[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[Trokair]

Bardas:

 

+A look yes, but nothing rash, last time I saw him he was in the company of a truly dangerous killer, no match for you or I.+

 

As they set out for quay four, the two Rockheads blending in amongst the other works, several of which Bardas now knew to also be part of the clan. Part of a tattoo here, a nod at Grog or Skinny there.

 

Word no doubt got around, for as they reached the beginning quay four itself the press of people thickened compared to just moments before, swelled by comrades come to see what opportunity had been found, or defend their own form trouble.

 

At least from here he had a good view along the quay, and in the mass of people was hopefully well hidden.  The House Tirant surcoat was easy enough to spot. None the less Bardas hesitated, after their earlier encounter would Van Bosch have the Sicarian with him as a bodyguard?

 

The parting to the crowd to the right heralded the Chief’s arrival. Bardas nodded in greeting and waited until the other was next to him.

 

+I need to have a few words with that man, in private, somewhere discreet. What would I owe you and yours for assistance in making such a meeting reality? +

[Mazer Rackham]

Scourge:

 

Cephas:

Half-action: Standard Attack

D100: 02 - 20 Right Arm.

Dam: Er, uh, yeah. Don't ask. Let's just say you'd have to find your arse with one hand, and no map.

 

The Corvus Hammer thumps down into your right elbow, collapsing it completely and numbing the flesh beneath, the psychoelectric feedback from the armour's own distress merges with this. You drop the hammer and go to your knees. Cephas doesn't waste a beat.

 

His left boot crunches into your shoulder, stamping you down, the giant boulder rolling over to crush you.

 

After a moment the pressure relents, and retreats. +Being an axeman has taught you much, but you attend me not to break habits.+ His helm cants enough to see the slight figure of Reynard at the door. It is unclear who he is speaking to, until he addresses the Frateris. +Servitors, scribe.+

 

At the command, three training servitors roll in, and line up in a serried rank abreast.

 

+Now. Mark well, Squire. When you ignite the weapon, it will feel different.+

 

He hefts the Corvus, powers it. The lumpen metal comes alive with actinic shimmer, producing a deep tremble of the air in the room. He steps up to the first servitor, and with powerful blows, smashes it about the head and shoulders, pulverising putrid flesh and rugged metal, each strike accompanied by a buffet of concussive force. The display is almost too fast to follow, but the attacks are not the frenzied flailing of a flagellant, but designed to crush, break, pummel.

 

Yet the energy field almost seems to bounce from the target, even as it cracks in displaced air - and bloody bone. He is literally beating the servitor's brains out.

 

+Do you see how the weapon rebels? If you do not tame it, it may strike you. Use the rebuff to empower your assault. A sword is not an axe, and axe is not a mace. Do not expect cutting power. Now. Demonstrate.+

 

Bardas:

 

"We can sort that out," Skinny says. "We'll ask his highness to inspect the cranking-house. Grog will make sure you're not interrupted. Chief will keep everyone busy."

 

As he's saying it, he's moving, catching the Chief's eye with a curios hand-signal. A small flutter follows, and the Chief nods, speaks to Von Bosch.

 

Before you know it, the small party is moving towards the crank-house, a small outbuilding housing one of the large windlasses for the cranes doing the loading. The Chief is all smiles, and pats Von Bosch on the back as he ushers him in, before turning to the work crews and small crowd and holding them up by barking orders, sharing jokes.

 

Grog sidles - if a man like that can sidle - into position, and Skinny gives you the thumbs-up. All of this takes three minutes.

 

It's now or never.

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

He had meant to go and help Falk, but he instead dawdled as he watched the masses.

 

As he thought about what the priest had said, he found himself waiting on the the return of Reynard.

 

 

The Weasel returned to the parking apron and got out of a jet black limousine air-car. He looked to be carrying a new prize, his gait had altered.

 

Intrigued by this, Kerr Restal followed him.

