And They Shall Know No Fear (Warhammer 30K-40K Astartes Quest)

[Tinkerer]

War. It was the purpose of your existence. The reason you drew breath, the reason that you and your brethren were a glimmer of an idea in the Emperor's mind.

It is the only thing you can truly understand in this twisted galaxy that you live in. Even more so than your father and his brothers or your own brothers, you understand that truth. Uncorrupted by those who lurk in the Warp and unbent by the machinations of the alien, that truth has been what has let you survive this long.

As you stand upon a once vibrant planet, now scorched from the hellfire of battle and doused in the blood of millions. The echoing battle cries of your brothers and the guttural growls of their Orkish foes float around you. Inside the eye of the storm, you see your fellow Astartes fight to slay the green skinned abominations. Even as you move forward to join battle once more your thoughts drift back to a time when things were simpler.

You were,

[] A Champion Eternal: You had been a child of a techno barbarian on Terra, when the Emperor had lead his Thunder Warriors and his Custodes to battle the other rulers of the wasteland. In the aftermath of the slaughter you had been hiding among the rocks that surrounded the base camp the Emperor's armies had set up to dictate terms to their surviving defeated foes. When a stroke of blind luck led you to an opening through the patrols of the camp, past the Thunder Warriors sat around campfires reveling in their victory and even the ever vigilant Custodes seemed for once a bit more relaxed in their constant vigilance. It was with this stroke of extreme fortune you snuck into the Emperor's tent, intending to die with your knife in his throat for reasons even you didn't understand. In the moments before your knife touched flesh and the Custodes moved in to slay you, the supposedly sleeping monarch's eyes flew open and you found yourself held in the air purely by his psychic might. Even still you shook, still trying to force your knife towards him, and rather than simply having you killed he seemed to have seen potential in you. Potential that would be realized when you became one of the very first Astartes to be created, to destroy the Emperor's enemies and to erase the last vestiges of Terra's barbaric history. (You are one of the first Astartes to have been created during the waning days of the Unification Wars. Owing your allegiance more to the Emperor than you ever would your supposed progenitor. Bestowed with a psychic barrier by the Emperor himself, something your own experience and iron will have only strengthened. You are immune to any mental effects or attempted readings of your mind thanks to this barrier in the form of a golden aura. You are also one of the participants of the last battle of Terra at Mount Ararat with all that entails. You view the Emperor as a flawed man because of it, though your loyalty has never faltered.)

[] A Noble Scion: Picked from Terra's nobility after the conclusion of the Unification Wars to serve in one of the Astartes Legions you were one of first to depart outwards into the galaxy underneath the Emperor in search of his sons. You took part in many battles among the stars and brought many worlds under the Imperium's dominion. When Horus was found you were brought up to be part of his command staff as you had accumulated a large amount of experience under the Emperor as part of his own command staff. The Primarch's charisma dazzled you and you found more in common with him and his sons than you did your own brothers and father. When he was finally found you begged to remain with Horus and his Legion, and due to your history of exemplary service your request was granted. You would continue on in Horus' service and aid in the training of the next generation of his Legion when you were not out fighting in Horus' name. (You are one of the first Astartes made during the beginning of the Great Crusade, leading the charge out into the cosmos in the name of the Emperor and then Horus. Your loyalties are to Horus and his Legion rather than your own and that has colored your expertise. A strategic and tactical mastermind, you have spent most of your career commanding and leading Astartes. First under the Emperor, then Horus, and finally on your own in Horus' name. Your skill is great and few can best your military brilliance, and it has only been sharpened and perfected under these two legendary figures.)

[] A Loyal Son: Picked from your father's homeworld and as such your loyalty unto your dying breath lays with him. Your familial loyalty has lead you to bond fiercely and deeply with your brothers, to the point just as you would die happily for your father, your brothers would do so for you. You have used this fiery connection and powerful charisma to unite your brothers against countless foes and caused them to push themselves beyond their limits to achieve legendary feats. Where others may command a single legendary sword arm, you lead thousands of legendary swordsmen. With a word you can crush a man's spirit, and with a warm gesture you can push that same man to achieve greatness. Even your father acknowledges this power and has been caught in its pull ever so slightly, though he is reassured by your declarations and exhibitions of loyalty to know you are his son above all other allegiances. (You are one of the first Astartes recruited from your Primarch's home planet and one of the first of that generation to fight in aid of your father's reunification of the galaxy. This resulted in your die hard loyalty to your father, beyond even a normal Astartes loyalty to his gene sire. Something which you have channeled into your words, as you can incite your brothers and even others to great feats of heroism outside their thought limits simply due to your fiery words. With those same words you can break a proud kings entire world, having him fling himself off his balcony to the ground below. Even your father can feel the effects of your words and is only calmed by the same die hard loyalty you give him.)

