[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

 

Half Action, Aim, Half Action, Standard Attack,

BS: 44 + 10 (Horde size)  +10 (Aim)  +10 (Accurate) +10 (Short Range) = 84

D100: 68, Pass, 3DoS

Damage: 1d10 + 3 +1d10 (Accurate + 2 DoS)

D10s: 6 + 3, 4 = 13 at Pen 1 and Felling (4) (not sure Felling dose anything here)

 

He observed the gathering mob, a pitiful lot. Hardly a worthy sacrifice, the only quality their sheer quantity, perhaps that is how the situation had gone array. However if the mob hoped to save their lives by interrupting the priests renewed work they were mistaken.

 

Taking aim at one particular figure, perhaps a sergeant in his former life, Tarh did not recognise the remnants that once had been a uniform, but the insignia was imperial. In a way he was about to dispense mercy, by killing the rabble-rouser. Would the others turn back? A novel experience, to offer mercy to the enemy, but one he could not dwell on, there was no time.

Edited September 30 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: @Trokair They count as a Mag 10 Horde, so +10 to Hit.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Flight Deck:

 

GM: Felling has no consequence here, but I will allow both it and Accurate to effectively give Devastating (2), ie one shot - 3 Mag Dam.

 

The leader of the pack is shot down so thoroughly, the las-bolt pierces the man behind him as well, and blows off another's hand. Rage and revenge carry the rest on.

 

Panicked Mob 

Dam: 25% Taken, WP Test: 006 Pass

Move: Charge 9m.

 

Xerxes [ ]

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

The mob posed no threat to him personally, but perhaps even in death they might disrupt the ritual by falling amongst the rune circle or casting blood where none should fall. The instructions in the book made little sense compared to the rigid guidance of the rites of the mechanicum and actions were interwoven with the chant in a broken cadence that seemed intent to fall upon the most intense of activity at the turn of each page.

 

This next step seemed simple enough however as a second circle was to be formed about the first. Each new scratch seemed to flow across the deck plating as if oil and Xerxes pushed all questions as to the strangeness of it to the back of his mind. And yet...

 

He frozen and pulled back his blade as some instinct warned him, or perhaps the sensation of the daemons eyes upon him. His augmented memory was not prone to playing tricks on him and he looked to the book aware that he was falling behind the cadence with each moment. The diagram, had the pages shifted or turned without his notice?

 

 

The diagram was wrong, his memory was not. So it must be as he began scrawling runes once more.

 

Basic INT test, assistance from minion, at -10

Target 45, roll 87 - eep!

Infamy reroll 41 - pass with two extra DoS (one from the roll, one from the cortex implant, one from assistance)

 

Hope everyone has infamy saved up for the last test(s)...

[Mazer Rackham]

The Ritual Circle:

 

The warp is thinly veiled now, the tides wax and wane, pulling onto the beaches of reality before ebbing back, slinking into the deep with the promise of return. So anchored to the firmness now, committed to the incessant, violent friction of the unmade.

 

Aetheric tides press and release, synchronising with each breath taken in it's praise and petition...
 

It is there for the harness! Just the will must be exorcised to take it..!

 

Rakash [ ]

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

Xxxxx First Focus -  of Water xxxx

 

It was beautiful. 

 

The Neverborn’s essence burned in his witch sight like the heart of a sun, lpainfully brilliant in its fury.

 

And yet it was easily lost amidst an uncountable number of other bright things, which in turn faded away in the face of an even brighter, painfully beautiful brightness  that both spawned and consumed them. 

And  which in turn was part of something even greater, the Four who  were made of and made up the Eight all of whom who were the One. 

 

 

The frightened and small minded might cling to the idea that  abilities of the psyker were “the Emperor’s Gift” but in the end, each and everyone thus “gifted” drew on this infinite and terrible wellspring beyond reality.

 

 

No mortal mind could hope to grasp this, to understand it yet alone hold or command it.

 

This  was the boon and the bane of every psyker. Access to power literally beyond comprehension but without any hope of ever controlling it. 

