Winter's Stories

Rogue Trader: Drake Dynasty
GM
Adam
Dynastic Power
Character Level: 31,250 XP / Rank 8
Profit Factor: 43𝖕
Command Crew
Lord-Captain Drake Navigator Primus Mordecai Arch-Millitant Winter Astropath Solarus High Factorum August
House Drake Fleet
Aurea Albion Hound of Albion • Abhorrent Fortuitous Purpose • Penance of Iocanthos
Drake Trade Empire
Damaris • Scintilla • Kulth Svard • Dross • Aurum Sepheris Secundus • Tennenberg Killian's Rest
Drake Expeditions
Open Missions
Grand Endevours
Personnel
Magistrates • Retainers Militants Svard 1st • Stormtroopers House Drake Expeditionary Army
Assets
Materiel Aerospace Craft • Ground Vehicles
Armoury Wargear • Relics and Artifacts
Other Estate Secrets and Contacts • Awards and Honors
The Galaxy
Locations Calixis Sector Koronus Expanse • Periphery Subsector Personalities Peers of the Imperium Rival Rogue Traders
Utilities
Rogue Trader Timeline House Rules Guide and Lore

The Prayer

The corridors had long since blended into one another, the deck plates shuddered underneath his steps as seven-hundred pounds of holy warrior trod upon them. They were minuscule compared to the low rumble of the warp engines as the Aurea Albion navigated the most treacherous regions that man would ever know of.

The few crewmen and ensigns Winter passed gave him a wide berth, looking up at the man in awe. Those who did not comprehend what he was saw him as a giant bringer of death, a one-man army. Those who had heard of the myths of the Astartes looked upon him with awe, as one of the Emperor's chosen warriors, an Angel of Death. A Space Marine.

Winter didn't see himself as a figure of legend, merely as a warrior doing as he thought best. But, there were things that did trouble him as any other man.

He had left his power armor in his quarters, so he did not seem as large as he did upon the pictcasts that were shown to the crew every now and then for morale, or when he trained the Armsmen in the most rigorous ways he knew of. Instead, he wore a simple habit of rough blue cloth trimmed with silver thread, the colors of his chapter. His eyes were glazed as he thought back to his meeting with his brethren.

"You have not been able to pass the proper rituals Novitiate, despite the deeds you have accomplished. And that is why we cannot fully accept you as a brother. It is best that you stay where you are." the grizzled, old Captain, now Chapter-Master had told him, even as Winter passed on the chapter relics he had saved from the Fortress-Chapel he had been training at.

Those words continually ate at him, slowly chipping away his resolve and sense of identity as a warrior of the Star Knights. If he wasn't a true Star Knight, then what was he?

He wasn't sure how long he had wandered the twisting halls, but he stopped inside one of the chapels the Albion had layered about for the sake of the crew, who were faithful to the image of the Emperor. This one was mostly empty, a rare thing on the ship. Only a few dozen were inside, their heads bowed in silent prayer as whispering hymns played. Winter made the sign of the aquila as he entered, bowing and pulling up his hood as he did so. He walked inside on quiet feet, reaching the ten-foot tall marble statue of the Emperor, resplendent in his golden power armor and looking suitably imperial.

Winter merely looked up at the statue, saying nothing aloud, his mind racing with questions towards his ultimate father. All he wanted was to serve him through his Chapter, vanquishing His foes in the defense of the Imperium. An Astartes was meant to fight, to slay, to purify, to cleanse. With that denied to him, what was Winter to do... even then, what was he?

Winter didn't know when he had slid to his knees before the statue, his head bent low so the hood completely obscured his face. A pain anything unlike anything he had felt resounded within his chest, his two hearts pounding hard. A wetness touched his face, and Winter touched his cheeks, his fingers coming away glistening. He didn't understand...

"Something troubling you, my son?" a calm voice asked him. It was smooth and simple, incredibly gentle. Winter didn't dare look up, for fear that he had finally cracked and the Emperor was talking to him through the statue.

"I do not know Father. I was told that I was to serve, and that honor has been taken from me." Winter replied in his bass rumble. He felt a presence next to him, and a sound like that of cloth rustling.

