[BC] A Vulgar Display of Power - Episode I (RPG IC)

[Necronaut]

Here follows a record of Heresy, treachery and misfortune....

 

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

 

Episode I: Manifest Decimation

 

 

You all felt it. First it gnawed at your mind, then your bones, and then your flesh. The great hollowing that no sustenance could satiate, no libation could quench. Then you heard the wailing, the terrible wailing. It drew you in like a moth to the flame, hounding you across the stars, giving you no respite in your dreams. 

 

Corruption. 

 

Your fall was inevitable, perhaps. Dragged into Heresy by your brethren, your commanders, your fallibility as humans, or a thousand other reasons. Or none at all. Some of you were born to it, came to it as naturally as breathing. Perhaps, in your delusion, you even still believe yourself to be a loyal servant to the Golden Throne and Undying Emperor on distant Terra. But no matter your circumstances, you have all strayed from the Emperor's Light to tread the road of Damnation, whether by choice or by circumstances of birth, turning your backs on the rotting husk of your Imperial birthrights forever. 

 

In the Hell-realm of the Screaming Vortex, time has a tenuous consistency, a fleeting connection to reality at the best of times. Years may pass like grains of sand falling through an hourglass, while days may span veritable eons. And yet time marches on; the grist-mill of inevitability continues to grind down all in its path and feed the only constant in the universe. The Screaming Vortex is a benighted, hateful canker-sore upon reality, upon whose desolate rocks the dregs of the galaxy may wash upon and cling to like so much flotsam. It is here that many servants of Chaos congregate, building new homes for themselves amongst the detritus, eking out a cruel existence before they are devoured either by their gods or their fellows, and the cruel wheel of fate turns on and on, uncaring, perpetually in motion. 

 

 

You each have your own reasons for coming to the Vortex: some maybe for glory, others for the promise of war and bloodshed, and for some the Vortex may have sung to you in your dreams, its maddening cries of anguish a siren song calling to you from across the cosmos. 

 

By one contrivance or another you have all arrived at Desolace, a way-station for pirates, raiders, mercenaries and merchants of all stripes. The hollowed out asteroid base is one of the largest in the Ragged Helix, a massive asteroid belt within the Vortex, and serves as a sort of neutral ground for the various warbands and corsair fleets which call the region home. It is a cruel and miserable place, but as ever humanity has found a way to thrive and eke out a living in such a grim and wretched demesne, alongside xenos and worse besides. It hangs in space like a great, rocky tumor, its myriad docking spires jutting out from its surface at odd and horrible angles relative to one another, servicing a number of corrupted ships of Imperial make and xenos alike. Further out, other larger vessels of various provenance lie at anchor, warily eyeing one another like great predators in a treacherous ocean.  

 

You have each made a short low-gravity transit down one of these spires from whichever ramshackle transport dumped you here, and ended up in one of the dingy and dimly lit halls of the hollowed-out asteroid. Grime seems to encrust every surface, a pervasive miasma of competing, noxious scents pollutes the air, and there is an ever-present dripping sound coming from somewhere indistinct but nearby. The air recycling system wheezes, gasps and rattles like a man with advanced consumption as it toils unceasingly, but with great futility, to purify the almost toxic atmosphere of the place. The huddled masses of mutant and human descendants of the original mining crews sent to this great rock shy away from you into their shanties, terrified by the newest, heavily-armed arrivals to their cold and dank home, their forebears dead and forgotten for many dark centuries. Elsewhere, motley pirate crews and xenos mercenaries travel the halls like swaggering hive gangers, shabby merchants hawk their corroded wares, and other sights and sounds, each more tantalizing and disgusting than the last emerge from the foetid gloom. Despite its outward appearance of squalor and degeneracy, Desolace is a veritable hive of activity. 

 

Welcome to Hell.  

 

GM: Welcome to the Screaming Vortex, lads! Your new port-of-call awaits you! Desolace is a large asteroid base within the Ragged Helix, and a natural jumping off point for adventure within the greater Vortex. Numerous pirates, mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, merchants and artisans call Desolace their home, whether permanently or temporarily. The asteroid itself is a heavily pock-marked and meteorite-blasted spheroid approximately 10 km in diameter, riddled with an uncountable number of halls, passageway, chambers and nooks courtesy of the original press-ganged miners who toiled to hollow out the great rock. It has been ruled most recently by a cruel and cunning warlord named Vaarsaal for the past two decades, or at least as near as one can reckon in the hellish realm of the Screaming Vortex, where time and the physical laws of our universe are but playthings to the Ruinous Powers. 

 

Each of your characters has received, fairly recently, a summons of sorts, to travel to Desolace. Strange dreams have haunted you for many long nights prior to and during your voyages to this way-station for all manner of detritus and scum: dreams of blood and iron ships sailing upon dark tides and a decrepit fortress floating amongst the stars. Your first post should introduce us to your character, offering a glimpse into their background, what drew them to the Vortex and their most recent voyage upon the warp-tides to Desolace. You may end your post detailing what manner of delights your character might seek out in Vaarsaal's realm, for there are many, and they are as varied as they are terrible and blasphemous.

Edited December 17, 2023 by Necronaut

[Petragor]

Ollkyrax

In the outer reaches of Desolace, a robed figure steps out of a shuttle bay with cautious curiosity. Carapace armour plates grind slighty against each other beneath his clothing as he looks around, scanning for opportunities, and for threats.

 

Behind him, a much stranger figure follows its master in a rigid, thoughtless march. Four narrow, but armoured legs, connected to the bottom of a rectangular platform. On top of the platform is a small armour plated motor on the rear, humming slightly in tandem with the movement of the legs. On the front however, is the upper body of a servitor, covered in layers of flak armour and wielding a massive chainsword in both hands, ready to be activated at the word of its master. The Heretek was quite proud of this invention he had dubbed the Strife-Pattern, even if the machine was mostly designed to be cannon fodder. He used to have a small strike force composed of the these things, along with a team of tech-slaves to direct and maintain them, but he had been forced to sell both in order to purchase passage to Desolace, keeping this last one as a bodyguard.

 

And journey to Desolace he did, in the wake of the summons he had received. It was the first time since his rejection of the Mechanicus and Imperium that he had a purpose beyond murder and constructing instruments of murder. The dreams too were a new sensation, strange datastreams and scrapcode haunting his cerebral implant during its rest cycle. It was as if a higher power had taken notice of the Heretek and seen fit to guide him here, which was certainly a possibility in the warp-infused space of the Vortex. 

