+ inload: Gatebreakers painting +

+ Taiwo Potentas +

"It is difficult. Excluding Rogue Trader Taiwo from the planning has little to recommend it, Unworthy."

"We are all mindful of the restrictions; of the margins under which we operate, Apothecary-gentle Yeng."

The apothecary shook his head sadly. "That... That I do not believe; Unworthy."

Scipius narrowed his eyes, and – so it seemed to Taiwo – sat still straighter. The room hung with sweet incense. Cinnamon; galbanum; a peppery hint that the Rogue Trader could not place. Scipius was tall, even for a space marine, even for one of the new Primaris; and slender. His posture was impeccable; straight-backed and clean, and so although he had adopted the cross-legged posture of the rest of the gathered Masters, he stood out like a sore thumb. 

"Precedent is set in your – our – traditions, Gentle. It was written in the era of the Three Sages. Was it not Karna who said that..."

The apothecary finished the sentence, wearily "...in war time, all: men, women, children should be issued arm."  

"And yet?"

"Karna say that in making them men, Karna is kill the children herself."

Kixang Sjakpaba, Master of the Fifth, grinned. His teeth glittered in the dim light as he wrapped his hands around the horse-shaped pommel of his sword, his hands flexing as though imagining fighting already.

"Children with blades can cut. Can kill. Why not make them men? I have fought besides our Young Warriors many times. Scouts are children and killers. To train, to grow; if that is to kill the child, what harm? The woman birth child; but the child must birth the man he become." He grinned at Taiwo, the ragged scar and implanted studs making his face lop-sided and stark in the moonlight. "Taiwo here, example. Though he not measure up to us, I say he could be trained to kill, even so. I say we give him blade; see whether he cut himself – or cut us a new space to fight our enemies." The Rogue Trader tilted his chin and smiled right back. He was used to – indeed, enjoyed – the bluster of competition during negotiations. Sjakpaba was straightforward besides; a likeable warrior.

Taiwo was finding talking to the Astartes' council every bit as varied and alien as – well – the xenos he had encountered. It was invigorating. He returned Sjakpaba's salute, then turned to listen to Scipius. The stern warriors' tone was dry as he addressed the Master of the fifth.

"I fear I do not appreciate the poetry; but nevertheless I am grateful for what I take as your support in this matter, brother." 

Sjakpaba gave a good-hearted laugh as he leaned back, pleased with the sport. Scipius went on, addressing those ranged about the hearth in the circular room. "The rest of you? In the journey here, I had dared to imagine such councils would be conducted with the decorum and discipline of the Adeptus Astartes on the basis of well-founded intelligence and knowledge; not by the whims of frontier warlords, beholden to none save their desires."

Dün bristled at the slight. Taiwo had not been formally introduced to the Master of the seventeenth – or was it seventh? – strikeforce. He was a beautiful man; or perhaps would have been. The distortion of becoming an Astartes had thickened cheekbones that might have otherwise been fine, and recessed glittering eyes; but in turn it had granted his baked-ivory visage presence and nobility. Long, straight, black hair hung down on either side of his face, framing a fiercely controlled gaze.

"You forget yourself, Unworthy of the New First." 

Scipius did not react. He was poised, his back straight, head upright, and hands resting on his knees. Far from the insouciant slouch that made most of the gathered Astartes look like resting predators, Scipius still looked as though he was on parade. The posture was simultaneously so perfectly authentic and ripely amplified that Taiwo took it for a subtle jibe. 

The bastard might not like these warlords, Taiwo thought, so he's going to out-do them at their own game.

The long journey to the galaxy's edge had built an admiration for Scipius in the Rogue Trader – though he had not grown to like the Master of Chapter 333. The Primaris marine was the very symbol of discipline, and that allowed no space for half measures or familiarity beyond that necessary for operations. Taiwo had continued to meet with Scipius during the integration of the Primaris intake with the Gatebreakers; and had watched the Master absorb and take on every element of his new place; memorising the charts, reading the histories, and taking on the culture of the Chapter with an edge that spoke of competition.

Dün was every inch Scipius' equal in presence. He had been the first to survive crossing the Rubicon; and it was his experience that had allowed Yeng to stabilise the process somewhat – though the casualties remained so horrendous that Sho had, in a rare direct order, limited the numbers that were allowed to undertake the procedure. Taiwo felt it wise. He had been excluded from the previous gatherings, but he hadn't become a Rogue Trader without resources. He was quite aware of how the strength of the Chapter, newly reinforced, had been haemorrhaging precious – and veteran – warriors before the dictate.

Dün had drawn himself up to mirror Scipius' posture. "You have travelled here, bearing strange new technologies; an army to match and swell our own. As is written, Well-met is a brother who bears gifts, and gives them, and asks nothing in return. Yet you do. You ask us not merely to adapt – as we have for millennia – but to change irrevocably." He turned now, appealing to the room. "Already the barbarians from the Core shun the ways that have kept us alive and fighting; attempting to turn hard-won knowledge and personal initiative into rote roles, with slack taken up by new technology, new weapons and new equipment." Dün turned his face from Scipius to Sho, slumped in the skins on the throne. "We are sore-pressed, Master of Masters. But ever was it so. It is the very reason for our presence here; and one harmonious with the Emperor's will as revealed through the Divine Princes. The Gatebreakers have never broken; never will. As the Poet Takanare wrote in the Odes of Gem: It is not the armour around the man; but the heart within him." This last was delivered in flawless Imperial Core Gothic, a clear jibe at Scipius. "In bringing us new blood, Scipius risks replacing our heart."

To his credit, Scipius' face did not stir. Taiwo looked up at Sho, the Chapter's First Master, who sat silently on the dais. The Rogue Trader felt oddly at home. Having lived his life visiting the courts and councils of aliens – many of whom could have killed him on the spot – the potential threat to his life was part and parcel of his existence; a datum to be weighed. The discussions here, for all their theatre, were the mirrors of those he had conducted himself. Like the gathered Masters, he waited to hear the shadowed figure's judgement.

"Hm." Sho grunted. "I have heard enough from my council." He waved fingers to dismiss the staff, but pointed at Taiwo as all save the Astartes began to leave. "You; Rogue Trader. What would you have my Gatebreakers do?"

Not a bit abashed, Taiwo rose from the seat he had been provided, and stepped forward into the pool of moonlight the circular opening in the ceiling allowed. 

"Do, Master Sho? Why, I'd have you do what you do best: attack." Sjakpaba and Master Borom slapped their legs in approval, broad grins on both their battered faces. Taiwo stopped himself from smiling as he continued, his tone changing. He picked his words carefully, "From what little I gather, you have shepherded a dying flame for some decades now." 

