[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

+ THE RPG NOOK, IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE CABAL OF DEAD INK, PRESENTS +

 

+ A BLACK CRUSADE RPG ADVENTURE +

 

++ THE BLACKEST HEART ++

 

 

'From the Maelstrom's deepest pit, I do spit at thee! Should my chest be fit with cannon,

Wouldst I fire both my Hearts upon it! My vengeance knows not the cold of mercy,

Nor does it shrink with terror in the dark, for wherever you should hide my due,

Even buried in your in your souls, e'er will I rake for it...until the stars burn out.'

 

- Lugft Huron, The Blackheart, Tyrant of Badab, Master of The Maelstrom.

 

+++++

 

PROLOGUE:

 

Assault on CARTHAGE XIII:

 

When the siren begins, it is a klaxon heard by all as it screams a shrill warning across the surface, skies and subterranean vaults of the planet. Purpose-built as a wilderness of violence and wickedness, decorated with oases of Imperial sanity, power and civility built deep into bedrock, shudders. This is not the ruckus of expected supply drops; or the harsh tocsin of a prisoner transfer, but something altogether more alarming still. Weapons emplacements pan and traverse across the prison yards, the gears of a machine grinding - a mighty shrugging of the Imperial pinions contracting.

 

+ PENITENTS, REMAIN CALM, FOR SALVATION IS AT HAND. THE EMPEROR’S MERCY HAS BEEN GRANTED TO ALL. AVE IMPERATOR. +

 

A serene, controlled statement, given in a firm, calm voice. In juxtaposition, it merely stirs the populace into paroxysms of glee and terror, depending on the severity of heresy in their soul, their expectation of punishment or release a heady mix of personal poison. It is an announcement never made before on this scale.

The inmates of this network of dungeons know the voice, for it is the judgement of those on high, the Word of the Master of Mankind himself. It is said by Judges, by Imperial Soldiers, by Commissars, by the Guildmasters of the Forges and Workhouses.

 

By Executioners.

 

Normally, death is rooted to a sector or block, where the culling of the wicked sinners is enacted through neutron bombardment, their belongings, cybernetics and chattels all used for the next raft of prisoners, or sent off-world to pay the debts of the incarcerated.

 

++ PENITENTS IN BLOCKS A, B, C, D, SHALL RECEIVE THE EMPEROR’S WILL ++

 

The guilty and innocent shriek in howling wails as the Penitentiary rouses for a mass slaughter, but the wise amongst the old hands, the few lowly trustees, that something else is wrong. There is threat not just from within the walls, and the souls dwelling there, but from without.

 

Some of the inmates go berserk. They run at the walls, the gates in a mass panic, attempting to overwhelm the security, to breakout via a press of flesh and tide of blood. The throaty roar of emplaced weapons cut them down, exploding bolt rounds tossing charred gobbets of flesh in minced, bloody confetti. The grisly perfume of burned meat clogs throats and nostrils, even as the thunder of giant hammers resonates on the walls outside, causing huge blocks of masonry – plascrete and rockrete, painted dark with grime and blood over the pocked surface – to spall onto the huddled, broken masses beneath, crushing many and ending their cries for mercy, for forgiveness or curses brooking damnation to end with a brutal, gavel thump of finality.

 

In the open segments of the prison, Perdita squads of the Adeptus Arbites swing into action, shotguns bellow, flamers cough in throaty swathes as many of the prisoners outside the Purgation Zone are cut down or boiled alive in blessed promethium. In the skies above, glimpses can be seen of Imperial Lightnings duelling with angular blades zipping around the skies.

 

Bulk landers crash hard into the prison walls, making breaches in the low-level security zones. A guard tower crumples, and a neutron array fires prematurely, obliterating all living within its deadly caress and scope, before dying a heartbeat, and firing again. The sentries within are flung against the armaglas with such force, they lie broken and staring from the collapsed Babellian* overwatch, now brought low.

 

Miraculously spared by the momentary pogrom, an old man, wearing nought but tattered rags, exposes himself obscenely to the crashed tower and Prison Judges therein, cackling at their fate, his tattoos of the Eightfold marking him as a true believer. He tears the mouldering garment free, and capers in wanton abandon.

 

‘Hahaha! Take that you fu-’

 

The tower explodes, tearing a crater in the pit of the prison earth, slaying friend and plucky, rude foe alike, punching great runnels in the ground and plascrete. It is then, and only then, when the squalid prison carcass is broken open for the straggly innards to be devoured, that giant shapes punch through the choking dust to feast. Dark figures cleave through the miasma of floating silt, in a cacophony of thunder - explosions billowing amber in the murk - and the skirl of whirring, chainsword teeth. Black and red, a melange of gold and steel, titans come with guns and blades.

 

Almost as one, the hordes of darkness unleash, the Black Hand, the Ravaged Claw of Badab tears at the walls, raking out the charnel pit in a long harrow of screams and pleading, eager for fresh meat and raw victims to clutch to his cause.

 

+++++

 

+ [ AVE REGNIS CREUI ] +

 

 

Edited July 24 by Mazer Rackham
*Babelian. It's like Astartesian.

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Crux’as grinned at his fellow inmates, those petty heretics and small-time criminals he ha erroneously been assigned with. If the Judges had known who he really was, or if the Ministorum had found him, well then death would have been a mercy. They love the torture, do that lot. Save the soul by breaking the body. If only they knew how much the Great Four approved of torture…

 

Still, there was something to work with in here. The main gangs in A-Block were mostly occupied with fighting each other for territory and food, so he was able to gather a small group of rabble about himself. They weren’t the most prepossessing fellows, but they listened to his words and obeyed his commands. If they sometimes looked away from his bright eyes and never-ending smile, if they trembled at the poetry of the Warp he spun, that was just part of the price of being one of the Smiler’s new crew.

