Madoc looked away from his whetstone to glance up at Zorael, his coal-dark eyes unreadable as he took measure of the apothecary. The Blood Angel hardly looked any older than Madoc's age when he was first made into a legionnaire, but youthful visage was hardly a means to assume the age or experience of a son of Sanguinius. He didn't respond immediately, rather taking heed of Zorael's words. Damn charming those angels, and now Madoc felt a fool for brandishing a weapon, no matter how small, in the halls of the Emperor's most sacred flagship. Here in this gilded war palace, the risk of sudden ambush was impossible; old habits die hard.
With grunt, Madoc rose to his feet and sheathed his knife, standing a good few centimeters above his red-armored gene-cousin. "You want advice on staying alive, youngblood?" His gruff voice still lilted with a particular Terran accent, a relic of the Old Night. "Don't die."
The wrinkles around his eyes creased in smile, breaking the stare with a rough chuckle. "Make no mistake--we would not be summoned here to the Imperator Somnium were any of us the least among our legions. None of ye are fools. The Emperor would not suffer them aboard his flagship." Madoc was cautious not to flatter them too much; being a teacher, he could tolerate, but the last thing the old sergeant wanted was for them to look up to him as their leader before the mission was even known. That responsibility would be far better suited for another, such as...
He turned to Vorticar, the shrewd-eyed wolf among them, and felt an odd sense of relief at his presence. The Lupercal's scions inherited his natural talent for command, and Madoc knew he'd feel far more comfortable serving as second, or even third should another prove more fitting. Madoc nodded at the man, a measure of respect offered to few.
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Madoc looked away from his whetstone to glance up at Zorael, his coal-dark eyes unreadable as he took measure of the apothecary. The Blood Angel hardly looked any older than Madoc's age when he was first made into a legionnaire, but youthful visage was hardly a means to assume the age or experience of a son of Sanguinius. He didn't respond immediately, rather taking heed of Zorael's words. Damn charming those angels, and now Madoc felt a fool for brandishing a weapon, no matter how small, in the halls of the Emperor's most sacred flagship. Here in this gilded war palace, the risk of sudden ambush was impossible; old habits die hard.
With grunt, Madoc rose to his feet and sheathed his knife, standing a good few centimeters above his red-armored gene-cousin. "You want advice on staying alive, youngblood?" His gruff voice still lilted with a particular Terran accent, a relic of the Old Night. "Don't die."
The wrinkles around his eyes creased in smile, breaking the stare with a rough chuckle. "Make no mistake--we would not be summoned here to the Imperator Somnium were any of us the least among our legions. None of ye are fools. The Emperor would not suffer them aboard his flagship." Madoc was cautious not to flatter them too much; being a teacher, he could tolerate, but the last thing the old sergeant wanted was for them to look up to him as their leader before the mission was even known. That responsibility would be far better suited for another, such as...
He turned to Vorticar, the shrewd-eyed wolf among them, and felt an odd sense of relief at his presence. The Lupercal's scions inherited his natural talent for command, and Madoc knew he'd feel far more comfortable serving as second, or even third should another prove more fitting. Madoc nodded at the man, a measure of respect offered to few.
Madoc looks away from his whetstone to glance up at Zorael, his coal-dark eyes unreadable as he took measure of the apothecary. The Blood Angel hardly looked any older than Madoc's age when he was first made into a legionnaire, but youthful visage is hardly a means to assume the age or experience of a son of Sanguinius. He didn't respond immediately, rather taking heed of Zorael's words. Damn charming those angels, and now Madoc felt a fool for brandishing a weapon, no matter how small, in the halls of the Emperor's most sacred flagship. Here in this gilded war palace, the risk of sudden ambush was impossible; old habits die hard.
With grunt, Madoc rises to his feet and sheathes his knife, standing a good few centimeters above his red-armored gene-cousin. "You want advice on staying alive, youngblood?" His gruff voice still lilts with a particular Terran accent, a relic of the Old Night. "Don't die."
The wrinkles around his eyes crease in smile, breaking the stare with a rough chuckle. "Make no mistake--we would not be summoned here to the Imperator Somnium were any of us the least among our legions. None of ye are fools. The Emperor would not suffer them aboard his flagship." Madoc was cautious not to flatter them too much; being a teacher, he could tolerate, but the last thing the old sergeant wanted was for them to look up to him as their leader before the mission was even known. That responsibility would be far better suited for another, such as...
He turns to Vorticar, the shrewd-eyed wolf among them, and feels an odd sense of relief at his presence. The Lupercal's scions inherited his natural talent for command, and Madoc knew he'd feel far more comfortable serving as second, or even third should another prove more fitting. Madoc nods at the man, a measure of respect offered to few.