[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

+++ INTERLUDE ONE +++

 

LOCSIT: ??

TIME: ??

 

It's a medical bay. That much is apparent from the terrible pain. It's the type of pain that comes from needles, drops, scalpels and the general insertion of metal into meat. Sutures pull tight, the sharp grisly perfume of seared meat permeates your genhanced olfactory suite as the deft movements of alabaster arms ply a plasma scalpel in the act of cauterisation.

 

+Fifteen microns left,+ a smooth, mellow voice commands. It is the tone of one irritated, yet knowing compliance will be made since it would be better to obey than suffer whatever lurked under the grumpy demeanour.

 

+Completed,+ a mechanical mouth speaks, ignorant of the subtle stitch of Astartes kill-urge threatening the atmosphere.

 

+Readouts show increased vitals. He awakes. Poor timing.+

 

The sterile white-enamelled ceiling tiles blur as your oculus organs finally realise focus. A pale helm erupts into your line of vision, threaded through with red lightning flicker as the pain becomes a little too much. Yet, your body is all but a coffin, and a quick sweep of your current condition reveals some mechanism plundering about inside your cadaver. The pale green lenses of a Mk VI beaked helm are asymmetric, one of them given over to an upgraded component.

 

This clicks and twitches with it's own focus as it zeroes in on something other than your entrails.

 

There's a slightly unpleasant slurping sound, followed by the contortion of something exceptionally squishy.

 

+I have applied maximum analgesic. Some other poor bastard is going to have to suffer for the largesse,+ the Space Marine tells you. +I do hope you hold their hand when they come for their checkup.+

 

A blob of scarlet on his forehead you suspected was from your own limited quantity - given the claret being slopped about around your innards, resolves into the Helix Medicae. Ozone burning adds to the wonderful abattoir ambiance as the sterilisation field from the Corpus Maximus Reductor a machine used to implant aspirants with the nineteen zygotes of the Quintessence Sacred churns and clatters to keep up with the pathogen tsunami leaking from your guts.

 

+Down, thirty-two, point-five. Stop. Suture.'

 

More burning.

 

+I do not expect your understanding of my ministry,+ he throws the narrative in your direction, +since, given your injuries, I suspect you use your head only as a braking device. However, given I am stuck with you until complete, I am currently attaching flash-cloned organs to your worthless carcass.+ His tongue as quick and lancing as the plasma scalpel. +I expect we will see much of each other if there is a repeat performance.+

 

He continues to work, never swerving from the task literally in his hands. For a second he lifts up a loop of your duodenum to get underneath it. The helm peers at you sidelong, as the Narthecium-clad gauntlet wiggles it. +Hmm, sausages.+

 

Silence reigns for several hours as he works and you drift, the interminable pain and odd character causing it driving your mind elsewhere. Flashes of lift, of falling, then the terrible tearing of large talons and the beauty of an unholy face.

 

Thoracic vertebrae crushed, all discs? Replaced with compressive polyplastek and fibre cartilage. Nerve damage extensive. Cyber mantle prothesis. Sternum smashed, ossification fragmentation penetrated all organs. Good job he doesn't actually need that bit. Third lung intact, doing all the work. Re-thread that neuro-plasty point four-seven dorsal. Initiating insertion of ERCC seven cybernetic spinal rig. Another unit universal plasma, slowly. Cataplasm oversuture on the right subclavian - quickly.

 

Steady. Steady!

 

Diagnostic, then pseudo Sus-An. Begin incision into cranium. Impressive, there is actually a brain in there.

 

And that's the last thing you hear.

 

+++++

 

When you awake, the scene has changed, but not by much. It is obvious you are in the recovery room of a surgical suite, the censer hug around you filled with silver-root, to ward off the unclean spirits. Purgation salves and counterseptic do the rest. A quick thought, and your arms move, each one of them still flesh, save for the cybernetic plugs for the armour to interface with your black carapace.

 

You have a lot more scar tissue.

 

At the foot of the flat slab masquerading as a medicae crib, stands the surgeon, resplendent in strictly cleansed white warplate, save for the red pauldron inset with the Red Corsairs livery. His gear is chipped and battle-proven given the scars and divots in the ceramite, but otherwise the model of cleanliness.

 

+Do not move too quickly. The cybernetic grafts will take time to bed in. I suppose we had better call you Ukalegon the Thrice-Lived, now.+

 

The Apothecary folds his arms across his chest and steps closer to your bedside.

 

+Iscario Seneca. Once of a Chapter you would not care about, now a Corpse-taker of the Corsairs. You are currently aboard the Space Marine Strike Cruiser Wolf of Fenris, and yes, it did belong to the Wolves, and yes, Blackheart stole it from them. One is still here, in fact. Big one, with bad breath and a foul temper. He told me to send you to him when you were whole. Give yourself two-hours, then get your arse out of my surgery. We need the bed.+

 

The Apothecary turns on his heel and walks the short distance back into the operating room.

 

+Do not ask where we got the parts to fix you,+ he calls over his shoulder. +My previous patient is unaware he is several pounds lighter.+

 

He's gone.

