[BC] The Blackest Heart (Part II) (IC)

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

Xerxes staggered from the transport, perhaps more attune with the energies or perhaps simply better insulated in his forewarned wariness. "Secure the servitors", he waved an arm in the direction of the hangar crew as he made what speed he could towards the inner decks hoping that the astartes that had run ahead would lead him to the bridge.

 

The machine spirit of a vessel such as this would be stubborn beyond measure but even so he must be sure that nothing of the Brimstone had found a home here.

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

"Do we wish to negotiate in truth, or lure them closer for more...intimate negotiations?" 

 

The Smiler looked around at the damaged bridge and the battered survivors of the asteroid base. Not exactly promising, but there still were Astartes alive and those happened to be monstrously good at boarding actions.

 

"I believe we will need to use non-visual vox communications, but luckily we have enough damage that it is quite believable. Shall I answer?"

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga snorted. The mortals truly had no understanding of war. A single demi-squad of Astartes did not balance being outnumbered six ships to one. One battered scow at that.

 

“Right now, ‘intimate negotiations’ will get us all killed," he replied. "Answer, but tread carefully. Find out who this White Tigress serves. Find out what she wants, and what she can provide for us.”

 

[Xin Ceithan]

Rakash

“Good thinking. “

 

The Sorcerer nodded in agreement. 

 

“I’d say we keep  this one crisp and courteous. Audio only. Let’s get them talking.  See if we can get an idea of their intentions and disposition early on.”

 

Rakash cast his gaze around.
 

“Do not mention Lord Huron or anything related to our allegiance at this point. They might believe us for some band of raiders or  such and given the state of this hulk, we could easily claim to have been cast adrift in the Warp and been stranded here by chance. Or we might stretch our achievements here  and claim to have banished that Xenos thing at Brimstone to negotiate from a position of perceived strength, even if we claim to have suffered in the effort. But we that can come later. “

 

He paused, took a breath, then continued.
 

“At this moment, our greatest advantage is that we have a force of Astartes at our disposal. We should keep that fact from them for as long as possible. It will put them off balance if we negotiate and we shall cast them in the void if we are forced into a fight.”

 

Cyrandras looked at each of the Corsairs, holding their gaze. He felt a spark of the old fire rising in him. He raised his voice, making sure to heard over the din of the bridge’s activity. 

 

”Because that is what we are. We are Space Marines!  But most of all - “he paused for effect- “  we are all … Corsairs! We belong to the Void and the Void belongs to us! “

 

Another short pause, but Rakash didn’t wait for a response. He turned to Crux’as.

 

”So lure them in. Bait them closer. Invite them in. We will be e ready for them.”

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

"Of course." Crux'as bowed slightly to the large Astartes leader and sorcerer. "I will do my best."

 

Cor'gail, watch my words and smooth their minds. Bring us prey.

 

He moved to the vox station and ordered the sweating junior officer to open a link to the Argent Requiem, voice only. His voice reached out, only slightly pompous, reminding those listening of an upper-level bureaucrat, self-important but still mildly competent in his specific function. The kind of voice that was terror on the lower castes and cutting to social inferiors, though susceptible to flattery, and more often, bribes to calm the waters and cut through the red tape. 

 

"Greetings Seneschal. Apologies for only being able to communicate by audio, but as you are no doubt able to see our ship has suffered some injuries. Nothing to worry about, I assure you, but slightly inconvenient nonetheless. I am Senior Factor Crux'as, Master of Supply and trade supervisor of the cruiser Dredge. We would gladly open up trade with your great Lady."
 

The Smiler paused slightly, then continued in a smooth tone. 

 

"Alas, we have only recently arrived in the sector and do not have a full accounting of the great powers therein. Would it trouble you to explain your mistress' place exactly? The Dredge is on a mission of...an exploratory nature and information of this nature is vital. We can, of course, compensate your generosity of spirit by making any trading much more...equitable."

[Mojake]

Varne

 

The former Doom Eagle finished scraping a chunk of gore from the corner of his helmet's eye lens, then looked up - or across, in the case of the mortals - from his perch at the motley band of Corsairs around him. A thought struck him.

 

Once the Smiler's reply had broadcast, Varne looked to Hagga and Rakash. "Perhaps we should mention our complement of trans-humans. Currently, we appear weak, a prospective scrap-haul target. Tell them we have astartes aboard, maybe they'll aid us in exchange for a favour that mortals cannot provide."