 

No matter the reason, if it led Ollkyrax to a battle worthy of his skills, he would have gladly sold a thousand servitors more to achieve it. He grips the handle of his poweraxe, symbols of reverance to the Omnissiah desecrated, but still present upon it, reminding himself of a similar decision he came to years ago, when he was a mere Skitarii Alpha, a slave by any other name. Feeling his determination swelling once more, he begins to stride further into the station, his lobotomized bodyguard following shortly behind.

Edited September 10, 2023 by Petragor

[Lysimachus]

Oswyld:

 

The Gladius-class Frigate, tiny in the vast blackness of space, slid through the midnight void towards a huge, swirling maelstrom of weirdly coloured light. The small vessel's hull was boldly decorated in quartered yellow and white, and proudly displayed an elegantly curved sigil in black - the mane and face of a great predatory feline. However, if an observer moved into sufficiently close range, they would quickly realise that the Astartes escort had seen far better days. The bright paintwork was flaked and pitted. Battle scars and jury-rigged repairs covered its blocky, powerful frame.

 

On the bridge of the Pugnacious, Sergeant Oswyld of the Lions of Alba Third Company stared bleakly at the ever-changing outline of the Screaming Vortex warp anomaly, watching as it grew larger and larger on the main viewer. He felt oddly alone, isolated from his beloved brethren. For the best part of a century, he had gone to war with the loyal warriors of 2nd Squad surrounding him.

 

Now, he commanded only a skeletal complement of mortal serfs. Even on a small, highly automated vessel like a Gladius, it was a fraction of the numbers that should be assigned to crew it. They were all that could be spared from the Chapter Fleet. Oswyld was the only Astartes aboard. He would have to be enough.

 

His task here was simple, in theory. He had been sent by Masters Gorinel and Rygen to find allies - or failing that, fodder - to join the Lions in their righteous Crusade. Rebels, traitors, mercenaries. Scum. His fingers dropped to caress the hilt of his sheathed power blade. He was uncertain whether there would be anything here worth the effort. If he was being truly honest, Oswyld had nothing but contempt for the filthy renegades.

 

However, it was not their rebellion that he scorned. Indeed, what other course could one follow, once your eyes had been opened to the lies and failings of the 'God' Emperor? The Lions of Alba understood that truth with bitter clarity. No, it was rather the simple fact that these curs had accomplished so little! Some of the individuals here in this pitiful 'Vortex' had spurned the service of the Great Betrayer millennia ago - but what had they done, what had they achieved with those long centuries? Nothing! Instead, they hid from the Imperium, squabbling and bickering with one another like children.

 

Pathetic.

 

The Lions would never be as such. They would have their rightful vengeance, whatever it took. The Emperor of Mankind would pay for his treachery. No forgiveness, no mercy, no respite.

 

"My Lord?"

 

One of the mortal crewmen spoke softly, interrupting his reverie. He looked over.

 

"A small vessel emerging from the anomaly, my Lord. Some sort of merchantman trading in contraband, I would assume?"

 

"Good," Oswyld replied. A small relief. He didn't have to risk taking the precious Gladius directly into the hellspace. He grimaced. The Lions had few enough ships already.

 

"Overhaul and board them. They will take me within, to somewhere I can gather sufficient troops to aid us. Find a quiet location nearby and wait for my signal. I will return as soon as possible."

 

Ideally, at the head of an army… but Oswyld still wasn't convinced about that.

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Abraxus

 

Nul Abraxus looked about him. The shadows of the transport hid him as he scanned the landing pad. Targeting read-out, biometric data, and ballistic solutions flickered as his gaze viewed mutants and scum. The Corvus-pattern power armor blinked a message... NO TARGETS.

 

He should have stayed with the Savage Spectres. After the last mission with them, the Black Legion warband had offered him a place among their number, replacing a dead man. Abraxus refused, stating that he had business in the Screaming Vortex. He had no real business, he had nothing but a reoccurring dream that whispered of Desolace. He despised Warp-trickery; his way was one of self-reliance and skill, not madness and deals with daemons. Still, if going to Desolace would remove the dreams, he would go. Now he was here on this ugly rock filled with the muck and flotsam of the Vortex. 

He stalked forward, cameleoline cloak shrouding his form. Perhaps there would be work to be done here- a contract against a skilled foe or action versus the cursed Imperium. He needed no brush of his hands to feel the weapons he carried. Painless, the bolter that whispered death, comfortingly slung on his back and the cursed powerblade Hydrafang burbling a constant, low-grade complaint in his mind. The knife was a tool to be used, as all Warp-touched things were. Gripping its hilt, Abraxus felt two pricks in the palm of his hand as the blade drank his blood. The muttering ceased, but the blade vibrated in his hand as if wanting something. 

 

Abraxus turned slowly, blade in hand. He followed the blade's vibrating directions, knowing that it was leading him to his destination. He past debaucheries and delights, wanting none of them. His delight was in the knife-edge balance of battle, the silent rush of an opened throat and perfect headshot, the disruption of an enemy with targeted assassinations and terror. 

 

His steps silent, Abraxus moved onward. Searching...

Edited September 10, 2023 by Lord_Ikka

[Trokair]

Sakal

 

 The armoured warrior sat in the back of the drinking establishment, its name already forgotten, but here he had claimed a screened booth, and made it his home these last few days. Partly shielded from the rest of the room by quirks of the rock formation from which it had been tunnelled, near the kitchen for a secondary escape route and with a good view of both the front and rear doors.

 

The Establishment owner had protested at the end of the first day and tried to eject the warrior, a mistake, but not a fatal one. For now he was left alone, with the occasional complementary meal and drink provided. It was not all to the establishment’s detriment though. If the scum that filled the place at the end of each shift cycle got to boisterous and troublesome he would quell unrest, forcefully if needed. A quite, for a given value of that quality, place was safer after all.

 

For the last hour and a bit, he had been carefully stripping, cleaning and reassembling a finely wrought pistol, accompanied by a short prayer to The Smith.  

[Xin Ceithan]

Khyran Ar’Zhuul
 

The cloaked figure  of  Khyran Ar’Zhuul sat cross legged in the bulbous cavern of one the docking spire’s reservoir cisterns and tried to focus his thoughts on the steady drip of condensing acidic moisture.  

The  broken forms of the site’s two massive mutant guardians had been hung from select auspicious points along the cistern’s support beams  and Khyran now watched their lifeblood  mingle with the caustic drain into fleeting mandala before being washed away forever.

 

Khyran watched and listened, trying to calm his mind, trying to get a feel of this place, of what lay beyond..

 

The songs on the wind  had grown louder again recently and his dreams had been even more filled  with witchlight and haunting voices than usual. 

