It was a patience-straining eleven minutes before Aeschelus’ left pauldron was placed upon its reactive shoulder mounting, the Chapter symbol upon it freshly repainted, completing the process. The tech-priest extended a mechanical digit, its tip a flickering valve-stylus that sprayed a last mist of holy lubricant into the actuators just before the curved armour plate settled into place.

A serf in the red-and-blue garb of the armourium offered up the captain’s helmet, which he took in his right hand, raising his left to touch the device embossed upon his chest plastron. Closing his eyes, Aeschelus offered up some words to the spirit of his armour and the Master of Mankind that had guided its crafting.

‘My armour shields the body, but my resolve shields the soul. By the will of He on Terra have I been made whole. For His glory shall I fight. For His victory shall I strive. For His power I shall lay down my life.’

He nodded his thanks to the tech-priest, dipping two fingers of his gauntleted hand into the proffered golden goblet. Its viscous contents leaving a thread as he pulled his hand back, he touched the oil to his forehead, making a rough circle and then marking the cardinal points.

‘To the priests of Mars I give thanks, and to the Machine-God that guides their artifice.’

It took all of his willpower to complete the ritual, marking the inside of his helm with the same unguent, a symbolic link between his soul and the spirit of the armour. He longed to hurry to the Navigators’ pilaster to see what crisis had befallen them but waited in silence while the tech-priest burbled its own benedictions, commending the armour to its eternal master. It would not be wise to offend either his attendant or the warplate.

With a hum the systems fully activated, flooding Aeschelus with a sense of power. Flesh and armour became one.

The ritual complete, he did not linger but headed for the conveyor as swiftly as possible. While he ascended to the gate of the Navigator’s tower he prepared himself for whatever setback had occurred. It was possible that his armouring would be in vain, the ship unable to complete the journey to Casparill. It would not be the first time the storms had cut off all passage.

He did not believe in the tales of the Cursed Fleet, the moniker that now dogged Fleet Quintus, but it was with some pessimism that he arrived at the gateway to the Navigators’ quarters.