Zso Sahaal stares into the dull scarlet of his helm's vision blocks, and wonders. It is not usual for him to be out of what is effectively his second skin for this long, but then again, he cannot deny the passage of time. No matter how much he sometimes wishes he could. An entire month has passed without him being midnight clad.
That is no excuse for being lax with maintenance. Even with the rules of this place as iron-clad as they are, the patrons include mutants and xenos. Rules mean nothing to them, and at any moment, Sahaal still expects to hear cries for his blood in some unknowable tongue. So, he keeps his weapons and warplate in battle-ready condition, as is his duty as a Night Lord.
He has finished the diagnostic procedures on his armour systems, checked each ceramite plate for structural integrity, applied lapping powder and run a soapy cloth and a piece of polishing fibre over the suit of Mark IV to remove any specks of dust that had gathered in the week since he has last performed this rite. Sahaal has even made sure to use a fine paintbrush to touch up the the bone-white skull on the faceplate and his Legion insignia on the right pauldron. As always, the bat-winged, long-fanged daemon skull is impeccable, a reflection of Sahaal's pride in what it represents. The same goes for the white lines of lightning that wind their way across the warplate, each one lovingly jagged and arcing out from its source.
After a minute, he is satisfied that the eyepieces are free of cracks, and he goes onto his weapons of war. His primary weapon will always be fear, but fear doesn't need to be oiled or test-fired. Those are excellent qualities usually, but it isn't cathartic like caring for a tangible instrument of death is.
First is his bolter, the Mordax Tenebrae, or Dark's Bite. Sahaal is not a fan of such weapons, they are simple fireworks to him, without finesse or grace. But, it had been a gift from his father and master, and thus deserves only his utmost care and devotion. As such devices go, it is certainly a cut above most, with its finely constructed stock, skull-mouthed barrel and ornate chambers. With a small vial of unguents and a set of brushes, he sets to work scrubbing and lubricating every part of it. Then, he applies a small amount of polish to bring out the adornments and cleans the barrel of residue from its last test fire.
His favoured weapons, the Unguis Raptus, are part of his armour, and so the relic lightning claws have already been serviced, along with his company's signature over-foot claws, so he moves on to his knife. Before Equixus and his exile, he'd never needed to carry a simple blade. His regular armament had been sufficient. However, the months after Acerbus's attack had made it abundantly clear that sometimes it was not enough. He has taken to keeping a simple Astartes combat knife, taken from a Night Lord who had tried to kill Sahaal when he was denied his rightful command, on him at all times as a holdout weapon. Even power armour has its weak points, and for someone like the Talonmaster, it is easy to exploit them. This has also come in handy in Milliways, given that they seem to disapprove of him striding around in full warplate with claws out.
As an added bonus, maintenance is easy: a simple whetstone to sharpen its already keen edge and a check of its leather-wrapped hilt to ensure it is still up to the task. When both are done, he slides it back into the small scabbard he keeps on his belt.
Sahaal glances at the chrono mounted on the wall, and sees that he has spent about two hours on the maintenance. He sighs. He'd have liked it to have been more, but as he'd noted earlier, he can't control time. That still doesn't stop Sahaal from wanting to smash the Warp-damned timepiece in frustration.
With a deep breath, he calms himself. He still needs to service his jump pack, after all, and that will take a couple more hours.