 

He could feel Black Soul thrumming in tune with the dripping fluids  where the heft of the weapon lay across his lap even through the ceramite plate of his power armour. The song was calling, calling them this place, one aptly named “Desolation” and it would not be denied. 

 

So Khyran would listen. Bu this time, he would be prepared, would listen first, would get a feeling for its intentions, learn where its capricious tune lured towards sharp edges and swallowing maelstrom.

 

Not like the last time…

 

 

Then.

 

 

The storm wailed around him, a howl of rage and desperation blasting  through the valley. It’s unrelenting force  hammered  a continuous spray of hail, dust and debris against his armor, drowning out every other sound save for the occasional crack of thunder or the increasingly rarer thump of secondary explosions, which brought  the only brief flashes of brightness  into the  greyish false-night of the unceasing deluge. 

 

His autosenses were mostly useless here, as the storm drove waves of biological and alchemical residue mixed with fragments from shred armor and spent munitions around him, sharp edges ripping through his fraying cloak. He refrained from using  his other senses, who were already strained, numbed by the blurr of  thoughts and emotions whirling around him, left by  wounded, the dying and the recently dead who in turn fueled the storm across the Veil. 

 

So he kept his head down, just kept going, carefully making his way by instinct and decades of experience alone, looking for anyone, .l.anything that might have survived the carnage…

 

+++Brother? We can not stay here+++ 

 

It was hard to make out the vox feed over the general noise of the storm , full of  static and undulating echoes. There were so many voices…

 

+++Khyran? Do you copy? We really need to…+++

 

“…really need to…”

 

Khyran  Ar’Zhuul opened his eyes and found himself on  the bridge of the “Third Howl”. 

 

I’m a blink, he passed from the memory of the tempest on ravaged Tranquility into the furnace heat of the present on the raider’s command deck. 

 

Well,  “Command deck” actually might be a bit if a euphemism, he decided. The “Howl” was little more than a oversized torpedo rack fitted to a  reactor capable of supporting its charged-up sublight engines and matching warp drive to begin with. Crew space had  not even beena secondary concern to it’s creators, so  it’s  cramped command module was already packed tight with cogitation and sensoria equipment along with a  mortal crew which were  mostly hard wired to their stations anyway. As a  whole,  it could have easily been fitted whole into the loading bay of a Thunderhawk gunship, so there was hardly any space for the mortal shipmaster and the command crew to move about in it at the best of times. It was certainly not a place made for the transhuman bulk of an armoured Astartes. At times, Khyran felt that just shifting his power armoured frame  a little too fast might be enough to have the Howl veer off course. It would most certainly put a dent into something.

 

Luckily, Astartesian genhancement and hypnocondition meant there was no real delay during  reorientation and no need for involuntary movement. Decades of practice made him go through the breathing exercises and mental rotes required to close and store away the sliver of memory almost equally instinctive. 

 

Still, Khyran was alarmed. He had not revisited the memory of that night on Tranquillity in a long  time. 

In fact, it should have stayed sealed and stored away in the vaults of his memory. 

 

That the memetic shard had been  able to rise to overlay his consciousness…

 

…Khyran held his breath for a moment…

 

…suggested a significant turmoil in the Sea of Souls and might even indicate a  major and thus potentially dangerous upheaval among the strands of fate further ahead on their journey. 

 

And it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing  you would like to experience if you were currently traveling through the notoriously  fickle tides of unreality at any rate. And quite  certainly not when cramped inside something like a Mauler class raiding vessel like the “Third Howl.”

 

Unfortunately, there was little Khyran could do about that at the moment. He cursed under his breath 

 

“Howl of the Golgothan Wastes, Talon Dexter Three”

- the third vessel on the starboard  wing of Howl Squadron, or  “Third Howl”, as her crew affectionately referred to it, was what was commonly known as a “Mauler” Class Raider.  Which, in the characteristic bravado of the Corsairs, referred to a series of vessels made up from a wide variety of notoriously unstable  craft that had  been upgunned and -engined from any hulls available, ranging from former system patrol boats to fast couriers and which would then be formed up into wolf-pack squadrons to harass and raid Imperial shipping around the Maelstrom.

 

Mauler crews had a reputation for being either hungry for glory or desperate. And always, certainly, for viciousness… 

A single Mauler was no real threat to a venerable ship of the line, but it could put out some serious hurt to an armed merchantman and in sufficient. numbers, a  pack of them could aspire to become a threat to an isolated or -preferably-  already damaged Imperial warship. 

 

Howl Squadron had been part of a flotilla sent out by the self appointed “Lord of the  Maelstrom “ - Huron Blackheart himself -  to the hell-forges of Sarum as part of the Bloodreaver’s efforts to bargain and obtain resources to expand and prepare the forces of the Red Corsairs in preparation for something particularly nasty he had obviously been cooking up for quite some time now. 

 

Rumor had it that the Blackheart was currently preparing for something particularly daring, even a raid on something big like the sector capital of Magellan or, some said ,  maybe even an incursion unto the accursed home world of the White Scars, Chogoris, itself. Or something similarly daring along that line. Megalomaniacal, even. 

 

Because he was Huron Blackheart. And he would make the Imperium bleed.

 

Khyran smiled.

 

You could say many things about the Lord of the  Red Corsairs. Many, many things  which would probably not be very nice to begin with. And a lot of those things you probably would not  want to say within earshot of someone called “the Bloodreaver”. But say what you want, if Huron Blackheart set his mind to something, you could trust that maimed bastard to follow through with it. Over your dead body if need be. 

 

Lots of dead bodies, usually. 

 

Yes, by all the hells, if you wanted the fools still following the Golden Throne to suffer, you could trust Huron Blackheart would see to it.  And with a vengeance, quite literally 

 

But  for all his spite, loathing,  distrust and bravado, Huron knew he could not take on the Imperium on his own. Not again. Or at least,  not now. Not at the moment. 

Which was why he was reaching out to other bands of reavers and renegades across the galaxy,.

from as far spinward as the fabled Eye of Terror itself to the  Somnium Stars trailing on the rim of the galactic East. 

 

And to the Screaming Vortex - home to the notoriously fickle Pirate Princes of the Jagged Helix.

 

A long shot, in every sense of the word. 

 

And Khyran Ar’Zhuul had been the one “honored” by the great Huron Blackheart to take it….

 

He chuckled dryly, then cursed again

[Lysimachus]

Oswyld:

 

Oswyld was grateful for the heavy helm and high ceramite collar that hid his features as he marched through the rocky chambers and dark tunnels of Desolace. He felt nothing but disgust for the pitiful vermin that flocked around him, and he knew it showed plainly every time his face was bared.

