[BC] The Blackest Heart (IC)

[Trokair]

Placeholder

 

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

Bhael-Four drifted in, the whisper song’s increased pace hinting  at both its wariness and excitement as the Servo skull began circling the effigy in the Sorcerer’s palm in a display of abject curiosity.

 

Cyrandras gaze  was still  fixed on on the repository until he suddenly became aware of Ukalegon stomping off.  Cursing under his breath, he cast a wary look around, distinctly uncomfortable. about finding himself in such an exposed and vulnerable state.

 

Almost immediately however, the Sorcerer felt his eyes drawn back to the effigy. Rakash blinked, then shook his head slightly and finally stowed the shard away within the folds of his chain cloak. 

 

A double tap of beats from his twin hearts, as a burst of anger ran through the former Astral Claw.

 

Delphyna 

 

The name of the thing still echoed through his mind. Not the thing’s  true name, obviously.  But know he could put  a name… and a shape.. to the force at work in these ruins. That was a start.. 

It was a thing of power, obviously… and it had likewise taken someone of obvious power to lure this being here and then, keep it confined..

 

Someone…

 

Volex obviously had known of this extraordinary being. And it- she?- knew of Volex. Rakash looked around. Had the Harrowmaster been involved in, or maybe even initiated the rituals of summoning and confinement? Or had he just learned of it and decided  to make use of it as the opportunity had presented itself?

 

Just as the Harrowmaster had taken the opportunity to make use of  Rakash. And of the others here.. How many more had been sent here already? How many of the drifting shades owed their fate to the machinations of the Harrowmaster, Rakash wondered, 

 

This time, the anger was sharper, clearer. 

 

Cyrandras felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, tasted acid on his tongue.

It took a conscious thought and several breaths to relax it. 

Bhael- Four drifted away, suddenly wary of his master’s darkening mood. 

 

It wasn’t that he took any real slight at the fact that he’d been used, the Sorcerer  thought as he took in  the  armoured frames of the other Renegades around him. That was just how things worked now, a fact of life among the Corsairs, of life in the Maelstrom. Of course you used whatever, whoever,  necessary to get by, to survive, to live and fight another day. Also, in the end, he could not deny he was still, at his core, an Astartes. After all, being used, being sent into the fray was what he had been created for. Even if he, like so many among the Astral Claws had become increasingly sick of being used by fools and for petty mortal interests.

 

No. These days, he very much preferred to make the choice about why and where to risk his transhuman hide himself.

 

This, Cyrandras thought. That was it. That, and the fact that he had  not been told about the real objective, had not even been told about the presence of this formidable being or the potential risks it involved. He’d been left in the dark like any other stray Space Marine the Red Corsairs had picked up after they’d rallied under the banner of the Blackheart. Like some common reaver…

 

Before, he’d been of the Librarius. Even if Rakash had not -yet- been part of the inner circle around the Lord Commander, he’d at least  been someone in-the-know - or at least as much as there was a need-to-know…

 

Now, he was apparently considered just another warp-lost cutthroat. 

 

Cyrandras gritted his teeth. 

 

This would stop, the Sorcerer decided. Now. Here. Right here.

 

He needed to know more about this was all about… what it was the Blackheart and his Harrowmaster were after. And about this.. Delphyna…

 

First though, he needed to get out off this rock.

 

The Sorcerer rose. Time to put these cutthroats to some use.

 

“Wait, Brothers.” He let out a breath. “Let me show what to do before you blast us out into the Warp by mistake.”

 

++And you, Savant..++ Cyrandras canted telepathically to Bhael-Four ++ make sure to transcribe  as much of this  conjuring as possible before we delete it. +++

 

Edited August 26 by Xin Ceithan

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

A paltry group of misfits, what worth was seen in them. Xerxes contemplated the possibility of selection by trial and that many of those taken might be little more than challenges to test the worth of the rest.

 

Limited cybernetics, mundane weaponry. He studied each seeking signs of any hidden devices they might carry and weighed the value of each as target in a wider brawl. The lesser heretek appeared outmatched but many augmetics could be concealed beneath their armour and it was curious that they had not been held within the same cells as he.

 

 

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

The ascent in the bowels of the huge Lander had been relatively uneventful, once he had utilised his talents to carve a space in the flesh around him. He had acquired more red for his robes, although it would dry to brown and need further additions of claret.

 

With a paring knife that he had acquired he peeled the skin off the late judges skull and with a length of wire he hung it from his belt. Over the noise of the ascent rockets, carried the numerous moans, shouts and the screaming of his fellow passengers. A blessed cacophony to aid digestion and discern further victims for Ursula.

 

A few hours after lift off there was an almighty clang, there was no explosion so the craft must have docked with a starship or other craft in orbit. The blessed song began again as the massive doors opened with a solid clang against the metal of a cavernous hold. There was then a mass exodus as the chaff rushed out straight into the embrace of a score of mutated Ogryns armed with massive whips.

 

 

Then he saw their Masters.

