[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

Falk:

 

"A solid question, Falke. Locke has ordered the suspension of all flights or transports from Damocles. We're shooting down anyone who doesn't comply. His orders."

 

Restal:

 

"Nobody accused you of being stupid, Acolyte," Locke replies. His capering is dispelled in a heartbeat. He draws himself up, and his face is austere.

 

"The hives destroyed, millions dead. Firstly, what does it matter who played the hangman, Kerr? Trust me, every soul lost pains me, but failing the Emperor pains me more. Such is the peril of our times. Sometimes we must move on conviction, without justice, without giving good men and women the courtesy of benediction before they are obliterated. Make your peace with it now, and whatever guides your soul."

 

He sighs, shrugs, oddly diminshed.

 

"From what you know of my methods so far, convince your own mind, for what words I give you, will provide no certainty for your heart."

 

Reynard:

 

The older man's eyes soften as you vent your spleen. When you finish, he grunts a bitter laugh.

 

"There are bigger things, worse things. Worse than you can ever imagine - which is probably a fair bit. The best death you'll earn is that you'll vanquish something evil, putting your soul at risk for people who won't know your name, because you stopped them being slaughtered, or enslaved, or turned inside out."

 

He doesn't look at you a moment, instead his gaze roaming the Frateris performing their exercises. He makes a show of inspecting his dirty nails. "You missed my point before. I wasn't questioning your loyalty, or your commitment. You said it yourself, you're still here. No, I was asking you to think."

 

Locke offers another one of his deep, thoughtful sighs.

 

"No-one gives you the answers you want, Reynard. You have to find the truth yourself, with what you know, and who you are. So, think. Why does it take fourteen days to kill an Inquisitor? What cards does a gambler discard? What does a vindictive prisoner truly want?"

Edited March 17, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Responses

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard took the questions in turn.

 

"It doesn't. Giving us more time is actually giving it more time?"

 

"The ones he doesn't need to win. Or the ones he knows will help his opponents. So, the Golem didn't need Secundus or Tertius, or it knew we did?"

 

"First thing he wants is the same as anyone else. He wants out. Nothing more important than that. But…" Reynard nodded thoughtfully,  "...if he can arrange it, he also wants the guy that put him away to suffer. That's you, right?"

 

Edited March 17, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

"Forgive me Inquisitor, it's perhaps a failure on my part. To think that others see me as just a killer, when they see me at all," Kerr Restal answered.

 

 

"I was called to my path at a young age. With the stance that I have, I can ask the unspoken questions. I mean no disrespect when I ask that which is considered anathema."

 

 

"I am the Shepherd who guards the flock, a follower of the Righteous Path. In His Name!"

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Reynard:

 

"Right. Now you see it lad, but remember, this particular jackass is a jealous one. He will never discard anything to help anyone - even one of his own kind. They are perverse, wicked, selfish in the extreme."

 

Locke licks his gums, the tongue pushing out his lips.

 

"Now, do you know what does take fourteen days?"

 

Restal:

 

Locke nods, and gently holds up a hand. "Don't take it hard lad, I'm unused to direct questions, but you are right. That's something you and young Reynard here now understand. No foxes, no sheep, no wolves."

 

"We're the Emperor's sheepdogs. We keep the flock in line, and we bite out throats of anyone who leads them astray."

 

"When we're not fleecing the bastards, and chewing their legs off, anyway."

Edited March 17, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

The Penitent padded out into the common area on bare Street feet, shrugging his jute shirt over his head with some effort on his bruised ribs. Not knowing what awaited him, he struggled and re-armored himself. With a final adjustment to his belt and his boots stamped on, he made for the refectory. A man needed a meal.

 

+++

 

A cup of recaf and a plate of slop later and he was feeling much more like himself. He was somewhat surprised to learn that the quality of law enforcement meals was little above prisoner faire, but such was life in the 41st millennium. The refectory was a hive of activity, with a steady stream of arbites coming and going, and gathering in small knots to grimly appraise their fellows of the chaos in the streets. They paid him no heed, and nor did he they; fish swimming in different currents. As a branded and so-ordained agent of the Throne, he inhabited deep waters. Behind his slitted visor, he was a curiosity that was comically out of place in Hive Primus.

 

+++

 

He strode into the training gymnasium, his gauntleted hands resting upon his sidearms, and breathed in the comforting smells of metal, leather, stone and sweat. The assembled frateris said nothing, exchanged no warriors banter, but the staccato clash of training staves against one another was a conversation near and dear to his heart. He felt at home.

