Wordsmiths

Zenobia Galera fiddled with a strand of her hair as Siro Galera quietly drummed his fingers against the side of his data slate. The sound of nail-on-metal was drowned out by the power armour of the Astartes flanking them. Two golden golems, their black face plates menacing without the need for snarling maws or a horrifying visage, stood stock still yet the whirr of their power packs persisted. Zenobia assumed the two Astartes were taking through private vox channels, or else they were putting on this suspenseful wait out of some theatrical flair. Being in the presence of such a being, the idea of an Astartes having such flair seemed suddenly ludicrous. She shot a glance at Siro, who caught her eye and smiled thinly and raised a single well-kept eyebrow. Zenobia smiled back, as suddenly the Astarte next to her moved, making her jump in surprise. The Astarte entered a code into the panel next to the large golden door in front of them, and it slid open.

“The Lord will see you now.” The Astarte’s low, rumbling voice grumbled, distorted slightly through the vox in his helmet.

The two Astartes moved behind the couple as the Galeras walked cautiously into the chamber. They had heard tales from some of their rival Remembrancers that some Legions had shunned or derided the idea of Remembrancers accompanying Legions. Siro and Zenobia had breathed a sigh of relief when they successfully petitioned to be placed with the Red Eyes rather than the Iron Revenants, openly pleased to have avoided such a fate. Both made great efforts to remain poised and hide the nerves of what they knew awaited them. The room was fabulously decorated, portraits and sculptures covering the perimeter, the paintings showing battle scenes or depictions of the golden Astartes of the Red Eyes Legion helping civilians in distress. The sculptures for the most part seemed to be busts of Astartes, with the exception of a large marble sculpture of an eagle near the back of the room. These thoughts were scattered by the figure that sat at the back of the room in a giant throne. The two felt their hair stand on end as the figure’s aura engulfed them.

''Remember your training, breathe quietly and slowly. Just breathe and keep walking.''

The figure beckoned the two forward, coming fuller into view. He was breath-taking in the most literal sense of the word, the perfect flowing hair and facial features, and golden armour radiating power and authority. Though neither of the Galeras had met the Emperor, they had no doubt that there was no closer being in the entire galaxy. Siro was sweating underneath his Terran five-piece outfit, the layers of fabric suddenly feeling like a ridiculous choice in hindsight. Zenobia’s mouth had gone dry, feeling the eyes of the Primarch bearing down on her. The pair of them bowed deeply in front of the throne.

“Siro of House Galera and Zenobia Galera of House Rectorius, Scions of Terra. We are most honoured, Lord Theoderaf, for the opportunity to catalogue the glories of the Red Eyes.” Siro said in a well-rehearsed rhythm that calmed his nerves. Theoderaf did not seem to react.

“House Galera and Rectorius… Noble Terran houses indeed.”

Both the Remembrancers felt the pride of their ancestry flood through them, the sense of superiority bred through years of socialising amongst the upper crust of Terra helping soothe their nerves.

“But a noble house does not make you worthy of being by my sons’ and my side.” Theoderaf leaned forward, the light in his eyes flickering like rubies. “What makes you worthy?”

Zenobia gulped, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

“We are worthy because we are the only Remembrancers who can truly capture what makes the Red Eyes and the Crusade great.” Zenobia retorted. Theoderaf waved his hand towards the various pieces of art in the chamber.

“The glory of the Red Eyes already extends across the Imperium. We already record our greatest deeds, immortalised as they are in art and literature. Perhaps you would be better served aiding the Dune Serpents or some other Legion that needs their victories spread.”

Siro stopped himself from biting back, but Theoderaf’s eyes turned to him.

“You have an issue with my statement? Speak your mind, if you have the conviction to back up your thoughts.” Siro paled under the Primarch’s gaze, but would not let the challenge stand.

“The artworks of the Red Eyes have reached Terra, that is true. However, if I may, my Lord, the art is utilitarian. While I am sure it is effective as propaganda amongst newly found worlds, it is missing authenticity. You need a human’s perspective, someone who can make art that moves people beyond indoctrination. We can do that, that is our mission, to create art for the sake of art rather than any political objective.”

The indignation of Siro finally drained out of him as he finished his speech. Theoderaf stared at him for a long few seconds before rising from his chair, filling the room with his size and presence. Siro and Zenobia felt their knees begin to shake, but fought the urge to fall over or kneel. Theoderaf walked around them, keeping his eyes fixed on them, before he turned and stood in front of one of the artworks. Siro turned his head ever so slightly to look at Zenobia, but Zenobia kept her head forward. For what felt like a year for the Remembrancers, Theoderaf studied the painting of a Red Eyes Astarte descending from the skies as civilians raised their arms in thankfulness.

“I doubt the Sigillite views your mission as that simple. We shall see if you prove as noble as you proclaim. You shall have your chance.” It took a second for the full implications of the statement to sink in, at which point Siro and Zenobia both broke into smiles.

“Thank you, Lord Theoderaf. Thank you so much.” Bluttered out Zenobia.

Theoderaf raised his hand, silencing the thanks of both Remembrancers.

“Now go. Let us hope your works are good enough to reach Terra.”

As the two Remembrancers were escorted out of the chamber, Theoderaf returned to his throne. He sat back as a few moments later Roderic moved from behind the alcove he had been waiting in.

“Happy with your choices?”

Theoderaf smiled. “Perfectly. They have the same fire as their forebears, despite the many generations of finery. They will do well.” [[Category:W]]