Awareness returned in an instant, accompanied by the fading hum of the stasis field. His helm display lit up at the same moment, the machine-spirit automatically running multiple diagnostics to check the integrity of both warrior and armour. All around him in the still, airless stasis crypt, Mordaen knew his brethren of the Fifth Ostire were running the same test, assessing their readiness for battle.
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| [//matt_t/@spacedhulk+] |
Comparing his armour's chronometer against the updated datastream from the ship's vox-channel, Mordaen saw that just over six standard weeks had passed since they had entered the crypt. To him, it seemed scant moments since they had extracted him from the surface of Croesus. It was unusual for the Charnel Guard to utilise the mormintele timpului during active campaign, but the bloodshed during the Croesan Massacres had been particularly visceral, and a number of his brethren had begun to experience the first signs of the blestem. Better to wait for the next engagements in the silent oblivion of sleep, than to risk their sanity during the wretched wakefulness and inactivity of a journey between the stars.
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| [//matt_t/@spacedhulk+] |
Drawing the relic boltgun maglocked to his hip, Mordaen saw Ariuk, his squad leader, walking slowly through through the rows of stationary warriors, visually checking each of them for the telltale tics and spasms of the Great Flaw. As the sergeant's spiked battle helm drew level with his own, Mordaen looked into crimson eyelenses and asked, as impassively as he was able, "We have arrived at Sanctram?""Yes," Ariuk's voice remained as cold and emotionless as the crypt itself. "The Wardens are here, as are the Guard. Fresh blood awaits us."Beneath the polished black of his Mark VII faceplate, Mordaen smiled a fanged, predatory smile.The strongest blood always tasted the sweetest.