Sergeant Theron leans back, scarred hands cradling his chalice as Fenris shifts at his feet.
"Brothers, you know how the war beasts are never wrong about people - their senses gifted by the Emperor Himself. Well, this tale grows more remarkable every time Fenris here catches the scent of children in the hive. During the Mortarius Purge - yes, that one, where we found the cult's blood-chapel - we came across something that even the Inquisition's records couldn't explain."
"Picture this: thirty floors down in the toxic dark, where even the hardened hive gangs fear to tread, we found her. A woman, no weapons, no armor, just pure faith and a hab-block full of children. Some say she was as tall as a Space Marine, others that she glowed with the Emperor's light - but I was there. She was just a normal woman, which makes it all the more incredible."
"When Fenris approached her - and mind you, this was right after he'd torn through three genestealer hybrids - something changed in him. You know how our beasts are, brothers. Proud. Fierce. But this war beast, this killer of daemons and heretics, bowed his head to her like a common hound. The Chaplains still debate what he sensed in her."
Pauses to refill his chalice.
"The children she protected? Some say it was fifty, others a hundred - the stories grow in the telling. But I'll tell you this truth: to this day, when we pass through that sector, every war beast in the chapter growls a greeting. The Inquisition has a file on her now, though they'll never admit it. They call her the 'Saint of the Underhive' in their sealed records. But to us? She's just the mother who stared down a war beast and saw not a weapon of the Emperor, but one of His guardians."
Brother-Chaplain Darius sets aside his barely-touched food, his voice carrying the weight of ritual.
You've all heard the tale of the Spice Merchant of Thanatos - though the Administratum records call it a 'routine void incident.' Ha! Let me tell you what really happened, as it was told to me by Brother Artemis, who heard it from the Void-Master himself."
"This merchant, they say his ship was ancient, a relic from before the Age of Apostasy. Some versions claim it was held together by prayers and determination - and after what he did, I'd believe it. When the Dark Eldar raiders came, he didn't just vent his cargo. No, brothers, he calculated the exact dispersal pattern to create what the Mechanicus later called 'a masterwork of void warfare.'"
Takes a long drink from his chalice.
"The spices? They say it was worth enough to buy a planetary governorship. But here's what the stories often miss - he'd spent forty years building that wealth, trading from one end of the sector to the other. His whole life's work, dispersed into the void in less time than it takes to say a prayer to the Emperor."
"The refugee ships he saved? The numbers grow with each telling - three ships, five ships, a whole civilian fleet. But I'll tell you this: every year, on the anniversary of that day, ships in that sector report smelling exotic spices through their void-sealed hulls. The Mechanicus claims it's impossible, but we know better. The Emperor's miracles take many forms."
"They say he still sails the void trading routes, his ancient vessel somehow always running true. Some claim his cargo holds are blessed, always full no matter how many supplies he gives to those in need. The chapter keeps track of him, though he doesn't know it. We've turned down several planetary governors requesting his trading rights, claiming 'security concerns.' Let them wonder about the real reason."
Captain Validus turns the bone-carved talisman in his hands, his voice carrying across the feast hall.
"The Miracle of Hive Secundus, they call it now - though you won't find that name in any official record. Everyone tells of how we purged the patriarch's nest, but few know the true architect of that victory was a little girl with eyes too old for her years."
Holds up the talisman, carved with childish figures.
"She couldn't have stood higher than my waist armor, yet she did what an entire network of Imperial informants couldn't. The war beasts say she smelled of faith and fresh-baked bread - an odd combination that still makes Grimfang here perk his ears when we pass a bakery. Some versions claim she glowed with a faint golden light, others that she spoke with the voice of a grown woman. But I was there."
"Truth is, she was just a child who cared enough about the homeless to notice when they started disappearing. While everyone else turned away, she kept count. Kept care. When she tugged on my cloak - and yes, brothers, every initiate asks how she got close enough - she wasn't just reporting cultists. She handed me a list, written in wobbly child's letters, of every person who had vanished."
Traces the carvings on the talisman.
Her father, Emperor bless his terrified soul, nearly fainted when she approached us. The stories say he tried to offer his life for hers - though I remember it more as desperate babbling. But she just patted his hand and kept talking. 'The people with too many teeth,' she said. 'They don't eat the food I leave anymore. They drink something red instead.'"
