[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

MG, I'm not sure if you just fell (Free Action) or if you did a Half-Move, as either action is comes with it's own problems, but I'll assume you did a Half-move and chose to go prone, because otherwise, no SAB/Point Blank. If you do perform a Half-Move though, you don't get +10 to the SAB, but we'll keep that in mind going forward.

 

Just as a note to all Players, in DH you need to confirm RF rolls (unless Weapon Quals or Psychic Power shenanigans), no Deathwatch Training here. I have mentioned this before, so please try to remember in future, or I will outright discount your bonus damage.

 

The Cradle:

 

The Agility of the Cultist is betrayed by his sinuous writhing to dodge the sudden gunfire, but he is still ravaged by volume, as he tries to trade an arm for a leg...

 

Cultist 1: Reaction (-10 Dodge)

Dodge: 14 PASS, 2 DoS (Second Attack Dodged)

Damage: 9 - 3(TB) - 2(Arm) = 4 Wounds (8/12)

Damage: 21 - 3(TB) - 2(Arm) = 16 Wounds (-8/12)

Energy Critical (Left Arm) TB Test: 01 PASS. Fatigue Level D10: 2 (-10 to all Tests) = One arm (Right), Blood Loss.

FREE STRIKE: WS - 10, HIT, (Left Leg) Dam: 11, Primitive. (Can't Dodge, it's a Free Strike).

 

Restal [x]

 

Restal has barely any time to catch the Stranger's flickering fingers, but the gist is there.

 

Will/Cost/You. The Stranger signs.

 

Una [ ]

Outraged, at being goosed as the fight broke out, Una snarls, ducking to pull her heels off, just as the shotgun nearly blows her head over the ceiling. Incensed, she hurls a bottle of very expensive wine at his head.

Spoiler

Actions:

Full Action: Called Shot

BS: MISS.

Distracted by Reynard's frantic waving as she quickly looks around for more perverts, she fluffs the throw and it smashes into the bottles in the bar behind the Bartender.

 

Cultist 3:

Fighting fire with fire, the prone, unarmed Cultist grips  the corner of one of the burning cushions, and hurls it back at Reynard. (NOTE: This is not a firebomb, but works like one. If it hits, it will impart 1D5+SB (Improvised damage).

Spoiler

Half Action: Equip Heavy Cushion

Half Action: Throw

BS: MISS, Scatter, 2m, HITS Robed Stranger

 

Robed Stranger: (-10 AG)

Reaction: Dodge - PASS.

The stranger moves with supple grace and unerring poise, rolling away from the impromptu bomb, and getting to his feet. As he moves the cloak smocks around him, revealing bulk and strange angles underneath the swathing, shapeless garment.

 

Unfortunately the spot he occupied is now on fire.

 

Cultist 4:

The grinning, shrieking fiend produces and Autopistol, but aim foiled by the flaming bombard thrown by his friend, his bullet screams by, and ricochets along the back wall.

Spoiler

Half Action: Ready weapon

Half Action: Standard Attack (Reynard)

BS: MISS

 

Cultist 5:

Leaps onto to Una, lone, serpentine tongue dropping from between sharp teeth, writhing against her face with strange purplish saliva, as he seeks to overpower her.

Spoiler

Half Action: Half Move

Half Action: Pull to floor (Opposed Str)

Cultist Wins 1 DoS.

They go down in a heap of writhing limbs.

 

Cultist 6:

Hurls himself at Reynard, ploughing up cushions in the rush.

Spoiler

Full Action: Charge

WS: MISS.

 

Seeing Reynard's predicament, with a shrug that speaks volumes, the Stranger rips off his cloak. Cybernetic arms cowl up and around him, alien, almost insectile banded armour of a crimson hue. Long blades slip from arm mountings, as his Royal Highness, Prince Lexandro De Grassi, joins the fight for your lives.

 

Half Action: Half move (into CC with Reynard and Cultist 6.

