[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Bardas:

The posture of the arbitrator seems well-founded, when two thugs who Bardas noticed lurking from before, and no doubt this streetwise enforcer had also clocked, sauntered from the pack of dregs milling about under a steam vent.

One is heavyset, with brawny arms tattooed with gang affiliation. A broken nose and disfigured knuckles immediately annotate his profession. His companion is smaller, scrawnier, missing several teeth and with thick glasses. He stretches out hands kept warm by fingerless, woollen gloves.

"Much apologies noble sirs," he slurs, his jaw slightly disfigured, "but you have not paid tribute to Runt."

He bows his head and gestures to his large companion, who shifts to a more aggressive posture, his chaincoat clinking like loose Thrones.

Edited August 3, 2022 by Mazer Rackham
Typos

[A.T.]

Falk

Falk raised an eye at Bardas and a telling glance at the shells he still carried. Half turning and reaching a hand for a breast pocket clearly too small to conceal a weapon he pulled out a battered pack of lho sticks, and palmed away from view of the thugs a single shell visible only to Bardas.

"You mean those other guys going up and down here a minute ago weren't with Runt?", the accent coarser than had been with Bardas, the hand on the lho sticks moved in clear view as the thumb on the shotgun slid silently to conceal the open bolt.

[Trokair]

Bardas

Bardas reached back into the shadows of where he had been sitting and with calm retrieved his staff, once in his hand he went to lean on it as if in need of support, a ruse the Arbiter no doubt saw, but the underhivers would hopeful not.

It seemed his time here was over, one way or another, and if it were to come to an altercation then better to be on the side of the Arbiter then his opposition. 

The other clearly had a plan, let him lead then. 

[Necronaut]

The entrance of the sable-armored angel left him gobsmacked. She shone with an inner radiance that one so wretched and low as he thought impossible, and her beauty took his breath away. It had been long, long since he had known a woman, particularly one of her calibre. The Imperial Guard wisely did not create inter-mixed Penal Regiments with both men and women. He had been around nothing but men, men, stinking, filthy, gutter-trash men for the past decade. Her presence had so utterly disarmed him, that some long moments passed before he rose to follow her.

Had the seraph, the woman, who had smelled so sweetly of tallow and incense, whose every movement had been delicate and deliberate despite wearing the powered armor of the highest servants of God, had she truly entered his cell? Had he been locked in solitary confinement for so long that he had begun to hallucinate? Time passed in a warped manner underground, constantly shifting around in fits and starts. Without a day-night cycle or stars, or even a chronometer with its strange, green symbols, it was impossible to know how long he had waited and prayed.

He shook his head, casting off his thoughts, his doubts, and rose to his feet, unconsciously scratching at his blonde-and-grey beard, and brushing his sandy, greying hair from of his face with his fingers. He hastily donned his gambeson and hauberk, stomped on his boots and rammed his slitted helm down over his head. He was barely a man, barely a person. He was his armor, he was the fist of the God-Emperor. He would meet his fate clad in the raiment that had come to define him, had come to hide his shame from the others, from God.

He followed the scent and warmth of the power-armored angel, his boots thudding on the ferrocrete. The harsh light of the corridor blinded him as he crossed the threshold of his cell and he blinked a few times before his eyes adjusted. She stood without, waiting for him with an almost imperceptible smile which only served to enrich her pristine features, making her lovely beyond words.

It took him a further few moments to find the words to address such a creature, and his voice quavered slightly as he addressed her, suddenly unsure of himself. 

"What dost thou wish of me, my Lady? What doest God will?"

 

Edited August 8, 2022 by Necronaut
The Penitent instead dons his armor (because fashion demands it!), and follows Valkyrie out. Edited for clarity.

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Bardas:

The big creature with muscles for a brain looks confused at Falk's comment, and looks around as though the quarry of which you speak will materialise out of thin air. The smaller man regards Falk with a raised eyebrow and a glint in his eye.

"No, they weren't," the small man adjust his accent to match yours. "Which way they go?"