 

Reynard was headed in the direction of the Training Arena's. Kerr Restal stalked his target.

 

 

 

 

AGL 40 +0 (Silent Move) = 40. Result: 08, Pass 3DoS

 

 

 

 

Edited June 30, 2023 by Machine God
Skill check & tidy up

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

The inside of the cranking-house was small and cramped, most of its space taken up with components for the cranes, and by the small of Lho stick smoke and kaf an importune break room for workers.  

 

Bardas had slipped in just behind the Chief. Van Bosch had only just started to turn round to see why the Chief had not followed him in for whatever he was going to show him. Between that and the change from light to semi darkness he was slow to react to the swing of Bardas’s staff.

 

“Wha..” was all Jonas managed before collapsing from the blow, stunned he tried to roll away but Bardas followed up with another swing, rendering the man unconscious.

 

Taking a length of heavy duty steel cable Bardas bound Jonas’s feet and hands, then dragged him over to one wall. A little further in, out of sight of the door, he found a table, some chairs and a kaf brewer, the content cold. Taking both the kaf and a chair back to the tied up man Bardas used more cables to secure the Van Bosch to the chair. Lastly he dumped the kaf over Jonas’s head.

 

+Back with us? You know why you are here, tell me everything!+  

Edited June 30, 2023 by Trokair
ethrything? not my day today

[Mazer Rackham]

The Crankin' House:

 

Bardas:

 

Von Bosch just looks up at you, bug-eyed and bewildered by the order. Even as an analogue interface, the Mechanicum takes things quite literally.

 

"I...I arrived here five years ago, on a transport ship form the Sector Applications Bureau..."

 

[Trokair]

+Good, and then? Be concise but leave nothing out about the aberration that has gown within the ranks of House Tirant and the Mechanicus enclave.+

 

While Jonas had been unconscious Bardas had searched the other man, and then planted a vox recorder just behind the man, out of his sight, it would feed everything to the dataslate in Bardas’s pocket.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Crankin' House:

 

GM: I want my sabbatical this year, so I'm going to tell you he prattles on for about ten minutes, talking absolute claptrap.

 

GM: I require you to make either: A Challenging (+0) Scrutiny Test, or a Difficult (-10) Perception Test.

Edited July 1, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Smilies to show I'm not being an arse

[Trokair]

The Fall of the House of Jonas Van Bosch

 

Spoiler

Perception Test

Per:34 – 10 = 24

D100: 15, Pass, 0 DoS

 

Curious by nature Grog and Skinny tried to listen in on the events inside, The Cogger might be an honorary ally, but he was no blood kin, so there was no violation of the code. While they heard a few snatches nothing was clear enough. No matter, can’t be accused of eavesdropping if all you heard was unintelligible, yes?

 

After several minutes, long after the two had given up on hearing anything useful, they just about made out the Cogger voice.

 

+By thin own admission you are herby judged in the name of the Omnissiah by his most holy Inquisition.+

 

As Bardas left the Cranking House there was a weft of burned flesh, a point blank Las shot had delivered Jonas Van Bosch to his maker.

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Scourge pushed himself to his feet, aided by the monstrous greathammer while sensation returned to his arm. He opened and closed his fist while he watched his Astartes instructor expound upon the finer points of blunt force trauma to a hapless servitor. Once feeling had crept back into his fingertips he nodded and hefted the daemonhammer, casually carrying it over one shoulder, and walked over to stand beside the armoured giant.

 

"I mark thee well, frater."

 

Hefting the huge mallet off of his shoulder and back into a two-handed grip, he stroked the activation rune and watched as the great weapon came to life with a low-frequency hum and a brief flash of actinic discharge. He squared off in front of one of the servitors and spun the hammer a few times about its central axis in his hands, his eyes narrowing as he reflected on Cephas's technique. Taking a short step back, he whipped the daemonhammer over his head and brought it down in a crash upon the first servitor, watching its head explode like an overripe melon in a geyser of meaty gore and bone and metal shrapnel. Taking advantage of the hammerhead rebounding off of the ruin of the servitor's cranium, he slung the the maul around in a lateral arc, landing a mighty blow in its ribcage as it toppled over, sending it flying a few meters distant.