 

+ ROUND ONE ENDS +

 

Toughness Tests:

Spoiler

Bartender: PASS

Cultist 1: PASS

Cultist 2: FAIL

Cultist 3: FAIL

Cultist 4: FAIL

Cultist 5: PASS

Cultist 6: PASS

Hostess: FAIL

 

De Grassi (Spyrer): Immune

Reynard: FAIL

Una: Fail

Restal: ?

 

 

Edited March 6, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Reloading the spend round in his pistol Falk returned to the elevator briefly and wrenched one of the smaller pannels from its interior, if Nicios could be found perhaps something that had been warped by their unseen enemy might serve to lead them back to it.

 

Finally he turned his attention to the guards, the symbol of the inquisition still glowing on his palm. "On your feet. I task you with returning the body of your master for final accounting of his crimes and of those who aided him. Seek what redemption you can while it is still offered and know that if you seek to flee your fate you run too from the Emperors light".

 

Given everything that had just happened it seemed best to give them something to occupy their minds before they followed Kreavus' example. They were clearly not fanatics and with some luck they would be able to fill in the gaps in Kreavus' recent movements and actions, perhaps even lead them to Greyson, should they escape this place alive.

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk:

 

They nod, understanding through a wall of ringing in their remaining ears, lip reading and your general directions and bearing. They pick up Kraevus between them, holstering their guns, but after seeing where they are, under your watchful eye, they slowly pull the their belts around to leave the holsters within easy reach.

 

The Mechanics and panels of the lift car look perfectly normal, besides being burned out and blackened with overcharged soot.

 

You do, however, recover a small inspection lamp. It's not powerful, but the design is typically robust Mechanicum. It will illuminate 2 x 2 m square of environment, not terribly well, but just enough to spot pitfalls or low hanging beams.

Edited March 6, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Slightly floating, Nicios turned inward. There was nothing he could do to slow or control the lift, he had to hope that the operator knew what he was doing and the God-Emperor willed him to continue his task.

 

What he could do was prepare for what was below. He invoked the Psalms of the Hunter and centered his mind.

Spoiler

Invocation Test

Target - 53

Roll - 12

Result = Pass

 

Manifest Pyschic Power (Sense Presence)

Threshold - 7

Roll - 9 + 5(WPB) + 5(Invocation) = 19

Result = Pass, with 1 Pyschic Phenomena rolled

Overbleed - extend range from 50m to 70m (+10m for every 5 over Threshold)

 

The swirling Warp forces lashes back at him, but Nicios forces his senses into the maelstrom.

[Necronaut]

And now for something completely different:

 

Scourge:

 

Their ascent through the hive had been furious, bordering upon reckless. They had spent a small fortune in bribes and transit fees to see them safely out of Rivet City and into the upper strata of the spire. Stimms, the chirurgeon, had grumbled mightily at the amount of coin they had spent, that they were drawing too much attention, but time was of the essence and their cargo was too precious. The Penitent was less concerned by their rapidly dwindling funds, and more by the relative lack of impediments to their progress. A single, overwhelming display of force and savage violence early on had been enough to convince any gangers, highwaymen or other blaggards to give them a wide berth during their flight. The entire time, however, he could not shake the uneasy feeling that they were being watched, followed, hunted by some other predator in the depths. 

 

By the time they reached the spaceport to rendezvous with Voyager, a little over a day had passed since departing Rivet City, with little time spent for rest or nourishment. The lower levels of the hive existed in his memory now only as a strange blur of riotous colors, smells and sounds. He and Stimms had talked little outside of muttered oaths and hushed whispers while on the move. The few words they had felt safe to exchange while occupying a near-deserted maglev carriage confirmed his suspicions that the furtive and twitchy medic was a fellow member of the Guard, or at least used to be.

 

The morning light shining through the blast doors which led out to the landing pad was blinding, so used had he grown over the past few days to the dingy and sputtering lighting of the lower hive. It took a few seconds for his sight to adjust, and when it did he grabbed Stimms by the arm and helped him hustle along the last few tens of meters to the Inquisition craft. Voyager was waving at them frantically to hurry. The scant blurts of information they had received over the comms in the past hour had been troubling and he had been feeling increasingly uneasy the higher they climbed.

