To Plunder The Stars Themselves, Episode III

[Beren]

Svelk only attended the 'surrender negontiations' of the station's former master for a few moments before taking his leave to inspect the room. Interrogation or negotiation beyond the most cursory sort was best left to thers. If they could somehow find some use for the snivelling princeling he would not gainsay them.

 

First he wandered over to where the lizard-like corpses lay mangled or torn apart across the floor. One still hung from the wall, claws latched on even thugh a well aimed bolter shot had removed its head.

 

Svelk rolled one over so that it lay on its back with his foot, kneeling down to examine the underslung weapon. They'd tried figuring out ways to use these, after they'd encountered them amongst the reavers. Annechan had never been able to crack the trigger mechanism, but maybe one of Tarek Val's experts would have better luck.

 

Standing, he glances around the room. There are many items, but if any were of use in combat than he'd expect them to have been deployed against his squad. Of course, in a matter of speaking, some of them had been. He looks back over to the interrogation, gesturing at Odysseus.

 

+++This 'blackstone', he mentioned. What do you know of it? +++

[Lysimachus]

"Wait! Wait!" Von Caeryd winces and leans back from the knife blade at his cheek. He waves his hands in panic, trying to forestall you. "I'm sure we can come to some arrangement!"

 

The former 'Prince' looks around desperately for some thread that might save him. His eyes alight on the pistol now hanging from Vesalius' belt. It is a true relic, a piece from the Heresy or even earlier. Astartes design, still slightly big for a mortal's hands but much sleeker and lighter than the pattern typically used by modern Chapters. A glint of hope suddenly flares in Von Caeryd's eyes.

 

"Yes! Yes of course!" he shouts. Then he leans forward on his knees, voice lowering conspiratorially. "If you let me live... I can give you... the pride of kings!"

 

***

[Trokair]

"If you let me live... I can give you... the pride of kings!"

 

After a few seconds of laughter Brynjarr  replied “Princeling, say our name ... and despair.”

[Necronaut]

Vesalius smiled behind his Corvus-pattern helm. Nothing was so enjoyable as false hope. Vesalius turned to look at Brynjarr briefly, sharing in his mirth, before returning to his captive. +The pride of kings, hm? Show us then, human. Show us what you would offer as tribute. Show us what you believe your miserable life is worth.+

 

Privately he voxed to the rest of the squad, +Shall we see what this human has hidden in his private reserve, comrades?+

[Lysimachus]

Von Caeryd frowns at Brynjarr's laughter, then gapes at Vesalius stupidly, as though amazed at his words. His mouth flaps open and closed as though he is struggling to formulate a reply.

 

After a moment, Decimus shrugs irritably and turns to walk away, expressing all your thoughts in typically laconic fashion. Perhaps Von Caeryd's promise is nothing more than meaningless gibberish, a desperate attempt at keeping the breath in his body for a few moments longer? Pathetic. The Traveller growls from under his blood streaked helm and draws and raises his bolt pistol, aiming it squarely between Von Caeryd's incredulous eyes. He is about to carry out the final judgement when a voice speaks.

 

"Hold your fire, Stormshroud."

 

The order that rings out from behind you is casually given and yet somehow brooks no argument. You recognize the timbre of the voice, but the tone and manner are utterly changed. You look around.

 

Holger has quietly entered the Stateroom, climbing to the top of the stairs without anyone noticing him. His perpetual stoop and lopsided grin are gone. Instead he carries himself upright, with easy grace and an air of quiet authority and cold competence. He walks over, calmly weaving between displays and the members of the Kill-Team. He does not look directly at any of you, but instead is focussed on Von Caeryd, staring down at the Princeling with speculative eyes. For a moment he looks away, over at the weapon at Vesalius' side, then back. As he does, he speaks into a vox link, with not a hint of the accent he had previously.

 

"Achard? Holger. Have your Astropath convey a message to Lord Varn. Elysium Station is his... but there may be a far greater prize within our reach."

 

***

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE ONE.

You have successfully completed the Primary Objective of your mission, defeating Talek Varn's rival and taking control of the Elysium Station. You have also successfully completely the Secondary Objective of doing so with a minimum of damage to the Station, meaning that it can quickly be put to use by the Iron Gods!

 

Each player receives 1500XP! More information regarding spending your XP and Episode 2: 'The Pride of Kings' will be forthcoming...

[A.T.]

