[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

[Placeholder

- for the part where the Corsair makes his down to the archives and is delighted to find an actual, living Executioner  - Good thing there’s a least the Corsair rune on Hagga  ] 

…

Slowly, the Warlock rose to his full height and stepped into the access corridor. He kept his blade at the ready on his left and extended his open  right hand in what he hoped would seem like a calming gesture. He blink-activated the speaker-grille on his MK V helmet.

”Well met, Headsman.
 I had not expected to find anyone else here, least of all another veteran of the War for our Independence. But I hear you of the Executioners have a special place in your hearts for Khymara.”

 

Dice Roll: 

Willpower :Test + 20

Wp 48 +20: 68

D100 : 36 PASS,  3 DoS 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

 

 

As they do so a bellow from the rear as the severed head you recently cut bounces off the wall.

 

+Nine feet tall, you irreverent, municipal conglomerate of scrap iron!+

 

 

"Twenty-Fours!" he shouted back and was answered by his crew "Yeah right!"

 

 

Across the block, he saw more Space Marines herding frightened and morose mortals into groups by what seems to be fitness or fighting spirit.

 

The Twenty-Fours followed him as he strode purposefully over to the Space Marines.

 

 

"Twenty-Fours for Huron!" roared Kraggan. 

 

"Big wolfboy over there" Kraggan swept his power axe back to point to their recruiter "told us to come and help!"

 

 

 

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Sudden noises exploded from within the command centre, and for a fraction of a second Hagga was inclined to turn his eyes away from the corridor to check. That something about the bursts felt utterly wrong, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, made it all the more tempting to look.

 

Wp37 +20 = 57, Roll: 31, 3DoS

 

Whatever it was, Ukalegon would have to handle it. The Lamenter seemed capable enough, so Hagga would have to trust him to watch his back. He needed to keep his attention on whatever was coming. Intuition told him it was somehow worse than whatever was happening behind him.

 

A moment later, his senses were proved correct. A small object floated out of the darkness… a servo-skull? But the real danger came behind it. A Red Corsair. More, an Astral Claw. Hagga recognised the self-assured, arrogant manner immediately. For an instant, he was convinced that his earlier prediction had come true, that Huron's dogs had come to hunt him and the Lamenter down.

 

But this warrior was alone, and held his hand up in peace. Why did Hagga still feel so threatened, then?

 

Ah. He grimaced, having recognised the details of the Corsair's armour and the blade he carried. A psyker. No… a sorcerer. No longer bound by the strictures and boundaries of the Librarius, his kind were far more dangerous to be around. Suddenly the oddities that had plagued them throughout this deployment made a freakish kind of sense. Who knew what manner of warp ghosts would be stirred up by the very presence of such an unbound mind?

 

The psyker greeted him cordially enough, and Hagga almost fired a blast of deadly superheated plasma directly into his faceplate. He was so tempted that he actually felt his finger tighten momentarily on the trigger. But no. This was one of the Blackheart's own brethren, and Hagga was oathsworn to serve their cause. However filthy that cause might be.

 

He finally lowered the weapon and nodded back a greeting. He ignored the jibe about Khymara.

 

“Hagga Rykaz. With me is Brother Ukalegon. I didn't know that ‘Lord’ Huron had sent any of his kin to… assist… us, either.”

 

 

Edited August 12 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

A las-weapon, for a moment he considered the value of its power-pack against the cost of its acquisition... no, the dampening field may return and such delays were unworthy given the task before him.

 

The bunkers defenses were rudimentary by Imperial standards by necessity to resist the influence of the dampening field and instead of complex ciphers and shifting patterns of interlaced circuity a magnetic and mechanical lock formed its core. The first layer easily bypassed but the second... electromagnetic and sealed by the loss of the generator.

 

The buildings systems were linked and precious power fed into the lock was syphoned away to lights and cogitator displays. A surge was needed and inevitably such an act triggered the warning klaxons, barely muffled by the explosions outside. He would doubtless have to fight his way out now but the prize was within grasp as the final time-locking mechanisms were overridden.

 

A glance back, for even if the wailing sound did not call the guards there were many below now free of their cages that would hear it as a sirens call of armament and escape.

