[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Machine God]

Halls of Justice

 

Kerr Restal:

 

Given leave, he left.

 

The killer hangover was gnawing away at him, he'd been living on the edge too long. He could sleep on the edge of a blade.

 

Death walked silently with purpose through the Refectory, food was grabbed and water replaced. He interacted with no one, the angry ghost.

 

 

The cleaning of weapons was performed with due diligence. Still...

 

Sleep took him 

 

A dozing 'Gyptian King, locked into a rigid state, Carnodon in hand, his finger over the trigger guard.

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Falk

 

A glance at the newly reactivated intellicams left many blindspots, signs where battle had been heaviest, but also where the golems attention had been focused before he had been driven back. The hanger where they had landed was blank but every picters in the area pointed towards it rather than the approach, those that had not been destroyed.

 

It was a sound enough place to start. No elevators this time though...

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Bardas nodded in sympathy as Lazlo described the life of those still true. While he had not elaborated, the comment on rashness sound much like confirmation of a failed last stand, perhaps the bodies he had come across near the control room had been some of Lazlo’s comrades.

 

+I am glad that I did not disturb your comrade’s work in control room; I had initially taken it for the work of the Malifactor, and had been contemplating sabotage when I noticed your cameras quirky behaviour.+

 

After having rested a little while longer Bardas stood again, gathered himself and then bowed to the elderly Coptroller.

 

+Thank you for the respite in your company, but I must press on and rejoin the others in time for the final reckoning. Would you once more guide me through the GUTS?+

[Mazer Rackham]

The Halls of Judgement:

 

Falk/Nicios/Restal/Scourge:

 

As Falk and his team launch through passages, duct ladders and stairwells to investigate and act as vanguard, Locke gathers his remaining forces and moves. There is none of the subtlety so valued before, this is a broad sweeping brush, designed to separate wheat from chaff, and the latter - it is tossed into the fires of retribution. Any constructs still functioning are easy to despatch, listless, abandoned children of the Golem.

 

All are cut down without mercy.

 

The Emperor's providence reveals itself, as Falk discovers rooms thought overrun by command, containing handfuls of survivors. Down to their last round, desperately holding off the remnants of the assault, they swell Falk's ranks, eager to be back on the offensive. The Arbites ranks are thinned, reeling and punch drunk, but out of courage and obligation to their office, they are not.

 

Approaching the hangar, the carnage wrought by the foe is substantial, and the vista of a battle is easily read. Here, Cutter and Solomon strain to repair the grievously wounded Voivode, coaxing her with welding torches, spanners and drivers. Between their labour, and the obligatory swearing to help things along, they explain what transpired.

 

 

Below, Locke surges through the halls with grim purpose. Once more mantled as an Inquisitor, an agent of ultimate justice, he lets Scourge lead, keeping Restal nearby as close protection. Sword and gun have good employment, the lingering mechanical beasts cleaved or shot on the way toa rendezvous with a place of destiny, the spirit-wreathed Tower of Echoes.

 

GM: If you want to drop in any comments, scenes or interaction, go right ahead.

 

The GUTS:

 

Bardas:

 

+I can guide you, adept. It is vital you escape, in fact. Ceasing function in the truth of the Cog is one thing, but meshing lone gears together to die for it, is quite another.+

 

At Lazlo's prompting the door opens.

 

+Again, I can only divert power for a short time, but that should suffice. Hurry adept.+

 

GM: Feel free to drop in anything you want here, Tro, but Bardas should end up in a rapid cargo lift, heading uphive. I'll deal with the rest.

 

The Approach Anima:

 

Reynard:

 

Leaving the Halls of Judgement, Lady Gwynne stays close beside Reynard. The difference is stark. Within the halls, chaos and blood, without, a procession of pilgrims making their way to the Tower. Some carry votives, reliquaries and icons fluttering with purity seal parchments. Others merely trample along in line, you can hear their stoic humour among the clutches of companions. Most if not all are robed appropriately, bleak and drab colours. Here and here are spots of more lavish material, the rich humbling themselves against as much discomfort and obeisance as they prefer.

