The hammer upon the forge hit with such force that it would ring in the ears of servitor and ship’s crew alike two rooms over. Kadai’s rhythmic swings ceasing only when the call to arms was sounded. Wiping sweat from his face and taking the red hot metal from it’s anvil to cool in the blessed water basin not two steps away he surveyed his work and took mental note of where he must pick up upon returning from this latest mission.<br/><br/>Tech-Armor of the highest quality and forged by his own hands upon completing his apprenticeship on Mars moved with a fluid grace, even more than a second skin as other Astartes might refer to it as, Kadai might as well have been born in it. Or at least, that’s what he may have thought about it with marks of personal pride.  Salamanders were known for the art of weapon smithing and honing weapons unlike any others. To be chosen as a Techmarine though? Those were mighty large Grav-boots to fill. Having not had the opportunity to return to his home world before being inducted into the Ordo Xenos, Kadai had been forced to settle to sending messages to his Adopted family that he very well knew could never be replied to.<br/><br/>He was one of very few words. By no means a loner, no, he participated in the rituals and training exercises amongst the other brother Astartes on board but hardly ever spoke a word and preferred reading to idle conversation. It was perhaps for the best, as his people were known first for their craftsmanship, and second for their stubbornness. Once a decision was made they would not deter from it, adhering to it as if spoken gospel of the Emperor himself. Gracefully, It usually took him a very long while to make a true decisive action unless combat demanded a speedy one.<br/><br/>A brass mold of a draconian salamander skull served as his armor’s left pauldron, the chest plate etched to appear as reptiles’ scales. The Astarte’s coal black skin had reacquired a sheen of sweat upon his brow when he entered the bay and almost looked like polished obsidian. Blood red eyes another of the native traits of the people of Nocturne. Out of respect the servo-arm grafted to his back pulled back and in on itself to fold up behind him, ornate bolter and hammer hanging from their grox-leather straps across his chest plate. He nodded without word when the briefing was given, only livening up when the mention of ‘evacuation’ was given to the tertiary objective. Stowing himself, he knew that they must accomplish their other duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. If there were lives to be saved, then there was no room for failure…Not if there were families in danger. The honor code of the Promethean cult tugged at his heartstrings with the knowledge that this was not just a sweep and kill mission. Bowing his head in reverence, he acknowledged the commander’s words.<br/><br/>“Brother Captain. How many Civilians still remain within the zone of attack?”<br/>