Playing with Fire

[Croakamancer]

Cognator Bank MAL/SIC/893 active. Connection with other banks established. Data-Vault online. Basic access granted. Welcome.

 

Searching for references; Pyrian Lord, Harbinger, Unknown, the Smiling Storm

 

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392,587 files located. Clarification?

 

Cross-referencing results with phrase; 'The Monk"

 

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File located. Reference CDA/CLD/MAL/1944. Accessing File

 

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Classified, by order of Lord Inquisitor Kergran; Ordo Malleus.

Note appended by Inquisitor Kergran; "File relies on uncertain intelligence and dubious sources. All information within is questionable. Proper expansion is a priority"

 

Enter valid authorization code, or terminate access request.

 

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Full viewing access granted; to gain editing permission, please file a request with Lord Kergran's office

Welcome back, Inquisitor

 

Thought for the day; The darkest heresy is the one begun for noble reasons.

 

+++PROFILE; REFERENCE, MAL/UNK/9325+++

 

Name; Unknown. (Codenamed; The Quiet Lord)

Known Alias; Commander danCarra, The Pyrian Harbinger, The Monk

Threat Rating; Malleus Obscura

 

Basic Profile; The Quiet Lord is likely a Traitor Marine. There has been some conjecture upon this point, but an analysis run by Interrogator Voltan suggests a 69% probability of the target being a Marine, going on appearance, known abilities and modus operandi.

 

The primary reason for this conjecture is that the Target is abnormally stunted for an Astartes; perhaps as short as 6'6, with muscular structure proportionately lessened. This constant proportionality renders mutation unlikely, given that the hand of the Chaos Gods tends towards more erratic changes. Apothecary Gordian has suggested that perhaps the Lord's implants were administered incorrectly, although that is entirely conjecture. We have strong and consistent evidence, however, which suggests that the Quiet Lord has either not received the Black Carapace, or that his has somehow become non-functional. It has been confirmed (as much as anything on this figure can be confirmed) that the target's control of his armour (and related systems) is non-existent. His general health, and the status of his remaining implants, is unknown.

 

Whilst the lack of a Carapace and lessened size would suggest a less direct threat, the Quiet Lord has trained extensively in combat techniques requiring more rapid movement than the usual, strength focused Astartes battle arts, His armour, apparently custom made, is lighter to compensate for it's owner's slightly diminished size, with many of it's systems stripped away. Underestimating him is easy to do, but a highly unwise move.

 

A rain of explosions, coupled with the crack of las-fire. That was what greeted him, as he started to charge towards them

 

The rag tag group wouldn't present a threat up close, but they weren't close. That was the problem. He had a fair distance to cover to get to them, even at a flat sprint. They had a clear field of fire. There was no cover, and were no alternate routes to their position. Even Power Amour could only be so helpful here.

 

So... improvise.

 

The floor beneath them was steel, well treated, hard as you could get. But there was quite a bit of dirt, left over from a while ago. More than you'd expect, honestly.

 

Just enough... and there.

 

With a twist, the great man swung himself out of the more or less straight path he'd been pursuing, flying straight at a wall. His gauntleted hand hit the single button he'd been aiming at, perfectly on target, before the defenders could react. With that one press, an almighty hum quickly filled the room.

 

The gunners could guess what that meant.

 

With the whoosh of air, that dust remaining upon the floor, left in the airducts, and in the emergency fire extinguishers, was released into the room in a great brown and white storm. It wouldn't last long, but it didn't need to. The defenders could barely see now. Some struggled for helmets, or visors, some started to lay down rapid las-fire into the haze.

 

None of it mattered, before too long, as the large man emerged out of the storm in an instant, as though out of nowhere. With a simple jump and a twist, he was amidst them, blade outstretched. The pitiful looking group had their lasguns raised, and ready, but none of them would have had time to shoot. And none'd want to be the first to die

 

With a grin, the Quiet Lord sheathed his blade, and his new recruits gratefully placed their lasguns once again upon the racks. The Master leaned against the training range's firing line, even as his storm dispensed, looking up at the desperate faces of the little band, and smiled, gently at them.

 

"Thirty one seconds. Not bad. You'll do well."

 

History; A 'start date' for this target is almost impossible for us to determine, as, according to our researches, he has taken no direct action against the Imperium; is not recorded as a member of any known warband. This is highly unusual for a member of the Traitor Legions; we have cross referenced all Ofico Assasinorium intelligence, and no information is forthcoming. Not even as much as an appearance in Imperial Space.

 

What we do have on him is primarily rumour, a dozen similar tales quietly spreading through the void. Most are simple, rather traditional spacers tales of a mysterious, robed figure. Some are outright contradictory, and the format dates back far longer than this Marine's probable lifespan. For all of them to be true, he'd also have had to be in multiple places at once, many many times These tales are confusing, contradictory, and almost designed to give any Adept studying them a headache. To try and piece some sort of truth together from them is all but asking the impossible.

 

But we will try

 

Kamek Station. An old Wilderness Space port, the sort that defined piracy in Imperial minds. Neutral ground, where dozens of Xenos, heretics, and traitors meet, along with the occasional imperial investigator, though those tended to be subtle in their presence (Inquisition, Assainorium... even the odd radical Arbitor.) It's under no real control, but the five largest merchant groups pay good money to maintain a small fleet and security force. Enough to ensure the station isn't destroyed, at least. They probably couldn't have stopped a major attack, but the station was a long way from the Imperium, and most other powers had more to loose than gain by such an action

 

As such, Kamek endures, in it's precarious state.

 

It was a big place, even by Void standers; near the size of a starfort. There were many massive internal chambers with rooves of crystal and hardened glass, designed to show the black of space above them. It was in these rooms that most of the station's markets were held; great bazaars, a riot of glowing colour amidst the perpetual dark, in which anyone who could find the space was allowed to set up shop.

 

'Everything is for sale in places like this', the Quiet Lord reflected slowly to himself, as he walked down the main marketplace. To either side of him were pedallers of a thousand sins, slave-traders, with cargo whimpering behind them, mercenaries standing to attention, hawkers promising that their relics were technology of great and ancient power.

