[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard offered Valkyrie a tight grin.

 

"I assume that's us?"

[A.T.]

Falk

 

The smell of burning metal rarely indicated good tidings in the works of the mechanicus, particularly when it could penetrate fresh kaff and polish. "I hope your efforts have been fruitful given the constraints of time that we face. I have a further task that requires your assistance if you work here is complete?"

 

Some formality had returned with the polish, or perhaps with the thought that their search was at last beginning to narrow rather than widen as questions had finally led to answers of a sort, or at least not an ever increasing count of questions. Or perhaps it was a fools hope that the warehouse would hold some key and the influence of far too much kaff in far too short a space of time.

 

He nodded towards the room with the cage as Bardas approached, "given the effort you have taken for this device I have concerns about our comms." Falk did not elaborate but given what happened at the landing pad and the reach of those arrayed against them he no longer believed the vox secure for anything that might reveal their knowledge or intent.

[Mazer Rackham]

I'll leave Bardas and Falk to interact from here as discribed before.

 

The Lower House:

 

Valkyrie winces at the bawled name, blasted across all and sundry. For the first time there is a tiny chink in her composure. She turns to Reynard, and widens her eyes before moving toward the Lady Crier and offering the sign of the Aquila.

 

"My thanks to the House and the Governor for this opportunity."

 

"Hold!" The voice is cold, hard and clear.

 

It comes from a tall, broad-shouldered man in a rich robe with deep hood. His black robes are embroidered with tiny gold spiderlings. His empty swordbelt is thick leather, with several aurumite medallions, and a long strap His hands are gloved, boots supple, silent on the marble floor, and if they weren't, the noise would mask it. He is joined by three others, one female. They step out of the shadows of an alcove to the side, a private drinking shelter exclusively for the Nobility, everything about these loafers speaks to wealth. They move athletically, paired and poised, maintaining subtle distance - of bodyguards - or assassins.

 

Their hands are empty.

 

They come between you and the Lady Crier. "What is the meaning of this - the Upper House-"

 

"Will wait!" the man turns quickly, barking. He lowers his hood, revealing the hard face and eyes of a young killer. "This is De Grassi business!"

 

The woman is silenced more by his scolding bravado than by anything else.

 

Valkyrie's hand snakes down her curved bodice, to her hip, vambrace clacking each bead of her chaplet in a dangerous rattlesnake clamour. Her hand slips onto her Godwyn-Diaz pattern boltgun. "Imperator nomine, patrus omnia, veritas vincit omnia..."

 

"I would speak to you all," he smiles, but there is no warmth. "The Crier, and the Governor, can stand to wait a little longer."

 

Note to players: This is an option. I'm making this clear now that you can ignore him and go on past into the audience chamber if you want. Combat is an option if you want it, by declaring his intention, the Noble has evoked a personal vendetta. The guards etc will not intervene.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard smiled thoughtfully and stepped forward, holding a hand out for Valkyrie to wait for a moment. He replied softly.

 

"I wonder whether Magda would agree with young De Grassi, dear Constanza? Perhaps she will be happy to wait?"

 

He turned towards the unmasked Spyrer, though careful to move slowly enough not to antagonize the boy's bodyguards. They weren't in combat rigs, but Emperor knew what kit they might be concealing.

 

"Well child, I wondered if our paths might cross again."

 

His tone hardened almost imperceptibly.

 

"What do you want?"

[Mazer Rackham]

The Lower House:

 

Mirth writhes on De Grassi's lips without actually settling into anything...resembling human reflex. A glimmer of amusement blooms in his eyes.

 

"Oh dear, are you still going to be so tiresome? At least your new lady friend looks fun. Is she your chaperone?"

 

With that, he describes a perfect, courtly bow to Valkyrie, and her irritated look at Reynard repeating her name vanishes into a narrow scowl.

 

"Get out of our way, fop," she spoils, hand still grasping her bolter-grip.

 

"What about you killer?" he asks Restal. "How much to cut your swindler friend's throat for me? A million? Two?" This time he does laugh, but his face hardens fast, the airs and graces gone as the lower house returns to it's business, merely detecting a conversation between bickering houses, and not wanting to get involved. "No, that would be too easy."

 

He steps closer to Reynard, but just comfortably out of arm's reach.