 

His eyes lingered for a moment on Ukalegon's tail, "perhaps we should not mention the nature of our trans-human complement," he added, offering the Lamenter a grin.

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'as:
 

+A pleasure, Senior Factor, of course,+ Strabo replies, devoid of any such sentiment whatsoever. +For someone so recently arrived, it would be my privilege to acquaint you with the economical, social, and political landscape of these hinterlands.+

 

There is a short pause.

 

+Perhaps, however, you could advise why your vessel is marred by the impacts of Imperial gunnery, carries minimal lifesigns for her expected displacement, is missing several megatonnes of her midships, and why your prow seems to be exploring in two different directions?+

 

Before you can reply, he laughs harshly, and steps right back in.

 

+No, Senior Factor, I will spare myself the insult. Our augurs are the best that money can buy. You are either fugitives, scavengers, or worse - and exactly what my Mistress requires, hence her interest.+

 

His tone hardens.

 

+Or, we can look elsewhere, and leave you to your...exploring...unmolested.+

 

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Rykaz found the man's smug tone irritating.

 

We've six Astartes here... that's enough to take a Cruiser? If we hit the big one first, take out their command, the others might surrender? If we could just get close enough to get aboard…

 

He sighed. No chance. If they made any move towards assault range, the Trader fleet would blow them away immediately.

 

“Ask what she wants,” he grumbled, “and what she’s offering in return.”

 

Edited February 27 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: Ok, with the way the wind in blowing in the IC/OOC amongst Players, I am going to wrap this up now, and dodge the back and forth you'd basically have in conversation and get to the meat.

 

The Dredge (Bridge):

 

Seneschal Strabo responds to Crux'as query with calm precision, coming to the point quickly.

 

+I appreciate the admission, it does make things simpler. I am empowered to make the following engagement: my Mistress has been wronged by one of her rivals in the territory which is hers by right of arms, and by writ of charter. However, she is...indisposed to effect correction on her own efforts. She requires you to destroy the holdings of this...contender without any connection to herself.+

 

+We will take possession of your craft wholly and severally, excepting your serfs and possessions, and turn the scow into scrap. To compensate you for your aid, and indeed the loss of your...multi-directional...exploration..vessel,+ he breaks off to almost chew the chuckle from his mouth, +we shall provide you with a recent acquisition to our fleet through a...third party: an Iconoclast Raider, of reasonable temperament and capability.+

 

+Further, we offer trade lines for servicing and procurement - although sector prices being what they are...we cannot lower any rate.+

 

You can feel the effected, 'helpless' shrug.

 

+We will leave the co-ordinates of the vessel with you. Of course, you may pursue the agreement as you see fit, and do as you will in the mean time - but now this brokerage has been made we expect discretion and completion. Should you decide otherwise, well...+

 

At this, the augur officers report the fleet powering up, and they cruise to within hololithic plot. The screen displays the ships in their full glory. The capital vessel providing the necessary dramatic undertone to the unspoken threat.

 

The Argent Requiem is stunning. It is wrought and replete with silver-gold crest and escutcheons, with the dynastic arms upon them, and the prow refurnished from whatever was once there into a giant, roaring tiger's head. Each panel is painted in alabaster or alborite, and her lines are unmistakeable to any Space Marine. It lacks the heavy armour, the Aquillas, or any Imperial signification or adherence, but it is a Strike Cruiser.

 

At least, of that lineage.

 

Those of the Deathwatch would know this beast - a rare animal indeed, a ship built for the Adeptus Arbites, to root out pirates and ne'er-do well's in the darkest haunts of the galaxy. How the White Tigress came by such a ship is a mystery, but to doubt your eyes to it's reality is madness. It is glorious. Alongside, you see Falchion-class frigates, and the Corvettes, all maintaining fleet security. Waves of strike craft fly close by, on close support duty.

 

The co-ordinates log into your navigational cogitator, and just like that, the White Tigress is gone, parting company with you - for now.

 

GM: And that's a wrap!

 

Thank you everyone for playing, participating and reading along with us so far. I direct you now to shout up in the OOC, where I field queries if you've got 'em, or discuss future options as you want 'em.

 

 

+ END OF PART ONE+

 

Edited March 5 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan 

 

He had waited at the back of the bridge of the Dredge, at an Engineseer Station to observe. 