 

In the end, any psyker would ever be limited by the power of his own mind. 

 

Sorcery, in contrast, was not subject to such limitations. Because at its core, Sorcery  was all always about power -  tapping  into the limitless power of the Immaterium and giving it shape by the inherent power of words and acts.

 

A Psyker would always be afraid to be unable to hold back the tide.  A Sorcerer welcomed the tide and determined where it should flow.

 

As such Rakash did his best not to linger upon the limitless otherness  of potential and madness bearing down him. Instead, he concentrated on giving it form, giving it shape, transmuting it into something a mortal will could comprehend and thus, direct…

 

“I am the Sea. All creation  springs from me and I hold all of creation. I am the sea. I hold the spark to  life in my depths and the souls of dead return to the deep. All worlds are held in my vastness and are shaped by my tidings. I am the sea. All worlds exist within me and will be returned to me if my will thus decides.  I am the sea. I am as calm as I am eternal. The storm might raze my surface but may never reach my depth.  I am endless and I am forever. I am the sea. my fury is terrible and none can stand before me“ 

 

Another breath.

 

“I am the sea…”

 

 

 

ooc:

Forbidden Lore :(Int 40 )  at - 30:  Roll  - 6

 

Pass! 

 

Focus Test ( WP 48 ) at - 10:   Roll 33 

 

Pass! 

Edited October 6 by Xin Ceithan

[Mazer Rackham]

The Ritual:

 

The very bones of the vessel harbouring this dark beginning shudder as more power is focussed. A cataclysmic pressure wave has begun to form. It makes the teeth ache, the muscles burn just to stand up and face the punishing wind.

 

Objects pummel into the walls, the hull, anything in the way.

 

Shrieking is now just not air furrowing through any gap it can find, but the cry of the damned, far from a siren call, this is a wail not of invitation - but of the inevitable.

 

Crux'As [ ]

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

The chant gets harder, the words harsher. The Smiler pushes through the pain and rasps out the mantra.

 

"Being from the planes of madness, be silent! Master of nothing you are, for we bind and abjure you! You have no place here!"

 

Willpower Test

Target - 45 - 10 (difficulty) = 35

Roll - 17

Result = Success, 1 DoS.

(Question- I've always wrote my success/failure as Success, X DoS: where saying it is a success means that there is an automatic DoS and the amount of DoS I put down is the extra on the roll, so 1+ X is the total- should I just say the total amount?  For example, in this case there would be an overall total of 2 DoS, one for passing the roll and one for roll 10 under the target.)

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: @Lord_Ikka with this being BC, whichever format you prefer is fine by me, but the latter is perhaps more pertinent to the ruleset. As I say though - not a problem for me which way you roll it. 

 

The Flight Deck:

 

The maniacal mob keeps coming, even as the hairs on everyone's body go perpendicular - no matter the deportment of their limbs! Everything feels as though it is falling.

 

Falling.

 

The lift car to hell. Going down...

 

Tarh [ ]

[Lysimachus]

 

OOC: No Actions yet, just a bit of narrative (with GM permission) to tie in:

 

Hagga/Eska:

 

Rykaz continued to advance through the melee, Eska at his side. Broad, low sweeps of his burning blade kept the tiny daemonettes at bay while he looked for any sign of Ukalegon's blackened armour. The hideous child-things still cackled and danced and tried to stab out at them, but was it a trick of the eyes that they seemed to be… fading?

 

He risked a glance across the hangar. Something was happening over there, something that raised the hackles on his neck. A stirring in the air, the disgusting tang of filthy warp sorcery… but somehow beating in counterpoint to the hellstorm that already raged around the daemon-witch? Whatever the psykers were doing, it seemed to be helping, so Hagga couldn't argue. As long as they didn't make things bloody worse.

 

The Executioner looked back. Above where he thought the fallen Lamenter must be, Delphynie continued to battle with Huron, his last bodyguard, and the axe-wielding mortal. However, the Terminator stood slack-jawed, staring at the monstrous beauty with his mighty power fist hanging limp at his side. Hagga cursed. He was becoming less and less flaming impressed with the Blackheart's vaunted ‘elite’.

