#askbranwen

Commander Krole: *hand gestures*

Melpomanei: “A truesilver pauldron.”

The pauldron is based on the Raptora armorial of the Sisterhood’s vratine armour, but stylised in the form of a raven rather than an eagle and set with a black pearl.

@askbranwen

They stalked through the ruins of Gorgon Hive stacked six deep. Emethel brought up the rear, his keen eye watching their six for any sign that the flighty xenos may have flanked or surrounded them. It wasn’t guaranteed that the artillery barrage that had preceded the push into the outskirts of the hive would drive them off for good and so Alarael had assigned his best marksman to keep them covered.

Alarael’s vox-link clicked once and he raised a fist. Fire Team Habbathal had made contact. The squad halted and fell to their knees, bolt rifles sweeping back and forth to cover the empty streets. Crouched in the remains of a blasted commercia building, the Astartes were almost invisible, their drab green armor melting into the shadows nearly seamlessly. The bone white trim on their pauldrons had been oiled down before their insertion to keep it from attracting attention, as had the deep crimson color of Alarael’s helmet. He reached up and tapped his earpiece twice, sending two clicks back in response. A moment later another single click returned.

Friendly contact.

@askbranwen

Oh! wow! T-thank you..dooyou wanna share it with me? 

@askbranwen

The power field sings as it cut a swath through the enemy, splaying their dark blood on the stark white of the snow as Hrodric swung his heavy blade again and again. The Imperial forces had been pushed back by the Iron Warriors after they had downed Bastion of Valor, the Knight that had held the line together, with guardsmen falling back head over heels while covered by their Dark Angels allies. Unfortunately for Hrodric the squad he had been attached to and some other stragglers were quickly enveloped by the advancing traitors and they were caught in the shadow of the fallen Knight, making a valiant effort at a last stand. If nothing else they would buy some time and cut a sizable hole in the enemy numbers before they perished.

"Hold the line, brothers!" came the shout of the tactical sergeant over the staccato of bolters. "For the L-"

His chest burst open, armor and all, most likely from an autocannon shell. That left just five Astartes and some twelve guardsmen, many of them already injured, with their backs up against the wreckage of the warmachine. The pile of dead made up as much of their cover as the terrain by now.

"Steady." Hrodric spoke up, the pale fabric of his robe stained red with the blood of many, as shown by the half circle of maimed warriors at his feet. The only reason that he had not ended up like the sergeant yet was because more and more approached him with the intention of a melee, blocking him from incoming fire. He was already a head taller than the other Astartes, a giant among the guardsmen and clearly someone of importance with his winged helmet and ornate jetblack power sword. His presence fueled the pride of the traitors, each wanting the opportunity to slay the champion, even with the risk of approaching him under fire. Such madness. But for how long would that be before they tired and finally saturated the area with artillery fire?

"FIGHT ME, CORPSE-CHAMPION!"

An especially imposing figure charged at him, a large two handed chainaxe revving in his hands. A few bolter shells bounced off his armor, not even putting a flinch in his step as he swings down at Hrodric. Even with their massive form, a Primaris is a formidable warrior, with enhanced reaction times and agility. Doubly so for this champion, who had honed his skills against the best of his Chapter. The axe comes crashing down, splitting nothing but earth as Hrodric has already stepped aside. His enemy's demise is perhaps a bit anticlimactic, his head lopped off in a smooth fluid overhead swing that seem to have begun even before the champion dodged the attack. There's a short lull in the din of battle around him, the clouds breaking up and casting him in moonlight. Something was coming from above...