 

“Ah, my friends and companions, what a glorious day is today. If we weren’t stuck here for years, A-Block might even be a nice spot for vacation. Two meals a day, if you can fight off the other inmates, which is better than some of the rank hive settlements I’ve seen. Minimal Judge presence, just those patrolling the walls and the towers. Pity those in the Suppressed blocks with all the Brassers and dogs around. Yes, we are truly blessed for the day.”

 

His crew looked at him with a mixture of incomprehension and banal disinterest. Sigh, I didn’t gather these fools for their conversational ability. Broot, the largest of his followers and a former gangland bruiser, hesitantly spoke.

 

“Boss, what are we going to do about the Twenty-Fours? They’ve been pushing for a cut of our rations. We ain’t got the hands to do them in…”

 

The Smiler’s smile went smaller and more crooked. The Twenty-Fours were a smaller gang in A-Block, but occupied a crucial area near the Portcullis gate that lead to other blocks and gave them a hook into the smuggled goods racket. They weren’t the best or brightest gang around, but had enough of the Brassers, or Judges, turned to make them dangerous to take on for even the biggest prison gang.

 

“Oh, I suppose I must talk to them then, shouldn’t I? Broot, you and Neven come with me- we’ll have a quick meet with the Twenty-Fours.”

 

Broot and Neven stood up to join him walking through the main yard of A-Block. They swerved through the various groups and detritus of humanity that thronged about and soon stood near the entrance of a Prisoner Exchange Lock, or the Portcullis. Several of the Twenty-Fours lounged about, their distinctive “24” prison tatt over their eye proclaiming their allegiance.

 

“Hello lads. I believe that Julius and I have some wrangling to do?”

 

The Smiler’s tone was light and airy, his smile welcoming. The gangers glanced at each other and one went to get their boss. Julius “Jules” Dentan walked up, a man swaggering with his own self-importance. He started to rumble through some sort of speech full of threats and boasts, but then the sirens began to howl. Not the normal riot whistles or call for chow, or even the shrieking blasts of the fire-warden, but a full howl unlike anything any of the inmates had heard before.

 

+ PENITENTS, REMAIN CALM, FOR SALVATION IS AT HAND. THE EMPEROR’S MERCY HAS BEEN GRANTED TO ALL. AVE IMPERATOR. +

Calm and controlled voice, handing out the sentence of death.

That can’t be good.

 

++ PENITENTS IN BLOCKS A, B, C, D, SHALL RECEIVE THE EMPEROR’S WILL ++

A great wave of sound rose as the inmates reacted with rage, horror, fear. Shotgun blasts and shouted orders began to ring out. Purgation squads with flamers and shields moved through the yard, flamers roasting inmates, as Judges on the walls threw man-stopper shells into the crowds of now-rioting inmates.

 

Crux’as threw a look to his two followers, and then a quick hand sign. Broot roared with hatred and leapt at the Twenty-Fours, swinging his massive fists and knocking about the gangers. Neven, the twitchy obscura fiend, ran up to Julius and slammed a jagged shiv into the large man’s neck before running to his comrade’s aid. The Smiler moved back, fading into the cover of the Portcullis’ man-trap barricades. He was not a fighter.

 

The scrum at the base of the Portcullis drew more and more rioters to it, as the overhanging gate meant that the Judges had a hard time gaining firing-lines to those underneath them. A squad of the Arbites ran from one of the gate’s man-sized sally doors, slamming into the prisoners and creating even more chaos.

Raising his voice, Crux’as screamed out hatred toward the bringers of Imperial Law.

 

“Down with the Brassers, Down with the Judges! Beat them, kill them, throw them down!!”

 

His inspiring voice moved the rioters even further, all inter-gang feuds forgotten as they let their own hatred for the Arbites free reign. Waves of the imprisoned crashed into the small squad of Judges, breaking the shieldwall and making each Arbiter fight by himself. More Arbiters and more inmates surged to the Portcullis, even as large explosions echoed about the yard. Coming from all over, from the walls were huge waves of fire and debris. Not from the guns of the Law were these, but from outside.

 

The Smiler picked up an Arbites’ gene-key and severed hand. Time to leave.Weaving through the crush of fighting bodies, he went to one of the sally doors and keyed it open. The initial corridor was empty, but he heard bodies moving, orders being shouted, and weapons loaded. Quickly, quickly now. Jogging fast enough to still hear somewhat, the Smiler moved through the hallway and found the security nexus he was looking for, the Portcullis’ main gate control section. The controllers were no where to be seen, most likely among the squad of Arbites fighting just outside, and the controls were locked down.

 

He went to the control panels. No tech-priest or even savvy amateur was he, but he did know basic security systems and the big levers looked appropriately inviting. Throwing them all, Crux’as quickly went back outside, seeing the giant main gate of the Portcullis sliding open. Inmates and Arbites streamed through the gap, still fighting and struggling.

Let’s see where this goes. The Great Ones declared today to be a glorious one!

 

Picking his way through the fighting and bodies, the Smiler began to move forward. Towards the unknown, towards his possible death, towards fate. Always smiling….

[A.T.]