The Penitent:

You catch up with the armoured angel, the ruddy light pushed away by her radiance, the touch of the God-Emperor commanding all, of course. What did you expect? Was he not beyond all ken, were not all things possible?

Valkyrie turns, her austerity passing into beauty with the hint of a smile. Such beneficence would drive you to your knees were you to remember you stood.

Or even breathed.

"Your service, noble Pilgrim. The Emperor wills your piety, your atonement. Further than that, I cannot say. Who knows the mind of the God-Emperor?"

She spins on her heel, and continues to walk. Her hips sway from either purpose or by incident of the necessary armoured bodice supporting her female form, peeking from beneath the power plant.

"Follow. The place of judgement awaits."

Edited August 3, 2022 by Mazer Rackham
Replies

[A.T.]

Falk

With a half shrug and half nod Falk indicated back in the direction of the Husks last spot, "everyone cleared out when they came so I figured they were serious stuff, like they owned the place."

With a more exaggerated movement, "said something about a bar around here, said they had to spend it. Pale looking bunch."

[Necronaut]

She spoke to him again with a mellifluous voice – truly the voice of an angel! He attempted to keep his expression impassive, but feared he might weep at the sight of her beauty. Luckily for him, and what remained of his dignity, she turned and started walking down the corridor, her sabatons clicking on the ferrocrete floor of the passage. He discovered his jaw was hanging open as he looked on after her before he realized she had bade him to follow.

And follow he did. Hurriedly.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

I'm going to let Necro drool a little longer...

Falk:

Deceive Roll please.

[A.T.]

3 hours ago, Mazer Rackham said:

Deceive Roll please.

Decieve: 5 pass (vs 17)

Scrutiny: 21 pass (vs 42)

That went well, considering the character I was rolling earlier today made me think the dice gods hated me :p   I'll have to pick up decieve when I reach rank 4, but until then i'll be relying on the scum not having scrutiny until rank 5...

These kind of opposed rules do still work at low levels when everyone is terrible at everything. And with a little luck I won't be testing fate with my dodge of 16% any time soon :p

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk/Bardas:

"Oh, they bloody did, did they?"

He tugs on the big man's sleeve, and jerks his head in a direction away from you. He suddenly remembers his manners, becoming more obsequious than before. If that was possible.

"You have my sincere apologies, friend. We'll of course speak to these 'associates.' Come on Runt, shift yer bloody arse!"

They hurry away.

[Trokair]

Bardas

As the thugs departed and where a safe distance away Bardas stepped over to stand beside the Arbiter and return to ID chit. In so doing something caught his attention, and the focus of his cowled head was directed towards one of others pockets.

It quickly dawned on Falk that that was the pocket containing the data slate with his order, but by then Bardas had stepped away again, this time to retrieve some further possession from the alcove he had sat in early.

Within moments Bardas stood read, staff in hand, a rolled up mat strung over the other shoulder, with the end of a lasgun just poking out of the end, visible only to a trained eye, and his other possessions stowed away beneath the cloak.

He bowed ever so slightly towards Falk, and at the same time Falk’s secure coms flickered to life for a moment, audible just above the static of an open channel there was just discernible two syllables.

+++Bar – Das+++

It was time to leave, and while the unknown purpose byhind the Arbiters orders might yet turn for the worse in the here and now it beat the alternatives once the thugs came back having realised their mistake.

He gestured with his staff for Falk to lead the way.

Edited August 3, 2022 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

The Penitant:

The impassable, impossible, and unthinkable meets your faltering steps as you are escorted by the angel. She stops you at a powerfully thick door, one illuminated in  the glow of martyr's blood. The holy icon of the Secret Crusaders, the Tireless Vigil stares back at you.

Seeing your wonder, or perhaps fear on top of your already strained will, Valkyrie unclips a small bottle, azure coloured glass it is stopped with a rich onyxbark cork. Trussed in a leather wrap, you can see the fluid inside slosh around as she handles it. It is half the size of a regular guard canteen, and the crystal catches the light.

"It is water," she assures you, "collected from the snow atop Mount Antillus of Gehenna. Thrice blessed by the monastery to Saint Sebastian Thor of the Dawn."

