Beyrr ponders a moment, then shakes his head. "Your arts are great, white helmed one, I can see that. Of your tribe's great valor, we have all heard. In such things the Caele is wise and he believes, and so I believe as well. But the valor of you would mean little to us. A dagger already inscribed with great deeds will mean nothing to a warrior. Where then will he mark his victories, if they are already covered with another's?"
Sighing, he folds the daggers back up in the cloth and secrets them away in his robe. "Of this, I am disappointed. But should you change your mind, Beyrr is always waiting." The smile returns, and Beyrr bobs his head before retreating back into the milling market crowd.
The Astartes move on towards the city's peak.
The traffic lessens nearer to the tall tower, the wide streets mostly empty. Brigadier Heth takes a side road for the Aspirance, the small Guard barracks.
"The Emperor watch over you, my Lords. Don't hesitate to call on me or my men if we can be of any assistance."
The Marines pass beneath a high gate, heavy wooden doors thrown inward. Archers man the walls, watching the Marines with wary eyes. Inside there is a small courtyard, the Caele's tower jutting from its center like a great stone tree. To the left, a company of Auran swordsman cut and thrust to the shouted commands of a grey haired woman, while an elder male oversees some archers at target practice. Nearby, two men strain to haul water from a well.
Two warriors in glittering red scale armor stand guard at the entrance to the tower, barring the way with crossed bone spears. They wear long swords and knives at their waists, and beaded circlets ring their foreheads.
"Astartes," one says, his Gothic thickly accented. "The Caele expects you." The spears come up, granting entry to the inner chamber.
The Caele's receiving room is a modest affair, a few simple chairs ranged around a round table. A dark haired man of aquiline face and a young woman with fiery red hair and faint scars around her cheeks, stand across the table, poring over what looks to be some kind of map. They both look up at the Kill-team. The woman quickly rolls up the map they had been studying and thrusts it through her belt.
"Thank you, Alkedre," the man says, his Gothic a nearly flawless approximation of a Ministorum cleric's careful tones. "That will be all for now."
The woman nods, light from the upper windows flashing across the ruby scales twined through her long hair. With a slight inclination of her head towards the Astartes, she turns on her heel and leaves by a side door.
"They are my Space Marines, and they shall know no fear," he says, smiling almost sheepishly at the quotation. "Forgive me, I have developed a certain fondness for the literature of your Empire. The deeds of the Astartes are a particular favorite. I am Rylus Darkstar, Caele of Aurum." He raps the pommel of his sword against the table, the traditional greeting of Aurum. "I know enough of your tribe that you would not have come without good reason, Astartes. What is it?"