Xerxes

 

Success, so far. The mechanicum had eyes everywhere and escape into space had been impossible, but so too their influence carried far beneath the surface of the world and it would only have been a matter of time until auspexes registered his potentia coil and the noosphere turned its gaze towards him

 

Here though the dampening field concealed him even though he stood in plain sight. It had been a simple enough matter for one of his skill to disguise much of his implants as the work of a minor heretek beneath the attention of the tech priests but the coil had been problematic. The twisted mutants of the lower levels inspired a solution as he hung the reanimated corpse of one across his back, to all simple inspections inseparable but in truth the cyber-construct has proved more useful than he might have imagined within the prison where it was able to craw amongst the rats and gather those small things lost amongst the cracks.

 

Slowly but surely he had been gathering and consolidating power cells to counteract the dampening field, at least momentarily. Escape had little value until he could disguise his coil more thoroughly but it was a laborious process under these conditions, still there was little threat here as the mechanicum fell upon those without the foresight to concealed marks of the order long before they reached this place leaving insubordinate mining helots, augmented menials, pretty tech dabblers and those from gangs and militia too integrated with their augmetics to be separated from them and live.

 

Most of the rest crowded around those parts of the compound when the dampening field was weakest for they knew only the pain of it but Xerxes understood it, senses its ebb and flow and knew that those places that burned hotter were not always the stronger field but sometimes a place of intersection or interference where power returned in part. Shielding of the compounds own systems scattered the waves in patterns beyond and marked the path of power conduits and voids within the fabric of the place.

 

++ PENITENTS IN BLOCKS A, B, C, D, SHALL RECEIVE THE EMPEROR’S WILL ++

 

Too soon, too soon damn it all. Not the gate for the field had a kill setting, find the junction baffler and tear free the shielding that it might absorb the death wave... grasping the gathered cells tightly in hands Xerxes could felt the surge drive him on but deplete just as quickly as the deep hum of the dampening field began to rise in pitch.

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

He had been dozing in one of the hideaways he had made from himself when the sirens started. This one in a hollow between the roof of one of the dormitory blocks where it overhung a sanitary block. Difficult to climb up too, dry and shielded it served, even if the fragrance was at time a issue, especily of the wind blew in just the wrong direction.

 

Startled to alertness Tarh first thought was that he had been found, that this refuge was nolonger and that whoever had found him was about to lay into him with fist or boot.  The loud hailers, and the distant chatter of the big guns however told a different story. Things were about to get ‘interesting’ in that special way that either pleased the pantheon, or just amused them.  

 

Inching forward with caution Tarh peered out into the yard, some were trying to seek shelter, while others gathered at the gate with anticipation. He could read the signs, the cycle of riots and cleansing having played out a few times. It was the larger defensive guns that where important, something was happening out there, and given that the heavy guns had been going for several minutes it was a serious threat to the corpse god’s followers.  

[Mazer Rackham]

LOCATION: THE KHYMARAN DRIFT

 

CHAOS SPACE MARINE PROLOGUE

 

The Harrowmaster has picked you. That is enough for your doom, glory or revenge. Word spreads on the ships and fleet, the whispers do not linger long in the halls and cornices, but they are there. Perhaps it is normal to see the mutants and bloodstained heretics you once fought against, or ignored, perhaps it is all to easy to think of yourselves still committed to a cause - even if it your own.

 

Huron's will burns bright, and it is to this beacon you have rallied. The task is simple: an Imperial outpost has logs of Imperial Prison Traffic into the INCA SECTOR. Informants have alluded that there are several prisoners who are of interest to the Black Heart, and that is enough. Transmissions have been traced to an old Howling Griffons listening relay on the third moon of Khymara.

 

Perhaps it is familiar to some of you.

 

GM: You have been sent either individually or in pairs to the surface of the moon. Upon arrival (by whatever means, warp portal, Thunderhawk, etc) You are currently unaware of other Marines if they are not with you. Perhaps you suspect a test, perhaps a convenient friendly-fire accident, or even that you are working in a compartmentalised manner to protect the operation - who knows?

 

GM: Refer to DATA PACKET #1 for reference for external appearance and navigate your narration through the broken corridors of the old relay station...

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga watched as the Thunderhawk lifted off from the dark, airless rock. Then he turned his attention to the grouping of buildings hunkered in the lunar landscape just across from the ridgetop where he crouched. He felt an odd sense of deja vu as he looked down at the structures. How many years had passed since the Executioners had taken this place away from the Howling Griffons?

 

The base seemed somewhat deserted now, though their briefing had assured them that there was still a minimal Imperial presence. Huron's lackey had better have been right. If it was as well protected now as it had been last time, throwing only two Astartes at it would be a certain death sentence for them both.

 

Hagga wasn't totally convinced it wasn't. An Executioner and a Lamenter, both Marines of Chapters who had turned against the Claws. Was the Blackheart simply cleaning house? Using the Imperium to rid himself of a pair of less than trusted warriors?

 

He shrugged mentally. It didn't matter.

 

He turned his beaked helm to regard his new squadmate. Neither his nor the Lamenters’ vox systems were operational, so they were stuck communicating by hand-sign only, at least while they stayed on the airless surface. Thankfully they'd discussed their line of approach while still aboard the ‘hawk.

 

When the Executioners had conquered this place before, they had ignored the security airlocks and breached directly into one of the prefabricated corridors between bunkers using melta bombs. Hagga hoped they could slip in through the same breach.

 

He raised a hand to get Ukalegon's attention, then pointed towards the southeast corner of the small complex, indicating that he would make the first run across open ground, then would provide cover for the Lamenter as he did the same.