 

[Tinkerer]

Name: Legion Master Tyrian

Spoiler

Legion Number: XV

Age: Unknown ( At Least Several Centuries Old)

Strengths: Personal Combat, Stealth, Anti-Warp Operations, Emperor's Silencer

Weaknesses: Social Activity, Logistics, His Legion's Childishness

 

[Tinkerer]

As you slide past your brothers and walk fully into the Orkish mob ahead of them your blade sings a ballad of death. Flashing like a silver blur carving through the horde, a single pass reducing their number tenfold. The path of the sword cleaving through necks, torsos, and the occasional jaw makes short work of their attempted charge, and you alone have created a beachhead into the barbaric mass.

Your brothers are quick to take advantage of the space, falling in behind you and unleashing the fury of their bolters and volkites to annihilate any pitiful green skin who had been unfortunate enough to survive your reaping.

In a matter of moments the troublesome warband has been killed to an Ork, and the surrounding terrain has been sterilized with flamers and volkites.

"Legion Master, the last remnants of the orkish incursion have been crushed, and sterilization procedures have begun. What shall we do with the planet now that it has been brought to compliance?" Your tactical advisor Aventus reported over the vox unit in your helmet, as though you were the Master of the Legion you were not the best suited to plan out the entirety of a campaign in minute detail. Though you were still at least competent at it.

Your response?
[] Write In (Decide basic temperament)

With the fate of the planet decided you begin organizing your brothers and ordering departures back to drop ships and retrieval of drop pods to be returned to the fleet. Before you move to the next system to bring into Imperial Compliance. The steady thump of power armored feet in unison alerting you to the obedience to your orders as departure procedures begin.

Stepping onto the ramp of the Stormbird you begin your own preparations for return to the fleet, logging your Volkite Serpenta and Charger being accounted for in with the Head Legion Quartermaster Kevdak before retiring back to your quarters aboard the Legion's flagship. Ignoring the few dirty glares from some of the ships crew you retreat into your rather spartan abode. You rest your power sword and your two volkite weapons on a simple weapon rack built into the back corner of the room before turning towards the armor station. A rather elaborate mechanism, it takes up a large portion of the middle of the floor and extends to touch the ceiling.

When you step in between its arches it whirs to life, several robotic arms and servitors activating to begin stripping off your armor. Even as it happens you cannot help marvel at how different it was from what you were used to. The glaring light of Sol, the dry dunes of Terra's evaporated oceans. The constant worry that someone was planning on murdering you for your possessions.

It had just hit home how much things had changed, how much YOU had changed. From the son of a lowly techno barbarian to a member of the Astartes Legion. A member of the Great Crusade to unite humanity across the galaxy, and to stomp out all those xenos abominations who had robbed man of his birthright. Yeah, right.

You stifle a snort, for all that the Emperor believed in that ideal plenty of his own bias' creeped into it. His actions in regards to religion spoke enough to that, and regardless of all his denials and declarations, he was simply afraid. Afraid that he was wrong and afraid that man would never be like him. Though he never spoke of it, both Malcador and yourself had noticed it during your time unifying the Sol system and the time until the discovery of Horus.

Though Malcador knew more about the specifics, you still knew enough to know something had the Emperor spooked and had to do with having to find his sons. Something that had him racing to find the Primarchs beyond simply reuniting with his offspring, and something you were beginning to get the feeling you were being kept in the dark about.

Shaking off these morose thoughts you looked up to see one of the banners draped down one of your rooms walls. It indicated the number of your legion and which of the Emperor's sons was your genesire, though many of the Primarchs were still missing Horus and Leman at least had been found. There had been absolutely not another one found yet. You affirmed this totally, forcing yourself not to think about those bitter memories.

What number was upon the banner?
[] 1-20

And what was the name you had taken for yourself upon becoming an Astartes?
[] Alexandros
[] Titus
[] Tyrian
[] Write-In

 

[Tinkerer]

[X] "Make sure the sterilization process is thorough, Aventus; these savage greenskins are far more resilient than we give them credit for. For if a single spore survive they will wreak havoc onto this world's inhabitants once more." (Cautious and calculating; but holds human lives in high regard)

"It will be done Legion Master." Aventus affirmed over the vox channel. "I will have the completed after action report sent to you by the end of the day." He had actually been part of the Astartes generation just after yours, when mass production started taking place and it no longer was simply you and the other 5000 of the first batch. He was incredibly analytical and cunning, able to come up with elaborately detailed plans that would completely hamstring an enemies logistics chain while making your own nigh unassailable.
YOU ALWAYS FOUGHT ALONE ON A HILL OF CORPSES!
His assistance had been vital in many victories, as while you were at least above averagely competent at the more analytical side of war, it was never your strongest skill. Where you could keep an army well supplied and in good morale, Aventus was able to maintain the logistics of a system wide assault plan and everything that went into it with nary a thought put towards his calculations.

He was also one the few Astartes that at least somewhat understood your difficulties with the newer generations almost religious adoration of the Emperor. You seeing it as unsettling how honestly worshipful the newer recruits could be when it involved him.

[X] Tyrian

Tyrian, you had chosen Tyrian as your new name. In the warbands of the techno barbarians you had simply been referred to as "Little Shit" or "Fucking get over here dammit", being as you were simply a child seen as a waste of resources.
A WASTE OF SKIN. YOU SHOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN BORN!
Your mother had been the only one to care for you and she had died several years before your attack on the emperor, dying of exhaustion after being used to produce "warriors" for the warband to toss into the meat grinder. You had been spared the same fate after she had become the plaything of one of the upper ranking members, whereupon you were simply beaten repeatedly until you learned to fight back and dodge.