 

Turning to the final servitor, Scourge lunged forward and aimed low, his blow destroying its left knee, practically amputating the lower portion of its leg. But as it pitched over sideways, he snapped the daemonhammer up and smartly cracked it on the side of its head, shattering the skull and causing and explosion of brain matter and electronics.

 

He turned to look at the Astartes as tiny fragments of bone and blood ran down his helm and armour.

 

"More."

 

Spoiler

OOC: Sorry, GM. I had a very busy day, and was unable to post until after bedtime.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The adventures of Jonas Von Bosch and the giant exploded peach of his head:

 

The dock workers and assembled tradesmen, hangers-on and nosy folks all turn to look where the shot came from.

 

"Just a scraprat," the Chief smoothes.

 

Nobody pays any further attention as Grog pulls a large toolbag over to the crank house, and emerges a few moments later dragging it behind him.

 

GM: Sorry Tro, I expected you to have direct questions!  As Bardas replays the recording on the way up, you hear several references to the nucleonic stacks, and the fitting of special couplings in there. Cross-referencing this with your previous information, you now have the location of the Golem's lair. The tracker signal Falk and Nicios will help provide the route to it.

 

The Melon-splitting Room:

 

Cephas makes a noise of affirmation, nodding in definite approval, arms folded, his own maul maglocked to his waist. He signals for more serivitors to be brought for pulverising. In the same sweep, he finally addresses the Fox in the coop.

 

+What is your pleasure, Mr Reynard?+

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

With a respectful nod, Reynard stepped forward and slowly eased one of the blocky pistols from its holster.

 

Carefully, carefully… don't do anything to give an Astartes the impression you're drawing on him.

 

He held it up, fingers well away from the trigger, to show it to Brother Cephas.

 

"I happened across these and thought they might prove… useful… in our final task. However, I have limited experience with bolt weaponry, and I thought to seek your counsel as to their best use?"

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Training Room:

Reynard:

 

Cephas spares a moment to watch Scourge beat another servitor into pulp, but makes no further instruction. His blank-faced helm makes no offer of satisfaction either. It rolls back around to you.

 

+Useful?+ There's a wry smile in there. +I should deem so. Show me your form first, let me see if you have bad habits. A bolt weapon is a harsh mistress on mistakes.+

 

He points to a servitor at the other end of the line from Scourge. Far enough away to keep the flailing flagellant safe, just.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Reynard nodded amiably and spun the pistol, bringing the grip around to sit comfortably in his hand. He moved into his usual shooting stance, one-handed, body at around ninety degrees to the target, legs spread enough to create a stable firing platform, arm straight. He breathed in, took aim, breathed out, and fired.

 

Spoiler

Aim and Single shot.
BS41 +10(Aim) +10(Short Range?) = 61, Roll: 47, Hit on (47=74) Right Leg.

 

 

He'd been aiming for centre mass, nothing fancy. Hard to miss at this range. But the lack of recoil surprised him. Still more than a las or stub pistol, of course, but much less than he had been expecting. Well-crafted guns. However, his own reflexive attempt to compensate for it meant that his shot actually went low, striking the servitor in the right hip.

 

Nevertheless, the hit was still brutal. The bolt penetrated and then exploded, blasting the construct's legs away from under it in a burst of blood and machine parts, and toppling what was left to the deck.

 

Maybe that was a valuable lesson in itself? Pinpoint precision mattered less when even a glancing strike was enough to completely incapacitate an enemy.

