Dramatis Personae: Augustus Lucius Argus

Dramatis Personae: Augustus Lucius Argus of the Argent Heralds

[//robin_p/@darth_grimbeard+]

'None remain unscarred by war. I was fortunate. I bore mine only on the outside.'

[//Argus of the Argent Heralds – Last Words, Saphrax+]

***

The artificier looked upon his work with great satisfaction. 

‘A good start,’ he declared to his fabrication serf. The girl nodded her enthusiastic agreement. 

‘Yes, this will be a helm fit for a champion. Lord Decius will be very pleased with your work, sirrah.’ 

The artificier felt a glow of pride light his heart at the thought of presenting this work to the good Captain.  Yes, Lord Decius would indeed be pleased, for this was surely his finest work to date. 

Realising he had been lost in thought, he realised the serf was still looking up at him, expectation on her well-scrubbed face. He coughed lightly to cover his embarrassment

‘Very good. Now, pass me the filling compound, girl. No, not the green one: the good one – yes, the silver. That’s it.’  As the girl mixed the compound, the artificier couldn't resist casting another appraising eye over the graven features of the recipient of the helm. 

Yes, only the finest materials were worthy of the great champion, Augustus Lucius Argus of the Argent Heralds.

[//robin_p/@darth_grimbeard+]

[//robin_p/@darth_grimbeard+]

***

The artificier held his breath as he presented his work to the towering Astartes warrior.  He had only recently come to the service of the Argent Heralds, and though he knew the helm to be his finest work, he desperately wanted to please his new patrons. 

Captain Mercurious Decius had commissioned the piece as a gift for his loyal champion, Augustus Lucius Argus – The Argent Blade himself. It was a singular honour to be given such a task, so the artificier had poured his soul into the work. The good Captain had requested the helm to be formed in the likeness of The Champion, so he had spent hours studying pictograms and hololythic images of Argus to ensure a faithful rendition. The artificier had requested a meeting with Argus, but had been told bluntly that that would not be possible. 

Captain Decius lifted the helm and regarded the helm, appearing to study the features of Argus. They were set in a noble expression that the artificier had translated as faithfully as possible from the flat pict-captures he had been granted – at least, so he hoped.

Was the Captain displeased? Dissatisfied? He wished, once more, that he had been granted an audience with the Champion: any sculptor would have sought the same. Working from life was... well; an utterly different experience. He usually only worked from pictures when his subject was deceased.

An emotion seemed to flicker at the edge of the Captain's eyes – though the nature of that emotion eluded the artificier. He shivered internally. His mind wandered, treacherously. 

Do Astartes experience emotions as I do? 

If so, he considered, they hid it well, He swallowed heavily, still waiting. The artificier suspected they were too far beyond humanity for such things, so he did not try to read them, finding a direct approach more useful. He cleared his throat and asked, in a voice grown thin and reedy.

‘My Lord, is it satisfactory?’  

After a long moment the Captain shifted his gaze from the silver visage in his hands, his deep voice like an idling cargo-8. 

‘You have captured his features well, artificier .’ Decius said, before returning the helm to its stand. ‘He will be pleased to have them returned to him.’ he finished, cryptically.

***

The artificier had spent so many hours staring at pictographs of the great champion that he felt like he knew him intimately. He could picture every contour of his face, the angle of his jaw, the turn of his noble nose and curve of his lips. When he was summoned to Argus’ arming chamber it felt like he was going to visit an old friend. The Argent Blade wished to thank him for his hard work, his artistry, he was told. 

He would be humble of course, ‘Oh, no need to thank me, my friend; anything for you,’ he would say, with great magnanimity. The journey to the chamber passed quickly; the artificier's step light as he imagined the meeting. 

And yet when the door to the arming chamber opened, all words fled, escaping only as a strangled cough. There stood the champion, the great Augustus Lucius Argus, The Argent Blade, Champion of the Last True Son, in his full exquisitely-wrought battle plate. On the plinth before him, being anointed with sacred oils, lay the great Warblade Severtas – as familiar to the artificier as Argus himself, for every picture and hololyth had included it. Beside it, placed carefully on an arming stand, was the beautiful crested helm. The artificier knew the face was a perfect recreation of Argus’ own features. 

Except that... they did not match the figure before him.

Sweet merciful Emperor, what had happened to the face he knew so well? 

Where the war helm he had so painstakingly crafted was handsome and noble – a statesman’s face, a hero’s face – the face of the Astartes warrior before him was a ruin of bionics and synthflesh. The artificier stumbled over a prepared greeting. He was sure only that it made no sense whatsoever, and fell into an awkward silence.

+Forgive my appearance.+ Came a beautifully modulated machine voice. +It was cruel of Mercurious not to forewarn you – but then, he always has had a wicked sense of humour.+