Odysseus held his distance. The princeling had so far only gazed on him from afar and that little had broken his resolve, it would not do to break his mind as well before its due time.

 

Already minds had turned to looting this place with some seeking barter with Von Caeryds life as others browsed those things on display. No doubt whatever artifice had shielded the man earlier would be highly sought. But amongst this Svelk summoned his council on the true prize of this place.

 

"Noctilith", he intoned, its true name, "the Mechanicum lay claim to it when they care to admit its existence at all. I have encountered it but once before in the hands of a heretek that dabbled too deeply in matters of the warp. The fool was perhaps fortunate that we found him before word of his collection spread, for the priests of Mars would likely not tire of their questioning as quickly as we."

[Lysimachus]

"To Plunder the Stars Themselves"

Episode 2: The Pride of Kings

I

t is six days later. You are recovering from your various wounds, the recuperative powers of your transhuman bodies beyond the understanding of mortal men. Elysium is also beginning to return to some kind of normality, its wounds likewise in the process of being mended and its inhabitants just starting to breathe again now that they have survived the change in governance.

Their former master has spent those six days in the smallest, dankest prison cell that could be found. Von Caeryd's complaints have apparently been bitter, to no avail... but now he might be realizing how much better off he was in that hole.

For the Avarice has arrived, bringing with it the Iron Gods in force, led by their master himself. Talek Varn has come to Elysium. Clearly, some part of Von Caeryd's words had potential value enough to order this detour instead of returning directly home to the Crag. But you have not yet seen him personally. Immediately upon Varn's arrival, Holger led his master to interview Von Caeryd. Now you must patiently wait for him to summon you.

In the meantime, you may have seen other members of the Iron Gods around the station. Though comparatively few in number, your peers fill the space, standing out wherever they go aboard Elysium. Disparate warriors of every appearance, every specialism and every possible genetic lineage, united only by their grey and crimson battle-plate and their obvious capacity for violence.

In the days before the Avarice appeared, Holger also provided you - somewhat reluctantly - with some explanation for the sudden changes in his demeanour. He identifies himself as one of Varn's 'Remembrancers'. It is his role, he claims, to go out and uncover the stories and secret truths that may be found in and around the Solios Nebula, as well as record the victories and defeats of the Iron Gods. Pretty language for what you are almost certain must refer to some sort of covert intelligence corps.

You are therefore aware that Holger's current duty will also be to relay to his - and your - master how you have handled the assignment you were given. While you can feel confident that you fulfilled all your objectives with great success, there may still be an underlying sense of... concern when you wonder exactly what the little man might be saying about you?

***


This is an opportunity to describe what you have done over the last week, whether recuperating, overseeing repairs or changes to Elysium's defences or crew, or even celebrating your conquests - depending on your view of such frivolity!

Perhaps also think about how you feel about Holger's revealing of his true purpose, or about the arrival of Varn and the other Iron Gods? How do you now view your squadmates, having fought together and emerged victorious?

Possibly this might also be a chance to interact with the new members of the Kill-Team who are now aboard, although of course you and they don't yet know that they will be part of your team! (surface descriptions of most of the new Characters have now been added to the Iron Gods Character thread)

For the new Characters, you have arrived also buoyed by victory! An Iron Gods Strike force, perhaps fifty Astartes strong and led by Varn himself, successfully raided a small but well guarded Adeptus Mechanicus facility on the one of the moons of Cynarae Dormus. You do not know what Varn's true objective was. Certainly you carried off many spoils of materiel, but they could probably have been taken from easier targets? Whatever the case, you had the opportunity to observe Talek Varn at war, perhaps even to fight alongside him. Perhaps you see this as a great privilege to boast over... or maybe you instead resent his prowess and glory?




...and we will come back to what Von Caeryd said that made Holger let him live in the very near future...

[Commissar Molotov]

 

The Traveller and his five companions - he was still loath to think of them comrades - had won Talek Varn a substantial prize. The operations and tolls that Von Caeryd had collected would now fall to the Iron Gods. Those mortal servants that were of use would now pledge to their new masters. The facility of Elysium itself would give the Astartes a strategic foothold within the region. And now the deposed Princeling spoke in riddles about prizes greater still.