 

Dirty mutants and filthy xenos. So far, everything he had seen matched exactly with what he had expected to find. Why the snivelling 'captain' of the merchantman had thought this hole a suitable place to find warriors, Oswyld couldn't imagine. He barged on through the crowds, his massively armoured bulk barely slowed.

 

He could feel jealous eyes looking at him as he passed. A good thing to remember. In such an environment, his weapons and equipment would be a target for thieves. His warplate alone - a nearly complete suit of MkVIII 'Errant' pattern armour, except for the left greave that he had been forced to refit from a suit of MkVI - represented a treasure trove beyond imagining. Oswyld wasn't too worried. None of the fighters he had seen so far would have a hope of taking his battlegear away from him.

 

The Lion didn't turn to look behind. He knew his back was covered. A ghostly white shape circled silently above his head, slowly floating unseen and unheard by most of the asteroid's inhabitants. Occasionally, when the ceiling narrowed, it dropped down to perch atop Oswyld's power pack. Curan was an Albaran Cyber-Owl, gene-coded for utter loyalty and obedience to his master. His huge augmetic eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, an icy blue-white that matched the lenses of the Astartes' helm. A Kroot mercenary, oddly similar in its avian features, stalked by a little too close, and the bird let out a sharp screech of aggression and warning.

 

"Peace, Curan," Oswyld growled, at the same time holding a gauntlet up to halt the xenos marauder several paces away.

 

"You. Where do I find the real killers in this place?"

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Valeyard

 

Valeyard fumed as he gazed upon the docking manifest, what was the damned fool doing bringing the ship back to Desolation? The Aeldari stones would have fetched a nobles ransom in thrones to the right buyer back in Port Wander but already the were hunted and neither the ship nor its captain would live long enough to escape this place a second time.

 

Another venture lost, another intermediary cut away and wasted lest any would seek to follow the trail back. Like the siren this placed had called out full of promise but had brought nothing but misfortune as each new ambition died the moment it strayed from his immediate reach. Through incompetence, greed, or treachery it seemed none here could be tasked long enough for any endeavour to succeed.

 

He would have to take personal charge, no more middle men. He mused whether or not he might supplant the trader without drawing attention to his part in it all, let the hunters come for the stones and then fall upon them with his own force, claim the ship as prize. But with what men, and why did the damned ship come back at all.

 

The docks had no shortage of would be crew of little talent, easily bribed and little missed should it come to it. They would have answers enough to start.

[Machine God]

Yorean Phentari:

 

An invitation had been made. He had arrived, walked through a wall into the reality.

 

Fools.

 

Wielder or Wielded ?

[Petragor]

Ollkyrax
 

The Heretek embedded his axe in the chest of yet another mutant hulk, halting its charge with deadly force and staining his armor with the strange orange ichor that passed for blood in such a hunchbacked slab of muscle. 

 

Ollkyrax had decided to wander the station a bit before proceeding to his destination. He had done this to get a sense of the station’s labyrinthine layout, but also to look for a light skirmish to slake his bloodthirst after a long and boring journey. He had found one.

 

The various mutant gangs that resided in the stations clogged ventilation shafts and abandoned maintenance corridors made a living by leeching off the true masters of the station. Usually through consuming organic refuse, sometimes by thieving unattended supplies, and if they were truly desperate, mugging wandering crewmembers. With the Heretek’s relatively small size compared to the various renegade marines who would stalk through the passageways on their inscrutable errands, this motley gang must have thought him an easy target. They thought wrong.

 

Autogun discharges roared and reverberated in the confined space as the less primitive mutants tried to bring down the rapidly advancing Strife servitor. Their attacks were in vain, as the dense layers of armor caused the bullets to richochet, some of them striking the shooters or the rabble engaged with Ollkyrax.

 

The Strife’s charge hit home, as it swung it’s chainsword at a mutant’s head. The victim attempted to avoid his fate by holding his arm up to block, with the predictable result of getting his hand chopped off instead, causing him to collapse as he rapidly bled out.

 

The next target was slightly wiser, holding his autogun in front of him like a staff to intercept the servitor’s swing, but his reflexes were too slow as the chainsword swung just below his block and bit into his thigh. While he was getting his arteries severed, a third mutant fired a shotgun blast at the Strife’s flank while it was distracted, still failing to penetrate the armor, but managing to embed a cluster of pellets in the shoulder plating. Ollkyrax made a mental note to remove them later, as he used his foot to crush a bulbous hand reaching for a dagger on the ground.

 

Between the high casualties and their weapons’ visible lack of effect, the muggers’ morale was broken. Some of the gunners turned to flee, others tried to surrender, but Ollkyrax didn’t cancel the Strife’s search and destroy orders, allowing it to continue the slaughter. He was himself busy with the remnants of the mutant marauders, their minds too deep in battle frenzy to realize the futility of their struggle. 

 

As the last mutant fell, Ollkyrax began to check his equipment, ignoring the distant screams that heralded the Strife’s hunt for the last mutant survivors. His armor was undamaged, save for a few scratches on the sections that still held paint marking the armor as the property of the Severan Dominate. His Axe was still fully charged, as he hadn’t bothered to activate the power field against the unarmored mutants. The only posession on his person that had taken damage was his cloak, the previously pristine red fabric nearly torn to shreds by blades and mutated limbs. It would hardly be the first cloak he had thrown away after excessive battle damage, but it was still intact enough to mark his status as a Heretek, which in absence of a replacement, was good enough for now.

 

Metal feet scurried closer as the Strife returned to it’s master, having killed all the fleeing mutants, or at least as many as it could find. Finishing the equipment check, the Heretek readied his toolkit as he began to extract the pellets from the shoulder of his creation. It wouldn’t do to have his bodyguard be impresentable.

Edited September 10, 2023 by Petragor

[Necronaut]

Oswyld: 

The xenos mercenary's face snaps around at your imposition, and its multihued cranial quills stand on end as it chitters and hoots at you in its disgusting language. Some manner of long firearm is cradled in its claws with a wicked, hooked blade attached to the end and with your warrior's eye you notice that the barrel has subtly raised a few centimeters in anticipation of violence. The creature sways back and forth, its head craned around at an angle like an avian to peer at you and utters in broken Low Gothic, "Rrrrawwwrrkk-kk! As-tarrr-tees?! Kill-erssss?" 

 

It growls and chitters at you some more and watches you in an obvious combat-ready stance, perhaps assessing whether it should attempt to kill you or flee. 