 

Looking over his shoulder at the near-deserted landing pad, he breathed out a sigh of relief and urged Stimms onward, pausing briefly to pan his baroque lasgun across the area. They had made it. He shook his head to clear the fatigue and encroaching mind-fog and turned to follow Stimms the last few meters to the dropship. Voyager was shouting at them from the boarding hatch, his voice barely legible over the whine of the ship's jet turbines. He saw Stimms a few meters ahead of him unsling the cylindrical steel lodestone he had borne the past couple of days, preparing to hand it off to their pilot. 

 

Retina-searing light blinded the Penitent, and he reflexively threw up his arm over the faceplate of his sallet and dove sideways. The shockwave flung him while he was still in mid-flight and deposited him some 6 meters back; a helm-crunching blow to the head cast him into darkness before he even landed.

 

+++

 

Voices came to him out of the black, punctuated by disembodied flashes of pain. Words simultaneously familiar and alien, robbed of their meaning and coherence washed over him as he passed in and out of consciousness. 

 

"... hunc tuere, illum in luce tua lava, sana… "

 

He felt himself being lifted and then he remembered no more.

 

+++

 

Prayers being muttered in High Gothic drifted to him, accompanied by the metronomic clicking of wooden beads and the steady creaking of cheap leather on plasteel. He groggily rolled his eyes back and forth in their sockets, and sharply sucked oxygen into his nostrils, feeling as though he had just woken from the most curious dream. The scents of freshly washed linens and medicinal unguents greeted him. The droning, muttered prayers continued on. He could nearly make them out, if he could get closer to the source.

 

He attempted to lift his head to move but nothing happened, his body refused to respond. He would have felt fear were he not still emerging from the deep, dark cocoon of coma-sleep, so he focussed upon willing his eyes to open. The voice of his father, which he had not heard in nearly two decades, came unbidden. 

 

Open your eyes… open your eyes, my son…

 

His heavy lids cracked open, and immediately recoiled, shutting to protect his aching retinas.

 

After a minute, he was able to summon the strength to try again. A field of white light greeted him, and he forced his slitted eyes to remain open. Eventually white faded to gray, shadowed shapes; two blurry, misaligned images assaulted his cortex. With more effort he forced his ocular muscles into compliance and the image resolved into that of a small, modest room made from stone. He could see two white lumps poking up a short distance away from him, just in front of a steel bar. One of the lumps twitched unexpectedly and he breathed in sharply before realizing he had felt the lump move with an electrical discharge.

 

His feet. He had feet.

 

With an effort he turned his head in the direction of the noise, the muttered prayers, feeling linen fabric and cushioning material deform under him. He concentrated and forced his eyes to focus upon the source of the noise. A bearded, tonsured man in brown robes clutching a wooden rosary rocked back and forth in his chair, quite intent upon his prayers.

 

With the last of his waking strength, Scourge raised his right hand, reaching weakly towards the man and grunted incoherently. The bearded man's eyes snapped open and flicked over toward the sudden outburst. He rose, towering over the invalid like a stern parent watching over an infant. He spoke to his charge with an arched eyebrow, but the words made no sense, sounding garbled and muffled. 

 

He grabbed the sleeve of the man's robe with muscles made from putty and dove headlong back into the enveloping darkness.

 

+++

 

He woke again, wrenching his eyes open and casting his vision about his cell in a panic. The bearded man was gone, and warm light entered from the portal at the far end of the room. He strained and pushed himself up onto his elbows only to be greeted by an eye-watering spike of pain from his sides, followed by a dull throb from his head. His ribs were cracked, no doubt. Carefully leaning to one side, he gingerly touched his recently shaved head, finding the puckered trench of a recently sutured wound through a fresh linen bandage. He traced the furrow of flesh and fabric from his upper forehead over the crest of his scalp. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away tears.

 

He hurt. Everywhere.

 

He spoke, but no words came, just a dry, hoarse whisper. He wet his dry, cracked lips and tried again, but still nothing. He took a few deep breaths, or as deep as he could manage breathing at the moment, and tried a third time, painfully compressing his diaphragm to drive the air out.