 

If it had been up to him, he would have killed Von Caeryd. If it were up to him, he would have wrung Holger's neck. The Traveller had despised the snivelling runt for his weakness, for his laxity and his damnable lop-sided grin. Now, he hated him for his deceit and treachery. He had contented himself instead with hunting down and eradicating the last remnants of the Krootoid mercenaries that served aboard this facility. Their dried blood still flaked from his gauntlets as his fists clenched around a metal railing.

 

His gaze was fixed on the Iron Gods' Battle Barge, Avarice.

 

What were six days, when weighed against a lifetime?

 

Thanks to the careful ministrations of chirurgeons and apothecaries, the Traveller's lifespan had been extended many times beyond that of a normal man. It had been a life consumed by war and turmoil and strife. None remained alive within this uncaring galaxy who might remember his true name, or the face of the bright-eyed child embraced into the Emperor's service so long ago. Even he could no longer accurately count how many years he had spent fighting and bleeding. Fighting to preserve the Emperor's grip upon the Imperium. Fighting for vengeance. Fighting to further the ambition of tyrants and would-be Kings. Fighting because it was an instinct at the very core of his being. Fighting because there was nothing else.

 

But he was tired.

 

Six days waiting for Talek Varn to arrive.

 

Six days waiting for the Tyrant of the Solios Nebula to acknowledge them.

 

Six days waiting for the King of the Iron Gods to make good on his word.

 

The Traveller's jaw clenched as he sought to quell the frustration and impatience within him.

 

What were six days, when weighed against a lifetime?

Edited September 3, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Beren]

Svelk was standing on the Elysium's outer hull, axe-rake anchored into a crevice to keep him steady. His armour was powered down almost completely, so that he could feel the chill clawing at his bones as the void attempted to drain the life out of him, like the old friend it was.

 

It helped him focus, helped him think. Elysium was now swarming with Astartes of the Iron Gods. This was a good as way as any to avoid them, and to avoid Tarek Valn.

 

Holger. Bastard.

 

The... infringement still rankled upon him. The mortal's aptitude had proven more than useful. The deception meant that Valn did not trust them.

 

Even as the irritation of this seethed through his mind, driving back the chill, a small voice whispered in the back of his head that maybe to lord of the Iron Gods was not so wrong in this.

 

Svelk's past brothers had been bonded by their blood, by their home, by vengeance. Most of all, by the fact that there was no-one else. The Iron Gods was a tangle of detritus and broken-oathes.

 

Your squad included.

 

He felt himself drift, just for a moment, as his his axe-rake's grip loosened. He tightened his grip again, going over what he knew of his fellow warriors.

 

Kai was still a bastard, but not a fool, and not false faced. So far, his commands had given Svelk no cause to test 'The Traveller's need for order.

 

Brynjarr was a fellow void-walker, and a competent one. Svelk got the sense that the 'Forlorn' was methodical where the Assault Marine was instinctual. Their paths had crossed perhaps more frequently than Svelk's had with other members of the squad, as each stalked Elysium's hull.

 

Odysseus, on the other hand, was touched by the void in a way that neither Svelk nor Brynjarr had. The chill-blooded could commune with their element in a way far more profound than what Svelk could manage. The memories of the moment when the psyker had bent space to bridge the gap between the hull of the Bounteous Lady and Elysium were vivid in his mind...

 

Decimus, for all his tacticurn nature, bore little uncertainty to Svelk's thoughts. The heavy weapons carrier seemed reliable, and better yet was not ashamed to admit where he lacked profiency in a field of expertise.

 

Vesalius... his sentiments still concerned him in many ways, but Svelk had to admit that the Apothecary lived up to his words as far as his skill went. He would even begrudgingly allow that Vesalius' treatment far outstripped Annechan's best efforts back when they prowled the detritus of The Ring together.

 

That thought drew Svelk's mind in yet another direction. He wondered how the veteran had fared awaiting the return of the Imperium to their home, or Khoris on his quest for vengeance...

 

Time to head back inside.

Edited September 3, 2021 by Beren

[Trokair]

The battle was won, the thorn removed, the princeling captured, the price secured. This was the time when so often mistakes were made, guards let down and future defeats forged. The squad, and the mortal staff brought over to secure and run the station however where professionals.

 

At first the uninjured Astartes would comb the station for left over resistance, stray xenos and anything else that would or could compromise their hold on this rock. With the days however squad cohesion all but disappeared, going out in groups became pairs or each on their own, coordination and strategic sweeps became vague directions.   

 

Brynjarr was in no mind to challenge the Travellars authority as squad leader so as the discipline laxed he took on the jobs he thought would need doing, as no doubt the other were also doing to greater or less extend.   