Flicking a glance at Dün, whose measuredly blank expression was a mask, "Given the circumstances, that was a task of great achievement, of course. I mean no insult to any gathered here. But a dwindling flame, however well-tended, will eventually be extinguished."  

Yeng spoke up, "This is a wise child, Master Sho." His face, like those of the more bellicose gathered masters, was twisted into a wry grin. "Such children are already men. Should we not arm them; bring them into our circle?"

Taiwo inclined his head in gratitude to Yeng, and gestured to Scipius.

"Scipius, however, is right." Sho tilted his head at this. Shadowed as he was on the throne, whether the shift in attitude was amusement or interest was unclear. "I am a warlord myself, Master Sho. I command a fleet that – with respect – matches your combined fleets in displacement and capability. I know this to be true; for the past year has seen my representatives working alongside the remainder of the Gatebreakers; old and new. I make no threat with this statement; but it is with good reason that Rogue Traders and Space Marines are voluntary allies; not beholden or obliged to one another."

Sho gestured for him to go on as the gathered Masters murmured amongst themselves. 

"I do not need to be privy to your war plans, Sho. In truth, I fear such an alloying of your forces and mine would be a brittle result. I will, however, put my vessels at your ease; should you and your forces desire passage. In return, I ask nothing but that access to the worlds of the Edge that are already mine by Imperial fiat." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Taiwo saw the old apothecary's grin widen still further. Yeng understood. The Rogue Trader struggled to keep a smug smile from appearing on his own face.

"Hm." Sho's reply was almost like a cough. "Free passage for my warriors; a fleet that – as you so shyly intimate – gives me a second blade to grasp in the defence of this part of the Emperor's Realm. Truly you have poured gold at my feet, Rogue Trader. Between the intake led by Master Scipius; and your clearly thankless devotion to duty" – Sho's voice dripped with irony, and Taiwo made a mock-bow – "I am presented with the means, will and ambition to do more than merely cup my hands around a tallow candle." This was accompanied by an arched eyebrow; though Taiwo thought he detected something ill-hidden beneath the feigned detachment. "With these gifts, I could rekindle a torch in the darkness."

"Hm." The pause lengthened. Taiwo wondered if the warrior or the statesman in Sho would triumph. All eyes were solemn, all trained on the enthroned Master of Masters as he leaned forwards, his sharp features and black eyes appearing from the gloom. Taiwo knew this was the crux.

"Know this, Rogue Trader. A torch burns brightly. It can burn more swiftly, also. Know this also: I have spent many mortal lifetimes as the shepherd you describe. I have also spent a wretched period as a servant of two Masters."

The gathered Gatebreakers shuffled uneasily. Taiwo was, of a sudden, aware that this game had more depths than he had suspected. Sho looked around the room, no longer addressing Taiwo individually, but taking in all his men. His eyes moved from one to another, lingering perhaps a moment longer on Scipius than the others.

"No king of balance and wisdom seeks to stand alone; but justly, he must do so where his strength enables. Such are the demands of duty. We – I – have justified our inaction these past decades through honeyed words: 'the interests of a greater good'; 'when circumstances are auspicious', but in truth, we have lacked a blade sufficient to the task; long since lacked."

Another pause.

"No longer. You offer me the chance to excise this shame, and cast off a most unwelcome yoke." Sho's gaze flicked back to Taiwo. "I accept."

Taiwo held the Master's gaze. Abruptly, Sho looked down. The Rogue Trader did not even see the blade move, but it clattered, horribly loudly, at his feet. Momentarily taken aback, he saw Sho's scabbard sway as it came back to rest against the space marine's side. Taiwo hoped, for an absurd second, that it was merely the incense making him light-headed.

"You have not asked for payment. It is irrelevant. Whatever the cost; however hard to bear; the Gatebreakers will respect our obligations."

Sho moved on, dismissing Taiwo. Before the Rogue Trader had dazedly left the room, ushered by kindly-faced serfs, he heard the Masters erupt in the chamber. The die was cast. Taiwo had got his desire: an Astartes Chapter Master indebted to him

But what had Sho meant? The Master of the Gatebreakers now had, as Taiwo's reckoning, some 1,500 space marines; and a massive fleet at his call. It was an absurd amount of power; straining the spirit of ancient law as much as the letter. It was an extinction force; capable of fully re-manning and reclaiming the Gatebreakers' old territory, with strength left over. 

What possible power in the region could hope to match that – let alone, as the Chapter Master's ominous words had hinted, exceed it?

+++

+ More Gatebreakers on the painting table +

+ Ominous writings! Perhaps the following marines will be the ones to encounter this mysterious force...? +

+ Still obviously work-in-progress, but it's been nice to experiment with the Assault Intercessor sprue from the Indomitus (9th ed.) boxed set. +

+ Some are rather more dynamic than I personally like – see below – but I think they'll look good in the context of the broader squads and add some further variety to the army. +

+ I've used bolt guns from the Reiver and Infiltrator(?) boxes; seeking to make clear the Gatebreakers' idiosyncratic combination of Primaris and traditional Space Marine organisation. +

+ Emblem (below) also received an oil wash, which I think is starting to bring out the detail quite nicely. Looking forward to giving K0rdhal's awesome blade a suitable paintscheme. +

+ I thought I was getting a bit carried away with the variety of helms and things appearing in this group – there's a nice balance to be struck between the Primaris and older marines aesthetics, and I want to make sure that I build up the most common – mark VII – rather than risk having everything 'special and different', as that'll quickly look hotch-potch and lose the feeling. +

+ With that said, I couldn't resist just one Mark II helm. Do you blame me? +

+ A sergeant wielding a bionic arm and a chainsword from the Space Wolves upgrade sprue. Kinda wishing I'd saved it for my Blood Angels' apothecary, but it does look cool here, I think. +

+ A modified FW White Scar helm here. I think it gives a hint of 'otherness' to the Gatebreakers without being over the top. +

+ And molecular bonding studs. There are quite a few studded pads in this group. I thought it was a nice way to reflect the slightly poor supply lines without making them look like a renegade force. +

+ A group shot of the new intake. +

+ inload: Emblem +

 + Emblem: Heavy Sorrows +

[+appendnote+ – Interview begins: shipcycle 14. 

'Don't memory Fall of Andocrine, mistress.'

'No, was not then Gatebreaker, mistress.'

'Yes, was lived. Tales... uh... telled? by Gnostic...'

'...'

'No mistress, will not uh... steer? from talking about er... headspace? of Andocrine, mistress.'

'...'

'Yes, will uh... cessation naming Mistress mistress.'

'Comprehend. Heavy Sorrows. Have no Gothic tongue.'

'Role? Ah – duty! Sorrows. Hard to er... tongue? Ah... rune? No. Not rune. Emblem is better.'

'...'