 

His face was carefully neutral, as he went forward, through the press of his fellow renegades. This.... wasn't home, exactly. But it was as close as he generally got to it. With all the pros and cons the word 'home' could imply..

 

"All reports of the Quiet Lord identify the exact same figure. A large man (always a man, rarely IDd as Astartes) who wears lightly violet tinted robes, without decoration. His hair is short, and he carries a blade and bolt pistol at all possible times. He has never been reported as displaying the icon of any particular Chaos power; an important point. Nor has he been known to make use of Sorcery, at least personally."

 

"There are two types of encounter with the Quiet Lord. In some, he acts as 'The Monk', a helpful traveller, and wise man. In this guise, he has occasionally stepped upon Imperial soil (although no direct accounts of such incidents are known) He assists those in need that he deems worthy, and gives them philosophical advice, before moving on. Needless to say, his words all uniformly heretical, but after his actions, many of his victims believe him profusely. There had been movement in the Ministorum to try and track down this 'strange missionary' and offer him a senior posting, until the nature of his advice was identified."

 

"It is in the second type of encounter that the Quiet Lord shows a little more of his true face. As 'The Merchant', he makes and breaks deals across Wilderness Space. He's apparently served as a mercenary, a purchaser of slaves, an Admiral for Hire, and a buyer of weapons and armour. He tends not to directly reveal his personal affiliation, even at this point, but his company leaves little room for doubt; most of those who serve alongside the Lord are known followers of the Ruinous Powers."

 

The helm. His helm.

 

This was the place he loved. It was here that he felt true, simple. Himself, but with power and authority. Below him, on the bridge proper, the crew were ever-active, guard patrols, stats and mechanical operation, running to and fro from the Navigator's office with new reports.... every officer had their own shining console, and the dozen little orange lights, as well as the eternal hum and bleeping of the place, generally found it's way to him.

 

The Quiet Lord looked around him at his personal helm. This room was actually located just above the bridge; he had the Voidsman's Throne below for most hands on use, but this place held the override. It was rather slim and undecorated, by navy officer standards, although he'd never been anything less than happy to spend his time here. The view of the Void was equal to the Observatory in the ship's centre, and here, he had his books, those old dusty leather companions. And his writing desk; an antique by any reckoning, finest Alarian oak. He could look out, across the void, and his own command deck, and see everything as he committed his thoughts; be they to dataslate or parchment

 

'There is nothing in the galaxy quite the same is holding command of a starship', the Lord reflected to himself with that little personal grin of his, laying back and looking out across the Void. 'The power, the control... How a single officer of the Imperial Navy remains loyal is beyond me,'

 

"He supposedly commands a personal fleet, although any specifics of this, and it's current capabilities remain unknown. The target has managed to assemble a personal armed force through his activities in Wilderness Space, journeying between pirate ports, recruiting heretics and general scum. Some of his hires appear quite specific, and interesting, such as a group of recently turned Astartes of unknown origin, from a station just off the Storm of the Emperor's Wrath. Still, however, we've been able to gather very little precise information on his movements, and plans. Merely sightings.

 

The only confirmed aide to the Lord we have been able to identify thus far is this one man. [PICT ATTACHED; REF CLD/14399] It was this image that begun this file in the first place; it is the best known picture of the Quiet Lord, taken on the black station 'Freeport' (Date of taking unknown, only recently arrived in our hands) The second figure's striking augmentation gives him the appearance of a Mechanicus, or to be more precise, a HereTek. Presumably the Quiet Lord's master of arms, we have not yet been able to identify him based on past records; both our own, and those of the Mechanicus. Unlikely; the Pict is quite clear. Presumably then, this individual acquired his skills from some other source?

 

Regardless, there is still insufficient intelligence to classify the Quiet Lord as any grade of threat other than Obscures, and we have little information on his doings. I advocate that research priority be diverted. The Imperium has a thousand foes, many more pressing than this strange figure. Surely, he can wait his turn.

 

Linked file; report KRD/MAL1944_7

 

Security Clearance insufficient for access to this file. If it is required for an ongoing investigation, please contact the off...

 

WARNING, WARNING, ABNORMAL ENGINE DETECTED! ABNORMAL ENGINE DE...

 

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Access granted. Welcome, Lord Karamazov

 

CLASSIFICATION: DARK OMEGA

DATE: DELETED

AUTHOR: Acolyte Mica das Rien

SUBJECT: Missing Link!

RECIPIENT: Inquisitor Lord Kergran

 

Sir, this could be it! This pict of the technician and Quiet Lord together... for completeness, I ran it through the Segmentum's secondary datavaults. The primaries hadn't picked up anything before, but I thought the lighting on the Heretek was a little better, so I instructed the machine to focus upon him

 

It returned a positive match; 89% possibility. I've seen both picts side by side, it's the same man all right.

 

Magos Technicus Constance Zarr. At least, that's one of his names. Went Heretek a long, long time back, and wiped a lot of Mechanicus records with him as he went. It was a blessing that the cognator still had his picture stored (Guess the Administratum do have their uses after all)

 

Lord; Zarr's a big player. He's one of the greatest Dark Mechanicus active today, if one of the quietest. He's a master of countless fields, regular and heretical. Xenotech, Maltech, Black Cybernetics, Gholamcraft.... He's a mercenary, not affiliated with anyone, but every time he's backed an operation of any other group, we've had problems. And he's been known to aid heretic and Xenos activity everywhere between the Eye and the Tau Empire

 

That cult looking to pry upon the Helican shipping lanes? Armed by Zarr, with inferno blasters that spat some kind of clinging blue flame. They left walls of fire behind when they ran. Those pirates that were staging hit and runs on Calixis a few years back? I've got it on good authority that they never found a proper mechanic, and Zarr offered his own services in tuning up their ships. Merchant shipping dropped 25% after that, and no survivors from the attacks have ever been located.

 

Mi'lord, this man is some kind of anti-saint. He brings destruction to whatever he touches. If he is truly involved with the Quiet Lord, then every report of that man commanding a 'rag-tag force' should be disregarded. We wouldn't see a Heretek of this calibre for anything less than a major player. Expect, instead, a heavily armed force, backed by a small, fast, powerful fleet.