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Training Room:

 

Reynard:

 

Cephas' helm cants, obvious interest in it. +Not bad. Draw and lock your wrist normally, without gimmicks. Remember, any negligent discharges will do that to your comrades, or you.+ He points at the cratered remains of the servitor. +A bolt weapon demands your total respect.+

 

He spreads a tool roll on another arming bench, and beckons you across to demonstrate with his own sidearm. As he puts it down, the light gleams across the silver name plate of the Astartes bolt pistol. Scylla. Despite being monstrous compared to Canthus' own sidearms, the Space Marine weapon is still an artwork, as much love given to it's creation as Cephas appears to give in maintenance.

 

His hands move reverently across the weapon's pins and latches, making it safe before taking it apart. Here you can see the faith in battle the Astartes are renowned for. Each manipulation of a catch or pin is deft, careful. This is a ritual, a prayer to the gods of battle, and a partnership of mutually dependent machine and human spirit.

 

He indicates for you to do the same, and the laborious instruction begins.

 

GM: We can now assume that Scourge and Reynard have the relevant Training as discussed in the OOC.

[Machine God]

Training Range

 

Kerr Restal:

 

Off in the distance Cephas had indicated a servitor target to Reynard. Reynard had acquired a bolt pistol.

 

The weapon behaved differently to what Reynar and he was used to, although the results were suitably impressive. One shot turned the servitor into bloody chunks and scrap.

 

Cephas' helm canted towards Reynard. +Not bad. Draw and lock your wrist normally, without gimmicks. Remember, any negligent discharges will do that to your comrades, or you.+

 

He pointed at the cratered remains of the servitor. +A bolt weapon demands your total respect.+

 

 

He then beckoned Reynard over to a workbench and using his bolt pistol instructed him in the arts of field-strip and assemblage. The Weasel was a quick learner under Cephas' tutelage.

 

 

At the end of the instruction, Kerr Restal applauded.

 

+Bravo, bravo, a fine weapon Von Graen!"

 

 

 

 

Edited July 1, 2023 by Machine God
Typo and tidy up

[Trokair]

Bardas 

 

There was no time to make it back to the precinct, but perhaps he did not need to. They had had an approximate idea of the Golems lair, getting into the vicinity in time was entirely doable, provided the inter level transport lifts did not fail again. By then the Lawman and Nicios should have already scouted out an approach, their single would guide him in for the final stretch.  

 

A little later, while seated in the passenger compartment of a transit lifter, he went over all the information that Van Bosch had spilled in his last interview. Replaying the conversation, skipping to the bits, replaying them, yes there had been more substance there than he had supposed the first time round. Filtering out the irrelevant took time, but by the end he was fairly confident he had extracted the truth, or at least as much of it as Jonas had been aware off.

 

The Silica Animus must have gotten to the Executor, the Ordinator Maximal, as all else within the enclave, and House Tirant, had flown from there. The first orders that were a deviation from the norm, followed blindly on the assumption that the superiors had simply not deed it note worthy to explain. Later the sidelining of those that had protested a bit too much, or not followed quickly enough.

Together with the evidence from Lazlo the picture became frighteningly clear.  

 

Stepping out onto the concourse of this mid hive level Bardas looked for an Arbite branch office, he had to get his findings to the Deadman. Not that it would change anything here on Damocles, but lessons could be learned from this, and another world saved from infiltration in this manner.  Locke’s authority should see it safely out of the system even if they failed here.  

 

 

Edit:

A auto update ate the rought draft for the rest of this scene, and as Locke is present in the scene below, I am just going to assume that Bradas passed over the recording and his report on it in person before the commencement of the scene below.

Edited July 2, 2023 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: We'll move everyone ahead. All Players are on the platform.

 

The Railhead:

 

Unlike many of the hive's lifters and elevator platforms and carriages, the main internal lift was designed to carry heavy freight and plant machinery though the most stable central spine corridor of the hive. Disused other than required maintenance scheduled millennia ago and not rescinded, the Mechanicum have all but forgotten it against the other projects they undertake, the Railhead just a memory of a great accomplishment, something functional, used to complete the lower and mid-tier hive, and superseded thereafter. Yet as part of the hive it could not be stripped for parts or dismantled. The Mechanicum build, leave it as testament to those who came before, and here it sits, only a little worse for wear.