 

 

All successful tests adding +1 DoS due to unnatural intelligence(2)

 

First test vs 65 - roll 09, pass with 5 extra DoS

Second test vs 55 - roll 87, fail, second roll 51 - pass with 1 extra DoS

Third test (fourth roll) vs 45 - roll 30, pass with 2 extra DoS

[Mazer Rackham]

Xerxes:

 

When the armoury door opens, both your concern and speed are proven prescient as a gang of unruly rioters pile pell-mell up the stairs as you slip through the doorway. Armed with cudgels, liberated shotguns and crudely fabricated pistols no doubt concealed for a gang-war, they burst in, spoiling for a fight. From the monitor screens still working inside the fortified storage unit, you see the offices outside, the mood changing when the four adepts are spotted.

 

The prisoners look on wild and strange, their faces showing signs of only recently having been relieved of some kind of head harness. Their slavering grins show why, when sharpened teeth and capped implants glint. A las-pistol cracks, and fells one, blasting his brains all over his comrades.

 

This is the signal then, to unleash hell.

 

They fall upon the adepts, tearing at their clothes to reach the flesh below, the female screaming as they bite down to eat her alive. The las-pistol discharges rapidly, desperately, killing another, but the sound continues until it abruptly ceases.

 

Laughing, drunk on blood and cruelty, they depart, slaked and heady. They don't bother with you or the armoury.

 

You have what you came for.

 

Kraggan:

 

A brute with an outrageously mutated arm jerks it in the direction of a clutch of prisoners, then at the bulk lander.

 

+Help yoursssselffff...+ the mutated Astartes says.

 

Tarh:

 

As the minions of the Eightfold begin to ebb in their assault, the tide of war changes, begins to withdraw like a knife from a wound, the bloody seafoam recoiling from the beach. The bombardment from above continues, coming closer to the positions in which the doomed now hunker, frozen by fear, carelessness and indecision. It is apparent, now, that there is only one way off this rock.

 

You must get to a lander and take your chances.

 

Or stay here and die.

 

The Smiler:

 

As you board the lander, the Revers stay close to you. Perhaps they sense your deep-rooted connection, perhaps they are swayed by your roguish panache...or maybe they just found a good spot to stand and watch the death throes of the gaol you left behind. Meteors fall from heaven, but it is not the passionate relief promised by mortal preachers, it is the cold contempt of a spurned son come to pummel the face of an uncaring parent.

 

Cyrandras:

 

The pull of the deep tugs at the sleeve of your conscious and aetheretical* being. Something stirs below, something without - another Astartesian presence in the dark and airless night.

 

Below...below lies something else.

 

Truth.

 

Come and see!

 

ADVISORY NOTE:

 

GM: Mortal Players, this is your last boarding call for the INCA sector. You could, of course, choose to stay on Carthage XIII (MAGOG sector) and rampage, forage or chow down on your fellow man as much as you please, with the possibility of making it your base of operations once the Corsairs have left. There will be sufficient materials, people and resources to survive within a narrative framework. We may discuss this in the OOC if you want to pursue this route.

 

* = It's like a budget/bargain bin Astartesian.

 

Edited August 13 by Mazer Rackham
Faustian Bargain

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

Cyrandras tensed as he felt the presence of  -something.? .. someone? else…run through the ruined. Listening post, followed by a series of  muffled explosions and shattering  plastek. There was more down here than just the disgruntled Axeman he’d just met
 

But, with the other Renegade’s weapon still trained on him, the Warlock didn’t dare to shift his perception into the aetherical realm. Instead,he braced  instinctively, alert for a possible attack. He fought down the urge to strike first. Hard. The Maelstrom wasn’t a forgiving place.  But the aether was already in turmoil here and there was -at least- one other warrior in the chambers beyond. This situation obviously called for a more subtle touch. Still..

 

Across the room, Rakash  could sense the Executioner was going through a similar chain of thought as their Astartesian physiology cycled up for immediate violence. 

 

There was just a hint of disappointment coming from Bhael-Four when the other Corsair lowered the plasma pistol instead.

 

Inside his helmet, Cyrandras allowed himself to let out a short breath. Very slowly the Warlock raised his blade in an informal salute, nodded,then said: 

 

“Our Lord and Tyrant sure has a thing for contingencies.”

 

He allowed himself a humourless laugh.