She had called you "The Light of My Life", as you tried your best to earn whatever food and water you could to keep the two of you alive. Until suddenly, she wasn't there anymore.
REDUCED TO FLESH
Most of those involved died via "accidents" in the following years, and of those left you had personally gutted with their own weapons.

Following that would have been your plan to sneak into the strange warlord with the enhanced warrior's camp and kill him, dying in the process, and establishing yourself as a legend with your passing. Reuniting you with your mother and taking one of the warlords destroying Terra with you.
A GOOD DEATH.
Idiotic of course, but you had still been a child. Even as cynical as you had become, there was still some naïve foolishness left.

Following that fateful night, the Emperor as he would come to be known began teaching you everything you would need to know to serve as one of his great warriors, and even more. His stories of ancient civilizations had actually been where you had found your name, after a city where a rich purple dye was made, a dye named so as imperial purple. Thus had you chosen Tyrian.
THE COLOR OF AN EMPEROR
[X] XV

The banner of the Fifteenth Legion hung from the wall in front of you, while many of your brothers and the scribes of the Imperial bureaucracy might have other names for the Legion it would always simply be the Fifteenth for you.

Contrary to what many people would think, the Emperor of Mankind was exceedingly bad in his ability to name things. When he wasn't simply using past cultures or ideas to fill in the blanks he was honestly quite pathetic at it.

The Warhounds were almost named Legion of Extraordinary Space Men before his companion Malcador stepped in. Your own Legion was also spared the fate of being called the Boom Men by the Sigilite's quick action. It was later agreed to leave the final naming of the Legions to their Gene Sires and their current titles to Malcador himself as to preserve their reputations and gravitas.
THESE WERE THE LEAST OF HIS SINS!
Thus would it remain the Fifteenth until your gene sire saw fit to rename it. You could only hope he was of better naming sense than his own father.

With the machine and servitors finally done removing your power armor and replacing it on its stand, you quickly dressed in a pair of simple fatigues you had requested fabricated by one of the quarter masters upon the flagship.

Never really enjoying the more elaborate outfits some Legions wore in their off time between battles you had instead opted for the more utilitarian outfits of the Imperial Army.

With that out of the way you needed to decide on what exactly you would deal with first. Exiting your quarters to begin the trek across the massive flagship of the fleet to continue your duties as the Legion Master.

[] Overseeing the new batch of Astartes recruit's integration into the rest of the Legion. There appeared to be some clashes between the two generations over proper procedure.

[] Checking in with the Mechanicus representatives to see what they need to maintain the equipment and war machines of the Legionary Fleet. Also soothing any flared tempers from religious differences between them and other members of the fleet.

[] Requisitioning a sparring cage as to hone your fighting skills even further. You wanted to break your record of winning 1 vs 50 with only two scratches this time.

 

[Tinkerer]

You, are Ahzek Ahriman. Brother to Ahzek Orhmuzd and newly promoted Astartes Sergeant of the Fifteenth Crusade Legion. And you are currently running very thin on patience.

"I'm telling you it's much more efficient to just use bolters with a force this size you blind fool! We don't have the industrial capacity to support your obsession with volkite weapons in the future in the numbers we would need once our Primarch has been found. It is sturdy enough and easily produced in enough quantity as to ensure all of the Legion Astartes are armed for battle!" Declared a rather irate new recruit, having just freshly been recruited not even five months ago and now feuding with another of your generation. You hadn't even learned his name yet.

"And I'm telling you, you snot nosed runt that if we go along with your plan then we lose out on the killing power and logistical utility of volkite weaponry. Bolter weapons have physical ammunition boy, which means more space that needs to be taken up by magazines where you just need to recharge the batteries of volkite magazines!" Solomon Tumadi answered testily, he was a rather solid example of a soldier and had proven a rather reliable comrade. Being of your generation and having time to synchronize with everyone else.

The two of them had been having the exact same argument for the last couple of days during either off time or between lulls of combat. The recruit claiming that bolters were simply more practical in the long stretch of the Crusade while Solomon on the other hand insisted that volkite weaponry could go the distances so long as proper industrial necessities were put in place to maintain their mass production.

You on the other hand in the frank words of the Imperial Army, "Could not give a ratling's ass" about this idiotic conversation. Your free time spent either sharpening your combat skills with your brother, ensuring the fleet logistics train remained stable by helping Aventus, or seeing whether or not you could find where the Legion Master made his abode.

He had apparently taken great pains to ensure no one in the fleet knew where he rested in his off time (as small as that was) for the reason of in his own words, "To keep you Terra-forsaken heathens away from my only sanctuary against your annoyances, you are Astartes, so stop acting like children I need to pick up after."

Needless to say all past attempts to find his bolt hole had ended in failure, you yourself only searched for it as the idea of an area completely isolated from the rest of the Legion's idiocies sounded too enticing to pass up. Consequences of disturbing the Legion Master be damned.