 

As he waited he jacked in and initiated a minimal recharge cycle. He could do stealth, interact with the Servitor staff whilst the crew got on with their tasks. 

 

He'd watched the whole exchange as he had noted the armour damage of the Thrice Dead and the Heart-eater. 

 

He could feel the hate flowing from the Anointed.

 

He's going to need a new Helm! 

 

He knew that the arming serfs would take care of Hagga. 

 

 

He listened to the ship and it's schemes. He was tolerated in his position of observation. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited March 7 by Machine God
Placeholder filled

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

After leaving the bridge, Hagga removed his helm and took a deep breath of stale ship-air, thoughtfully running his fingers through the tangled mass of his hair and beard. He'd need to trim it, else it might soon interfere with his armour's seal integrity. He looked down at the battered warplate, scoured and scorched by dust and fire, scratched and pitted by claws and bullets. The silver-blue of the Executioners was almost impossible to see. It would need repainting… but could he really still claim ownership of his former Chapter's colours?

 

More importantly, considering the actions he was now being forced to - targeting loyal Imperial subjects and worlds - by Huron's orders and this accommodation with the ‘White Tigress’... would the Executioners want to be associated with Hagga Rykaz…?

 

 

A day or two(?) later (and after victuals):

 

“Get it over with,” Hagga snarled angrily.

 

The serfs of the Dredge's meager Armoury edged forward and began their work. A few of their number chanted or swung incense burners as the rest toiled. To Rykaz, the ritual process felt utterly familiar, but also… this time… utterly wrong.

 

Piece by slow piece, he took back the weight of his wargear - each section and plate no longer coloured in the bright metallics of the Executioners, but in the deep, matte crimson of Huron's Corsairs. One shoulder pad was decorated with the Blackheart's claw, but the other bore a pair of bronze, single-headed axes back to back upon a sable shield.

 

Next, the mortals brought him his furs and chainmail, along with all the other little honours and trinkets he had gathered over the years, as well as the pouches and belts that carried the various tools of his trade. Then his weapons. His bolter holstered across the small of his back. Plasma pistol on his hip. Lastly, Heart-Eater's long sheath was attached to his sword belt on the opposite side.

 

When the serfs finally finished, except for the beaked MkVI helm still held by their chief, Hagga looked down at himself. All was as it had been, except for the deep red colour. He felt as though he had been drenched… no, drowned… in blood and gore.

 

…or maybe baptised?

 

Eska, lolling to one side of the firelit Forge, let out a quiet woof that seemed to suggest approval. Hagga snorted at the thought. Foolishness.

 

Still… there was something… powerful... about it…

 

Something…

 

He felt the atmosphere of the dark chamber begin to change. It happened with blinding speed, but at the same time, time itself seemed to slow to an agonising pace, making hours of fractions of a second. It was a sudden thunderstorm moving in. Heavy, potent, filled with pressure. Almost like the hangar back on Huron's Avenger, when the feeling of something… vast… something beyond… had pushed against the thin cloth of the physical universe. But now its nature was very different. A deeper darkness. The tang of spilled blood in the air. Anger. Pure, unbridled anger. Infectious. Hagga suddenly wanted to kill something. Anything.

 

At the same moment, the Executioner felt a… scratching… a heat… where the gorget of his plastron encircled his neck. Rising. Hotter. He snarled. That hurt. What had the damn fools done to his warplate? Sabotage? An assassination attempt? He lashed out convulsively, but the mortals had already fallen back from the sudden heat. Where was it coming from? The nearby forges seemed cool by comparison.

 

With a resounding roar of pain and anger, Hagga dropped to his knees, yanking and tearing ineffectively at the collar that was now blazing hot and smoking, wisps of red and black and metallic sparks drifting away from it. No. Not drifting away, being pulled in from… somewhere else…? Building up, gathering against his gorget like grains of sand piling up against a wall.

 

He heard a voice, though he would never be sure if he heard it aloud or only in his mind, a guttural, animalistic snarl.

 

Warrior, you are MINE.

 

For a few long moments Hagga thought he would pass out - from the heat, or the pain, or the staggering battle-lust that filled every fibre of his being, or the dark pressure exerted by a power utterly beyond his understanding.

 

It was suffocating… and yet intoxicating. Hagga let out another bellowing roar, somewhere between agony and fury and joy.