 

“I am Cyrandras Rakash. I am here on an errant for the Throne of Thorns. The sort of errant you really do not want to mess up. “

 

Time for that subtle touch. 

 

“I’d wager..”  

 

Cyrandras smiled inwardly and put just an iota more emphasis on this bit. Most Executioners he’d met had been hopeless gamers. Insanely dangerous gamblers, yes, but..

 

“…there is a way to make this work for both of us. Or rather, the..three ?.. of us?”

 

He pointed the blade in the direction of the Archivist’s Chamber. In the moonlet’s low gravity, they could still make out the slow downpour of broken plaster and crystalline inside.

 

“Maybe  we should see if your companion could also use some of that assistance?”

 

Edit: OOC it Judy occurs to me - Are we using / rolling Infamy to see if we recognize something about the other characters History/notoriety ? 

 

Edited August 13 by Xin Ceithan
OOC question

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Lander or prisoners?

 

 

There was no question really, so he ran for the Lander through the prisoners.

 

He'd spotted a Judge amongst them with a distinctive PDF tattoo and as he ran in he threw his power axe at him using ferric lure, which knocked the Judge over. Running in to the scattering prisoners, he beheaded the judge with his power axe and then grabbed the corpse as he headed for the Lander.

 

"Corpse starch ultra-rare, might be a long journey lads!" he shouted as he ran onto the lander, intent on a good seat.

 

 

"Twenty-Fours for Lord Huron!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: Xin/Cyrandras on the Infamy Roll Question: there would be a good chance that the detail of the Executioners exploits is unknown to you. They were always wayward, and during the Badab War they basically pursued their own agendas and objectives. The Lamenters you would know better, but even so, they were frustrating in their reticent application of force to prevent 'knowing' about any individuals.

 

You basically know each other about as much as you need/care to.

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga let out a harsh bark of laughter at the Tyrant's expense, and replied loudly enough for the Lamenter to hear.

 

“Ha! Contingencies…? More like bloody friendly fire incidents! Little wonder he managed to singlehandedly lose the Badab War for you! Still, if the Blackheart sent you to help us out, who am I to argue?”

 

He turned his head slightly, moving to look within the command centre while still keeping one eye on the psyker.

 

“Ukalegon! Any sign of those prisoner transcripts? And what in hell’s name were you just doing in there?”

 

 

 

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

He was about 10 meter into the climb when another rush of feet below made him pause. The last few groups that had passed below had failed to look up, but he could not run the risk. Holding his position he glanced down. Not guards or other lackeys of the corps god. That was a positive sign already, less chance of ranged weapons to be threaten by.

 

But wait, that was familiar, Naram-Sin gear. When they had been captured all those many months and months ago and stripped of their gear and armaments they had thought the enemy would simply discard it. They had been wrong, for clearly one of the armouries or some other warehouse complex attached to this place had stored it all, and in good condition from what he could see.

 

None of those below had served in the 57th Auxiliary, of that he was sure, there was few enough of his comrades left, and fewer still in Delta block. Tarh was going to wait them out and resume his climb, but then he spotted a second group of inmates, clearly coming from the same place, wherever it was, with more gear, and weapons. One degenerate was waving about a long-las as if it was a mere stick. That was either Sima’s or Zeynep’s or his, the three of them had been the only surviving scouts in the days before the defeat and capture. Now he had to go back down, he could not leave that to some scum.

 

Hastily climbing down several meters, more controlled fall then safe decent, he reached a ledge carved by battle damage. He had used it on the way up and now it provided a good vantage point. Just in them two, as the pillagers literally passed below, they had not heard him over their own feet. A quick shot caught the target and two of the others in the back and legs, tumbling them to the ground. The mob scattered unable to tell in the close confines where the shot had come from. One, quicker on the uptake perhaps, begun to look up and was greeted with the second round of the shotgun. That was it, his ammunition spent, but it had served its purpose. The rubble fled, leaving behind a few wounded and a scattering of possession of his former comrades.

 

Descending to ground level a few tactically applied greetings with the shotgun, reduced to a makeshift blunt object, it had sufficient heft to enforce compliance from the wounded as Tarh gathered up familiar items, enough undamged parts between them for some proper armour and cloak. The Long-Las, now that he held it, had probably been Sima’s. He even found a Preysigth mask and holstered laspistol, both carefully wrapped in the tattered cloak of one of the injured. It was almost as if he had just step out of the quartermaster tent.