 

Edited October 6 by Mazer Rackham

[Mazer Rackham]

+++ CODICILS OF LIGHT AND SHADOW +++

 

GM: Alright folks, we have a lot of fallout to clear up. For your next posts you will have realised we're moving to a Space Marine Strike Cruiser. Whilst your Character may be in awe (if you're Mortal), this will be temporary, and your characters should all remark on rumours or comments in passing as you're taken aboard that this is a single, special deployment. Perhaps demonstrate your surprise or disappointment. As agreed in the build up, you will be going into the asteroid belt, and again, this should feature in your narrative. All players will be moved to a shuttle which will carry you from the Avenger to the Wolf. Anyone who needs medical treatment will be directed to Iscario. Huron Blackheart will not be present, so please don't include him other than observations made whilst you were on the flight deck.

 

GM: @Xin Ceithan obviously things are a little different for you, we'll sort that out in due course.

 

GM: All Players should end their posts with them being directed to (in no uncertain terms) the Wolf of Fenris' Wardroom. Queries etc can be fired off in the OOC, as per.

 

+ PLAYERS MAY POST +

 

Kraggan:

 

As you begin the embarkation procedure to the shuttle, one of the mutated slave stevedores you have been watching come and go with the crates of provisions and munitions takes a tumble. Having witnessed the brute clumber about in his precarious gait - for his legs are bowled, distorted by the warping energies of chaos - you are not surprised.

 

By instinct and experience, you move aside, but he still somehow manages to put a steadying hand on you.

 

There is a frisson at the contact, and a half heard whisper. He then falls over, convulsing as a random fit of mutation overtakes him. A bolt round to the head from a Corsair stops him from doing anything more.

 

+Check the stores. Chief of Lading - conduct an auspex scan for contamination of the hold.+

 

No more remark is made as the rapid search begins.

 

Machine God/Kraggan ONLY:

The whisper, however, lingers in your augmetics, even as the data-scarab pressed into your arm downloads all the information you need. Frequencies, codes, uplink node and bypass locations.

 

Two words.

 

Hydra Dominatus.

 

Edited October 6 by Mazer Rackham
Guidance for Players.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

A bit earlier, still in the hangar…

 

As the Blackheart's minions spread out to care for the injured, including a sizeable group that surrounded Ukalegon, Hagga turned to leave.

 

“Eska, veni, heel!”

 

He took a few steps, but oddly he did not hear the hound following him. The Executioner frowned and looked back. Not far from where he had tried to attack the Daemon Princess, a black shape lay alone on the deck, a pool of red spreading out around it. Hagga swore and hurried across to kneel beside her. His guardian had done her job well, keeping the horde off his back so he could attack Delphynie. The Sirensong had evaporated like mist from around his companion, but had left behind countless bloody wounds.

 

The beast whined as Hagga examined her. None of the cuts and stabs he found were individually life threatening - as though the vile little warp-things were more interested in causing pain than in killing outright - but there were so many of them. Barely an inch of dark fur was not matted by blood.

 

Rykaz jumped up and approached one of Huron's followers. He grabbed the little man and almost threw him towards the dog.

 

“Your next task, healer,” he grunted, his mood suddenly black.

 

The man stared down at the fallen animal, then back up with a rather insolent look. Being a medic, a valued skill in any group, had apparently given him a swollen head.

 

“I am a doctor,” he replied scathingly, “not a veterinarian!”

 

Hagga's grunt became a quiet snarl, and he stepped closer, looming threateningly over the mortal.

 

“Then you'd best learn fast, little man,” the Astartes hissed. “If she dies, you die too.”

 

The mortal paled and offered a short, nervous bow, then gestured towards the group attempting to manoeuvre the Lamenter's weight onto a medical cart.

 

“Very well. We cannot carry it, however. You will have to bring it, then we will see what can be done?”

 

The Executioner glared for a moment, then nodded. Carefully he lifted Eska up onto his power armoured shoulders, settling her gently across his broad back. The hound whined softly, then lay still.

 

“Lead on, then.”

 

***

 

Rykaz had heard a little about the Battle of Parenxes, and the capture of the Wolf of Fenris. When their shuttle arrived at the Strike Cruiser, Hagga felt a moment of pleasure at being back aboard a real Astartes vessel. More than this, even though the Red Corsairs had claimed the ship as their own, there were still hints of the Space Wolves here and there, which felt akin to the barbarian practices of his own former Chapter. He felt almost at home.

 

Hagga followed the serfs to the Apothecarion, though he could have found his way there alone and blindfolded, and left Eska in their care after a few more stern words with the mortal ‘doctor’. Surprisingly, there was an Astartes Apothecary aboard too, but he already had his hands full caring for Ukalegon, so Hagga didn't want to interrupt his work.

 

After this, he decided he must make his way towards the command areas of the ship. Tradition dictated that he should present himself to the Shipmaster at first opportunity, and he would not dishonour himself by failing to do so. Hagga wondered what sort of warrior this Iorek Redfang could be. The Wolves’ reputation for skill, bravery and honour was well-known and well-earned… but what kind of Wolf would choose life as a traitor to his kin over a noble death in combat?

 

 

Edited October 7 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

They were all battered bruised and cut from the combat and the claws of the Hag.

 

He followed the Astartes carrying his hound on his shoulders impressed by the pair in the combat. Followed them into the apothecarian whilst the Astartes laid the hound down on the slab to be repaired by the Doctor.

 

 

INT49 +10 (Tech Use+10) = 59. Result: 24 Pass 3DoS

 

 

 

He plugged in to the machines via his data-jack, concentrated to on the will of his blood. At the same time he lit the lumen bulb on the end of his optical Mechandendrite so that the Doctor had more light above the patient.

