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Dancing flames flickering in the darkness forced wicked shadows along the walls of the hallowed chapel to move in an ambiance of silent music. Only the faint hums of far away engines could be heard through the decking of the ship. A lone figure remained knelt in prayer, his lips moving silently with a hushed breath as he spoke only to himself and his god. The immortal Emperor of Mankind. The chapel could easily house another hundred or so gatherers, but it was empty except for one. Standing now, he rose to his full height. Servos and muscle fiber bundles within his powered armor assisted him in the process. Clad in midnight black battle plate, he was a weapon of war, forged from hundreds of years of bloodshed and battle. A sanguine cloak hung from his back and clung over his left pauldron, marking his status amongst the inner circle of his chapter. The Black Templars, warrior knights fulling an ancient crusade set forth by the Emperor himself thousands of years ago. They embodied the true status of the Adeptus Astartes. Forever would they push outwards, taking back what had been once lost to the Imperium.

The Astartes did not move as he stood, his eyes remained shut for a moment as he finished his silent prayer. Standing well over eight feet tall, he was far from normal. Advanced changes to his body and growth formed him into a legend of war. Capable of far more than a normal human, the Astarte could fight beyond the pain tolerance of any human and had the strength to crush a skull in the palm of his hand. Yet here he remained, unmoving like a statue cut from ebony. His eyes opened, candle light flickered in the reflection of his emerald globes. In many ways he seemed ageless as his features were full and lively, but his eyes played into his past. A past that only knew war in this dark time. One could not simply guess his age. Stuck forever as if he was in his mid thirties, but truthfully well beyond that. For over three hundred and fifty years he fought in the name of the Emperor. Crusades had been claimed and lives had been lost at his hands. His war plate was far beyond the normal suit of power armor worn by his brothers. Layers of ceramite and fastened plates of ceramite protected him from even the most powerful weapons that could be bared against him. Countless generations had been bonded into the armor, crafted and fit to suit its user. Forged from the artisan hands of the chapter's tech marines it stands as a relic in its own right. Etched along his right pauldron was a name scribed across a golden banner. The light played a crossed it's surface, revealing the indented letters of his name. Varren Gorgon. Marshal of a crusade fleet which contained well over two hundred Adeptus Astartes warriors. His knights of the Black Templar.

The sound of a door being opened alerted Varren as he turned to face the intruder. Without his helmet his enhanced vision cut through the darkness and spotted the figure entering the chapel. "Brother." Varren said quietly, his words just above a whisper as he bowed his head slightly. A faint smile broke across his stoic features as the figure stood into the candle light.

"Marshal, the mistress awaits an audience with you. Forgive me for intruding." The static filled voice of the marine rang out into the chapel, breaking the silence it once held. The marine was clad in the same blackness as Gorgon, except where the Marshal displayed a white field on his shoulders and the stylized cross of the Black Templars, his was black and edged with red. A Sword Brother, member of Varren's inner circle and Marshal's Household.

"She will have to forgive my absence, brother. My prayers had to be spoken." Walking now, Varren Gorgon approached the Sword Brother and regarded him with a salute by crossing his armored forearms over his chest in symbol of their cross. In return, the veteran warrior did the same and proceeded to follow beside his Marshal as the two exited the chapel.


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