 

It was not long before the brutish Renegade Space Marines came forth, singled him and other belligerents out. You are careful circled by the dark-armoured men, devoid of heavy mutation, their equipment is of good quality and quantity, even if they do carry the emblems of the Tyrant and the Eightfold path.

 

It seems they do not spend much time fawning or dallying with the dark gods. Hard currency and battle are their religion, and both are their reward. They broke skulls to get to you, and broke more on the way out. The cannibals fell on the wounded behind you, the sound of mortals being sacrificed to the various wills and bellies, in turn shot for their depravity or hustled into the suicide battalions...

 

 

A Chaos Space Marine stood before them wearing the panoply of Huron Blackheart upon one pauldron, and the scaled, multi-headed serpent on the other. It was as if he stared straight at him, one of his eye-lenses replaced by a large, baleful augmetic of a metal you had never seen. He let his gaze play over you and the assembled cohort - at least a dozen others like you - a ramshackle gathering of the sleek, sly, wicked or desperate.

 

+Come with me.+

 

 

He'd already marked the others around him, the petty chiefs in their fiefs of hate. Other hereteks and ex-guardsmen, a Smiler.

 

Gripping Ursula in one hand he strode off towards the Chaos Space Marine.

 

 

"He cares not from whence the blood flows, He sits upon a Throne of Skulls."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited August 26 by Machine God
Doors

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Cyrandras spoke and Ukalegon paused before tearing the floor up any further. He had acted as bodyguard to his brother Arcturion a number of times during his scryings while lost in the divination trance on myriad battlefields, and though the experiences always left him deeply unsettled, he knew better than to doubt his brother's word during the rituals. 

 

"Speak, sorcerer. Guide us from this ruin. I have had quite my fill of this caper, and want nothing less than for this hall to become my tomb.”

 

+++

 

Under Rakash’s direction, Ukalegon, Hagga and the taciturn newcomer, Grimm, set to work systematically obliterating the binding runes drawn in long-dried blood and viscera and excrement scrawled upon every available surface of the chamber in a series of overlapping and intersecting rings and other eye-watering multihedral designs. While they worked, the ex-Lamenter avoided gazing directly at the hideous pictograms whenever he could, not wanting to comprehend the superimposed layers of blasphemy that ensorcelled this place.

 

+++

 

At length, their work was done and they wordlessly ascended the endless fight of stairs, trudging back in a grim and agitated silence during which time dark thoughts went unsaid, and disgust rolled off of most of the company in nearly palpable waves. The thunderhawk was where the Lamenter and Executioner had left it; the heavily mutated and augmented pilot, whose twisted body had begun to fuse with the living machinery of the brutal craft, turned his head slightly, likely as far as he was still able to in his thoroughly corrupted state, to regard them as Hagga entered the cockpit and hammered twice upon the door frame.

 

A binharic grunt was all they received in return and soon they were off, never to see this wretched moon again. Or so the ex-Lamenter hoped.

 

Edited August 26 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

The Avenger (ALL PLAYERS):

 

The ship's passageways wind and turn as the small group is shepherded into a strategium. The leather-upholstered couches form oversized, concentric demi-rings to view the main pulpit and holo-lecterns. The tremble of the giant vessel increases beneath your feet as it begins to yaw, pick up speed.

 

Into your midst come four titans, taller even than the Chaos Space Marine who led you Mortals inside. Perhaps you are in awe of their raw power, their presence, or maybe not. It is possible you consider them as much as they consider you - just more renegades and not all that special. Their panoply is as varied as your own raiment, carrying an array of weapons as esoteric as it is exaggerated.

 

For your part, Marines, you see a rogues gallery of men and women, each a renegade and individual.

 

It is this all you recognise. Here are no squads, no formations. Perhaps then, it is this that has separated you all from the herd, no matter what you may think your...talents are. You may perhaps try to glean information by perception alone, or try to prise information through charm or deception. Nevertheless, the presence of  more Marines in the space dominates it, provides a dramatic undertone of foreboding.

 

The master of the room, his warplate adorned with both the Hydra (which the Marines cannot fail to recognise) and the Blackheart's own icon chuckles through his vox.

 

+Have a good trip?+

 

He doesn't wait for the answer.

 

+Rakash, you will find a stasis cloche to your left in the alcove. Place our...damsel of distress in there.+

 

The Avenger shudders with increasing frequency and strength, her prow cutting into the rippling void, held back not by waves and water but by inertia and the friction of ancient superstructure.

 

+Now...+

 

* * * * *

 

GM: At this point, the Handler will lay out the main points and objectives which can be studied in more detail in the Data Thread. You may peruse these at your convenience, but since they will form the hub of your operations, I strongly suggest you have a good look.

 

GM: What will follow is the Avenger heading to the Mandeville Point, rendezvousing with the Ravager/Dredge and passing you all across to that ship for handover to you as Players. There will be opportunities to tinker with stuff, interact, or train. If you want to train, we will assume there is enough materiel for you to do so. Certain special undertakings must be performed. These will be made known to you via your handlers.