You may make a Common Lore (Imperium) Check or (Ecclesiarchy) if you have it. Otherwise, you may attempt an Intelligence Check at Half-Stat.

The Wanderer, Kerr Restal:

Your Y'ga meditations allow your heartbeat to slow to a crawl. In this trance state, you can hear many things, the pulse of the lamps, the subtle grind of servo-mechanics from within the chamber ahead. It is large, your senses tell you as much, and within you can feel a presence. This is not a psychic emanation of course, you are not witch-cursed, but you have lived in the moment of the senses for too long to ignore the vibration of the world around you.

A great test is coming - the judgement you do not fear. Long ago, you threw your life away to become a lifestealer.

Your inner voice agrees. It sees the stare of the skull-motif ahead of you, unused and uncared for many cycles gone, but death is eternal, constant.

And you now sit at the feet of masters.

Edited August 3, 2022 by Mazer Rackham
Typo

[Necronaut]

He could only look on in uncomprehending bewilderment at her words, wondering to himself where Gehenna was, who this Saint Sebastian was, and more importantly at the significance of the blessed water.

Remembering his manners perhaps too late, he nodded sagely at her, “Oh, um…”

 

 

Intelligence Test at Half Stat

Int 33/2 = Int 16 (or would it be 17? Do we round up?)

Intelligence test: 1d100 74

74: failure with 5 Dos

 

In today's episode of Dark Heresy: The Damocles Contingency, our intrepid hero attempts to seduce a lady with all of the wit and charm of a dying grox. ;)

Edited August 3, 2022 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Penitent:

She sees your discomfiture, confusion, and in that flailing - she misunderstands.

"It is custom to provide refreshment to Pilgrims before travails, is it not? Are your homeland customs different?"

Valkyrie steps closer, cheeks taking on a pink hue, the tattoo of the Sororitas dark beneath her left eye. Her stern gaze is at odds with the scent of roses. It is subtle, but above your unwashed baseness, it is near overpowering. The hum of her power armour sets your teeth on edge.

The tip and swirl of cool mountain water is a hypnotic draw to your parched throat. You can almost smell the crisp mountain air in the bottle, captured by her fair hand.

"Do I speak out of turn, and you wish to fast?"

[Necronaut]

Attempting to regain his composure, he cleared his throat, “Forgive mine ignorance, Lady; I meant thee no offence. My thanks…"

 

With a ragged and apologetic grin, he lifted his helm, carefully took the proffered bottle and drank deeply.

 

Edited August 8, 2022 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Penitent:

The water is refreshing for your body and soul, after your long hours of vespers. The blessings of the monks are manifest in your mind, flooding it with clarity, as it clears the dust and mutterings from your throat.

Spoiler

You may:

• Remove 1 Point of Corruption, or;
• Remove 1 Point of Insanity, or;
• Add a +2 Willpower boost lasting 1D5 days.

You thirsty lad! 

Valkyrie takes the crystal bottle when you are finished, and stores it at her waist, along with other pouches containing ammunition and weapons. She leans out and touches a panel on the wall, which sheds the illusion it is merely a steel fitting, and instead flares into emerald light as an electo-verisign slate.

"Valkyrie. Exitus Acta Probat. One Subject, ready."

Reynard:

The ever-present guardian leans past you, placing his hand to the wall.

"Vigilance. Exitus Acta Probat. One Subject, ready."

Garvek Halsome:

"Good luck," the woman whispers. Her hand slaps a panel near the door.

"Vendetta. Exitus Acta Probat. One Subject, ready."

Kerr Restal:

The face of death speaks - or is it the inner voice?

+One Subject identified. Exitus Acta Probat. Stand, make ready.+

+++++++

The doors begin to hum with power, the great seals of red changing to green in the flick of an eye. Mechanisms unlock, floor plates shift. Behind each of you there comes the muted sound of wailing from human throats, the song of misery for the damned. Fists beat on cell doors, rattling them in fear.