 

"You hate me. It's mutual, but trust me, you are not in charge in this...place," he says, hand lazily sweeping the plush galleries above. "The De Grassi House has waited centuries for the seat upon which Magda's pinched arse purses. If you were to...pry it free, why, I am sure I would be grateful."

 

Not once has De Grassi stood still, looking in all directions as part of his foppishness now reveals a paranoid situational awareness, as a hand-signal from the woman with him indicates Nicios in a quick flicker. De Grassi replies, then stands squarely to the investigator-turned-courier.

 

"Your pardon, sir. For your inconvenience in the lift," he says, quite respectfully. He slowly opens his robe to handle a purse, which he throws at Nicios.

 

He begins to retire from you all. "I have the answers to questions you haven't even asked yet. You have my price."

 

They slowly move away into the crowd.

 

If anyone wants to address De Grassi, go ahead, I can fiddle the sequence of events (unless you pull steel of course!)

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard grinned.

 

"I don't hate you, son. Truth be told, so far I've barely even noticed you. Maybe your mother or father, but not you. Now, unless you really do want to start a fight here, we have a prior engagement?"

 

He paused and gestured towards the great door, but also taking in Valkyrie's lethal equipment. De Grassi didn't respond and Reynard shrugged.

 

"Maybe not quite the nihilist you claim to be? Oh, and if you have information you think we might want, it's your duty as a subject of the Imperium to reveal it to us, regardless of whether we're here to depose House Aldario or give it rulership of Damocles in perpetuity. Either is within our authority. Be sure of one thing, however. If you help us, we might help you. If you go against us, my… friends… will burn your little House to the ground. See you around."

 

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

The air was split by the words of the arrogant Spyrers.

 

Amusingly one of them had recognised him from the lift carriage, even addressed him. Perhaps their nihilistic ways afforded them some professional understanding.

 

Bullet time...

 

Didn't happen...

 

Kerr Restal didn't receive His Voice.

 

 

De Grassi and his kin waltzed off into the crowd.

 

"I think not De Grassi, he is one of my team. You are just the Eight of Spades!"

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

"Thank you, Lord de Grassi, for your generous advice. I will think on it...intently."

Nicios bowed to the noble, his voice even and calm. 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Upper House and Chamber of The Crown:

 

With your immediate coast clear, Valkyrie leads the party, towed in the wake of the Lady Crier as the staff is banged on the floor upon a brass plate, to save the expensive marble. The upper house begins with a broad narthex in rotunda, almost mimicking that of the Templum of St Iacinda's footprint. Along the concave walls are plinths of ministers, leaders and generals of the noble and trading houses. A particular bust draws your attention, Albeit for being in the ancient Romanic style, the features certainly look like those of the Malcadon tormentor whose company you so enjoy. Around the eyes and chin anyway.

 

The top plinths, one of which sits to the left of a broad sweep of stairs, shows a smiling young woman in a smooth robe, her arms outstretched in a perpetual gesture to usher you onward. She is mirrored on the right by a stern, alternative pose of refusal of your advance. Both are sculpted with long, tumbling hair and masked brow, high cheekbones and a tapering, chin. Both statues are exceptionally well tooled, with intricate and exquisite detailing. The long purple carpet trundles up the marble flight of steps and continues, meeting a heavy double-door which is guarded by Yeomen armed with long halberds. Their red and yellow striped brockade jackets and pantaloons end in white stockings and black felt shoes, but their clothes are bulky, probably armoured, and the blades - whilst mirror shined - gleam with sharpness.

 

Six stand above, three to each leaf of the door. Two stand within the narthex, moving on a circular patrol along a line of golden thread, marking their boundary. Even as you watch, one supplicant in a meandering group stumbles in front of the Yeoman, who without breaking stride, smashes into him and sends him flying. Instead of outrage, the man apologises and is helped to his feet by his colleagues who berate him for not looking.

 

As you approach the middle of the narthex, you can see the debating chambers on the left and right, with attendants and footmen preparing for a further session of the legislative assembly. The Crier leads you upstairs, the Yeomen pausing at her passing so that you may follow. Once on the steps, they close behind you, facing outwards and down. You are brought to the doors, which tower above you, gargoyles and cherubim invisible from below stare down from the cornices, the former gripping censers pouring gentle perfumes and holy incense to ease and clarify the humours of those waiting.