 

He swore again and swung his sword up, ready to attack. If he wanted to protect the Lamenter, he'd have to get more directly involved.

 

Edited October 1 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

RITUAL PERFORMANCE, FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS:

 

GM: Gentlemen, well played so far. This is working very well, and you are to be complimented.

 

GM: However, now we're going to step this up a notch. All Players/Characters involved in the ritual (Xerxes/Rakash/Crux'As) will post their Narrative Round 3 rolls in PM, to me, alone. Further narrative should correspond to past narrative (ie, slightly ambiguous until the roll is delivered - basically what you have been doing, and good work there too).

 

For clarity, it will work as follows:

• I will call for your actions/turn as normal.
• Complete your narrative in Post in the IC (wax lyrical but give away nothing - I require SOME narrative from you. Desperation perhaps, beef up the grief).
• Send me your roll result by PM, do not consult other Players.
• Wait and see if this cake is baked.

GM: All other factors are in play (difficulties, cadence order, etc). Wailing and queries in the OOC. If other Players wish to add narrative like Lysi above, PM me with your suggested prose, and I will decide where to fit it.

 

GM: Play continues with Trokair/Tarh.

 

Edited October 1 by Mazer Rackham

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

 

Quick Draw Free Action, put Long Las away, draw and Ready Laspistol and Axe (Axe in offhand if there is such a thing in BC).

Semi-automatic Burst

 BS: 44 +10 (Short Range) = 54

D100: 37, Pass, 3DoS (1Pass, 1 normal and 1 from Adroit), 2 DoS (aside from the one for passing) means 1 extra hit from SAB.

Total 2 Hits

Damage d10 + 2 at Pen 0

Hit 1: d10: 6 +2 = 8 Damage

Hit 2: d10: 4 +2 = 6 Damage

 

 

The gods had been with him, three felled with a single shot, but it did not deter the others as much as he had hoped, if at all. As they rushed forward Tarh knew that if it came to a melee fight the Long-las would be at best a club, serviceable but hardly the best option.

 

Stowing it in one fluid movement, he reached for the recovered pistol and axe. Let them see the glint of the sharp edge. There wasn’t enough time to aim property, but at this distance the two quick pulls of the trigger found their mark regardless.  

Edited October 1 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

Narrative Round 3:

 

GM: I'll let Tro crack on with his narrative, but I can do the Horde response now.

 

Manic Horde:

Size: Now 50%

D100: 92, Horde breaks.

 

The rapid murder of their fellows takes the spine out of the blundering charge. However, it appears some technical knowhow and brute force from the terrified mob scattering all and sundry across the Flight deck has managed to damage something significant within the ship.

 

The lights flicker for several seconds, plunging the deck into a hellish spill of shadow and flare of never-lightning. Crimson spills like blood from armoured lamp cages, and the azure-and-pink splendour of Delphynie and her chorus of damnation washes all with baleful radiance.

 

 

GM: With Tro's post in hand, I believe this is your Cadence for Round 3:

 

Round 3 - Locus (Unleashing the Unrelenting Tide), Chanter (Refrain of Abolition), Assistant (Closure of the Eternal Seal).

 

GM: @Xin Ceithan pop me a PM with your cadence check and Psy Focus Rolls.

 

Rakash [ ]

Edited October 1 by Mazer Rackham
Weird cut-off of words...

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

Xxx Second Focus: Of the Earth xxxx

 

Rakash could feel the power of the Warp rising. 

It was intoxicating. It took all of his will  to continue  giving it  a shape of his choosing, to flow with it rather than being crushed or being swept away by it. It would be all too easy to let the sheer thrill of the experience overrule him, to give in to the temptation to summon ever more, to be subsumed by it, to become nothing but a part of this infinite ocean of raw energy.

 

He felt the pressure build in his mind, the strain on the memory of his physical body almost forgotten somewhere else as his will dove through  the tide amidst   the lightless depths. 

 

No. 