 

With the insides secured and swept, and the station plans corresponding to reality as far as he could see Brynnjar took to void, to check the seals and entrance, the hidden crevices on the surface and so force. Planet born all too often dismissed or did not even consider that there was more than corridors and pressure doors, there was an entire outside, hostile and ready to pounce on opportunities and kill.

 

The soundless outside and distance was welcome in its way, the squad where Astartes, and that had been nice. Svelk was clearly voidhardened, and Brynjarr suspect some of the others where more at home on ships and station then down the gravity wells.  However they where no brothers, yet or maybe ever, the fates would know but he did not. Kinship was not so easily dismissed though, and fighting alongside grandfathers descendants was a decks above the life of bodyguard and agent for mortals that had filled recent years before.

 

He had seen Svelk out several times on the surface, but suspect that what drove the other was not a task out here, but a prowling hunger, whether for battle or otherwise he did not know. Brynjarr ensured that when he spotted the other marine that there was time and space for Svelk to approach for conversation, kinship or sparing, but as he had not Brynjarr suspected the other sought solitude out here, and he would not unduly infer with such intent.

 

In truth at time he also sought solitude in the stars, remenants of old customs and memories. A particular good spot he had found was near the private dock of the former princeling, abut 50m out, a semi circular crevice, possibly from an attempt to install some defensive structure, looked out across a large stretch of the station and the starscape beyond, while being fairly shielded from sight and external lights.

 

It was while sitting here, that Brynjarr first become aware of the approach of fleet that was Talek Varn flagship and escort. With the Avarice on approach, it was time to return inside and face judgment.

 

They had done well Brynjar knew, but was it well enough for one such as the Tryant.  

Edited September 4, 2021 by Trokair

[Necronaut]

Edited September 3, 2021 by Necronaut

[Machine God]

Draak moved about the new Elysium Station and thought that the new squad had done well.

 

So they had secured this place without losing anyone? Their flesh had been returned to them and it was strong, even though some of it was Corvid!

 

Suddenly Draak punched a wall causing nearby menials to scatter fearfully. Draak remembered getting his flesh back...

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Talek Varn: "Draak, welcome to the Iron Gods. Part of your fealty to me is that you will relinquish your arms and armour, they will be returned to you when I deem you are worthy!"

 

Draak: "Of course I understand, my Tsar!"

 

Draak had given in his combat blade, grenades and small arms, he then reluctantly handed over Grendel his Heavy Bolter. Arms-men and servitors then assisted in the removal of Eisen, Draak's Armour. Naked and laughing Draak strode from the halls.

 

Weeks passed whilst Draak waited, whilst he made his legend amongst the Iron Gods. It was here that he had met the Magos Octavius, they had talked about the archeotech rumoured to exist within the Nebula.

 

Finally within another arming cell Draak was re-united with his armour. But what had they done to it?

 

The Midnight Blue livery had been scoured away and replaced with mismatched greys and a few, seemingly randomly sections of scarlet. He particularly liked the scarlet flash across the helmet's brow and face. What few imperial icons that remained had been defaced.

 

Draak's armour was bolted on and he interfaced with the suit, which was Eisen. Draak fought with Eisen's machine spirit and he ultimately prevailed.

 

Draak then took hold of the heavily plated left pauldron with his right hand, the crenellations had been chipped and broken away. He turned it over to gaze upon its scarred face. Momentarily he placed his left hand over the ceramite, he then quickly snatched his hand away. His left pauldron was then bolted on.

 

Draak then laughed long and hard when he saw what had been done to his right pauldron! As ever dashed over with stripes of mismatched grey, a scarlet burst covered the silver skull of his Crux Terminatus which was further defaced by several stubber craters! His right pauldron was then bolted on.

 

Eisen had been returned to the Altered Carbon of Draak, he was Stahlfleisch once more!

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Draak roared: "Iron Gods!"

