Well, gotta assume the pain glove is heavily involved...perhaps the chapter grants him his own pain device with which to maintain his rigorous discipline while away from the Chapter? Something from which to take succor when alone and far away. Also, as they are a space-borne chapter, the ceremony of farewell could occur in a large observation dome, under the stars in the depths of space? Sort of a reminder that, wherever they may be, whatever they might be fighting, there are an infinity of other stars, other battlegrounds, still awaiting the IF's divine intervention...gives the pc a wider perspective, as it were, so they don't become disheartened on any given battlefield, but remember that the greater fight goes on....

...that's all i got off the top of me head at the moment...any other thoughts?

Dok Martin said:

The Brother kneels on the flagstone, worn smooth by ten thousand years of history. His hands find their place on the mirror finished basalt. His mind fills with the screams and deaths of twenthy thousand of his warrior kin and the history of this sacred place fills him. The sound of the strike cruisers engines fade in the background to be replaced with the roar or battle, the greatest battle, fills his mind.

This is the first time he has entered the Chamber of Rememberance. Never before has he knelt on this flagstone, stained black with the blood of the hundred Imperial Fists who died defending it. It is a small thing, two paces to a side. There are grooves where an aeon of Imperial Fists have used it for prayer and rememberance. But those are not its only deformations. Here, a bolt shell detonation from a weapon fired by the traitor captain Pherlex. Here,shallow pits caused by the acidic spittle escaping the lips of Brother Jornas, who died protecting his Knight-captain from a blast from a Dreadnoughts autocannon, withstanding the series of shells for a full ten seconds before collapsing. Here, a groove carved by the Blade of Sanguinius as the Angel reinforced the defenders of Terra. This flagstone is not just a hulk of rock, dragged from the gates of the Imperial Palace. It is history. The Brother kneeling upon it can barely breathe for the memories of this stone.

The Chamber of Rememberance is not empty. The Reclusiarchs are here, stern faced and silent. A few servitors, built silent as the grave, move from place to place with incense burners, smoking censers. A few adepts of Mars quietly move from display to display, maintaining the gently humming stasis fields. This place is a place for memories. A place where the gathered trophies of ten millenia of Imperial Fist vctories and defeats are gathered.

The Brother has been kneeling for a week. There has been no food. No water. No sleep. His joints are in pain from the extended inactivity. His body is being pushed to the limits even of his enhanced Astartes physiology. He does not complain. He does not move to relieve his aching bones and muscles. He stands his vigil with all the strength he can muster. The thought of failing such a simple hardship while surrounded by the relics of the chapter is unthinkable.

Time is passing. Soon the Reclusiarchs will decide whether the brother is pure enough in body and spirit to be seperated from his chapter for a vigil in the Deathwatch. The brother iis aware of the magnitude of this honour. He will not disappoint them. He will prove his worth, his dedication.

When the Reclusiarchs come to him, tell him that his vigil is over, he does not get up. He does not look at them, but merely asks a question. Voice harsh from a dry throat, he asks politely if he could have another day.

professor_kylan said:

Effing brilliant!

I greatly approve, professor_kylan.

A thought occurs. The First Founding chapters have an even stronger incentive than most to send only the most suitable marines. They have ancient reputations to uphold, being better known in the Imperium than most chapters. They cannot afford to use the Deathwatch as a dumping ground as it would shame them. Even the aloof Dark Angels have earned a reputation for sheer competence.

Other chapters with less glowing reputations however, may well see the Deathwatch as a useful pit for their unwanted sons...

Decessor said:

Thank you all

I've got three characters in my game who were sent into the Deathwatch as a punishment, two of them First Founding and a Black Templar. In each case, it was a punishment intended to learn them a lesson:

+++

*A Space Wolf has lost his pack in battle. He mourns them, and begs to be allowed to die in battle so that he may join them in the afterlife at the All-father's side. When his Wolf Lord refuses him, he sullenly mopes aroundthe Fang, spending his time with the Dreadnoughts. He chooses to lose himself in their sagas rather than face the truth that his pack are gone and he will need to join with a new one. With his wisdom, Elgfrohi the Red rouses from the slumber of ages and recalls to Wolf Lord Krakendoom of the Dreadnought's time in the Deathwatch two thousand years before. Seeing a chance to force the young pup to acclimatise to a group that's even more strange than another pack, Krakendoom sends the grieving Astartes away as punishment for giving in to his own despair and, just possibly, to save him from it.