 

Not completely lightless. A shard of light remained, clutched in his hands, a light  that was somehow both sharp and very angry. A spark. A seed. 

 

Cyrandras concentrated on the pain.  He held on to shard and poured his will, his words into it…

 

“I am the Mountain. I rise from the ocean. Its tides crash at my feet but I exist beyond them. I am the mountain. I rise above the sea. On my back reside all worlds of creation and I am the pillar to every heaven. I am the mountain. On my soil toils the farmer and the sovereigns raise their halls. I give nourishment to the living and crush their life beneath me. I am the mountain. I embrace the cold of the winter and face the heat of the summer. I care not for the fury of the gale and the prickings of the hail. I am the mountain. I am adamant and unmoving. I am eternal. I am the Mountain….”

 

….

 

 

Xxxx Third Focus: Of the Air.

 

The Sorcerer tightened the grip on the gleaming shard in his shard as the fury of the Warp rose around him in  crescendo of elementary forces. He could feel the wave was nearing its breaking point. In his mind’s eye, the sea continued to crashed into the Mountain in ever increasing strength. As vast as the Ocean and the Mountain were p, they could not continue in their struggle without one of them breaking.  Something had to give, and soon or Cyrandras would be caught up in the resulting destruction and be swept away with the wreckage forever. 

 

The sting and the heat of the spark were almost unbearable now. He felt it cut into the hands of his etheric being, felt in burn. The all is Sorcerer gripped tightened once more.

 

Just a bit longer. Just a little bit…

 

 

“I am the Sky. I rise above the Sea and the Mountain. Where I begin, they must end. For I am the Sky. I care not for Sea or Mountain. I look into the depths of the Sea and all is revealed. I see the whole of the Mountain where I touch every world and yet exist beyond every heaven. For I am the Sky! “

 

Rakash  was screaming now, spitting his thoughts out into the gale

 

“I am the Sky! The Sea and  the Mountain may be eternal. But I am the Sky and I  unending and I am endless.  And by this right, I command you. The tides of the sea must follow the patterns laid out by my  designs  The seasons of the Mountains must follow the tune of my songs. For I am the Sky and nothing is beyond me and I am not bound by you. For I am the Sky. and I deny you! “

 

The heat in his hands was almost unbearable now, almost a miniature son of its own.

 

Just. A. Little. Longer.

 

“I am the Sky! My anger will churn the Sea and split the Mountain asunder! I am the Sky and I cast you back where you belong!”

 

Cyrandras opened his hands. Everything was lightning…

Edited October 6 by Xin Ceithan

[Mazer Rackham]

The Ritual:

 

GM: I have Xin's rolls, and await his new blockbuster!

 

Crux'As [ ]

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

The last phrases tumbled from his burned and blackened mouth. The smile was ghastly, broken teeth and ripped lips turned up in a parody of happiness.

 

"The Youngling's spawn will fade, their beauty gone. Muscles wither, bones crack. Begone, back to the swirling Chaos!"

Edited October 2 by Lord_Ikka

[Mazer Rackham]

The Ritual:

 

The warp convulses. Whatever lies within the Immortal Plane it stirs. The fabric of reality in this hollow tomb begins to weft ever closer to doom, barely held in check Things begin to pivot, wildly straddling the balance between the plied trades of hope and despair. Laughter and sorrow, Damnation or Vindication.

 

It is a soul-wafer's thickness as the end hangs in the balance, the adventure unspooling, even as it ravelled by the tides of inexorable fate. the flight deck expands beyond the bounds of mortal ken, becoming a desert in the cast of hideous evening, of the six suns and six moons of the six worlds of the Prince of Excess.

 

The very air howls, within lungs and without, protesting at this violation. Breath, consciousness does not exist - there is nought but an everlasting stream of thought, of will, of wont. It is as though all things exist, and yet do not; all is possible, and yet is not. Metal becomes pliable, water becomes hard ice, as firm as steel. Sweat becomes blood, and the gasps of the wounded are thunder in the ears of thirsting gods.

