are to each other.
Nevian looked down at the world, smoke and ash swirling in the sky. Dymos stood next to him as they watched the Stormbirds returning the legion to the fleet. "Higher casualties than expected." His friend nodded; the marine was the Sergeant of Nevian's honor guard and had seen many of the reports the man himself had when they returned from the fleet after the battle.
"Those Orks were a threat to the whole theater with their raids." Nevian looked down at the burning world.
"It wasn't their strength that caught us, it was traps. The leader of these Orks was a particularly strategic thinker, for their kind." This had been proven too many times. The legion had succeeded and had fewer casualties than the mortals who scouted the system without touching the world. Yet it felt like a failure, and Nevian bet that the other leaders of the Legion felt the same.
The Astartes gave a solemn nod and looked again at the world. "You underestimate the intelligence of the Orks. There is word of a great conflict brewing with the Greenskins in the North. And to the rimwards expanse, the Emperor is negotiating with a clan of the Freebooters to bring them into the fold. They are as wise as any mortal if given the chance to show it."
"I care more about the intelligence of these foes. No, it is simply that our fights are rarely those that allow us to stand tall." Nevian looked at the now-dead world.
"Our duty is to the Emperor's plan, not our own glory." The hall fell into silent contemplation after those words. Nevian would speak to the leadership; their path was true, but perhaps battle was not the only way to find glory along it.
The Lunar Wolves are to remain static, to stay steadfast in their role. Yet they have not found accolades or great honor in this path. Perhaps that is the focus of fools; the legion should understand that they must grow great in their skills and not take to each flight of fancy they can dream. How does the Legion keep the path?
[ ] [Lunar] Like Monks
The gathering of accolades, of honors that they had seen as great, that the other legions chase. Those are endeavors of the simple. No, each Lunar Wolf is to be ascetic, to hold on to no concept of glory. The legion is a tool for the empire, not for its own aggrandizement. The saw is not jealous the carpenter has more need of the hammer; it simply waits for the time it is needed.
[ ] [Lunar] Turn to Crafts
While other legions have more of a talent for the art of smiths and the work of it, the Lunar Wolves turn their focus on that domain. Between each deployment, the Wolves are to craft their armor and weapons, to turn their hands into making each piece of gear a masterwork. They have not found great glory yet, but they keep themselves occupied.
[ ] [Lunar] Rebuilding
The legion is called only to the most difficult worlds, only to places the empire cannot make submit with less than a specialized legion like the Lunar Wolves or the VIIIth legion. These are not worlds that stand tall once broken. Instead of waiting for accolades in war or glory upon the field of battle, the Legion shall wait after each conquest, undoing their work of destruction. The Lunar Wolves would be a legion that burned a world to ash and turned the ash into new foundations.
[ ] [Lunar] Rapid Response
Glory cannot be handed to those who wait. Honor is not given; it is found. The Lunar Wolves are not bathed in the accolades of the Legions with their fathers because the Wolves have rested until called upon. No more. The Lunar Wolves will not be patient; they will take their blades and ships and carve a path in the void. They are not the hammer against foes others have broken against; they are the vanguard before the empire. They are alongside the Vth at the edge of the expanse, finding those impossible foes before any of the empire has need to break against them.