"We all serve Him as best we are able." came a quiet answer.

"Then why am I denied by my peers?" Winter asked, his gaze not lifting from the tiled floor.

"Maybe then it is not your peers who are denying you, but the path that has set before you."

War Never Changes

The world of Damaris burned. Above it, a fleet destroyed ork ship upon ork ship. And yet, still they came. The fledgling colony planet was now infested with the greenskins, and it would be centuries for the orks to be completely cleansed from it's surface.

On the surface in the main capital, soldiers and war machines moved through it's streets, fighting against the green tide. Most of the soldiers were crusaders brought from Port Wander, with the Bishop's blessing. Several were the Planetary Defense Forces, and a handful were either professional mercenaries or Armsmen from various Rogue Traders contributed to the defense of the planet and colony.

The entire city stank of fear, fear of the xeno. It was an acrid scent, similar to the taint of ozone from a teleporter beam. And humans when filled with fear, flee to their faith or their guns. In this case, it was both. The chapel in the center of the city was filled with the throngs of the faithful all praying to the Emperor for salvation. A chant was led by the choir, the haunting yet beautiful music echoing all around the cavernous building, drowning the entire city through loudspeakers in an effort to calm the populace.

A hulking, yet quiet, figure dressed in a tattered blue and silver robe entered the the chapel. The monk attending the door gasped in shock, clearly rattled at who had entered their midst. The robed and armored figure raised a hand as the man was about to speak, quieting him with a gesture. He made the sign of the Aquila to him, the monk bowing in return. The large man moved forward, his features hidden thanks to the deep hood he wore. He was clearly two and a half meters tall and moved with a fluid grace not normally given to large men. The figure moved up the mile of pews to the altar of Saint Drusus, although he moved past it to the altar of the Emperor and the Aquila.

Winter settled down onto his knees on the floor instead of the wooden area normally provided for prayers. He reverently removed the shield attached to his arm, black and white with the heraldry of the Black Templars upon it, setting it to his left. He also removed his battered chainsword and knife, setting them both to his right. Finally, his hands reached up, pulling the hood back to reveal his helmet. With the press of a button and a small twist, the helmet came free of the Astartes beneath and was set before him.

Winter sat there on his knees, his arms folded into the sign of the Aquila, over the Aquila that was emblazoned upon his own armor. After a few minutes, the Star Knight collected his wargear and stood off to the side, not trusting the stone pews to be able to take the weight of himself in full armor at a full metric ton. His weapons and shield had been affixed to the armor with their magnetic clamps, although Winter kept his helmet doffed and in the crook of his left arm. He listened to the simple and beautiful chants, reviewing the battles he had fought recently.

The past two weeks, he had been on offensive operations, taking the fight to the enemy. As one of the most capable field officers available, he had led a combined force of Armor, a regiment of Drake's Armsmen, the Storm Troopers and several others against the Orks, striking against their anti-air forces to give their own limited air forces the ability to operate with relative impunity. Although, the Ork Fighta-Bommers were proving to be a large problem to that equation. He would have to find out how to deal with those once he could. He sighed a little. What he wouldn't give for a barrage cannon in low orbit.

This led him to another train of thought. He had long ago sent a message to any and all Astartes units in the Expanse, requesting their aid in stopping this WAAAGH! before it became a true problem. No response had been given, and Winter didn't expect any help from any Astartes at all. So he had to make do with what he was given. Problem was, his forces were starting to fall apart. Almost a month of brutal combat operations against a ruthless and unforgiving enemy. Relief was needed soon, or they would be rolled over by the sheer number of xenos they faced.

When the chants ended and everyone stood up to begin filing out, Winter walked out into the sunlight of the inner city. The occasional shell hit the void shields from Ork artillery, exploding in a cascading sheet of green light. A woman in blue and gold fatigues rushed up the stairs, giving Winter a quick salute when she stopped, breathing hard. Winter was satisfied to note that she was not totally out of breath.

"Sir, we're seeing another Ork buildup. They'll hit the wall in another half-hour." she said.

Winter sighed again, pulling on his helmet and his robe's hood. War never changes.

