#salamanders probably would not have gone into the warp (like alpha legion)

[ghostinthegallery]

Y'know what? I'm feeling salty AND spicy today. You wanna know my 30k/40k hot take? The biggest missed opportunity IMHO?

TRAITOR VULKAN, LOYALIST CURZE!

How incredibly THEMATIC would it be for the guy whose single defining trait is care for human life (and maybe even other forms of life) to be so disgusted by the Imperium and its actions that he turns his back on it? Only to be branded a villain and a monster? What if Vulkan actually did something with his convictions? How much depth would it add to the Salamanders as a chapter to have them continue to try and protect the people who rejected them? Even as it becomes increasingly painful and impossible? Hell, they already have the element of people being scared of them because they...look different (actually that legit makes me uncomfortable, seriously GW what the fuck? But a lot to unpack) Anyway, that's some actually grimdark shit.

And speaking of grimdark, yeah those guys playing Marco Pollo in the orphan-blood pit? Those are the Imperium's guys! Imperium loves their wacky antics. It's not like Curze didn't get away with all that when he was on team Big E (Vulkan sure objected tho). Isn't that so much more in keeping with the Lawful Evil Meat Grinder Regime the Imperium is supposed to represent? Curze being a traitor is boring. It doesn't say anything! Loyalist Curze reaffirms so much of what the themes of 40k should be.

[askmalal]

Neeve shrugged his shoulders against the cold as the seals of his hab-cube closed behind him. It was a cold, quiet night on 23-18, and the wind whipped around him so fiercely that his robes, well insulated against the temperatures of the cold laboratory facilities seemed as if they veritably struggling to keep his temperature above freezing. Neeve rarely went outside the facility. The planetoid was roughly terraformed, base line tolerable with proper clothing, but the laboratory technicians and tech adepts rarely bothered. Plans to make the little world a veritable paradise had collapsed in M38. Pity that. It would otherwise have been a lovely place to live.

As chapter serfs, the inhabitants of 23-18 were blessed in having intellectual freedom - at least by the standards of those who worked directly for the administratum or the cult. Indeed, being commoners in the service of the Ultramarines, they were serfs in name, only. Only those who served the Salamanders had more freedom, or so it was said. Neeve hater Salamanders. Neeve hated Ultramarines. No... no.. perhaps that was too personal. He had no reason to hate either Chapter: representatives of both had been kind to him. They’d even smiled in that comradely way that said they understood his humanity and valued it. No, what Neeve hated were Space Marines, in general.

Neeve walked down the path, his eyes watching for any sign of interruption. But it was late, it was a mandated night off, and the few people out and about were visiting friends, totally oblivious to the rail thin man in the blue, insulated robes and the waterproof jerkin. He doubted anyone would see him. If they did... he clutched the holdout pistol in his pocket. If they did... “I will not kill without reason,” he muttered to himself, “the choice is not given unto me.”

He turned the corner, passed eyes left and right down the deserted alleyway, and moved in, past shadows of cooling units whose effluent was too toxic to permit anyone to use the alleyway as a shelter. Neeve slipped on his rebreather and moved on, to where the gasses were so concentrated that the only sign of life was the occasional desiccated form of some unlucky avian blown in during a storm. He shuddered. Dead birds disgusted him; these were little more than mummies. It was still enough. Even mortuary technicians had their limits.

At last, Neeve came to the spot he was looking for, a particularly useful dead-zone. He removed his left glove and drew a small, silvery knife across the palm with his right hand. There was a momentary twinge of pain, though he was used to that by this point in life, and the knife, whetted with blood, sparkled in the gloom. The moments that passed were short, but seemed an eternity.

At last she came. She was beautiful, was this messenger. He could not help but notice. He was a hard man, but a man just the same. And he could not but notice the beauty of her face, the line of her chin, the nobility of her nose, the way her dark hair contrasted so sharply with the pallid tinge of her skin. It was not an unhealthy pale. Neeve knew unhealthy: and this was not it. But he could not place it. It seemed inhuman, was that the word? Which of course,it was.

“Mistress,” his voice was deeper than his slight frame suggested. “Thank you for honoring me with your presence.” She nodded, her eyes hidden by the lip of the hooded cape she wore about her shoulders. She removed her own right glove, drew a similar dagger with her left hand, and cut the palm, ever so slightly. They pressed their palms together, then withdrew them. “Neeve. It has been a very long time, my boy... and what have you got for me?”

Neeve shook a little. Whether from the cold or the strange power of the ritual, he was unsure.

“Something useful, I hope.”