 

Without waiting for a response, he jumped up and started to lope forward. In such a low-g environment, his stride was lengthened even beyond the Astartesian norm and he raced across the intervening space. His pistol and blade were sheathed, but Hagga held his boltgun up, ready to aim and fire should the first hint of a target present itself.

 

He crashed into cover at the corner of the southeast bunker and dropped to one knee, panning his weapon around and looking for any sign that he had been spotted. A long moment passed.

 

No movement.

 

He looked out cautiously around the corner and was rewarded with the sight of the unrepaired breach point, a dark hole in one of the corridor walls. Good. If there were still Imperials here, they were either much fewer than a full complement, or they lacked supplies to make repairs, or they were careless. Or all of the above. A good thing, whichever way it was.

 

He raised his hand again, sure that Ukalegon was watching closely, and gave the signal to advance. Then he waited, boltgun still trained on the breach.

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon crouched in the shadow of the ridge where they had landed, watching as his new compatriot charged across the boulder-strewn expanse towards the Imperial bunker.

 

Imperial

 

The way that rolled off of his tongue now to describe his former allegiance still did not sit well with him. He and his chapter had supported the Tyrant in his claim willingly, but to see the Emperor’s domain cast down into ruins… And yet, this was the same Imperium which, for all he knew, had sentenced his chapter to death for the grand sin of showing defiance towards what was a patently corrupt and decadent bureaucracy which could no more protect its own borders than efficiently administer its own realm. But he was a Corsair now. He had said the words, renewed his vows. He was damned if he stayed and damned if he left.

 

And then there were the Minotaurs, those scabrous curs, those slavish lapdogs of the High Lords. He felt the unbridled rage of ancient ages swell in his breast, his twin hearts pumping venomous hate. Hate and tiny nano-machines of unknown, but possibly xenotic, providence which had been injected into his blood-stream to regenerate his damaged body, courtesy of Lord Huron’s apothecaries. He quelled his fury and renewed his focus upon the task at hand, that of routine infiltration.

 

The ex-Lamenter peered over the lip of the ridge again. Hagga was nearly there. Good.

 

He thumbed the clasps on the holster strapped to his leg plate and withdrew the ancient infernus pistol held therein, a parting gift from his long-lost brothers. The thick and somewhat cumbersome power cable connecting the sidearm to his power-pack, however, was a new addition, another thing that had changed. He had shuddered with barely hidden contempt at the positively diseased tech-adepts aboard the Red Corsair space station which had pawed at this priceless wargear and ran their broken and blackened nails over the tortured ceramite of his war-plate while they made repairs and modifications borne out of the dire needs of operating inside of enemy territory with no supply lines to speak of. They had disgusted him. These dregs had not at all been what he had expected the Tyrant to yet command. These drug-addled and debased wretches were the sort that he would have put to the sword without a second thought in his previous life, and yet now it was by their gnarled and twisted hands and implements that he was prepared to return to war under a new banner.

 

He saw Hagga take his last few bounding strides towards the bunker, training his boltgun upon the deep shadows cast by the distant star.

 

The former Executioner had been pensive and reluctant to speak during their transit aboard the tiny frigate which had conveyed them thence and now lay silent and anchored in the shadow of a sizeable asteroid. The thunderhawk was hidden in a nearby crater, its deformed and heavily augmented pilot at the ready to extract them. Their objectives seemed simple enough, with only minimal resistance anticipated. Hagga, however, had been standoffish, as if unwilling to either believe the Lamenter even existed, or perhaps it was something else that had him ill at ease. Considering he had only been back among the living for some two score days at this point, Ukalegon chalked it up to the stress and difficulties of operating alongside piratical scum in the intervening years since the sack of Badab, or maybe lingering unease about his new profession.

 

Hagga signaled him presently, once tucked into the lee of the slab-sided plascrete structure, and with a silent nod Ukalegon pushed off from the surface of the craggy moon, firing a short burst from his jump pack. He traced a lazy parabola from his hiding place through the moon’s weak gravity to the ruined side entrance of the listening post, touching down gracefully near to his erstwhile comrade. All appeared silent and still. Whomever still dwelled here was either unaware of their approach, or was otherwise unable to do anything about it.

 

Ukalegon signaled that he would take point and cautiously crept into the gloom of the breach while drawing his chainsword, weapons now at the ready.

 

It was time to earn his keep.

 

 

Awareness Test

Per39 + 10 (Autosenses) + 10 (Heightened Senses) = 59
D100: 53; 0 1 DoS

Stealth Test
Ag51 - 30 (Power Armour?) = 21
D100: 15; 4 1 DoS

Edited August 8 by Necronaut
Fixed skill test calcs

[Mazer Rackham]

Ukalegon:

 

The pipes and conduits lull and low in their eternal, deathly silence. Once here power flowed, life even, but 'ere came the Axemen. They severed it, just as they severed the thin shell protecting the people herein. Loyal servants of the Throne, or the Throne you were loyal to - which one was that, you perhaps wonder, as a crumpled figure,  voidsuit scorched and ragged, hereby stirred by the vibrations of your entry, slowly pans a fractured helm.

 

A rictus grin of shorn and radiation-boiled flesh stares back, the clawed hand once which defiantly gripped the laspistol fused to the floor by the inferno heat of the breaching charge beckons wickedly. Beyond, is a short tunnel to an airlock.

 

The faintest heartbeat of a winking crimson eye paints an eerie scarlet light upon an access panel.

 

Nothing else stirs, the corpse lies still once more.

 

Doom. Doom. It impossibly whispers. Traitor. Curse upon you.