 

GM: We remain in narrative time. It will take approximately two in-game weeks to complete all operations to launch the Black Crusade. Remember to familiarise yourself with the Campaign Rules, these are not suspended. Once again, we can assume materiel is available to satisfy requirements. Once the First Step is taken however, you will be required to forage. I will provide further details as we go forward.

 

GM: I will detail rewards in the OOC. Shouting and screaming at my...largesse (or lack thereof) can also be conducted there. Note that the IC remains open for Players to contribute with narrative on the immediate situation, or backfill experiences/responses from the past few pages.

 

Cheers.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

It wasn't the low growl that alerted him first.

 

Nor was it the animal stink of blood and dirty wet fur.

 

Even before these more tangible signs, Hagga had the inexplicable sensation - a gift of his geneforged body? Or something older, borne of a childhood spent hunting and being hunted through the wilds of Stygia? - that something was stalking him through the dark, lawless, lower levels of the Red Corsair warship.

 

He wasn't worried. There was nothing in this miserable sump that could challenge a fully armed and armoured Astartes, certainly not one trained in the ways of war by the Executioners Chapter. Whatever ‘predator’ was out there, it simply did not yet understand the mistake it had made in its choice of prey.

 

There. A soft footfall to his left, something big but agile. It was moving around in the shadows, circling him even as he advanced through the bulkheads. He should have known that there was something dangerous living in this area. It was empty of the mortal dregs that dwelt down here - they were afraid to enter these hallways. Perhaps, subconsciously, he had known it when he chose to wander this way?

 

None of Huron's Corsairs had followed him down, but Hagga was happy enough being alone. Ukalegon, the former Lamenter, seemed to be decent enough, but otherwise the renegades were… scum. They boasted of their righteousness, or their skill, or their vaunted wisdom, but lacked the slightest hint of real honour. He grinned. In fairness, they had made no bones about their distaste for him, either.

 

Then his bestial stalker let out a growl; a deep, rumbling bass note that rose into a snarl. There was a sudden scrabbling of claws against deck plates just over his left shoulder. Hagga spun around, his arms held low and wide, ready. His weapons stayed sheathed and holstered. After all, what glory was there if a fight was too easy?

 

The hunter was revealed. A hound, a massive black beast with broad shoulders, square head, and wide, powerful jaws. Its gleaming yellow eyes shone in the darkness like stablights. It raced towards the Astartes, thick muscles bunching and releasing beneath short, spiked fur. Hagga evaluated it as it closed. Female, easily three hundred pounds, four feet tall. Bite strength of at least seven hundred pounds per square inch. Probably gene-hanced or augmented for speed, strength and aggression. Utterly fearless, and absolutely terrifying to a mortal human. No wonder they had avoided her territory.

 

He stepped forward to meet the hound’s headlong rush. As she leapt upwards at him, aiming for his throat, he caught her forelegs and pushed back, holding her suddenly still. A regular man would have been toppled by her weight - definitely some form of internal augmetics - and then those sharp teeth would quickly put an end to the fight. Thankfully, he wasn't a regular man. Held immobile, she snapped her monstrous jaws open and shut inches from Hagga's face, straining to reach and rend his flesh. The smell of saliva and rotten meat was… oddly reminiscent of his childhood? Before she could change tack and bite at his forearms, he threw the dog back to the ground and grinned.

 

“Vicious bitch, aren't you, girl?”

 

He continued to admire her as she circled, more cautious now but still snarling horribly. How had a prime animal such as this wound up down here? He saw through the thicker neck ruff the shape of a heavy collar. A guard dog, maybe even a bodyguard? Perhaps her former master had been an officer? Maybe they had died, leaving the beast to fend for itself?

 

She launched herself again and Hagga twisted, turning and throwing the hound down once more. As she dropped, he grabbed the scruff of her neck in one fist and forced her against the ground. Not enough pressure to harm, but utterly immovable. The beast went wild at first, struggling with her whole body and barking ferociously, but eventually the barks turned to whimpers and she lay still. Surrender.

 

Hagga frowned thoughtfully. Often, bodyguard creatures were trained to respond to commands given in High Gothic. He couldn't hold a conversation in the archaic language, but perhaps…? He lent down and firmly lifted the hound's flappy ear, again not putting enough pressure to hurt but enough to let her know he was in control. Then he whispered the identity she would hopefully come to know him by.

 

“Dominus.”

 

Then he stood, releasing his hold on her scruff and stepping back, curious to see what she would do next. She stayed on her belly, where Hagga had put her. Was that a glimmer of understanding in those yellow eyes? Acceptance of him as an Alpha predator? He waited a few seconds, holding eye contact, then nodded and took a strip of tough meat from one of his belt pouches. He threw it in front of her jaws.

 

“Bonum.”

 

After a moment, the hound accepted the morsel, carefully picking up the strip and chewing briefly before swallowing it down. She looked up at him expectantly.