It no wonder this place is so deep, and the sterile surroundings, or the presence of the agents at your shoulders may not be terribly reassuring. The denizens know the sound, the feel of the dark thing stirring at the centre of the lair. A place of revelation, of pain, of judgement, salvation, opportunity.

Death.

Edited August 4, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

The face of death spoke:

+One Subject identified. Exitus Acta Probat. Stand, make ready.+

The Patient Rat awoke, Kerr Restal saw that the doorway was lit with a green light and from within he heard a tumult of scared voices. HIS targets, one's that had been given and others in the future. The way was open. 

Kerr Restal stood up and turned around to witness his life. He walked backwards into the green light, as he was halfway through he turned around and walked on into the Temple. 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

Grey. 

His world was grey. Grey walls, grey clothes, grey people. Even his cover job was grey. The Administratum Investigatus; those that investigate taxes and tithes, merchants and scribes. Grey crimes done by little grey men, these grubby financial crimes, panicked forgetful crimes, or simple mistakes that cost the Administratum money and time. His badge of office didn't evoke the ingrained fear of the Arbites, or even the local probators, but the bland terror of endless red tape and countless vellum forms. He himself wasn't intimidating or threatening, a small bald man in a grey flak coat marked with the Investigatus open hand, the large handgun strapped to his side just another piece of clothing rather than a threat.

His true work was about the flashes of angry red and diseased yellow, bruised purple and pulsing blue. Unregistered pyskers, rogues and latents who were not bound like himself by the Emperor's Will and overseen by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. That badge did invoke fear, the fear of the witch-hunter and Black Ships, of damnation and penance. Telepaths like himself were valuable to the investigating Operations Branch of the Telepathica- they found those that were knowingly or unknowingly channeling the Warp, brought them in, and bound them. Nicios lived for his real work, feeling alive and righteous when bringing in those that tried to hide their abilities from the Emperor. It brought his life color and meaning, his duty and calling. 

Nicios walked into his supervisor's office. In keeping with their front of being Investigatus, the mid-hive office was grey and covered with racks of scrolls and data crystals. Senior Agent Aurthos looked at him with slight resignation. Nicios knew he wasn't his boss' favorite agent. He was too blunt and forward, relying less on deception and guile in his work than pure power. 

"Nicios, sit." 

"Sir." Nicios was sure that he wouldn't enjoy the next few moments. Getting called in by the senior agent during the middle of a work shift was never a good sign. Aurthos' mind was also occluded, no surface thoughts able to be picked up and gleaned. Not good.

"You're being transferred for a new assignment. I'll need your badges and credentials, keep the jacket and your firearm. " 

Shock spread through him. This wasn't supposed to happen! He hadn't done anything wrong, he was zealous in his pursuit of the rogues...

"Sir, what did I do? I didn't ask to be transferred."

"You did nothing," Aurthos spoke heavily, his aura patterns clouded and dark. "This is beyond my discretion or your ability to appeal. This is outside the Telepathica."

Nicious thought hard. Few Imperial organizations had any impact on Telepathica operations, fewer knew about the undercover and disguised witch-hunter agents seeded into various other facets of the massive Administratum. Any agency with the power to reassign an agent like himself would be both powerful and secretive. His bland cover look disappeared, intelligence surfacing in his eyes as he discarded possibilities and outcomes.

Two mind-glows appeared behind Nicios, outside the office door. One was some sort of member of the tech priesthood, his mind feeling like steel and incense. The other, closed off but radiating discipline and duty fiercely. The knock at the door was heavy and strong, clearly coming from the second person.

Nicios dropped his Investigatus and Telepathica badges on the desk and turned to face the door. If this was what he suspected, his new duties may align even closer with his Emperor-given hatred of the witch. I will be ready for anything...

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

The temptation to pick the other man's pocket as he leant past was instinctive, almost too much to resist. But Reynard kept his hand firmly clenched at his side. Focus. The bigger score.

The light and sounds as the door opened were... admittedly unpleasant. He felt a sudden thrill of fear, but did his best to suppress it. They haven't brought you all the way down here just to kill you. They could have done that on the street. It's a test. Just like the foolishness with the taxes. It's a test.

