[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'As:

 

The raider seems somewhat suprised by your largesse, but you assauge him such, that he exchanges the equipment. When trying it on, it fits well, at least, and appears to have a still-bladder fitted.

 

'My thanks,' the reaver stats, gruffly. The suit cinches around him with a pinch at the knees and elbows, but he looks happy enough.

 

GM: [Hidden Condition Roll].

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

Xerxes turned from his work as the renegade approached him. A small start perhaps but the quality of the mortals equipment, primitive though it was, suggested that he might easily be parted from more valuable bounty in return for mundane services.

 

Passing his own voidsuit to Ephialtes he examined this new offering.

 

Trade armourer - 13, pass. Going to have to spend some points on INT increases before Xerxes reputation is tarnished though I think :p

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga grinned at the Lamenter's quip, but there was no opportunity to answer. The female aide continued to rattle off information, and he stored it mentally for future reference. The advantages of the Astartes’ enhanced memory.

 

So, they were on their own? A handful of Marines, followed by a similar number of mortals. Rykaz looked around, trying to decide if he was willing to place himself under the command of any of the others here. The mortals? No. The witch? No. Ukalegon? Possibly. But in truth, Hagga suspected that he himself was best suited for command of this particular mission.

 

A chance for some honour and glory, finally?

 

“I will lead us in,” he growled firmly, brooking no argument. “Ukalegon will act as my second. Astartes first into the breach.”

 

He paused, considering the mortals. The axe-wielder hadn't been bad in the last fight. The sniper looked reasonably proficient. Hagga wasn't honestly sure what to do with the small, ever-smiling man, though the Executioner did notice as he cheated one of the common troopers out of an obviously superior void-suit... so perhaps he might yet prove useful?

 

“Then the Adepts. The sharpshooter can give us covering fire. For now, the… talker… can watch our rear.”

 

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"Of course. Glad to provide any assistance necessary."

 

The Smiler quirked an eyebrow at the massive Astartes warriors, and the mortal briefer. 

 

"I have a question, and a possible suggestion. Are we attempting to destroy the asteroid base, or simply capture it to use for our own purposes? If the latter, then sparing some of the more technically-able pirates would make staffing the base less of an imposition on our, or Lord Huron's, resources."

[Mazer Rackham]

The Loading Bay:

 

A grunt of approval greets Hagga's claim of leadership.

 

+'Lord' Huron.+ Sevaris scorns again, at The Smiler's question, but he directs his ire toward none within the landing bay. +I give not a flagon of Phoenician piss for his convenience. Redfang plans to take the rock, is that not enough? Do as you will with those weaklings in their burrow.+

 

He turns his bluff attention to Cyrandras. +I heard of the conclave. How could you even stand the presence of that festering pail of Asurrû?+

 

Xerxes:

 

GM: You determine there is a tear in one of the armpits. It is hidden behind a couple of seams, but is there. It will need proper repairing. (Either a +0 Test, or expend 1 Supplies, obviously Test DoF makes it worse...).

 

Edited January 10 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Kraggan grabbed a large void-suit from the pile on offer and elbowed others away as he examined his prize. Using his skills he repatched and repaired it as he found it in need of improvements and the necessity to cover his large frame.

 

 

 

 

INT49 + Armour Monger +0 (Challenging) = 49. Result: 13 Pass 3DoS

 

 

 

 

Hagga the Executioner proclaimed himself Leader for the mission. Kraggan had no issue with him, except.

 

 

 

“I will lead us in,” growled Hagga firmly, brooking no argument. “Ukalegon will act as my second. Astartes first into the breach.”

 

 

"Do you seek to go against Iorek Redfang's word Hagga?"

 

 

"He said that I would be first into the breach. So make room!"

 

"My axe hungers."

 

 

 

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

"This void suit is inadequate, but trivially repaired", Xerxes demonstrated the breach, "seek my aid when we return, with adequate materials I can forge a void seal within your armour such that you are no longer beholden to these scraps."