'Beginning: was not then Gatebreaker, so don't memory Fall of Andocrine.'

'Heavy sorrows. Do not comprehend.'

'...'

'Yes. Don't memory, but am telled – told? Sorrows. Told in Tenets of Ten Divine Princes.'

[+appendnote+ – The subject, Emblem, patted his copy of The Tenets of the Ten Divine Princes, which sits on the table before us. It is small, but beautiful. A number of its illuminations are animated crystal-wafer.]

'Yes. Tenets are... verifiable? True. True to Gatebreakers.'

'...'

'No. Yes, comprehend. Not... er... laying? Truth. Literal truth.'

'...'

'Yes, gods.'

'...'

'Yes, from beyond the edge.'

'Yes.'

[+appendnote+ – There is an extended pause as Emblem rifles through his copy of the tenets. His halting tongue belies his obvious intelligence; but I detect no dissembling. He is not, I suspect, trying to mislead me. After interviewing Sho, and Yeng, and the rest of the Masters of the Chapter, it is frustrating to find that the one who seems to wants to tell me the whole truth is unable to. At length, his begauntleted fingers holding two places in the book, he gestures with the other hand, open-palmed. A finely-beaded prayer chain is draped over his palm. I cannot help noticing that each bead is a tiny translucent skull. I do not think they are sculpted.]

'Yes?'

[+appendnote+ – The first page shows one of the crys-wafers: a beautiful reproduction of a star chart that has been rendered largely symbolic by some long-forgotten Chapter illuminator's extravagant flourishes. I recognise it as the Andocrine system, though there are a number of anomalous objects.]

'...'

'Yes, from beyond the edge.'

[+appendnote+ – Apparently pleased, Emblem activates the crys wafer. A strange sigil tracks through the system; and a number of the anomalies disappear.]

'Star-rocks. Star-rock-fields. These were er... true? These were. Now not were – not are? Worlds now star-rock-fields?'

[+appendnote+ – He seems agitated, but pleased when I mention asteroids. He tries the word out several times, rolling it around as though tasting it.]

'Yes, aster-oids. Were worlds, true; then aster-oids. True. Now this.'

[+appendnote+ – I do not understand the second illumination at all, at first. Emblem waits, patiently, while I look more closely. At last, it resolves itself – somewhat, at least. It is a picture of the galaxy from outside. Far outside. I look up at him sharply.]

'The gods. From beyond the edge. Not true-god; no. 

'...'

Not god-Emperor god. Other gods.'

'...'

'No, not there outside. Er... other outside. Sorrows. Beyond?'

[+appendnote+ – When I cautiously venture that he is referring obliquely to powers of the immaterium, he bridles; clenching the prayerbeads tightly. The motion reminds me, absurdly, of a high-habber clutching at a necklace of precious pearls, and I wave my hands placatingly. He is murmuring a small catechism – in what sounds curiously like singsong, partly nonsensical High Gothic. Wondering if he is, perhaps, after all, not telling me the entire truth about his grasp of Gothic, I venture the next question in High Gothic. He looks almost endearingly bemused. I suspect his knowledge of the prayer is pure rote.]

'Not diyu. Not diyu. Never diyu.'

[+appendnote+ – Emblem is highly agitated, and clearly on the verge of leaving. I spend a few minutes calming and reassuring him, showing him my protective wards and seals of purity. Begrudgingly, he resumes his seat and tries again. His frustration at being unable to vocalise the concepts are obvious – and all the more galling because I desperately want to understand what this other outside is. His hand movements become increasingly wild, sweeping and broad.]

'The sword. This. It is Gatebreaker er... relict? But not from Gatebreaker, see? We found in the ruins. It is er... sorrows. Do not know tongue. Sign? Sigil? Bond of Uridimmu.'

[+appendnote+ He pauses, holds two fingers up to the vent of his slit-eyed mask, then makes a sharp motion, like a backwards nod. It would be nonsensical; but for Haim's cultural speed-training. She has told me it is a sort of idiomatic ward of the evil eye, when one is forced to say something distasteful or wicked. It made no sense to me before, but now I see a helmeted warrior make the motion, I understand it as an exaggerated spitting motion.] 

'...'

'No, Uridimmu is not god.'

'...'

'Outside; yes. Uridimmu moves between outside and... er... other outside. Not diyu. Rgh.'

[+appendnote+ Again, the same mock-spit.] 

'...'

'Sword is invested. Cuts well; well-balanced. Through all plate, cuts well. Brings death to the xenos.' 

[+appendnote+ – This last phrase is beautifully pronounced, each syllable tinkling into place like a Scholam Solar graduate. Remark – I wonder if it is a phrase Emblem has picked up from the Primaris; from Scipius, perhaps?]

'Sword-sigil found after fall of Andocrine. Left by sigil of Uridimmu. Chapter er... vaults? Strongbox? emptied; our stories gone. Sword instead. Sword-sigil left by Uridimmu-sigil. Taken up by er... winner? Champion? Gatebreaker Eremite Champion.'

'...'

'Yes, we use it brings death to the xenos. Very good. Very uh... strong? I keep it from others; other Gatebreakers.'

'...'

[+appendnote+ – At this point, he lifted the blade – the strange, flat, bludgeon-like blade that seemed half-sword, and half club. He touched the pommel to his temple. I was nonplussed by the gesture. Haim had said nothing about this, as far as I could remember, and I half-wondered whether I should consult my notes to check.]

'No, Inquisitrix; not that sort of other; just the other Gatebreakers. Not the femto-cryptocracy. Sho and the Masters insist I keep the accursed blade away from the others – for reasons I'm sure you'll find obvious.'

[+appendnote+ – I confess I blinked at his sudden fluency.]

'It's draining, but needs must, mistress. It's critical you understand the gravity of the situation; of the femtotech. We're – rgh –going to be drawn in again – he won't long ignore another thousand of us; it's destabilising. Bastard's a jealous sort; doesn't readily entertain a real challenge to his – ach. Has Master Sho – agh – consulted with you on the diaspora of the Primaris through... – agh – throughout the fl–...? Ng. Fleet. I. can't – rgck.'

[+appendnote+ – His hand, which had been trembling with increasing severity, finally dropped the blade. It fell to the floor with a disappointingly tinny clatter. His back bent, shoulders heaving, he made no immediate move to pick it up. His helm was a mask.]

'Heavy sorrows. Wait. Sorrows.'

'...'

*Laboured breathing*

'Yes. *pause* Understand... *pause* Understand... sword-sigil, understand Uridimmu-sigil. Understand outside; other outside.'