 

“Sta.”

 

The huge dog rose to its feet, tongue still lolling from her previous exertion.

 

“Veni. Vigilate.”

 

Without waiting, Hagga turned and walked on down the poorly lit hallway. Behind him, the hound paused, then obediently trotted forward to flank him. The Executioner grinned again. Maybe there was something of worth to be found on this wreck of a ship, and he had found it. He watched the hound as she crossed over from his left to his right side, carefully sniffing the air. He'd have to give her a name…

 

 

 

 

 

 

OOC: I had worked out this post of Hagga finding his Minion to be somewhere on the prison planet, but I'm not sure if our foursome were actually there... still, I think this works just as well, down in the belly of the Avenger or the Ravager/Dredge?

 

 

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

From one form of ignorance to another, the hereteks here guarded their knowledge with no less blindness than the mechanicum and scattered it across countless worlds, buried it, or burnt it away.

 

But all had their price and that was at least progress of a sort. Those here on the ship that were skilled prized its workings over the more mundane and so provided an opportunity, as master of a forge he could consolidate the wealth and service of those who valued only destruction in return for trinkets and weapons of war.

 

The spoils of the raid would be first as his implants would sustain him while the rest scrabbled over scraps, and by now those taken aside would have been disarmed and put to work... the weapons they had seized from the guards would have more value to him than whatever menial that had been given the misfortune to gather them.

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras 

 

Rakash had made a habit out of wandering through the various Corsair ships he’d found himself on over time, usually taking the time trying to get to know who or whatever was in charge of various department,  deck gangs or cults most vital for the ship’s operation first.  It always paid to have an idea of what made the people tick that carried you through the Sea of Souls. Also, his errands had led the Sorcerer away from the main fleets of the Corsairs for some time and thus he was eager for any information, gossip and rumour circulating around the crew so he get up to speed with the state of the different schemes and raids the fleet was currently involved in, with a particular focus on those he’d consider his rivals - or his allies.

In particular, he’d make time to check on any  - if any - former brother of the Astral Claws on board. Well, those that weren’t going to try to put a blade into him at first sight, anyway. There few of these left these days, even  taking consideration that there hadn’t been many survivors from the Chapter after the siege of Badab anyway. 

They might all wear the mark of the Blackheart now, but the bonds of old oaths and genecrafted kinship died hard. Often, these remaining veterans from the War of Secession provided an inroad into the hierarchies and mindset of the crew and  ship they served on or, if nothing else, simply the comfort of a familiar face and an old set of mutual grudges. 

 

This time around though, knowing his time on the Avenger was likely limited, Rakash chose to pay his respects to the key players on board - it was always wise to plan ahead - and getting a bearing on what was currently at the top of the Red Corsairs’ interests, but the focus of his attention was elsewhere.

 

Delphyna

 

The Neverborn they had brought from Khymara intrigued the Sorcerer - as well as who and why that someone had gone to expend such considerable effort to lure and bind the entity there.

Along with some respectable knowledge of the occult arts.

 

His curiosity had been piqued. These things were named “occult” for a reason,  but with Cyrandras knew where to look. 

Well, at least, he knew where to start….

 

Edited September 19 by Xin Ceithan

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga sat sprawled across the metal bench that ran around the dark, semi-circular booth, staring grimly into the half empty flagon.

 

The gutter scum who had set this place up had done their best to provide for Astartes patrons - heavy plasteel furniture that would take the weight of their power armour, drink with high enough alcohol content to give them a nice buzz before their augmented bodies compensated for it - but he just wasn't in the mood for carousing.

 

No, he had been in the mood… but the ale tasted like and there was no way to properly relax while wearing power armour - and there was no way he was taking it off, either. Hagga shook his head glumly. The mortals and the one or two Corsairs in attendance seemed to like it well enough, but the whole place paled in comparison to the drinking halls of the Darkenvault. The roaring firepits, the piled furs and blankets where one could take their ease, the Stygian mead…

 

Eska, looking up from the remnants of the joint of meat Hagga had just finished with, growled deeply as a drunken crew chief stumbled slightly too close to their table. Senior enough to have Thrones - or whatever the hell they used for money here, Hagga couldn't remember? - to spend, but still unimportant, one out of thousands just like him across the Avenger's decks. The man, an ugly, filthy bullyboy, muscular for a mortal, looked back in confused aggression at the hound, then beyond to her owner. Immediately the little thug turned away, muttering apologies. He might have tried to take down the dog, maybe after first gathering a few lads from his shift-gang around him, but there was no way he was messing with one of the Blackheart's elite.

 

Hagga shook his head again, finished the ale with one long swallow, and stood up. It didn't look like he'd even find a decent brawl around here. Maybe he'd try the cages, see if any of the other Astartes would offer him a bout?

 

“Eska, veni.”