 

Some of his fellow acolytes stood around Inquisitor Locke, engaged in some heated discussion. Reynard, Restal, Falk. Men he had not seen in the days since their earlier misadventures in the depths of the hive. He approached and nodded to them.

 

"Hail, friends. I am pleased to see thee well. And that thou hath met our master. I still bear yon phial, a curse of which I cannot seem to be rid." He patted his chest uncomfortably. 

 

"I would exchange words with thee, but I fear they must wait. I believe the good Pater wouldst have me seek guidance and instruction from Brother Cephas, though I understand not this strange honor."

 

Edited March 17, 2023 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

"Hail, Scourge." Reynard offered a half bow. "Likewise, I am glad to see you looking so well recovered, though I suspect you will need all your strength for the monk's training."

 

If this Cephas is what I think he is, you'll need a damn miracle.

 

"While you await his arrival, our… master… has presented us with a simple - yet challenging - puzzle: What takes two weeks? I will confess I have no idea besides 'a fortnight'!"

 

Reynard offered Locke a dry wink.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Training Room:

 

Locke turns to Reynard, wearing a false frown. Amusement twinkles beneath. "Then that is your task, my wayward and erudite son. Find that out, and you find the answer to your question."

 

He greets Scourge with a small half-aquila and drops into his prelate-cant. "Welcome, thy lackadaisical reprobate. Take thee this stave and prepare thee for a trial. Brother Cephas has travelled to the demesne of Xerxia the Errantor, and reclaimed his prized arms. Cedric? Cedric! Where art thou, knave?"

 

One of the Frateris breaks from his regimen, and hurries to the foot of the Ecclisiarch and Inquisitor. He kneels, head bowed. "I answer thee, Lord."

 

"Cedric is one of our Aspirants," Locke explains, "and one of a handful of 'Tongued Ones'. He is permitted to speak, and thus translate our hand-spake." His attention returns to the young man. "Get thee hence, and take this sinner with thee. Make no enquiries of him. Cephas will take charge of thee."

 

"Aye Lord, as Throne and Will command." Cedric gets up, dropping his hood. He's probably eighteen or so summers, with cropped brown hair and eyes. The latter look they've seen a few sights.

 

Locke ushers Scourge to go with the boy, who takes up his own staff, ready for the short pilgrimage.

Edited March 17, 2023 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard frowned, considering. The Golem's first consideration had to be escape. It had to have a way off Damocles.

 

Two weeks. A fortnight. Fourteen days.

 

"When did the Hector's Revenge arrive? For machine parts maintenance and resupply, wasn't it? How long does that normally take?"

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

After meditation, Nicios joins the others in conference with the Inquisitor. For the most part he simply listens, as his specialty is not in rogue machine-spirits or the like. 

 

I just want another chance at that witch...

[Mazer Rackham]

The Training Room:

 

Locke looks exceptionally smug. "Well, considering the replenishment, refit and refurb, the shore leave and press-ganging - about fourteen days. Quite a co-incidence, yes? Especially as the Revenge is so aptly named, and armed with a significant lance array, quite capable of melting this entire heap into boiling slag."

 

"Welcome seeker. Always a boon to have one of your ordination in the great works," he greets Nicios warmly.

 

Locke returns to Reynard, deadly serious. "Although our time will be cut short, I fear. With all the upheaval, and forces gathering against it, the Golem will be forced to accelerate his plans. We have already accelerated ours."

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

"Of course! A truly vindictive prisoner wants revenge on his jailer and wants to watch his jail burn to the ground before he leaves."

 

Reynard stopped, suddenly thinking of something.

 

"But because it has already destroyed Secundus and Tertius, as long as we prevent it from reaching any of the ships in orbit, it cannot carry out its final threat against Primus? It would be suicide! The Golem lacks your sense of honour, my Lord - I cannot see it giving its own life to end yours?"

 

"Unless... it still has another bolthole on Damocles...? Does the wreckage of the Gladius still lie where it fell?"

 

 

Edited March 18, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

He cocked his helm at Reynard's riddle, as posed by their master, then shook his head and shrugged. Not that he was daft, but all of his riddles had been ones which could be solved with cold steel and a fresh charge pack. He had only ever known the life of a soldier and prisoner. At Locke's instruction he bowed his head and took up a stave without a word, following young Cedric to his continued trials.

