[OPEN] Chapel

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Warrax
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Postby Warrax » Fri Aug 25, 2017 10:53 am

The door swing open again, and then again, the sound catching Sheppard's ears each time. He couldn't help it. Despite whatever title chosen for him by whichever group, Sheppard was a warrior. His place was alongside his brothers and sisters, taking the fight directly to the door of the enemy. Be times, that meant taking patrol or guard duty with them, and that meant long and boring hours of aggressively paying attention. For him, at any rate; some of the other troopers had a looser approach to watch duty, but that rarely lasted long, leastwise in a combat zone. Quietly turning his head, Sheppard noted that one of the new arrivals was another commissar, engaged with the one who had greeted the Tallarn soldier on his way towards the back of the room. Rising from where he sat, Sheppard tugged on the bottom of his uniform shirt slightly, then pivoted and walked over to where the pair of Commissariat representatives stood.

"The chapel's designated confessor may not be here, Commissar, but if there is something on your mind, I can surely be of assistance. Captain Torin Makar Sheppard of the 778th Tallarn. I'm the unit's chaplain." He said. Pulling the glove from his right hand and stuffing it into one of his chest pouches, Sheppard offered his hand to Yorke, turning his gaze to include and acknowledge Makarov as well.

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Aishachan
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Postby Aishachan » Fri Aug 25, 2017 12:56 pm

"There are some times where the chapels empty, or at least mostly empty, if you just don't want people around. And there are a few other priests scattered throughout the regiments, though some may be busy with their troops." she offered "Did you find the reflection you needed? Or someone else to talk to other than confessor von Smit?" she hadn't meant to offer, and she might not be a confessor, but solidarity among the commissariate had been drilled into her, even if it was just in offering to talk. So it just slipped out.

Poor Ash. It wasn't often that you left church and ran into even more authority for figures. However that seemed to be his luck, running into the little gathering of commissars. Makarov turned sharply as he exited the chapel and returned his salute with her own, but let Cat tell him at ease as the superior commissar. The same salute was offered Shepard, along with a polite smile.

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The earnest-est little commissar// But what would a Commissar do? // There's a form for (or on) that!

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Commissar Cat
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Postby Commissar Cat » Fri Aug 25, 2017 6:50 pm

(( I've gotta apologise Warrax, it's not that I don't want to interact with your character, it's that Cat doesn't (yet) know Sheppard won't report him for explaining what he's considering. ))

Cat looked at Zoya, shaking his head, "I didn't. I'm no further with this problem than when I started on it this morning..."
He closed his mouth upon realising there were two more people now stood there, wondering quite how long he'd been glazed over for.

He blinked, recognising both individuals, and nodded to them a little numbly, accepting Sheppard's hand and shaking it firmly but with an embarrassed smile.
"Wekl met. Yorke- Err, I've said that." Cat closed his eyes with slight frustration at himself, "And this is Junior Commissar Makarov, a more regular attendant of the chapel."

Feeling slightly trapped in the headlights, and not familiar enough with Torin to judge his reaction to what was on his mind, Cat gently lowered his hand again, "I'm not discounting your advice, Captain, nor your counsel, but my troubles are more to do with administration than the spiritual." he caught Zoya's eye, knowing that she would catch his reference to the ongoing feud with Aestaban.

"Do you have tea, if I bring milk?" he asked the young commissar in a very literal sense, before cursing and dropping the lho which had reached his fingertips. Whatever these particular smokes were, he decided he didn't like them much. Smokes shouldn't punish people for being ponderous. They should be more patient.

[[ Cat is basically exiting once Zoya responds ]]

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Warsmith Wolf
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Postby Warsmith Wolf » Fri Aug 25, 2017 7:43 pm

Behind the Sacristy, the noise of footsteps on dirt, echoing through a tunnel. Then heavy boots on steps. Then...