 

And one with some kind of objective.

 

I made copies of all appropriate records, compiled them onto a single data-slate for you. For security's sake, I've left a copy of this message, and the attached evidence, within the Kar Duniash DataVaults. I'll meet you for handover in that Old Cold Spot, where we first worked together.

 

Best of luck, sir. This is going to be a hard one.

 

File deleted. Data-purge commencing.

Goodbye, Inquisitor.

 

"It is with great sorrow that I announce to this Conclave the sad and untimely death of Inquisitor Lord Attilas 'Jak' Kergran. A faithful servant of the Emperor, and one of the finest members of the Holy Ordos it has ever been my pleasure to work with. A true, blue blooded Amlathean, and a traveller atop that, he none the less managed to hold more friends than enemies amongst our ranks. I believe that we all shall mourn his loss."

 

"His Lordship was the target of a seemingly random suicide attack whilst using the Arbites house on Valhalla for a routine debriefing with a minor contact. The resultant plasma blast hit the Cognator bank nearby, which has made identification difficult, but we are fairly certain that the second victim was Acolyte Mica das Rien, one of Lord kergran's own servants"

 

"It is all too easy to simply mourn the old Lord alone; but Arra had mentioned Mica to me once or twice. Apparently the boy was only days away from receiving the rank of Interrogator. Indeed, that might have been the true purpose of the debriefing. This Conclave is the lesser for the loss of both of these two fine men."

 

"You may rest assured, my friends, that the matter is under investigation. Kergran was working on many, many cases, and had made more than his share of foes, doing the God Emperor's work. Each lead shall be checked, every possibility, analysed, every suspect brought before us, and questioned, until we find the truth"

 

"One of our own has fallen, and died a far less glorious death than he deserved. We shall make whoever did this pay in blood, Conclave. On that, you have my word."

 

Lord Inquisitor Halaa, addressing the Conclave Angelis

[Croakamancer]

Well now... who are you, exactly?

 

There pages you peruse are the history of a Chaos Lord, a great villain of the Imperium, and font of undoubted, eternal wickedness. Namely, me. These are my words, every one either authored by me, or passing beneath my sight, and I make no apologies for that. I have every bit as much right to record my tale as any benighted Inquisitor has to pen his pathetic, self congratulatory, narrow-minded memoirs, and regard myself as far better spoken, educated and mannered than most of that collective.

 

No, what intrigues me is the idea of just who exactly would read a work like this. I can't imagine it winning publishing contracts, somehow. If it is stored, it will be in some darkened vault, with access requiring written permission from at least one Inquisitor Lord, and for the unfortunate acolyte assigned to study it to accept an unnecessary mind cleansing afterwards (or some similar set of over-elaborate security measures).

 

Is that who you are? A servant of the Ordos? It's the most probable outcome, I suppose. Either an Inquisitor, or a researching Acolyte, come to try and gain a full account of the events I witnessed? If so, you might have some kind of luck. I saw things your men never managed to spot, though your soul may be at risk from the education this work shall provide.

 

But I'm not certain. There's always the possibility, of course, that you're a follower of Chaos. Either a warband leader with a real talent for raiding, or a radical within the Imperium itself; one with the skills to gain access to what is undoubtedly verboten under Imperial law. But yet again, if you feel like reading, why study my life? To try and garner the thoughts of a great champion of the Dark Powers? As some sort of holy text, or gospel? There are countless works better suited to that purpose; and most were written specifically for it. Why choose this one?

 

Sill, in many ways, that is a more likely prospect, unfortunately. I've yet to decide how I'll store this manuscript of mine. Perhaps I'll simply hand it to one of my men before retirement; a little gift on my part. Perhaps I'll leave it somewhere, along with what wealth and artefacts I can afford to part with. My little gift to the Galaxy, a legacy of sorts.

 

But still, I can't help but wonder of you, and what you must feel, reading this. Fear? Elation? It all depends on who you are; what it is that drives you to be here, and that's something that not even the powers of the warp can give me any kind of idea about.

 

Still, good reader, I feel obliged to give you one warning. Just in case you are Imperial, a good and faithful servant of the God Emperor and have found my work, somehow. I have no wish to argue philosophy with you, let alone theology, but reading my words will change you. That is not the goal for which I set pen to paper; all I desire is a record, something to survive and document the story of these times.

 

But you would be looking at them from my viewpoint. I am a follower of Chaos, at least in a way, and I will not pretend that gives me any kind of right to an objective standpoint. You'll learn the innermost thoughts of a man who despises the Most Holy Inquisition, the Church of the God Emperor, the Astartes Chapters and more or less the entirety of that lumbering behemoth that is the Imperium of Man.

 

And if I have any skill as an author, at placing my emotions upon the page, you could well start to feel the same

 

So, one last chance. Put the book down, withdraw from whatever library holds it, and start to investigate other sources of edification and information. They exist, trust me, all you need to do is look. No one will think any the lesser of you for turning away from this, not even I. Leave this old heretic's dusty words behind you, and live your life with whatever happiness you can find.

 

Still reading?

 

Well, you were warned, good reader. You were most certainly warned. Now then, where to begin?

 

The soubriquet the Inquisition gave me is a good start. The Quiet Lord. I'd never used it myself, of course, and never have. I only found out about it some years later. Still, whilst it seems inappropriate for me to refer to myself by such a sweeping title, I can't help but rather like it. A point of pride on my part, I think. It sets me apart from many of my kind, and I appreciate it for that alone.

 

So many of the ignorant believe the World Eater ideas serve as the entirety of what Chaos represents. Or perhaps they take their idea of the forces of the Warp from the Black Legion (only a step above the Khornites, in my view) Me, I believe in a calmer approach. I listen. I think. I reason. These are the skills I prize and value. And when the time comes, I act with clarity and purpose, my emotion harnessed to my goals.

 

Surprised at that? I am not a servant of the Blood God; in fact, I would say I serve no god. (but let that slide for now) Emotions are fine things, they are what make heroes out of us, but taken too far, passion can become a great weakness. The Imperium's history shows us this amazingly well, believe it or not. So many grand figures who could have been so much more, had other forces not ruled them, not consumed them. Hatred, desire, fear, even hope. Time and again, history shows us that the head must in the end rule the heart; however painful that may be.