 

"Thought you could use a hand Dok! Anyway this hound ran distraction in the combat watched our backs."

 

 

He took a spare scalpel and let it across his left palm, he bunched his fist and extended it over the dog.

 

 

"Take some of my Black Blood there Eska it'll do ya good!"

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

+++ INTERLUDE TWO +++

 

LOCSIT: THE ASTROPATHIC CHAMBER (WOLF OF FENRIS)

TIME: 0350 ZULU

 

The conclave is a dangerous place, even for those steeped in the arts.

 

The chamber, usually reserved for the Astropathic Choir aboard a Space Marine Vessel, is vacant of those true servants of the Emperor. It is not small, and yet the Court fills it. A clattering of macabre jackdaws and self-important popinjays, all bickering and ruminating about the recent failure.

 

If word is to be believed, your failure.

 

The warp is disturbed. All about, the eddies of the Grand Tide are felt, dampening every excursion into the aether. The bathwater flushes away through an intergalactic plughole, even now, blinding anything other than local divination. Each member of the Librarius Excommunicato Diabolus once of the Astral Claws or some other Throne-forsaken cohort complains in their own way. It is a sound of flapping gums and self-aggrandising hogwash.

 

Perhaps conventions of remembrancers or Adepts of the Corpse-god are like this. Hot air and no substance other than opinion bereaved of fact.

 

At the centre of this coop, this circus, this...zoo, sits the Grand Master in person. None would dare to challenge the Blackheart like that, not sidelong, and certainly not openly. Essentially by his will are the Conclave summoned, upon his sufferance does it continue to exist at all, and that very patience is known to have limits.

 

Added to this, is the fact the Blood Reaver was never one to let the mere shadowed crevices of an Imperial stateroom shirk from his presence. Everything seems tighter, more claustrophobic under his withered and withering gaze. Power seeps from him like scarlet shadow, and his grim expression is as likely to burst into rage as it is calculating. The tone set, the Blackheart imparts wisdom: if all are off-balance, only he sits upon the fulcrum.

 

Before him, stands two Astartes in the panoply of the Red Corsairs. One in the middle, fulfilling his role as Adjudicator, a Speaker for The Coins, he who carries the tongue of all living or dead, presenting both faces at once. You know this man well, for he was once Chief Librarian of a Space Marine Chapter - although a diluted puissance, since his founding was not as glorious as the Astral Claws.

 

Garalon is his name now. Whatever it was is consigned to history.

 

He nods at you, bangs the butt of his staff against the deck of the chamber, once. When his pronouncement comes, it ripples with sibilance, his words spoken twice - once through the vox grille of ancient Mk IV helm, the second whispering through the warp.

 

In this chamber - those two things are the same.

 

+We welcome Cyrandras Rakash to this conclave.+

We welcome Cyrandras Rakash to this conclave, hell awaits you all, and knows your names...

 

To the right of the Adjudicator - Khardon. His helm cradled in the crook of his left elbow, spikes upright. He carefully adjusts it so the tines are utterly perpendicular. Khardon stands tall, despite his harrowed warplate. A giant gouge runs from neck-to-navel, but the vibration fluttering around him is not from his warp-dabbling, but anger.  The air would communicate this even were your eyes plucked out and your ears burned shut.

 

The light whispers. You have subsumed your senses into these as Khardon prattles on about the ritual preparations, how he has done the heavy lifting, and how you were entrusted with a task greater than your ability. He berates the mounting losses, the catalogue of failures.

 

Finally he evokes sympathy by evocatively describing the destruction of his runic staff. It is indeed, a grave loss, but his crescendo is the one that get's Huron's attention. It cease the bickering, when the Blackheart's face clouds over to thunder.

 

'And beyond this, Lord Huron, the Black Angel will not fly.'

 

When it is clear Khardon is finished - finally - Garalon bangs his staff once more.

 

+The visitor will answer,+ he intones heavily, crimson lenses glinting. Invisible things around him writhe gleefully at the mischief threatened.

The visitor will answer, damned by his own heart...

 

The Blood Reaver grimaces, if of course you can tell. His face, so disfigured by rictus pain and fused flesh from a melta blast is...difficult to read at the best of times. Your uncanny senses will have to make up the shortfall as he fills the immediate silence.

 

'Well, Rakash?' Huron says, quite deliberately. 'What have you to say?'

 

Edited October 6 by Mazer Rackham
Whisper, whisper, whisper...

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

The aftermath of the ritual banishment was bracing. Astartes' voices clashing and medical teams moving about. Most invigorating, if rather loud. Crux'as took some notes on the ritual in his grimoire, but spent more writing down what he knew of the daemon Delphynie and the Sirensong horde. Knowledge is power and I want it all.

 

After the medics checked out the wounded, he and the rest were summarily moved to another ship. Large and menacing, a Strike Cruiser of the Adeptus Astartes, the Wolf of Fenris reeked with smells of blood and iron, power and wrath. Defaced Imperial symbols ran the length of the hallways and strange, distorted lupine emblems loomed rampant alongside the Tyrant's Claw. Truly a ship of warriors.

 

Suitably impressed, the Smiler roved about amidships for a while. His charm soon won over some of the ship's crew and he spent some time happily chatting with the ratings about the unusual nature of the Tyrant sending such a strange party out- apparently it was more like him to send out individual agents or full raiding parties. Crux'as smiled at the crew and thanked them, idly wondering why several were trembling as he walked away. 