 

 

 

Edited February 2, 2023 by Machine God
Added to armour description

[Necronaut]

Vesalius was enjoying himself. In the six days since Kill-Team Cutlass had captured Von Caeryd and commandeered Elysium, there had been much work to do. There had been injuries to tend to, patrols for hold-out defenders, and his latest project. He turned to regard the prone form of the loxatl mercenary he had managed to corner in an air duct and capture, now splayed across his make-shift operating table. The creature had survived the vivisection for two days. No great expert on xenobiology himself, Vesalius had been forced to improvise, stretching the limits of his medical knowledge and capabilities to keep the creature alive during his ministrations. The creature's anatomy had proved to be endlessly fascinating, and he had noted numerous similarities between the loxatl and smaller reptilians. The loxatl's pain tolerance had been tremendous, far exceeding that of a human; it now lay still, its chest cavity laid open, each of its internal organs set to the side for further classification and analysis.

 

He turned to his workbench and grabbed a rag to wipe down his gore-splattered gauntlets. The eyeless sockets of the ogryn skull which he had claimed as a prize during their assault on Von Caeryd's retinue stared at him unblinking; the abhuman's face now adorned his alabaster right pauldron, partially obscuring the crimson double-helix of his office. The skin was stretched taut, giving the face a permanent rictus of pain and horror, the abhuman's final moments of agony captured forever. He smiled briefly at the memory, of the blood gushing from his victim's wounds. So much blood.

 

He had been so deep in concentration that he had missed a communique from Holger. Vesalius had taken a liking to the slimy little human; his duplicity had been a most amusing surprise. He had not been offended by the mortal's presence, nor by his apparent standing within the Iron Gods. Vesalius's preferred way of war was of the more clandestine variety, and someone like Holger was a necessary cog in Varn's machine. He listened to the recording while cleaning his flensing knife. Lord Varn's ship was approaching Elysium. The apothecary's new master would soon see what the kill-team had accomplished for himself.

 

His squad-mates had proved to be a quite capable bunch, with a broad range of skillsets and capabilities. Talek Varn's master sergeant had done well in forming the kill-team. He wouldn't say he exactly felt anything approaching camaraderie with them, but that suited Vesalius just fine. He was more of a solitary creature by habit, and the nature of his work and interests certainly did little to engender anything beyond distrust, if not outright revulsion. None of his cohort had been remotely interested in the live dissection of the loxatl: the Traveller had disappeared to sate his apparent bloodlust hunting the surviving krootoids; Decimus had grunted and left to tend to his heavy bolter; the void-warriors, Brynjarr and Svelk, had departed for other parts of the station, both seemingly intent on keeping their distance from the apothecary; and Odysseus busied himself with arcane matters beyond Vesalius's ken. But no matter; he had expanded his knowledge of xenobiology, and learned more of the nature of one universal amongst living vertebrates in the galaxy: pain in all its forms. Not to mention he had enjoyed himself during the process.

Edited September 3, 2021 by Necronaut

[Black Cohort]

Decimus had spent the first several days recovering from his wounds and consuming copious amounts of food to keep his body repairing itself as rapidly as possible. Even with his hyper-enhanced body there were scars remaining when all had healed, layered across older scars from previous wars, perhaps some even from wars that he was the last to remember.

 

He spent perhaps half a day after his recovery testing his body to ensure it still functioned to full effect and training with both blade and gun.  Then he seemed to fall back into the depression that gripped him.  In the last three days, he had spoken maybe a score of words even to the other astartes.  He had spent most of time deep in thought, one hand absently touching the same piece of bone.  At least once at day he had flagellated himself with a whip he had made out of an alien leather he had found, embedding tiny chunks of metal so it actually broke the skin in places.

 

Even word of the arrival of more Iron Gods had barely stirred him.

[Ancient_Sobek]

Radago made his way through the crowd of humans in the central concourse of the station. It was good to be off of the ship, but the presence of so many people was an irritant he could do without. How much of his brothers’ blood had been spilt protecting  pathetic wretches such as these. Countless years butchering heretics, recidivists, and xenos so that they can live their pointless lives. We were the bloody right hand of the Emperor beholden to none save him, and yet these sniveling cowards thought to bring us to heel. 

 

S’ynek growled his frustration, the sound coming through his rebreather as a metallic his. The people scattered from his path as he passed into a side passage and away from the teeming crowds. After the campaign on Cynarae Dormus he preferred to be alone. So many bodies crowded around him brought back memories of the hoards of machine-worshipers he had carved his way through. There was something unsatisfying about cutting into them and being doused in machine oils and lubricants. 

 

It had been a successful campaign in the end and the spoils had been needed. Still, there were likely easier ways to procure them. Varn, however, was a megalomaniac and wanted to cultivate his image as a tyrant and despot of the region. It was pathetic and childish, but it also drew the eyes of the enemy which meant he went unnoticed. A useful trade off. 