+++

+ inload: Massacre at Phen Mun +

 + Massacre at Phen Mun +

+ Today, A little prelude to the battle report – up soon – to which I'll attach some first thoughts on Crusade gaming. Had a blast!+

+++

Phen Mun was breathtaking. The lighter was still high up, but the Kills and her team had buckled in and opened the door, to 'let in the the world a little', as Brunski put it. It was a habit he'd inherited from his previous life; a habit Kills indulged as much for the team's morale as the chance to breathe fresh air for a change. The wind whistled and buffeted the passengers, who sat quietly, enjoying the changing pressure and freshness of the new world.

From the peninsula where the open sea began, all the way inland along the river's trail, the water was tinged a beautiful pink in the descending sun. Rich red soil was covered with thick grasses that bloomed into vigorous woodland as the Arvus continued its journey. Kills looked over the eight of them, nodding to herself.

She tugged on the fabric cable, checking the carabiner was secure against the rail, then stood and walked to the rear of the passenger hold. Her poncho whipped and cracked in the wind as she leaned over, one foot perched precariously on the edge. Reaching a hand out of the back of the shuttle, she tilted herself further, looking down on the trail racing past below.

'You'd hardly know there was a war going on, eh?'

+++

The faceless nature of their warhelms, along with their sheer bulk, lent credence to the ancient claim of Astartes being the immortal and invincible champions of mankind. They were filled with the same vitality and aggression that Brunksi had emulated as a child.

The Inquisitorial aide was an experienced and resourceful man in his own right; ex-Guard, ex-mercenary. He knew his strengths as a warrior. The Astartes were everything he had aspired to be as a young man: unbreakable, self-reliant, surrounded by comrades so like-minded that they operated as one.

Now he had seen them fight firsthand; driving the strange disc-shaped xenos vessels from the coreward reaches of Sector Surpalus. He had revelled in their power; feeling a curious mix of inadequacy and glee at how his species' champions had so completely outmatched and outclassed the grey-skinned creatures.

Now he had seen them recruiting, he realised what such unbridled power could lead to. 

Now he was a man, Brunski shivered, and wondered how he had ever thought of the Astartes as heroes. 

He rubbed his hand over his neck, ruefully, as he saw another Chapter thrall leading a ragged line of collared and shackled inhabitants of Gang Maoy along the paved road towards the waiting lander. Several were maimed. He forced himself not to turn away, to meet their gaze. That was the price of being part of an Inquisitor's party: you had to face the tasks others wouldn't.

'Joyous be those who volunteer for service; for they shall be happy slaves. Sorrow to those who attempt to parley or shirk, for that is punishable by slavery' The Gentle had quoted, after seeing Brunski's discomfort. It was a saying, or edict, or mediation of another of the Gatebreakers' interminable poetasters. Brunski and Haim had long tired of the Astartes' self-justification. It seemed obscene in its superfluity. What could a man do in the face of the Astartes? There was little choice here; merely slavery of different stripes, abject or self-deluding. 

He looked again at the faces of the 'recruits'. The first had his nose broken, his eyes swollen near-shut. Brunski felt a pang of guilt at how thankful he was the youth could not meet his gaze. The second and third were dismal, their heads cast down. The fourth appeared almost manic, the eyes in his flat, hairless face bulging.

For no reason he could fathom, Brunski reached out to the youth, who turned to him. The third part of the Gentle's catechism came back to him as their gazes met.

'Honour to those who resist; for they sow the seeds of their own ascension.'

+++

Every so often, she or one of her detail would spit out a mouthful of the red insect-analogues and curse. It was hot, and Haim was sweaty, and the damn bastard flies made her twitch involuntarily. Trail discipline was non-existent for the Andocrines – they were either wide-eyed and twitchy on sparkies, or chewing handfuls of nummer alongside their anti-mals and enviro-adaptive meds. 

Every so often, as they bunched up, Jenette would appear, as though from nowhere, and hiss at them to keep their spacings. Haim's admiration for the Catachan had long curdled into resentment. The trailblazer seemed to be enjoying the patrol.

'Killing a leech,' she'd said, back at the camp, a lho-stick dipping up and down as she spoke. It hadn't been clear whether it was a boast, a suggestion, or a question. 'Won't get no second chance.'

Now Haim had witnessed the results of the infection on Phen Mun, she wasn't at all sure even Jenette would be safe. 

+++

+ Market district, prior to the Massacre. +

Castaway stood on the low hill overlooking the market square. Having volunteered for the urban observation – the thought of all that greenery had made him sick – he had quickly grown to regret his decision. Posted with the Astartes, he'd been variously ignored, laughed at and ordered to silence by the marines. It didn't sit well with his temper, but he was canny enough to recognise that reacting would only end one way.

The squat could see that the township had, perhaps, once been quite beautiful; the older indigenous architecture and town plan integrated and sitting pleasingly alongside the soaring, dominant presence of the Standard Template buildings. In his mind's eye, he could see a pleasant riverside town – but now it was wrecked. Not by the Astartes – that at least was a small mercy for the populace – but by some internal war. The Gatebreakers' presence wasn't helping, however. The Space Marines were being treated like invading aliens rather than valued guardians; the populace fleeing and hiding whenever rumours of the Gatebreakers broke out.

Politics, thought Castaway, ruefully chewing his lip; though he understood that an army appearing without warning and demanding a tithe of the world's best and brightest wasn't the most stabilising or reassuring approach. From Kill's briefing, the Gatebreakers hadn't recruited from Phen Mun for decades – but something was different this time. Something quite insidious had got into the population: and it wasn't the familiar clean fear of power; but a malignant, insidious influence...

Tunnel-crawlers, he thought, the very name making him feel small, and vulnerable. He shuddered. His knuckles whitened around his shotgun, and he hurried back to the Astartes' lines. Something serious had come up on the long-range auspex, and he had very little desire to be anywhere too far away from the Gatebreakers when it arrived.

+++

+ Gatebreakers engage the enemy on Phen Mun +

+ inload: Space Marine Dreadnought +

+ Monstrous Servant + 

'Send them then, into the dark places. Into the thorns and hard places, send them; there to bring light to my lost children. Send them to the frontiers of my Imperium. Send them, and suffer them no impediment to progress.' 

– Dictate of Imperium (trad.); attributed during Inculcation of Chapter 333 M32 (disp.)

+++

It was cold, there in the dock. She had stoically endured the cold for half an hour, standing ramrod straight as an occasional Chapter thrall looked at her quizzically, but at last she had started shuffling from one foot to the other, then taken to walking up and down to get the blood moving. Two hours later, she was past blowing into her cupped hands in an attempt to breathe some life into them, and seriously wondering if she was going to lose her fingers. She looked up at the suit, glittering with frost. She had never seen a dreadnought before, and had leapt at Kills' suggestion that she attend the awakening. 

She wasn't going to leave because of the cold. You don't make interrogator by backing down from hardship.