 

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The rageful presence relented, for now. The desire to wage war, to slaughter all his foes, faded… somewhat… or at least returned to a normal level for an Astartes. The heat dropped too - not gone entirely, an odd warmth still detectable around his neck.

 

Hagga's fingers ran their way slowly around the curving edge of his gorget. It had… changed? It felt thicker, more solid, and much higher, almost as high as if he had been wearing a plastron of rare MkVIII plate. Metallic rather than ceramite. It was of one solid piece, and he was suddenly certain that it would make removing the breastplate impossible without first removing his head. He felt short spikes all around the edge. And there, centrally positioned atop the front of his breastplate, something was sculpted or embossed. A small, angular shape.

 

Breathing raggedly, he managed to regain his feet and stumbled across the arming chamber to where a crudely made mirror stood. The glass was pitted and scratched, but it did the job, allowing him to examine his armour more closely.

 

Hagga could see that he was now wearing a collar, like that worn by a slave. Or a beast, like Eska. Dark brass, its simple thickness and solidity denying the fact that it had not been there a few moments earlier. Seven identical spikes, short and sharp, extended like compass points from its perimeter. At the very front, where an eighth spike should have been, was the icon. Hagga knew it, both from his hypno-indoctrination into the Executioners Chapter, and vaguely from his life before that.

 

An accursed, shameful, forbidden symbol, the use of which had brought total destruction to more than one clan of Stygia over the millennia, by their neighbours or even by their Astartes overlords. It was the symbol of the Black Headsman. The War-bringer. The Slaughterer of Worlds. The Chaos God Khorne.

 

Part of Hagga wanted to weep. Another, smaller part wanted to exult in the power he had momentarily felt, but he buried that deep. For long seconds he stared, unmoving, at the monstrous addition to his wargear.

 

“I am no-one's slave,” he muttered softly.

 

Behind him, a mortal throat coughed and Hagga turned to look. Upon his knees, head down, arms raised, the armouring chief held out a rounded object in both hands, offering it up for the Executioner to take. It was not his MkVI helm.

 

“Lord of War…,” the man whispered fearfully, “I do not think the Corvus pattern will mount in proper alignment with… your new gift. We do not have many pieces of power armour here to choose from, but there is this?”

 

It was another Astartes helm. Black rather than crimson, with ice blue eye lenses. The upper part of it was similar, but where the beaked tip had extended on Hagga's own headgear, this one instead had a much flatter faceplate, a knightly visor reminiscent of a sailing ship's broad prow. The colour and shape made him wonder if it might have once belonged to one of his kinsmen of the Black Templar Chapter?

 

Regardless of its origin, it should fit better behind the high brass collar. He took this final piece and donned it. After the power supply from his backpack connected, and the various systems of his armour successfully integrated with those within the helm, he grunted a reply.

 

“It will do.”

 

He had far bigger concerns to consider. He needed time to think.

 

And then he needed to talk to Ukalegon.

 

Edited March 7 by Lysimachus

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

He'd never been on the Dredge before, and he was beginning to wish that he'd never have to serve on it ever again.  It had been two days since the envoy from the White Tigress had offered them ownership of a corvette, and despite the dramatic size differential, Obi was now itching to jump ship to the Iconoclast.  This cruiser was three-quarters of the way to being an airless hulk.  Most of the ship's plasma batteries were inoperable, and ammunition levels for the point defense clusters were dangerously low.  In fact, supplies of all kinds were hard to find.  The hydro-recycling system was more ad hoc replacement than original, so the water was filled with mineral grit and tasted of lead and copper.  Food was mostly rehydrated gruel; that in and of itself was not so strange on a void ship of any size, but the mess team's attempts to..."spice it up a little" was the term the head cook had used...had put fifteen men in the ruin that passed for an infirmary.  Obi's preomnor made him immune to the illness afflicting the crew as a result of that "spice," but he'd still spat the mush out.  In addition to being life-threatening, it also tasted terribly.