 

Lady Gwynne turns to Reynard, hushed awe haunting her words. "The Tower murmurs only, but still they come. Truly, we are not abandoned."

 

Edited June 23, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Weird formatting problems

[Machine God]

The Halls of Judgement:

 

Kerr Restal:

 

He slept, then he dreamt.

 

 

He was Inquisitor Lord Locke's right hand of death once more. Protector and blade whilst they prosecuted a march.

 

His hands, his pistols acquired provenance. He was murder, they were Huginn and Muninn.

 

 

 

Edited June 23, 2023 by Machine God
Typo

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Spoiler

Radiation check                                                                                                                       

D100: 100 – Leather Radiation – As it doesn’t kill me outright I’ll save the fate for now.

Now at 3 Fatigue total

D3 wounds = 3 on a D6 so 2 wounds, down to 18 out of 20

Character sheet updated.

 

Slipping through the offered door Bardas followed the guiding lights, now recognising Lazolos hand in their flicker compared to the random burst of those glow orbs that are merely faulty.

 

He had been going for only a few minutes when, after rounding a corner his gift shirked in alarm, another high radiation area. Almost staggering Bardas pressed on, mechanical legs propelling him  despite how much his tiered body wanted to rest right now, the worst thing to do was remain in such irradiated areas.  

 

Perhaps Lazlo and his comrades had not been kept safe by remaining beneath notice, but by the lethality of area around them. The Comptroller’s little sanctum had been well shielded, but now Bardas could not help wonder how old his guide truly was, and how much of his appearance had been bestowed by involuntary circumstance and not eared by years.

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: Bardas won't have to test anymore. We'll assume as he follows the instructions, he climbs out of the radioactive zone to a safe escape. Well done for keeping up with it @Trokair. Nicely done.

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Always comfortable in a crowd, Reynard didn't mind being surrounded by the stream of… supplicants? …penitents? However, they did make it a little harder to see any trouble coming. At least they were all moving in the same direction. Reynard dropped back a metre or two behind Gwynne and to her right, shadowing her with one hand casually on the grip of his laspistol. His eyes moved back and forth across the shuffling throng, scanning for familiar faces and looking for anything that felt wrong or out of place.

 

Even if there was nothing, there was no way he was letting his guard down now.

 

 

Spoiler

Awareness Test: Per28 +10(Awareness+10) +10(HS:Sight) = 48, Roll: 41, Pass

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Approach Anima:

 

Reynard:

 

Your vaguely divorced proximity to the Lady puts you in good position to survey the queue of peaceful humanity. Almost peaceful. You spot the odd cutpurse lurking in amongst the throng, but your shrewd observation and comfortable, knowing demeanour, discourage them form closing on you or your charge.

 

The rest of the march seems unperturbed, and the huddled masses continue to congregate and move on, the Tower gobbling them up in an odd peristalsis, where the head of the column reaches the steps of white marble, at the foot of the great tower. You can determine, despite some clever trompe l'oeil to make it appear polygonal, that the front of the building is in fact flush with the structures abutting, and only becomes artificed after the main gate, some 100 metres in height.

 

White marble and alabaster façade, fit for an albino girl with silver hair and hitherto pristine, pale raiment.

 

Bands of glimmering gilt frame and buttress the serried colonnades, Ygreco-Ultramian keys and scrollwork lace the front. Plainer stone rises above it - or rockrete dressed as worked stone, possibly. Although half a mile away, the column shifts steadily. Small waystations, manned by Templarii Frateris provide food and drink, simple fare such as Plata, a hard, unleavened bread dusted with white flour that causes it to shimmer with argent gleam. Water and Jarrafruit squash wash it down.

 

The queue moves forward.