After another quarter of an hour, a treacherous thought crept through her icy mind. You don't make Inquisitor through dumb endurance, either.

She never found out whether she was going to break from her self-imposed torment, as the techmarine Cicinnatus arrived. The Chapter thralls looked up distinterestedly, then got back to work. One waved a hand, half-heartedly, to Cincinnatus as he marched forward. The casual sense of indifference struck Haim as odd, but she had already noted the Gatebreakers' thralls seemed to treat the Astartes with simple respect, rather than the awe most of Rogue Trader Taiwo's crew had done. 

Haim had spoken with the Primaris techmarine cadre during the long voyage to the Edge. She had bonded well with them – indeed, she and Cincinnatus had struck up a rapport of sorts. 

It had not survived the melding of Chapter 333 and the incumbent Chapter. The two had not spoken for months. The details and reasons were not clear to Haim, but she had been privy – thanks to Kills delegating the incept-analysis task to her – to a flurry of missives during the formal induction process, ending with a statement from the collected Gnostics that 'followers of the machine god are not counted amongst the members of the Chapter'.

The techmarines had not taken the rejection well.

She hailed the techmarine, hesitantly, as he closed the distance. His head snapped up. 

'Cincinnatus. Thank you for meeting me.' Her voice trembled, not entirely due to the cold. Helmed, he had looked surly, even aggressive, but she was reassured by the guarded smile revealed as he took his helmet off. Cincinnatus' gleaming bionics were peculiarly reassuring. Haim had grown up on a bonded hiveworld, and augmentation always reminded her of home. 

'It has been a long time.' He began. He looked thoughtful as he began work on awakening the ironform. Haim noticed his pauldron was still etched with the 'Chapter 333' temporary heraldry, rather than the mace of the Gatebreakers proper. 

They talked for some time, the initial awkwardness gradually giving way to something approaching warmth. She told Cincinnatus of her time away from Andocrine, diplomatically bypassing her interactions with the Gatebreakers. She need not have worried. As he worked, Cincinnatus explained how the techmarines had been sidelined, bypassed and, at last, baldly and directly refused entry to the Chapter's ceremonies. His voice was flat, and clear, unmarred by emotion; but Haim wondered how much was genuine, and how much was self-control. The Astartes, even after months of sharing ship-space, still sometimes felt very alien to her.

As she hesitated, wondering whether Kills would want her to probe further, the techmarine straightened up and stepped backwards, rubbing his hands clear of unguent with an oily rag. He turned to her and opened his mouth to speak.

+ I remember you. +

The words were so deep, so loud, so startling, they made her torso resonate. All at once, Haim quite forgot the cold.

Cincinnatus looked as surprised as her. The pair looked to the Dreadnought, tracking their gaze up to the war machine's face – or at least where the head would have sat on a human. It spoke again, as it tilted slowly backwards, joints flexing slightly with soft whirring noises, as though testing its limbs.

+ Not you, Warrior. I remember the red-armoured ones. Tech... Tech... Technicals. + It seemed to be testing the word out.  + I had not seen your sort for a long time. It has been the robed ones. They usually have more... incense. +

There was a pause, during which Cincinnatus rallied somewhat.

'Honoured Ancient, I had been anticipating considerable delay in your awakening.'

The dreadnought seemingly failed to register that he had spoken. It turned its paralyzing gaze on Haim. The cold rushed back as lenses and reticules shifted and focussed behind the great smoked-glass panels that made up its strange, totemic face.

+ I am full of surprises. Have they returned? +

'I... I'm...' she started, then got a grip of herself. This is not how an Interrogator acts. 'Who do you mean?' She stole a glance at Cincinnatus, whose flushed face and posture indicated some sort of badly-hidden hyper-aggression. Again, the Dreadnought utterly ignored her question. 

+ That is why I am awoken. That is why I am always awoken. +

Oddly, this stole away the shock. The resignation in the words seemed almost petulant. She straightened, looked up at the Dreadnought, jawline set.

'I am Haim, Ordo Propter. Who do you mean?'

It remained looking down at her, and as the moment stretched, she suddenly saw how very different this was to a robot. It moved, almost imperceptibly, like a living being; as though some ichorous blood was flowing just beneath the hard carapace. All of a sudden, it had changed: no longer a statue, but invested with a strange vitality. She felt she understood, then, all of a sudden, the curious reticence the Astartes had with utilising Dreadnoughts. It felt like necromancy.

She remained, feet set, eyes fixed on the Dreadnought's. Those eyes; those black, sightless, artificial eyes. Cincinnatus fell away. The bay fell away. Only those eyes remained, set in sun yellow and grass green. 

+ Designation Samaritan. Designation Ghagga-Hakra. The Satraps. Designation Uridimmu. The rest. Has the Master been informed? They have returned. I know it. I don't know why I ask every time. +

Haim swallowed. She thought she had better send for Kills. She would want to hear this. The Dreadnought straightened, and swung its arms out. It paused, as though considering, or consulting. As Haim turned, she saw the Chapter serfs had all prostrated themselves in place.

+ Every time. +

It reached out to Cincinnatus, who stepped back to let the Dreadnought pass. It wasn't that, though. The Dreadnought touched his shoulder, as though confirming things. 

+ Hm. Interesting to see you. Technical. +

The techmarine nodded, as though stunned. The dreadnought began to walk, slowly, haltingly. It continued to talk all the while, as though limbering up. Perhaps it was.

+ And not just me, Haim of the Ordo Propter. It's as this ironform remembers it; back to when it was emblazoned with silver stars, bedecked in the coral pink and turquoise of lost oceans. They've always been here. I trust you have brought a weapon. +

Haim changed her mind. She thought she had better go and get Kills. 

You don't make Interrogator by keeping things from Inquisitors, after all.

+++

+ Painting the Dreadnought +

+ The approach I used for the dreadnought was all-but identical to that for the infantry: lay in the flat colours (Flash Gitz Yellow and Warpstone Glow), then lay a burnt sienna oil wash over them before developing the highlights. +

+ The freehand is fairly stripped-back; simple black and white icons and text. I used some Sanskrit – and apologies for dubious translation – to get in some tongue-in-cheek puns; reading 'Dead' and 'Lost/Missing' +

+ I didn't want to overload the freehand, despite the inviting large flat surfaces, as the quartered scheme already makes him busier than he otherwise would be. I might return to add a banner. +

+ I painted the eyes gloss black. I wanted them to look deep, soulful – and dead. The ghoulish use of crippled marines is horrifying, if you take a moment to think about it, and I didn't want the Dreadnought to be too closely aligned to the infantry, instead acting as a midway point between human and warmachine. Dead black eyes seemed a nice way of doing that, making it appear almost cadavorous. +

+ The back received a hint of the orange accent colour used elsewhere, and I hinted at some discoloration of the exhaust's heat shield. +

+ The bulbous oval blisters on the front of the shoulders seemed a good place for a nameplate. I sat this in a little cartouche, to give a slight Ancient Egyptian hint. +

+++

+ inload: Septival and Coriolanus +

+ The Tenets of the Ten Divine Princes +

Septival and Coriolanus, Kills' attendant Space Marine bodymen, no longer looked alike. Two years of hard fighting on the nebulous frontier had seen the pair adapt to the realities of their new situation. During the counter-invasion of Munda Ostiona, Septival had been honoured by Gnostic Deacon for ferocity in the face of the brutalist Rhigim. It seemed to Kills that he wore his relic plate with a swollen chest; still more upright than before.