"You're as blind as a you are ancient you old fogey!" "I'll give you something to scream about you little brat!"

Ugghh. You let your face rest in the palm of your hand, as the two idiots continued their argument.

"Legion Master on Deck!" Came a startled cry from one of the Astartes formerly forming a ring around the two troublemakers, before everyone including yourself rushed to form ranks as the Legion Master, Tyrian, walked into the barracks.

Taller than any other marine that you had seen, he towered over everyone in the barracks, astartes included. With an expression that screamed long suffering annoyance he merely asked as to the nature of the argument.

"Now, what is it that has gotten you lot so ruffled this time?"

The recruit is the first to answer. "W-well Legion Master this old fool insists that hold onto the idea volkite weaponry is sustainable as a mainstay weapon of Legionary Forces into the future."

The Legion master gives him a long stare before turning to Solomon. "And you?"

Solomon sheepishly shuffles a few times before answering. "This brat seems to think that replacing the logistically miraculous weaponry that is volkite with those ammo hogs that he calls bolters is an excellent idea, Legion Master."

The Legion Master gives them both a very long, hard, stare before answering.

[] He sides with the older Legionary, emphasizing that volkite weaponry is indeed the more logistically beneficial, before having both Legionary's scrub the inside of the ships waste filter for the rest of the trip.
[] He sides with the newer Legionary, agreeing that the Imperium simply doesn't have the industrial capacity to maintain volkites as a mainstay weapon for the legions, before immediately having them begin cleaning the waste filter.
[]Write in? - They're still cleaning the waste filter as punishment either way.

With that settled, the Legion Master went on his way to review other portions of the ship and its crew. Especially considering the utter embarrassment this section of the Legion had just been party to.

A few minutes of silence take place after the departure of the commanding Astartes, before it is immediately broken by a new infantile argument that you don't care enough to pay attention to.

*Groan* You bet Ohrmuzd doesn't have to tolerate this when he works with the Mechanicus adepts.

 

[Tinkerer]

[X] You both have good points, volkites truly are unfeasible to maintain across the whole legion due to their cost and complexity of maintenance/production. However, bolters do have logistics problem due to their use of solid ammo and lack the sheer killing powers of a volkite. It would be more pragmatic to equip all new battle brothers ie the majority with bolter weapons and all veterans and sergeants/commanders with volkite weapons thus maintaining a sustainable amount of volkite weapons without running into cost troubles. Also best to have more than one way to kill the enemy as volkites are not a one weapon fit all anyways.
-[X] Also both of you are now assigned together from now on in all duties, first duty being to cleaning every waste filter in the ship with a scrub till we enter combat again.

SILENCE BECKONS!
You are once again Tyrian, Legion Master of the Fifteenth and quite honestly you don't know where to start with the mess that has just violently relieved itself in your lap. Do you enlighten them as to the depths of your disappointment, or actually try to do something constructive with this? They both raise very excellent points, points even your mind can understand as much as logistics aren't your strong suit. Volkites will indeed no longer be tenable as a main stay in the Legionary arsenal, their exorbitant production requirements and almost mystical assembly process would ensure of that.

But it still was an incredibly useful weapon that shouldn't be fated to simply fade away into obscurity, you'd see about getting a deal set up between the Mechanicus and at least the Fifteenth. As much pull as being a companion of the "Omnissiah" could get you there were still limiting factors.
ALL IS DUST!
With the two children properly disciplined and chained to each other you make your way towards the hangar/engineering bay of the ship, eager to deal with a more balanced group of individuals.

When you enter into the bay the thick smell of ozone, incense, and burning oil fills your nostrils, and the sounds of welding metal and clanging presses fills your ears. Countless tech adepts and servitors scurrying about to fulfill the orders of the higher-ranking tech priests scattered about screeching in even faster-paced Binary than usual as sparks rain from every direction there were welding platforms or vehicles. They were always like this after the completion of a compliance mission, it seemed like there was a reward for whoever did the best work in the maintenance period between compliances.
HE SLEEPS BENEATH RED SANDS!
Smoothly sliding through the chaos, you spot the two people you had been looking for, Sergeant Ahzek Ohrmuzd and Magos Arklight Zeta. The two were apparently discussing something rather engrossing as while most of the Techpriest's body language had changed with his mechanization over the years he still exuded an air of focused fascination while the Astartes spoke, though their conversation was completely muffled by the ambient noise of machinery and repairs going on. The techpriest's augmentations causing him to resemble the larger machinery the Mechanicus was known for, such as Knights or even Titans themselves though of course in miniature. His robes a vast crimson carpet draped over his body, with an enlarged hood from which two massive glowing electronic eyes could be seen from the darkness like spotlights. Making him large enough to see eye to eye with the newly promoted Sergeant.