[Mazer Rackham]

From the GUTS to the Garters:

 

Finding the pilot and breacher alive, and guided by their directions, Falk takes his party through avenues and crossways he knows well, cutting down the time, hoping to catch up to Lady Gwynne and Reynard. Likewise, the bruisers led by Locke fight their way through meandering passageways filled with stragglers and the wounded, stopping only where the Emperor guides them to dispense mercy or salvation in the nick of time.

 

Deep below, the cargo lift indicated and provided by Comptroller Lazlo proves its worth, bringing Bardas out of the deadly depths, and into a deserted Mechanicum refit works. Decontamination protocols are automated, a leftover from the rapid evacuation, and as Bardas is finally deposited mid-hive, his disconnected commbead comes back online, with the fate of the Halls of Judgement, and Locke's demand for all forces to make aid and haste to the Tower of Echoes.

 

By the time Restal, Scourge, Falk, Nicios and Bardas reach the long road to the Templum Astronomica, Reynard and Gwynne have closed the gap to the doors, but his distinctive coat is easily picked out, along with the silver-haired prophetess under his care.

 

GM: The Party is now re-convened, at least comms wise. Discuss or offer comment as you will. Bardas is 300m away from Reynard, Scourge/Restal are 500m away, and Falk/Nicios are 700m away. You have all come out of the Halls etc at different exits, hence the distances. It is a vastly open space, with the roads stretching and forming bridges to the Templum, with the rest of the hive built around it.

 

GM: Note that the Templum is uphive, therefore you are now classed as being in the upper quarter. Prices, availability and travel times are all adjusted for that locale.

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Emerging into the bustle of the main thoroughfare Bardas stood still, back against the wall as he sought the others in the crowd. As soon as the commbead had reconnected to the others he had delivered a condensed report of what he had found.

 

The assault on the precinct was a worrying development, but if the golem had spent so much of its new-forged slaved servitors on that then perhaps it had over reached. The numbers certainly added up to many more then the production lines he had found would account for unless they had been running for a lot longer than he had supposed.

 

+Fox-kin, I see you.+

 

The coat was distinctive and Bardas joined the flow of traffic in its direction.  

 

+ Unless you have lost your pelt recently, in which case I may have found the culprit.+

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

Retribution had been doled out to the traitor forces encountered and aid given to the stalwart holdouts encountered along the way.

 

They had come to the open and Vox-comms re-established themselves. He'd further dreamt of two sides of a Throne - the wielder of death from pure knives and the sniper within armoured skin bearing a long rifle in the dark.

 

He slowly awoke his eyes seeing numbers scrolling down across a background of green.

 

 

 

+Fox-kin, I see you.+

 

 

+Bar-Das! Exalted are the Khamsin Brotherhood+ he answered.

 

 

 

 

 

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Hearing the Voidsman’s voice on the comms Bardas slowed and cast about. After a moment the bustle of the countless pedestrians forced him move on. However managing to edge towards a slower moving clump of people Bardas had some time to look around once more.

 

In the end it was not the Voidsman that he spotted first, but armoured bulwark of Scourge, a little verse for wear, that much was obvious even at a distance, but imposing none the less. It certainly kept the crowd at bay. There next to him, using the other as a path make through the crowd, was Kerr Restal.

 

Raising his new arm Bardas waved over at them.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Tower of Echoes:

 

It takes roughly an hour for the crossways to converge, and to bring you all together. Bardas' earlier conversation has filled you in on his perspective, but now the histle and bustle provides enough cover to discuss most if not all the minutiae. Locke greets the Lady warmly, if intense in his urgings in the next phase of the plan.

 

Lady Gwynne absorbs what is said with quiet stoicism, if occasional shock and distaste, the party of pilgrims progressing now at what seems an increased pace - but in reality is merely a by-product of gaining the maw of the huge edifice. Templum Fraterii here are armed with silvered halberds, and psychic warding staves. A thick scent of incense wafts from deeper inside. Mirror-polished light carapace adorns the guards, the plates enough to protect from ballistic damage, the reflec-armour coating proof against lasguns.