The attack came while the city was under siege once more. It was a stab directly at the heart of the resistance. A rain of orks with unwieldy jetpacks assaulted the Basilica while it was in session, which was often these days as the monks and confessors within tried to calm the populace. It was the calm eye in the hurricane of war.

With an ear-splitting shriek of jetpacks and the roar of "WAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!!!!!", the orks landed all around. The citizens around did not fear for the most part, as the congregation was filled with Drusian Crusaders. With a challenging roar, they took up their chainswords and counter-assaulted the Orks, meeting their crude axes with whirring chainblades. The orks however had the advantage in their bloodlust, hacking apart the crusaders with gleeful shouts and barks of "HUMIES!!!!" and "WAAAAGH!!!".

The Ork horde had pressed the Crusaders back into the Basilica itself. The fighting went on for an hour, the Crusaders suffering horrible casualties to keep the Ork menace at bay.

Outside, a rumbling began. It was a subtle thing, then slowly became more distinct. Thud, thud, thud, thud, THUD, THUD, THUD. A group of Orks at the back of the fighting turned to look, and on the mighty road leading to the large Basilica, a force of a thousand men marched in formation, their feet to time. Their blue and gold uniforms were resplendent, lasguns held across their chests. A war-chant echoed through the smoke-filled air. For a moment, a ray of sunlight hit the formation. The gold thread and metal on their uniforms glittered brightly. At the forefront strode another warrior, his armor lit incredibly bright. He stood head and shoulders above the rest of the men and women. His face grim and filled with purpose.

The Orks beat their fellows, eagerly pointing at the mass of humies advancing towards them. As one, they lifted off the steps of the Basilica. In reaction, the front ranks of Drake's Own dropped to the ground, the second knelt, and the fourth half stepped to a side, their lasguns leveling as one. Sergeants bawled orders, although the Space Marine at the fore kept striding forward, unholstering his bolt pistol to be held behind his shield.

When the Orks landed, a Lieutenant cried out and bright beams of light lanced out from the massed infantry to strike the Orks. Close to three-hundred lasgun bolts smashed into the horde and Orks died. The Lieutenant bawled again, and death swept through the Ork ranks again.

The warrior at the fore leveled his bolt pistol at the incoming tide of greenskins and started firing, the BAM BAM BAM of his pistol a low thunder amidst the sharp CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK of the lasguns behind him.

When the Orks were within one-hundred feet, be barked a command, and the lasguns abruptly stopped, the front rank coming to a crouch and fixing bayonets to their weapons. The fifth and sixth rows moved forward, shotguns in hand and leveled them at the horde, their weapons scattering pellets into the Orks rushing forward. It didn't do much, save for holding back the tide for a few moments.

"FOR THE GLORY OF THE IMPERIUM, CHAAAAAARGE!!!!!!" the Space Marine bellowed, a fanatic fervor lighting his eyes as he bolted forward, the blue and gold Armsmen hot on his heels. A song of war started in their throats as they squarely met the Orks, bayonets shoving into Ork flesh by the hundreds, stub revolvers barking and shotguns booming. They did not merely stand, but pushed against the xenos horde that threatened their way of life.

Where the assault on the Basilica had taken hours, the melee lasted fifteen minutes. Orks died by the score, as did a few armsmen. After it had all finished, the Space Marine known as Winter stood in the middle, surrounded by the bodies of the foul greenskins. He breathed heavily, as did the remaining men of the Drake's Own Regiment.

Winter turned to the side, looking at the Basilica they had fought to defend. It blazed with light when the sun hit it just so. A soldier walked up to Winter, also looking at the Basilica.

"Was it worth fighting for, my lord?" he asked.

"No." Winter said, then doffed his helmet, and looked at the streams of the faithful coming from the doors of the Basilica, the priests leading them in prayer. "That was."

Taming the Beast

Within the bowels of the engineering section, a large man stood in a simple room. A furnace dominated one wall, a table with large tools fitted to his size, and a simple hunk of shaped metal in the middle commonly known as an anvil. A trough of water was off to one side, within easy reach.