 

The ship had been in the service of an Astartes force for long enough to have some of its cabins converted over to house someone of a Space Marine's size and needs.  He'd found one such cabin and staked it out for his own use.  The bed, such as it was, was long enough for him to recline completely without his feet dangling off the edge -- though barely.  One wall had been carved away so that two cabins were mostly one large room, and the second half was set up as an arming chamber.  He'd found pinions in the wall to display his weapons and wargear, and at some point the previous occupant had even had an armor rack constructed.  Getting in and out of his warplate by himself was something of a chore, but he'd managed it before.  Inasmuch as he valued mortals and had grown comfortable enough in their presence, he disliked being vulnerable around them.  He'd refused help from Chapter serfs back on Endymion all the time; it had ruffled his sergeant's feathers enough that a servitor had been given over to him for use instead.  Especially here, now, considering who he was surrounded by?  A shiver went through Obadiah as he imagined what a heretic mortal would think just looking at him out of his armor, much less bedding down for rest.  Like you look at everything: gauging for weaknesses.

 

For now, he just sat on the reinforced steel frame that was his bed and passed a buffing cloth over the soft green and yellow of his Mk.VII helmet.  He'd buffed the scratches out of the paint from the hammer-blow he'd taken to the temple -- and contusion had of course already healed up -- and now he was mostly trying to work out some of the dings from the rockfall.  He'd avoided most of the collapse, but the flip part of that had been throwing himself out the door of the chamber so his power pack, pauldrons, and helmet had all gotten scratched up a little.  Renegade he may be, but he still took pride in his wargear.  Take care of your equipment, the voice of Sergeant Jahns echoed to him from across the decades, and your equipment will take care of you.

 

He inspected his handiwork and gave a non-committal grunt.  There was a gouge in the paint on the front of the helmet, starting above the right lens and crossing vertically down onto the "cheek" of the faceplate.  He'd known, looking at it, that there was no way he'd be able to repair it.  The olive-drab his Chapter used was not commonly found, it would seem, even among Guard and Navy forces.  He looked down at the small rattle-can of paint he'd absconded with.  He picked it up too, and pursed his lips.  He'd put the crimson saltires on his greaves, though that hadn't been enough for the Tyrant.  He'd slashed out his squad markings on his right pauldron too, as instructed, though he'd steadfastly refused to cross out the Mantis Warrior insignia on his left.  It had been in his opinion enough desecration of his Chapter's identity.

 

So when he sprayed a solid coat of red into that gouge across his eye lens, he did so with clenched teeth and a sneer.  It was as if a small voice in the back of his head was laughing at him.  The Archenemy, it seemed, was going to claim him one piece at a time.

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

He paced back and forth in what passed for the astromancer’s observatory aboard their rotten scow of a ship, bathed in the dim light of distant stars. The silence was a blessing. He had avoided the others since the rogue trader contacted them, seeking solitude and time for contemplation. The beast in his breast needed to be tamed, controlled.

 

A memory from his past consumed him.

 

+++

 

"The Knight of Swords, reversed.”

 

The image of the card from the Emperor's Tarot was still burned into his mind, along with the finality of Arcturion’s pronouncement on the eve of what would later be recorded as the Battle of Optera, and the Lamenters’ final engagement of the Badab Schism before surrendering to the Minotaurs. 

 

It was an ill omen.

 

Ukalegon had swallowed and met his older brother's icy gaze. Arcturion had always been strange, even as a boy. One touched by the skeins of fate, he had been regularly wracked by portents of doom, and his gloomy outlook had not improved in the years since being transfigured and inducted into the librarius.

 

"Surely it is just-”

 

"It is fate, brother. The Emperor's Tarot does not lie. It does, however, require interpretation..." 

 

Arcturion leaned back against the bulkhead where he had propped his enormous sword, Doombringer, and his sunken eyes, those of a man who rarely knew untroubled sleep, seemed even more hooded and tired in the shadow of his psychic hood.

 

He surveyed the cards arrayed before him again, his gaze lingering upon the final one.

 

"I see… I see great peril for you, brother, perhaps fatal. It is unclear when this danger will befall you. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps many days from now, perhaps a year.”

 

His brother, his blood-brother, the psyker, pursed his lips and pointed to two other cards, the Tower and Death, then pushed them forward with his index fingers.

 

“Doom, death, ill fortune, pain. Your aggression and wrath are your undoing. But… Perhaps, this is a moment of change. A death and… rebirth?" 

 

The question lingered on the incense smoke-choked air of the librarium. Ukalegon could almost make out coherent shapes in the eddies and whorls of the effluvium, collapsing and reforming faster than sense could be made of them.

 

Arcturion’s eyes rolled back in his head as prophecy suddenly gripped him.

 

"A garden of swords. The path is narrow and lined with razors. You are gored by a bull and touched by a woman whose body is light, but healed in waters dark as the void. You…”

 

Ukalegon looked on, eyes wide.