 

Then all is silent as the heavens above continue their eternal, gradual shift, dropping shafts of cold light from the far suns into the ruptured, long dead tunnel.

 

Edited August 8 by Mazer Rackham

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

All quiet; only the dead stood watch in an eternal vigil.

 

He shook his head at the barely heard whispers from the corpse and shuddered at the sudden imposition. Had he actually heard that…? He stared down into the empty eye sockets for a few moments waiting for something more but only grim silence reigned.

 

The ex-Lamenter stepped over the corpse and continued on, a sense of disquiet suddenly settling over him as he made his way to the airlock. Once he reached the control panel, he turned to look at his fellow corsair, and with a moment’s trepidation signaled for his partner to join him.

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

So this was Khymara…

 

Cyrandras had about the place of place, of course. He remembered reports from the Liberation, yes, but mostly because each and every Executioner under the Blackheart’s banner who retained any semblance of sanity seemed to bring up the matter sooner or later. 

 

Whether this occurred before, during or after they tried to kill you ( or each other ) and if it came as a curse, boast or threat largely depended  on the individual or - and to no small amount - the  numbers of individual Executioners involved. But really, every bloody one of them would bring up the blasted place at some point…

 

Now, at least, Cyrandras would  be able to tell them that he’d been there also, since. That alone might make the trip worth it, if nothing else, he thought…

 

In the physical world, it surely wasn’t much to look at, though, Cyrandras decided. Once you’d seen one ruined Imperial outpost on some airless moon, you’d pretty much seen them all.

 

The continuous crunch of repo-lith under his  feet along with the rhythmic click-hiss of his rebreather and the odd scraping of of the chain-cloak scraping against the outer layers of his war-plate provided the only sounds.  Along with the time-lost stasis of the moon let around him, it might have seemed  almost … serene. 

 

Almost…

 

Even to his frustratingly stunted witch sight, his mind and body - still! - recovering from the injuries he’d received during the retreat from the Palace of Thorns, the place practically reeked of death and destruction. By all the Hells, even someone without the slightest trace of the psyker gene would, should sense there was something of here! 

 

He swallowed a half- formed curse. This wasn’t a place to draw in any  form of unwanted attention …

The former Astral Claw advanced steadily, with his weapons at the ready. 

 

More rego-lith was crunched underfoot. Somehow, it seemed to make an additional effort to mimic the sound of breaking bones…

 

Cyrandras crouched low, scanning his surroundings both his physical and more arcane senses. The low pitched psycanic whisper-song of Bhael-Four waxed and waned in his mind as the servo-skull erratically zig-zagged through the ruins around him. 

It was hard to tell if the thing was somehow worried or rather more excited by their surroundings. 

 

A smear of wavering unlight towered in the distance, a dimished  sunbeam fading in murky industrial waste. 

 

Cyrandras didn’t need to check the coordinates from the encrypted data-shard given to him by Huron’s pet Harrowmaster to know that his objective would be at this point of scarred real-space.

 

He checked it anyway.

 

This time, he didn’t hold back the curse

 

 

Edited August 9 by Xin Ceithan
Placeholder replaced

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

At the Lamenter's gesture, Hagga moved towards the breach. Before he entered, he holstered his boltgun and instead drew his plasma pistol and the great claymore from across his back. Better suited for close work, should it be required.

 

Deftly avoiding the fallen defender, he looked silently from Ukalegon to the airlock control and back again. Locked? He snorted to himself in bitter amusement. Couldn't that useless spymaster have even rustled up a couple of bloody microbeads so they could discuss how to open it? A fractional shrug indicated his own lack of expertise with such technology. With an armoured finger he pointed at the other Marine's pistol, and brandished his own plasma weapon, suggesting that at worst they might be able to blast their way through the airlock?

 

Not the most subtle approach, but…

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: Whilst the Marines are off on their own jaunt, we'll move the mortals forward a bit.

 

LOCATION: CARTHAGE XIII

 

Even as some of you can glimpse the small pockets of sky, a deep shadow falls over the prison, covering whole swathes of it, even as the rooves and revetments begin to crumble and cascade.

 

++ ATTENTION ALL...bzzzrrrt... PENITEN....zzrtt ++

 

The calm, Imperial lash that struck before is gone, subsumed, choked, even by a thick, gutteral slur. A voice deeper than mortal, perhaps the sound of crawling shadow, were it made of corpse-ink.

 

++ Ragged Denizens of Carthage. My forces are victorious in the skies. This planet, and all who dwell upon it belong to the Blood Reiver. Fealty is not required. Only obedience, and the slaughter of the unworthy. ++

 

With that, every corner of the prison quakes, the ground shudders and gasps cry out as the drop pods and naval artillery begin to fall, pulverising indiscriminately. Above the bass pounding, there is the staccato crack-boom of heavy, explosive rounds. Something big is coming, something...wicked, just as power fails and the suppression field collapses...

 

GM: It is now clear that this is a planetary invasion, and with the encouragement from the painful voice, it appears the mobs think they can win. Desperation has turned to something else, perhaps you join it or try to make good your flight. Either way, the time is short. Continue to narrate your actions at will in light of this development. Indeed, it would not be too difficult to see the bulk landers now crashing through walls, crushing platoons under their hulls, and the Chaos Space Marines murdering and pillaging - not just equipment, but flesh as well...

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Crux'as listened to the harsh voice over the vox-hailers, his smile deepening as he parsed its meaning. The Gods have truly blessed us today!