 

The platform is secured to sixteen sturdy rails the thickness of a Chimera APC, two planted in each corner at the vertices, the span of the broad plate thirty metres squared. Great ratchets and magclamps bite into the segmented stanchions, held by four manual, mechanical brake levers at the corners. The mechanisms a network of interlocking cogs, increasing the differential to apply vicious gripping force with the pull of only a relatively small control lever, each handle being three feet in length, activated by pushing from left to right in the horizontal. A control box holds the mag-clamps, suspensors and acceleration boosters lurking beneath the ten metre thick platform, which you can see through some sections of the grille floor tapers to a pyramidal point, a plumb-line pendulum hovering over the pit below. The grilles themselves reduce weight, but the clever construction retains strength.

 

For such a simple device, the construction itself is a marvel of the Opus Mechanicus, a symbol which is represented on the floor with old, flaked and worn paint among the rusted red metal of the deck.

 

Beneath the railhead platform there is only abyssal dark.

 

Above it, there is a control room, a lading quay on each of the four sides of the lift. Guard rails exist only around the great machinery, and nowhere else. To the Mechanicum, the walls would be enough to contain the cargo, no doubt packed perfectly to fit within the platform's envelope and maximise the trip.

 

The control room is now in the hands of the Inquisition. Locke resides within, Solomon standing grimly rigid with his shotgun as a bodyguard. Cutter is in the Voivode, not repaired fully, but flight-worthy. Without and in the environs of the control room, the Arbites have seized several blocks. Canthus mercenaries have been given their own duties of pickets in the further reaches, where they can do some good, but equally no harm. The grip of the Emperor's law is slowly being restored. If the Railhead was a throat, the Inquisition grip it in a tight fist.

 

Four React Teams will go down with you. Drake directs operation from the Panopticon and Strategium as he wills. Everyone has a cartograph with the latest information from Adept Bardas' new informant. The Officers are filed with a weary energy. Tired, but willing, they can sense the end comes, and determination sets jaws into the common Imperial Stoic Grimace.

 

Elsewhere, the mighty Cephas makes his own way downhill. Seeing him refuelling his mechanical steed, one does not need to wonder how.

 

The voxcasters in the railhead fire into life with a shrill, sharp peal.

 

+My Acolytes, I send you into the dark with my greatest trust, my holy faith that the Emperor has blessed our deeds. Armed with the finest weapons mankind can provide, and yet it is our hearts and our strength which are left to carry the day. Your greatest aid in the darkness, is the light of His Will and His Law. So it is, with hope and the Emperor's enduring mercy, I commit you to this task, and entrust you to expunge the sins of the wicked revisited on us.+

 

Tough he projects well, his old preaching tone good, you can sense the weakness below, the sudden fragility as his strength carries him to the cusp of this great moment. He is barely holding on.

 

+We are all in the Emperor's hands. And you are instruments of his divine will. In our Lord's name I bless you, and plead with him to continue his watch over you.+

 

The thump and clang of the mighty clamps unlocking make the whole platform shake. When the latches sit at full draw, flush with the walls, and freeing the lift platfom, the whole room shakes and the deck beneath your feet shudders with the shrug of a stretching giant.

 

+Yet is any man doubts, should his courage fail, step off the platform. There must be no weakness in the blade, no chink in the armour. I will bide for thirty seconds.+

 

The vox cuts off with another sharp blurt.

[Trokair]

Arise, arise.

 

The Arbite teams stood at the ready, taking the four corners of the lift while their band of odds and ends stood in the centre. They were fewer now then when they had been gathered, and in the turmoil of the last few days he was not sure what had become of the missing. He supposed that they were simply deployed elsewhere by the Deadman, though it would come as no surprise he reflected that if they had died that no one would have bothered telling them.