 

What is a prayer but a door? What is the human will to turn the handle, but an invitation? The blind know not what they open - and those who see will wish they had not. The crack in the door is an ajar witness to the infinite. The veil sundered to the endless, boundless. Life has no meaning and death has no end. A mind cast upon the currents of everlasting purgatory - if you are strong.

 

The weak - the weak...are devoured.

 

The price of victory, of an iron will, of a burning passion to control the end of all things, to cry out to the warp you are all worthy, to be feared, to deliver that which you most desire and pray for - shadowed, haunted, dragged and cracked by the talons of fiends ready to pull all of you, every soul, down into immortal servitude, misery and death.

 

Death at the hands of Prince Slaanesh.

 

Playthings, toys, bonded serfs to Delphynie, your lascivious, cruel, beautifully hideous gaoler in a hatred unknown by even the Blackest of Hearts.

 

Fate pauses for breath with gossamer hopes...

 

Xerxes [ ]

 

Edited October 2 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

The final step called for the circle to be broken when the forces were chained but this seemed anything but controlled. Too soon it would fail, too late it would kill them all or so the texts suggested but no hint as to when the time was right.

 

This was a mistake, he should have blown them all into space or remained with those whose lack of sanity could be more easily judged and qualified. To think he had hoped to find truth here and not this misguided lunacy as their would be challenger to the Imperial Truth fought against the product of his own failures as his life fell into these hands...

 

Were it not that he valued his own existence it would have been gratifying to have brought such a fool low. Perhaps that would still come to pass, perhaps even now if the sorcerer who had failed first failed once more in his task.

 

Xerxes broke the seal.

[Lysimachus]

 

Again, with GM permission:

 

Hagga:

 

As the ritual staggered to its climax, and the universe changed utterly around him, Hagga could feel the sense of something unquestionably greater than himself, a vast power, a presence like a flaming bonfire that made Delphynie seem like a guttering candle. A being of malicious delight, of sensuous cruelty, of blackest pleasure, that wished to swallow him whole. To swallow up everything in its boundless hunger. For a moment he felt crushing, unbearable pressure, the desire to throw himself willingly into the sway of it, to give up his soul with the same wild abandon that it radiated.

 

But he could not.

 

Delphynie, and the greater power that stood behind her, were the polar opposite of everything that Rykaz was at his very core. Born of the savage yet noble clans of Stygia. A proud warrior of the Astartes. A stoic, stubborn son of Dorn. An Executioner. A killer, but an honourable one. If he was about to die, he'd die with that bloody honour intact.

 

And, if he had his way, with his blade buried in the enemy's guts.

 

With a bellowing roar of defiance, he took one last step forward across shimmering sand and thrust his claymore upwards towards a spot just under Delphynie's single breast.

 

Time seemed to slow, and warp, and twist. As hard as he pushed, with all his considerable weight behind the attack, the sword hardly seemed to move, as though he were driving it into solid stone or thick syrup. But at the same time something dragged his arm onwards, a baffling, infuriating, rage-building contradiction.

 

The blade was impossibly bright, and painfully hot, far beyond what the power core within it should have produced. He could barely look at it, even through the autosenses of his helm, and so he focused his eyes on his target - the sternum of the daemon-witch - and, with another roar of hatred, pushed with every fibre of his physical strength and his mental resolve.

 

 

 

Edited October 2 by Lysimachus

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

He smiled, deep and crimson, the blood trickling down his chin. Whether or not the ritual worked was irrelevant now. He had touched the Warp with his words, felt the power in it. This was what he was destined for, what he longed for. Power and might brought on by his words and thoughts.

 

Crux'as the Smiler laughed as the ritual completed and Xerxes broke the seal. 

 

Cor'gail watch me and the Changer of Ways judge me! 

[Mazer Rackham]

++ THE FLIGHT DECK OF THE AVENGER ++

 

'The consequences of our actions are writ large in the choices made by fate. It is in the First Mandate of The Great Expansion, that we cast ourselves upon the mysterious tides of space, and plot with mathematical clarity the end point of our goal amongst the cosmos.'