 

Looking back at the scum at the Portcullis gate, he saw several of his followers had made it through and survived. Broot hadn't, neck crushed by an Arbites' shock-maul, but the drug-fiend Neven and two others soon stood next to him hefting stolen shotguns. The Smiler looked around and picked up a combat knife a dead Brasser. Though he wasn't a fighter, having a weapon on hand was never a bad idea.

 

"Let's move quickly now lads, no need to give the Brassers more time to shoot us." Crux'as lead the way, moving towards open gates that lead to B block, the suppressed block that contained prisoners with certain "advantages" over the norm. If he could join up with some of them, then escaping the prison would be much easier. It was a substantial ways away, but terror and rage fueled the muscles of the inmates as they ran through the prison corridors. 

 

Shuddering impacts jolted the ground but whether it was weapons-fire or the impact of landers was unclear to him. As his group cleared the first barriers of B block, dodging some fire from besieged Arbites in their guard block, he saw the smashed walls of the block. Heavy bulk landers had crashed into the walls, disgorging masses of men and mutants while barbed droppods unleashed corrupted Astartes. The Astartes were a riot of colors with a significant portion wearing armor painted in a variety of hues with red "Xs" over their pauldrons, with the remainder in black and red heraldry. Both the black and red warriors and the mortals wore a clenched fist emblem on their bodies. 

 

Savage fighting followed- the Chaos Marines ripping through the ranks of Arbites, with waves of mutants soaking up fire before the Marines charged in. With a shout Crux'as gained the attention of some of the less-mutated mortals, showing them a side tunnel designed to provide reinforcement to the guards' in one of the many bunkers. The renegades stormed thought the tunnel and breached the bunker, losing some of their number but killing all the Brassers in the bunker. The Smiler and his three men came in behind them, putting down the wounded guards with ease. The leader of the group of reavers looked at Crux'as and barked out words that word understandable, though garbled with odd tones.

 

"You help? Lord Huron reward!"

 

The Smiler grinned wide. 

 

"My friends, you are just the type of people I've been waiting for. Bring us to your masters and we shall rend the Imperium from this place!"

 

Spoiler

 

Charm Test

Target - 62

Roll - 22

Result = Pass, 4 DoS

 

 

Edited August 9 by Lord_Ikka

[Ancient_Sobek]

Grimm

 

The shape approached the surface of the moon. Its dimensions reminiscent of a coffin as it sped toward its destination. Unpowered and silent. An ominous portent perhaps.

 

Lunar dust kicked up as the landing pod slammed into the moon.  As it settled, explosive bolts went off around its perimeter as the hatch released. After a moment a gauntleted hand grasped the rim as the figure within rose from the conveyance.

 

The armored form stood and surveyed its surroundings. The wan light illuminated the battered yellow paint of the figure. The wear of his kit attested to a life of hard fought survival in an uncaring universe.

 

An obsidian skull helm topped the towering figure, small horns decorated its forehead as eyes of dead light gazed out from its blackened hollows. The warrior turned its head to look upon the distant outpost, its destination …

 

 

 

Edited August 13 by Ancient_Sobek

[Mazer Rackham]

Cyrandras:

 

As you set foot on the blasted pumice of Khymara, thin skeins of reality are known to you. It filters with a strange iridescence, a never-light sheen, drip-drop into your awareness. The gene-power of Astartesian physiognomy, the elevated souls - even now stained by the tendrils of a greater truth.  The Black Heart is playing one of his games, no doubt. Or perhaps one of his lackeys dares to 'interpret' the delegated authority for this operation.

 

It is, as so much, of little consequence. Your mnemonic compulsion relates a compulsion: your objective is the command relay in the Northwest Bunker. The key to knowledge - and, every door in the complex.  

 

Grimm:

 

Much like your comrades you are, quite literally left in the dark as the scarps and outcrops tower over you as you move onwards. The light is a cold reminder of the witness of the universe, and is as uncaring as the one you served. Perhaps it lashes at your back, striking down with the cudgel of guilt. Perhaps it stirs the resentment within, the...darkness clutching both your hearts in haunted grip.

 

The locator in your HUD paints your target. The Power Generator. Without power there is no strength, without power there is no dominance of will.

 

Without power, there is mission failure!

 

Crux'as:

 

The mutant is shoved aside by a powerfully built man in scarlet carapace armour. The others around him are well fed, with good quality weapons and they move with easy confidence. It is a strange reflection of the Brassers, indeed, if you had your eyes shut you could still endure their demeaning stares, the aura of authority - but here it is edged. The restraint is gone, the iron shackles of grim duty are...absent, replaced with something else. The biggest leads, the strongest, blunt instrument, but even you understand a cudgel needs the occasional...whetting.

 

The group's leader regards you and appraises your companions with eyes a colour unnatural to any living thing. Here is a man who, even though a bludgeon, is perhaps one who...understands. His men are not so intellectually enlightened, and are hungry to kill and destroy, loosed to a slaughter. Indeed, it has only been your quick tongue and comradeliness that has saved your tattered band at all.

 

'Hmm,' he says, although it is a wet slither, his mouth hidden behind the armour sounds as though it is perpetually too full. 'Brokk, take men Commander. Informers.'

 

One of the men grunts, beckons. 'Follow. Delay and dead!'

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

With the Corps God’s enforcers on the back foot, in disarray as the invaders systematically dismantled the planet side defences, many inhabitants of D block assailed the remnants of guards with renewed vigour.  An assault that while en masse was tearing down the enforces was costly in the extreme, the bark of stubbers and shotgun tolling a ratio easily of ten or more fallen per guard.