The Astartes himself was almost a mirror image of his brother whenever Ahriman deigned remove his helmet, strong brow and jaw as well as an aquiline nose while still maintaining a regal air. The features of warrior princes from the far-off lands of the former Achaemenid Empire, a place you distinctly remember from the Unification Wars. Irritating bastards, didn't know when to quit and quite often you had dig them out of their mountain strong-holds brick by brick.
HE WILL DIE.
But what the brothers had in common when it came to looks, they much more differed in demeanor. Where Ahriman was incredibly dour and biting with his words, though still an incredibly honest and caring soul, Ohrmuzd was blatantly obvious with his kindness. Often taking the time to visit the mortal contingents of the crusade fleet simply as to ascertain their well being and get to know them.
REDUCED TO A GIBBERING PILE OF MEAT
Quick with a joke and always with a laugh shining in his eyes, Ohrmuzd even took the time to care for the psykers of various denominations onboard the ship. No man was lesser in his eyes and all were welcome to be a companion of his.
END HIS SUFFERING!
It was this same attitude that would lend itself to the various factions aboard the ship to allow the Astartes to endear himself to them. Even the Mechanicus representatives were a bit more personable when the man came around.

As you come nearer you overhear the tail end of their conversation, "As you can see Magos, while there is a slight downtick in efficiency in the short term the longer-term improvements in quality of life produce workers who are even more willingly to put their all into their crafts. Thereby increasing production tenfold." Ohrmuzd says pointing to several pads he had displayed on a small stand between the two individuals, as the massive techpriest crossed his arms in contemplation of whatever suggestion the young man had raised.
THE DRAGON SHALL RISE!
"Intriguing." Boomed the vox unit that had replaced the Magos' vocal chords. "The statistics of your research do indeed lead me to posit your theory having merit. I will ascertain whether or not it is feasible to integrate into the schedules of the menials as they are or if they are in need of modification. My thanks for your effort in bringing our worship of the Machine God to ever greater glory, young Ohrmuzd." The priest replied, before offering his farewell. "But it will be needed to be analyzed at a later time, I have much to do before we reach our next destination. May the Omnissiah bless your endeavors, and good day." And with that he moved off into the depths of the engineering bay.

With the conversation finished the young Sergeant finally noticed you coming towards him. With an enthusiastic salute of his arm across his chest he greets you. "Salutations Legion Master, is there anything you have need of me for?"
DIE!
[] Ask him to accompany your examination of the ship as you will probably need the extra hands with how this day is wrapping up.

[] Allow him to go about his business, and continue on with your duties as Legion Master alone. Following after the Magos to acquire his aid in ascertaining the Mechanicus' needs on board the ship.

[] Write in?

 

[Fallout5368]

With permission from @Tinkerer I present the first Omake for And They Shall Know No Fear. I don't really know where this would fit on the cannon spectrum.
Constantin Valdor stares down at legion master Tyrian. The fool who's mere existence has caused the bodyguards of the Emperor no end of shame. The fool whose usual stern face is now split in a knowing smirk.

Around them, the other legion masters had gathered for a final grand meeting before the Emperor officially started the Great Crusade. The Custodes had ensured that each of the attendee and their retinues had been bereft of their armaments while in the presence of the Emperor.

Tyrian though had not arrived with any weapon. No, his retinue had consisted of two sergeants and most insulting of all, a small child. A child who wore a small toy dagger, and who had a crude rendition of the Aquila stitch upon his tunic.

"Why is this mortal child here Legion Master Tyrian," Valdor said almost grinding his teeth together.

Tyrian's vexing smirk only seemed to grow fractiously. "My lord Valdor I only wish to ensure that the next generation can witness to this momentous occasion."

"And the symbol and toy that this child wears."

"Nothing more than a child wishing to be like the heroes he has heard so much about. Is that not correct little one."

At this, the boy took a timid step forward. "H-he-hello your lordship, lord Tyrian has talked a lot about you. He says that you protect the Emperor, that you fought the bad people."

Valdor paused to stare down at the mortal trying to gain a measure of his worth. What he saw did not impress him, the boy did not bear any of the markings of Terran nobility. He was painfully average not sporting anything that would allow him to stand out among the masses of other mortals.

In the eyes of Valdor, this was just another way Tyrian had found to mock them. "Again Legion Master Tryian why is this mortal here? Should he not be with his elders?"

"He is an orphan who I have found has the right temperament for the Fifteenth." Tyrian says with a shrug, "I wanted to show him how the greatest and mightiest warriors in the Imperium Police the safety of the Emperor."

Valdor's eye almost twitches at that word, why did the Emperor have to allow this fool that knowledge.

"After all it is a momentous occasion, we are all about to become Krusaders. The next generation should have someone see it with their own eyes."

Valdor felt a great burning rage start to build up in his chest. A burning rage that only doubled when he realizes that he cannot release his frustrations upon the said source. Maintaining a stoic expression Valdor gestured to the podium reserved for the Fifteenth.

As Tyrian and his retinue moved forward Valdor could only stare at where they once were. His hearing catching the laughter of the mortal as his early timidity melting away to childlike excitement. "Do you think I could be as great a hero like Lord Valdor, Lord Tyrian?"

"I find that anything is possible in this universe little Seraphis. All one has to do is be willing to take the chance to grab at their goal."