It was more than mere armour detail, though. During the brief period the Ninth Strikeforce had operated alongside the Chapter Master's own Strikeforce, in patrols of the Shin-Xiao Expanse, Coriolanus had been seconded to Sho's own force – pointedly, it appeared to the Inquisitor; as though the Master was goading her. On his return, the space marine had a slightly different air. Not openly evasive, but his words seemed more considered. Kills wondered whether she was unconsciously reacting to him differently.

'The Tenets, mistress? We have spoken of this before.' His head, still shorn in the style of the Core, was unhelmed. Adaptive souls, these Primaris, Haim had mused, privately. Her acolyte was right. Every day the two groups of Gatebreakers seemed to become more alike. Under the auspices of Yeng and his fellow Gentles of the apothecary, more and more of the Astartes were undergoing the Rubicon process. As the resulting ruinous casualty rating climbed, the Primaris were integrated into Strikeforces, and then squads; rooting themselves more deeply in their adopted place.

Conversely, the Primaris were finding what the old Chapter had long-known – that resupply was rare and supply lines were thin. Practicality saw weapons swapped for more reliable and plentiful alternatives, and the techpriest-led forges were hard at work adapting to the new armoury.

'We have; and I ask again,' replied Kills to Coriolanus. 'You were a devotee of the Codex prior to your deployment. Why the change?' The space marine's face remained blank.

'It is no change, Inquisitor.' He replied, mildly. 'The Tenets are a form of the Codex; and can be read alongside them. More literary, perhaps, but the fundamentals of adaptat...' 

'I see little evidence of cross-comparison, Coriolanus,' the Inquisitor interrupted. 'Your time seems hard-spent in transcribing the Tenets.'

The space marine looked pained. 'That is true, Inquisitor. There is, however, nothing to hide. I have long ago committed the Codex to memory, while the Tenets remain raw to me.'

'Agreed, mistress. The discipline of our Chapter is not competing with that of our training.' Septival put in, 'It complements and alloys with it.'

Kills was sceptical, but not suspicious. She had requested – and been granted – leave to study both her bodymen's nascent copies of the Tenets. They were filled merely with the aphorisms and bon mots of generations of Andocrine wisdom; long-dead sages and warrior-poets. It was hardly great literature, to the Inquisitrix's taste, but she could see its value in teaching interpretation to the indoctrinated. 

Kills was no monodominant. She had long ago concluded that the practicalities of Imperium meant that faith and loyalty trumped almost any trespass in style; doubly so for an entity as independent as a space marine Chapter. Alongside her historilogician Haim, Kills had read through the Tenets, and found no sinister trace of heresy amongst the prose and verse. Although the conception of the Primarchs as Divine Princes – and ten of them – had initially unnerved her, she had been reassured by their occluded relationship to the orthodox teachings of the Ecclesiarchy. 

In the Lay of Hayagriever, for example, the Gatebreaker's symbolist tale of a Divine Prince invariably – and gratingly repetitively – described as 'swift, secretive and powerful', Haim had teased out roots familiar to those told in the wider Imperium attributed to Corvus Corax or Jaghati Khan. The name of the first Divine Prince; Kali-Bahn, had similarly raised a smirk of satisfied recognition on the Inquisitor's face. Others were more troublesome. Chemos, the proud and quick to anger Fourth Prince, had raised concern, but Kills' concerns over the dubious associations had been somewhat allayed by the clear blending of tales of Ferrus Manus with his traitorous brother. She would not sanction a Chapter over veiled myths – indeed, she judged that raising an alarm would more likely highlight and spread the problem as resolve it.

As for the others... 'Well,' Kills had said to her acolyte, 'as much as is strange about the surface; the core has survived.' 

'Mutatis mutandis, Barbari.' Haim had agreed. 'The Gatebreakers' ways are odd, but such might be explained by cultural drift typical of their isolation.'

The memory reassured Kills, but she was far from equianimous. It was not the form of the Tenets that bothered Barbari; but the change in Coriolanus since his return.

+++

+ Work in progress: Septival and Coriolanus +

+ Ideas sometimes stem from writing, and these two marines are a perfect example. Introduced to give Kills someone to interact with in her first story, these two have played on my mind. They're symbols of Chapter 333's integration with the Gatebreakers – or to put it another way, they're 'normal' Primaris space marines who serve to introduce us to the Gatebreakers culture. +

+ Being Primaris from the Core Imperium, I gave them both typical Latin-dervied High Gothic names. When I decided to build them, I wanted to blend the clean lines of the Primaris intake with some of the more rough-and-ready elements of the original Gatebreakers. +

+ Member-Ordinary Coriolanus +

+ To that end, Coriolanus is virtually stock Primaris, but with a substitute boltgun for his bolt rifle, and with additional charms on his belt. He has removed his helm – a reduction in battlefield discipline, but it reveals a clean, shaven head and stereotypical space marine colouring. +

+ Member-Ordinary Septival +

+ Septival is outwardly more integrated with the Gatebreakers, replacement shoulder and chest plates marking him as honoured. +

+ Both require detailing – markings, some more work on Coriolanus' boltgun, and basing – but they're nearly ready to join their brethren. I'll likely add some form of mark to indicate their status as Inquisitrix Barbari Kills' bodyguards. Perhaps an Inquisitorial I, or similar. + 

+++

+ Thought for the day: 'Cherish those hearts that hate thee// Corruption wins not more than honesty.' +

+ inload: Who is Sho? +

+ Killing Quarters +

Closing her eyes, Kills tipped her head back, easing the strain in her neck. She breathed out. Eyes still closed, she took a sip of water from the tumbler in her hand. Never tasted the same planetside, she thought, no matter the planet, no matter the sector. Finishing the water, she stood, grimacing. Nor the segmentum, for that matter. She suddenly felt very small, very isolated. Drawing herself up, she shook off the feeling.

Restlessly, she paced across her quarters. There was nothing for it. It was time to consult the Rogue Trader. Taiwo might be a supercilious bastard, but he was too canny not to have deployed an agent or two in amongst the work crews the Gatebreakers had requested. That in itself was unusual. Two years into the deployment, and this was the first request the Chapter had made of the expedition.