 

Lightning cracked across his fingers and the acrid smell of plastic filled the air as he made initial repairs. Cutting an exterior pocket from the suit he left Ephialtes the task of weaving the temporary outer seal on, not to protect against the atmosphere but rather to ensure the repair was not stretched apart in combat.

Perhaps the assault vessel would carry sealant that he might secure and he created a mental record to seize such from any defenders they passed at the airlock.

 

Spend 1 supply for a fully functional comm-bead, as they seem to be in short supply.

Tech use to repair the suit = 40 vs target 75 = pass, extra DoS from implants

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

Watching the Adept work it became apparent that the vac-gear he had retrieved was in some way defective, despite appearing intact.

 

"This void suit is inadequate, but trivially repaired"

 

Waiting patiently while the Adept worked, Tarh took the opportunity to observe the ‘companion’. He had still not worked out if this was a curse or a gift from the gods. An extra pair of hands was no doubt useful in his line of work, aptly demonstrated even now, but what was the burden.

 

“My thanks for the kindness of your assistance.”

 

As he donned patched the void-suit he heard one of the Chosen proclaim himself the leader of this little band that they had been formed into. It came as no surprise, none of them bar another Chosen would be able to stand in a contest of strength, and while might did not always make right, for a mission such as this it would serve them all well.

 

He raised his axe as a salute, providing covering fire while the Chosen advanced suited Tarh, though if this was to be his expected role he might want to acquire a weapon better suited to suppression.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

Hagga glowered down at the crazed, axe-wielding smith.

 

“The Redfang said that you would go through the first breach beside him”.

 

He paused, looking slightly theatrically around the hangar with arms held wide.

 

“Iorek isn’t here. Probably leading one of the other assaults? If you want him to keep his word, maybe you'd better go find him? But don't expect me to keep his promises for him. If you want to stay here, I'll not have any of the undisciplined foolishness you showed against the daemon-witch, or I'll take your damn head myself. You understand me?”

 

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

"I hear you Heart-eater, Ser, Yesser!"

 

Kraggan stomped away and checked out his crash harness on the Krokodil.

 

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The ex-Lamenter stared at the departing tech-priest in mild bewilderment and snorted in amusement in spite of himself.

 

+The priest has spine, sergeant,+ he commented softly to Hagga with a look of mock reverence accompanying the epithet as he strapped himself into an adjacent crash harness. +He's completely mad, but he has spine – I'll give him that.+

 

Ukalegon absentmindedly patted the inferno pistol nestled in its worn leather holster on his hip as he put his mind toward a breaching operation with minimal information on their target. If it was an old mining colony repurposed as a pirate hideout, there was no telling what manner of chaotic web of overlapping tunnels they would have to navigate and clear to secure their objectives. Though if they needed to force their way in or through, they were likely adequately equipped to do so, as he suspected the assault ram’s melta-cutter array would prove more than sufficient, not to mention his own formidable sidearm.

 

Or so he hoped. Perhaps they were all mad.

 

+After all,+ he continued conspiratorially, +if he desires the van, then either he will prove his worth, or these pirates may take a loose cannon off of our – your – hands…+

Edited January 10 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Launch Bay:

 

+Flight deck, launch interceptor wing, repeat green for tactical craft launch.+

 

While you have been discussing the situation, gleaning information or jockeying in the hierarchy, the deck has been busy. As Ukalegon finishes his conspiratorial charm offensive, a flight of three Fury interceptors is hurled from the ship by mag-catapult, rapidly followed by another trio.

 

+Now hear this,+ ship vox blares again +Assault craft to launch positions, assault craft to launch positions, all personnel, twenty seconds.+

 

Sevaris closes on Cyrandras, grips his left pauldron. +Die well, brother. I doubt we will meet again soon.+ He marches away, Olivia in tow.

 

The other Krokodila are being made ready, mutated troopers and Corsairs whetting into a battle edge, all wasted movement gone, discipline fair, chatter minimal. After a few seconds they are in position for launch, and the first is flung out into the creepy green light. A giant cradle shuffles to clasp your own assault vessel for position onto the pad.