 

"HELP! WATER!"

 

He collapsed back onto the cot exhausted, breathing hard, gritting his teeth against the pain from his left side.

 

He was alive, by the grace of the God-Emperor. He was alive, if just. 

 

Edited March 7, 2023 by Necronaut

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

After pulsing four shots into the madman, Restal watched as his assailant slashed his leg with a clawed glove.

 

The weave of his flak trench-coat turned some of the blow.

 

All is calm during the hunt, the thrill, intense concentration...

 

 

 

Damage 11 -4 (Flak AV) -3 (TGH) = 4 Wounds. (Wounds 11/15)

 

TGH 34 -0 (Challenging) = 34. Result: 21, Pass 1DoS

 

 

Wounds painless, endorphins and clinical calm thought flush away the heady musk.

 

 

Edited March 6, 2023 by Machine God
Double AV versus Primitive

[Mazer Rackham]

The Hospice of St Loyola:

 

Scourge:

 

The lights are dimmed by a shadow falling across you. "Help the brother up."

 

Large hands grip under your arms and pull you upright, before returning with a beaten, worn copper bowl of still water. A pilgrim's bowl. It touches your lips, poured gently to wet your mouth first, so you don't splutter. The huge hand with broad, scarred fingers and knuckles wrapped in bandages which track up his arm, disappearing into thick sleeves of a deep crimson robe in a clerical or Ecclesiarchy cut.

 

In silence, he relinquishes the bowl to your hands to drink as you will. Looking up, you see directly into a large face, hidden by more thick bandage strips. His shoulders are broad as a Mukaali's, his eyes sapphire blue, piercing, intense.

 

A squeal of wooden legs on stone, announces the bench being pulled to your bedside the tonsured man stands smiling, ushering another figure into the hospice room.

 

The shuffling man, is accompanied by three flitting cherubim, and the tonsured priest helps to unlimber his carrying frame for the water bowser he usually carries around. Jumbled memory ebbs back.

 

"Thank you Cephas," Father Hyronimus of the Cathedrum Iacinda nods to the giant, who simply presses his palms together, and retires from the room. His size fills the space, but he does not lack for agility. His robe and cloak would be enough for three men to sleep in under the stars. "He does not speak my son," he tells you, "a vow of silence exists between our fraternity. Except for the Speakers."

 

Hyronimus straightens as a smaller man enters carrying a satchel. He is given the bag, and the old padre extracts the phial within, examining it carefully.

 

"Now my son," he leans over and drops something heavy beside your left leg. When his hand retreats, an Inquisitorial Seal stares up at you, glinting with a garnet eye.

 

It is not yours.

 

"Tell me everything."

[Necronaut]

He tried to keep his expression impassive, but his eyes widened just the same at the crimson-eyed Inquisition seal. Was this man to be trusted, a priest of the God-Emperor? A fellow member of the Inquisition? The Inquisition? A potential betrayal? Could anyone be trusted? Where was he? Who was he? 

 

Name, rank, and serial number… name, rank, and serial number…

 

The words came unbidden, rote memory, as he raised his eyes to meet the stern gaze of Father Hyronimus.

 

“Penitent Convict number MVZXK3394125, 1st Sergeant, 801st Penal Legion, serial number RT057-9475-4773.”

 

Death before dishonor.

 

His mind raced, trying to remember who he was, his purpose…

 

The image of a slight man carrying a large metal vessel briefly danced in his mind’s eye.

 

“Forgive me, Pater, I…”

 

He looked down at his hands. The palm of his left hand displayed an electrum cruciform symbol.

 

“Where am I? How long have I...? What happened to… to…?”

 

Death before dishonor.

 

He stared at the older man, his questions hanging in the air. The symbol on the bed was the same as on his hand. It had burned his hand. The garnet eye glared balefully up at him. 

 

The past events came back to him in a surge. The underground citadel. Valkyrie. Verdict. Voyager. Reynard. Tarrant. Stimms. Nicios. Bardas. Falk.

