The hymns and dirges in the honour of the Emperor of Mankind, which had been playing every day for as long as the journey through the Immaterium had lasted, ceased abruptly. For a mind like Cerias Kantor's, who had been a warrior for centuries, it was a message which was immediately understood and acted upon, as naturally as drawing breath. The large, muscular man had been deep in meditation, sitting on the floor of his bare cabin with just a shirt on, but as soon as the sounds of the Emperor's greatness ceased to reach his ears, he rose immediately, and began to don his armour.<br/><br/>Fitting the armour of a Space Marine was no simple process, and Kantor had a chapter serf of the Black Templars with him, helping him affix each segment of the armour into place, as well as overseeing the necessary rites and procedures for preparing a warrior god for combat. The serf was a failed initiate to the Chapter, a constant reminder that only a select few among the throng of humanity would ever rise to the position of Space Marine. To be selected to join the hallowed Deathwatch, fewer still.<br/><br/>Fifteen minutes after the ritual prayers had stopped playing over the ship's intercom, one of the bulkhead doors to the hangar opened with a loud hiss of venting steam, and a martial force, the pinnacle of a human warrior, a Space Marine, stepped onto the hangar deck. His massive armour was black as the interstellar vacuum, except for the bulky shoulder pads, which stood in contrast with their glaring white hue. On his right shoulder a stylised black cross was blazoned, marking the Marine as a member of the zealous and fanatical Black Templars. On the opposite shoulder, crisp red lines formed a<em>prime helix</em>, the symbol of the Apothecarion, those who protected and maintained the physical purity of the Space Marines. As the only Apothecary on this mission, Kantor was tasked with bringing back every member of their team alive. And if he could not do this, he would at least bring back their physical remains.<br/><br/>With each thunderous step against the armoured plating of the deck, there was a rattling of chains, as the ritual chains around his right arm clamoured. The heavy steel chains were a staple among the fanatical warriors of the Black Templars, physically bonding them to their weapons, preventing them from abandoning arms until the battle was won. A Black Templar fought to the bloody end, and never took a step back. It was both a strength and a weakness, and they would carry both with the same pride. The chain was secured tightly around his wrist, and fixed to the butt of his boltgun, which Kantor held in his right hand. Under his left arm, he held his white helmet, and on his left vambrace the most prominent symbol of his station was mounted; the nathecium and the reductor, as much of a tool in the heat of battle as his trusted bolter.<br/><br/>His slow and meticulous advance ended before the prepared Thunderhawk, his dark blue eyes gazing at the awaiting vehicle. Short, black hair appeared almost grey in the dull light of the hangar, but the zealous fire in his eyes was beyond questioning. The prayers over the intercom may have ceased, but a steady stream of muttered litanies came whispered from his lips. They were the zealous prayers of the Chapter, prayers of care and reliability of the Apothecarion, and the more generally accepted litanies of the Codex Astartes. He lowered one knee to the deck below him, closed his dark blue eyes, and waited patiently for the others of his team to join him.<br/><br/>The voice of Grenarius halted momentarily the stream of muttered words from the Marine's scarred lips, though he did not open his eyes in response to the shouted question. Instead, the tiniest hint of a smile creased his features. "The Black Templars have never lowered their arms,<em>Captain</em>," Kantor muttered to himself.