 

 

 
 

Edited September 4 by Lysimachus

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The Lamenter prowled the observation deck of the Avenger, neither able to nor willing to sleep or meditate. The Executioner's warnings about Lord Huron and the diseased rabble he now surrounded himself with had deeply troubled Ukalegon. Yes, the Blood Reaver still seemed to be a charismatic and honourable leader, but something had changed since his dark resurrection. The few rumours he had been able to gather from the crew seemed to indicate that Lord Huron had been laid low, perhaps even killed outright, during the sacking of Badab Primaris, but the pirate lord had managed to cling to some thread of life. The fact that he was now a biomechanical monstrosity barely held together by his ramshackle power armour and burning hate was evident. But the rumours spoke to something more, that something foul and from beyond had reached out and restarted Lord Huron’s hearts, had breathed a dark new life into him.

 

Ukalegon shuddered at the thought of giving oneself over to such corruption. And yet, here he was, but one renegade amongst many, all treading their private paths to Hell.

 

It was not just the crew of the Avenger that kept him from seeking rest or a moment to let down his guard, nor the way they jealously regarded his personal effects, the way their beady eyes lusted over his armour and armaments. He did not fear a man among them; no it was the visions which had harrowed him the first time he closed his eyes that he now sought to avoid.

 

He had seen them again, those bronze-armoured reavers who had come for the Lamenters under Terra’s banner, who had offered no quarter and had arrived intent only upon slaughter and pillage. So many of his brothers had been laid low, their xanthous armour broken open and rent asunder by bolter fire and chain blades, and he had returned the favour in kind upon the invaders. The Daughter of Tempests had been turned into a charnel house, with both dead Lamenters and Minotaurs littering the decks and the floors and walls had run slick with commingled astartes and mortal blood. What a senseless waste of life. His gauntlets closed in white-knuckled fists of rage again at the memory.

 

But it was no longer merely Minotaurs he had seen prowling his ship in the dreamed memory, but other, monstrous, shadowy figures which faded from view if one looked directly at them. That was most troubling.

 

He needed something to take his mind from this new dread which threatened to take hold. Perhaps the simple application of violence in the training cages, such as they were, would help quell his bloodlust and cure his spiritual malaise. He nodded to himself as he set off. He needed to master himself in this new environment, to create his own structure to maintain his sanity.

Edited September 4 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The training cages were, as always, a maelstrom of violent activity and a cacophony of noise. Whatever Rykaz thought of the Blackheart’s reavers, he accepted that they were capable soldiers, and that required practice. The hubbub, the clash of arms and the thunder of weapons fire, was soothing. It was one of the few places where he felt almost at home.

 

Hagga moved swiftly towards the melee arenas, but stopped when he got close. Two of Huron’s chosen warriors, clad in red and black and armed with long knives, circled in one of the cages, feinting and jabbing at one another.

 

A third Astartes watched the bout. Moros. Waiting for his turn?

 

Hagga frowned thoughtfully beneath his beaked helm. He knew he was one of the better fighters in the 5th, having been honoured with the role of Company Champion, despite having chosen his long, heavy sword over the axe that was traditionally favoured amongst his former brethren. However, the Executioners were killers, and not duelists. On the other hand, the sons of the Primarch Sanguinius were reputed to be some of the most skilled warriors to be found among the Adeptus Astartes, unparalled artists of the blade.

 

Hagga grinned. Ukalegon’s battered and flaking armour didn't much look like that of an ‘artist’, but maybe his abilities did not match his appearance? It would be wise to find out, should they be expected to work together again. He moved forward into the Lamenter’s eyeline and raised an arm in greeting.

 

“Hail, Ukalegon. You fancy a go when these lads have finished?”

 

 

[Trokair]

Placeholder - again

[Xin Ceithan]

The nautical and the supernatural had been entwined ever since the early days of the species, when a prayer for good tidings, a charm of protection  or a sacrifice to willful deities had accompanied the launch of every vessel in history.

 

Thus Sailors were a suspicious, superstitious lot in any era and if anything, those who sailed the Sea of Souls even more so.  

And in return, you could find those that practised these arts and cared for these needs on every ship known to Mankind.

 

On Imperial ships, the pious, the careful and the unknowing clung to the protection of the dead thing on the Golden Throne. 

If you weren’t inclined to put your immortal soul and mortal shell in the mummified hand of someone who died thousands of years ago, including was a wealth of other, more fringe elements that adhered more or less to the core of the Imperial faith, you could  find… other.. areas of expertise if you knew where to look and weren’t too squeamish about it. Even on the most noble vessels of the Imperium you could find, the things you could find down in what was commonly the Darkhold…

 

No one prayed to the Emperor on the ships of the Red Corsairs. 

No one who wanted to keep their tongues and hands, at least.

 

And while their vessels were certainly not the void borne processionals of madness that Rakash had seen in service with the crazed zealots of the Word Bearers, there was certainly no shortage of people… or…things..you could find on them

In most cases, it just depended on the spiritual outlook of the commanding Corsair in question ( and / or the proximity to the Blood Reaver himself ) how far you and where had to go…

 

This, of course, brought with it another set of possible complications. Some of those were of the more meta-physical 

variety, but these were not the ones Rakash was currently facing.