 

Stimms. His eyes widened with newfound clarity, and he clenched his fist, hiding the electoo once again. An expression of grim resolve took over his beaten and weathered countenance.

 

Was this a test? A double-cross? How did he have the phial? How much did he know? 

 

The threat was implicit.

 

“Forgive me, Pater. By the device etched upon mine flesh, thou knowest I must not tell thee mine story. I am a soldier of God. Death before dishonor."

Edited March 7, 2023 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Hospice:

 

Father Hyronimus' face softens a little, crinkles appearing at the edges of his eyes as they light with amusement. He nods to the others in the room, and they withdraw. "Cephas?"

 

There is an answering clap.

 

"Admit none, good brother."

 

The clap replies, and the door to the hospice wing is closed with a brute finality. Huge feet can be heard pacing around, then still - a sentry taking post.

 

"I can see why they recruited you, my son," he says, turning back to you. "Verdict rarely makes mistakes. Forgive me, but I had to be sure. Your determination reminds me of my own son-not-of-blood. How I wish dear Nico were here."

 

A deep sigh comes from even deeper inside the man, and he seems to slump, as though he'd been holding that breath for a very long time.

 

"Your pardon, my child. Without Acolytes, or contacts it has been difficult sheltering within the hallowed ground of a Templum. When I first saw you, I was unsure of what you were, or the secret master you served, for this hive is rife with scum and villainy."

 

He breaks off to take out a wooden chaplet. Unlike Valkyrie's this is definitely a man's version. Each is intricately carved with prayers and sigils of the Lord on Earth.

 

"Refresh yourself, then, and listen."

 

He indicates you should drink.

 

"My name is Garrad Hyronimus Locke, Inquisitor to the Throne of His Majesty, scourge of the wicked and judge of the highest seat." He laughs at the pomposity of it, the true humility and candour of the man coming through. "I know - reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

 

He leans forward, whispering conspiratorially. "I always wanted to say that."

 

Dropping back from you, he continues. "Long years have I been marooned here, after crusading out on the fringes of space. I came to Damocles to fulfil a mission of inventory and oversight of one of the Emperor's Black Ships, for there was a prisoner on board I needed to make sure remained a prisoner."

 

As he speaks, his vision turns inward. "Yet there was a betrayal, and a trusted man forfeited all for the lives of his children, to make a deal with the devil. What true father could not?"

 

Locke's gaze sweeps back up, but this time the amusement has gone, and the iron of his calling is naked in his eyes. "And now, after having told you all this, your life is forfeit. So you might as well engage me with a tale of your own, my son."

 

Necro/Scourge, a quick response post is fine, you don't have to repeat 40-odd pages, we'll not, and say you did, yes? ;)

[Mazer Rackham]

NIcios:

 

Having rolled Phenomena, we have a Perils of The Warp.

 

@Lord_Ikka, please roll 1D3.

Edited March 7, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

Affixing the inspection lamp to his coat Falk pulled out his autogun and activated the stablight, reasoning that volume would be the best defense.

 

One last attempt at comms, no response. There was nothing left to do now but walk and hope that the distant light in his mind would lead them true.

[Lord_Ikka]

 

Roll - 4

Result = 2

 

Edited March 7, 2023 by Lord_Ikka

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Locke?! THE Locke? The man, the long-dead heretic a cabal of murderers had bade him publicly execute?

 

Impossible! And yet… 

 

He looked long and hard into the eyes of the older man, a man now grown ancient with rejuvenat treatments and a life on the run. Does he not already know? 

 

The Penitent, Scourge, for the first time in a long time felt unbelievably small and weak. 

 

"Pater, my life is already forfeit to Verdict, and the God-Emperor. Any agonies thou canst devise pale before an eternity of Damnation, should I betray my clade."

 

He paused, wondering briefly if he could take Locke in his diminished state, but the old man had to be a slippery and wily operator. And there was perhaps something yet to learn from the old inquisitor. 

 

Scourge sighed and continued, "Hives Secundus and Tertius hath been destroyed by sabotage, not by mishap. I suspect that a man of thy disposition and resources mayst already know this grim truth. Further, the conspirators responsible for this atrocity have demanded thine head. Mine confederates search even now for the saboteurs to prevent further bloodshed, but judgement for all cometh anon."