+++

*A White Scar remembers another boy from his childhood. On the plains of Mundus Planus they were from rival tribes, they have known each other for as long as either can remember. They have hated for near as long. Both boys were evenly matched in their skills at bow and horseback, and both were taken by the Storm Seers and elevated to Astartes. They rise through the ranks, never in one squad together. Their hatred never ceases, and their skills only grow. The sixth company of the White Scars benefits greatly from their presence, both constantly struggle to outdo the other, and exhort their squads to do the same. Both become sergeants in the same week. This only intensifies their feelings. When the Khan of the sixth fall, both are considered worthy of the title. The Storm Seers consult and are unable to choose. They send the two squads and their sergeants into battle, against a dangerous foe. One squad looks to be on the verge of success, charging across a bridge towards their objective. The other sergeant sees this. He draws his boltgun forth and takes aim. His bolt flies true. And again, and again. The stalker rounds make no sound, but their effects can be seen. A dozen bolts holding the bridge up are sheared away. It collapses, taking his hated brother with it. The White Scar laughs, knowing that none know his deed and that the brothers in the other squad will merely be swept away in the tide, but none will die. They will just arrive too late to secure the target.

He arrives back at Mundus Planus, victorious. But there is no feast, no cheering. Just an empty cell and the Storm Seers waiting, disappointed. They discuss his fate. Amongst the White Scars, victory is all. The price he paid was betrayal, and that price is too high. The Seers debate for a night and a day and determine a punishment. The White Scar has won too many victory scars to kill, but he cannot be allowed to fight alongside the chapter. They punish him twice. In the first, they send him to the Deathwatch, far away from his clan, to fight the Xenos a thousand light years from his home. In the second, they send his rival, the new Khan of the Sixth, to tell him the news.

+++

*The Black Templar waits, anxiously, at the promethium refinery. The heat of the Armageddon sky can be felt through his armour, but it is nothing to the heat in his hearts. He is to protect the refinery from the greenskin, protect the adepts to work to supply the dwingling imperial war machine with the lifeblood its vehicles need. But he is impatient. He feels the need to fly again, to fight with the dung blood smell of the ork in his nostrils, the roar of battle in his ears. But all he smells is the chemical stink of the place mixed with the fear sweat of mortals. All he hears is his brothers fighting and dying without him on the front lines through his vox. This is not duty, he muses. This is hell.

Finally, contact! Orks sighted to the east. A column. Trukks, bikes. Nothing his squad couldn't kill in ten minutes. Fast enough to make it a challenge. His Jump Pack feels the anger grow in his spirit, reflexively the turbines start to softly add to the desert heat as they pre-heat before battle. The Templar grins a savage grin as his helm display shows his jump pack is ready for war, as are the packs of his squad. He leads the charge, for the glory of Him On Earth! The battle is joined, the Ork scatters. Easy prey. It is ambrosia. It is release. After a month of inaction, the Black Templar feels the rush of war chemicals in his veins again.

He laughs on the way back to the station with his brothers. He tells how one of the xenos scum defecated right before he decapitated it. The squad laughs, the Ork claims no fear, but the Astartes are fear incarnate. Then they stop. The refinery burns. The column was a decoy; easy prey/easy bait. The Ork force had split in two, one to draw the astartes away, one to burn the vital station. They're laughing in there, even as they throw the adepts to the flames. The Black Templar knows it is too late, but he charges anyway. This time, he takes no satisfaction in the slaughter.

The Templar is called before the High Marshall, even as the Great Fleet gather to pursue the Beast of Armageddon. For his failure, for his lack of patience, the Templar is not to follow the fleet. His path takes him across the galaxy, away from his brothers, until he learns the art of patience fighting the Xenos. Not until he learns to restrain himself is he to return.

+++++++++++++

So yeah, punishments totally work... as long as there is a REASON behind it.

professor_kylan said:

Some well thought out examples for your thesis there. And each of those marines is certainly far from the bottom of the barrel, if not without flaws.

Anything on the Blood Angels? Must admit I find them difficult to grasp.

These guys are all about heroic sacrifice, doing the right thing, nobility in the face of destruction, and so forth. Add to that the fact they're hard-core survivalist killers from the post-apocalyptic wasteland. They do what's right because it hurts, because they will suffer. And they are all the stronger for it. Each one knows the agonizing pain suffered by their dying primarch in the grip of Horus the Betrayer; each one knows that Sanguinius faced that horrific fate with his eyes wide open, knowing that he had to die in order to defeat Horus. The Blood Angels get the job done. No matter what.

They fling themselves into the fury of frenzy to temper their hot blood. They are nobility incarnate. They are fatally flawed, and they know that too. Nevertheless, they never give up and will never quit.

Oh, and they're vampires.