 

Radago stroked the fetish hanging from his bandolier and said a prayer to blessed Zhoteg for continued luck and protection.

Edited September 4, 2021 by Ancient_Sobek

[Machine God]

Draak had calmed down. After his conversation with Holger he had decided to pay Elysium's Central Command Centre a visit to conduct his efficiency report.

 

Situated hidden away and not in a central location at all Draak finally found the Command Centre. A large room probably a recrafted auxiliary bridge from the hulk used to make the base by Von Caeryd. Filled by votive candles, whirring cogitator engines and pict screens attended to by a bank of servitors and four human tech adepts. The room was a bit small for an Astartes to fit in, so Draak slew two of the tech adepts and let the other two flee for their lives.

 

Draak took his helmet off and jacked in to the cogitator banks, he also ate the brains of the newly dead tech adepts and waited for his Omaphagea to kick in to action. Draak found that the internal pict recordings of Elysium station were sporadic and prone to glitches however he was able to gain insights into the suppression of Elysium by KIll-Team Cutlass, notably footage of their two engagements with Von Caeryd's forces.

 

Draak noted down the efficient bolter grouping's of the tactical and assault elements. Decimus' use of his heavy bolter was faultless, however he noted that it could do with a barrel change soon. Vesalius' medical abilities were scrutinised too. Who or what was the Pride of Kings?

 

Draak noted that after Von Caeryd had been captured and the station was further subjugated, Kill-Team Cutlass had separated and did their own things. Draak particularly liked Vesalius' capture and vivisection of the final Loxital. Draak wondered if Versalius had also eaten of the Loxatl's brain to gain some understanding of how to operate its flechette blaster.

 

Draak having conducted his report made two copies, one for later perusal and the other to pass on to Holger. Draak left the command centre singing a shanty and quoting Shakespire, Draak also needed a drink!

 

 

[Xin Ceithan]

Placeholder

 

-post battle / pre elysium entry scene -

[A.T.]

Remembrancer... an old term lost to the Imperium for millennia. To vague a title to be aimed at his companions, did Varn compare himself to the crusades of old or was he perhaps closer to them than would be safe to admit. Inch by inch he would reveal himself, best not to pry before good time.

 

As for their prize - Elysium had fallen quickly and with little complaint. Von Caeryd had no true power and the end of his reign caused barely a ripple, what difference a tyrant to those who pass through his domain. But he had amassed considerable wealth without challenge and the interests of the xenos who appear to have kept him in power had drawn Odysseus' interest, and clearly the ire of the Traveller who hunted them. But the lesser creatures were mere fodder for the witch-xenos that has slipped away.

 

While they awaited the Avarice Odysseus took ownership of Von Caeryds personal chambers. A power vacuum might prompt further wasteful resistance while the others indulged themselves in their vices, and it would be best that the blackstone here not slip far from his grasp.

[Lysimachus]

You have been recalled to the Stateroom. Since his arrival just over two days ago, Varn has taken ownership of the grand hall and been using it as a private audience chamber. But when you enter, although the carcasses of your defeated foes have been removed, no repair work has been done to the flechette-ridden walls, blood and oil soaked carpets or smashed display cases.

 

For some this is the first time you have been here since the final battle with Von Caeryd's guardians. For others it is the first time ever. The six members of Kill-Team Cutlass enter, climb the curving stairs and stand on the left in a fashion that could loosely be described as 'together'. Three more Astartes, strangers to you, have already arrived and wait on the right. Somewhere in the middle, carefully examining the broken remnants of one of Von Caeryd's treasures, stands one more Marine, hooded and robed. It is Orphiel!

 

***

[Commissar Molotov]

The Traveller stands at the apex of the stairs, waiting for Talek Varn to make his appearance. In their previous meetings it was clear that the Warlord of the Iron Gods was inclined towards theatricality, using it to enthrall the more impressionable among his warriors. The Traveller had little patience for such gambits.

 

He studies the new warriors carefully, gauging their strengths. The return of Orphiel was a curiosity; the four of them were an unknown variable.

Edited September 6, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Beren]

Svelks strides into the stateroom without pause, throwing nothing more than a glance at the newcomers. He still notes their appearances however.

 

A fellow Assault Marine, festooned with blades. A tech-whisperer that apparently nurtured a severe hatred for its fellows to a point that seems frankly excessive, and another heavy weapons wielder, clad in another pattern of armour he does not recognise.