 

The Sorcerer sighed. He regarded the conundrum of data-slates, scroll fragments and broken tablets cluttered around him then glanced at a half molten piece of Aeldari jewelry in his palm.

 

“This will take some time…”

 

 

Edited September 19 by Xin Ceithan

[Mazer Rackham]

++ PART ONE ++

 

+ DREDGING THE BARREL +

 

 

LOCSIT: INCA SUBSECTOR MANDEVILLE EXTREMIS (EX-TRANSLATION 1HR)

TRANSLATION CONDUIT: ALPHA-099/CETI-SIX-OMICRON.VII (RESTRICT)

TIME: 0000HRS SHIP/0000HRS ZULU SYNC

MISSION TIME: START

 

Central Strategium – Avenger:

The Alpha Legionnaire, for that is what he is, does not identify himself, even though he doffs his helm. His features are not remarkable, nor does he sport any tattoos, ritual or military. His skin, to those who know the hidden details lacks the coppery tone of the Hydra’s own, but his eyes certainly glint in cold, hard, reptilian green.

This glacial glare frequents the environs of the room, settling momentarily on the denizens assembled herein. It lingers on the chosen few who are a little too ebullient, the idea they are free settling in about their shoulders, the escape from the iron grip of vindictive, unfair, Imperial justice.

 

He says nothing, does nothing.

 

To the Renegade Marines, this aloof, anonymous deportment is perhaps unsurprising; the mortals maybe do not care other than to see his as a study in Astartesian physiognomy. When he speaks, what is a surprise is his voice: almost human in range, containing a cant of vernacular language that wouldn’t be amiss in the galleys of a merchantman.

 

‘Shall we make a start?’ It is not a question, as he proves immediately by continuing. ‘The Inca Sector is of strategic importance to the Imperium, but low enough down the pecking order, and bordered by secure enough worlds that it is a ripe target. Rich in minerals...’

 

The capering of three mortals continues, stopping him. He taps his long stylus against the face of his dataslate.

 

In a blur, he is among them. One moment, he is stood there, still and calm, the next, he has gouged out a man’s eye, stabbed another in the throat, and buried his weapon of choice – the stylus – in the third’s left ear.

 

All are dead.

 

‘As I was saying,’ he continues, not even tried by the slaughter, as he treads back down the tiered auditorium, flicking gore off his wrist, ‘it is a ground also unhallowed in its appetites. We know of several nascent cults and criminal enterprises there who, in the past, have called for Lord Huron’s aid.’

 

He smiles at this, but it doesn’t even flavour the gleam in his eyes.

 

‘The jealous and the disaffected.’ He underlines his contempt for this with a circular, dismissive twist of his hand.

 

He pauses to witness your reactions to his words. It is pointedly obvious he doesn’t care about the crimson ruin sitting in the middle of the room, as he still addresses them as though they were alive and attentive. Perhaps he just enjoys a captive, quiet, audience. ‘Lord Huron plans an operation elsewhere, and he requires decoy actions. Your success is completely in your hands. You keep what you kill. You will be given little oversight, but we will provide information we have.’

 

He steps forward, and here his voice deepens as his shadow spreads as the lights fall behind his massive shoulders. ‘Your future is yours to make. Success is its own reward. Failure, however...’

 

The Legionnaire’s gaze centres on the corpses with a piercing glint.

 

A sweep of his hand activates the hololithic array, providing the myriad details of the target system, before he turns and leans over to the lectern, drawing another stylus from the rampart top.

 

‘Any questions?’

 

GM: Refer to the Data thread, as advised, and then please conduct any IC/OOC discussion of which target you'd like to have a crack at first. I'll answer as many of your questions as I can (within reason), but I may not have plotted all the points which will give the answer, so your 'handler' here will reply IC that he does not know. This should be the final word. You may of course conclude or infer as you will.

 

GM: Player shouting and complaints in the OOC as usual.

[Trokair]

Tarh 

 

“With Respect, scion of the Hydra, you are lying to us. If all that was required was a distraction, then the resources spent to invite some of us away from the corpse gods fastness, would have sufficed as a distraction in and of itself.”

 

While he could not say if any of the Chosen had participated in the prison break, Tarh recognised enough of the others gathered from the recent liberation and all that followed.

 

“You and your lord want more than a decoy operation out of us, so speak truth before the gods, so that we may know what actual and final purpose you are asking us to dedicate ourselves to.  

[Mazer Rackham]

Tarh:

 

The Legionnaire doesn't move, but his eyes do as they sweep up to you. It is a strange, dislocating swivel, as though the world is fixed, but his gimlet gaze is the only permitted, loose thing to roll against the rock and pitch of the universe.

 

'Truth, Tarh Teshub? What is that?' There's a sudden smile - just a pull at the right edge of his mouth. 'Your liberation was also a decoy, as well as meat for the grinder.'