 

- Darian Pollux Adrentus, 3rd Cosmonavigator Computationist 909.M24

 

ALL PLAYERS:

 

Everything stops.

 

Utter silence.

 

The tableau is set in perfection, with the ship a ghost of memory and the moons, stars and cosmos bearing witness. Nebulae flicker and thread in thick cloud ribbons, punctured and punctuated by different colour stars behind and beyond.

 

The firmament is beautiful, peaceful, and in a bizarre way, bleak. The lustre of all things is wrong, a little too bright here, a bit smudged and greasy there – an imperfect portrait of the immediate space around this battleship. As much as the splendour could move a Remembrancer to tears, it looks suspiciously like clouds of bloody water, blooming out in a crimson wedding train, puckered with bullet-holes in the flesh of floating corpses.

 

Other living things are here. The pulse of colour reveals an abominable evil intellect watching with impossible eyes, too big to be comprehended. The Emissary of Eternal Glory, the Magnificent Consort begins to laugh - unheard in this complete stillness, but something felt. Sensation without boundary is everything for this Dark Prince, after all.

 

The moment is perfect – perhaps the most perfect thing any of you will ever know – or endure – ever again. It is painful, delightful, joyous, frightening, and wonderful in all aspects of that word. It is a complete thing which you know will leave a hole in your psyche when it removed, pulled from the meat of a lance wound.

Then, the noise begins, and it is most unlovely.

 

It is a small clarion, a tiny dribble of static that creeps across the floor, the ground which isn’t there, as infinity plunges beneath your feet. It laps around your ankles, shivers up your limbs until it crawls, slithering into your brain for understanding. There it whispers in a tumultuous roar of something immense overturning.

 

An ice floe the size of a accretion disk breaches the surface, a sandstorm that makes Tallarn resemble grit in a god’s eye, the tonnage of an entire planet’s worth of deliriously colourful boulders piling down – this pathetic flesh imagery is completely insufficient to describe the tectonic activity of a galaxy’s shadow. Even the sorcerers, with their vague understanding of the Primordial Truth cannot comprehend the mass these...amateurs...these meddlers have unleashed.

 

Once it begins, every soul understands it doesn’t want to stop – it has freedom and the rites of enjoyment. Vertigo becomes inconsequential, something in extremes, as a monstrous rift pours a libation of tsunami force into the starscape around you, circling, and circling, and circling, clockwise and anti-clockwise both.

 

It pulls, with dreadful, inexorable force, hurling you all to the invisible deck you now discover is still real beneath your bodies. Inch by inch you are strained against the hard floor, the molecules of being trying to force their way through. You are crushed by force above, gripped by force below. A terrifying hammer, perpetually smiting a deity’s anvil.

 

The sacrificial victims, all marked with the symbol of the Prince of Excess are similarly pinned. Their screams are almost intolerable to the point of gleeful music, penetrating any defence, growing louder and more raucous by the second. Even as you watch, their skin ages to paper-white thinness and the light is torn from their eyes as, with a snap-whisp, something vital goes out of them, leaving only a lifeless, eyeless husk to stare at you with empty, arid sockets and puckered, mummified mouths.

 

GM: All Characters on the Flight Deck with Slaanesh Alignment, must burn an Infamy Point, or Die.

 

GM: All Characters within the Ritual Circle take 1D5 Permanent Toughness Damage (D5 = 2)

 

Blood, congealed or otherwise, gutters in the carved channels, drains through solid deck plates, shivering between the atoms of plasteel. The tools used in the ritual are crushed completely flat. Rules are but suggestion, optional in this maelstrom; and the warp indulges its power, its contempt when it obliterates the Staff of Khardon, shattering it into fine, metallic powder.

 

At the centre of this terrible vortex, is the blasphemous, unobtainable perfection of the Mistress Exemplar of Perverse Desire, Delphynie’An’Draki’Ina.

You know that at this moment, she has never been more beautiful; her smooth, muscular limbs and head tossing, the ethereal light illuminating her long tresses with warp-glamour brilliance.

 

She dances in agony.

 

She dances in rapture.