 

A massive Astartes in Corsair colors gruffly directed him towards the wardroom, so the Smiler went to find out what would happen next.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

 

OOC: Edited the end of my previous post so Hagga hadn't left the Apothecarion yet, to allow for interaction.

Hagga looked up from his thoughts. As the red-robed Adept moved to stand over Eska, his gut reaction was to move to defend her.

But the Magos seemed to be trying to assist. Hagga had heard that the Mechanicus had wondrous gifts, abilities to rival the miracles of Astartes gene-forging, including sorcerous blood that actively aided healing. Perhaps they could share such gifts?

 

He nodded towards the mortal.

 

“My thanks, Magos… and honour to your bravery in the hangar. I know of few mortals who would dare attack such a foe as we faced. I am Hagga Rykaz, of the… of the Red Corsairs.”

 

He paused. There was little else to say. He turned to look at one of the serfs standing to one side. Not a medic, just a deckhand or junior officer pressed into service to assist in moving the wounded.

 

“I must present myself to Iorek Redfang. Where will I find him?”

 

The serf bowed low, cringing.

 

“He'll be on the Bridge, sire, or in the Wardroom. Both are in…”

 

Hagga waved away further response. He knew that both would be located in the Strike Cruiser's dorsal tower. He nodded again to the Magos, and turned to leave.

 

 

Edited October 7 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

The menials were slow to arrive, inefficient, perhaps afraid or perhaps there was truth to the warmasters suggestion that this was a challenge to his leadership for if he had been struck down such delays may have proven terminal.

 

Still while eyes were averted he might begin his work, the chanter he could distract with the secrets of the grimoire while those astartes that did not follow Huron showed indifference to his fallen kin. Pieces of his bodyguard lay strewn about but it would be wise to not gather such things from the corpses themselves, nothing that could not be reasonably lost to the warp amongst those things thrown aside by the daemons blows.

 

A pity at the waste but his position here was not yet secure enough to attract the unwanted attention and such relics as these would certainly come under close scrutiny. Remnants of the flight pack one had used however would not be so missed. But such things could wait as he caught the eye of one of the warriors, assume the role of the medicant, bow and nod and attend to the pet as was expected.

 

 

Once more he contented himself to remain apart from the rest and not be drawn into their schemes and alliances, for it seemed guessing which amongst them might succeed at any task was a perilous game of chance at best. The assets Huron had managed to amass were impressive, the cruiser that filled the shuttles viewscreens a wonder of the technological might of man and yet the sense of wonder he might have felt was tempered by all he had seen this past day, a warband better fitting the description of the orkoid raiders than anything that might be considered enlightened or unshackled from the dogma of the Imperium and the conclave of the mechanicus.

 

Their numbers thinned once more as they were directed with little explanation and less tolerance of disobedience. With luck they would rise in his estimation by leading this vessel into the warp with less enthusiasm than they had led them to their lord.

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

“My Lords, I will be brief...”

 

Rakash swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He had stood ramrod straight, motionless and  silent, during  Khardron’s lamentations, helmet fixed under his left arm, eyes fixed on some stain beyond the Bloodteaver, s shoulder. 

He would have been an image of parade ground precision, if not for the obvious makeshift repairs to his battered armour,  the whining of servos along with the fizzling wishes of heat surging  from his power pack that betrayed the effortof   his war plate as it strained to maintain this pose. 

 

The Sorcerer himself looked even paler than usual and livid patches of psycho-stigmatic burn marks sprawled over his face and scalp. His right eye was still out, the sclera a dark red globe

 

It was a sheer  effort of will that Rakash to maintain his pose in the face of both his injuries and the bickering of Khardron’s tirades. He managed this partly by drawing on the thrill from the experience of his recent exposure to the primal forces of the universe, partly because he was very aware of the value Huron Blackheart put on individual strength but also, and perhaps most all because he knew that Khardron wanted tolure him into a pointless debate before the Conclave and that this show of dispassionate restraint would vex his rival far more than anything else. 

 

Thus, Rakash had withered the storm, trying to draw strength and maybe some amusement from the increasing ire of the Sorcerer.

 

Especially if  these should turn out  to be his  final moments of amusement. 

 

Cyrandras risked a brief glance at Huron, but made sure he kept his parade ground pose.  He had barely survived facing the fury of one primal force of nature just then and  here he was already facing another. If asked, Rakash would have be hard pressed to decide which one he’d preferred. 

 

The Sorcerer  gave the slightest shrug, hoping the gesture would be lost in the constant whirring of his angry power armour. He had done this before. He could do it again

 

 - I am the Sea…. -

 

“My actions,  my accomplishments, as well as my dedication to our cause are well known to this Conclave.”

 

He took a deep breath, ignoring the crunching sound from his rib casing.

 

“ In fact, I dare to believe that they are the very reason that I am here now , standing in front of this Conclave,and despite the accusations of Brother Khardon, am not simply a drifting carcass in the void, my  soul  cast to the Neverborn.”

 

He gave  an appraising nod in Khardon’s general direction.

 

Our esteemed Brother has shared at length the vast amount of preparation and effort he has put into this venture. And while he is in such a sharing mood, I would certainly love to foster an exchange on  the wealth of esoterica he has presented and then discuss the finer details regarding his works with  the whole of the Conclave - maybe starting with the question on how  he came across the idea of attempting the summoning  and binding  of a Dhaeva Sovereign of the Arcana Majores on a ship of the line during transit to a combat zone - I understand that this not the time nor the place for this sort of exchange on the matter of the arcane arts.”