 

The smile grows wider. Not quite as habitual or ostentatiously wicked as the mortal in your complement that seems to find everything...amusing. It's nasty in a completely different way.

 

'Yes, you're going in as a reconnaissance force as well. We will see how weak the Imperial legs are as you gnaw away at them.'

 

The glance slithers over Hagga.

 

'Lord Blackheart will be watching, gauging his options. That which you make - or don't. Other operations are running concurrently, each taking notice of the authorities, stretching them thin. Thin enough for victory, if you're smart enough to claim it.'

 

He waits to let that sink in.

 

'And expendable if not.'

 

His lips move, it's not quite a purse. 'Whatever schemes the Blackheart has, some are even beyond my information. However, I am loathe to find any fault in the largesse of initiative he has permitted.'

 

Edited September 6 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

Kraggan clapped in applause of Space Marine's execution of extreme penmanship.

 

"Bravo esteemed Astartes such exquisite bladework. Yes as you say, there is no 'Truth' just the extraction and manipulation of acquired data into whatever form is needed at the time."

 

 

Using his abilities he drew the three cadavers to his side by manipulating the ferric components of their bodies. He began to rifle through their pockets and pouches as he continued speaking.

 

 

"Such as the Red Corsairs, renegades  who seemingly shunned the Legions..."

 

Kraggan sliced off their ears and retrieved the stylus.

 

"Yet we have you here. Hydra Dominatus, working with the Red Corsairs, allied with them, they working for you? Truths, lies, data, everything woven into the cosmic song, the skeins of portent within the etheric noosphere."

 

"Anyway, I believe that the Asteroid Belt of Ithyca II system would be a good place to begin."

 

 

 

Edited September 6 by Machine God
typo

[Mazer Rackham]

Kraggan:

 

The Legionnaire doesn't even blink at your harvesting.

 

'I am glad you are so keen, Kraggan.'

 

He taps the stylus twice, then four times.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The Executioner stood quietly as Huron's pet snake talked and talked but said nothing. Hagga wanted to spit. The Alpha Legion’s crimes were far greater than anything the Corsairs had ever done.

 

Heretic filth.

 

Still, at least they were being given a fairly loose leash. If their orders were truly as vague as ‘Valex’ suggested, maybe Hagga could push the gathered renegades towards more fitting targets? There was no honour or glory to be gained in strikes against innocents. He liked the idea of hunting down the Blackheart's rivals. Killing other rebels rather than Imperial loyalists would still serve the Blood Reaver’s interests, fulfilling his oath of obedience, without harming the Imperium at all.

 

Maybe that was too much to hope for…

 

One of the tech-adepts suggested Ithyca II. A good place to hide among the inner system asteroids. Fodder, both food at Ithyca II E and replacement manpower at Ithyca II G.

 

He shrugged.

 

“Works for me.”

 

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

The Sorcerer watched the exchange silently. He shook his head inwardly, both at the display of violence and the looting that followed it. It wasn‘t that Rakash disapproved of it on principle. No, he mostly disapproved of the… bluntness … on display here.  It was… disappointing. Unrefined. Any animal could lash out, any animal could fight over the scraps afterward. Cyrandras Rakash would not commit to something so.. baseline. 

Yet there was little he would be able to do about it - at this time, at least. One more reason to play this little game, then.  No one would care for what he thought if he was considered squeamish.. or worse.. weak. There was an opportunity here to be noticed again, to be respected again… or at least feared. The Path to Glory, those wretches of of the Word Bearers called it. 

 

„Path might be a bit of an euphemism, though,“ Rakash thought dryly. His gaze drifted over the rabble around him and thinking about what the Harrowmaster had provided him with.  „More like a leaping from a spire and learning to fly on the way down.“

 

Cyrandras returned his attention to the room. No one had been killed over the last few minutes, which the Sorcerer took for a good sign. Now that the first violence had occurred, it was time  to shift it in a more productive direction. And establish some dominance.

 

He drifted forward as the Executioner spoke, making his way to the hololithic map display. His fingers played over the controls and brought up the system in question. 
 

„Ithica seems like a good place to set up a base of operations from which to strike.”

Cyrandras nodded in the direction of the tech-adept. 

“And if we  play our cards right, masking our initial operations among the void scum operating there already, we can limit exposure to Imperial responses until we have expanded our currently rather.. humble…assets.”

 

He shot a glance at the Legionaire.

 

”That is unless Lord Huron’s other interests require our operations to adhere to a stricter time table?  But I was under impression that you were stressing that our contribution has been given a certain amount of liberties, Harrowmaster? “

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"Void scum they may be, but even the most unprepossessing of pirates can be useful to the Gods." The Smiler glanced at the rogue Astartes standing about. "Even if just as cannon fodder to soak up bullets. If we are able to get some of them on our side, then we would have a useful force of pawns to distract the authorities from our true objectives."
 

He wandered to the hololith, studying its data carefully. While Ithica would be a personal pleasure, Damn those priests!, the Aurean Reach also had valuable targets to disrupt. Their current strength was lacking, so smaller targets had to be considered. 