 

Tarh stayed well away from such senseless endeavour, with no way yet to breach the bastion gates or walls that kept them in all that the rumble would achieve would be to take a few lookout towers, perhaps the barracks, kitchen and laundry. He doubted the armoury would fall, or if it did it would be explosively from within as the last of the guards try to deny the mob such a prise.

 

Instead he carefully made his way from sheltered spots to cover and so on. There had been some damage to the walls, but none reaching to ground level, that spot over there though might be climbable. Alas the plan had to be abandoned just moments later, when some 50 meters from his destination a landing craft dropped into Delta block, vomiting forth invaders. After the initial rush of human and mutant troops the real threat emerged. Chosen.

 

Tarh tried to see if any of them where of the linage of the Teacher, but in the few seconds that he saw them he could not tell. There had been flashed of red armour, but it seemed too bright to be what he had been thought of the Teachers emissaries.

 

The invading forces where heeding for the command complex sitting adjoining and astride the bastion gate, and would take it no doubt. Until they had he doubted they would take the time do differentiate between prisoners and guards, that was not to way to go. Perhaps climbing was still his best option.   

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

The old superstition of the Stytia-Aquilonians drendhes this place. Perhaps it is the darkness in the deep chambers of your heart. It is...unsettling to be here. This moon, once a place of honour-wrought duels is now, once again, being twisted for the Tyrant's purpose. The shadows call out in silent scream, the echoes of betrayal a soundless melody.

 

You see how the battle here went. The defenders, in fear, sealed this door against attack - leaving their dead comrade as resentful watchman.

 

There is a gentle thump against the door, you can only feel it - but it is there. Movement flickers behind the scorched-black armaglas.

 

Bump. Bump. Bump.

 

Tarh:

 

A booming laugh thunders across your hiding place as a man - no, a giant, amongst giant men - treads the battleefield. His wargear is old, the gilt long given to corruption, missing stones and amulets in the runic fascias and trim. A dieased bear pelt swamps one shoulder with festering cloak, and he brandishes a massive chainsword, which seems to flash-freeze and thaw with each heartbeat.

 

A Judge stands there in his way, and is bifurcated with an almost effortless, joyful, swing.

 

+Do you seek to scuttle like a spider, haunting your shadow, jackanape?+ he booms towards you. Has he seen you?

 

The Space Marine carries strange markings, the clenched fist, a white hand. He growls, trampling his own men with bone and sinew splitting snaps, wet flesh giving way to hard armour. He engages with gangers and Judges alike, laughing all the while, gore flecking his pale grey pelt, blood on dirty snow.

 

+Perhaps you are the intelligent one, then, hmm?+

 

He kicks a beaten shotgun your way. It is a gnarled and corroded thing, brought by the raiders to this desolate place. He throws himself into the fray, and his laugher follows the crimson wedding train he beats into the sand and adamantine.

 

It seems he has left you to fend for yourself.

 

GM: The shotgun is a simple pump action affair, with a wrapped handle and re-glued pump grip. It feels like it has seen as many wars as has fired shells, but will keep on trucking, and get you where you need. Profile: As Core Book, however, it has been sawn off at the barrel and stock, no sights are present or have fallen off. You can't get more than a Half Aim +10, but it counts as Pistol - in melee only.

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

Kraggan was a deep recidivist. An Enginseer that had dabbled in the proscribed arts and teachings on Silica Animus and Innovation. A Man-Machine of the True Flesh, his form enhanced by built in carapace armour and lashing mechandendrites, an adherent to the teachings of the Logicians.

 

He'd been sold out and caught of course, and then he had been imprisoned within the bowels of 'Block B' on Carthage XIII.

 

In the deep suppression vaults he had been kept and his automantic gifts had been turned against him. Power had been thrown at him which kept in a feedback loop that held him rigid. The power fed his potentia coil which activated his ferric lure implants which drew on the power contained in the massive metal coils in front of him.

 

Held rigid in a perpetual hell, all he could do was rage. Then he plotted and seethed as he waited for the power feed to cease.

 

The din thrown off by the power feed made everything silence. There were no bulbs in the room that hadn't already blown, although the room was lit by the continual lightning display.

 

 

 

He'd noticed cracks forming in the ferrocrete and dust had began to fall. 

 

 

The power feed began to lessen, or had he dreamt it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon cocked his helm at Hagga quizzically then nodded his head in understanding, motioning for the other to stand back and cover him as he leveled the ancient melta pistol at the door. Better to be done with this task as quickly as possible and be quit of this mouldering tomb…

 

 

Standard Attack vs Airlock Door (unsure if really necessary)

BS35 + 10 (Aim) + 10 (Standard Attack) + 10 (short range) = 65
D100: 54; 2 DoS

Inferno Pistol Damage: 2d10+10E, Pen12 (Melta: Pen24 at short range)
2d10: 9 (ZH), 6
ZHd5: 4 (probably doesn't really apply vs inanimate objects, but might apply to anyone or anything on the far side)
Total damage: 9 + 6  + 10 = 25 damage, Pen 24

 

Note: Ukalegon's pistol has the Slow Recharge downgrade

Edited August 9 by Necronaut
Formatting

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: On a point of order, I shall rule all BS attacks, or any weapon which could Jam, should always roll against inanimate/immobile/helpless objects/NPCs/Targets, and this should be followed from here on. Of course, any normal weapon, like a crowbar into a skull just goes *BONK* as usual.