 

So, yes. I, a Chaos Lord, prefer to try and be rational. Laugh at me, if you will (rest assured, I often chuckle at my own hypocrisy on this point) but in any kind of historical work, the thing that always interested me is to attempt to understand the target, to work out what makes them behave as they do, what motivates them, what makes them tick?.

 

Here, I stand in the spotlight. And I can find fewer better inroads upon my soul, my essence, than this point.

 

What else should I mention at this juncture? I don't think you require much, most things about me you will understand before too long. The report I appended should help somewhat with understanding me personally, at least to begin with. It is mostly accurate, as such things go.

 

The rest, you may learn from my actions, I think. This work includes some accounts from other sources, which I have tried to give priority to. (I myself, alas, tend too often towards bias) There are few of these, all in all, but still, I will act as editor, organizing them, adding my commentary where appropriate. I have written my own account of events where it was needed, or where it bridged the gap between two other accounts..

 

And with that, we shall begin. Come with me now, good reader. Any tale is a journey shared, and ours begins here.

 

Prologue; How things started

 

To begin this story, reader, I fear I must give you a slightly better idea of my circumstances at the time of the Inquisition's report. This can hopefully be achieved through a simple description of my fleet, and it's day to day operations. For that, I have the testimony of one of my officers, a little drunk one night, some years after this tale begins (having retired through age, to a remote little colony in the Aurelia sub-sector). The Vox Record, however, is of good quality. Here is the transcription

 

"The thing was, we weren't a fleet. Not really."

 

"Most Naval fleets insist on fraternization to some degree. Personnel will spend time on stations, away from their ships, in the company of other Navy hands, from the same fleet. That tries to soften rivalry, keep everyone close together... but that wasn't how we worked. Instead, we were kept pretty separate. We didn't fly the Void in unity, and we didn't usually put into dock at the same time. Instead, we were kept dispersed, flying alone, with only our own ship's crew for company. Occasionally we'd meet other officers when the Lord required a formal meeting, or crew from ships we knew to be our allies, but there was never much chance to get to know each other."

 

"That was the smart thing in the way His Lordship worked. Every ship acted independently, as a general rule, plying the same trade route, but with minimal vox chatter, and occasionally dispersing to pursue opportunities for profit. We'd arrive in port alone, with one of our ships already there, and another following a day or two behind us. Orders to far distant ships were sent through Astropaths; his Lordship kept a few of the more... human ones on retainer for that reason. Soulbinding or no, they turned out to be as open to the offer of money and power as the rest of us, in the end."

 

"With this dispersed structure though, we could strike anywhere, given time to prepare, with more or less perfect stealth. We could have forces in place without anyone even knowing a fleet or army was being assembled. We could even blockade whole systems, if the fleet was brought together. Perhaps even a sector; until the Navy got a counter force together. But we were always long gone before then."

 

"Yes, His Lordship was a genius when it came to organization. Best organized fleet I've ever served on, no matter what you say about the man in charge."

 

Warrant Officer Pandric Gin, of the Irrepressible

 

The good Warrant Officer is overly kind. In truth, I took the idea for my fleet's organizational dispersal from Warmaster Slaydo's grand deception in the Sabbat Crusade. I simply expanded upon some of the principles he used, to achieve a similar effect, if lesser in scope.

 

Oh, Slaydo. What a general he was. What a man. Forgive me, but I can't help but defend his name when mentioned. The old Warmaster occasionally suffers criticism from the more revisionist elements of the Munitorium. He represented a number of the finest qualities of humanity, things rarely seen in these dark times. Emotion, harnessed by reason. A grand tactician, a vicious fighter, and devout in his faith by all accounts, yet still able to feel compassion for the men under his command. In spite of every obstacle, every trick and counter Nadzybar and the Magisters could provide, the Warmaster and his forces took Balhaut, the capitol planet of the sector, out from under them. It wasn't a flawless campaign by any means, but it remains a sparkling gem of war in my eyes, when compared to many great military actions.

 

That man represented everything right with the Imperial Guard, in the end. I would not say this of many so called saints, but he deserves the honour the Imperium have shown him, and I am proud to have studied his tactics and thoughts on engagement. They are far more enlightening than that odious officious lump of pompous trite known as the Codex Astartes, and far easier to read as well.

 

I wish I could have met him, just the once. Even in battle.

 

I've intended to visit the Sabbat worlds for a while now and pay a visit to his tomb on Balhaut. Yes, there are issues with crossing into Imperial space, especially in the Sabbat sector, but I've more than my share of tricks. And anyway, it's not as though I'd need weapons or armour to pay a visit to a tomb. Just serenity, and the ability to reflect..

 

Indeed, I think I shall make for Balhaut, one of these days. There are other graves there, a great many memorials to the Crusade, and seeing them would make for an interesting experience. Besides, no one would expect to find a Chaos Lord in such a peaceful place as that, surely.

 

But apologies, good reader. This is rambling on my part. What is important is to establish that I took my tactics in the assembly and operation of my fleet from Slaydo, in order to ensure that we could operate more or less undetected, whilst growing in strength. The 'Army from Nowhere' approach, if you will. It's simple, and utterly effective. With it I was able to operate in Wilderness Space for years, more or less undetected by the Imperium. I can't think of a technique they'd have been able to locate me or the fleet with in those years. At least, no easy ones. The Galaxy is a big place, and stations like Kamek and Freedom tend not to keep records

 

I'd pieced the fleet together a ship at a time, mostly from various pirate vessels which'd fallen on hard times. I bought out the old captains, and offered their crews missions, targets, the potential to start making money again. Every vessel was formerly independent, and had it's own history, which helped create the illusion of a disorganized rabble. I did my best to keep the prior crew in place to add to that, although after a time, new hires had to be made of course.

 

What was my objective in assembling such a fleet; and an army after that? Simple. The growth of a power base; the one thing necessary to accomplish any other goal. It's also not as easy as the Eye's forces make it look, not if you want to create a well ordered force capable of following complex strategy. Consequently, most of my men came from pirate stock rather than the more regular types of heretic; cultists, deserters, ect. We had a few of those, but mercenaries and pirates generally dominated the fleet.