She frowned, “So do I.”

“My Lady, the Ultramarines retrieved a group of bodies from an engagement in the Gallic cluster. Heretics and Renegades.”

The beautiful lady smiled. “It was a gravity well trap, yes?”

“It was, Mistress.”

“Go on.”

“I would not trouble you with this, except that...” he swallowed. “One of them was an Astartus.”

She smirked, “Say it isn’t so, Neeve!”

Neeve blanched, “Your patience, My Lady. This wasn’t any old reject from the Warp. This one... this one had HIS mark.”

She froze. Her hidden eyes considering the thin, robed figure before her. Her black painted lips curled with curiosity, “Is that so? He has many marks, Neeve.”

Nerve nodded, proud that he was not undone. “I will fear nothing,” his mind echoed, “for He alone is Fear.” He considered how best to broach the subject. “Not any of the ones you might mean, in this case,” Neeve said. “A special mark. One the priesthood showed me as a boy.”

“Ooh...” her lilting voice was amused. “A -special- mark? One even I would not think of. She placed an arm against the wall, leaning slightly. “We are bold today, aren’t we, my handsome little sociopath?”

Neeve drew in a breath. “Not what I meant, My Lady. Merely a very uncommon one. Very uncommon.”

She frowned again, “How uncommon?”

Neeve withdrew a piece of vellum from his pocket. “I risked a great deal for this, My Lady. But for Him.. well. May His Will be advanced.” He handed the vellum to the woman, and backed away respectfully.

Adunaphael the Vengeful eyed the mark, sketched in Neeve’s precise hand. Her hidden eyes grew wide. He was a talented artist; it was no wonder the Daemonettes had tried to eat him for lunch all those years ago. “This.. is this what you saw, Neeve? Personally.”

“I saw a pict capture. I magnified it. If it is inaccurate, the fault is mine. But you know my talents. I have an eye for this sort of thing, Mistress.”

Adunaphael considered. “I will take this under advisement. What do you know about the Astartus?”

Neeve relaxed. “Asphyxiated in the void. Armor was mostly intact; markings on the exterior were none I recognized. It was the symbol on his inner carapace I noted. They didn’t. Too subtle perhaps if you aren’t looking for it, but...”

“Just wavy lines,” she reflected.

Neeve nodded, “Just wavy lines.”

Adunaphael considered, “Anything unusual about him?”

“No mutations, of course. But then, there probably wouldn’t be. Not the visible kind. His occulobe was apparently not functional, or at least damaged. It was withered. They removed tissue, so I didn’t get much else of use from the corpus.”

Adunaphael opened her mouth, “Withered? Now there... there is a very rare catch. Excellent fishermen, these Ultramarines. Tell me, Neeve.. was there anything about his asphyxiation? Anything unsual?”

Neeve nodded, warmed by her approbation. “Apparently,” he said, “the Astartus had survived for a very long time. Days, even. In coma state of course, but...”

“Right. I see.” Adunaphael smiled, “I see. Thank you Neeve...” the vellum crumbled to ash. “Thank you.”

“Of course...” he watched the ash fall away. She was a woman of many talents, this creature. “I serve of my own will.”

“And He blesses your efforts,” she replied. “Well, then, dear heart. Unless there was anything else?”

“No, My Lady, should I...?”

“Oh yes. Deliver the report to your handlers. Tell them everything you told me.”

“Everything, Mistress?”

Adunaphael smiled, thinly, “Well, except for the bit about you knowing his mark, of course. Tell them you have no idea what it is. Looks like some sort of occult marking, you think.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he looked at the ground for a moment, “but our...”

“Our arrangement. Yes, Neeve. I remember. Ask your question, and make it a good one.”

Neeve kept his eyes lowered, “I know not how to ask but.. what is He.... is He...”

“What is he like?” She smiled, the scent of spice in her exhalation.

“Yes. What is it like being in his presence?”

She considered for so long that Neeve thought he had offended her. Just as he was about to ask her forgiveness, she had his answers.

“He is like... he is like the final intake of air before the last breath.”

Neeve was quietened by this. Unsure what to make of it. But she was gone.

Neeve sighed, and placed the dagger into his pocket. It was indistinguishable from any other scalpel. His palm had already healed. With a force of effort, he replaced the leather glove and moved back, down the alleyway to the street. Like final intake of air before the last breath. He shivered. But not from the wind.

The transmitter was not far, wired into a street lamp, and tomorrow, he would deliver his report to the Alpha Legion.

Just as Adunaphael the Vengeful had instructed.