 

The ebb of battle was changing, years of experience proving their worth. He should not linger. The ascent was quicker this time, the first part already familiar, the second assisted by the clarity of wish his masked afforded him once more.

 

Outside the walls of D-block was almost the same s inside, but for the lack of a far wall enclosing the space. Where to now? The Hinterland and scavenge from the land.

 

An answer from the pantheon, the roar of landers taking off. There, some distance to the north a flock of them, several still on the ground, that was near A Block if he judged it right. His mental map of the prison outside D Block vague, built up from glimpse and snatches of conversation.  It was unlikely that they would wait, time to run, with caution, but with hast.

Edited August 13 by Trokair
Placeholder filled.

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

A blast of thrusters in the distance as one of the landers was already preparing to depart, perhaps in anticipation of even heavier artillery or orbital bombardment. The compound was lost and whatever value the local guard saw in collecting an interrogating those within was lost with it.

 

Perhaps he should have enlisted one of the lessers in manual servitude but he doubted their ability to follow instruction, he would have to accept what supplies he could carry himself from this place and made quick inventory of that which was vital or valuable. From his travels across the compounds roof he had spied one group more organized than the rest who might be coherent enough to mistake him for a member of the assault rather than a target of opportunity.

 

The dregs had cleared the way and now it was time to move swiftly.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

“Hagga! I have the vault number!” 

 

The ex–Lamenter, not seeing any viable targets backed away from the shattered terminals, casting a wary eye about, until he reached the Executioner.

 

“The terminals exploded, it was – who goes there?!"

 

Ukalegon turned fully around, leveling his melta pistol at the black-and-crimson interloper, staring him down uneasily.

 

He canted his helm slightly towards Hagga and muttered, "Is he with us?"

Edited August 13 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

“Until he tries to kill us… or he causes a damn warp breach…” Hagga muttered back, holding out his hand for the Lamenter to lower his weapon. Then he spoke louder, introducing the other Astartes.

 

“Cyrnadras Rakash, Ukalegon. Ukalegon, Rakash. The vaults were down under the surface, in the foundation level. Throne knows how stable it is down there by now. I don't suppose that servo-skull of yours has an auspex?”

 

Edited August 13 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The ex-Lamenter lowered his sidearm at his compatriot’s direction and nodded his helm at the newcomer. His eyes ticked over the curious runic markings painted and engraved upon the Corsair’s war-plate, the swaying fetishes which hung from numerous chains, until he found the horned feline skull on his right shoulder. His partner's off-hand comment suddenly made sense.

 

Ah, one of his dear brother Arcturion’s ilk, a psyker, a lib– no! Sorcerer. The stench of arcane corruption was nearly palpable. This one presented a different sort of danger altogether.

 

He continued on, cautiously, but pleasantly enough, “Forgive me, Corsair, ah, Rakash; I did not recognize you. Are there more with you?”

Edited August 14 by Necronaut

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

 

The impassive mask of his Mark V helmet concealed the flush of anger washing over his face at the Executioner’s derisive comment, but he chose to let it slide. For now.

 

Knowing when and when not to say nasty things about the Tyrant of Badab was one the reasons he got the option  to discuss recent Imperial History in the haunted basement of a ruined listening post on some backwater rock instead of adorning the trophy racks atop the hull of Huron’s flagship, after all. 

 

Instead, Cyrandras focussed his attention on the other renegade Astartes who had joined up with them in the tunnel.

 

His auto senses played targeting reticule over the hulking shape, high lighting weapons  and potential weak spots. But Cyrandras couldn’t help but feel  a genuine sense of surprise to find  the markings of the ill-fortunate Lamenters on the flaked, void scarred bulk of  the new arrival’s battle-armour upon  closer inspection.

 

Cyrandras felt the sudden urge to laugh. This whole gods-forsaken mission was quite obviously cursed. 

 

Again, he thought better of it. The subtle touch and all that.

 

Also, while no one had actively tried to kill him yet, the situation here might still escalate into violence, especially if one of the former Maelstrom Wardens retained a grudge against the former Master  the Astral Claws and those of his Chapter. 