 

“Instead, we are here to discuss that in Brother Khadron’s elaborate discourse on his likewise elaborate scheme, which only now not ended  in the failure of acquiring the essence of this Neverborn but also resulted in the death of several brothers sworn to our Cause and our Lord, as well endangered one of his ships of the line, along with his crew, Brother Khadron seems to imply that the responsibility for this failure would now  somehow rest with  me.” 

 

Cyrandras ignored Khardon. Instead he looked first at Garalon, then at Huron Blackheart.

 

- I am the Mountain…. -

 

“We have been told, exhaustingly one might say, about what our esteemed Brother did or did not do for this, to what length he went to achieve this  and that… 

But what our esteemed Brother  has not yet shared with us is how, or even why, my  involvement in this endeavour could  so crucial that  it would make my contribution not just necessary, but apparently so essential to it that despite Brother Khadron’s expansive efforts,  it’s success,  or,  as it stands now, it’s failure would rest solely on my shoulders?” 

 

The Sorcerer allowed himself a small smile.

 

“Again, this Conclave must not be told that Brother Khardon and I have had our share of …..disagreements … in the past. And yet, both of us have always honoured our oaths  and pacts to this Conclave have always striven to put our pledges to the Throne of Thorns before such petty rivalries.”

 

He gave Khadron a courteous nod.

 

“Still, I assume it would not have been easy to accept  that  the realization of all that  hard work would be for naught without my person, that the ziggurat raised by all these toils would be incomplete if it was to miss without this crowning tier? “

 

Cyrandras smile broadened.

 

“That must have been hard. Such a disappointment! 

To find that, for all your toils and troubles, for all your effort, it would all be for naught unless you shared it  with me ?!”

 

Rakash laughed. Then his features hardened.

 

“It makes you wonder…would it be enough for you to forget your oaths? Would it be enough that you might decide that after all this work you should not have to share the glory? Enough to put a petty attempt at  getting rid of your rival before your pledges to our Lord?”

 

He shook his head in apparent disbelief.

 

“For all our disagreements,I would not have thought you capable of such a thing, Khardon. And yet! You have just shared the amount of effort you invested in getting hold of this Neverborn, of this Black Angel! 

Why in all the bloody hells did you not share even a fracture of this before? Why wasn’t I informed about the scope of this endeavor and the nature of the this particularly Daeva before?  I was sent to Khymara ? Or  maybe at  least after retrieving it?  Or, in the name of the body Emperor, may he burn another ten thousand years on his bloody Throne,  at least just  before the bloody ritual?! “

 

Cyrandras took a deep breath. He took a deep breath, then looked up at the Blood Reaver.

 

- I am the Sky…. -

 

 

“My Lord! I stand before you accused of failure. 

I was kept in the dark. I know that you care not whether this was because of spite, pettiness  or lack of competence. I know that you care for this because you care for results, for success, regardless of, or rather, especially in the face of adversity.

 

Thus, I stand here to be judged on my actions. Not on a litany of what may have been or has not been.

 

But I want to emphasize this: 

 

I was not told about the nature of this mission and the nature of the Neverborn fiend we call the Black Angel.

 

And yet, I ventured into the depths of Khymara and retrieved it.

You know the other Astartes assigned to this task. You have witnessed their bravery on the flight deck of the Avenger as well as their.. bluntness.  Had I not been present, it is doubtful the Neverborn would have been recovered in the first place and there would not even have been any attempt to bind it in the first place.

 

When Brother Khardon approached me on the Avenger to join the summoning and the binding of the Neverborn, I was again not informed about the full extent of what he was attempting to do.

In hindsight, I feel this limited my involvement and I would have counseled against it. But I chose to honour and trust in the oaths I made to this council and chose to support it, support the Brother that invoked these oaths.

 

And when the ritual failed…”

 

Cyrandras closed his eyes. The laughter of the Neverborn was still on his mind. When he opened his eyes again, he sought Huron’s gaze and held it.

 

“I chose to fight. I chose to stand beside you, my Lord. Not just because I made pledges and oaths. Because it is what we do.

 

We fight. We resist. We endure. 

 

We win.

 

I could have given up. I could have given in to the Neverborn. I could have just tried to save my own skin. But I did neither.

 

I did not have all the preparations and research that Brother Khardon had but refused to share. I took command of what was left of the Coven and what gifted souls where available. I  poured my will and talent into the Warp and an improvised ritual of banishment. And I succeeded.

 

And now, my Lord, if you choose to call that a failure, so be it. “

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Two hours later, Ukalegon’s eyes snapped open and nostrils flared, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position with a wince. He felt marginally refreshed by the nap, but the new metal embedded in his raw flesh and frayed nerves still caused him much discomfort. He looked down at his feet, dangling comically off of the astartes-sized slab like a child's. He almost felt like a child, reborn anew for a second time, like an invertebrate shedding its carapace to yield a new and unexpected form.

 

The “Thrice-Lived" indeed! Ukalegon would never have given himself such an appellation in the first place, reasoning he had been dubbed Twice-Lived by some mortal member of the crew or mockingly granted it by one of Lord Huron’s mongrel warriors.