Grenadier Unit #66-A-7343/G emerged from the Sacristy, both the unit and their collapsed entrenching tool utterly coated in dirt and dust. The unit was behind the handles of a rather large wheelbarrow - packed to the brim with earth and loose rock - which they deftly manoeuvred down the central aisle of the Chapel before pushing through the heavy double doors at the end, emerging into the sunlight for the first time in... hours? A day? Who knew?

Apparently paying the assembled party no heed, the Grenadier upended the contents of the wheelbarrow into a pile of dirt that had been cordoned off by tape, marked in stern Gothic as GRENZWERTE - ABLADEPUNKT (and helpfully annotated in presumably one of the clergy's handwriting as 'Off limits - Unloading Point' ). There was enough dirt in that pit to fill half a crypt.

In fact, until recently, it had.

A long and low hiss of vapor emanated from the Grenadier's ventilator unit as it purged its supply of stale air and cycled in a new intake. Parking the wheelbarrow quite neatly within the cordoned off area, #66 marched up to the assembled officers and commissariat staff, snapping a precise salute.

"Grenadier Unit #66-A-7343/G reporting. Request: Chronometric measure."
Ferrum honore veniat.


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Fates End
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Postby Fates End » Fri Aug 25, 2017 11:48 pm

Ash politely scooted out of the way for the Tallarn man, dropping his salute as soon as it was respectable to do so. His gaze swept over the unexpected gathering with a care, categorizing each of the others in his mind and attempting to discern what, if any actions he should take. The smatterings of conversation he listened to, though at first he didn't interject. Their words weren't meant for him, and he would be of little use to a Commissar for matters of reflection.

The Grenadier's query, though. Was something he could answer. "The time is thirteen Thirty, Grenadier." He responded in a simple monotone.

((I tried looking for a definite indicator of time, and didn't see much aside from the sun is shining and the Confessor's post prior mentioned that at least one set of services were finished. So figured mid-day would work best. If someone would prefer a different time or if I missed something, let me know and I'll amend my post))
"In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement."

(Fates now has too many characters to link easily. Thus follow this handy link to my character thread and go wild.

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Aishachan
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Postby Aishachan » Sat Aug 26, 2017 11:13 am

Makarov glanced at Cat out of the corner of her eye. For a second she wondered what it was that Vayne might have done that would make Yorke feel the need to contemplate so deeply. The younger mans paperwork seemed perfectly fine to her, and he got it done in a quick enough clip that no one really qu- oh. No. He'd probably found out somehow and had something to say about Aestaban.

"Of course commissar Yorke. If you would prefer recaff we can get some as well." She turned her attention back to the others. "If you'll excuse me, I have some things to discuss with commissar Yorke, though I'm sure that I'll see you tomorrow if you happen to be here again..." She trailed off at the end as the Grenadier appeared. How long had they been down there? Since... since she'd last seen them? That would be ridiculous. There was no way. But... that was what it seemed.

She pulled out her own pocket chrono, then nodded in agreement with Ash. "If you haven't reported back to your regiment recently you should. They're probably concerned about you." With that she offered everyone a swift salute, turned and was off.

(Exciting the thread as well. Awaaaay)

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The earnest-est little commissar// But what would a Commissar do? // There's a form for (or on) that!

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Warsmith Wolf
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Postby Warsmith Wolf » Sat Aug 26, 2017 6:42 pm

Ferrum honore veniat.


Warrax
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Postby Warrax » Mon Aug 28, 2017 9:21 am

(( No worries. ))

Sheppard smiled at Yorke as the commissar. Reluctance wasn't anything new to the Tallarn priest; sharing was a product of trust, not mere availability, after all. "Not at all, Commissar. If you change your mind, I am typically here when I am not training with my regiment. Leastwise what remains of it, anyhow." He said, his words tailing off from the positive into a more grim note as he spoke his last words. Turning, he stepped back to the pews where he'd left his bag, sensing that Yorke and Makarov had other things on their mind than a chat with someone new. As the chapel again emptied itself of its patrons, Sheppard returned to his seat.