In that time, the Primaris of Chapter 333 had seemingly been integrated into the Gatebreakers. From Haim and Brunski's reports, the two groups operated together very successfully. Kills knew of thirteen primary engagements that the 9th had made; and that was just in the Strikeforces to which she had attached her acolytes. Throne alone knew how many of them there were – the Gatebreakers certainly weren't forthcoming on that.

Kills peered out of the viewport for some time, brooding over her lack of knowledge of the Chapter, before finally throwing her mantle around her shoulders and setting out. 

Setting a smart pace down the corridors of the flagship, ratings and servants saluted or genuflected as she passed. She barely acknowledged them. Both of her principal aides had been injured during the sortie with the Sabact, so she keyed in an order to Castaway to meet with her. That would require shuttle time.

How had things changed? After the initial wariness, the Chapter had seemed to welcome the intake of Primaris, directing all contact with the Rogue Trader's fleet through them – as a mark of respect, the mysterious Master Sho had reportedly said, and to avoid unintended cultural misunderstandings. Within weeks, Scipius had begun to demur requests for audiences, claiming his warrior-monks required a period of solitude alongside their new brethren, in order better to integrate.

Kills brooded as she marched. On the surface, the integration was a success. Chapter 333 was no more; the Primaris and Astartes of the Gatebreakers Chapter were as one. Their activity across the region was huge – wherever the Rogue Trader's vessels travelled, Gatebreaker ships accompanied them. Seemingly long-lost worlds were being recovered; alien forces pushed back.

On the other hand, the Inquisitor brooded, the gifting of a thousand battle brothers of the Adeptus Astartes to so insular a group, under the mastership of such an enigmatic figure as Sho, set her mind on edge. It was infuriating. She knew so much about the individual Gatebreakers she'd met – virtually every one had submitted willingly to the most trival minutiae in her acolyte's interviews – and yet so little about the Chapter's workings. Most pressing of all: Where were the rest of them?

The return of the Rogue Trader's fleet from their exploration of the region to anchorage around Andocrine was an opportunity to find out.

+++

The Rogue Trader's ready room was as lavish as the rest of his ship, but Kills had no patience for the luxury, nor the staff. At Taiwo's nod, they dispersed. Kills watched until the last of the staff had left, and the doors had closed. He gestured to a seat, but she demurred. Smiling, the Rogue Trader stood up, his manner easy, but radiating confidence. He began to walk around the large room, and Kills fell in beside him.

"You rarely attend me for pleasure, Barbari; so let us dispense with pleasantries." There was a grin in his dark eyes which took any sting from the words. Supercilious he might be, but he had that easy charm common to all the Rogue Traders Kills had met. "There is much to prepare," he went on, gesturing to one of the many large boards covered with slips of paper and notes, "and my time is, regrettably, the resource of which I never seem to have enough."

Kills began. "The Gatebreakers, then." Taiwo gave a small nod, as though he had foreseen the subject.

"You want to know how repairing their fortress goes?" he asked.

"I know how it progresses, Taiwo. The specifics are coded, but not beyond my sight – nor, I suspect, yours." She took a glance at the Rogue Trader, who remained looking forward. His handsome face hinted only at mild amusement.

"I couldn't say, Inquisitor, of course." The two continued their stately progress, and Kills tried another tack at the corner.

"You have deployed twenty thousand ratings; indentured thirteen construction enginseers, and marked two adepts of the Mechanicus to the support of the Chapter's reconstruction efforts."

"I have."

"I have not spoken with Scipius for some time now."

"Nor I, Barbari. Do you know they call him the Unworthy now?" Master Scipius was tall, and honourable, and straightforward; a paragon of the Adeptus Astartes. He all but radiated virtue and honour – but he had hardly been cordial company during the long voyage to the rim. He didn't deserve the nickname, of course, but neither the Rogue Trader nor Inquisitor quite resisted their urge to grin.

"Yes, Castaway is still getting to the bottom of the reason for that. Captain Scipius now, of course."

"Not quite a demotion, Kills. The Gatebreakers seem to have a very unusual command structure – insofar as I understand things." The Inquisitor arched an eyebrow, but if Taiwo noticed, he made no reaction. "Very dispersed. Scipius retains Commandery of the Primaris."

"Is that so? I had been given to understand the two forces were fully integrated; serving alongside one another in all ways."

"No; not completely. Some Strikeforces remain purely Astartes – and before you ask, no, I don't know why. I can only say that because my forces have deployed alongside them."

Kills hid her eagerness poorly. "Where?" 

"The Kua Fu Cluster worlds. We found three Gatebreaker micro-fleets during our operations there. Frigates; nothing greater in displacement. They nearly fired on us, until the Gatebreaker's Sanctity of Man hove into view around the planet."

"A shield of green and gold, eh?" remarked the Inquisitor, quoting Scipius' declared intentions for his Chapter during the Chapter's honorary welcome to the Rogue Trader's fleet. Both the Inquisitor and Rogue Trader were silent for a moment. It seemed a long time since then. 

As they passed the great doors, redolent in gold, Taiwo broke the silence.

"I'm pleased the Space Marine escort was there, that's all I'm saying. I have no desire to squander my resources fighting Imperial servants – that is, fighting our allies." Taiwo had caught the Inquisitor's eye. He may have leeway as a Rogue Trader, but even suggesting to an Inquisitor that his fleet did not, ultimately, belong to the Imperium, was a dangerous path to tread. Kills waved it off. She was no radical; but the equally she held few puritanical views. Her flexibility and adaptability had been why the Ordo Propter had deployed her to the operation, after all. 

The door chimed; and Kills' communicator buzzed silently. Castaway had arrived.

Before Taiwo could order the door opened, she stopped. The Rogue Trader turned to face her, his broad-cheeked face for once unguarded.

"I'm not going to sanction you, Rogue Trader. To be candid, you and I are mutually dependent. Neither of us is overburdened with friends to hand out here. With the Gatebreakers deployed to Andocrine, my work here is done; as is yours. You are free to explore and exploit this region as you see fit – expanding the borders of Imperium, boosting trade, and all the other worthy acts of which your kind do best. Equally, I am free to return to the workings of the inner galaxy; to retreat from this barren region..." She trailed off, looking once more to the great viewport. It remained blank, and Kills could not tell whether this was because it was switched off, or whether it was simply showing the endless, starless sweep of the end of the galaxy.

"And yet?" Taiwo prompted, as the door chimed a second time. Kills looked straight at him.

"And yet we have both returned here. Of all the places in this cast region, we have returned to a ruined Chapter Fortress, to make it right. We are linked to them, you and I; to the Gatebreakers. And before this Master Sho slips the leash, I would know to whom we have handed over a Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes."