 

You may attempt either a challenging (+0) Inquiry (Fel) Test or a Routine (+10) Intimidate Test to elicit information from the kroot. You will also need to make a challenging (+0) Awareness test   

 

 

Ollkyrax: 

Your bloodlust sated and the rabble scattered, you and your terrifying servitor proceed down the passageway towards other goals. As a wayward child of the Martian Creed, your mind has already returned to its baseline operations now that your bellicose war-circuitry has been calmed. You are driven, compelled even, to create, to build, to maintain.  It is time to establish a temporary base of operations, or workshop to maintain your equipment and mechanical thrall. Desolace is akin to a hive created by an insane colony of insects lacking a queen with dead-end tunnels and side passages branching out seemingly at random from the larger halls and corridors, but logic would dictate that there was at least some sort of plan for the citadel. 

 

As you walk down the corridor towards the noise of a larger population center, you could all but swear a low, almost inaudible voice all but lost in the diseased wheezing and susurrus of the overtaxed air purifiers whispers to you…  

 

… more… blood… 

 

Per our conversation in the OOC, based upon your prior knowledge of construction, power distribution and Mechanicus-compliant facilities, though this is not one of those, you may attempt a challenging (+0) Logic Test to locate and follow a major power conduit which may lead you to a suitable location to perform some necessary maintenance.  

 

 

Sakal: 

While you are field-dressing your sidearm, a man dressed in a riot of mis-matched, sumptuous animal pelts and fine clothing, bedecked in gaudy jewelry saunters into the Gutted Cardinal, the establishment you have unceremoniously made your home, attended by a gaggle of unkempt and thuggish looking hangers-on. The barkeep approaches the finely dressed man and slavishly bows before him before being curtly dismissed, as the man's gaze has lazily traced its way across the room and settled upon you. He appears to murmur something to one of his toadies and waves indistinctly in your direction before producing a silken handkerchief which he brings up to his nose and inhales through deeply. His heavily-lidded eyes would indicate he is likely under the influence of one or more intoxicants.

 

A beady-eyed henchman dressed in a ragged leather coat scuttles across the dirty canteen floor towards you unsubtly putting his hands on the large-bore pistol and sword on his hips. He halts at the far side of the table and barks through rotten and missing teeth, "Oi! You there! You're in Captain Alejandro's seat, you worthless scum! Clear off now or we'll hang your guts from the rafters!" 

 

You are quite certain the man's halitosis alone could stop a grox in its tracks and is probably causing the paint to peel from your carefully maintained war plate as his diseased breath washes over you and small flecks of spittle land on your pistol. 

 

Your move.

 

 

Valeyard:

As you stood there fuming at the incompetence of the freighter's captain, prepared, perhaps, to demand satisfaction in the way of the degraded nobility of the Imperium amongst which you used to count yourself, a hulking, power armor-clad behemoth in quartered yellow and white strides past you with the powerful and self-assured gait of a man accustomed to getting his way and backing it up with violence, accompanied by a light-coloured avian familiar. You watch him plough his way through the rabble, the common-folk giving the armoured giant a wide berth, watching him with naked hatred and avarice in his wake. 

 

Now that is a warrior! Would such a magnificent specimen be worthy of your machinations? 

 

As you watch, bemused, you see the huge warrior raise his right hand and accost a heavily armed xenos mercenary.

 

Edited September 11, 2023 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Valeyard

 

Far from the first Astartes he had seen, though uncommon here their kind would not infrequently run roughshod through the locals in pursuit of some vendetta thousands of years forgotten to all but their own kind. Dedicated but intractable, and often not subtle about who overheard their demands, the xenos likely nothing more than a means to bring attention through a demonstration of might.

 

The livery was not known to him but the armour itself was a curiosity, clearly of more recent Imperial design and bearing the eagle un-desecrated. Practically a challenge and likely quite the spectacle... from a distance... when his path crosses that of his kind.

 

Surely that could not be his motivation? But then it was said the Astartes knew now fear and he had found that fear was a most useful aid in personal survival.

[Lysimachus]

Oswyld:

 

Spoiler

OOC: Am I right in remembering that Intimidate is Wp, not Str? Anyway, Oswyld doesn't have Inquiry Skill, so Intimidate is the best option. Plus, Pity the Weak gives me another +10 as long as the Kroot's Str or Wp is less than Oswyld's?

 

Intimidate Test: Wp42 +10(Routine) +10?(Pity the Weak) = 62, Roll: 40, 3DoS (I think that's right in BC? 1 for the Success, and +2 for beating the target by 20?)

 

Awareness Tests:
Oswyld: Per38 +10(HS:Sight) +10(Autosenses) = 58, Roll: 87, Fail!
Curan: Per30 +10(HS:Sight) +20(Auspex) = 60, Roll: 51, Pass, 1DoS

 

 

 

Oswyld glared back at the freakish creature, disdainful of its primitive weaponry and its feeble attempt at an aggressive posture. However, its barely comprehensible words interested him. If there were other Astartes aboard, then perhaps there were potential allies of some value to be found here?

 

"Aye. Astartes," he nodded, tapping a finger against the immediately identifiable shape of his heavy, rounded shoulder guard. "Like me. Where?"

 

He didn't offer any verbal threat, instead simply dropping his hand down to shift the hilt of his scabbarded sword.

 

Sometimes words just got in the way.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited September 11, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Petragor]

Ollkyrax

 

Spoiler

Logic Test: Int 42 +20(Good Cerebral Implant) = 62

Roll: 55, 3 DoS (+2 Int Bonus from Cerebral Implant)

Holstering his weapons, the Battlesmith runs his hands along the countless cables and pipes that line the walls of the maintenance corridor. Most wires were frayed and useless, and several pipes had been pierced in the firefight, leaking a variety of repulsive sludge. And yet, a handful were still functional, transporting their cargo of energy and liquid across the intricate pattern of hallways and air ducts. The lifeblood of the station.

A sudden, irrational impulse to sever these arteries and bathe in their ichor passed over the Heretek, but he ignored it. Instead he inspected the trajectories of the cabling, determining that many of the functional strands led to the population center ahead, while also indentifying several other potential sites of interest in other wire paths. One of said wire clusters were closely intertvined with one of the broken pipes, leaking a black tar-like substance. Unlike the other more biological waste flows however, this one was familiar to Ollkyrax. To be exact, it was a waste byproduct of machine oil. This boded well.

Keeping one hand on the intriguing wires, he began to follow them as the Strife wordlessly followed along. The corridor was silent, save for their metallic footsteps, the constant hum of air ducts, and a low whisper hiding within, joining the chorus in his electronic mind that already longed for further bloodshed.

[Machine God]

Yorean Phentari:

 

He wished that his hangover would clear.