 

Her howl of defeat thumps against the cavernous environs, echoing madly in space and time as she too, is hauled through the deck by inches – sinking, drowning in the power unfurled against her. That which was her lifeline, becomes a millstone around her neck, dragging her down, down, down with impossible swiftness and yet it appears to take an eternity.

 

A great scholar in such matters would talk of the witchery of time-dilation, aetheric vectoring, improbability quantum string theory.

All nonsense in this ultimate reality – the warp does as at it wills.

 

Delphynie does not go quietly into her sweet swansong. Her talons rake pink-hued sparks across the deck, clawing furrows through whatever is under them, dredging the souls within her immediate grasp, flinging great gouts of molten plasteel into orange orbs that only serve to improve the spectacle – even where it burns smouldering spots into the deck, armour, the faces of the menials yet unbound to her lash.

 

GM: All Players in Combat range (2m) of Delphynie take a single, automatic (1D10+11, Rending, Warp Weapon) Hit (D10=1, Total Damage 12, no armour or Reactions allowed, the latter since you’re pinned, immobile).

 

With this last, spiteful act, the Daemon Princess is subsumed below the deck panels with a soul-haunting scream of frustration, panic and pleasure. It is ringed about with hollow, soul-shuddering laughter, and then she is gone.

 

The Avenger ripples in all directions, a vibration fit to blow bolts and pop rivets, that scythe around the flight deck like bullets.

 

GM: All Players must roll 1D100. On 50+, you are struck by a single hit on the location rolled on the dice. (1D10, Pen 0, Impact = 5).

 

GM: Delphynie now burns an Infamy Point.

 

Reality slowly returns, the white glowglobes reignite to spill a wan, chilly smear over the freshly wrought charnel-scape, and grey-green hull, revealing the full, bitter glory of aftermath, and all the horror that goes with it. Such is the price of dabbling with the devil – the cost is high and never paid in full.

 

GM: All Players take Two Levels of Fatigue. If this equals your TB, you are now Unconscious.

 

After long moments, the Blood Reaver stands. Testing his leg, he shakes off gore and dizziness. He regards his weapons, and with a roll of his shoulders, stows them. He tramples over the detritus that used to be Ukalegon, making his way to Valex.

 

‘My Lord.’ Valex nods, but no more.

 

‘I mark your men were lacklustre in their performance.’

 

‘They did what they could, lord,’ Valex replies, utterly calm.

 

To his credit, Huron hasn’t raised his voice either. Indeed, the brute monster who once commanded an entire Imperial Sector is dreadfully sanguine. ‘I wonder, Commander,’ Blackheart inflicts a mild sneer on the rank, ‘if that was deliberate. Perhaps your hope was that I was assassinated, and the Corsairs would be weak enough to accept a replacement.’

 

‘Never, lord, my oath-’

 

‘Is worth piss and vinegar! Dare you dispute it? With the evidence hereabout?’ Huron bawls, before his coldness returns in brisk frost. ‘I lost several good men today, men who knew what loyalty costs.’ He points at the smouldering wrecks of the Terminators, adding the Lamenter as a grudging afterthought. ‘Commander Valex. You are relieved.’

 

‘Sir, resources are there to be expended,’ Valex replies, no stammer or censure in his voice.

 

Huron bulks up, summoning his ample size, pain etching every edge of the man as he brings himself erect. It is obvious how swollen with power and hatred the Space Marine as was, now is. He leans in, and his words, often accented by a guttural slur of terrible wounds, now sounds akin to knotted ropes dredged through an abattoir’s sump.

 

‘I am not that fool Abaddon,’ Huron’s contempt is clotted thick with rising fury, ‘I will not squander what I have husbanded, has flocked to my banner, or I have taken by right. I will not throw men into fires without the possibility of victory or improvement.’

 

Valex is silent in this wash of anger. Probably wisely.

 

‘You have one hour to decamp my crusade, Serpent. After that, my Reavers will kill you, and take your bounty as they see fit. Scurry back under your rock. I have no more use for you.’ The mighty Blackheart turns to survey the desolate ruin of the Flight Deck. ‘This cell will be put under a new commander. A hunter of skill, a warrior with my respect, and a man who understand oaths. From now on,’ Huron raises his voice, ‘this cell shall answer to Iorek of the Redfang. Underestimate him at your peril.’