 

Keeping that in mind the Sorcerer carefully thought about his response to the question of the Lamenter  ..Ukalegon? Ukalegon. That was it.

 

A show of superiority on his behalf might trigger some feral impulse to assure their sense of  sovereignty by physical conflict. Likewise, one of the  renegades might be tempted by the opportunity to exact some childish sense of revenge by attempting to kill one of the Blackheart’s  former chapter if they believed him vulnerable. 

 

A balance then. Honest enough to broker some trust. The hint of a large enough stick. The subtle touch. 

 

“There are no other Astartes in my company. I was briefed to make my way here with all haste and that to look for further support on site. I suppose this means you.” 

 

Rakash shrugged. The low gravity made the chain-cloak look like a mishaped cloud of blades.

 

“Given the way this place feels, I’d rather not call on those that brought me here. It’s hard to evaluate the costs…”

 

He let the words hang there for a moment, timing them for effect.
Once people knew you were gifted,they were sort of expecting you to dabble in things mortals weren’t meant to know anyway. Cyrandras saw no cause not to use that notion to his advantage. 

 

Also, technically, it  wasn’t really a lie. 

 

It had already taken some old favours, more recent grid-gris and  the lure of looting some sought after memorabilia from one of the battlegrounds of the Badab War for the crew of the Kretu’kedah to agree to take him to Khymara. He’d worked with them before, a notorious bunch of thieves and scavengers who ran a brisk trade of xenos and more esoteric artififacts from and into the Maelstrom. And while mortal and primarily smugglers, they were used to dealing with the dangers involved in  such an enterprise, including the firepower to take down a renegade Space Marine. Or two.

And  Cyrandras was indeed not keen to find out what something like that would cost him.

 

 “I’d like to look into other options first. So, what exactly are we looking for? This one  here “ he gestured towards the ServoSkull “ can be a bit..temperamental. But we can certainly give it a try.” 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

He relaxed as the lander lifted. The Reavers had allowed a little looting on the way to the shuttle, and his new gear that had formerly been an Arbiter-Senioris' settled about him. A nice cloak lined with heavy duty mesh, a little ostentatious especially for a Brasser, but it fit him well. A multi-key, useful for getting past some of those annoying locks that people put on to keep others out, always good. Lastly, a short dueling sword that would work for any of those situations that called for violence rather than simple conversation.

 

Ah, a very welcome update to the wardrobe and it is now time to see who runs these fellows. Glad to be off that rock, let's be about the Gods work.

Edited August 15 by Lord_Ikka

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: With the final victim, er....Mortal Player on board, so to speak, we'll wrap the prologue for them there. In the next updates, I'll move the Chaos Marine Players to their own narrative exfil point. Try not to die, gentlemen, it would be amusing, but terribly bothersome.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

“Prisoner transfer records. We have come for prisoner transfer records.”

 

Turning back to Hagga, he continued, “I have the vault number; I suspect it is located below us. Shortly after retrieving the data, all of the command terminals exploded, seemingly of their own accord. It may have been a power surge, but I have my doubts.”

 

He drew his chainsword and started towards the lift.

 

“To the basement then?"

[Mazer Rackham]

Chaos Space Marines:

 

As you approach the lift/stairwell marked as leading to the datavault, the ebb and flow of power continues. As a response to your carefully shifted weight, the automatic lift-call activates. There is a mechanical rumble of gears and pulleys, and the lift car duly arrives.

 

When it opens, the doors part jerkily, revealing damage as to be expected from a battle site. It is a sturdy car, the interior is serviceable, if scraped and roughed a little by the passing of metal-shod feet and large objects, for the lift is easily big enough for the four of you. GM:OOC we can use this as a point to insert @Ancient_Sobek's Character if he wishes - he has perhaps come from a power-transfer substation outside (which was my plan for his entry). If this is chosen, obviously there may be a shock..?

 

The structure shudders as gears and mechanisms lock into place.

 

+Command Centre,+ the lift announcer, a dull drone servitor voice tells you.

 

The control panel is below, with studs labelled for different floors. Barracks, maintenance depot and finally, five floors down, is the datavault, Manifold-class medium reactor, and whatever infrastructure remains.