The Murder of Ravens

“For the Emperor,” the Alpha Legionnaire spat, spraying blood and foaming spittle over her breastplate as the coward took his own life. Branwen pulled Sic Semper Tyrannis out of his gut with a sigh. She was getting tired of hearing that. Not for the first time, she wished the Raven Guard had the numbers to pursue larger forces, fight simpler battles. A foolish wish. All the Legions had to play to their strengths to scour the surviving traitors from the face of the galaxy, and no-one was better at finding the Alpha Legion without being found first.  The flash of red runes on her retinal display pulled Branwen from her reverie. They were the life signs of every Mor Deythan in the Shadow Force. Then the underhive exploded into light and noise. Branwen fired her jump pack, soaring above the sudden tide of flame that swept over the Raven Guard caught out in the open.  “Sitrep!” she demanded, forcing herself to keep her voice even. Static answered her. The roar of flamers was replaced by the distinctive double-report of bolterfire, and for a moment Branwen thought the Alpha Legion had finally turned the tables on her. Behind the muzzle flare, though, came figures far slighter than power-armoured Legionaries. A fragment of shadow separated itself from the whole, revealing the opening maw of a Kharon-pattern Acquisitor. A cadre of Oblivion Knights emerged, cutting down those Legionaries that had weathered the storm of fire and shells with two-handed execution blades. For the second time, Branwen felt the horror of betrayal pierce her hearts like shards of ice.  “Traitors!” she roared, peppering the Silent Sisters with banestrike rounds from the boltgun on her wrist. She swooped down, cleaving one from hip to shoulder with Sic Semper Tyrannis before rising up again.  She didn’t get far. Something hit her jump pack, fouling the primary turbine and bringing her crashing to the ground. If it had been an explosive bolt, she would probably be dead - not that that wasn’t likely to follow soon enough anyway as she barely raised her blade in time to parry a blow from a sword she was alarmed to recognise as Veracity. Jenetia Krole stood over her, bringing the blade around for another strike. Branwen didn’t have time to wonder how the Knight-Commander of the Silent Sisterhood could have betrayed the Emperor when she had been seen fighting alongside the loyalists at the Siege of Terra and many other battles in the years since. She barely had time to parry the second swing.  Denied a quick kill, Krole built momentum with a series of rapid blows until Veracity was moving with impossible speed, combining the elegance of a rapier and the force of a battle axe. On the back foot from the beginning, not helped by the dread aura of deafening silence projected by the Silent Sisters, Branwen fended off a handful of strikes before Veracity slipped around Sic Semper Tyrannis and took both her hands off at the wrist.  Branwen’s attempt at a headbutt succeeded only in impaling herself. “Traitor,” she hissed.  Krole shook her head, topknot swaying gently. She formed a gesture in Legion Battlesign. Negative.  “We are loyal.”  Krole nodded and made another gesture. Irrelevant. She tapped two fingers on her breastplate, above her heart, then raised them to the aquila tattoo on her brow. Branwen didn’t know what it meant, but she could guess. Her bitter laugh was cut short by the twist of the Sword of Oblivion through her hearts.  For the Emperor.

@askbranwen

Commander Krole: *hand gestures*

Melpomanei: “Isstvan haunts Agapito, his soul blighted by the thunder of legion artillery, the confusion of betrayal, and the vox-distorted laughter of the betrayers. Branne is the opposite, a sigh of regret that he wasn’t there… and a ragged gasp of struggling breath.”

A Melancholy Burden

The Legionary is young, fresh from the Apothecarion’s gene-forges. The subtler changes have barely begun - her skin, though pallid, has a little of its colour left and her pupils have not yet swallowed the sclera. One of the slaves who fought in the Nineteenth’s uprising, transformed into a living weapon by his gene-seed.  Even the towering presence of her new sire cannot keep her gaze from flicking uncomfortably towards me. It catches on the hilt of Veracity before it meets my own. Quickly, she averts her eyes. Coming to attention, the Legionary salutes her primarch.  “Lord Corax.” Her voice falters slightly, tripping over the High Gothic words still alien on her lips.  “Branwen, this is Knight-Commander Krole.” The Nineteenth keeps his voice even. It would take a superhuman eye to notice the barest tremor in his jaw. It is her first sign that any honour in her summons is dubious at best.  Hesitantly, she dares to look me in the eye at last. I incline my head slightly. Without a proloquor, anything more would be futile.  “Knight-Commander.” She salutes again.  “She has been sent by my father,” - it is always jarring to hear one of them call Him that - “to see the Red Level.”

(send some crows)