 

Time to go.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga grunted and nodded.

 

“Aye, he's got courage enough to spare. Courage alone will get us all killed, though. It nearly already did.”

 

The Lamenter's logic was certainly sound enough. The van was undoubtedly the most dangerous place to be. If someone else wished to take it, surely the pragmatic decision would be to give it to them? But logic also said that the Astartes existed for these kinds of actions; stronger, faster, tougher, better armoured.

 

The morality of it troubled Hagga too. Like the ancient legend of Davi putting Uras in the front line of the battle against the Giants of Amun. Dishonourable. Unacceptable. But if a fighter chose to be there, in the thick of it, who was Hagga to turn him away? He sighed again, just before the great clamp began to descend to lift the Krokodil.

 

“Adept Kraggan? Your previous courage gives you the right to join the Astartes in the vanguard. But remember, don't overextend yourself, because I won't risk our entire team just to pull your sorry backside out.”

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

But the priest has to keep up with me if he desires first blood...

 

Ukalegon felt a momentary pang of remorse, realizing too late that he had perhaps offended the Executioner's sense of honour with his suggestion given the grudging response. Surely there was something he could do to assuage his… friend’s... honour?

 

Thinking quickly, he cleared his throat and loudly announced to all present aboard the assault vessel, space marines and mortal irregulars alike, in a slightly distorted voice, +It is customary amongst the war-hosts of the astartes for a squad commander to give an oath of moment prior to joining battle. He will swear to execute his liege lord’s commands, enumerating their objectives a final time, often offering his life and those under his command as a noble sacrifice to their cause and instilling his sense of purpose in the troops. Sometimes he will swear to perform great feats of valour, or to encourage the men to reap a mighty toll amongst the enemy, or to exhort those under his command to new heights of bravery.+

 

He looked over at the Executioner and continued, +Death and glory are the weights by which any man’s worth is measured in this life! Will you honour us with your words, Hagga Rykaz, Champion of the Red Corsairs?+

Edited January 11 by Necronaut

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

His smile deepened as he watched the slight bickering. Excitement, anger, bloodlust. All can be used....

 

The Lamentor made a good point. A ritual to cement the cell before a battle would help everyone's morale. But...

 

"We must not forget the Pantheon either. Despite those among us who distrust those that rule the Warp, having them witness our actions can turn fate favorably in our direction." 

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

Cyrandras nodded more to himself than anyone else.

 

A part of his mind still lingered on the encounter with Sevaris and the past but he could already feel the currents  of the Great Ocean flowing around this  moment, rushing past and over it,  drowning the deeds of yesterdays in it’s shifting currents. 

 

Holding on would only see one broken on the rocks beneath or  crushed in its depths. 

 

The tide surged and the Sorcerer could almost physically feel the pull of the Empyrean on him. 

 

Something lay ahead, something … or someone.. a strait in the Empyrean, something drawing in the fickle strands of Fate, channeling the tides, picking up momentum

 

The others would  feel it too - No,  they felt it already, Cyrandras noted. There, the pugnacious Machine Speaker urged them onward, buoyed up and eager to follow the straying currents, slipping  along like predator drawn in by its instincts…drawn along it’s path, drawn towards the Path of Glory 

 

For a moment, Cyrandras envied the Adept for the single minded purity of purpose such an existence might entail. 

 

Cyrandras sighed.

 

There was however, no such easy rest for the  wicked under the banner of Lugft Huron

 

Do not aspire to Glory - make sure to get results! 

 

as the Blackheart was fond of reminding his followers - usually over the cooling body of some vainglorious fool. 

 

Someone would have to make sure that this lot didn’t drown in the Sea of Souls or crush their heads on the rocks below before Cyrandras Rakash could get them to deliver some results to the Throne of Thorns.

 

There more things change.. he thought with a smile.