 

EDIT:

 

GM: The characters are free to discuss ideas, plans or thoughts as you narratively approach the lift/staircase, perhaps reflect on the automated functions or size of the lift being odd for a small listening outpost. You may attempt Tests if you wish to ascertain further details or condition of the lift:

• A Hard (-20) Scrutiny Test
• A Very Hard (-30) Awareness Test
• A Difficult (-10) Psyniscience Test

 

Edited August 15 by Mazer Rackham
Tests

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

“Aye,” Hagga replied, nodding. He couldn't add much, as he hadn't been amongst the Executioners who had cleared the lower levels.

 

As the three moved closer to the lift shaft, Hagga tried to understand why the apparatus was so large. Why the automated functions, too? Were the users somehow incapable of pressing buttons?

 

Awareness Test: Per38 +10(HS) +10(Autosenses) -30(Very Hard) = 28, Roll: 63, Fail!

 

Finally he shrugged, unable to make sense of the design. The explanation, if there was one, would likely reveal itself when they reached the vaults.

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Something about the lift appeared to be off to the ex-Lamenter, something about its size, its general proportions. He stood alongside Hagga and Cyrandras for a few moments gawking at the thing as its door ground open.

 

Perception Test:

Per39 + 10 (autosenses) + 10 (heightened senses: sight) - 30 (Very Hard) = 29

D100: 01 (!); 3 DoS

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

The arrival of the lift platform seemed just a bit too convenient to be coincidence. Cyrandras kept a wary eye on his  fellow Corsair and tried to extend his senses beyond the veil.

 

To no avail.
 

The ruined listening post was still awash with the residue of the emotional turmoil caused here during the Liberation.  It sure felt wrong, but Cyrandras couldn’t get any clear reading.
 

( OOC Difficult Psyniscience Test (-10) :D100 : 33 - Fail )

 

Edited August 16 by Xin Ceithan
Placeholder filled.

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: Xin, yes, that's right you get no bonuses in Psyniscience from Autosenses/HS.

 

Ukalegon:

 

Perhaps it is the long-divorced puissance of your Gene-sire which stirs this unease, or maybe the hairs on the back of your neck rose upon entrance to this benighted place, and have never smoothed. The lift is just...wrong. Why would a huge lift be working in this place? From where has it leeched the power, when you have had to jury-rig a simple cogitator?

 

As if reading these thoughts, the lift now speaks -  in response..?

 

All:

 

+Going down,+ the lift announcer snarls with distorted vox. +To hell.+

 

Upon this bizarre utterance, the welcoming space of the lift closes with a toothy snap, as serried ranks of bony teeth erupt from meaty gums to clamp shut, thick loops of drool coursing from them. A dark, lingering laugh follows, and the lift car plummets too quickly for this low gravity, leaving only an empty lift shaft beyond. Peering over the threshold, you can see the remnants of the lift car in the deep, dark well - smashed long ago, and thick with undisturbed dust.

 

The stairs are to your left.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga growled angrily, kill-urge suddenly spiking in response to the perceived threat.

 

When the Executioners had taken this place from the Griffons, there had been no sign of such witchery. Whatever was causing this, it was more recent. He glowered beneath his helm at Cyrandras. Maybe it was very recent?

 

With a deep, calming breath, he held himself back from accusing the sorcerer of stirring up the warp simply by being here. Instead he grunted irritably.

 

“Well… stairs, then...”

 

He looked thoughtfully at Ukalegon's jump pack.

 

“...unless you're still taking the direct path down?”

 

 

 

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

To the Sorcerer’s surprise- and, he had to admit , just a hint of disappointment, the elevator’s vocal  apparatus remained silent as the thing  plunged away to the depths.
He’d  half expected it to accompany its ominous descent into darkness with a trail of manic laughter… A pity. 
 

Cyrandras shrugged, servos whirring.

 

”Thanks. I’ll go to a Hell of my own choosing. And on my own time, if you don’t mind. That is very much the  whole point of this,  I ‘d say”  he growled.

 

He looked at the others. Louder, he said: 

 

“So. Stairs, then” 

 

He grinned inside his helmet. 
 

“Anyone want to place a bet if they are inscribed with good intentions? “

 

 

Edited August 16 by Xin Ceithan