 

He took some shallow breaths, grinding his teeth with the effort of remaining upright on his damaged ribs.

 

"The contents of that phial are beyond my ken. 'Twere produced by a Magos of dread power deep within this spire. Whether his artifice were the product of epiphany or madness, or for good or ill, only the God-Emperor knowst. I am charged to see it safely out of Hive Primus. Those we hunt have a keen interest in it."

 

He took a swig from the proffered vessel and returned it to Locke.

 

"I might ask thee to hear mine confession, Pater, but thou hath been named Heretic, and delivered the Emperor's Mercy. If the rumors were to be believed." 

 

He cracked a pained smile at his weak jest and ploughed on, "I know not what devil's pact thou struck, but thou may yet make amends for thy sins this day. If thou still beareth thy crucifix, and it still holdeth meaning for thee, then heed me. My mission must not fail. I - we - can secure the safety of this Hive. For even Sanguinius, the God-Emperor's Son, came not to be served but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many. What say ye, Pater?"

 

Edited March 7, 2023 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Depths:

 

Nicios:

 

His senses extended, Nicios searches, his soul a small coracle upon the tide. Many are the fish he can sense, minnows, tiny things beneath and around him, insects, vermin, the odd half-maddened mutant under-dwellers.

 

Then he finds the true souls, humans, dedicated, or at least one of them. A mind like a set of scales, or a steel trap, perhaps. As he scries, though, a change in the aetheric swell, a rapid infusion of the Immaterium batters against him, carrying his little boat ad hurling it from his body with furious power. The screaming of daemons are nails on a chalkboard as the current carries him, firing him loke a bullet. For a brief moment, he sees everything, his out-of-body tumult only snatches, but he knows where he is, and where Falk is.

 

And, with a vexing humour, his soul is swept down, down into the abyssal black, and dislocation threatens to rupture his mind, as he stares out into a black corridor, the lamp on his jacket, and the light bolted to the side of a weapon he doesn't own, jarring.

 

Since you had recited protective mantras, you do not receive any Corruption Points. Further, you receives 1D5 Insanity Points, but may reduce the amount by 1, to a minimum of 1.

 

Falk:

 

Where you saw only darkness, you suddenly see the floor of a lift car, properly lit. Sudden weightlessness ends as the lift slows down.

 

"Stopping you now sir, will take a couple-o minutes to cease."

 

The lift slows and you faceplant the deck a metre below you. The dull ache of a missing finger draws your attention to a hand with a ring, and garments not your own. Somehow, you instinctively know where you are, and with comms, may be able to get a message out.

 

You receive 1D5 Insanity Points, but may reduce the amount by 1, to a minimum of 1, thanks to a Benefactor keeping her eye on you. You aren't the Psyker, so no Corruption either.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Cradle:

 

+ ROUND 2 BEGINS +

 

+ Initiative Order +

 

Spoiler

De Grassi = 15 (15/15) (Arm: 7)

Bartender = 14 (12/12) (Arm 2)

Cultist 1 = 14 (-08/12) (Arm 2) (Left Arm Destroyed/Bleeding)

Restal = 13

Cultist 2 = 13 (02/12) (Arm 2) (Standing, On Fire)

Reynard = 12

Una Weslock = 12 (15/15) (Arm 2)

Cultist 3 = 10 (12/12) (Arm 2) (Prone)

Cultist 4 = 09 (12/12) (Arm 2) (Firearm) (Prone)

Cultist 5 = 07 (12/12) (Arm 2)

Cultist 6 = 07 (12/12) (Arm 2)

Hostess = 07 (05/12) (Arm 2) (Firearm) (Seated, On Fire)

 

MAP (Note: I forgot to move the other cultists after their Dodges against the firebomb. That's fixed now).

Spoiler

 

De Grassi:

Unimpressed by the miscreants around him, the lordling engages the Cultist attacking Reynard, the long Malcodon-Spyrer type blades spitting and spearing the fool.