 

Such people can be surprisingly reliable, if you pick them well. Their focus tends to be simple enough; make a profit, live well. A Commander who can ensure them these two things will win their respect, so long as he remains competent. Keeping that loyalty is a touch harder, but still workable. All people, after all, can fall prey to the simple magic of personality. Getting swept up in the times, in the figures that command them, their passions and beliefs, their struggles and wars, sweet victories and bitter failures...

 

We have the Heresy as a prime demonstration of that, don't you think?

 

The only exception to our pirate based make up, at least to start with, was our flagship. The Forge of the Spirit. That was the Old Man's vessel, and always had been. It was the fulcrum of the fleet from the first, and deserves a better description than I can manage.

 

The Forge has been my life now for more years than I care to recall. Unknown class; a traditional space hulk when first found. I converted her myself, outfitted entirely to my needs in a way few other vessels ever have been. I set the plans for servitors and acolytes to implement, but attended to most of the major issues of technical difficulty in person. The Plasma Drive and Auspex Array are some of my finest work, and her Warpbane Hull is the equal of any such device created within the Imperium; without the inefficiency the religious design necessitates. She has a fully stocked medical bay, a fine library, and has housed me, and my personal staff, ever since her creation.

 

The primary focus of the ship has always been creation. Complex construction works of my own design have been threaded through the body of the ship; the intense energy generated by the Plasma Drive serving to provide more than sufficient power. They require a significant workforce to operate, but are capable of highly intricate work, especially if those safeguards suited for general operation are removed. The Forge as a whole has the forging capacity of a significant number of Manufactoria; I and my acolytes are thus capable of creating almost any known device in significant numbers, simply given the materials. High quality cybernetic augmentation, anti-personnel weaponry, and even Mark Eight Power Armour are all workable. Our sole limits are time, stocks of material aboard, and our own knowledge. And all three barriers my adepts and I push against, every single day.

 

Still, a Magos on the run learns to defend himself rather quickly. To create, we need to harvest or purchase material, and that can occasionally draw attention. The Forge is fully equipped with appropriate armament for her size, and is a functional warship in every way. Her arsenal is top of the line, each piece built aboard, and constantly in the finest repair. Her batteries are more than capable of destroying most known ships, be they Imperial, Xenos or Emphyrian. Aboard, our force was formerly lesser; servitors can bear heavy arms, but without command, they can be highly vulnerable. But that changed when I gave the Commander day to day authority over the ship. He stepped up it's military abilities substantially, recruiting skilled hands to repulse borders if needed; including a handful of non-chapter Astartes..

 

The crew has always been the greatest problem in the continual operation of the Forge. Food supplies are generally workable, between simple purchase and the occasional raid, but it takes substantial manpower to operate the forgeworks across the ship. We have a fully staffed Reclamation Facility, naturally, and our operations usually are sufficiently profitable to ensure that those humans aboard are fed, but the simple number of bodies has been an issue in the past. Many of those accidents that kill crew-members also damage the corpse beyond repair, and I have minimal skills in recruiting crew members in the traditional manner, barring those intellectual enough to serve as my acolytes.

 

We tend to use slave forces in consequence. Slightly distasteful, and they generally require oversight, but dead slaves can be quickly and easily converted to Servitors. And so long as you keep them sufficiently fed, watered, and without direct access to weaponry, rebellion and morale problems are rarer than you might expect. Frequent patrols by armed forces cut those feelings of descent down to almost non-existent. They are housed in the lower decks, whilst my acolytes, and the crew proper, are located in areas scattered across the ship. A second concentrated habitation area was impractical, given the size of the forgeworks.

 

In short, the Forge is a mighty ship, a unique vessel, and an example of exactly what science and logical craftsmanship can accomplish when applied correctly.

 

Magos Zarr

 

A fine ship, and one I spent many years of my life aboard. May whatever gods he hasn't offended yet bless the good Magos for his work and eternal quest.

 

So, thus does our tale begin; with my little pirate group travelling the galaxy, making what money it could, and growing, slowly but surely, into a force to be reckoned with.

[Croakamancer]

The End is where we start from.

 

Some people operate outside the law, travelling through the shadows of the galaxy, with few friends, colleagues or luxuries to call their own. We know you; we feel for you. That's why the Council of Journey's End opened up our orbital dockyard facility to all the commercial businesses that operate on the planet below. You can now do almost anything without having to even touch down dirt side for an instant; sell goods, take on supplies, indulge yourself in whatever luxury you fancy this cycle, safe in the knowledge that you have arrived in a civilized port, that understands both you and your needs.

 

Journey's End: a place where all the wonders of the Galaxy could be yours for a few golden coins.

 

Vox-Cast based advertising, sent by Office of Planetary Tourism; Journey's End. M41, 800.

 

Journey's End; A minor colony world; founded as part of an unsuccessful, isolated venture. The planet broke off relations with Imperium proper in M41, 783, following local food difficulties. No longer a loyal, imperial world, and docking there takes one outside the Light of the God Emperor, with all that such implies.

 

Voidfarers Alemnac, Administratium issue. M41, 800

 

Ah. Journey's End. There are far worse hives of scum and villainy in the Imperium, places full of heretics, blasphemers and unimaginable torments, but never anywhere else is their one quite so... well, understandable, I suppose. Most other black ports were always that way, or were captured Imperial stations, but this place... it chose its fate. Or had it chosen by others, depending on who you ask. Either way, it didn't fall from grace, as much as gently walk downwards, looking about nervously for coppers. It's inhabitants were unable to spot the transition from 'Imperial World' to 'Port of Pirates, Thieves, Heretics and Other Such Scum' until it'd already happened.

 

I've never been able to decide if that was humorous or tragic. Both, I suppose

 

The Forge'd moored within the Orbital Dock a little earlier today, baring the name of the 'Inquiring Mind'. Not that the change made much difference honestly; we were old hands here, and many people knew us by the look of the ship, but always best to be careful. Even for something as simple and mundane as 'resupply, sale, and ground leave for the Crew'. There'd been cheers across the command deck as the airlock'd finally been engaged, and the traditional mad charge afterwards; we'd had a long haul recently, and people wanted to spend their hard earned pay.