 

Blackrazor his Force Sword was accursed. The long dead sorcerer who's tomb that he'd robbed had it in his dead hands. A force weapon that was inherently bloodthirsty. To wield the blade had a price and he had tried sparingly to use it.

 

Of course, but why was he always using it? It sucked his soul and filled him with bloodlust.

 

He should have just used his combat blade. His target should have died slowly in much delicious agony, not quickly in a thrice of blows.

 

His suit administered calming drugs, whilst he threw the guts of the wretch into a bowl before him. Chewing on a succulent eyeball, he began to read the entrails.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited September 11, 2023 by Machine God
Removed the Daemon

[Lord_Ikka]

Abraxus

 

Hydrafang leads him here. Hidden in the shadows, Abraxus observes an Astartes and a Xenos. His armor's senses skim over the pair, verifing weapons and threat probability. 

 

The xenos, a Kroot, was a minimal threat. It's native agility and strength were more than a baseline human, but no threat to a transhuman form like an Astartes. The alien's rifle was simple, though deadly to lesser foes. 

 

The Astartes opposite it was much more interesting. The colors were not known to Abraxus, a not unusual occurrence with all the various renegades and mercenaries that drifted through the galaxy. The armor itself was of a more recent make than his own and the weapons proclaimed the marine to be a veteran of close combat. The bird following the Astartes was unusual, and an unknown factor. 

 

Very well- first shot to the inner knee, then shot to the throat. Finish with headshot to confirm the kill. Then chest-shot to the Kroot. Last shot, the bird.

 

Abraxus calmly assigned the actions in his mind- planning how to best disable and destroy a potential enemy was so trained into him that it had become a reflex.

 

Still, he had no particular reason to attack either. For now, he would watch and wait.

Edited September 12, 2023 by Lord_Ikka

[Xin Ceithan]

Khyran 

 

++++

 

Drip

…

Drip 

…

Drip

…

 

Khyran watched as swirling shapes  blossomed in the liquid, then dissolved as they were  replaced by new ones, which in turn faded, drained away. 

 

Other shapes danced  the edge of his vision, lesser Neverborn, bottom feeders, starved, blind, non-sentient things, drawn to the decaying fragments of souls draining away 

 

All the while, the screeching wail of the Vortex hammered inside his mind like some  wrath-mourn hymnal from an industrial underhive

 

The Vortex…

 

It’s screeching Song had been in his mind ever since he had wrested the blade of the Infinite Reflection of the Black Dragon Soul from the smoldering remains of an Invocator warlock during the raid on the hulk of the “Boundless Well of Suffering”. It had waxed and waned among the other songs of the primordial Tempest, forming non-words and thought shapes.  

 

…Xuruunt….

Castir…

Polix….

Q’sal…

 

Delirious shapes danced through the fluid before him at the memory of these.

 

Few among the Corsairs had heard of these Songs and fewer cared for things from half remembered dreams on the other side of galaxy. But the Song remained and Khyran Ar’Zhuul had listened and had learned. 

 

Others had apparently listened, as well 

 

Khyran’s recalled  how he’d  been summoned out from the assembled commanders bound for Sarum. He’d he’d received an appointment to “Emissary of the Throne of Thorns” along with a mono tasked servoskull endlessly reciting his letter of margue to the Tyrant and given command  of  the “Third Howl” with orders to depart for the Vortex once the objectives of the Corsair Fleet at Sarum had been secured. 

 

They’d even presented him with an “Honour guard” to accompany him.  Well, what  an honour indeed! 

 

Jarnulff Foebreaker was a towering beast, now barely recognizable as having once been one of the Red Wolves, a former Son of Fenris who had claimed - in his saner moments - to have once been part of a strike force into the Vortex itself and was apparently supposed to act as both a sort of guide and also a show of force. Nothing lend that  bit of extra weight to your diplomatic forays like someone who looked like he could not only take down a Dreadnaught barehanded but also could, would in fact, rip it apart and eat it afterwards. 

 

The other one, Norvek Rask, was a sourly former sergeant from the “Tyrant’s Legion” and as a  loyal a hound of Huron as you’d expect.  That one had  seemed every bit the sort of humorless petty fiend that Khyran had always assumed Imperial Guard Commissars secretly aspired to be in their fever dreams.  And with standing orders to shoot Khyran in the back should he fail to act “in the interest of the Throne of Thorns”

 

It was, Khyran had decided, the sort of plan that appealed to the Tyrant of Badab these days. 

Drip

 

At best, he’d gain Allies -or at least a few useful assets  - among another renegade  factions in another Segmentum, furthering his influence, adding to his strategic options.

 

Drip

 

At worst, it would cost him a glorified gunboat and he’d be rid of three troublesome Corsairs..

A classical Blackheart.  

 

Drip.

 

Khyran cursed again under his breath. 

 

The red clouds in the liquid in front of him responded in kind, forming sharp spikes and hard edges.

 

Drip.

 

Rask had been the one who had insisted that they must carry on ahead, carry  out their orders, that they must.not.delay. even as the fickle tides of the Warp had grown  increasingly restless around them. 

The Song had already waned, had urged Khyran to listen for it, to it and to follow it around, follow down under the storm front  forming ahead of them.

 

True to form, Rask, always  the blunt instrument, had chosen to ignore him and decided they should meet the storm head on. And the crew of the Howl had been more afraid of the Astral Claw than the dangers of the Sea of Souls….

 

Fools.

 

The dagger shapes in the water shuddered and exploded. Schools of Neverborn streaked after the droplets…

 

Khyran exhaled. 

 

Drip

 

Personally, he strongly doubted that Rask had  possessed the sort of spiritual strength that would ensure  he’d suffer through the  appropriate amount of eternal torments the dullard rightfully deserved in Khyran’s  professional opinion. A shame.

 

Drip

 

Well, Rask was gone. The Howl was gone. 

 

Huron Blackheart was.. well.. at least,, he was not here.

 

And wherever the Tyrant  was, he did not look kindly on beings that failed in whatever nefarious purpose he’d dreamed up for them.

 

Khyran watched as the water drained away something  shaped like a bloody claw…

 

No time like the present, then.  Khyran let go of the past, emptied his mind, reached for the Song.

 

Drip

 

When he opened his eyes, he watched the bloody clouds form into  runic clouds, first of Danger, then, flowing faster, Opportunity…

 

The Neverborn circled, closing, shivering, sensing the increased flow of fates nearby…

 

Khyran grinned. On an impulse, he reached out with his mind and lifted the liquid rune, kine-shaping it into a glistening pearl and iinfused some of his will and part of the song to the possibilities swirling within. 