 

They do not speak, but they do make a beeline for you as the group begins to ascend the steps, veering at Gwynne's direction, passing the shrines of the Emperor Defiant, the Emperor Reverent, and the Emperor Enduring. Great marble and golden busts, depicting the virtues of each cardinal point of soulful direction. The common folk have moved to speak to lesser adepts of the conclave herein, seeking to get local messages sent, to ascertain who of their families lives, and how they can help them.

 

The conversation is oft repeated.

 

The guards cross axes, and at the same moment, Lady Gwynne holds up her hand, and draws on her power. To a man, the Templum bodyguard drops to one knee in the golden, glowing light, and Gwynne leads the way into the inner sanctum, the Tower Well.

 

"Have a care here," she warns, "it is best not to think too loudly, for the ancient walls will make it heard."

 

The floor is tile and mosaic, depicting the Emperor slaying the Arch-traitor Horus, a replica of the great relief that adorns the gates of the Terran Palace itself.

 

A tall, broad man, beard a shock of white, his robes and ceremonial eye-blind a metal circlet of silver, steps into the centre of the room. "Child!"

 

Gwynne curtseys formally, bowing deeply before recovering. "Rhodanik, I come to commune, and to restore this blessed weapon, which has fallen silent."

 

The old man holds out his hand to touch Hywelsbane as it is presented by one of Locke's men. His hands trace the intricate carvings, and he nods. "The spirit is gone, but the shell is whole. We will commune. The rest of you must wait outside. Sentinels - the Tower is to be closed, and sealed. The Rites must be prepared."

 

Locke nods to you all and takes you into the outer rotunda, the heavy doors of the inner sanctum closing with a grim finality.

[A.T.]

Falk

 

The power here was palpable, not the gaudy and arrogant excess nor the self destructive and self righteous penance that the Ecclesiarchy seemed to slip towards both above and below hive but something far more true. He mused that those who had gazed upon the Emperor and been found worthy of service in his presence would perhaps be better placed to guide the church, but millenia of power struggles, bargains, and fanatics were not quickly changed.

 

"We should bring what we can of this places holiness with us to battle", he mused out loud. "The golems minions grew weak as he withdrew, perhaps we can loosten his grip on them even within his sanctum."

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Nodding in agreement with the Lawman Bardas assessed the temple guards.

 

+Perhaps they might open their armoury and lend us some of their blessed armament.+

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard greeted the rest of the cell amiably. He was happy to see none of them had been lost, and happier still to be able to pass the responsibility for Gwynne's safety into the hands of the Tower Guards.

 

However, the thought of being in a place where one's deepest thoughts might potentially be revealed was… less than ideal. Reynard moved back towards the grand entrance and found a quiet recess beside the first shrine, as far from the inner sanctum as possible. He sat down on the lowest step, leaning against the hard stone with his legs extended out in front of him. Thoughtfully, he chewed on a piece of Plata and helped the dry bread go down with a swig of jarrafruit squash from a thin paper cup.

 

Odd to think it would soon be all over… one way or another.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Tower:

 

One of Locke's surviving Frateris Militia doffs his rucksack and puts it down for his master to sit on. Once more the Inquisitor Lord becomes an old Pater, and as he sits, rests his hand on the man's elbow in gentle thanks.

 

"The armouries of the Telepathica are not so vast as one would hope, Magistrate, Adept. The Ecclesiarchy takes many relics, and the Telepathica is not to take up arms, despite being sorely in need of good, stout warriors to keep the walls unbreached."

 

Locke stretches his legs, watches some of the attendants pass by, shoulders slumping with a drop in tension as he surveys the peaceful vista. It is tranquil, almost, despite the sheer hair-raising power that dopes the air. The cleanliness of it is restorative, lifting aches and fears away along with any secrets in a head.

 

"We can petition old Rhodanik, the Chief Astropath, to seek aid, but I'll leave that to my Acolytes."

 

He leans back, pulling up the hood of his priestly robe, drops it over his eyes, and in a few moments is asleep. The snoring suggests so, anyway.