 

“What…?” 

 

His question came out as barely a whisper.

 

“You emerge a twisted beast, bathed in blood. No longer a man, a slave, a monster. You travel amongst strangers down dark roads. You are borne aloft on mantle sable…" 

 

His brother’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled back, and he blinked away tears and welling blood in equal measure.

 

“You climb a tower that reaches high into the heavens. It… tumbles and collapses when you reach its zenith.”

 

A look of great unease creased Arcturion’s haggard features, and his chest heaved from the exertion of channeling the vision. His right eye wept a single drop of rapidly coagulating blood. He rose unsteadily and gathered up the cards and grabbed his sword, slinging it over one shoulder by the scabbard’s strap.

 

"Take care, brother. Do not fear, it was just one path, and we do not know its meaning. I... must see to my duties as thee to thine. Death approaches…”

 

+++

 

Ukalegon’s ears picked up the heavy and unsubtle footfalls of a huge, armoured warrior approaching, interrupting his reverie and rumination. He turned and his hand brushed the hilt of his chainsword. The figure soon resolved and emerged from the gloom. 

 

It was Hagga.

 

He was… changed. No longer did he bear the gun metal colour of the Executioners. He had been anointed in the colours of the Tyrant, and with a new, baroque helm held in one hand, one which evoked the image of a crusading knight.

 

Ukalegon, similarly unhelmed, couldn't help but offer a wan smile and dipped his head in greeting. He felt half-embarassed by his own cracked and sand-blasted armour, which he had not bothered to have repainted as of yet. The top half still bore the partially ablated colours of Huron Blackheart, while the bottom half was now largely a faded and weathered yellow with black-and-white chequered blocks on one leg. He was in a sorry state, a man both outwardly and inwardly at war with himself.

 

Then he noticed the bronze band which gripped the Executioner's throat like a noose. His eyes widened.

 

What in the name of…

 

His eyes fell upon the rune of power amidst the spikes. The symbol of war, violence, murder, blood.

 

He froze and his thoughts immediately flashed to his armoured tail, his mutation. His own flesh which had been violated, tainted, corrupted.

 

The collar was plain as day about his friend’s throat. The mark of a slave. His gaze lingered a few heartbeats too long upon the bronze band, before he recovered his composure.

 

Hagga had been marked. Bound. Chosen.

 

What devil’s bargain had his friend struck? Had a bargain been struck at all?

 

Neither of them had emerged unscathed from their sojourn under the Tyrant’s banner. Both had been shackled by their weaknesses, cursed to submit to the reality of their existence.

 

Arcturion’s words all seemed oddly prescient now, and filled him with dread.

 

“Well met, Hagga. What brings you here?”

Edited March 6 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Xerxes

 

A raider in exchange for a cruiser, a fools bargain by any measure but the tyrant had not seen fit to leave them with crew nor time to forge servitors enough to compensate. And now another would be tyrant... how quickly allegiances shift.

 

Little consequence to himself as one master or another was just as the governor of an world he might have sought shelter on, a distant figure to appease as they stood between him and the dictates of the Imperium upon his work. And what work it had become as he sorted through recordings and remnants of recovered servo-constructs to learn more of the xenos and their technologies, that even at a distance had lain waste to the workings of the mechanicum and made mockery of its superiority.

 

Of course he had no such illusions that the devices the Martian council allowed into the hands of others were the height of their knowledge but still the gap was vast and, curiously, somewhat familiar in its nature. The Imperium were clearly aware of these xenos and had devised means to hide and placate them within the brimstone suggesting that the mechanicus wielded far more of their secrets than would be prudent to admit.

 

 

But such speculations could not be proven with the equipment he had. The new vessel would provide adequate space to re-establish the forge but it was likely woefully inadequate in capacity for his needs, though the call to arms upon the distant world was opportunity and the doubtless clumsy raiding that would follow would serve to hide his presence from those that would follow.

 

Preparation would be key for his new 'companions' would not pass for long with equipment allowed to stray so far from Imperial standards, and the beastman would quickly join his ilk in the history books if discovered. For all the fascination of the xenotech his time must be prioritised for now.

Edited March 7 by A.T.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

“Brother Ukalegon…”

 

Hagga paused, looking up for a moment into the starlight, uncomfortable. It was an unnatural feeling, one he didn't like. He forced himself onwards.