Breathing in Valdor calmed is rage and prepared to standby his Emperor's side. Hoping that one day the shame would be wiped from the record.

 

[Tinkerer]

"Accompany me Sergeant Ohrmuzd, I have need of your expertise." Motioning for the younger Astartes to follow you begin heading towards the ship's command center. You were planning on honing the amiable young man's natural charisma as best you could. It would not only help in the future with further attempts for peaceful compliance of newly discovered colonies of mankind but in fact help shore up your utterly abysmal attempts at diplomacy with other Legions and factions within the Crusade as a whole.
THE BOY SMELLS OF DUPLICITY AND CORRUPTION! SLAY HIM!
"Of course Legion Master, may I ask as to the purpose you have in mind for me?" Ohrmuzd asks as falls into step behind you. "I mean no disrespect, but I do not see what a lowly Sergeant like myself could possibly offer you."
KILL! KILL! KILLLLLLL!
You chuckle at that before responding, "Young Ohrmuzd, my being Legion Master did not suddenly make me utterly without flaw or weakness. Every man, be they Astartes or not has their own talents and foibles. Skills that they come to naturally, as easily as breathing where others may falter and struggle. They too also have tasks that are simply beyond them, things that simply they are unable to accomplish by no fault but their lack of affinity for them." You pause to let your words sink in before continuing "I for example, am particularly weak at the tasks required of a Legion Master that do not involve battle. I say with no hyperbole that in the galaxy the amount of beings which can match me in single combat can barely be counted with two hands. But when it comes to seeing that the fleet is properly supplied or ensuring I avoid saying something that may offend other members of the crusade I am as helpless as a newborn grox in comparison to others."
The duplicitous crow favors this one.
Ohrmuzd seems outright shocked you would confide such things in him. Having stopped dead in the corridor the two of you were traversing down. Stillness is death.
He finally finds his voice as he catches back up to you. "S-s-surely you jest Legion Master, you lead us with a firm hand and ensure your brothers do not step out of line. Even those who would normally chafe under your words respect you." He's trying to cheer you up. Heh, how adorable. DISGUSTING!
With a small grin you respond to his belief. "Yes, but that is solely in battle. I do not have the tongue or the wit to hold the Legion together in dire straights outside of that purview. I cannot soothe a brother grieving for comrades lost and I do not have the capacity to defuse the strife should something threaten our unity. It is because of that I need men like you Ohrmuzd." You state before continuing. "I need those who have the heart and the voice to speak to our brothers and comrades when we are not at war, and when we need bonds forged with words."
The Black Carapace is the last organ needed by an initiate in order for him to become an Astartes. In order to install, first thread the organic fiber optics through is central nervous system, wrapping the cords around his nerves.
The Sergeant seems to wrack his brain for a moment before speaking. "But what coul-"

KATHOOOOOM! BRAKARAK!

Whatever the Marine was about to say is cut off by a deafening explosion that nearly knocks the both of you off your feet. Followed by the noise of several bulkheads cracking from the impact. You quickly tap into the ship's vox network to reach Aventus in the command center. "Aventus! What just happened! Did we suffer a Gellar breach?" You hear alarms going off over the vox before your second-in-command responds. "We are under attack Legion Master!" His voice sounds hurried as he quickly barks out a few orders off-vox before continuing. "Strange ships just knocked us out of the Warp and began opening fire. We've been cut off from the rest of the fleet at the moment and they've begun attempting to disable our Void Shields." He pauses, checking ship data then speaks. "The rest of the fleet is going need time to find us and drop out of Warp. We are on our own for now Legion Master."
The Witching Hour has Come.
The idea seems almost insane. Who would have the nerve, or more accurately the madness to directly attack a heavily armored target such as your ship? You ponder that thought for a second before asking. "Do we have any idea who they might be according to their ship design?" You hear your subordinate press a few buttons and speak to someone before answering. "They appear to be similar to records on Eldar ships, but they're all wrong to actually be Eldar. Too angular and they're covered in different sized blades and spikes."
The wolves circle.
Blast, that doesn't make it any easier figuring a proper strategy. You think for moment before responding. "What's the make up of their fleet and their current behaviors?"
DEATH COMES FOR US ALL.
Another pause. "At least six ships, most of them are smaller harrying vessels though they have enough firepower that they are actually endangering our shields. Those ones are performing high speed pinpoint strikes, before flying as quickly out of range as possible. There's also a larger one that seems to be hanging back outside of our own ranges. Almost as if they already know our weapons limits." Sound of tapping fills the vox for a moment. "The crew, the techpriests, and the machine spirits are telling me that we have to act quickly or else we're simply going to be picked apart. First the Void Shields, then the ship itself." He reports before asking a question. "What are your orders Legion Master?"


What is your strategy?
[] Write-In


GM's Note: Sorry it took so long, it took a while to deal with some problems I was having with this post. Say thanks to Altered for helping me finish this.