 

The hive settles above and around you. It is easy to think that this place was divorced from the hell dogging every soul striving against it - indeed that there was no storm of fire and iron at all. Just the draughts of wind, the murmur of quiet pilgrims, and the gentle scent of Silver-root, warding away the evils.

 

Soul-fire electricity buzzes in the air, the whole Tower beginning to gently tremble. The air is almost alive with it, a sudden rush of whispers that cannot be deciphered, but only heard. Millions upon millions of thoughts, hopes and prayers rushing out into the darkness, streaming into the void above. All feel it, perhaps Nicios most keenly, for this is his province, and the Tower is technically in his charge. Yet the whirling vortex of power rings and hums in the very walls of the Tower, an inverse lightning rod, with the calm at the eye overlooked by the shrines, and the upturned faces of the hopeful pilgrims.

 

Even though not Astropaths, you feel...something...a line cast out to anchor, catching in the deep swell of an invisible river, but only beginning the journey of a billon time a billion miles of aetheric space, plunging through the veil of anathema, heading for the holiest listener in the galaxy, in Mankind's Demesne. It is a prayer and entreaty, a plea for deliverance and divine intervention.

 

For a blessing from He Who Sits Upon Terra.

 

The strange silence after the cry is given up, touches each of you, leaving you a little bereft of something special.

 

How much greater is that ache, then, for one as Lady Gwynne and her comrades within?

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Their approach to the Tower of Echoes was breathtaking: an alabaster slab of Gothic architecture, very much in the traditional Imperial style, replete with soaring buttresses, statues of Imperial saints and gold filigree. The only thing he had seen of its like was the flagship of Battlegroup Corsicana, The Iron Duke, a Repulsive class Grand Cruiser, and similarly appointed monolith of Gothic architecture over 5 kilometres long, which he had been lucky to espy while en route to a deployment some six years prior.

 

The thronging crowds of supplicants filled him with some measure of inner peace, and hope for some reason. The concentration of the faithful in no way shielded them against the terrible possibility of the thermonucleonic core erupting and incinerating the entire hive with stone-melting flame, but the sight of them comforted him nonetheless. 

 

Their flight from the precinct had been a blur, soaked in a furious haze of blood and zeal. Scourge and Restal had made quick work of any straggler murder-servitors who would menace them, with pistol and hatchet and dagger. Locke had let the two hired killers work with what glee their proclivities or religious convictions permitted, but was mostly silent for much of the transit.

 

+++

 

He was pleased to hear Bardas and Reynard call to one another over the vox, and Lady Gwynne's shock of white hair was a sight for sore eyes: he had found himself quite unable to sleep whilst her fate hung in limbo, and he felt a tremendous lodestone loosed from his shoulders. The crowd of supplicants en route to the tower took one look at him and the killer Restal and gave them and the frocked Inquisitor Lord a wid berth. A steel-faced, literally, veteran in ceramite clad, and a gun-toting mercenary were not to be quarreled with, nor the monk who followed close in their wake along the Pilgrims Path. 

 

+++

 

Bas-reliefs of Imperial triumphs from ages long past textured the walls of the tower, and its thrumming atmosphere put the Penitent's teeth on edge, so palpable was the power it channeled. He wished to speak to Lady Gwynne before she was whisked away by her contemporaries of the Telepathica, but he knew a lowly menial such as himself could wait to pay his respects, a mere convict hedge knight.

 

He gladly took a proffered platter of flatbread and refreshment, and wandered about the sanctum awhile, basking in the glory and majesty of the great chapel of the Enthroned Imperator on distant Terra. He hung his sallet over the muzzle of his boltgun and sauntered over to where Reynard sat one the marble steps of the farthest-most shrine, sitting heavily down before the God-Emperor wrought from marble and gold-leaf.

 

"We art far from home, art we not, friend Reynard? Never didst I think to see such majesty, such beauty in a hive, particularly not as a prisoner-warrior of His Imperial Guard."