 

Edited March 18, 2023 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Training Room:

 

"My lord?" Locke actually grins. "Don't be going all soft on me, Reynard. The Golem has been quite desperate to stave us off. By destroying Tertius and Secundus, he's burned a couple of bridges."

 

"It is possible that he does have a backup plan - we must not discount it. Whether or not the Gladius wreck provides it, I don't know. By now, our new pilot and transport will have arrived. If you're going out into the wasteland, make it quick."

 

The Voivode will have docked at the spaceport. I know Sobek has been busy, but I'll autopilot (heh!) him a little bit.

 

Scourge:

 

Cedric leads you to the back of the training room, his stave tapping along the ground, the very image of a young pilgrim. Other than the stave and a small knife, he carries no other weapon, but seeing him repeat his rote training, it is clear he is not unarmed or unprepared.

 

He heads for a sub-room adjoining the large area, and as you go down the short flight of steps at the back, you can see piled training apparatus.

 

"The equipment room," Cedric says. "We moved a lot of things out of it for our use."

 

He approaches the open door, and the scent of weapon oils and lapping powder stir past the jamb. You can see the huge shape of Cephas at the back of the room, arranging tools and parts. As the Aspirant turns to talk to you, Cedric trips, foot catching on the thick, non-slip flooring cover. He goes flying, but just as he gasps in alarm, Cephas is there, a blur of crimson robes, covering ten metres in the blink of an eye to catch the boy.

 

Cephas makes a growl of disapproval, stern blue eyes hooded in a blonde-brow frown. He peremptorily stands the boy up with a jerk.

 

"Your pardon, lord," Cedric bumbles as he offers the aquila in thanks.

 

Cephas' hands flutter and tap, with another grunt for emphasis.

 

"Of course, Cephas."

 

As you go into the room proper, your power armour is laid out, ready for donning, and the Godwyn Diaz bolter is stripped down into a serried array of parts. On another table covered by an oil-stained cloth is an absolute block of metal. Half the size of the Sororitas weapon, the butt peeks out with a grip you could almost get two hands around. From the size of this thing, you'd need to.

 

It isn't alone. Something else lingers beside it, and as your eyes travel along the bench, an absurdly thick leather belt it wrapped into a tight circle, with two huge leather buckets attached. On a makeshift weapon stand, hilt up, is a scabbarded sword as long from tip to pommel almost as you are tall. The aurumite hilt is wrapped with a scarlet hide, and the crossguard is a work of exquisite craftsmanship, flared angelic wings, with a seraph standing at the root of the fuller, hooded, clutching a miniature relief of the sword from which it is forged.

 

Behind that, lingering at the rear wall, where Cephas previously stood is a monumental tarp, draped over a blocky, tall piece of equipment. Perhaps it is a statue?

 

Cephas claps to gain your attention. He speaks in palm-tongue.

 

"He says to take a guard, friend Scourge."

 

Cephas nods, then fills his massive, bandaged hands with a long training sword, an oversized rudius. From how it fits his palm, it it obvious he carved this himself.

 

This could be painful. Cephas' eyes sparkle. Yes, it's going to hurt.

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Scourge looked down at the rod in his hands, then back up at the muscle-bound giant and swallowed, suddenly glad for his armour, threadbare as it was. The match-up between the two of them was some sort of cruel joke, but he found himself grinning regardless. He was not well suited to investigations, being a man of action and violence.

 

With a flourish, he spun the staff around himself, weaving it back and forth as childhood muscle memory took hold. He had not handled one in many years, but the years of drilling as a youth on his rain-soaked medieval homeworld had paid dividends. His quarterstaff came to rest in his hands again and he nodded at Cephas, gesturing for him to come forth. No words were necessary; they would let their skill with arms speak for them. 

 

Showeth what thou art made of, ye great bastard!

 

Edited March 18, 2023 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Arming Room:

 

Scourge:

 

You get your wish, as the giant brings his rudius up to the salute, and then he's on you, his breath hot against the slit of your sallet, possibly a result of height and huge lungs, or more likely a snort to make you flinch.

 

The wooden sword edge thunders down, threatening to break your arm at the shoulder:

Spoiler

Half Action: Feint

WS: PASS, 2 DoS

 

Praefector's Office:

 

Falk:

 

The trip to the office was uneventful, but the report promised by Haldane came through. The sample of blood from the true Magda proves to match the records taken from the Sepulturum archive. Her sample matches that of the one listed Primus.