 

[Tinkerer]

[X] Plan full ahead

It takes you approximately half a second to formulate a plan, your post-human mind taking in the information at a rate simply beyond a normal man's capabilities. You know what you must do.
A HOUND FEIGNS WOUNDS TO BAIT THE WOLVES.
"Aventus, have all gun batteries formulate and initiate firing solutions on the attacking vessels, corral them with leading shots before trapping them between vollies. Have all crew and Astartes move to battle stations, I want them at full alert and our brothers to be ready to push off any attempts at boarding us. While that is achieved order the engine crew to put all thrusters to maximum in an attempt to escape the attackers."
"Appear strong when you are weak, and weak when you are strong." " Remember that Tyrian, for as overrated as that geezer's book was it still holds valuable information." "Yes, my lord."
Aventus replies to your orders. "I am assuming that you plan to use the same bait plan as you did with the Orks on Calixis 6 Legion Master?" You note a hint of amusement in your normally taciturn second-in-command. "Indeed I do Aventus, I plan on catching my own game by the end of this."
"What better bait than a plump defenseless turkey." "I'm sorry my lord, but what's a turkey?" "Oh yes, I forgot they were extinct. Well, you see Tyrian a turkey is-"
Aventus responds with an affirmation. "I'll ensure the gunnery crews are briefed and that the boarding torpedoes are primed for when the trap swings shut." Good man. "Finally, see if our astropath can reach the fleet, if we remain outnumbered like this it may not matter if we use clever tactics." *KATHOOM!* As if to emphasize the point a loud impact sounds out against the ship's Void Shields.
I LONG FOR COMBAT. LET MY LIFE BE A CONFLAGRATION OF CONFLICT!
"I'll see what the astropath can do, but I must warn you sir that they took a rather nasty blow to the head. They show the signs of concussion, as such they may not be fully lucid." To that you respond. "Needs must, they must simply make their best attempt."
"Always remember Tyrian, you will be called upon to force others to make sacrifices. As will you yourself make them, of body, mind, and soul." "I understand that fully, my lord." "I dearly wish you didn't."
There's a pause before the vox speaks again. "I will see that it is done, Lord Commander." And with that the vox switches off.
With your commands in the process of being fulfilled you turn to look at Ohrmuzd and begin speaking. "Sergeant, it is time for us to begin preparing for combat. Get into battle positions with your brothers, I will meet up with you at the primary gathering hall after I retrieve my armor." The young man gives you nod before responding with a "Understood, may you find glorious battle Legion Master', before running to get ready. "And you as well young Ohrmuzd." You say as a parting remark, before rushing towards the section of the ship your quarters are in.
NAKED. WITHOUT ARMOR OR WEAPONRY. JUST AS IT WAS IN THE PACIFIC DESERT.
As you sprint down hallways and past sealing bulkheads, every so often you see one of your brothers sprinting past you in full battle gear and wielding either volkite or bolter weaponry. You also see the more human crew preparing as well, Imperial Sailors arming themselves with either lasguns, monomolecular blades, or heavy duty stubbers and Mechanicus devotees arming themselves either with volkite or a strange form of power weaponry that vibrated incredibly quickly, to the point of glowing red with heat.
A stroke can swiftly cook a man from the inside out. Leaving a steaming, skinless, carcass.
It is just as you are about to reach your quarters when the now nigh-constant noise of your ship's weapon batteries firing are drowned out by the loud noise of what you see to be a boarding pod directly in front of your quarters door.
*SCHWEEEN!*
A soft blue line of light forms a large square in the bulkhead before the metal inside the square simply dissolves into purple motes of light. Revealing the interior of the boarding pod and its pilots. All of them incredibly slim though sporting near-human proportions. Some dressed in a manner you would think completely inappropriate for battle, barely sufficient to actually be called clothing rather than undergarments. And quite distinctly showing female mammalian characteristics, with inhumanly perfect and beautiful features. With the most striking features being the tapered, pointed ears sprouting out of their skulls. Eldar.
THE FALLEN CHILDREN ARE NIGH
"Ooooh! We've run into one of those Astartes monkeigh without his armour sisters! His bare flesh simply screams for us to carve beautiful artwork into it, does it not?" One of the Eldar declares with a smirk that promises violence, pain, and a third rather mysterious thing. One of her battle-sisters responds with her own vicious smile and retort. "I don't know Ferarae, why not simply cut off his arms and legs and bring him back to Comorragh to be our replacement plaything. Our housing unit has been sooo lonely since the last corpse-worshipping fool unfortunately expired." The xenos known as Ferarae seems to give this some thought, cupping her chin with her hand before speaking in a ponderous tone. "That does sound tempting dear Sister." She gives another vicious grin before continuing. "If you can manage to incapacitate him without killing him it will be so!" This seems to excite all of them in a rather confusing way.
The Dark Prince Blesses This Battle. The Bronze Lord looks on with pride.
You slam your fist into the metal on the wall, shattering it. Before grabbing one of the larger and sharper pieces of metal and beginning to wield it as a blade.
"Know this Tyrian, you are never without a weapon. So long as you use your mind, your hands shall never be empty." "Yes, my lord."
This only seems to amuse the xenos females, some of them even breaking out laughing. "Pffft-HAHAHAH, does the pitiful monkeigh really hope to battle us with a chip of scrap metal Sister Meratihr?" One of them asks. "Indeed he does Sister Ferarae. Mayhaps he hopes his corpse of a god will grant him the strength to strike us down with mere junk-scrap."
Undefeated In Battle. You Stood Alone On That Mountaintop.
With that, they cease speaking and rush towards you. Their strange curved and jagged blades shining as they flash towards you.
BATTLE IS JOINED ONCE MORE, SON OF CONFLICT. DO ME PROUD.