The brother kneels before the angels before him. He wears red, a robe that smells of the spices and hot glass air of the deserts of Baal. The angels know he walked the desert the day before, and he knows they disapprove. He knows they will say nothing, because every aspirant for this honour has walked into the desert the night before being sent away. It is tradition, the brother supposes, to take one last look at one's home before you leave it. The brother does not allow his mind to frame words around why he is feeling the stirring of something akin to fear. It is a truth that he is trying to avoid. He may not come home again. He may not even survive the next ten minutes.

The Angel of Death stands to the brothers left. His face is a grinning skull, the ivory mask stark in contrast to the Angels jet armour. The Angel of Death doesn't carry its Crozius; not here, not now. Here and now it carries an axe, buzzing with power, yet with a chipped and stained blade. No master of the forge would touch this blade, and no mere servitor would be allowed. It has stolen the life of three hundred and sixty seven Angels in Red, each life commemorated with a teardrop ruby and a name inscribed on the haft. The brother can read some names, but he knows all of them by heart. Alvisio. Nero the Angel of Dawn. Santo di Bellamine. The last is especially troubling, it causes a pain in the brothers chest that he would never admit to; his own geneseed descends from di Belamine. Was this weakness strong in his genes? The half of the axe is stightly wound with names, but they only reach a third of the way along the weapon. It was clearly designed with room for far more than it currently carries.

The Angel of Life stands to the brothers right. His armour is clad in plates of ceramite-fired porcelean. The almost eye watering purity of the colour is only enhanced, not diminished by the gold and copper inlays and the crystal vials of precious blood that are bound to it. The Angel of Life wears a helm cast into a benevolent visage, the face of the brothers Father. He carries a goblet filled with the blood of the father. The brother can smell it, taste it in the air. It does not comfort him. He tries to focus on the snad and spice smell of his robes. The brother finds he cannot look the Angel of Life in the green tinted lenses of his mask. It seems somehow... improper.

The Angel of Death nods to his alabaster counterpart and somehting unsaid passes between them. The Angel of Life nods back and steps forwards. His armoured fingers dip into the chalice and emerge, their Fathers life blood almost iridescent red against the pure white of the gauntlet.

"Sanguinius, Giver of Life, Father to us all, and Son to Him on Earth, hear our words," the Angel of Life intones as he takes his place in front of the brother. His fingers reach up to the brothers forehead and begin tracing a patern.

"Sanguinius, Angel of Death, Wrath of the Emperor and most beloved, hear our wods," the Angel of Death intones, echoing his kin. He does not move but stares into the soul of the brother through emerald lenses.

The first wing complete, the Angel of Life dips his fingers again and begins to trace the second, "Your son leaves his kin to protect those that live at the outskirts of light."

"Your son leaves his kin to bring your wrath to the heavens."

Two perfect angelic wings have been inscribed on the brothers brow. He can feel the vitae, fever warm, soaking into his skin. He finds it hard to concentrate on the voices of the Angels, his hearing is filling with a battle, as if from far away.

"Guard his soul, so that he may bring to the galaxy peace from the alien."

"Guard his soul, that he may smite the enemies of the Throne of Earth."

The Angel of Life dips one more time into the heartblood fo the chapter. He pulls out his gauntlet and flicks his fingers once in a perfectly controlled motion. The blood spray hits the brother in the brow, between the wings inscribed and begin to trickle down. The Angel of Life has performed this perfectly. The vitae streams down between the wings in a teardrop shape, curving back in as it runs down the brow and into the brother's eyes.

The brother closes his eyes, stinging with potent blood. The battle sound is louder now, and merely shutting his eyes does not stop the flashes of gunfire, the trails left by devastating power blades as they spin and dance through the air. The brother tries to remember where he is, tries to remember the chamber with the Angels, but is finding it harder to focus. Baal? Baal is half a segmentum away! How can he be there? This is not Baal, it is... a ship! yes! A ship! But no ordinary vessel, no! The Vengeful Spirit, the barge of the Warmaster himself! Horus! The brother has never felt pain from any wound that cut as deep as that name. The betrayal was beyond belief. The pain he feels at that name! But the pain is eclipsed by rage. The brother opens his eyes. Who stands before him? Who would try to stand in the way of his vengeance?

The brother/Sanguinius sees a figure in onyx with a grinning skull. His instincts scream at him. Draw your blade! They cry, Kurze is here and must pay for his insolence! The brother/Sanguinius sees the alabaster figure and feels joy. The Khan, my brother, fight beside me! Let us erase this stain from our world!

Konrad Kurze, Nighthaunter, darts forwards and slaps the brother/Sanguinius across the face with an armoured gauntlet, then pulls him close to stare into his eyes. Somewhere inside the brother/Sanguinius, he knows something isn't quite right, that he should be launching an attack. He gathers his strength for an assault and then... stops. All he sees is battle, the warmaster waiting and laughing over his own broken corpse. He can hear the Vengeful Spirit quake as it fires barrage after barrage into the tortured atmosphere of the world that gave birth to all humanity. But... there's something wrong... a smell... spices and sand and heat. Something that isn't of this place but of...