 

The Crier taps her mace-head on the huge, black-iron hasp in the middle of the thirty-foot high, buttressed, solid wooden doors.

 

Nicios ONLY:

Spoiler

The door is imposing, and the lingering potential of so many heated words and angry minds forms a peppery taste in your subconscious. Yet, this door could easily prevent things getting out as coming in, and beyond them you can sense a cold shadow, like a cloak left in a fridge. Something washes against the door, an ebbing tide. The crier knocks, but what replies is something more substantial. A hammer striking a bell underwater.

 

Valkyrie fidgets with her chaplet while you wait.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Behind the petitioner's mask, Nicios grimaces. Turning to his companions,  he softly warns them.

 

"Be wary. There is something beyond that door that makes my powers...edgy. Caution may be the best way forward."

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Quite a display...

 

Reynard found himself irritated by the pomp and extravagance. Jealousy? He was self-aware enough to admit it probably factored into his distaste. However, the abundance itself angered him. A tiny fraction of what was displayed here would make him, or any other Underhiver, fabulously wealthy several times over. Why did these fools deserve such treasures? He half wondered if he might have an opportunity to slip anything into a pocket while they were here.

 

Perhaps not. They'd be watching carefully. However, it was still a perfect opportunity to examine kind of the security measures used by the Imperium's elite. Very useful… assuming he survived the next few days…

 

Nicios spoke, warning them of what lay beyond the great doors.

 

…assuming he survived the next few minutes.

 

Edited January 13, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Acknowledging Falk with a nod Bardas canted one final note of thanks as he departed the workshop to join up with the Lawman.

 

+Your lead has been fruitful then, and you are right, our comms should only be used as a last resort, we do not know if they are still secure.+

 

As they walked Bardas showed Falk the Servo Skull data he had recorded in the paper notebook and shared his thoughts on what he thought they might imply.

 

 

i.e. this post and the beginning part of this one. Bardas has not shared anything regarding the data stack and Magos Krupp’s fate, he wants to ponder all that a bit more.

[A.T.]

Falk

 

The tech-lingua meant little to Falk, but patterns emerged as he poked a finger at a point on the paper, "these information requests have two different identification codes, shouldn't they be the same if one individual was attempting to alter the skulls behaviour?"

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

+Plausible, there are multiple parties involved after all. We should keep in mind that they both have access to official channels. Or perhaps two subordinates working for the same authority each put in their own request. Without knowing who the ID Codes correspond to we are still in the Dark, a little less perhaps, but still in need of illumination.+

 

+So where are we headed?+  

Edited January 15, 2023 by Trokair

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"The upper hive. I believe I may have found the door that fits our key, perhaps some lead to how all of this started." He glanced over towards the tech priest, "before we ascend you should take what measures are possible to hide your appearance from cameras and auger links. There will be markets at the base of the spire access for hats and veils."

 

Finding such a shop or stall further from the ascent would be cheaper but there was no time to search, such things would have to be left to chance. Taking stock of Bardas he considered the mechanicus robes he wore to be common enough to pass without note but tears from earlier hardships had left them conspicuously marked.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Upper House and Chamber of the Crown:

 

The sound of mechanisms disengaging, locks being unlatched creak and grind from the door jambs. With ponderous grace each leaf retreats, swinging open in an arc which matches the brass fitments in the granite, well polished and shining with fresh unguents. As the room opens to you, the chamber beyond is revealed in all it's splendour. Light and water spill from crystalline sconces on the walls, tumbling in gleaming showers to fill marble bowls beneath, in which stand plinths of the siants or great forebears of the hive. You recognise one of St Iacinda, and perhaps unbidden, the raucous behaviour of one her priests serving the Templum.

 

The others are unknown to you, yet familiar all the same, for their cameos have passed through your hands many times, pressed into the gilt coin and silver tokens of the Imperial Thrones to be found upon Damocles.

 

Vast chandeliers of four tiers of eternally burning liquid-fire crystals illuminate this fortress of wealth in a warm, bright light. Six chandeliers in all, secured in a hexagonal pattern above the audience chamber.  The liquid luminescent within each bulb convulses and tumbles, against the backdrop of the gentle waterfalls. Beneath your feet, marble tiles, a mirror finish which reflects your figures back up at you. What do you see? A rogue's gallery? Dashing heroes of the Imperium? Or maybe something else?