 

You finish reading this as Drake calls you through to his office within the main Halls. He's chosen somewhere closer and more familiar than his eyrie above the panopticon, possibly due to the complicated work about to begin there. He ushers you in himself.

 

"Thank you for coming Falke, have a seat, or be at ease." He leaves the choice to you.

 

The Panopticon:

 

Bardas:

 

One of the Ordinators of Works approaches as you enter the Magi-Tech Alcove.

 

+There is an altar for your use, Clade Brother. Please interface with us, and bolster our noospheric protocols before we do true battle with the Anathema Machine.+

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

Falk chooses the seat, not knowing when such an opportunity would present itself again given the current situation. Reports of the blood sample were concerning as he compared the reports to his own notes. Sample 04389, Primus, the escaped figure from the sanctum. The claw marks they had found next to the door matched one of Magdas stature but how... a cloning experiment gone wrong?

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Cephas was terrifyingly fast. Too fast, in fact. Scourge had scarcely beckoned to the goliath than he was being overwhelmed by the mute's inhuman power. This was going to hurt, but he'd be damned if he would falter. 

 

Opposed WS Test: 36

Roll: 94; 5 DoF

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Scourge:

 

The blurring speed vexes you, but your instinct tells you the rest. Cephas has drawn you open, and his blow changes direction with the flick of his wrist.

Spoiler

Half Action: WS HIT

Target can't dodge (failed the Feint)

 

The rudius cracks you across both forearms, sending stinging pain across the left more than the right. The damage feels worse than it is. This is the corrective tap of a wooden rule across a palm for an infraction in a schola.

 

Still. It'll sting in the morning.

 

Cephas steps back, the point of his wooden weapon dipping, weaving. Trying to anticipate your next move.

 

Your turn Necro.

 

Falk:

 

Drake takes up a seat across form you, and opens a sturdy folder. It appears to be the hardcover of a daybook of orders, although much out of date. It isn't unusual, a Precinct will recycle anything, rather than wait for a new one in a generation's time.

 

"Getting a lot of good reports here. You've pushed a lot of investigations forward." He licks a finger, thumbs through sheaves of plasfibre reports. "I've spoken to Lord Inquisitor Locke. We have agreed that with the situation as it is, you require more latitude. Further, this Precinct wants to display it's thanks. I have hereby been invested with the authority to promote you - Brevet, mind - to Magistrate."

 

He is a man of fact, not emotion. He flashes a quick smile at you, before carrying on.

 

"You are to report to Proctor Sewell on level 4. Special Weapons Division. Give him this."

 

He passes over a signed requisition form. Upon it lies the order to temporarily provide you with a 'significant weapon of office and specification'. Further, he hands across a Magistrate's badge. Far more embellished than your current one, nonetheless, it is dinged up from service.

 

"Don't lose it," he says, something odd in his eyes. More fact than emotion, it is possibly the closest thing he can offer to a good wish.

[A.T.]

Falk:

 

Falk stood to attention, "thank you sir". His mind still on the reports, "I take it that you or the Inquisitor have a target in mind?"

 

Before Drake could answer Falk waves off his own question, "apologies, information that Magdas blood matched the sample attributed to the missing test subject has me concerned. In the rush to pursue fresh leads we had not stopped to return to the source."

 

"But... one threat at a time." He reached for the form and badge, and gave his best salute. Eyeing the requisition he attempted some form of good cheer, "I do not envy either of us the paperwork that will be demanded by the administratum when all of this is resolved, be assured I will not add to it by misplacing my badge." Knowing the Provost meant the gun, he placed his old badge upon the table and stood back to be dismissed.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard nodded.

 

"I was considering trying to speak with Drexler again - did you ever cross paths with her? She seems very… well-informed? If the cults are being recruited from the criminal fraternities of the Hive, she will either be involved herself, or be able to provide us with information about them. However, I am equally willing to go and check the Gladius crash site if you think the thought is worthwhile."

 

He grinned and turned to look at Restal.

 

"Exploring a void-hull sounds like it might play to your strengths, my friend?"

 

 

 

Edited March 18, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

His forearms stinging from the blows, he followed the enormous Frater in with a rapid flurry of strikes of his own using both ends of the staff. To give the giant any breathing room would be folly, and so he attempted to return the favor in kind. 