The man made sure the furnace was properly hot. It was, as it never cooled down thanks to it’s proximity to the fusion engines. As a result, the entire room was sweltering. An assistant stood off to one side, clad in the fire-fighting gear that was the norm. She held a long, metal box covered in hexagrammatic wards. Another person stood opposite her, this one an old man. The only concessions he made to the heat was the oxygen mask he had over his face. Clothed about him were the robes of his office as the Bishop of the Albion.

The large man wore nothing save for a pair of pants and boots. His upper torso remained bare, as robes would have been dangerous. His upper torso had several connector points, the bare parts of the Black Carapace that was implanted within him.

”And as He On Earth decreed, let the waters flow free and pure.” Bishop DeCarto ended over the trough of water, casting a small item in, ripples spreading from where the saint’s finger bone entered the water.

Winter moved from his place at the anvil and opened the case the girl had been holding. An evil-looking sword lay inside, it’s many curved edges glimmering balefully. The metal was tinged red. The symbol of one of the gods to Chaos was embossed upon the hilt. Winter picked up the weapon and instantly felt the weapon’s power. With it, he felt he could smash aside anything. Kill anything.

He instantly shut those thoughts away. The sword kept trying to subvert his mind every time he touched it. Thankfully, his mind was well protected thanks to the hypno-conditioning he underwent during his implantation process. This was a Daemonblade, a sword bound with the soul of a greater daemon. The primary weapon of the shock troops of Khorne wielded. And now, it would serve another purpose.

Winter moved the sword to the furnace and thrust it in. He heard… no, felt, it scream as it was subjected to the inferno within. The blade glowed red, slowly at first, then to a gradual white. Only the vagaries of the warp within the sword kept it from melting down entirely.

The Space Marine removed it and pulled a hammer from the table. The hammer was not just a practical tool at this moment, but a symbolic one. The parent Chapter of the Star Knights were the Salamanders with Vulkan as their Primarch. Vulkan was a master smith, and the Salamanders were the best weapon and armor smiths among the Astartes. And with the smith’s hammer, he would reforge this weapon.

He set the Daemonsword upon the anvil, raised the hammer and brought it down with all his might. If the anvil were not constructed from adamantium, it would have burst asunder. As it was, it rang like a bell, constrasted sharply by the bellow of the sword as it resisted Winter’s attempt to reshape it. Winter raised the hammer again and brought it down.

”We abjure thee daemon, and call for your destruction!” the Bishop intoned deeply, his voice amplified through a laud-hailer by his side. ”O Emperor, give your servant, your son, the strength of arms and will to best your foe and the task set before him!”

And so on it went, for a full hour. The daemon within resisted each time, although it grew quieter with each blow of the hammer and reheating. The edges of the weapon were honed, the jagged edges reshaped into a fine blade.

As Winter kept on with the hammering, his mind called out. My Father who waits upon the Golden Thone, hear my plea. Grant me the strength to defy your foes, grant me the will to ignore their blandishments, grant me the courage to stand before them. With your grace, I shall know no fear.

The words did give him strength and quieted the doubt in his mind. He had a task before him and he would complete it. The ringing of the hammer against metal was soothing, giving him something to concentrate on besides the wailing of the daemon.

Once he could no longer hear the beast, he quenched the weapon in the holy water. A storm of steam rose from the trough. The sword screamed and screamed, until it was abruptly cut off. The sigil of Khorne fell from the crosspiece. It dissolved in the water as though the water were acid.

Winter raised the weapon to see the red heat dissipate to a shiny, if rough, silver mottled with black waves. He smiled and looked to the Bishop. The rite of purification was complete. The Space Marine reached for the table and picked up another crosspiece. This one was a simple symbol of the Imperium. Two wings and two eagle’s heads.

The Aquila.

A Normal Day

The Albion was taking a longer than normal trip through the Warp. Where the normal voyage would be approximately one to two weeks, Mordecai said this one would be about two months. And Mordecai was an excellent Navigator, a scion of his house. This meant there was a larger amount of the usual downtime (provided one could ignore the ghostly whispers that usually accompanied the vessel on it’s warp jumps). Which for the Master at Arms, meant paperwork.