 

The reflections truncate at the border with the rich purple carpet. Spun through with golden stitches, intricate patterns of the old coats of arms of the Houses, and even personal emblems of the rulers of this world. Upon the carpet at the corners of a tall, trapezoidal, stepped dais, stand the pikestaff wielding sentinels. Some march a patrol around the foot of the dais, but once more, they adhere to a path laid out for them in red silk. This forms the boundary and border of their mistress, who sits upon piled amethyst cushions upon the Great Seat.

 

It is a curious thing, a high-backed alabaster and pink-veined marble affair, wrought for a backside many times bigger than the weedy waif who dallies upon it. Coiled with intertwining thorns and the scaled hide of a sinuous serpent, you could be forgiven for thinking it writhed in the light and shadow from the glow-globes above. Yet the slight woman upon it commands the lives of a billion souls and more, and her frame is spare, but carries a deep majesty. Her head, with tumbling red hair, teased into deep ringlets falls from a pinned coronet, and the thin, lace veil which spans her brows and partially masks her eyes does not hide the sharp, fierce gaze pushing from behind it.

 

A cold smile slowly spreads across full, red lips, and her skin is as pale as the throne upon which she perches. Her head cants, a felid caress of study, before her long, lithe fingers grip the arms of the chair. In a fluid motion, she pulls herself upright to her feet, the black garments hugging her figure twinkle with sewn-in diamonds as she stands, aloof, haughty.

 

This then, is the Honourable and Venerable, Her Ladyship and Majesty, Magda Hesperia Ignacia Aldario, High Chancellor, Planetary Governor, and Mistress of Damocles and all her Demesnes.

 

At her standing, the courtiers and crown attendants also stop their chatter, and assemble for the audience. Among them is Praefectus Secundus Aldario, and many robed as Ecclesiarch Prelates, a Mechanicum Quaestor representative, and Guild Leaders.

 

In front of you on the carpet, pages hurry to bring individual kneeling pews for the audience. When they see Valkyrie, they also bring a large purple cushion to protect the ancient wood from her warplate. The Battle Sister says nothing, but steps across the polished floor, dropping to one knee and resting her arms over the frame, chaplet in hand.

 

Behind you, the Crier coughs politely.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Storehouse of the Chattels of St Iacinda and her Bountiful Benevolence:

 

The door to the storehouse is significantly robust. Ecclesiarchy helots and serfs are a frequent sight in this part of the hive, and thicker as you approach the Templum, venturing down several levels, following the signs. The storeroom is not exactly guarded, nor hidden. The penalties for theft from such a place are severe, and who would anyone sell their ill-gotten gains to anyway?

 

Across the square from the very well buttressed door is a small market which provides an array of items, from food packs to pious sundries for offer at the Templum proper. It is an obvious and easy place to mingle in, the hivers are of middling income and time, and so pay no head to the polished-up lawman and his mechanithrall-esque companion.

 

Apart from a fleeting raft of servo-skulls meandering past on some errands, there are no real patrols here, but the door does boast an exceptionally robust lock...

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

All around is anticipation, pomp and circumstance.

 

Death

 

 

and

 

 

Judgement.

 

 

He listens as he slowly counts...

 

[A.T.]

Falk

 

The trip here had been surprisingly uneventful, perhaps their recent caution had shaken those that followed them, or perhaps another of the group held their eyes. For all the efforts taken to hide from the mechanicum it was the witch below that troubled Falk, not the cage built by Bardas nor the hat he had purchased on the way up here would aid against such power.

 

Turning to his companion, "Of all the doors in the hive this one emerged as most likely a fit for our key. Even so it is little more than a hunch, be prepared to do what you must should the lock here reject our intrusion".

 

Falk revealed the key, hidden from observers by his body, waiting for acknowledgement or rebuff from the tech priest as to this dangerous but perhaps necessary course of action.

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

+Do you have any indication of what Dreyfuss would have needed so desperately from inside that he needed a one-use key. Why not requisition what he needed?+

 

+ If you are certain this is the door, then using the key will be worth it, if not we better hope the others made more headway.+

 

Adjusting his second new hat, still wide brimmed, though not as much as the last, Bardas glanced around. No one was paying attention to them as far as he could tell, and an Arbitrator going about his business should not draw any either.  