 

Scourge shook his head in wonderment as he took in the Imperial cathedral and munched upon the flatbread.

 

"We hath loosed the bonds of our prior lives, accepting those of a far greater power. But these bonds bind not my heart and soul. Nay! These are the bonds of duty, purpose, vengeance, redemption. The bonds that bind every man, woman and child of our vast Imperium. These are the moments which prove the purity, the righteousness of our species and our cause!"

 

He smiled and looked over to where Reynard lurked in shadow and melancholy.

 

"Those of Hive Primus shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaketh that fought with us on the day we triumphed over the Golem!"

 

He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and rose.

 

"Rest and see to thy prayers, friend. We goeth to death and glory 'ere the morn!"

 

He strode off, his ragged cloak fluttering behind him as he departed in search of a shadowed alcove to rest his weary head, though the air itself thrummed with power and his hairs stood on end like from a static charge. When he woke, he would seek out Pater Locke to give his final confession, as he had not the heart to wake the old man while he dozed. 

 

 

OOC: Borrowed/stolen/adapted liberally from the Bard, with reverent apologies. 

 

Edited June 26, 2023 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Tower:

 

The time passes with a strange kind of lethargy, until it happens.

 

The doleful, gentle heartbeat of the choir within swells mightily to a rushing crescendo. The whole Tower reverberates with incalculable power, the slow build not quite enough to make the assembled throng wail in fright, for this is not a terrifying hive quake, or some madness of explosive. It is the breath of a god, an answer made manifest.

 

Once the awesome disturbance is drowned once more by calmness, the great slate-laminated door to the inner sanctum burst open, and a procession of glittering guards files out. Within this phalanx of silver steel, a bier of solid, pink-veined Terran marble is enshrouded with intricate filigree of purest aurumite. Here is something with a king's ransom, but upon it, lies something greater, smocked with finest white silk, embroidered with gold thread, the symbols of the shrines in a triangle about the sigil of the Astromicon.

 

The pilgrims gasp and gaze in awe. Many of them drop to their knees as the other Astropaths file out in procession. Each of them looks utterly fatigued and ready to drop, yet they bear up well, and Lady Gwynne, finding something pleasant in the assembly by her uncanny sense, smiles in the direction of the Acolytes.

 

Rhodanik, the Chief Astropath grins broadly before reverently pulling the silken sheath free. In a rustling whisper.

 

"Behold, the sacred arm, Hywelsbane," he intones deeply. "Blessed by the will and power of the Master of Mankind! Restored now by his beneficence, to his servants in their greatest time of need!"

 

Even Locke is on his knees, his company of Frateris, prostrate.

 

The weapon is the same hammer - but yet it is not.

 

A transformation has occurred, and the maul glows with holy power. Not a dull and lifeless short-handed mallet any longer, the head gleams as if polished fresh from the forge. The gold and gothic inscriptions bemuse the eyes with soft light. Cracked leather, faded to old, dried blood is oiled and smooth Phoenician purple. Suitable, for an Emperor's blessing. Although a breeze is present, some other great breath pushes the papyrus of the long purity seal parchment in the other direction. All is burnished, all is a pleasure to the eyes and soul, be they priest, scribe, Cog-servant, or warrior.

 

GM: Hywelsbane is now at full glory. It is a Two-handed, Master-crafted Daemonhammer, with the following profile:

• Melee
• Dam: 2d10+4E
• AP 10
• Weight: 10kg,
• Availability: Unique
• Weapon Qualities: Power Field,  Sanctified,  Unwieldy, Two-Handed, Master Crafted (+10 WS to Hit), Luminary (It acts a light source).
• Special Rule: Light shining in darkness.
• Notes: Increase Unnatural Strength multiplier by 1 (if present). See DH: Ascension p.141 for further details.

 

GM: Special Rule: Light Shining in Darkness.