Spoiler

Full Action: Multiple Attacks (Cultist 6)

WS + 10 (Outnumbering) (TWWM, Swift Attack, Multi-Armed) HIT, HIT, HIT, MISS

Damage: 18 (RF Confirmed) + 9 = 27 AP 2

Damage: 9 AP 2

Damage: 15 AP 2

 

Cultist 6: Reaction

Dodge (-10): FAIL.

Cultist 6 dies as De Grassi gorily bisects him.

 

Bartender:

Seeing his comrade turned into Slaaneshi Sushi (TM), the Barkeep rounds his counter, levelling his shotgun, but finding most of his comrades in the way.

Spoiler

Half Action: Half Move

Half Action: Standard Attack (De Grassi)

BS: PASS

Damage: 7

De Grassi doesn't even dodge. The buckshot is wasted at this range, and patters off his alien-armour. A bitter, harsh laugh from his angular helm cuts through the wailing, albeit diminished by the loss of one of the coven. 

 

Cultist 1:

Blood Loss Test: PASS.

Staggering forward with a single arm, the blasted and dying cultist flops down onto Restal, flailing ineffectually.

Spoiler

Half Action: Half Move

Free Action: Fall Prone

Half Action: Standard Attack, (Restal)

WS (Half): MISS.

 

Map is updated to Restal.

 

Restal [ ]

 

[PLACEHOLDER]

Edited March 7, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Updates

[Mazer Rackham]

The Hospice:

 

Locke looks at Scourge for a long time, then considers his chaplet and the symbols of faith hanging from around his neck.

 

"I value the cross, brother, aye. My fall was a desperate plan to hide while I worked. I will tell you the truth of this matter - with the sabotage of two hives of innocent citizens, our foe is more desperate and dangerous than we realise. I thought I had time!  Throne!"

 

He stands.

 

"Come, redemption will be ours. We must gather our forces swiftly if we are to have any chance at all. There is an Arbites Intelligencer, Haldane. He is a good man, loyal. With my Frateris, and the Cell you belong to, we might triumph yet."

 

"Cephas!"

 

The huge, strapping brute treads into the room quite softly, and bows, although the obeisance renders him still a tower over the two of you.

 

"Bring this man his gear and weapons. Make the caravan ready. As this Acolyte says, we must ransom our lives to prevent disaster. Entrust him with the phial."

 

Cephas' bright blue eyes light up, the flexbandage strips moving. He's smiling under there.

 

You can post a suit up scene if you want to, Necro, followed by a narrative trip in a very old, and very beaten up ground vehicle.

Edited March 8, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Bardas scrambled backwards, away from danger, if that was even possible. The Arbites where slowing it, but he doubted they could stop it. Sanctified power armour, even defiled like this, was robust. He had worked his way across the lab towards the Techxorcism gun. If it could indeed rid them of the malevolent machine spirit then he had to be careful, for it could easily deprive him of his own gifts.

 

He hoped the Arbites had metla or plasma weaponry in their arsenal, as that was the only other option he could contemplate being able to unlife the posses armour. He was closer still, having avoided the sweeping one handed reach several times. It had to stop crawling to take a swing, barley giving him time to move away. If it just let go of the boltgun he was sure it would succeed in catching him, but then the Lawmen would be free to act.  

 

Almost there, a few more steps, he needed another distraction, for the moment he turned to pick it up he would be vulnerable. His seeking hand found something on the table beside him, semi spherical, a flask of some sort. He did not have time to glance at it to see what liquid it may contain, but there was something, a sloshing sound as he picked it up.

 

+Hardly irrelevant at the price your master has paid for this fools errant chasing a dead man.+

 

He doubted further conversation would divert its attention but perhaps a fraction would be enough, and perhaps it would work as he let the flask tumble from the table, he had not had sufficient grip to truly throw it.  

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

The screaming madman had lost an arm, yet had still tried unsuccessfully to attack by diving on him.

 

Kerr Restal calmly stood up from the floor with the haemorrhaging man at his feet. He let go of the las carbine with his right hand as he rose and drew his katana from its scabbard.