 

With that, the Blood Reaver smashes his way through the broken airlock, his last bodyguard in tow, limping heavily, shaking off a desperate lethargy. It is clear that his failures will not go without punishment. That Huron has not executed anyone perhaps speaks volumes to his own disappointments.

 

If true, this merely proves the Blackheart never forgets failings.

 

++ END OF PART ONE ++

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Wrap-up stuff

Toughness reduction - 44 to 42

d100 roll for damage - 73. 5 damage to body reduced to 0 damage if Armor/TB is used, otherwise 6/11 wounds left

Fatigue level 2/4

Daemon True Name learned and written in grimoire?

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga takes (12 - TB8) 4 Wounds, now on 12/20.

Shrapnel roll: 87, Hit but insufficient Dam to Pen Armour, no Wounds.

2 levels of Fatigue.

 

With a grunt of pain, Hagga levered himself back to his feet and checked himself over. By rote he deactivated the power core of his sword,  extinguishing the blade so he could check its length for any damage.

 

His eyes focused on the tip of the point. At the very end, had it touched the enemy? In his mind he could see it pierce the skin by a hair's breadth, a single drop of daemon blood swelling up around the tiny wound. Was that simply his imagination? A product of desperate battle madness and the desire to harm the enemy? He didn't know. Delphynie had caught him then, a wild blow that sent him flying to the deck before she was dragged down into her master's deadly embrace.

 

With grim satisfaction, he reversed the long blade and dropped it into its heat-resistant sheath. It didn't really matter. She was done, and he'd already claimed his share in her defeat.

 

Hagga looked around to see Huron step over Ukalegon to speak with Valex, without even looking to see if the Lamenter still breathed! Angrily biting his tongue, the Executioner limped over and knelt beside the fallen Angel, doing his limited best to see if any spark of life remained within the burned and broken shape.

 

Was that a movement? The faintest twitch?

 

He stood immediately, even as the Blackheart finished with Valex. The Tyrant's estimation of the Alpha Legionnaires efforts - and their motives - in the fight matched his own. Not a total fool, then. Good. A new commander, as well. From what he had heard, Redfang was a butcher, but also a man Hagga could respect. All in all, it was an agreeable end.

 

With one exception. Hagga couldn't leave it there. He had to speak.

 

“Lord Huron!” he yelled, even as the Blackheart was passing through the airlock. “This Astartes still breathes! His sacrifice saved us all. If you value the lives and service of your men as much as you claim, he must be made whole! Honour demands that he be repaid for his courage!”

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

The Flight Deck:

 

To Hagga's challenge, Huron Blackheart spares a cold glance over his shoulder, then a brief nod. At his vanishing shape, a few minutes later, a stream of his followers come in to evacuate those who are still alive - and those who may be saved.

 

GM: @Lord_Ikka No True Name yet, old bean. Sorry. Going to Catch 'Em All? 

 

GM: Also, for future reference, armour and TB always apply unless I stipulate they do not, or the rules for the damage prevent it: falling, Warp Weapon etc...

 

Edited October 4 by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

For all that had come before the tech adept was not prepared for the last. He had once had the honour of travel by use of an ancient teleportarium and until now the experience had carried a false sense of safety in its familiarity - madness beyond the veil but still beyond, screened and softened and separate.

 

The blade that had cut the seal was blackened as efforts to withdraw further away had been thwarted by what occurred or perhaps he had simply frozen. Either way the heaving of the deck beneath his feet was a reassurance that perhaps it was all mind games and illusion, at this distance at least.

 

 

There was opportunity to be had in the aftermath of such failure and fire but who was to say what taint remained here. Finally looking up now that the madness had passed his gaze settled upon the astartes that had thrown themselves without regard upon the daemon. If they still lived they would require cybernetic augmentation, follow the wounded and find what value this place hid.