 

“I am glad to see you, brother. Firstly, I am grateful for the rescue from Brimstone,” he offered gruffly. “Secondly… I fear I have dishonoured you, and for that I must make amends.”

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Dishonour… Ah…

 

His tail coiled and uncoiled around his left greave.

 

Ukalegon straightened, his demeanour turning more stern. This was a serious matter for the Stygian, and not one that he had necessarily overlooked himself. The rescue had been utterly insane but necessary in the grand scheme. Warriors of Hagga’s temperament and calibre were hard to come by amongst the dregs employed by the Tyrant, to whom Ukalegon had so willingly pledged his service upon his resurrection. But to coldly abandon an oath-sworn brother…

 

“I see.”

 

He paced back and forth in front of Hagga, his brow knotted in contemplation. He believed he understood why Hagga would have left in disgust following his transfiguration. He was still half-disgusted with himself, that he had allowed such spiritual rot to take root that his flesh would be warped by it. But this was the path his brother had foreseen; he had been fated to tread it, for good or ill.

 

Now he needed Hagga’s bond more than ever, just as Hagga needed his. That the strong are strongest when alone held truth, but one would be a fool to discard a necessary and valuable alliance, even friendship. But that burgeoning friendship had changed, in much the same and the unsubtle way that the elder things that lurked within the Warp had marked them both.

 

He looked up again and met Hagga’s gaze, controlling the sudden fury that swelled in his breast, not so much at the Executioner, but at fate, causality, the galaxy itself, everything that had led him to this point.

 

No, he still respected the Stygian, and valued their bond, even as he was galled anew by the fact that he, once again, had thrown himself selflessly into the fray for others who possibly saw him as just another soldier, a disposable asset. Their relationship was going to take on a new dimension, for better or worse.

 

"Hagga of Stygia, you have dishonoured yourself and an oath-sworn brother, with whom you have shed blood in battle," he growled through fanged teeth. "But," he continued after a pause, "you have approached me, forthrightly and man-to-man." 

 

As a token of good will, or perhaps as a test, he would place the ball in Hagga’s court. He rested his gauntlets upon the pommels of the blades hung upon his belt, and held Hagga in his steely gaze.

 

The next he uttered scarcely above a whisper, his scarred but handsome features offering no mirth.

 

"For this… slight, what would your people, the tribesmen of Stygia, demand as just recompense?" 

Edited March 6 by Necronaut

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh had been busy, but he abhorred stagnation.  He had made it through quarantine went relatively smooth.  Atesh saw several mutants ushered through, and was confused about what they were looking for.  Strangely, his hosts did not explain much. 

 

Atesh needed to eat.  Atesh needed a weapon.  Atesh needed medication for whatever had happened to his face during the lost time.

 

What had started as an ache that echoed blows to his face had quickly focused to a point behind and above his hard palate.  The pain increased hourly, until Atesh was wailing and in the fetal position in a lost and empty chamber he had commandeered below the Astartes' decks.  He was clearly in a vulnerable spot, but at this point he cared not. 

 

He had originally thought himself blessed when he'd realized he had survived several close calls in the last day.  Breaking free from Pe…the Crow's Eye…and then face-to-face with xenos that had taken the head from the menial who had gotten them off-planet…fate had truly watched out for Atesh, it had seemed. 

 

The pain blossomed again, interrupting his thoughts as blood started pouring from Sapik's nose. He screamed out in pain until his lungs had expelled their contents.  Even after he felt them empty, a high-pitched scream echoed throughout the halls.

 

Atesh felt his face crack slightly below his nose.  The bone fractured where it never had.  He felt as though his face bisected and a blade burst forward, spraying his teeth and more blood from his mouth. 

 

Sapik scrabbled on the floor waiting for the pain in his face to pass.

 

He must have fallen asleep because when he woke, he noticed that the healed injuries from his rage were discolored and glowing slightly.  He stood and shook his robe off, shifting a number of downy black and blue feathers that disappeared as they hit the floor.  It must have been a few days since his last memory, as the blood had crusted and dried around him on the filthy decking and his face. He eventually came across a reflective surface, and coughed out discordant laughter somewhere between a goat's bray and a raven's quork at his new face.