With a deep breath, he stepped through the doorway.

[Mazer Rackham]

Alright Players, we will now hold there to allow Falk, Bardas and Nicios to catch up with you. You may assume that the doors open simultaneously so when the narrative coincides, everyone is at the same place.

Falk/Bardas/Nicios:

You will all be ushered through the same door by a man called Voyager (since he's bringing you all here). He is tall, slender with greyish skin of a voidborn. Nicios might find his 'otherwhere' nature disturbing.

Now we wait....

[A.T.]

Falk:

"We have a stop to make on our way, I hope your taxes are in order". The poor attempt at levity was in contrast to the sound of shells being loaded, the pace controlled as to avoid attention but each turn precise as if pre-planned. Another glance at the chrono, "and right on time". Directing Bardas to a conveyance lift Falk tapped out a pattern of sigils and the platform hissed into life, raising them up through the hive, but even the grinding and squealing of the mechnism didn't completely drown out the sound of heavy boots as moments later an arbites patrol rounded the corner below in lockstep.

Falk motioned to them with almost a smile as the ascent continued, "They can be quite enthusiastic about meeting their schedule.  We won't have to worry about anyone shadowing us for a while, but i'm sorry to say that if you had anything else you needed to do down here it will have to wait".

The conveyancer seemed to extend indefnitely and that it had even been brought to a level as low seemed improbably to have been authorised fast enough to have been so close to Bardas' meandering path though the hive. That his route could have been predicted far enough ahead to complete the reams of paperwork was concerning, that the bureaucracy may have been strong armed even more so, or were both bypassed entirely?

 

The lift stopped at length in a glow of blinding white light. Falks voice was entirely formal in a dialect Bardas recognised but did not fully understand - High Gothic. "Falke, Caleb Augustus, ??????? ??????? ????? ????????". Bardas could hear the whirl of cogitators in response and then a single word from beyond "Proceed".

The lights were not dimmed, the shrouded figures by them did not move as pressurised doors opened in their path. By the time Bardas could see clearly again they had emerged onto a street surrounded by towering grey buildings and flocks of adepts and menials hurrying back and forth. He looked up to see staircases and crossing walks and a roof beyond, and realised that this was not a city but rather the interior of some vast administrative hub.

Falk simply pointed across the path of the scurrying masses, "stay close and don't step on the blue lines". An explanation did not follow.

[Mazer Rackham]

Jericus Nicios:

You have been escorted to the front of the building by one of the Administratum Cognisants - a special duties officer with psychic talents to make sure all is above board. He indicates you should wait in the entrance to the grand room, where many of the Adepts hustle and bustle.

"Your new contact comes," he says.

You do not need to ask how he knows.

Edited August 4, 2022 by Mazer Rackham

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

He paid the Cognisant little heed, his attention was focused on what would come next. 

For many these sort of summons caused fear, anxiety, and terror. Nicios felt none of those, only a growing anticipation.

 

Nicios' world would no longer be grey.

[A.T.]

Falk:

The figures that entered the the grand room were not what Nicios might have expected, one a faceless robed figure that looked to have been dragged from a level so deep it was doubtful any of ten generation of their kin had seen the light of the true sky, the other somehow managing to make a motley mix of uniform and drudging-class clothing look almost formal.

The latter held out a dataslate while speaking in the old tongue, "Jericus Nicios, by authority rank Praefector Absolom in furtherance of administorum mandate you are hearby reassigned immediately and without leave to my custody until such time as that custody is relinquished."

Neither the speaker nor their companion had any indication about them that would suggest agents of the black ships, but such relief was lost in the markings shown on the dataslate itself - the Praefector Absolom of a world could have its governor put to death and yet his mark was overshadowed by two more unrecognised and without name, redacted even here.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

"I hear and obey." The archaic High Gothic words were, as alway in that tongue, formal and couched in time-lost ritual. The bow Nicios performed was brief and professional. "I remand myself to your custody."

Time for my journey to begin...

Edited August 7, 2022 by Lord_Ikka