Winter sat in his office within the Colonel’s Manor, renamed the Crucible, busy signing his name to multiple forms on dataslates and the occasional bits of parchment. Out of his warplate, he was clad in a simple habit, pants and boots. His assistant, a pleasant woman named Bunny (Winter was fairly sure this was a nickname), sat at her own desk in her own office, continuously handing her master more and more piles of paperwork. She wore a standard ship’s uniform, embossed with the symbol of House Drake in gold and another denoting her appointment to the ship’s security detail.

Winter was barely keeping pace with all the forms, but stubbornly kept trudging through. The forms in question were primarily training and discipline reports that rarely reached the ears of anybody of real importance. Drunken brawls, theft over a certain value, crimes that weren’t enough to warrant the Lord-Captain’s attention but serious enough to require the signature of the Master at Arms. For punishments, Winter largely left that up to the officer corps and senior enlisted. This in turn meant he trusted them to handle their own problems, and to make sure they were handled or he would take a personal interest. And nobody really wanted his attention on the matter.

Hours passed, with the paperwork assigned to that day (diligently organized by his assistant) finished. Winter continued sitting at his desk, dataslate in hand and idly sipping a comically large mug of tea. He was poring over a report regarding a brawl between a first company armsman and one of the Svard soldiers. It had been broken up by a team from the 37th Stormtroopers when weapons were drawn. And by broken up, the stormtroopers had broken the hands of both men. The Space Marine had been sent this because this one incident involved all three of the militant forces on board the Albion (save for the armor boys, who very much kept to themselves).

The large man gave a small grunt of irritation over the matter, and debated calling in all of the men involved to personally berate them for their stupidity, or just assigning them on a security detail through the bilges. He placed the tea down, and it was swiftly replaced by a normally-sized stein filled with beer. Without looking, Winter took it and sipped at the Fenrisian Ale. It had been purchased at great cost by one Lord Inquisitor, and given as thanks for the service he had provided for the Inquisition over a decade (especially in assisting in keeping one Rogue Trader on the good side of the Imperium’s graces). Winter leaned back in his chair, the special alcohol temporarily disabling his Oolitic Kidney and letting the alcohol pleasantly fuzz his mind. No, he wouldn’t detail them to the Bilges. Instead, verbally tearing a strip off of them was a much better use of resources.

“I want these men in my office first thing tomorrow.” The large man rumbled, handing the dataslate to his assistant. She took it after putting the empty tea keg on the serving platter.

“Absolutely my lord. Also, the Lord-Captain is requesting your presence at supper once more.” She replied.

Winter nodded in return. “Please inform him I will be there presently.” He stood, taking his tankard with him as he walked out the door, grabbing a belt with a sheathed chainsword and bolt pistol as he made his way to the Captain’s Table. He just hoped that Solarus wouldn’t freeze over his wine again...

Answered Prayers

The scuttling horrors had come for the world of Verdansk, and the biomass the planet had. Winter, Drake, Malachai and Solarus had already conducted an effective defense of one of the larger cities on the world. The capitol was under heavy siege, not to mention any of the myriad smaller towns in the path of the Tyranids. After evacuating the larger population from the city that had been fortunate to have the crew of the Albion and it's attending militant forces at it's defense, Winter rerouted the lighters to conduct search and rescue operations at the smaller townships and villages near the wake of the monsters. The crews of the lighters were exhausted, even with the regular swapping out after several hours, not to mention the wear and tear on the vehicles themselves. And far too often the towns they came across had no survivors.

Unfortunately, the bugs had crashed a ship onto the planet as their main means of invasion, which kicked up a massive dust cloud across the planet that degraded visibility, and the resulting ionic interference distorted auspex readouts and vox systems. That didn't stop Winter from doing everything he could to try and save more of the planet's civilian population. He frequently flew out himself, and finding nothing the majority of the time. Until a week in...

"MY LORD!" a crewman of the Aquila Lander moved to the back of the craft. He was yelling so as to be heard over the roar of the engines and buffeting of reentry. Winter occupied the rear compartment, having to kneel lest he scrape the roof. He looked up, the faceplate of his helmet open. His eyes were tired, and he expected another report of a town stripped clean of biomass.