 

I couldn't have kept up with them, even if I'd wanted to. I just smiled a little as I strolled out after them, alongside the rather more refined and dignified presence of Tech-Adept Lyria, looking to take in the station's large welcoming area. I was in armour, of course, but with robes over it; best not to be seen as the type to wear armour. Also good to blend in a little, so I picked a light brown shade, the sort that Preachers, Missionaries, and truly minor Adepts tend to wear. (along with the Dark Angels, but not counting them)

 

This whole dockyard was clearly designed with Voidfarers in mind, you didn't need to look further than the massive welcoming plaza to see as much. After a brief path made of a few twisting corridors, the narrow confines of the docking section opened up into a market square type area. It seemed to be about as big as any major square in most known hives, complete with garish light-shows upon the walls (running up to the ceiling, leaving the pristine void coloured by occasional blue and purple) and gaudy attractions scattered amongst traditional vendors stalls in the market below. A great throbbing mass of people were continually passing through, and the hubub of their conversation was punctuated by the blaring music some stalls insisted on playing in a vain attempt to garner more attention. I could see more than a few of the crew already having the time they'd been hoping for, haggling with the merchants, trying to sell trinkets, buy trophies, and enjoying the other services provided; which varied from a 'genuine Psyker, guaranteed to cast the Tarot with the Emperor's own hand', through the singing of raucous old Naval ballads at the predictable market-side cantina, to the more simplistic pleasures offered behind a wood-effect gateway by the Joytoys of the 'Doorway to Terra'.

 

I strolled through the narrow paths of the marketplace, managing to stay out of the way of the countless others who'd beaten me to its overpriced wonders, watching quietly as Lyria, oddly enough, headed through the 'Doorway to Terra', glancing around a little furtively before doing so. (Strange, didn't think such a place would be to her taste) After that, I made my way back to the Forge, at the same gentle pace I'd kept to throughout. It felt like a different ship now though; none of the clanging and fire of the Works, no red-robed tech adepts to make casual conversation with, few patrols outside of the lower levels... she seemed nearly deserted. Still, I wasn't planing on remaining aboard for long.

 

Indeed, i quickly found the room I was looking for, a wide section of the ship, with a small squadron of assorted ships at dock, Swifdeaths, Hellblades.... but in pride of place, a single Thunderhawk. We might have been docked, technically speaking, but the Forge's shuttle bays could still be operated, and if I was going to head down to the surface, I wanted to do it in style. A quick sprint through the ramp to the cockpit, a button press to raise and seal the hatches, and then with but a vox command on my part to the Bridge, we begun launch procedure. The interior bay-doors swung slowly closed, clicking as the airlock seals kicked in, the regular alarm sounding to ensure any crew would evacuate, as the great blast doors that made up the far wall of the shuttle chamber shuddered down, leaving the black of space open, and visible, stretching out before me.

 

A simple flaring of the drives, and I was away on a jet of flame and power! The Vox clipped in with a rather kind "Safe travels, sir" from the Bridge Officer as I winged my way across the dockyard, but in truth, I wasn't paying attention. It was just too refreshing, to whistle through the void with nothing but the thin metal shell of a shuttle between you and utter oblivion. I'd been cooped up too long, just like the crew, with nothing to do but shuffle a few papers, organize drills for the crew, philosophise a little in my quarters... Sometimes, you need to blow off steam.

 

And racing down through the atmosphere in the kind of cataclysmic DeOrbit a Thunderhawk is designed to take in its stride does wonderfully for getting pent up frustrations out of your system.

 

A little known fact about Journey's End: the skies are completely free. Unless you start damaging property in the Hive, very little's verboten. In a cost cutting measure, the Council decided to supply the planetary guard with AA gun emplacements for key positions, but no aircraft of their own. After all, most of the planet was deserted. Why regulate the airways, beyond ATC for Trellum, the planet's sole Hive?

 

There's nothing quite like being the sole pilot of a shuttle in an open sky. You can do whatever you want to, swoop, turn, barrel roll, descend like a hawk, rise like an Aquilla on the wing... I hate to think what anyone watching would have made of my performance there. I probably came close to crashing the Thunderhawk,at least once or twice, sweeping so close to the ground....

 

Yes, I can enjoy myself outside the battlefield. God of pleasure or no, it is not only the Slaaneshi who can have fun, you know? Just like not only Khornites go around fighting and killing people all the time. The rest of us simply tend to be... quieter about it.

 

And then, there was Trellum. The Golden City. It certainly earned its name for me then, as I brought the Thunderhawk in on approach. The sun was just falling behind the central spires, leaving the great Hive a glittering marvel that could be seen for miles about. A fortress in gold, reaching towards the heavens in supplication, as much monument to man's ability to be a little to hasty as a city.

 

Air traffic control were perfectly reasonable, as were the docking authority, and before too long, I was walking through the mid levels of the City of Blackened Gold, taking in the sights. The streets were passiably clean at this level, although a little grimy occasionally, and the countless lights glared at me as I made my way along the quietly busling streets. There were countless ways to relax here, after all, this place was catering to people in my position. But still, I kept walking. I'd seen the Gilded Market itself on my way down, and as fine as the pleasures of an upper hive establishment always are, I wanted something a little quieter, a little more obscure.

 

Peaceful. And anyway, something has always slightly worried me about relaxing in High Society, even on Journey's End. The upper classes just seem... predatory. Ever ready to pounce....

