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Schalk had spent the last forty eight hours on vigil, his armour still smoking, he wounds binding themselves as he stood silent over the seven fallen warriors.
Their bodies had been prepared and honoured, the apothocarion had done their duty where they could and their deeds recorded for prosperity.
Yet his soul still bled.
Now he stood waiting for transit, his mood somber, his thoughts lost in a nightmare of the perfect recall that was part of the blessing of gene sire.
From within those thoughts he again smelt the burning of flesh, of iron and honour. It took a second for him to realise that his enhanced senses were picking the faintest of traces of smoke. A deep breath in and he realised he caught tendrils of rubber made smoke vapour that been caught in the ships vast air recycling system. Still for him to catch even this faint smote the cause must be relatively close. A fire on a ship was always a danger and it would allow him to focus on a task, any task was better than recalling those moments of fire and fury and failure again and again.
It still took nearly three hours of careful hunting through two decks of the ship, not that he covered even a fraction of the gizzards of the Crest of Justices interior. He relied on his hypno-inducted knowledge of Imperial vessels and the occasional faint hint of crisped ozone.
His sojourn took him through the complexity of one of the slab sided killers of the Imperial Navy. The well drilled crew bowed as he passed, he noticed them not. His battle focus, his essence, his slayers soul was totally focused on mission.
He came to a simple holding bay, one of thousands on this deck alone. A simple cavern of necessity, a gallery to the art of the ministorium, not the largest of it's kind yet neither the least.
His gene-enhanced hearing allowed him to pick out the sounds of humanity, his warriors soul allowed to him identify mortal soldiers.
He approached the galvanized metal doors and saw that they were unlocked but not watched, two sets of small eyes peered through the gap. As soon as they met his they blinked and vanished, to spread word of his arrival.
As he pushed open the tonne heavy doors he knew, bone deep, nerve twitching, double heart pumping, that he was walking into hostile territory.
He was not welcome here, He, an Angle of Death, one of the Sons of Dorn, The last Wall, Defender of Ancient Terra, was not welcomed.
He could feel the chemicals pump through his system preparing him for war, his breath slowed, his hearts increased and his awareness heightened, he was a spear of the Emperor and he was ready to thrust.
Yet...yet...mortals faced him...loyal mortals...and they showed no trans-human dread.
Perhaps less than a hundred warriors stood in the cavern, flames, the source of the elusive smoke, reared out of promethum drums.
His senses caught the scurrying feet of the Ratlings who had been on watch, they raced to one side, not in fear, but straight too their long-las's. Even these ab-humans did not have the gall to actually grasp them but they were now within hand.
The warriors facing him were all bare chested, their faces flushed with the heat from the closed confines and the illegal alcoholic brew they had been consuming. Yet there was no fear in their faces, only a challenge. A challenge that the proud Astartes could not, would ignore. It was the challenge of the funeral games, of the grave honouring, of intruding onto martial pride.
A figure dressed in the officio prefectus uniform stepped forward, his eyes were unglazed and burning bright. He carried no weapon beyond the arrogance and dignity of his station.
"My Lord, can we help you?" A voice used to obedience, unused to the task of request.
The good Sergeant, he had led legends into battle, he had faced odds that would have crushed the human spirit and prevailed, he was a true son of Dorn and now faced with mere mortals he felt...less than he should have.
His growling voice, roaring in combat, now seemed mute and feeble "I smelt smoke Commissar, and suspected fire aboard..."
Even to his ears it sounded pathetic...unworthy of his line.
The commissar tilted his head to one side, a warrior trained in the honing of the Imperial truths could sense lies...even from one who was so far above his station.
"My Lord, my men are remembering their dead" he turned and raised his arms above his head " The Glorious 564th".
There was no cheering or fist pumping, only a single one lifted his head a let out a low howl, the others banged their right fists on their chests. This was then joined by a haunting melody by the ab-humans on a set of small hand pipes.
One of the warriors still beating a steady tattoo on his chest began stomping his right boot onto the decking.
Then as one they began an out of tune song, a hail to the dead and a promise of tomorrow for the living.
The words were not needed, as an outsider Schalk knew them not, it was the passion and the reverence that gave them weight.
The song wove it's legend, adding names that Schalk knew not but now would never forget and places that he knew only from data slabs but now engraved themselves onto his heart.
As the dirge ended a single mortal, clothed in trews and boots stood forward and handed the mighty warrior a bowl.
From the chemical stink emintating from it Schalk knew that it contained an intoxicating mix to mere mortal bodies, but it was the sense of inclusion, the sense of joint loss that he took it.
He threw it's contents back on one clean swig, his Oolitic kidney easily rendering the potent alcohol home brew null.
Yet he saw, here were warriors of his kind, they had suffered losses and yet they lived and moved on.
In the same cadence as the mortal dirge he named his dead and mourned their loss, the mortal warriors echoing in shadow his pain and loss as they joined in.
Whence they had finished Schalk turned to the Commissar and nodded "If you or your men need..."
The Commissar simply nodded back and replied "The Emperor protects and guides, as we are His, we are now yours"...
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