 

He shook his head in bemusement at the horrid map of puckered and rapidly spreading scar tissue that now criss-crossed his torso, and at the new access ports and evidence of fresh cybernetic augmentation which protruded from his tender flesh. 

 

He was lucky to be alive. 

 

His eyes refocused on his surroundings, alighting upon the myriad arcane devices and translucent canopic jars containing all manner of vile organic specimens, and the hunched, heavily augmented medicae servitors that patrolled the bay. Chains hung from the ceiling, and there was at least one dismembered torso hanging from a meat hook. The chamber seemed more and more like an abattoir and less a place of healing and recuperation

 

Well, reasonably lucky.

 

+++

 

He skulked about the strike cruiser in his breechclout, sticking to the shadows and attempting to avoid notice, at least as well as a hulking, gene-forged warrior could. To be caught naked and unarmed could be a death sentence amongst those fully given over to the ruinous powers. The cyber-mantle and augmetic spinal support, cruelly grafted into his chest cavity and upper back by Iscario mere hours prior, ached and lanced his pain receptors at random intervals. 

 

The apothecary had informed him that he should be able to find his personal effects in the care of the ship’s quartermaster, and that Lord Huron had personally threatened any with death who would purloin the Lamenter’s kit. Ukalegon had to trust Iscario’s word that the remains of his war-plate hadn’t been sold off for scrap and his weapons distributed to the Blackheart’s more favoured warriors.

 

Eventually he emerged into a gloomy and smog-choked bastion of drudgery lit only by the hellish glow of forges and smouldering wall sconces. Gangs of slaves, chained together at the ankles with dense links of blackened iron, toiled away endlessly in the name of their Lord and the Dark Gods, droning all manner of blasphemous prayers while they worked. Forge-Priests in tattered robes, armed with electro-flails and snaking mechatendrils patrolled the mass of tortured mutants and humans, meting out impartial and cruel retribution for any laxity or impiety, perceived or otherwise. A miasma of dread hung thick and palpable in the air, another noxious fume to join the borderline toxic melange. The entire chamber seemed to hum and pulse and clank with some profane mechanical rhythm discernible only to those initiated into the mysteries of the Machine Cult or perhaps, and more correctly, those truly in tune with the Ruinous Powers. In the center of it all, from atop a black-and-bronze pulpit formed in the shape of the Pantheon Star and sporting the snarling head of a bull fashioned from brass, stood the maestro of this vile orchestra of industry, the quartermaster and lord of the ship’s armourium. 

 

He was a squat, heavy-set human nearly as wide as an astartes and half as tall, stripped to the waist, with a thick leather apron tied around his tree trunk torso. His bare chest was slicked with sweat from the oppressive heat of the cavernous temple which only accentuated the mass of vat-grow muscle grafted beneath his pale flesh. One arm terminated at the elbow and resumed as a wicked manipulator claw which seemed to click and open and close with a mind of its own, and he sported other cruel and twisted cybernetics besides. A thick black beard framed his ugly and scowling complexion, and Ukalegon could just make out pointed teeth protruding above the demi-human's bottom lip. 

 

The ex-Lamenter approached and presented himself, standing as straight as he could while gritting his teeth against the pain.

 

“I am Ukalegon. I am told you have my effects.”

 

The overseer grunted in acknowledgement and bellowed an order in a gutteral dialect of Low Gothic which sounded akin to rocks being broken. A forge-priest approached and bowed before Ukalegon.

 

"Show ze reborn chosen to his implements,” the quartermaster growled at his thrall in thickly accented gothic. Ukalegon could almost detect the hint of a sneer at his status but ignored it.

 

The priest bowed again and led Ukalegon away from the din of the forge-fane into an arming chamber filled with racks of weapons and a mis-matched assortment of armour. His guide started barking orders in static-laden binharic at a coterie of mutant attendants and they immediately leapt into action, clearly fearful of their master’s lash.

 

+Chosen,+ his guide intoned in a buzzy and broken monotone, +Lord Huron ordered your war-plate to be salvag-ed. All that remained were your sabat-ons and vam-braces. We have replaced the remain-der with re-cycled pieces from four other par-tial suits of ar-mour.+

 

The heavily augmented human, more machine than man, gestured with his many-tonged electro-whip at his slaves who approached and knelt before Ukalegon, holding his chainsword and dagger aloft.

 

+Your wea-pons were unharmed and have been-been cleansed of dae-monic i-chor-r-r-s. We took the li-ber-ty of shar-pen-ing your chain-sword's teeth.+

 

Another menial presented his infernus pistol, gently caressing the firearm’s barrel. Ukalegon’s pupils narrowed to points of inchoate fury in the span of two heartbeats and he lashed out at the mutant thrall crushing its wrists with one meaty hand while snatching his sidearm away with the other. The slave howled in pain as his wrist bones broke and were ground into pebbly grit against one another and collapsed in a heap.

 

+Apol-o-gies, Chosen. Good help is so-so hard to find.+

 

A mechatendril snaked out from beneath the priest’s robe and found the cowering mutant’s throat, wringing the life out of him and snapping his neck like a hunter would a wounded rabbit.