 

(Perhaps especially on Journey's End, in fact. The upper hive holds the largest assortment of backstabbing politicking scum in the galaxy east of Malfi, but without the outright Daemonic charm a Malfian Noble tends to be so very good at wielding. It makes the Calixians more dangerous, true... but far better company)

 

Anyway, I found what I was looking for in the lower levels. Even here, it was surprising how clean things were kept. Some streets were dirt filled paths of excrement, true, but almost every hab block was scrubbed and whitewashed. Typical Imperial mentality, I'm afraid. Displacement, avoidance. 'Our planet might have become the biggest scumpit outside of the Eye of Terror, but at least our hab is clean!". The people were, of course, a little hostile to a stranger, but politeness and a respectful tone goes a long way against that, if you're careful. Before too long, I had directions across the lower city, courtesy of a rather ferocious looking older lady. The Matriarchal sort, who take pride in their Hab 'being Holy and Proper in the God Emperor's Sight'

 

The place I'd finally settled upon out of those she'd pointed out to me was a quiet little restaurant; the Aquilla Eternal. It was nice, homely, but honest about it, with white-willow tables, and paintings of saints upon the walls, above a quiet brown fleur-de-lis design. It was hardly a major concern, but still did well enough to hold some quality and class, by primarily catering to those amongst the nobility who remained faithful servants of the Imperium (or who wanted to believe they were) The Aquilla offered real meat in its cooking. And Tanna! Real Tanna, brewed in the proper Valhallan tradition. Apparently the owner's grandfather had been a retired guardsman, and passed down the love of the drink to his family.

 

Just the sort of place to relax, and meditate a little on where my life was going.

 

To its owner's worry, however, not only were there none of his regulars when I arrive, but there was a rather crude looking party had taken up residence. A group of five, just muscle bound enough to look imposing. Blood red cloaks, scarred black armour... only a few spikes short of looking like Khornite cultists. But they were just a little too quiet for that, and didn't have the axes, sticking with old Cadian pattern laspistols. More likely, there were just pirates, or raiders of some sort. Why they'd ended up here was a bit of a mystery though. Yes, on most hives, such people would be naturals for the lower levels, but in Trellum? The Underhive was the heart of Imperial loyalty, more or less. A foolish choice in this little band of scum's part, the mid levels held the sort of tacky pleasures they seemed to be after.

 

They were singing loudly, and whistling at the only other customer in the place, a Void-Born woman who looked like she'd been travelling quite a way, in a long brown coat. She was your classical voider; pale, tall and thin with long black hair, though her eyes, interestingly, were azure. She hadn't tried to hide her disgust and indifference to her fellow guests here, though underneath, was more than a little frightened by the Raiders and their 'attention'. I could tell, though she concealed it quite well. But the young voider'd probably have done better to leave. Even as I entered, more or less unobserved, and took a seat a little distance away, two of the stronger looking rogues stood from their chairs, and advanced towards her, grinning like Daemons. The lady tried to back away, pushing her chair back, her terror obvious in her eyes, let alone her face, but the pirates were on either side of her now. It took just one mountainous hand to pin the traveller to the wall, where she remained despite her struggles. With a vicious grin on his face, the hand's owner leaned in closer

 

"Ain't much meat to ya, but you'll do." The frakker was already breathing heavily, right in the lady's face. "What say me an' my mates teach ya how to smile, eh?"

 

The owner, Valhallan blood or no, was turned almost to stone at this final display. Once he could move, he was crouching behind his counter, and backing away towards the kitchen. Disappointing, but unsurprising, I suppose. They were armed, and the Planetary Guard tend to always rule in favour of travellers over locals in the case of any conflict between the two. Scum or no, it's the voidfarers who pay the aristocracy's bills.

 

Voidfarers like me

 

With a sigh, I slowly rose from the seat I'd only just had time to take, gently pushing the chair away with just enough noise to ensure at least some of the pirates turned their attention towards me, my boots clunking ever so slightly as I strode towards them; metal on wood.

 

Well, they were distracting! I'd gone down to the Aquilla to relax, to brood, to take a step back from my life and think about where I was going with things. To consider the future. This is not something that can be done whilst a violent beat is going on in front of you. And atop that, if the moustachioed owner retreated any more, these fools would take the opportunity to loot the place, and there was a serious danger of me no longer getting that meal I'd been looking forward to. I hadn't come down here looking for a fight, but this little band had. Who was I to deny them?

 

The first idiot looked a little confused, and tried to bring his head down on my shoulder as I approached. That gave me a good angle, and with a simple twist to position myself correctly, I threw him straight between the lines of tables, letting the burly brute slam pleasingly through the half-open restaurant door. I could see him sprawled out on the street in my mind's eye; glorious.

 

His backup, a little leaner looking, was obviously unnerved by this. He was sweating as he pulled his knife, a savage looking bone thing, and bleated "We don't want no trouble!" A statement rather odd from someone wielding a knife, I thought, as I made a grab for his arm. A simple press to the joint, and the bone clicked neatly out of place. The scrawny idiot looked petrified as his weapon fell from his hand. I, on the other hand, managed a rather savage smile, standing right in front of him; undoubtedly too close to comfort. A simple growl sent the rat scurrying away, his tail between his legs..

 

That got the duo advancing on the Traveller to at least turn and pay attention. The problem was going to be how to take them down without wrecking the place. A full strength charging was out of the question, it'd wreck the table behind them, and bring the void-born lady into the fight. No, I needed them to charge me. Fresh from that little growl, I managed to find the spittle to almost roar out a rather simple challenge for this pair of knuckleheads.

 

"Look at you! You're so soft up top, I bet I wouldn't even feel it if you tried to head-butt me, you groxlovin' frakkers!"

 

Well, it probably sounded a little rarefied to them, but it did the trick. Both of the clowns, predictably, stared for a moment, before doing exactly as I suggested, bolting across the room like... well, two charging grox. At the very last second, I shifted my own stance, weight down a little, position changed to stand straight centre, looking between the two charging behemoths.

 

Their heads made a pleasing 'clack' as they connected solidly with my chest, and the power armour atop it. The force of impact was a little painful, but nothing I couldn't shrug off easily enough. Those clowns, on the other hand, remained in their strange, crouched 'head forward' position for a few seconds, before falling slowly to the ground.

 

That left the leader, who seemed more than a little anxious after watching his entire group loosing to one slightly large but noticeably unarmed stranger. He quickly drew his laspistol as I walked towards him, slowly and calmly. To his credit, the man managed to avoid sweating quite as badly as his absent underling, but his voice and hand quivered in a strangely harmonious pattern.

 

"All right, all right, we'll go if you...."