 

 

“You are right” He bowed toward the Apostate. “ It would be foolish to ignore the Way of the Heavens and wasteful not to use every advantage at our disposal. We should declare our intents with pride and unite under the common purpose of this endeavour in the tradition of the. conquering Legions of Yore. 

And while we no longer entertain a Librarius per se, I would be honoured to bear witness to our oaths, so they shall be remembered and the tales of our deeds be told!”

 

Edited January 13 by Xin Ceithan

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Kraggan watches the Witch Marine wearily out of the corner of his vision with distrust. 

He patted his Axe and entreated it's power, the Skull Lord and a subtle thought about the Hydra. 

 

 

 

Edited January 11 by Machine God
Slaaneh typo

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Beneath his helm, Hagga frowned. Ukalegon had the right of it… within the brotherhood of a beloved Chapter, at least. Here, though, among the gutter fighters of Huron's reavers? And witnessed by a false-tongued witch, rather than an honoured Death-Speaker? Ha! Would it not be a mockery of something sacred?

 

Yet… might it actually add some kind of honour to this inglorious venture? Maybe it would at least stiffen the backs of the weaker mortals? With slow, careful movements he stowed his weapons and pulled off his armoured gauntlet.

 

“Someone give me a knife.”

 

He'd lost his own, forged in the smithies of the Darkenvault, years before. Broken during that fight with the Sharks. Its loss had been a source of …not regret… melancholy, perhaps? …but from a practical viewpoint he hadn't needed it all. Not until this very moment.

 

Someone handed him a different blade. Long, slightly curved, serrated along the back edge. He held it against his open hand and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the clamp attaching itself to the assault boat.

 

“Among the clans of Stygia, we call it a Blood Oath. Blood carries the life of Man. It is sacred. Thus it gives the Oath power, and truth. It binds.”

 

He sliced downwards, cutting into the palm. Though it began to seal up again almost immediately thanks to his Larramans cells, for a few moments thick red liquid dripped from his clenched fist to spatter onto the deck of the Krokodil. His voice, when he next spoke, was not a shout, but it was loud enough to be heard by all, and filled with intensity.

 

“I swear this Oath; that we shall battle without fear, we shall destroy our enemies without restraint, and we shall conquer this place in the name of the Lord Huron Blackheart! Death and glory you spoke of, brother? Aye, true enough, on both counts. For we shall bring death - in fire and fury, unstoppable and unrelenting - to these pirate scum, and we shall heap glory, fame and honour upon ourselves! Death and glory!”

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The stench of freshly spilled sanguis angelorum filled the ex-Lamenter’s nostrils, and he found it to be borderline overpowering in the confined space.

 

The blood…bound by the blood…

 

+By blood we are bound! Death and Glory!+

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

"Yes! By blood we are bound. I am with you Heart-eater. Death and Glory! answered Kraggan with a roar.

 

 

"He cares not from where the blood flows, only that it flows!"

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Krokodil Tears (Krokodil #01104, 'The Black Sluggard'):

 

Shipwide vox crackles and squeals for the last time. +Assault craft launch, ten seconds.+

 

The assembled company in void suits, vacc-armour, space-skin or Astartes warplate shudders in unison when the docking clamp snags the vessel in a mechanical, magnetic, mitt. The sound reverberates through the hull with a frequency enough to set your teeth on edge, and even the non-tech savvy passengers can tell where the crude welds and bonding studs hold together pieces of a different ship. The scene of activity through the pitching assault ramp gives a holopic vignette beyond your control - or at least what you can see of it for burly assaulters checking their gear.

 

+Assault craft zero-four, standy...+

 

The Krokodil is not a pretty ship. Ungainly, the armour, weapons and engine units adorning each give the impression of good forward momentum, but after that, nothing approaching agility. The rattling of the assault craft being moved gives way to a gut-wrenching drop as the clamps slip you down onto the mag-ram catapult cradle. It is clear that the beast has insufficient power to actually bear itself aloft.