 

Kraggan: 

 

The walls begin to fracture, groaning under the weight, and the floor erupts as great scabs of spalling rockrete thump into you, stirring from your place of enforced repose. The ceiling looks quite willing to embrace you forever - perhaps it is a sign you should leave your cell. Indeed, you can detect rushing feet, the booted treads of the jailors, and the quick-step of thieves in the night, blades and cackling carried before them. Perhaps they seek escape - or maybe your augments will look better on someone else...

 

Ukalegon:

 

Astartes weapons, whether ancient or cursed, are not gentle. The airlock door immolates, sublimating and slagging into molten soup. With it comes the explosive decompression of atmosphere, a long pent up breath in this part of the hab, and with it comes the defenders. Half glowing, fusion-seared mortals tumble at you, dead hands groping and scraping, the bony fingers jutting through mouldering void suits. They kicks and punch you feebly, digits rasping on your battered cuirass. Papers and panel cladding dink and dunt into you as the place vomits detritus upon you and your companion, Hagga.

 

Beyond the expulsion, a functioning airlock, and the way in. A pressure door, secured by a lockwheel found on any voidship. A single, disembodied arm flutters from it in the low gravity and deadly, vanishing breeze. Whispers claw with each scrape of bone you cannot hear, as it finally falls, graceful despite the ossific crudeness.

 

Doom. Doom. Curse upon you.

 

Traitor.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

 

The Executioner stepped forward through the drifting corpses that bounced off and past him into the corridor. Once he realised they were already long dead, he dismissed them. Completely. Totally. It was not at all an omen that would have had his Stygian clan-kin weeping and wailing in sheer despair. Not at all.

 

Refusing to allow himself even a shiver of distaste, he moved to stand beside the Lamenter. That pistol of his packed a mean punch, no doubt about it. Something to be cautious of in future, maybe?

 

It had done the job though, bypassing the security system and leaving only a lockwheel to impede their progress. That they could handle. He stepped forward again, brushing aside the floating forearm and taking a firm grip on the wheel. Then, with a nod to Ukalegon, warning him to be ready, he started to force it around and around.

 

 

Spoiler

Str Test (if required?): Str 71, Roll: 56, 2DoS +2DoS for Unnatural Str = 4DoS

 

 

 

Edited August 10 by Lysimachus
Added Unnatural Str DoS.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The ex-Lamenter reacted reflexively, hewing through the crush of decaying corpses with a mighty swing of his chainsword, realizing a few moments later that these mortals, much like the sentry, were long dead.

 

Then the whispers came again. With a snarl he waded through the mound of human remains, crushing them under his sabatons, and surged through the melted remains of the door, smashing apart the last remaining ribbons of ruined steel. 

 

He was no traitor, it was he who had been betrayed! It was the Lamenters who had grievance with distant Terra! What were these infernal whispers that now clawed at his psyche?! He had not wronged the dead that littered this necropolis!

 

Corpses and splintered bone and slag parted before him in a great tide as he erupted into the next chamber and made for the next airlock. Hagga was soon at work on the handle and he nodded back in response, standing at the ready with blade and pistol. Anyone who stood against them was going to die.

Edited August 10 by Necronaut

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

A gift, or a trap? Any guard that came across him while he carried it would seek to kill him, then again, in the current state of affairs any surviving jailers were liable to try and kill him anyway. Picking up the weapon with car Tarh scurried over to nearby cover.

 

Believing it would work when needed without checking was as likely to get him killed as it would save him.  Cracking open the breach he removed the two shells and examined the mechanism and the barrel all seemed in order. The trigger likewise worked smoothly, despite the warn appearance of the gun. Given the circumstance it was the best he could do short of actually firing a round. Reloading the two shells he proceeds once more towards the breach and the damaged wall, the gun concealed as best he could but ready to draw.  

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"Of course my friends. We will gladly accompany you. Lead on dear...Brokk, was it?"

 

Crux'as motioned for his men to follow as he trailed after the man. A quick glance around and a pair of hand-signs told Neven and the others to be prepared but not start anything. There were too many of these reavers about to do anything but follow their orders and even with their assault the Brassers were still a threat. If the Smiler got the chance though, he would escape from all of them in a moment. His destiny was not to become cannon fodder for some pirate or to die in a gaol.

 

Lords of the Infernal Eye, Watchers of the Way, I seek your aid. Cor'Gail the Wildweaver, lend me your cunning, your silver tongue of malice. I am in your debt and dedicate the furious emotions and many deaths that come from my actions to your glory."

[Mazer Rackham]

Ukalegon/Hagga:

 

The door yields to your urgings as the corpses sail onwards, now finally released from their decades old prison. A total of eight bodies are claimed by the void, a strange and random number, placed in here by fate, as though some great game of dice chose them to die...

 

The rush of more pressure hits as the sturdy airlock door parts, showering paperwork into the darkness beyond as you step through, the pressure differential pulling the door shut behind you, a coffin lid closing.

 

Basic telemetry and readings on your HUDs suggest there is atmosphere, although much thinned. Gravity however, is still low, leading to an odd, snowdome dislocation as the ephemera of a command bunker pelts and flutters around you.

 

Xerxes:

 

Your struggles do not unnoticed. As the chaos continues to erupt, you find the huntsmen of the aether clustering around you. Warding signals trying to find you, relaying to their masters your presence - or absence - and the physical upheaval comes closer as well, with great tumult as the fortress, the prison, begins to tighten the noose even as the grip of an altogether different hand grasps it's throat. Security protocols reveal gaps which you may exploit...holes in sensoria webs, violated security picters.

 

One way or the other, you must go. Now.