"MY LORD! THE SCOUT CRAFT PICKED UP TWO LIFE SIGNS, EIGHTY-SEVEN PERCENT LIKELY TO BE HUMAN!" the systems operator barked. Hope kindled inside the massive transhuman warrior. "BUGS ARE IN THE VICINITY, WE'LL BE IN THE TOWN'S AIRSPACE IN FIVE MINUTES!"

Winter's eyes grew intense. It was the first report of human life they'd managed to find in human settlements that had been overrun by the Tyranid horde that was beginning to engulf the planet. The faceplate snapped closed, and the artificial eye lenses of the helm burned a sullen red. "FEED ME THE COORDINATES AND INFORM THE ALBION." his vox-corrupted voice rumbled.

Below, was the town of Kharkiv. It once had been home to seven-thousand people, and was a local trading hub for foodstuffs in the region. Warehouses and markets dotted the streets, with living quarters atop the massive buildings. At the center, was a modest church dedicated to the Emperor the form of the Provider. Where there used to be the creaking of carts mixed with the rumbling of promethium-burning engines, was now replaced by the scuttling of claws on cobblestone and permacrete, keening wails of Tyranid bio-forms on the hunt.

The Church was built solidly, with defense in mind, in line with most Imperial structures. Sturdy walls of rockcrete now pockmarked with lasblasts and acid craters. The doors of adamantine holding the nightmarish horde at bay. Candles lined the walls within, giving small illumination to works of art glorifying humanity and the Emperor. Bodies of once-wounded soldiers and clergy littered the floor amongst the rockcrete pews. At the altar, where an image stood of the Emperor acting as the great Provider for humanity, laid an old woman in simple garb. Blood stained her habit, her hand pressed against her gut. In her other arm was a small girl, shielded by the woman's body from the scraping sounds of claws upon metal coming from the door. The girl whimpered, pressing herself further against the body of her protector.

"Come now little one..." the woman gasped, her hand leaving her midriff covered in blood, to clasp a pendant embossed with the Aquila that hung hapazardly from her neck. "We are in the house of the God-Emperor, and you need not fear."

The woman pressed the pendant into the hands of the girl, breaking the chain as she did. A hissing shriek came from the doors, muffled by the rockcrete walls around them. The girl whimpered again, but holding fast to the pendant.

The woman thought furiously, angry that she was helpless. A prayer came to her, reaching back through the mists of time from her early days in service to the Ecclesiarchy...

"A spiritu dominatus, Domine, libra nos, From the lighting and the tempest, Our Emperor, deliver us. From plague, temptation and war, Our Emperor, deliver us, From the scourge of the Kraken, Our Emperor, deliver us." she whispered, the girl crying into her shoulder. From outside, a howl rose in pitch, growing louder as it grew closer. The church shuddered from a mighty impact, and the girl shrieked in fear of the unknown. The woman shielded her as best she could as something came through the roof, slate and metal rebar spalling around the inside of the place of worship. When seemingly nothing happened for a few heartbeats, the woman looked up as curiosity finally got the better of her.

Winter stood from his landing position inside the church, the archeotech auspex mounted to his gauntlet tagged the two life signs nearby. He moved towards them, his heavy armored feet providing a heavier counter note to the claws and fangs on the door. He looked down at the two women, going down on one knee and extending his free hand.

"DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE?" came the offer, as the woman looked up at an avenging angel, a paladin of the Emperor's fury. Outside came the heavy thudding of an autocannon on cyclic with the screech of Tyranids in pain and fury.

Her bloody hand reached out to his.

Girding

Within the depths of the Crucible, lays a room that has no name. Three of the walls are occupied with various pieces of wargear, the remaining wall taken up with a large crest of the Star Knight's chapter. In the center is a dais, outlined with candles and nearly hidden by wafts of incense smoke. It is here that the being who was once a man stands, clad in only a bodysuit. Two priests of Mars stand nearby, ready to assist. On a low table, dimly lit by candles and obscured by more incense lays pieces of armor.