 

Regardless of their strangers, and their purpose for being here, Svelk makes straight for the figure in the centre, rapping the pick-end of his axe-rake on the plinth to announce himself.

 

"Where were you when we were having fun?"

[Trokair]

Following the Travelers lead up the stair to the state room Brynjarr mind was divided. The Tyrant had been in system for two standard days, and they had only been summoned now. Did this mean they were so unimportant that everything else was done first, or considered reliable enough that other mater that need attention were done first. Or was it simple the normal power play of letting ones deemed subordinates wait, he had seen it often enough at the side of that Rough Trader.

[Mazer Rackham]

He ran his hands through the pile of glass shards, admiring the play in the light.  The case had contained some weapon or other, now nothing but a mangled remain.  The walls were pock-marked with spall from weapon impacts and bolter round fragments.  His armour sensoria relayed the taints lacing the air, of propellant, alien chemicals in the spilled and congealed blood darkening the carpets, already sticky.

 

The chamber had once been the lair of a prince, now reduced to a pauper.  It was a far cry from the raid Varn undertook on Cynarae Dormus, where the clanking mechanisms of a forge-world were enough to blot out any kin of thought save for pulling a trigger and watching an adversary die before moving onto the next.  The aftermath of that operation was...interesting.  Interludes of light and shadow as high-ranking prisoners were brought to him for a small chat.

 

They revealed little of the secrets Varn came for - and maybe that was the point.  The ones who knew the Pirate Lord's true desire were dead and he was making sure there were no unnecessary loose ends.  He could laugh at it, the Pirate Lord was not too dissimilar from Admiel, or others who floated in their barren and chilly rock.

 

Orphiel lifted his hand, clutching a few of the glinting crystalline fragments, before standing up from his low crouch, the robe spread out in a semi-circle at his back pulling around his body, making it appear as though he emerged from the floor.  He allowed the warning glyphs to paint over his retina as the others came in.  He knew them all of course, some by sight, others by blade.

 

A blade that tapped now on the plinth.  An act common in the void, where language was eaten by the glorious silence, and like silence, this glass and this vignette of destruction was shattered.

 

"Where were you when we were having fun?"

 

Orphiel's Mk IV helmet swivelled to face the assault marine, the chisel nose of the faceplate catching the light on the fresh scars where a combat servitor had tried to smash his face in.  The cowl smocked around his casque as he dipped his head in greeting.  He allowed the glass chips to fall onto the carpet, like hard raindrops.

 

+Our 'master',+ he invested his reply with as much disdain as he dared, +had me loosen a few tongues.+

 

He shifted Argo, his Storm Bolter, so that it once again sat on his chest, the barrels still dark with soot from the raid.  He cast his glance over the assembled Astartes.  If that's what they called themselves anymore.  Decimus was now flanked by another gunner, whose bearing and plate made Orphiel wonder if the men of Krieg had lost a large brother.  Next to him a strange Techmarine of a school unknown to the interrogator, a large contraption over his shoulder ramshackle enough to explode at any minute - and another blademaster stood, enough sharp implements to equip a small squad.

 

Vesalius was...Vesalius.  Lingering there trying to be a shadow made of bloodstains.

 

Kai hadn't managed to kill any of them yet.  A good omen.

 

His replacement stood there, shoulders flexing as though annoyed.  Orphiel brought himself up to full height, noting the boarding shield.  He had the briefest of notes from Varn about returning to the Crag, and hoped that was the last time anything like that occurred.

 

It didn't matter, he washed his hands of it now. He smiled, let it come through his vox.

 

+It pleases me to see you well, Svelk.  Have you been making friends as well as corpses?+

[Black Cohort]

Decimus arrived to the meeting in simple robes, his arms and armour stowed in his minimal chambers.  He stayed at the back of the cluster of astartes.  He hoped this was about another mission; he was not built to sit around a wait.

[Beren]

Loosen a few tongues.

 

That wasn't an expression he was familiar with, but he'd wager he could infer the meaning.

 

In response to Orphiel's query, the assault marine rolled his shoulders back in a shrugging motion.

 

"Mostly corpses. Not that the idiot of a merchant captain left much of one behind. I don't think our previous tech-specialist-"

 

Here Svelk tosses a glance at the tech-marine waiting with the other two strangers.

 

"-counted either."