 

+Five, four, three...+

 

As the voice speaks, the assault ramp closes, the green sunlight fighting with Imperial glowglobes and glowstrips illuminating the massive maw of the Wolf of Fenris. The sliver of colour, of something beyond this metal coffin disappears rapidly with hydraulic hiss. Red bulkhead lamps flicker into life to provide some semblance of crew comfort and function, but all it does is highlight how pitiful few you are, and how terrible fragile the flying-beast looks in a hodge-podge patchwork of welded deck plates and close-stamped rivets.

 

+Two, one...lock-+

 

Air pressure valves bleed out the atmosphere, so that in the event of a void-deployment, decompression doesn't blow anyone out into deep space like a ragdoll. The Lamenter's bare head takes on an odd sheen as his body responds, thickening a mucranoid cover to protect him, albeit temprorary. The noise of the catapult drawning back in successive ratchet beneath your feet fades, but the tell-tale juddering does not.

 

Runk. Runk. Runk. Runk. Runk.

 

It gets colder, wisps of heat leeching off the astartes powerplants and the vacc-suits with heating coils, nowhere near nough vapour to form an atmosphere. It also shows one of the mortals struggling with his suit as it fails spectacularly in a single blast rupture. His screams as he slowly dies, his lungs and eyeballs bursting, are absent, and thankfully contained in the sack masquerading as his suit. His brief trashes bang and thump through the hull, before going still.

 

Runk. Runk. Runk. Runk. Runk. CLANG.

 

Silence. Those without commbeads can hear nothing but the inside of thier own suits - the gentle push-pull of self-contained breathing units cycling the air. Those on the right channel can hear pre-flight checks, the chatter of those readying for a dangerous excursion. There is a moment of time truly stopping.

 

Utter stillness.

 

Force suddenly rams against your chest, slamming you hard into even the heavily padded crash couches and clutch-cradles holding down the Space Marines. It goes on for five, six, seven seconds, then slows to velocity which lets mortal lungs breath properly again. Proper wightlessness takes over, lifting the dead man's arms and corpse up to limply flop in the harness. Oathpapers, cowls, tabars and cloaks all lift, shifitng about in invisible tidal currents as the ship manouevres, the fabric sharply snagging to one side or other matches your stomachs. The sensations are not constant, causing vertiginous nausea.

 

Thunk. Thunk. THUNK.

 

The strikes are along the hull. Asteroids, or something more?

 

The chatter from the pilots, gunners and loading crew is distorted with heavy static. Panicked voices. The rest of the assault complement are unaware of this. Only the drone of the engines rising in pitch is any warning. A pitch down, cancelled by a bank starboard and a long port-wig roll suggest evasion of something a little quicker than spinning rocks. A sudden buffet slams the craft in the nose, like a palm-heel strike, driving it backwards against it's own momentum with a heart-stopping judder, but the craft flies on for perlious seconds, the nose beggining to yaw into a wider and wider orbit.

 

In your commbeads, there is only silence.

 

The lights flicker, fight to remain ignited, but suddenly extinguish.

 

The cabin is plunged into stygian darkness.

 

Edited January 13 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Rykaz frowned as the Krokodil juddered and the lights went out. Heavy weapons fire, by his estimation. Flak weapon. Autocannon, possibly? It should, had they been equipped with a half decent transport, have felt like a pattering, gentle rain against the hull. Instead, in a bucket such as this, it might well be the death of them all.

 

He felt no fear at this possibility, simply a sense of building frustration and bitter rage. Throne, what a damn, dishonourable waste of warriors their deaths would be! Forgotten and unlamented - ha! - their tales would end without glory.

 

Hagga took a deep breath, centering himself, forcing his hearts to calm. Their fates were, at present, utterly beyond their control. He would wait, with Dorn-like stoicism. When… if… the time came that he could fight for his life and his legacy, he would do so, but until then, he would be stone.