This weapon has been given as reward and challenge both to those brave enough to stand in the Immortal Emperor's name. The weapon's spirit glows incessantly, irrepressibly. It provides an inexhaustible light source (4m x 4m), which cannot be concealed by any means. In Combat, the weapon smites with a tremendous burst of holy power, blinding the unworthy and ill-prepared.

 

In Combat, any Damage Roll triggering Righteous Fury, activates an attack with the profile of a Photon Flash Grenade.

 

GM: There are two ways to determine who will take this weapon. I will allow either Player agreement, or we can proceed with the Trial of Purity. The latter is a WP Test with modifiers, to judge who is worthy. It depends how much you want to go into it.

 

GM: Queries in the OOC.

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

After the localized psychic disturbance finished, Nicios looked at the hammer. His head and soul ached from the ritual's power and intensity and as he gazed at the weapon, he knew it was not his to wield. His faith was strong, his gift was powerful, but his skill in arms was not worthy of the blessed daemonhammer.

 

Edited June 26, 2023 by Lord_Ikka

[Machine God]

Tower of Echoes

 

Kerr Restal:

 

He'd been dutiful and kept calm on duty outside the walls.

 

Then the doors opened and the Hammer spoke!

 

Then he was prone in awe...

 

 

+It puzzles the will with a bare Bodkin+ stuttered Kerr Restal, in half remembered rhyme.

 

+No travellers would return from fighting the Fardel Bears+

 

 

Just keep praying!

 

 

 

 

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

+I am no Confessor, but if I may be so bold, Scourge, you joined our band in penance for misdeeds I know not. You fought in expectation of no reward other than death, instead the Omnissiah saw fit to armour your faith with blessed ceramite. Now it seems only fitting, as if by his design, that you should carry forth Hayelsbane for all of us, become Malleus Iustitiae and smite the Abominable Intelligence.+   

Edited June 26, 2023 by Trokair

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

His eyes snapped open and his nostrils flared with a noisy intake of breath as the procession of priests and prophets and their guardians burst forth from the inner sanctum, their holy work complete. Scourge rubbed sleep from his eyes and got to his feet, finding he felt quite refreshed by his nap. Jamming his sallet down over his head, he walked down to the thronging crowd and reached his fellow acolytes deep in the scrum just as the Chief Astropath removed the sheath from the object he bore aloft.

 

Hywelsbane. Restored, resplendent, righteous.

 

Realising he was in the presence of a holy artefact, Scourge's eyes widened and he dropped to his knees, prayers of thanks already taking shape on his lips. The implement of their deliverance was at hand; the bane of their foe had been made whole. Its inner radiance was mesmerising, and he could make out the singing of cherubim just beyond his hearing, as if they sang directly into his mind and heart. The psychic imprint of God upon the daemonhammer was obvious even to one without the witch-sight. He felt hot tears running down his cheeks as he gazed upon the mighty warhammer. 

 

Bardas's words brought him back to reality. He should bear the hammer?! 

 

“Thou, thou honourest me, Tech-Adept, but surely such a blessed weapon shouldst be borne into battle by one such as noble Cephas, one of the God-Emperor's Angels, shouldst it not? I am unworthy of such a holy relic, blessed by He on Terra!”

 

Scourge looked askance at Locke, also kneeling, realising then that the aged Inquisitor Lord was not to be the one to wield the daemonhammer as he had previously thought – Locke’s prime years were far behind him and the Golem’s siege upon Hive Primus had taxed him dearly. He then looked around at the others, each weighed down with firearms, ammunition bandoliers and equipment, garbed in a motley of finery and combat fatigues, all eyes upon either him or the mighty weapon.

 

“What wouldst thou have me do, Lord?”

[A.T.]

Falk

 

It made sense the Scourge should bear the hammer, he had trained and fought at the side of the Astartes, bore the armour of the faithful, and indeed had been the first to stand before Locke and set this last action in motion. He would go to his death without hesitation to strike a blow against the golem and with this beacon of the God Emperors will one true blow is perhaps all that would be needed.

 

It was for the rest to see him reach it, his shields and torch bearers.