 

+Dress the chosen in his war-skin.+

 

The remaining slaves, shocked anew into terrified silence, laid his weapons aside and started to haul over his armour plates, locking and sealing each in place with satisfying clicks and hisses. His old leg plates were mounted in place, followed by a repurposed Mark VII plastron, clearly scoured of whatever heraldry its previous owner had possessed in life and replaced with the colours of the Reaver Lord, trimmed with brass, a cracked, fanged skull in its center. It was comforting, almost, to feel the heavy slabs of plasteel and ceramite slide back into place and mate with his armour sockets. He wondered to whom the cuirass must have previously belonged. One of his gene-kin? Was this some cruel joke…?

 

The tech-priest was intoning the litany of items with which the Blackheart, in his seeming largesse, had seen fit to furnish him for his “daring" action against the unchained Delphynie.

 

+Replace-ment armour cyber-harness, one. Reclaimed Mark VII plastron, one. Reclaimed Mark VII pauldrons, two…+

 

Two huge, domed ceramite pauldrons were roughly lowered onto his shoulders and mounted in place. The tattered and faded remnants of the Lamenter’s livery were, of course, long gone now, obliterated along with the armour plates upon which they had been painted. His left pauldron now bore only the Tyrant's claw in brilliant ebon and red, whilst his right was mottled red and bare ceramite with a brass Pantheon Star in the center held in place with numerous bonding studs, no doubt intended to cover up hastily repaired battle damage underneath.

 

Ukalegon spat and growled at the forge priest, "Remove that device from my pauldron or I will gut the lot of you with my bare hands."

 

The attendants shied away but the priest stood his ground, cocking his insectoid face with its twin blisters of green augmetic lenses.

 

+You de-ny the gods, as-tar-tes?+

 

“Remove. It.” 

 

The ex-Lamenter’s voice was the molten fury of a star’s core.

 

+Com-pli-ance.+

 

Two of the slaves retrieved tools from a workbench and set about removing the bonding studs which held the symbol to his new armour, eventually prying it free with a rusted pry bar.

 

+It mat-ters not. All serve the Gods and Lord Black-heart. Do you re-quire different heral-dry?+

 

Ukalegon pursed his lips in thought. 

 

"A black saltire will suffice." 

 

The devil is not mocked, he thought to himself ruefully.

 

+Com-pli-ance. Con-tin-u-ing. Reclaimed os-motic gill mask, one…+

 

"Have you no spare helms in this place?!”

 

+Lord Black-heart has re-turned you to life, a se-cond time, and pro-vi-ded new ar-mour for you. Do you wish to lodge a com-plaint with your master, chosen?+

 

Ukalegon snarled at him and fitted the mask over his nose and mouth, the pneumatic clamps at the back making a satisfying hiss-click as it closed over his jaw and created a seal around the bottom half of his cranium, while one of the menials painted the cross over his right pauldron black as pitch.

 

+Reclaimed as-tar-tes jump pack, one. Single exhaust nozzle model. Unit is prone to over-heat-ing foll-ow-ing fuel pump replacement. Flight may prove sub-op-ti-mal. Cau-tion ad-vised.+ 

 

Ukalegon looked at the jump pack half-aghast. It was a dead ringer for one used by the Sanguinary Guard, but missing the ornamental wings. He tried to hide his emotions, but couldn't help but notice the chipped and roughly broken ceramite and plasteel where the angel’s pinions ought to have been. Truly he was being mocked by Lord Huron’s armourers.

 

Little remained of his former life. He had been properly reborn now as a Red Corsair, it would seem, in his un-broken, ramshackle suit.

 

+Re-attach power supply cable to the chosen’s inferno pistol.+

 

The priest knelt and a mechadendrite tipped with a serrated blade emerged from his robe, slicing open the dead mutant’s jugular vein. The mortal’s weak blood spilled darkly over the deck plates and the feet of those assembled. The priest rose and pressed a gnarled, blood-daubed thumb against Ukalegon’s forehead. His chipped, yellowed nail dug slightly into the ex-Lamenter’s forehead.

 

+I an-noint thee in the name of the Dark Fa-ther. Go to war, chosen. Ful-fill your pur-pose. Bring ruin to Lord Black-heart’s en-e-mies.+

 

+++

 

Ukalegon ascended through the Wolf of Fenris’s dorsal spire, relieved to be armoured again and to have his weapons close at hand, but still irked that his Lord and master seemed to have only seen fit to re-arm him grudgingly, as if his sacrifice, his insane charge into the open arms of the enemy, was something to be swept under the rug. The makeshift suit, mended, bolted and roughly fused together as it was, snarled and growled, its hybrid machine spirit sporting a temper to match his own darkening mood. No matter; he would endure and prove himself to Lord Huron and any others who doubted him.

 

After numerous lift exchanges, he eventually found the command center and strode as confidently as he could manage through the blast doors while still being wracked intermittently by sharp tendrils of pain which radiated out from his spine and touched his limbs with a lover’s caress, perhaps a parting blow from the daemon on top of his injuries. He would likely never know.

 

He addressed the bridge crew, speaking for the first time since donning the reclaimed osmotic gill, and he almost didn't recognized the distorted, angry voice which emitted from its vox grille.

 

+Where is Iorek Redfang? I was told I could find him here.+

Edited October 9 by Necronaut

[Trokair]

Tarh

Spoiler

Part one of placeholder, catch up to October 4^th post

Scything debris, D100: 37

Take Two Fatigue, Tb 4 so not unconscious

 

With strain and effort, as he was pressed into the unseen deck, Tarh pulled his left arm close and worked it up to his head. He could feel his stomach revolting at the unreality shifts of the Utukkus final moments. If was not to be drowned by his own body he had to move his hand faster. There, the masked nudged aside, leaning on one elbow he turned his head just enough, bloodstained bile hit the deck, splashing away from him, into the storm. The acidic after stench caught in his nose prompted another convolution, but his stomach was empty already.