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

As the krokodil lurched and groaned around him, Ukalegon wondered not for the first time at the series of events that had led him to this place. A deafening thud punctuated his thoughts and the assault craft heaved sickeningly around the souls it carried in its belly. A rivet popped loose next to the assault marine’s head and he felt a rime of void frost start to crystalize upon his exposed skin while the temperature inside the vessel continued to plummet.

 

Damn Lord Huron’s armourers!

 

If the ship was going to fall apart around him, it was going to be a long, cold trek to the asteroid base. 

 

His hearts pumped furious venom and he thumbed the catch on his pistol’s holster, preparing to cut his way out of the rickety ship should the need arise, and he squeezed his eyes shut as battle mantras of the Filii Doloris came to him unbidden, and he tried desperately to cling to the ancient words as the ship was rocked by another series of impacts. He was beyond the Emperor's Light, and there was no one, no thing save for himself and his inner well of strength to call upon for protection and conveyance to their destination. 

 

He couldn't, wouldn't call upon them. His mind recoiled at the thought of acknowledging the eldritch, elder things from beyond, of willingly enslaving himself to their yoke like the Arch-Traitor and his diseased get.

 

There were no gods; they were a lie!

 

The image of Huron Blackheart, the Blood Reaver, the Ruined Lord, flashed before him. 

 

Corruption. Entropy. Revenge. Blood.

 

Blood. 

 

Blood.

 

A tide of blood.

 

Darkness enveloped him in conjunction with a gut-wrenching impact, the noise of his breathing and the pounding of blood in his veins his only companions as more ordinance and micro-meteors drummed a thunderous and unnerving staccato upon the shell of the krokodil.

Edited January 13 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

Why had the barrage stopped, were the gunners simply fools or had the vessel struck one of the asteroids? The impact did not seem severe enough for the latter.

 

Xerxes calculated the time until expected impact knowing that to be detached from the harness upon impact would be inadvisable at best, yet was the only way to determine if any target lay within the vessels path. Let another try first.

 

A piercing light extended from one of his mechadendrites as it swept across the hatch to the pilots room, a pointed finger and pointed look towards the closest seat. "Control of the vessel must be restored"... wasted breath if no other thought to bring comms.

[Xin Ceithan]

“Throne in flames… “

 

In the privacy of his sealed warplate, Cyrandras cursed under his breath. 

 

“I hate flying.”

 

No. 

 

That might be a bit strong. More like really, really despised it. 
 

What Cyrandras really despised most of all though, positively hated about it, was the lack of control. 

 

The Astartes way of war was all about gaining and holding the initiative, enforcing one’s will on the enemy, upholding the momentum.

There was something to be said in favor of the sheer inevitability and brutality of insertion via Assault Ram, something gratifying, even thrilling about deployment by  drop pod, a tribute and a challenge to the capabilities of the Adeptus Astartes -but this?

 

It was so slow. So…  vunerable. Disorganized. Despicable . Disgraceful..

 

A plebeian’s way of warfare. 

 

Bad enough. And now this.

 

Disgusting!

 

As every so often, the Sorcerer had  mentally played through the virtues  of whom and when his current companions might make a  suitable offering or at least a passable distraction to any passingly interested deity  should the need arise to pass the time prior to their launch from the Wolf of Fenris - Rakash liked to keep his options open - but for now, he decided to put  his faith in the works of another, less capricious if still no less fickle, figure of divinity. 

 

Rakash blinked and ran his sight down the pixaleted stream of runes which silently sang  the status litanies of his war plate on his optical feed. Apparently at least the stubborn clockmaker of the physical universe was still on his side.

He focussed his mind on the steady click-hiss of his osmotic gill and selected another rune, subvocalised another rote of praise.

 

“Preysight”

 

A throbbing increase in the thrumming of the power feed and an electronic snap- hiss accompanied the fizzling cycling of his Auto-Senses.

 

The Sorcerer leaned back, calmed his breathing and looked around, taking in the scene presented in the greenish false light of his auto-senses. A sense of control, at least.

 

“I still really, really don’t like this”, he thought to himself