 

Of those that remained they where an odd collection.

 

The faithful sinner, armed and armoured through faith seeking atonement.  

 

The Fox-kin, scoundrel and survivor, and yet he was still here, Bardas hoped it was out of courage and not fear of the Deadman.

 

The Voidsman, did he truly have the innate gift, or had it merely a chance epiphany, if they survived this he should try to arrange tutelage from a true Magos for the lad.   

 

The Lawman and the sanctioned psyker, both duty bound to this doom, much like him, they would fight to the end, if the latter’s mind did not end them first.

 

Now or never.

 

+So, it is before this pit, that the doom of our time will be decided.+

 

As ready as he could be he continued.

 

+Come let us face our death. Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath. Now for ruin.+

 

More quietly he concluded. + And a new dawn."

Edited July 2, 2023 by Trokair

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

Silence.

 

He wanted to get off the damn lift.

 

Reynard wasn't a warrior. He was a trickster, a deal maker, a half-decent investigator… but not a soldier. He'd already done his bit - uncovered what was happening here on Damocles, helped the people that he could help. Wasn't it time to leave things to the professional fighters? Plus, he didn't like the look of the ancient elevator at all. A midnight black shaft leading directly into Hel itself.

 

But… if he left, and then they failed, and Hive Primus was destroyed… Would that be his fault? What if the little that he could give was the little that would make the difference between salvation or obliteration for the Hivers of Damocles? Seb and his father, little Alyce, beautiful, deadly Drexler. All the others, in their uncounted, unknowable millions.

 

Bardas spoke and Reynard nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps that was the smartest way to view things? Accept that, win or lose, their deaths were likely inevitable? He knew he didn't want to die… but perhaps accepting it freed you to do whatever needed to be done? To take those long shots knowing that you had only the barest chance of hitting the jackpot?

 

And if they did survive to see a new dawn? Well, that would be a nice little bonus.

 

He stayed where he was.

 

 

Edited July 2, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

"Well said, Bardas. May the God-Emperor guide our hands; let us be His implements in the darkness, the bringers of light."

 

Hywelesbane hung in a makeshift leather and plas-fibre scabbard on his powerpack, and he reverently patted the boltgun slung over the cuirass of his ramshackle power armour. He had left his battle-axe and heater at the modest shrine to the God-Emperor in the precinct, along with his flak-and-chain hauberk and las-rifle, a final material offering to the War God. The man from his past who had borne those totems into battle across dozens of worlds had died on an operating table some days prior. In the place of a mere line soldier now stood a power-armoured knight of the realm, the mailed fist of the Inquisition on Damocles.

 

With a private smile, Scourge regarded the monk down from his nearby mountain shrine, who had been instrumental in his transfiguration, his resurrection, his renewal of purpose. Bardas, too, had seen many changes, bringing him ever closer to the Omnissian Ideal, the holy fusion of man and machine. His companions had all been inexorably altered by the ministrations of Locke and his servants, both physical and spiritual. 

 

He walked to the edge of the lift and peered down into the abyss below, into the inscrutable and inky blackness which swallowed all light, all hope. Far below them an unliving avatar of Ruin and Evil, an abomination to flesh and cog alike, lurked in its den of iniquity, either awaiting its doom like a cowed beast or poised to devour any who crossed its threshold. He suspected the lull in hostilities was just a ruse, and their foe mustered its strength to annihilate all remaining resistance. 

 

Deliverance was coming. Wrath and ruin in equal measure. 

Edited July 2, 2023 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Another elevator, he remembered the promise he made to the golem the last time they had met under such circumstances. At his side hung a new accoutrement, a small brass lantern barely more than a candle flame lit from the Tower of Echoes.

 

We wondered at the choice of them, this mis-matched group that had somehow survived at the heart of a storm that threatened this very world to arrive here and now, unprepared and unsuited and yet standing at this threshold to confront the arch enemy in this final hour, even those whose natures should have seen them anywhere but here.