 

 

Full Action: Swift Attack (WS Test): 36

 

Roll: 13; success with 2 DoS

 

 

Edited March 19, 2023 by Necronaut

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Bardas followed as directed to an unused interface alter. It was an impressive example of its kind, and the Devout seconded to the Lawmen took well care of the altar and its siblings. Red and black robed Priests were already hard at work, but there were far too few of them to operate all the altars. This was no simple interface, or even comparable to that of his lost shrine. The last time he had seen any comparable had been back on Elysium, during the few years when he had been one of several candidates for Priesthood. In the end the others had been more devout, more skilful, more innately adept or just more favoured.

 

With care Bardas placed his belongings on the adjacent table, and then divested himself of his hat, longcoat and his mesh infused garments. Now standing in only basic attire, arms and chest bare for easy access to the gift’s connection points, he took his voice and set it so it could not roll of the table. Reaching up to take of his goggles he likewise put them aside, empty eye sockets sweeping the room as he took of the beaded necklace from around his neck. Mute, blind and now deaf he took the steps up to the altar from memory.

 

As the connection where made, assisted by an unseen acolyte, Bardas opened his mind, soul and spirit to the noospheric choir.  

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

Attentive to all but also aloof in the detachedness that he carried like a cloak, he field-stripped his Las-Carbines as he spoke.

 

"So Inquisitor Locke is not the only Dead Man here, that was the Scourge on the operating table! Thou shall not fall!"

 

Placing his assembled weaponry on the floor, he stretched to his full height. The stance of the Mantis.

 

 

He stepped forwards two paces as the dancer.

 

He flexed backwards into the reverse handstand, he stood on his hands with his legs straight up.

 

 

"Yes I agree. Go forth with conviction, if you will forgive the pun Reynard. We are all the whole, a sum of various parts."

 

He opened his legs in the Y.

 

 

"Pass on my regards to the Sapphic Widow."

 

He then closed and then flipped to stand upright, landing in position two steps back.

 

Kneeling he then attached the las-carbines to their slings and then stood up.

 

"Apparently the Sapphire Widow will not bend over backwards for anybody!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited March 18, 2023 by Machine God
Pick up guns

[Mazer Rackham]

Scourge:

 

The flurry of your attacks presses the sword into rapid defence, Cephas half-swording to turn the weapon into an impromptu quarterstaff.

Reaction: Parry

 

He catches your first blow on the cross-guard, allowing the second to come at him as he rides your attack, wrestling for a counter-attack.

Counter-Attack: WS -20 = FAIL

 

Your constant motion and ferocity press the riposte just off enough to fail from cracking your head open, but you repay him a blow on his arm that connects with something metallic underneath the cloth and bandages. Cephas offers a brusque, appreciative grunt as you spar.

 

His left leg flicks out, trying to break your knee with his bare heel.

Full Action: Called Shot

WS: HIT, no DoS

 

Falk:

 

To respond to the salute appropriately, Drake stands and returns it crisply. Once your arms drop, he offers his final words for now. "I am sure you'll tie the ends off, Falke. Keep us updated and we'll task whatever we can to help. Make us proud, Magistrate. Dismissed."

 

The Training Room:

 

Locke responds to Reynard. "Ah yes, a very clever woman. She alerted me to Dreyfuss, and loaned me assets like Scalpel and Tracer. I believe she likes money, but I think she loves the intrigue. We conversed through intermediaries of course. I don't know if she is aware of my identity."

 

"How you go about it, or whence you wander is up to you. There are perhaps some relics or supplies still left on the Gladius, but the chances are slim. No," he decides, "I think you might be on to something. This is a critical juncture, and we must be certain. I can send a pilgrimage to check the wreck, if you wish to investigate another avenue."

 

"Which is where you come in, Seeker," he speaks louder, aiming his attention at Nicios. "We must stake the heart of a nasty witch. I know whence you came, and I can steer where you go, should you wish."

 

Bardas:

Engin-nears and techwrights of the Judiciary Sentinel approach you and begin the rites of interface. Unguents are applied and sockets reverently blessed. Silver-augmented censers pulse warding incense, and the binharic chants accompany human, but altered throats in High Gothic. Operation runtimes begin to synchronise with your onboard systems, working in parallel with them, a synaptic symbiosis of reinforcement.

 

+We begin the ritual of girding.+

 

More uploads. Shields upon shields of swirling engrams and algorithms.

 

+We can begin. Clade-Sentinel Bardas, steer us with your experience of the Heretek fiend.+

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

"I would gladly hunt the witch, Inquisitor, but only if doing so will not interfere with the main mission." 

 

Nicios stared at Locke. "My personal goals are not to be put above the lives of those that live in the hive, nor the eradication of a machine-abomination."