"That list she gave us? Led us straight to the patriarch's feeding grounds. The Inquisition has a whole theory about her being an unconscious psyker. The Ecclesiarchy has another about divine inspiration. But maybe, brothers, just maybe, she was what humanity could be if they all cared as much as one little girl with a loaf of bread to share."
Smith Malleo sets down his tools with ceremonial precision.
"You want to know why the Forge World defense patterns always leave that one small mining outpost untouched? Why even the Mechanicus doesn't question its autonomy? Let me tell you about the Woman Who Sees Without Eyes - though that's not what she calls herself."
"The official report says we received a standard distress call. But every servitor and vox-operator who heard it swears it came through as pure static that somehow carried words directly into their minds. When we arrived at that outpost, expecting the usual horror show, we found something that even our war beasts couldn't quite understand."
Picks up a ritual blade, examining its edge.
"The blind woman - and some say she was blind from birth, others that she sacrificed her eyes for her gift - she had convinced five thousand miners to seal themselves in the deepest shafts. Not through force or fear, mind you. She simply walked into the mining supervisor's office and stated it as fact. 'Death comes on silent wings,' she said. 'The deep earth will shelter us.'"
"The Dark Eldar raid that followed? Each telling adds more details. Some say their ships turned to ash when they tried to approach the mine. Others claim the raiders saw visions of their own deaths if they lingered. The truth? They simply found an empty outpost and moved on, their pride not allowing them to waste time searching."
"But here's what the stories often miss - when we arrived, she had hot tea waiting. Called each of us by name, rank, and the secret names our war beasts use for us in their own language. Even knew which of us preferred honey in our tea. The beasts? They sat at her feet like pups, these killers of daemons and hunters of heretics, while she told them stories in their own growling tongue."
"These days, that outpost never shows up on raid targets. The Dark Eldar avoid it. Even Chaos forces route around it. The Mechanicus claims it's due to 'optimal defensive positioning.' But we know better. She's still there, brothers, still serving tea to any Blood Wolf who passes by. Still blind, yet seeing more than most ever will."
Ancient Kalistair's massive dreadnought frame shifts, servo-motors whining softly as he settles into the telling position.
"Let me tell you of true heroism, brothers. Not the kind they sing about in Imperial hymns or carve on statue bases. This is the tale of Scrivener Third-Class Lucius Venn, whose only weapons were a quill and his faith in the Emperor's justice."
The ancient's cooling systems cycle in what might be a sigh.
"In my flesh days, before this sacred sarcophagus, I saw many brave acts. But none quite like this. They say Venn spent twenty years writing his reports in triplicate - one copy for his superiors, one for the archives, and one hidden in a cipher of his own making. Some versions claim he wrote them in his own blood when the ink ran dry. Others say the papers glowed faintly in the dark with the Emperor's light. But the truth? The truth was more remarkable."
"He recorded everything. Every missing person. Every strange gathering. Every shipment of supplies that didn't match its manifest. Twenty years of papers that seemed meaningless individually but formed a perfect map of corruption when pieced together. And he did it all while attending the very ceremonies he was documenting, smiling at the very monsters he was cataloging."
The dreadnought's ancient weapons shift slightly.
"When we finally arrived on Taranus IV, he was waiting. Didn't run, didn't hide. Walked right up to our Chaplain and handed over a data-slate and twenty years of physical records. 'The Emperor protects,' he said, 'but He also observes.' Three hours later, when they came for him - and they always come, brothers - he was still at his desk, finishing his last report."
"Some say he laughed as they took him, others that he recited the names of every person he'd documented - all from memory. The truly remarkable part? Those records of his? Perfect. Every name, every date, every location - each one exactly where he said it would be. The cultists had spent twenty years thinking him a mere bureaucrat, too insignificant to notice. Never realized he was the most dangerous kind of hero - the kind who takes notes."
Ancient servos whir as the dreadnought's head turns to survey the gathered marines.
"In my memory banks, I still have his final report. Would you like to know what his last recorded words were? 'Thought for the day: The Emperor's justice requires only that we bear witness.' The Inquisition has an entire school of cipher-breaking named after him now, though they'll never admit it publicly."
"So the next time you see an administratum scribe, hunched over their desk in some forgotten corner of a hive city, remember Lucius Venn. Remember that sometimes the mightiest weapons in the Emperor's arsenal are a steady hand, a patient heart, and a well-kept ledger."
The dreadnought falls silent, but the soft hum of its power plant seems to carry the weight of centuries of remembrance.
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