[] Meet their charge with your own. (Head On Assault)
[] Jump back to make space. (Buy Time.)
[] Write In.

 

[Tinkerer]

As the scantily clad Eldar warriors dash towards you, their blades glinting in the glow of the hallway's electric lights, your post-human brain begins processing information at the speed of a Rhino with its gas pedal taped down. The xenos, who formerly were moving so fast that they had become close to blurs in your eye sight came to an almost complete stop. Their movement almost glacial as they painfully move toward you. There are 12 of them. Beginning calculation of most efficient method of neutralization.
You notice the sickly-sweet tang of a high strength toxin emanating from all of their blades. The specific scent fitting your memory of a poison the Emperor had shown you during your training. It causes severe stress upon the nervous system, more specifically the parts utilized in sensing pain. It will agitate the pain sensors to such a degree as to render the victim completely insensate with pain, until eventually causing expiration via shock and the failure of the heart. It is strong enough to even cause myocardial infarctions in Astartes when introduced to their systems. As you could attest from your training with the Sigilite.

It is with that realization that you understand you cannot take a single graze from these weapons if you are to remain combat active. Taking a single step back in the frozen time of perception you begin to put together your plan of attack. Each step will need to be seamlessly integrated into the next or else failure is inevitable.

The xenos directly in front of you is in the process of thrusting one of her blades directly at your chest. Thus, you must redirect it by using the back of your right hand to slap the flat of it, thus forcing the blade off course. Then step inside of her guard, followed by driving the shard of bulkhead into the gap between her neck vertebrae through the front of her throat. One.

This will be followed by palming one of the now dead assailant's blades as you use your grip on the shard of bulkhead to twist off the xenos' head before batting it into the faces of her compatriots. This will induce a morale hit, but more importantly distract their eyes with movement and blood from the dismembered head. Following behind with the headless body as a shield held up by the metal shard, you will proceed to toss the body onto the rest of the assailants behind the two in front to buy you time.

The next step will be throwing the shard into the eye socket of one of the two Eldar now in front of you, it will pierce her brain and kill her instantly. You will kill the other by driving your purloined blade into her lungs before dragging it down through her torso, followed by the acquiring of her own blades. Two. Three.

By this point, the other Eldar will have gotten past the body you had tossed. Either by dodging past it or pushing it off themselves. Two of them will attempt a jump stab at you in an attempt to distract you from their two compatriots trying to hamstring you from below. You will have to perform a short hop, pushing the two combatants in the air back with light shoves and then slitting their throats on the way down. Followed by you pulverizing the spines of the two below as you land on them feet first, they might survive, but not in any form that is combat viable. Spines pulverized, organs liquified. Death imminent. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

By this point the five remaining Eldar will begin retreating back in order to make space between yourself and them. In an effort to ward you off they will begin tossing throwing knives, all coated in the same toxin as their blades. At this point five seconds have elapsed.

Stepping forward you will kick one of their compatriots' bodies up into your grasp, before proceeding to use it to absorb the thrown knives. Will most likely need to move towards the one on the left, she is the one with the least number of knives left. Can use her to block the sightline of the other Eldar, and even if they try to cut through her it will buy you time to get closer. Seven seconds will have elapsed by then.

Once within range you will need to drive one of your purloined blades through the depleted thrower's skull. Followed by using her body as a battering ram to slam into the other four. Her corpse will protect you from the few attempted stabs and slashed by the Eldar as you get nearer, and then you will have made contact, disorienting them and providing an opening. Eight.

In desperation one of them will attempt to wildly slash at you, you will drive one of your daggers into the crook of her arm and then twist it. The torsion will have completely ripped off the arm, leaving her with a stump of a right arm, and severe internal bleeding. Time of death, 15 seconds. Time of neutralization as threat due to bloodloss, 5 seconds. Quick strike to head will render unconscious. Twelve seconds will have elapsed at this point. Nine.

At this point morale will be close to shattering, though archived records show that extreme pride will keep it from breaking until a more severe action is taken. Another tossed dagger will paralyze one of the remaining guards of this squad's leader. A quick stomp as you move forward will render her skull into paste after she has collapsed from her severed spine. Ten.
After this action morale will have completely broken, the enemy will turn tail and run. To stop this place two of their fallen comrades' blades through their brain stems at the base of the skull, ensuring instantaneous death with two simple throws. By this point, at maximum, fifteen seconds will have elapsed. Eleven. Twelve.

In summation, all targets will have been neutralized in an economical manner and will allow for rapid acquirement of armor and proper weaponry to aid your brothers. No wounds will have been taken, and no mercy shall have been shown. All parameters met. Execute.

[] Interlude
[] Continue as Tyrian