Baal.

Home.

I'm home.

...

...

The Angel of Death lowers his axe as the brothers eyes focus and see him once again. The brother sees that dread axe move to the Angel of Death's side and knows how close he had been to losing his life. He knows now that this is his burden, this is the secret that he must keep at all costs from anyone he may meet. No matter how lost, how far from home, he must remember his place is both here and now and not an aeon ago in orbit around Terra.

The brother stands, humbled by this vision. He will not fail. He will remain strong. He WILL come home; to his chapter, to his brothers, and to the smell of spices and sand.

...yeah, somethin' like that...

professor_kylan said:

You are inspired sir! If ever I am in your neck of the woods I would love to sit in on one your games!

Thanks Although, in truth, my games have far fewer emotional viganettes such as that and mor eexplosions. I'm more of a Michael Bay than Stanley Kubrick. On the upside, that DOES mean I'l never make Eyes Wide Shut: the Game, which is basically a blessing from Him On Earth.

professor_kylan said:

Amen to that!!! Most GOOD games I have been in are more Michael Bay than Stanley Kubrich! However, The creativity and story behind the explosions and mayhem are IMHO what makes a game truly memorable! After all... Transformers w/o Megan Fox lacks something.

professor_kylan said:

Not enough brain bleach in the world for that. Thanks.

professor_kylan said:

Isn''t that basically Slaneesh themed game of Black Crusade►

Killbeggar said:

No, that would be a game based on Archer.

"Do you still tape those hobo fights?"

"No. Nowadays I'm into something… darker."

One of my fellow players came up with this, for the Millennial Wardens

The Brother is escorted into the Hall of the Ancients, the massive Vaults where the chapter's dreadnoughts are tended to when not in the field. Found board the Chariot of Conviction, the chapter's only Mass Conveyer, the usual bustle of servitors, scriveners, scribes and other chapter serfs is gone, replaced by an honour guard of former Deathwatch veterans. There, the Brother is greeted by the silver-plated dreadnought, Manius Amelakides, the first of their chapter to have served with the Deathwatch and whose armored sarcophagus bears the Deathwatch honours he earned in life. He then speaks to the Brother and impresses upon him the importance of his duty, his duty to learn all that he can of the Imperium's many foes, and his duty to impart the Chapter's accumulated wisdom from their own studies onto his new Brothers. He is then given a flake of silver paint taken directly from the Dreadnought's plating, one that carries catechisms against the hated Xenos, which is sandwiched between two cards from the Emperor's Tarot, the Inquisitor and the Space Marine. The Brother is expected to carry this with him until his return to the chapter, where the cards will then be burned in the ritual of his return.

Then, the Bother is assisted by a Veteran who will assist in repainting his armour and affixing the marks of his new place within the Deathwatch. The Veteran ritually bathes the Brother in the (cleansed) blood of Eldar before the Brother re-dons his armor, sans helmet. The Company Chaplain then anoints the Brother's brow with the (again, cleansed) blood of Orcs before the Brother dons his helmet, sealing his departure from the Chapter as, finally, the Company Librarian officially announces the stripping of the Brother's familial name, striking it from all but the most secure of Chapter records. Traditionally, the Brother will take a deed-name upon his return to the chapter. This deed name often only alludes to their most significant deed within the Deathwatch, as often that deed is a Deathwatch secret, and cannot be spoken of directly.

Drhoz said:

And said player is awesome and should be treasured.

professor_kylan said:

That he is

For the custom chapter I'm playing, the Scions of Fuschal

One the day of his departure, the battle-brother is taken from the sparring grounds to the the war chaplains, who will tattoo him with the symbols of his new status, and instruct him in his devotions, before giving him the Instruments of Worship with which he can properly honour the God-Emperor and the Chapter's honoured progenitors, even when he is so far from his people.

Then he will be taken to the meeting hall, where a feast has been prepared, and all the battle-brothers currently on Fuschal have gathered for the ceremony. None will speak of the marine's future duty, although all there know of it, and anticipate he will earn much mana through his actions with the Deathwatch. At the end of this meal the marine will clasp the right hand and touch foreheads with the Chapter-Master, and each of his Battle-Brothers, in a silent farewell.

At the stardock, some respected auxiliaries may be waiting to gift him with small tokens of good fortune for the voyage, or symbolic representations of honoured predecessors to watch over him until his safe return, but this part of the departure varies widely between individuals.