Among those gathered, there is at least one seemingly unimpressed by the grand opulence around them, nor the cautious awe of the midshipmen bustling about. A weathered Astartes sits to himself, far more preoccupied with keeping the edge of his knife sharp than gawking at any ostentatious displays. As far as he was concerned, he had no need for art or decor. He was a weapon, nothing more, and the sooner the rest of them realized that simple fact, the better their odds of survival would be. As the chatter begins among his fellow gene-warriors, Madoc can't help but scoff under his breath but quickly recomposes himself.
They're just lads. Can't judge them too harshly. He was like them once, bright-eyed and eager to seek glory in the name of their Emperor. A part of him wished he could still share in that barely suppressed excitement, the enthusiasm to be selected in this special assignment. He had seen too many battle-brothers just like them fall before and knew that his summons meant only one thing: he was here to keep the rest of them alive.
The old guard clears his throat, sitting up and leaning on his crimson-capped knee. He offers what he thought was a smile, but the twist of his scarred lips comes off more like a sneer. "Madoc Mannaw. Scout Sergeant, Fourteenth Legion." He introduced himself with coarse voice. For a brief flash, a thoughtful look crossed his face. Not so much with the scouts anymore, was he? No matter, he didn't feel like correcting himself, and resumed the slow, methodical scrape of his whetstone across steel, eyes focused on the mono-edge. He'd leave the flowery words of inspiration to the priest, and those who needed to hear them.
Edit History
Among those gathered, there is at least one seemingly unimpressed by the grand opulence around them, nor the cautious awe of the midshipmen bustling about. A weathered Astartes sits to himself, far more preoccupied with keeping the edge of his knife sharp than gawking at any ostentatious displays. As far as he was concerned, he had no need for art or decor. He was a weapon, nothing more, and the sooner the rest of them realized that simple fact, the better their odds of survival would be. As the chatter begins among his fellow gene-warriors, Madoc can't help but scoff under his breath but quickly recomposes himself.
They're just lads. Can't judge them too harshly. He was like them once, bright-eyed and eager to seek glory in the name of their Emperor. A part of him wished he could still share in that barely suppressed excitement, the enthusiasm to be selected in this special assignment. He had seen too many battle-brothers just like them fall before and knew that his summons meant only one thing: he was here to keep the rest of them alive.
The old guard clears his throat, sitting up and leaning on his crimson-capped knee. He offers what he thought was a smile, but the twist of his scarred lips comes off more like a sneer. "Madoc Mannaw. Scout Sergeant, Fourteenth Legion." He introduced himself with coarse voice. For a brief flash, a thoughtful look crossed his face. Not so much with the scouts anymore, was he? No matter, he didn't feel like correcting himself, and resumed the slow, methodical scrape of his whetstone across steel, eyes focused on the mono-edge. He'd leave the flowery words of inspiration to the priest, and those who needed to hear them.