[DW:30K] The Serpent's Cowl (IC)

[Necronaut]

Toren

 

Toren hobbled away from the base into the nearby, narrow mountain pass feeling barely alive. The internal bleeding had mercifully begun to subside, but he was still in a sorry state with his armour mangled by close-range bolter fire on top of the numerous wounds he had suffered in eliminating the Sons of Horus guards in vicious hand-to-hand combat. The data-slug was nestled securely in an empty ammunition pouch on the bandolier he wore across his chest, its damning secrets secure with him for now.

 

He had thought to hail the other saboteurs on a tight-band vox channel, but decided not to risk it given the dangerous cargo he now carried, not to mention the fact that there was so much electromagnetic interference he would likely have never gotten through. They would do their duty or die trying, and in any event his work there was done. He had to reach legion command or what remained of it before they were wiped out entirely or managed to escape this accursed world without him. 

 

Whisper tapped amiably against his cracked plastron as he trudged along through the black dirt and rocky grit of the sharp and winding pass, its long barrel swaying about erratically. Were he in any other state he would have reprimanded himself or any other Mor Deythan for causing such an awful racket, but time was of the essence and he was prepared to kill anyone who barred his path in spectacularly violent fashion. He tightened his grip on his bolter and cast wary glances hither and thither, scanning rocky outcroppings and ridgelines for any signs of the enemy.

 

The empty bolt casing he had found in the command centre was in another belt pouch, and it felt like a second lodestone, leaving a gnawing feeling of doubt in the pit of his stomach. Treacheries within treacheries within treacheries.

 

He continued on, broken but unbowed, headlong into the snapping jaws of fate.

Edited March 19 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

It is not the thunder of heavens, which is the rolling, roiling peal which scares infants at the hearth, nor warns the traveller to take shelter, no. Although it is indeed the wrath of gods other, of metal and noise, of war that sets these very walls, hollow though they be, to shake.

 

It is the percussive force of a Bolt Cannon, hurling massive shells at close range, that reshapes the world by the sheer will of battle, of a mental impulse to trigger the pull of a firing stud. It is the constant battering of a giant Iron Fist into the flesh and foolishness of mortals trying to stop two avatars of war. The generators hum and whirr as the base above hungrily draws the power from these receptacles of the Omnissian heart. Perhaps wiser men in the deep lore of ancient Mars, the Magi of Olympus Mons  would truly detect the heartbeat, the realisation of something spiritual in the perfection of cogs, gear and drive train.

 

Perhaps, covered in the bloody chunks of flash-blasted meat and gristle there lies an understanding unspoken. For the hopes of the Dropsite to take  flight, this giant must die. The tin-man, searching for his heart has maybe lost it in the finding. He bids farewell to this recent, yet Kind Uncle who stood beside him. They each know what must be done, and the Iron Hand retires quickly, to prevent anyone from stopping the deadly work to be wrought here. With a patience born of engrammic discipline, the machine, the Battle Automata begins uncoupling its own powerful plasma drive interlocks, preparing for sacrifice of self, to prove the humanity of the weak flesh within by detonating the metal without.

 

Above, in the sanctum discordant, another warrior carefully peels back the layers to a different treasure chest. Within is the withered half-corpse of some kind of fane-priest, the riunes carved into the meat of his own being pulsing with an odd, indiscernible light from another. Great antenna sockets sprout from his back, but the Praevian is undeterred, motivated perhaps by disgust, or possibly it is just that he is covered in gore and bleeding himself as he leaves the smoking, ruined hulks of the defenders of this....'shrine' in his wake.

 

The im/mortal screeches at him, filling the chamber, thick with fetishes of unidentifiable bones, but the warrior sets his feet as his jaw, and the invisible wind of psychic force buffets him, but fails to topple. The creature draws more power, capacitors of dirty bronze and corroded chrome along his spine glowing, blistering the skin to which they are sutured within with enormous voltages to unleash - but it is his undoing, for as the Praevian commands shell and sword with his arm, does the machine spirit also heed his voice. A strange keening begins as the power surge continues, and the Marine runs, not through fear or disgust, but in satisfaction.

 

The plasma-accumulator cascade cannot be halted, and as planned, the baleful power consumes the wretched warlock and his fane, prayers and oaths to some dark deities lashing the Praevian's back as he makes his exit. A brilliant light blossoms, and destroys the chamber in nuclear-orange fire.

 

The static which has accompanied your journey thus far is dispelled, even as the mountain shakes. Large scabs of rock fall from the walls, blisters popping as the split peak begins it's final fracture.

 

Above, the last Raven makes headway, turning back as the monstrous moment of calamity approaches. He realises he will not be far enough away for ex-

 

It is the thunder, not that which scares children, but the demonstration of a god of war, the deity of battle, the sacrifice of a few to buy time.

 

It is the only way such a resource can be bought.

[Mazer Rackham]

EPILOGUE

LOCSIT: A small bluff overlooking the facility site:

 

Both battered Land Speeder Javelins stopped and slowly powered down to allow their pilots to decant.

 

'That went better than I expected,' Tylo said.

 

'I saw the Raven Guard actually made it out. With luck that data slug he's carrying will make it's way to someone who can use it,' Arden mused.

 

'And with the jammer down, the loyalists can escape, taking our spies with them. I've already sent a request to a wandering Thunderhawk to pick up our gallant friends.' Tylo's chin jerked out across the pile of rubble burying the Battle Automata and the others they had picked up. Arden's crash course on Corspake and hand-sign paid dividends. 'They reported as Dark Angels,' Tylo added, biting his lip.

 

'We'd better get back. Horus will want to know why were out here, watching his precious jammer die.' Arden chuckled.

 

'He is your Brother.' Tylo placed his hands on his hips.

 

'Our Brother. Come, we have work to do.'

 

++++++++++++++++++++

 

LOCSIT: ???

 

'No, Dark angel, he is not dead. Just like the others - they sleep.'

 

'It is a wonder they were out here. What were they doing with these traitors? They will answer,' the Dark Angel almost snarled.

 

The Thunderhawk lingers as the only silent survivors are loaded.

 

Below, deep in the vaults, lies a broken machine, life flickering between that which only a machine would recognise, but a human soul could only feel.

 

It waits for rescue, a signal beacon calling silently into the darkness.

 

 

 

++ THE SERPENT'S COWL ++

++ A WH30K DEATHWATCH RPG ++

 

++ Thanks to my players, without you there is no story! ++

Edited March 20 by Mazer Rackham