 

All this for one child, Adarios price. "Let us leave no trace of this golem or its works, let it tempt no other. Today we break the chain no matter the cost."

[Machine God]

Kerr Restal:

 

He stood on the elevator and stared down through the mesh floor into the depth.

 

Perhaps a bit further and clearer thanks to the enhance photo-contacts, that Reynard had bartered for him.

 

He clipped and secured his new red-dot sight under the barrel of his day-glow Carnodon.

 

 

Bar-Das gave an invigorating speech and it was added to by Scourge and Falk.

 

Kerr Restal drew his newly mono-enhanced katana from his back scabbard, he pointed it down the shaft and roared +DEATH!+

 

 

 

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Nicios said nothing, for his words were turned inward to strengthen his soul. Emperor guide our souls in the darkness, let Your Light fill our minds and Your Fury carry our blades into the hearts of the enemy.

Spoiler

Manifest Psychic Power (Resist Possession)

Threshold - 6

Roll - 6 + 5(WPB) + 1 (Power Well) = 12

Result = Pass, can reroll failed Willpower Tests to resist possession by daemonic entities.

He racked the slide of his weapon and spun his ring. He was ready.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Railhead:

 

All Players:

 

An electric buzz passes over the platform as power to the clamps cuts, and the suspensors cut in. With a creaking of less-used gears, the docked elevator begins to pull free, the odd scab of rust and shed of dust bouncing along the deck as it wakes.

 

The terminal rises as the lift sinks slowly, steadily. this far up in the hive, and with no stops to waylay you, you estimate the journey will take anywhere from three to four hours. If you considered 30 seconds to be interminable, this is perhaps a torturous grind, maybe an opportunity to get some rest. Braced by the trusses and rails, supported by a ponderous weight, the elevator hardly sways or bounces, just descends.

 

The motion evokes the staid mechanical conveyance of the Mechanicum. Continuous, monotonous.

 

Maybe your bodies can settle, but your minds cannot. Perhaps you think nothing. It does not matter - going down.

 

The only break in the metronomic cranking of the great cogwheels is the illum-lamps that mark the passing of a milestone - literally. They flicker on as you pass, leaving a trail of meagre light in the shaft as you fall. Water, oil and the occasional red-brown stain line the walls in tidemarks to show where the strata were built, plascrete, rockrete pourings, seam lines abutted with the bosses of mega-rivets, large pitted barnacles placed behind the endless rails carrying your platform, pinning the hive together.

 

At approximately a third of the way down, one of the brake wheels stutters just a fraction, but it sends a spray of golden sparks across the deck. One of the Judges nearby grasps an oil pump, and sprays the great cog with it, muttering incantations of warding. The sparks cease and the travel resumes. after a small jolt in the mighty arrowhead dropping to the darkness below.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

As the long journey downwards began, Reynard paced for a few minutes, then found a quiet spot near the centre of the platform. He began carefully performing the maintenance rituals Cephas had shown him on his bolt pistols. They didn't need it yet, of course, but he had often found that the best way to remember a new skill was to repeat it regularly soon after learning it. Plus it gave him something to think about other than the vast drop beneath them… or what might be waiting at the bottom.

 

He finished by the time they reached the first mile marker, so also went through the maintenance rituals for his laspistol that Karthago had taught him. He grinned suddenly. The gunsmith had sworn a lot more than the Astartes had. Reynard checked that the clip in the las was one of the hotshot charges he carried. With careful shot placement, it could do even more damage than the bolters, so he'd keep it in reserve. He holstered it behind his back, hanging from his belt in between the bolt pistols that rested on either hip.

 

Finally, with all his gear as ready as it could be, he took a pack of beaten old cards from a small pocket and started playing Solitarius. He knew he wouldn't sleep, so this was as close to a rest as he was likely to get.