The other members of the 778 were taking a lunch break in the mess hall while Sheppard took his time in the chapel. He'd not arrived with the intention of seeing to other troopers, but it was not in his nature to ignore an opportunity to lend assistance if it was possibly within his capacity. Finding his services unneeded, Sheppard returned to his ruminations. He often came to the chapel without any specific motivation, without any hanging question taunting his mind. The hard pews were a simple part of his life, a place suffused with the God-Emperor's presence. Often enough, the chapel was quiet. The long-standing tradition of avoiding noise reigned, and in a life so busy and loud elsewhere, such placid silence was an oasis of welcome serenity. A Guardsman's lot was to be born into conflict, a life hard and often fast. Even for those who endured in His service, the shift from the interminable waiting to the fury of combat was both jarring and draining. The simplest of pleasures were often what helped maintain the thin thread of sanity which stitched together the tapestry of war. Setting aside the ever-present and malignant threat of the Ruinous Powers, such was the power of war that it ground endlessly upon the souls of its purveyors and fending off its effects required tireless work. Sheppard enjoyed his function as an agent of peace and certitude among the men of his regiment. Framing his perspective with the truth of death in mind, the chaplain enjoyed any opportunity to ease the burden on the men and women of the 778. He fought with them, lived with them, not as an officer despite the honorary rank badge he wore, but as one of their own soldiers of the front line. He knew what it cost to serve in the Guard without ever setting foot in an actual battle, and he knew how much more it cost when a unit was brought to serve its intended purpose.

Soon enough, he would return to precisely that. The afternoon yet remained youthful enough that the Banshees would be busy with their perpetual regimen of training, maintaining the edge of their skills upon the whetstone of practice. The priest would, of course, join them. Shooting a lasgun wasn't the most challenging thing in the world; unlike a solid projectile weapon, the beam landed where one pointed with a nearly-faultless accuracy. There were no ballistic considerations, no recoil to consider, after all. Far more important than concerns over accuracy, however, were drills for reloading under pressure, feeding the heavy weapons teams, and squad-based drills for assaulting heavily armed and/or armored targets. The Guard did not win their battles with bleeding-edge technological marvels, especially in the infantry. They won with massed firepower put on target. But the Tallarn were not a regiment which relied solely upon grunt-rush tactics. With millennia of experience behind them in several different arenas, the natives of that virus-bombed wasteland practiced the craft of intelligent application of available resources. They were not a Penal Legion, after all, but a unit of the Astra Militarum expected to do more than merely absorb enemy ammunition ahead of a real assault. So the Banshees drilled and drilled and drilled. When they were tired, they drilled more. When they were exhausted, still they drilled. When they were were bleary of eye, heavy of limb and roiling of stomach, they drilled. When it was all they could do to follow cat's eyes painted on the back of the head in front of them as they marched for endless hours, they drilled. Pushing through boundaries of privation, they ensured that the basic tasks of soldiering were but instinct to the men and women of the 778, as were they to any well-trained unit. They would still die in their droves before a superior force, but they would do whatever was in their power to achieve their objectives. A few minutes of holding action, blunting the edge of an incoming assault, fixing an enemy unit while a flanking unit moved in for the kill... they were professionals, and they knew their grim duty. Of all things on Naris, Sheppard was most concerned about lacking the usual chain of interconnected services to which the 778 was accustomed. The Banshees were no longer a full regiment, not after their last few stops and their first engagement on Naris with the Tau. Classically, they worked with a combined-arms force including armor, artillery and air support. Here, the priest was not yet clear on the order of battle, nor the Tallarn's place therein. Pulling back to the Guard headquarters after their tragic first engagement, the Banshees had not yet been tasked back out into the conflict. In some ways, Sheppard was grateful for that, since it permitted him time to help assuage the wounded pride and damaged morale from which the unit suffered. That said, he worried that a lengthy period doing nothing but training would dull the unit beyond its ability to remain effective, the perpetual conundrum.