[Mazer Rackham]

The Storehouse:

 

More servo-skulls flit back and forth, but after a few minutes, they and most of the Eccliesiarchs have thinned out. It approaches the hour of prayer and luncheon for the hivers, and many make obeisance at the small shrines dotted about the square.

 

There is still enough human cover, but eyes and hands prepared to stop you are thin.

 

A lone Judge attends the square, but he turns to one of the street vendors, and begins to point at his wares, likely negotiating lunch, since his shotgun is lowered.

 

The door itself is recessed into an alcove by one foot, which projects cover from the sides and above.

Edited January 21, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Typo

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard looked down at the wooden pew, thinking. His gut reaction to the stupendous display was to make himself as small as possible, to avoid notice until he could get away.

 

However, assuming a subservient position seemed like a very bad idea. The Inquisition accepted the authority of only one Throne, and however grand this alabaster… thing… looked, it could not - should not - compare.

 

An acknowledgement of her Emperor-given power seemed appropriate, though. After all, the Inquisition used diplomacy when necessary. He did not kneel, but he did offer a respectful, courtly bow, removing the hat from his head with an elegant sweep of his arm. Then he straightened, looking Aldario squarely in the eye. A stunningly beautiful young woman. Apparently. In entirely different circumstances, if he didn't know who and what she was, he might have even offered her a wink.

 

His attempts to disguise his appearance had served their purpose, getting him up the Hive without interference… but there was little point in hiding any longer. His face was known. His previous display to the children in the lift shaft would likely be the talk of the Spire in a matter of hours anyway. Perhaps it already was.

 

With outward calm, Reynard opened his hand and allowed the electoo in his palm to shine across the grand room. He smiled thinly at the sudden gasps, letting an air of cool superiority settle around him. In the silence that followed, his quiet words were deafeningly loud.

 

"Let us not waste any more time. I understand you have been looking for me, Milady Governess."

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Upper House:

 

"Oh my! The learned and fearless agents of..." Magda's voice hushes "..the Inquisition!"

 

The lights even flicker ominously.

 

Nicios may attempt a Difficult (-10) Psyniscience or Pyschic Detection Test (of any discipline). The presence of Valkyrie grounds you, however, and therefore eliminates the risk of Perils. Any roll of Perils may be ignored.

 

The Governor puts her hand to her mouth to cover her surprise, but it also covers the edges of a smile. Her eyes glimmer. She recovers, gathering a shawl from the throne, placing it about porcelain shoulders and slender neck, beginning to descend the steps. She approaches with an odd grace, her slimline dress falling down to what you can see are bare feet. Each step is constrained by the smocking garment, displaying every curve and sweep of an athletic figure.

 

Her guards come to attention, despite whatever fear lingers, their duty as bodyguard sworn to death.

 

"Please," she says, and motions them aside to let her come closer. She gestures for Valkyrie to stand, which the Angel does.

 

Secundus Aldario strides across. "It gladdens me you are a Throne Agent. There is great restlessness in our home and we need your aid. We apologise profusely you have been discommoded and wrongfully accused of complicity."

 

"Profusely," Magda echoes, breathlessly, staring at Reynard. Her lips part invitingly. She presses a pale hand to the base of her throat. "You are more handsome than the picters portray."

Edited January 21, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"I am far from certain, but I fear we no longer have time for certainty."

 

A roll of the dice then, Falk withdrew the key and presented it to the locking system. The Emperors mercy be on this endeavour.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Storehouse:

 

Th lock accepts the card perfectly, and the holoslICE goes to work. You can hear the clatter and snap of electricals either burning out, the security djinns screaming as they are thwarted. The door security lozenges turn from amber to green, and the handle emerges from a porthole. A simple twist, and the door is open. The lights have stirred no immediate commotion.

 

The way is open.

 

Inside you see towering rows of poorly lit crates disappearing back into shadow. All different sizes, they are stencilled on the side with names and code-idents, but these how no sign of continuity, no order. It appears they have been just...stacked here. One of the plasteel shelving units which truss and contain these crates is labelled 'Sector A'. Dingy without being terribly dank, there remains a smell carried on the cool, recirculated air.

 

As you look around, a few patrons of the stores and street vendors look up, only to mind their business elsewhere. A servo-skull buzzes overhead, blue-lit lenses watching.