 

"Are there any known cults in the Reach, or on Ithica II-E? Also, are there any known Rogue Traders operating in any of the systems? My skills are not as...physical as some, but I have other talents that work well with both the followers of the Eight and the high-born fools of the Imperium."

 

 

Edited September 7 by Lord_Ikka

[Mazer Rackham]

Cyrandras:

 

'Time, Sorcerer, thankfully is on our side. For now.' The Legionnaire offers a rueful shrug. 'However, that may change. Lord Blackheart is busy...arranging the board, and who knows what the tides of war will stir from the deep.'

 

Crux'as:

 

The green eyes fill with appreciation. Now here is something he wants to work with.

 

'There is a Pleasure Cult in the Reach. The usual noble debauchery, but it is rumoured - only rumoured, mind you - one of the noble house's has a daughter lost to the hedonistic path.'

 

He examines his dataslate. 'Boiling it down, Ithyca II-E is suffused with simple minded folk. Farmers, manual drudges. The Emperors' credo finds simple, stubborn hearts. I wouldn't be surprised if one of the peons was up to no good, but what information we have on it hasn't made any ripples. The disparate nature of the population keeps rioting and legal imposition low, bar the Exaectors.'

 

The Legionnaire frowns as he continues reading. 'As to Rogue Traders, I'm not sure. Void vessel deployments have confused the issue. For the right deal, some of the thieving scum could be lured in, but we don't have anything on any immediately abroad. There could be better records under lock and key at a Navy Office.'

 

Edited September 7 by Mazer Rackham

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

"I think you misunderstand my reasoning for questioning about the Rogue Traders- I don't want to ally with them, I want to be one. It would be useful to know if there are real Rogue Traders around that could pierce a disguise or deception. It wouldn't be the first time I've made a Warrant of Trade, but I would rather not have a legitimate Trader House nearby. Too close association with one of their dynasties can change the authorities' view- more scrutiny of unknown Rogue Traders, which makes my job more difficult." 

 

The Smiler paces back and forth, thinking hard. An abrupt bow to the Legionnaire and he fades back.

 

"Thank you for the information. I will think on avenues of subversion."

[Xin Ceithan]

Cyrandras

 

“The Reach is certainly a more juicy target. Access to the Administratum, that would open up the soft underbelly of the sector for all kinds of mayhem.”

 

A wave of hands brought up the system in question on the hololith.

 

“..including, most likely some juicy caches belonging to. the Ordos,“ Cyrandras thought to himself. 

 

He looked around. This operation would have been a challenge to the Onyx Lions, the infamous left hand of the Astral Claws back in the day. But for this rabble? The gods were certainly not easy to impress… 

 

But no true Astral Claw had ever backed down from a challenge.

 

“Access being the catchword here. While the pleasure cult there might be thrilled if we turn up on their doorstep with a cruiser that thinks it is a casino, the rest of the Reach might not be as welcoming.”

 

“So…” 

 

Another waving of hands returned the projection to the schematics of Ithica.

 

“This.” Cyrandras laughed. “I understand it seems a little boring. Mercantile cartels. Agriworld tithes. Stuffy priests. But all  of this creates a lot of void traffic. Which means there will be someone aiming to make a profit from it. Or sport. Or both..”

 

A pause. 

 

“In short, that means there is an abundant amount of possibilities for mobility and access options quite literally flying around there, as well as other resources we need. The fun is going to be getting a hold on it.”

 

The Sorcerer cast a glance at the Legionaire.

 

“And unless there is a pet cult of raiders standing by, we are going to need some more recent intelligence and a way to move into the system.”

 

Another glance. “I do appreciate a captive audience.”

 

“So, this what I’d suggest: Once we are in-system, we go for a minor craft of the system’s outer defence pickets, something like a system patrol boat out in the Oort Clouds. Something that won’t be missed for a while and is bored out of their senses anyway, not expecting any trouble, much less an Astartes boarding party. “

 

He laughed again.

 

“Sector system patrol patterns around the Maelstrom were last updated in mid M41 according to doctrine changes suggested to the Seqmentum Battlefleet by the honourable Lord Commander Huron of the Astral Claws to facilitate operations between the Imperial Navyand the Adeptus Astartes.”

 

Cyrandras grinned.

 

“Of course, a lot of sector fleets have returned their patrol patterns to proven and reliable doctrines nowadays, usually those from less..debatable.. sources. This being the Imperial Navy, that means their current peacetime operations are run on patterns which have either been  last updated after the 4th Quadrant Rebellion or go back to treatises by the Lord of Ultramar himself,just to be safe.” 

 

The grin widened.

 

“Which means we have a good idea what to look for and where to look for something that fits our needs. Once we have the prizeunder control, we can extract some more recent information about the set up of the system, including potential trouble spots, possible raider locations, and the like, along with some voids hardened armour, naval uniforms. And at best, we get a small craft that travel into the system and open up further acquisitions from there.”