"I come to find answers, and sometimes I find only more questions. But perhaps it is the very asking of these questions by which I shall find my path; I wonder." Sheppard said to himself in a quiet voice. He smiled, knowing that it was not the Emperor's way, nor His purview to deliver all of the answers to the sheep of his flock. In the end, He offered guidance through self-reflection, permitting those of His faithful willing to put forth the effort to see through the vagaries of their condition to the truth at hand. Sheppard had concerns and missing knowledge. The only thing he could do was to seek that knowledge, that he might better support his unit as it labored to bring out its best qualities in service to the Golden Throne. "Ave Imperator..." He muttered, the smile never leaving his lips as he rose, backpack in hand. Slinging the pack over his shoulder, Sheppard left the chapel humming a psalm under his breath.

(( Exit thread ))

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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Sat Sep 16, 2017 10:06 am

After dealing with things in the crypt, Confessor Von Smit returned to the main Chapel to find it empty. Seeing that he had a moment of time on his hands he decided to use it wisely and continue to record the names of the fallen on Valmaria and the necessary details in his ecclesiarchy tone. After a few hours had past, he is still in the Sacristy, busily recording from the notes passed to him from HQ. The Confessor takes a moment to observe a section of the parchment, then with carefully strokes of his quill inscribes..

Private Hodgetts, Everett Charles, TX291, 1st Narisian Front, age 28: Fell to pulse rifle fire when caught in a Tau ambush on the Eastern approach to Naris.

Kibby takes another moment to record the words in his head, then whispers "You will be avenged brother." Another moment to observe a section of parchment, then some more careful strokes..

Corporal Good, Walter Boy, SX2655 , 22nd Terrax Guard, age 25: Hit by shrapnel whist assaulting an enemy position in Hub block G483.

Another moment, followed by more whispering "Rest in the Emperor's care Brother.". Von Smit lays the quill down and stretches his arm, check the time on the wall as he does so. 1723 hours, still a few hours before evening Mass. This gave him time to offer up some prayers for the fallen before he had to start setting up the Alter. Of course he would offer up Mass for them, but there was never such a thing as to much prayer. As he started to hum a sacred hymn for the dead, Von Smit carefully closed the large book, clipped the holding latch over the front of it and proceeded to wrap the book in the bands which he used to strap it to his back. He would keep the names of the fallen close to him until Mass time when he would have to change into his vestments. As he looped his arms through the straps and made sure the tone was properly secured, the humming rose to gentle singing as he left the Sacristy and entered the Chapel beyond.
//

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Zink
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Postby Zink » Sun Oct 29, 2017 1:24 am

Ishmael had never seen a Chapel this intact in his entire life.

Perhaps that was a reason why his feet were stayed just short of the entrance, almost like a man struck with awe. Though, 'awe' was the wrong word to use in this situation - 'Confused' would be more appropriate. Ishmael was confused. The Chem-Mines of Salvar bore no chapels, no places of worship - word of The Emperor and His glory were few and far between, for he was a figure that many channeled their frustration, their rage towards. He was responsible for their imprisonment, Him and His servants, who cast them down into a hell that would make death a welcome relief. Ishmael never took veneration of The Emperor seriously, nor considered himself lesser for being without it - his faith was in his power, his strength, the surety of his existence in the face of hardship.

But strength does not ease the soul. Strength does not lessen the burden of pain, ever present, always stabbing away at one's will. Chems were a small alleviation, but like all things physical, they faded over time, and Ishmael gradually became more and more immune to the cold, dampening sensation they provided. He was certain that his existence, after his baptism in flame, was some sort of punishment. The Medicae told him that such stress would have 'negative psychological effects'; He did not care, not until he was ordered to seek spiritual counsel, for that was another step of the healing process, another way to tie their veneration to their work.

Breathe.

Every breath was like fire leaving his chest, with the only relief coming from the vapors that flooded his lungs; Stimm, Satrophine, Gamma Æ - painkillers, for lack of a better term. The chem-inhaler carried hollow numbness into his body, a sensation that, while equally unpleasant to some, was better than feeling at all. Ishmael used this brief moment of time to will himself forward, aged boots dully thumping across the ground as he pushed himself through the threshold, and into the Chapel itself. He made no effort to quiet his steps, nor mask his presence, simply standing between the pews as he observed the interior of the chapel.