 

 

 

(Half Action) Stand. 

(Half Action) Ready Sword.

 

 

 

 

Edited March 8, 2023 by Machine God
Tidy-up

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Nicios reeled, mind and body disconnected. The autogun in "his" hands trembled, stablight waving wildly in the air. 

 

Must...focus...Must...relax.

 

This was not his body, not his body at all. The clothes, the gun, the righteous and rigid corridors of the mind clearly were those of Falk. 

 

Not good. Don't know where I am. Where am I?!

 

Nicios put his back to a wall, hunkering down and keeping the unfamiliar gun up and ready. Now was not the time to move about and investigate his surroundings, not with the trauma of the mind-swap still lingering. He would breathe deep and try to slow the clamor, play defensive while his mind caught up to the situation.

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

Nicios... Falk recognised the body immediately but could not understand how or why he now saw through the mans eyes. A relay perhaps, the only way the psyker could break through the comms block?

 

Pushing doubts and questions to the back of his mind he fumbled through Nicios' possessions for a cartograph while activating his comm bead, "Kreavus dead, Canthus potentially unaware, Greyson hired through Drexler, inform Bardas... tech corruption but something more aligned with Magda, seeking Locke..."

 

He wasn't sure how to explain it but Bardas had been seeking something this whole time, knew something this whole time. It could explain how the cores of the other hives were compromised but how did it tie to Magda? The young Inquisitor Kreavus spoke of must have been Locke, could the cogitator they found earlier be from the black ship itself or held contained amongst its complement?

 

Finding the cartograph at last Falk entered the same co-ordinates that his own had given and turned to the operator, "I need to get to this level, this location", who could say how long this link would last.

 

Back on the link, "quarantine the cogitator, it may link back to the origins of all of this"

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk:

 

The lift operator cuts back in. "Aye, master, I'll take you down easy."

 

The lift car begins another period of descent, although handsomely sedate in comparison to either manic ride experienced by both bodies.

 

Nicios:

 

As you brace yourself, you hear the distinct tapping of metal on metal. It echoes a little, but is rhythmic, sounding like a hammer peening a panel.

 

It gets louder. Something comes.

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

"Quickly operator, quickly, no time is to be lost".

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

While the gun itself was unfamiliar, Nicios knew enough about firearms to find the safety and flick it to FIRE. His mind was slowly collecting itself, but if something hostile was coming toward him he didn't want to try to rely on his powers. The Warp was dangerous here and Nicios didn't know if Falk's physiology could handle the possible power he would send through it. Still, if needs must...

 

Emperor, preserve your servants. Shelter us from harm, bring us the Holy Fire of Your blessing.

 

Catechisms of protection flowed from his mouth, nearly silent.

[Mazer Rackham]

Nicios:

 

You are trained in SP, and this weapon is so good, instead of testing at Half Stat (I think you have SP Pistol?) You may test at -10.

 

A pair of red lights, clustered together, wink into existence, potentially rounding a corner. They bob up and down, passing in and out of vision due to backwash from your lamps. The metallic noise stops.

 

Falk:

 

"Aye master, quick as I can."

 

The pace picks up, and it is long seconds before you finally feel the bounce of the lift stopping at the destination. The doors open to darkness, giving you a sincere infusion of déjà vu.

 

If you rummage around, you will find another survival lamp.

 

EDIT: Bit of GM guidance here for @A.T.. As you leave the lift, you will notice the corridor in front of you is marked with a symbol of the Mechanicum Opus, and the following:

 

"SECTOR 117-A, COMMS SUB-TRUNK 14."

 

You know that you previously stood in Sub-trunk 12, so you know where your 'body' is. It will require two consecutive posts of running/fast movement, plus an extended Challenging (+0) Perception Test across both posts to get within range of Ikka. This can be done as narrative work, imagining a man navigating a labyrinth by instinct, and interpreting Mechanicus markings to his best ability.

Edited March 8, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
GM Notes

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Nicios sighted down the autogun, aiming at the light cluster.

 

"Halt and be identified, in the name of the Emperor!"