 

One jab to the stomach, quicker than he could follow. He squeezed off a las shot before he dropped the damn thing, but barring a light scorching of my robe, it ran past me, burning off a single fleur de lis from the wall behind me. I, on the other hand, connected almost immediately with a simple grab to the neck, lifting the man off his feet just as his underling had the voidfarer a short time earlier. He was pathetically lightweight, and still winded from that blow to stomach. He could barely even struggle, as I withdrew the fat money-bag from his belt. He'd been intending to hand out crew wages, evidently. I had a rather different idea, as I grinned across at him.

 

"You'll go. And pay the lady, the gentleman who runs this place, and me."

 

I accentuated each wounded party with a slight tightening of my grip, and the jangling of the man's coin pouch, as I withdrew another share of his undoubtedly hard stolen gains, the coins glinting a little in the slightly dimmed light of the Aquilla's lighting.

 

"For our trouble"

 

The scrawny little bastard nodded, frantically, though his face was far from a picture of happiness. I dropped him to the floor, and kept my eyes on him, as he got to his feet. It was amusing to see him try and stare me down, given that he was 5'6 at best. Still, he managed to look a little threatening as he backed away, like a cornered dog, as he waved to the Voider.

 

"You'll be sorry! Frigid as a night on Fenris, that one!"

 

I couldn't help but grin a little as he finally ran (well, ran as fast as he could whilst dragging his two comrades). There'd been something refreshing about that fight. A good, honest brawl; spontaneous and simple, but with no damage to anything important. No weapons or armour needed, or used. That was something I'd not experienced in a while, and almost made up for my evening being disrupted.

 

Well, it was still pretty fracked though. Just in a different, slightly nicer way. The owner, Boriz, as I later learned, was... rather effusive in his praise afterwards. He was a little nervous about the remaining pirates, but I managed to talk him out of calling the Guard, at least for now. "They might ask what became of the 'honest visitors", I suggested. Just right, won a scowl and curse from Boriz, as he muttered "I know, sir, I know... you forget sometimes, when your world's gone to hell like this. I'll have a word with Lord Dawny about his house providing security in future."

 

It was pleasant to talk to him, I suppose; of Tanna fumes, well cooked steak and news from off-world. But still, my attention honestly had turned to the Void Born, almost because of her non-reaction. She seemed to have dusted herself off, and had returned to her seat, almost as though nothing had happened, sipping at her small cup of Tanna, which'd somehow avoided damage from the pirate duo. Someone on Journey's End, a traveller... reacting like that?

 

I bowed to Boriz, offering "Well, to return to what I came in here for" and took the seat opposite her, smiling gently across, in a mild attempt at polite charm. The man's grin grew wider, if anything, and he started moving to and fro, preparing a "Grand Feast for the two of you, on the house" as he proclaimed at the top of his voice.

 

My 'fair maiden', however, seemed to barely notice even as I took my seat. Continual shock still, perhaps. I just sat there for a while, in silence, studying her in what depth I could without seeming rude. There wasn't anything distinctive about her, save perhaps for looking a little like a Voider's Voider. Her skin was almost alabaster, her hair raven black, and her frame was so slight as to make her seem like something from an artist's picture. She wore a long grey coat that could have come from any lower hab store, along with black trousers and a white shirt that would've been thrown in with the coat. I could only see a couple of unusual features about her: a black headband that reached across her forehead, sloping down a touch in the classical 'raider' style and a rather nice looking jewel set into an amulet about her neck. Probably fake, given the class of the rest of her outfit, but a curious accessory none the less.

 

After a slightly odd amount of time spent in a mutual, slightly uncomfortable, silence, she spoke for the first time, her eyes seeming somehow to suddenly notice me, as though she'd been in another place since the attack'd ended. Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper.

 

"Thank you"

 

I bowed my head, smiling gently, not too much, didn't want to scare her. The slowness of this conversation was a little strange, but nothing I could not adapt to. "You're very welcome, miss...."

 

I left it at that, trying, vainly, to fish for a name, but that won the first real reaction from the traveller; a weary smile. She shook her head a little, and I sighed, a wordless acknowledgement of her victory. Her Ladyship returned to her meditative, near absent expression for a few seconds, before continuing, her eyes once again focusing upon me, some nerves still visible upon her face.

 

"Is it... often like that, down here?"

 

Remarkably naive for one used to travel. I kept my smile though, trying to be reassuring as I replied "Not often. Down here, the Underhive, that's quite peaceful. Normally it's the upper levels that you've got to watch out for."

 

That won recognition from her, the voidfarer nodded, slowly "Ah yes. Your Nobles, your parties..."

 

I couldn't resist interjecting at this point "Not mine! Trust me on that."

 

"Oh? You are not a friend to the rulers here?" The Voidbrn seemed curious, slightly confused as she tilted her head to one side as she looked across the table at me. I tried to explain, warming more than a little to my subject as I continued; after all, it was an easy one to talk about.

 

"That's not quite what I meant. They're individuals, of course... but many answer to themselves, none other, doing whatever please them, damn the consequences. That's not always a bad thing... but those here have no compass, no goal, other than that of their class; the continued acquisition of wealth and power. I dislike such people intensely, no matter where they're found."

 

That got me an intrigued glance from the Voider, who sipped at her Tanna before speaking "You despise them for independence?" She kept her face carefully neutral, tilting her head to the side as she continued, just a hint of humour in her voice "Strange, coming from you."

 

That... was worrying. She was speaking in veils, true, that statement could mean anything, could have just been an assumption about any traveller here, but... well, I was beginning to feel a little sympathy for the pirates. My disquiet must have shown, poker face or no, because my new-found friend laughed a gentle, tinkling laugh, now more or less in tune with reality, it seemed.

 

"You are blind, voidfarer. So blind..."

 

That was her first true, wide smile, and I have to admit, I wasn't overly reassured. She took a glance to her side, at the retreating form of Boriz, who'd been obviously distracted through all of this. Once the man'd entered his kitchen again, leaving him truly out of the picture, she raised one slender hand to her headband, drawing it up slightly. There was nothing concealed there, bar the tips of her ears.

 

Her long, pointed ears.

 

Pointed ears, pale skin, slightly tall and wispy....

 

Not Void Born. Not as I thought, at any rate.

 

Eldar