 

A railing bar bounded of the deck right next to him, cluttering as it landed again on his other side and rolled off into the distance.

 

The pressure stopped, only to be replaced by the waves of weariness. Darkness flickering at the edge of his sight. Pushing himself up into a half sitting position he could see that some of the Chosen, including their Lord Huron where already up again.

 

Uttering a mantra to regain his composure. He stopped himself mid line, his mind had caught up with what he had been about to say by rote. The next line was dedicated to The Youngling, and with the events here did he really want to draw attention.  

 

Finishing the line, for a half said prayer would be just as bad, he forced himself to skip the next few, resuming the mantra on the Grandfathers benediction of resilience.  

 

---

 

 

Edited October 12 by Trokair

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Placeholder. 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

+ THE WOLF'S WARDROOM +

 

One by one you learn, are told or instructed to make your way to the Wardroom aboard the Wolf of Fenris. The journey is accompanied by all the conniption of traversing decks, gunwales or passageways filled with those busy in readiness for war-make.

 

The officer quarters are, as they should be, spartan for a Space Marine vessel, yet up here the votive devices to the Pantheon Unreal are thin, substituted are the markings of the Corsairs. Huron Blackheart has put his mark upon this ship, and never shall it be the same again. The honourable service baked into the plasteel, notably dulled and tarred with the all the vitriol of a statesman beloved, given over to rampant hatred.

 

The sentinels dwelling above the lower ranks are mutated, but they do not shirk from your sight. Bulging, uneven musculature paints a flesh landscape hewn from genescience. Not Astartes, but blasphemous mortals who mimic them. Ugly brute shock-troops, misshapen, they stick out like the kankerous warts they are infested with, giving the notion that they do not frequent the lofty climes of stateroom and bridge often. They are harnessed in sable plate, carapace bound over with up-armoured facets. An array of weapons festoons fists, holsters, belts and scabbards.

 

They all wear the same icons, painted or printed, worn on chains or bolted to weaponry, that of a strange, dark-metal skull with a cracked bullet hole in the forehead.

 

Grunts and gestures point your way to the large doors which house the primary ready room of the ship's officers and you are ushered in by menials who carry themselves with an assurance, and aplomb of Mortals with experience of what currently stirs around them.

 

Within the wardroom is a set table. It is replete with foodstuffs. Fruit, wine, and the soporific pungency of heady mead. Grox haunches, Porcinet cutlets. All of this grandiose spread promises a trencherman repast. Chandeliers of roughly hewn wood - encased and filigreed with ancient bronze mark this candlelit supper as a haunting throwback to the old days when the Emperor would be invoked at table, the chill of Fenris winter and canine smiles thick.

 

At the head of this table is a giant made flesh.

 

Not appearing capable of being woman-born, instead he is quarried from muscle, shaped by eons of erosion which have rounded his burly limbs to mortal measure and barely held in constraint by an array of torques and clasps. His broad chest is the size of a bulkhead door, and in his mighty fist, fingers ringed thickly with gold and crude-iron warrior rings, he already sports a large tankard with the regalia of his former Chapter, a silver wolf, forever chasing the moon, and in turn, the lupine flight is pursued by a sun.

 

The tankard could easily be called a bucket - but to do so would be churlish, and unwise in a health-depleting manner.

 

To his back, an arming cradle carries a pauldron showing a mix of archaic Norscan art with the heraldry of the Blood Reaver, a white claw upon a red field.

 

'Welcome, rogues, to my table!' he bawls. Long hair is braided tightly at the back of his head, beard likewise plaited. These tresses carry a vague scent of lacquer, most likely from where he smooths it down for sealing his warplate proof to vacuum's harsh caress.

 

He is bedecked as a barbarian warlord - no blade upon him - as is custom, but a heavy chain hauberk that is polished and well made. This in turn is trussed about him by  thick, brown leather baldricks, each sporting a campaign crest or badge from some bloody, forgotten war. One of these is the symbol of the hated Inquisition - yet is is marked and beaten, as though it is but stolen glory. One of his ample shoulders carries the mottled fur pelt of a great Ursus.

 

'Come and enjoy the feast with me, at the Blackheart's expense.' He grins with perfectly meeting, but hugely abutting canine teeth. 'Behold the largesse of a man who values courage.'

 

He strides across the room, parting the smoke, since he cannot duck beneath it, and towers above Mortal and menial alike. Even the Astartes in your party, who are no shrinking whelps, lose a head and shoulders to this man.

 

'I am Iorek, of the Redfang. I have hunted any type of bastard you care to mention, killed anything you wish to name, and had my fill of spoils which any of you can dream. Come and sit. Eat and be merry, because soon,' his grin widens with a nasty gleam in his chillingly fierce eyes, 'we feast on death and war!'

 

GM: Note this meeting occurs after your narratives, and thus should not form part of them if you complete placeholders.

 

GM: Thank you gents for accompanying us this far - more will be revealed when we delve into Part Two, but for now:

 

++  END OF PART ONE ++

 

+ PLAYERS, PLEASE DO NOT POST +

 

Edited October 11 by Mazer Rackham
I cnat splel.