Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 735 Seeking pleasure, but with a vengeful spirit -
With the Emperor's return to Terra and the establishment of the new Council, along with the support and signing of certain documents by the Imperial Chancellor, Mawwen Macard, the system of scribes, or, as some call them, "historians," was eventually implemented in every Legion.

As a profession that goes to the Emperor's name to leave behind a record of celebration and commemoration for the great expedition that reunited humanity and established the human empire, the primary and main requirement for selecting chroniclers is artistic talent, including but not limited to poetry, literature, photography, music, painting, sculpture, singing, or drama; obviously, the selection criteria do not take into account combat, social, and self-defense skills.

Some believe this is a way to help many heroic deeds and figures become famous for generations and be passed down and learned from by future generations. Others are skeptical, believing it is a wasteful show that only aims to make the Space Marines realize that their War Council is now subservient to weak mortals who fight for their interests with pen and tongue.

—Because the fact that 4.3 million people were crammed into various legions and that the chroniclers who would use their records to judge the various treatments they received might mean that, in more deployment scenarios, the legions would also have to supply and divide their forces to protect these people.

It is said that the Primarch Lemanrus of the Space Wolf said his opinion on the matter was, "Why not give each of these bastards some weapons, so that at least they can take down a few damn planets for us while they are writing or singing and dancing?"

Of course, according to official records, the Sixth Primarch never said anything like that in any public setting.

Therefore, this can only be described as a convenient excuse that perfectly reflects how unpopular the chroniclers were within the legions.

So when the 350 men and women assigned to the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet arrived at the Soul of Vengeance, they were not greeted by the exciting scene or enthusiastic soldiers they had imagined.

Few people in the Shadowmoon Wolves Astartes like them, and even fewer explicitly dislike them. But the cold indifference, refusal to accept interview requests, and the absurdly low success rate of ground landings and visitor permits, repeated several times, are enough to extinguish the enthusiasm of most people.

Fortunately, the ship also carried many Imperial preachers. These carefully selected mortals possessed the same special talents, but they were treated much better in the legion than the chroniclers, because they were responsible for preaching the Imperial truth to newly discovered or conquered worlds or "making the local people understand the Imperial truth" before or after each war.

Thus, the chroniclers quickly mingled with the preachers, and through the preachers' connections, they rapidly became acquainted with the soldiers, junior and mid-ranking officers in the auxiliary army. However, those who were granted permission to interview a famous Astartes and actually get close to them remained extremely rare.

Many people have been working for a month or even two months for an interview permit, but with little success, which has led many to become very discouraged and give up. Ignas Calcacy was one of them.

“But things are different now, Your Highness!” the poet exclaimed joyfully. As their pleasant conversation continued, the narrator almost transformed into a chubby, happy shepherd of the forest, ready to perform an awkward dance for the Primarch on the spot between the pillars of the cabin hall. “I have met you! By your grace and permission! Heavens! You do not know! You are such an incredible miracle of life! The feeling of my mind flowing with inspiration is so wonderful, like the Muses dancing their thighs and lifting their skirts towards me…”

Fortunately, he realized in time who he was talking to and swallowed the last few syllables of the word. Although he couldn't see that the Tyrant Terminator's firepower had locked onto him, his intuition as a poet was quite sharp in some ways, such as the life-or-death situations nearby.

"It seems the narrators are having a very... relaxed and enjoyable time here. Your casual remark reflects your recent social environment."

Ramizam commented as follows.

“No, Your Highness, please forgive me. I was really rude just now,” Karl Casey said somewhat awkwardly. “It’s not exactly pleasant, but… many of us are indeed better at enjoying life and finding our own fun than the people who originally came here.”

"Oh? What kind of fun? Give me an example?"

“Well, for example, drinking, banquets, chatting, and watching some impromptu performances or short plays.” A sly, almost mortal, look appeared on the Lord of Steel’s face. “Really? So healthy? No gambling? No winning the sailors’ money at the card table? No socializing? No mistakes that artists make?”

Poor Ignatius's round face froze almost completely: how was he supposed to answer these questions posed by a demigod, one of the most revered beings in the human empire? Lying to the Primarch would obviously be problematic, but telling the truth wouldn't be appropriate either—the poet was only prone to momentary bursts of inspiration and going into a madman's state, not unaware of how many lives he had.

Finally, he could only stammer, "Well... I think many of us have managed to bring some gatherings and card games here that allow the crew and soldiers to release stress and rediscover joy..."

Fortunately, their destination was just beyond the arcade ahead, which saved him from his predicament.

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Today, the auditorium, which was specially assigned to the vengeful spirits and jokingly referred to by the chroniclers as a "refuge," still resonates with countless cheers, lively discussions, and melodies from various musical instruments that can be heard from outside the door, just as it has in the past few months.

The wafting odors from the slightly ajar door, a mixture of human heat, body odor, and the smells of alcohol, tobacco, perfume, food, and other chemicals, immediately gave one an idea of ​​the lavish revelry and revelry that unfolded behind it.

Such an atmosphere would not be unusual in any planetary capital or port military camp tavern, but this is the Spirit of Vengeance, the flagship of the Sixteenth Legion of Astartes, and all of this stands in stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the combat troops and the solemn quiet of other places, as if a piece of a salon or carnival from a completely different secular world has been cut out and stuffed into this place.

As they passed through the arcade and approached the gilded doors of the auditorium, they heard a drunken voice inside loudly commenting on the current political situation of the Empire and the recent offensive of the Astartes Legion. The crowd chattered on and on about everything that could be discussed except the Emperor, and then began to gossip about the various legions with great interest.

Ignas Calcacy looked like he wanted nothing more than to rush in, gag them one by one, and throw them into the garbage disposal.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the poet said in a low voice, “but they’re all drunk… Some critics and playwrights are still writing with great enthusiasm, you know, these guys sometimes say anything, even more so when they’re drunk, but I assure you they’re just talking and will forget it when they’re sober.”

"I think this place is... well... much more indulgent than I thought. Hasn't Horus ordered anyone to keep an eye on this place?"

The poet was startled, but still answered the question: "On the contrary, as far as I know, the commander himself should be one of the people who made the decision to allocate this place for the use and relaxation of the chroniclers."

“Alright.” Ramizan nodded, and before Karkasie could react, he pushed open the door and went inside.

"Let me see what the cafeteria here is like."

(End of this chapter)