+++

+ Reinforcements inbound +

+ More building, more painting. Three further bodies – this time from the Hellblaster kit – have been added to bring the new intake to ten. I've also cracked on with the painting, using the same batch approach as before. First the grey undercoat, then a few layers of yellow. +

+ After that, the green. It's a relief after the yellow, which is a real slog. Green has much better coverage, so it takes less than half the time than the yellow. It's also a satisfying stage, as you make the lines nice and crisp. +

+ After that, the black went on for the soft armour – further tidying the scheme. Once dry, the squad and Dreadnought (below) were ready to be sprayed with matt picture varnish. +

+ Next up is the oils stage. I've got some arms and heads complete, left over from the first batch, so the Gatebreakers reinforcements won't be too long now, touch wood. +

+ inload: Our Presence Remakes the Past +

'Our Presence Remakes the Past!' The cry thundered from a crowd of enhanced throats, deep and reverberant. In the hall serving as Chapter 333's gathering place, the echoes died out quickly.

It was borrowed, of course. One of the famed Ultramarines' many battle cries, redolent with ten thousand years of history – history that Chapter 333 sorely lacked. Inquisitor Kills had enquired after its provenance during an awkward repast at the Captain's table, which Master Scipius had attended. He had picked politely at the food, and demurred Taiwo's offer of any wine beyond that used for the toasts.

The question had been answered as the Primaris marine answered all her questions – promptly, directly, and with no expansion. It had felt like an interrogation. Kills – and she suspected the other diners too – had been relieved when the warrior had bowed out of the ceremonial meal, thanking his Rogue Trader host with a curt salute.

The marines were too large, too intense, too real for anything like a relaxed atmosphere. Every mouthful of food or drink had been overshadowed by the sheer presence of the warrior. It had been like dining alongside a Cthellan cudbear – scrupulously trained, perhaps, but something in humanity's hindbrain sat uneasily alongside superpredators.

Barbari Kills brought her attention back to the hall. The Chaplain – what was his name? – was deep into the litanies. Smartly turned-out serfs in yellow and green-piped tabards tracked back and forth along the assembled ranks of the Chapter, anointing each warrior with dabs of unguent, or murmuring catechism.

She and her acolytes, Brunski and Halm, had a position of honour, looking out over the Chapter from the side. That their podium was constructed of stacked shipping crates rather took away the glamour, but needs must. Chapter 333's own fleet, such as it was, offered no craft large enough to gather the Chapter, and so Scipius had arranged with Taiwo to utilise one of the Rogue Trader's vessels for such assemblies. Standing at ease, but crisply, the Inquisitor let her eye wander over the Chapter. There was variance – of course there was – but very little. Every figure was decked out in the same armour – row after row of the same smooth helms, the same black, heavy guns. It was a far cry from her time with the Stellar Steeds, whose laughing company seemed to revel in individualism; their plate mixed and endlessly varied.

Halm half-coughed, and Kills looked at her quizzically. Sotto voce, the acolyte murmured a word of encouragement as she handed over the scroll. It was time for the Inquisitor to address the Space Marines. Kills rather enjoyed pomp and ceremony, usually. It offered a refreshing change from the cloak-and-daggers politicking of her usual task – or at least a surface contrast, she mused.

It was a short and to-the-point speech. Halm had suggested it be so – and she had had considerably more opportunity to ingratiate herself with the Chapter serfs than the Inquisitor herself. No room for poetry here, the Inquisitor thought to herself, as she began her oration.

"You stand ready to take your place as castellans of the Emperor's domain. This outpost is distant from his light, and all the more vulnerable for it. Here at the edge of the galaxy, you will serve. Each of you is a lantern; a magnifying mirror to that light. You will bring the Emperor's hand to these benighted worlds, extended in friendship to those that seek his protection, and closed in a fist to those who would despoil or seek to desecrate his worlds. You will, perhaps, be alone in these duties." She paused, weighing the next words carefully. The assembled crowd stood, dutifully, impassively; still as statues. Licking her lip, unaccountably dry, she continued, "And perhaps you will not. We are at anchor around a planet tentatively identified as the lost world of Quercus Brant; a short translation from the rumoured location of system Androcrine. Once Quercus Brant is brought back within the fold, we will move on to Andocrine. There we will discover the fate of your forebears; there we will find answers."

Another pause. Not a single marine moved. Kills was no psychic, but a prickle down her spine told her that this was an entirely different order of silence. They had been attentive before, but the mention of the Chapter's gene-kin – and the possibility of finding their own history – had charged the atmosphere.

"I recognise that this is a strange form of homecoming. A return to a hold in which you have never set foot; and which must seem nebulous. You must be prepared to find ruins. You must be prepared to reclaim and refortify the fortress-monastery; to take arms against the strange and novel xenoforms of the region. You must guard against false hope, for such is the first step on the road to disappointment. And yet." A third pause, "And yet, I wish you well – both in your campaign upon Quercus Brant, and in our shared travails to Androcrine. Whether we find your kin or not, you have duties to perform. An Imperium to extend. An Emperor to serve. You have a history of your own to write."

The close of the speech was met with a final silence. And then, a great roar; a roar from a thousand throats:
'Our Presence Remakes the Past!'

+++

+ Progress +

+ The varnish is dry on the first sets of arms, so I finally have sufficient bits to assemble a Primaris member of the Gatebreakers. He is a little further down the line timewise from the story above, but still in 'proper' Tacticus armour. +

+ He needs highlighting, basing and still needs details like the gun and chapter badge to be painted, but I'm really pleased with how they're looking. It's not at all clear here, but the chest eagle is painted silver with a purple wash. +

+ Painting in sub-assemblies has been a fun experiment, and helped to make this batch painting a bit of a novelty. I am glad, however, that I restricted myself to a fairly reasonable number of figures – more than fifteen would have been very complicated! +

+ I'm pleased to report that the oils seem to be behaving themselves. Experimentation always has the potential to go seriously wrong, but – touch wood – it's holding together well so far. +

+ The depth of tone oils allowed me to create, together with the speed at which it could be done, has me firmly on board. I'm looking forward to experimenting further with this technique. +

+ Bloodthirsty headhunting, or sanctified relics? We'll find out soon enough, if Barbari Kills can find where Andocrine is... +

+ Eight pairs of arms – and the accompanying shoulderpads are next up. After that, it's pouches, grenades and similar bells and whistles. You'll spot a couple of beakie helms, too. Not quite sure how they fit with the Marks of armour, but who cares? Beakies are cool. +

+ ...And to finish, a couple of shots of the whole gang. Apologies if these are getting tiresome, but I find it helpful to watch them gradually get more and more developed. +