 

Twirling shapes rolled around as the Neverborn drew near, snapping blindly at it as well as their rivals around them, hunting, fighting for the scrap of psionic power...

 

Tightening his grip on his force blade, Khyran’s other hand fluently began shaping the runes of the ritual in the air in front of him, readying the spell…

 

One of the  Neverborn lunged, a translucent thing that was mainly teeth and slithering tails, gulping down the runic bait.

 

Closing his fist, a net of shimmering runic energy washed across the Neverborn, fusing with it before it could escape with its prize. The thing thrashed, shuddered and snapped around, suddenly caught in the veil between worlds. The shimmering pearl of possibilities still pressed into its spiritual shape from within, straining its integrity. The Neverborn might not possess any true awareness of itself in any mortal sense of the word, but it quickly came to the conclusion that if it wanted to retain it’s current form of existence, it would need to follow the pressing pain of the possibilities now caught within it unless it wanted the morsel it just had devoured to rip itself free from it.

 

Khyran chuckled and gestured to it, feeling  the Neverborn pull a bit on its aetheric noose. In his witchsight, he could see the runic pearl glowing, pushing, pulsing…  

 

He rose to his feet. 

 

“So, my little lantern. Let’s see what where you will lead us…“

 

+++++ 

.

 

 

 

[Machine God]

Yorean Phentari:

 

The entrails had told things that were echoed in the Song of the Screaming Vortex. Desolace had invited visitors. Nothing new there, it was a space port full of piratic detritus.

 

Answers would have to be found, they would only eddy in the ether shoals on the station.

 

 

The curious vision of the yellow and blue two-chaptered astartes. War-plate of Imperial Fists and Alpha Legion. Ha, a joke of the Gods!

 

Lament the penitent man of Ootheca, hunter of raptors! Chased by sharks, whore of a tyrant.

 

 

He walked to where he was going confidently .

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Oswyld (and Valeyard & Abraxus):

 

The kroot splutters at you in terror, "Awwwrrkk-kk! Big fighter, deep in rock. Find in blood pits. Priest of Red God! More like him!"  

 

The lithe xenos swallows at you nervously and shifts subtly in its stance, looking like it will try to flee at any given opportunity. The other scum that infest Desolace have given you and the kroot a wide berth, but your familiar, Curan, alights upon your pauldron and hoots a warning at you, emphasized by your nascent empathic bond which has developed over the past few months. It would appear the kroot mercenary was not alone and its pack mates, some half dozen of them, have circled around behind you. As you turn your head to assess this new threat, the xenos takes advantage of your lapse in attention to flee into the crowd, knocking over mutants, mercenaries and other xenos alike in its haste to be away from you. 

 

GM: Valeyard & Abraxus may make Awareness Tests (+0) to try to overhear this portion of the exchange. You can both see, from your different vantage points, the other group of kroot who had circled around behind the Mark VIII clad warrior to render aid to their compatriot as needed. Oswyld may attempt to react to the fleeing xenos if he wishes, but the little blighter is booking it.

 

 

Khyran:

GM: Your character has, effectively, performed a ritual to summon a (very minor) daemonic spirit. Since this was done narratively and in quite graphic detail to summon a daemonic sprite, I'll let the Forbidden Lore Test slide… this time. Your character must now make a Daemonic Mastery Test at -10 (Opposed Willpower Test with a +5 bonus per level of Psy Rating your character possesses) in order to command the daemon.  Additionally, performing this ritual has triggered Psychic Phenomena (I have chosen not to exact Perils of the Warp upon you, but I will not be so merciful in the future)!  Ghostly apparitions of those you have slain, of your dead comrades, of your betrayed and long-forgotten gene-brethren manifest within 22 meters around you and fly around howling in pain for a few moments. Everyone nearby, save for you, must test against Fear 1. 

 

Suddenly, wraiths clad in a mind-boggling variety of armour patterns and a riot of liveries in various states of ruin manifest around you to deliver deafening shrieks of agony, their aetheric talons clawing ineffectually at your ceramite plate and soul. As this is happening, the daemonic sprite you have willed into existence bucks against your psychic might, hatefully rebelling against your imposition, refusing to serve even you, a sorcerer of dread power, unless you can break its will.  

 

Local inhabitants of the asteroid base which you had perhaps failed to notice or were beneath your concern who are close enough to see the warp ghosts flee in terror, screaming about the returned dead coming to devour their souls.

 

 

Yorean:

GM: Bloody psykers! Your character has, effectively, performed the Personal Augury psychic power, though you have not yet purchased it. Again, as this is narrative, I'll let it slide for now. I'll do the rolling for you, off screen, as this was an untrained attempt at Divination. 

 

You have a sudden premonition of doom, and you are visited by a fleeting, instantaneous vision of many daggers being drawn in the darkness, all plunging into your heart and guts. You are sent reeling by a further disturbing vision of your soul being ripped from your flimsy mortal shell and shackled to an onyx cube.  As you recover from your vision, you realize you must have been standing still for some time, as a small coterie of misshapen urchins have gathered around you, tentatively pawing at your armour and personal effects.

 

 

Ollkyrax:

Your finely crafted machina logicae and well calibrated electronic senses guide you along, attuned now to the pulsing vitae of the electrical conduits which varyingly meet and branch off throughout the asteroid space station. After some time spent passing through some of the larger commerce halls and eventually down a dust-rimed passageway, you notice an alcove hidden behind a plastek tarpaulin where one of the major arterial power lines inexplicably veers into. Pulling the fabric aside, automatic lumens set into wall sconces flicker to life, casting a sickly glow over the small chamber. You are greeted by a disused and forgotten forge-fane, equipped with a poorly maintained multi-axis lathe, a cold and darkened furnace and anvil, an unresponsive cogitator, and other sundry tools of the trade. Additionally, there is a short stack of corroded scrap metal in one corner plus a cabinet filled with a mish-mash of Imperial Standard components and other small parts of a more exotic, perhaps even xenotic origin. 

 

A massive eight-pointed star wrought from blackened iron looms above the forge, a baleful warning to any uninitiated trespassers or sacrilegious unbelievers who would sully the temple with their presence. 

 

There is also, curiously, a small pile of human skulls in the center of the chamber, and various blast marks all across the floor.

 

GM: At your discretion you may spend some time bringing the modest forge back to life. I will challenge you with an extended (-10) Tech Use test to accomplish this feat, requiring that you achieve 6 DoS before you reach 4 DoF. Essentially, you're going to roll your dice, weaving the results of your machinations into your narrative until either 6 DoS or 4 DoF are achieved.