He wasn't quite sure what to do next.

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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Sun Oct 29, 2017 3:12 am

Kibby had had quite an eventful day so far. The unexpected rogue servitor relentlessly smashing through the front door of the Chapel and three pews was the second to last think he had expected this morning (the Inquisition being the first). Now that the servitor had been dealt to by the ever helpful Kriegers and picked up by the Quartermaster, all that was left to do was to sort out the carnage left behind. Although the Kriegers had helped by moving the larger chunks of wood to the Crypt to be mended, there was still plenty of splinters and chunks off wood to be swept up. And this is where the good Confessor can be found at this moment, sweeping the shredded chunks of pew into a growing pile in the open space where the back pews once stood. He did mind the work, in fact he enjoyed it. Such simple task were in there own way an act of service to the God Emperor, mush like that penance he had given that young Cadian not so long ago. The work was also a good time for reflection, but today the oddest thought had dwelt upon his mind. The main cause seemed to be the Quartermaster who had retrieved the servitor. There was just something about his face that Kibby couldn't put his finger on. For some reason, it was looking into a mirror...

But such thoughts had passed now with his reflecting now focused on the Emperor's graces as he continued his sweeping. Suddenly he was again distracted from his meditation by the sound of footstep. Gazing up to where the door of the Chapel had stood that morning, he saw an unfamiliar figure enter the Chapel. From first impression, the man seemed to be ether from a penal unit or a Feral world of some sort. Or maybe even a local? You can never be too sure these days. The newcomer continue on passed where Von Smit stood with broom in hand, moving to the middle of the interior and stopping to take in his surroundings. The Confessor was use to being unnoticed withing the Chapel, his short stature and simple grey robes seemed to blend in with the cold stone and scalped statues. He had already had a pistol point at his head once for surprising those who entered the house of prayer. Not wishing to spook the man, he opted to call to him instead of walking up to him and possibly startling him. "Hello my brother! What brings you to the Emperor's home this day?" Although the friendly tone is clear in his voice, the distinct high pitch and creepy vibe which is unique to Von Smit ever prevails in the sentience.
//

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Zink
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Postby Zink » Sun Oct 29, 2017 3:47 pm


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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Sun Oct 29, 2017 9:26 pm

//

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Zink
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Postby Zink » Sun Oct 29, 2017 10:39 pm


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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Sun Oct 29, 2017 11:49 pm

//

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Zink
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Postby Zink » Mon Oct 30, 2017 1:37 am


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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Mon Oct 30, 2017 7:34 am

//

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Zink
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Postby Zink » Mon Oct 30, 2017 7:57 pm


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Hobbsy
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Postby Hobbsy » Tue Oct 31, 2017 5:00 am

Von Smit had watch as Ishmael made his way to a pew, still smiling. He hoped his works would be of help to his brother, an ember to start a fire so to say. At the man's last question, the Confessor wasn't so sure in what context he needed the help. Was his pain more physical or physiological? He had heard how he breathed, what condition might he have? 'Emperor help me to help my brother.' Kibby though as he opened his mouth to reply. "Tell the Emperor what your pain is and ask him for his help." For a moment he hesitated, before continuing "Forgive me for asking my brother, I will not ask for detail if you do not want to share, but is your pain of the body or of the mind?"
//

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Furbnus
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Postby Furbnus » Tue Oct 31, 2017 12:53 pm

A servitor stands at the entrance of the chapel with a look of confusion on its face, suddenly it blurts out "Easy to build pews, easy to build door, to be delivered to (Holland's voice cuts in) Confessor Von Smit." It drops a crate on the ground. "Delivery successful, returning home." The servitor leaves as suddenly as it appeared.

((If the crate is opened it will reveal a collection of planks and a pair of manuals detailing how to build a door and pews with all of the tools do so.))
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