 

Edited September 17, 2023 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Oswyld:

 

Oswyld listened as the scrawny creature spoke. Khorne worshippers? Perhaps even Astartes Berzerkers? The Lions had on several occasions defended Imperial worlds from the bloodlust of warbands that emerged from the Eye. Back in the old times. Before they were betrayed.

 

Would the Chapter really countenance employing such barbaric, ill-disciplined warriors? Oswyld grudgingly supposed they would at least make for good - and disposable - assault troops. Not to mention they would probably require little payment beyond the opportunity to spill blood and claim skulls. Maybe he should visit these 'blood pits'?

 

Then Curan hooted, landing atop his armour. Not a full screech of alarm, but a threat warning nonetheless. Without conscious thought, Oswyld moved with transhuman speed, turning to face the threat. In an eyeblink, he assessed the danger and drew weapons accordingly - boltgun in one hand, and power sword crackling softly in the other. More kroot, six targets, seven if the runner changed its mind and came back. Enough to present a challenge, but nothing worth expending his precious plasma ammunition on.

 

Kill-urge flooded his enhanced form, but he controlled it, holding himself a split-second away from violent action. He looked at the largest of the pack, presumably the leader, and spoke in a cold, clear tone.

 

"Think before you do anything foolish, xenos."

 

 

Edited September 18, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Yorean Phentari:

 

He suddenly stopped as he felt himself stabbed by a thousand daggers. In his mind's eye he saw himself being drawn to an intricately carved onyx cube. The sensation of the daggers changed, as if they had all altered into tiny very sharp pins which extruded from flesh all over his body.

 

When he came to, he became aware that he was surrounded a small coterie of misshapen urchins tentatively pawing at his armour and personal effects.

 

He laughed softly and turned slowly about three hundred and sixty degrees.

 

"So you, my pretties have come to witness the majesty of the Great Phentari!"

 

He sat down, laid a cloth out on the ground and opened a ration pack. He laid it down on the cloth and beckoned to the urchins.

 

"Come forwards my pretties and share a bite of food with me. I will not eat you. I would like to know your names."

 

 

 

 

Edited September 18, 2023 by Machine God
typo & tidy up

[A.T.]

Valeyard

 

Already there were those who gambled upon how many of the xenos would fall before they withdrew but such trivial games would command no worthwhile currency as he stepped back to better appreciate the comming spectacle from beyond the splash zone.

 

Something else was here however, a glimpse from the corner of his eye that now was gone amongst the shadows. Whatever it was, it was as large as its less subtle bother... it would seem the game's afoot.

 

Awareness: 9. May or may not spot a hidden astartes

[Lord_Ikka]

Abraxus

Spoiler

 

Awareness Test

Target - 47

Roll - 38

Result = Pass, no DoS

Abraxus heard the hunter-xenos' squawking words. Khornate Astartes were trouble- their bloodlust outstripped any sort of tactical intelligence. If the tarnished knight was looking for such warriors, he was either foolish or desperate. Hmm.

 

The other Xenos circled the unknown Astartes, who drew bolter and blade. If fighting occurred, Abraxus would wager the Marine well equipped to defeat the pack. Still, Hydrafang brought me to him...

 

Abraxus slipped deeper into the shadows, bringing up Painless and sighting on one of the Kroot. His finger rested lightly on the trigger, waiting for the first movement of true combat.

Edited September 18, 2023 by Lord_Ikka

[Petragor]

Ollkyrax

 

The Heretek looked to the interior of the workshop, and he saw that it was good. The necessary equipment was in place, there was a cogitator which could be used to monitor machine functionality and record new schematics, and even the skull pile and eight-pointed star would help, if only indirectly by dissuading would-be intruders.

 

Ordering the Strife servitor to stand guard by the entrance, Ollkyrax started his restoration of the workspace with the most complex piece of equipment, the cogitator. After restoring power to the machine and activating it, the screen informed him that he would need to input the correct datacode in order to gain access to the device. The Heretek responded to this insolence by bombarding the system with scrapcode and digital attacks, cowing the security measures into submission. This blunt approach still left some functions and databases inaccessible to him, but those could be unlocked in time. The important thing was that the machine was returned to functionality, and could be used to scour the production facilities for any shortcomings.

 

Most of the problems were small. A rusty hinge here and an oil leak there were barely worthy of a tech-slave’s time, let alone a major concern for a Heretek. But the cogitator’s report of a critical power shortage across the workshop was a much more pressing issue. It was no surprise to find the power flow in such a condition after seeing the state of the various wires in the maintenance corridors, but Ollkyrax had still hopes that he would not have to face such crippling circumstances. No matter, he thought, fate favours those who forge it themselves. And in this case, he meant it literally.

 

The forge didn’t need electricity to function, only fuel, and this at least was in decent supply. Seizing some suitable pieces of scrap metal the Heretek went to work, melting them down and using a blunt instrument resting by the anvil to hammer them into shape, creating a protective shell for a series of electronic components and control mechanism which he proceeded to carefully arrange inside before sealing the container. After setting up the device in a vacant corner of the room, and connecting it to the machines in the workshop, and several power conduit in the walls which he had exposed, he was finally ready to activate his creation with a command from the cogitator.

 

Thus roused, the siphon began it’s work, extending it’s influence over the local grid, taking a tiny amount of electricity from a staggering number of systems, and redirecting it to the Heretek’s newly claimed lair. All around him the lights grew brighter, machines began to hum, and the cogitator reported that all systems had been restored to functionality. Though Ollkyrax had completed far greater labours than this, the satisfaction of a job well done still put a smile on his face.

 

Spoiler

Extended Tech Use: Int 42 + 20 Skill + 10 Tools - 10 difficulty = 62

First Roll: 53, 3 DoS (+2 Int Bonus from Cerebral Implant)

Second Roll: 15, 7 DoS (+2 Int Bonus from Cerebral Implant)

 

[Trokair]

Sakal

 

 

With exaggerated slowness Sakal turned to look at the henchman, then leaned slightly forward to glance past him at this so called Captain Alejandro's, then turned back to bad breath. His hands had all they while calmly continued to reassemble his las pistol.

 

 

“Perhaps you can scurry back to your master and advise him that if he intends to enjoy The Youngling’s gift this night he can do it elsewhere.”

 

Las pistol in hand Sakal vaguely gestured at some of the empty chairs elsewhere in the Gutted Cardinal, ending with the door.

 

“There are plenty of empty spaces, or better yet a place removed from here might suite, but this space is taken, scurry now and don’t interrupt again.”

 

 

Edited September 29, 2023 by Trokair