 

*****

 

Since then, Atesh had spent time scavenging the Dredge, finding a flak jacket and more odd rags to cover his face when necessary.  Luckily, his years traveling the wilds between the murder of his tribe and his time among the Corpse-zealots prison-cage….penal colony….had taught him several skills with languages and deceit.  Hiding his beak and other features was not a development for which he was completely unprepared, though he felt weakened somehow by his blessings. 

 

A small price to pay for the power the Warp allowed him. 

 

He had eventually crossed paths with the two-headed man from his vision. The man….Xerxes*…was not merely a lordly scrap collector. He would make use out of materials that other crazed rustmen, though Xerxes seemed to prefer the term 'hair uh tek', merely hoarded. 

 

As Atesh left his claimed sanctuary to meet the Xerxes, he saw a laspistol on an empty table outside a makeshift tavern frequented by other mortals.  There was a trail of dark liquid from an overturned table that led to a side corridor.  Atesh quickly secreted the pistol in his rags, popped some questionable meat down his gullet quickly, and continued on to his meeting with the scrap collec---Xerxes, who'd, roughly paraphrased, stated there was work to be had in the gods' service.

 

 

 

*He found the name supremely hard to say at first with his new protuberance, but Atesh remembered talking birds in migrant caravans back on Crow's Eye their strange vocalizations without closing their beak. He eventually figured how to make himself understood in spite of additional tics

Edited March 7 by FabiusV4lcoran
Added in food and rest language

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga frowned. Anger bubbled beneath the surface, not truly with the Lamenter, but with the slaver's collar that had been imposed upon him. Hagga Rykaz was a free man! He did his best to quash the fury so that he could respond mildly.

 

“Stygian custom is simple,” he grunted. “If wrong is done, blame accepted, and apology offered, then one has two options. The first, to accept the admission of fault and the apology. If so, the wrong is forgotten as if it had never occurred, and you are brothers once again. The second is to not accept the other's word, and demand the satisfaction of combat. Usually, to the death. To live or die is nothing compared to honour or dishonour.”

 

It was a simple way, obvious to even a child of the tribes, but he was unsure if the other Astartes, an outsider, fully understood. Offering amends by accepting the fault, by publicly admitting one's own dishonour, was in itself the greatest recompense one could make, far more than any other penance that could be laid upon you. If it was not enough, if the matter could not be put to rest, then lifeblood must be spilled.

 

But that would be a poor outcome. He must try again, to offer an explanation for his actions that the Lamenter might understand.

 

“I would prefer it not to come to that. What I say now, I don't say because of… this thing.”

 

He tapped the brass slave's collar around his neck. He knew the Lamenter had seen it, and understood what it was. He wished he'd had the opportunity - made the opportunity - to speak these words before he'd been imprisoned by the hateful device. They might have meant more then. But he still had to try.

 

“It’s been in my mind for some days. This… collar… has only convinced me further.”

 

He paused again.

 

“I think you understood my first reaction to your… changes? Among the Imperials, among our Chapters, we saw these things as monstrous, unclean, a curse of Chaos… but… maybe I was wrong to hold too tightly to such a view? I won't say that these things are ‘gifts’, as some of Huron's scum would claim. They aren't, and we both know it… but perhaps they can still be seen as badges of honour?”

 

The Assault Marine looked somewhat nonplussed, so Hagga hurried on.

 

“I've been thinking on the words of my… of the Executioners’ Deathspeakers, and of the Primarch Dorn; Duty. Honour. Resolve. Endurance. Each of us are here serving Huron for our own reasons, but we all do what we think is right. We keep to our oaths, and because of that, we are here…” Hagga held his arms wide, gesturing at the ramshackle vessel around them. “...in a place where there is a real risk of being… affected… by such things. You. Me. Any of us. I suspect it will continue. Maybe even worsen… But I do not care. I will stand. I will do what is right, what is honourable, regardless of the horrors that the warp inflicts upon me. I will endure.”

 

He stepped closer. His anger was rising, thinking about the warp deities who afflicted them so carelessly, and it added heat to his voice.

 

“We can do this together, brother! Let them all look upon each and every stain and scar and indignity that the Dark Gods impose upon our broken bodies… and let them know that no matter what trial is forced upon us, we are still here! Still doing what we know is right! Our heads are held high. They can torment and twist our flesh, but our hearts are true.”

 

He pointed suddenly to the tail hanging from the Lamenter's back, and back up to the filthy slaver's collar that imprisoned him.

 

“I have realised that these are a mark of honour, Ukalegon, and I’ll hear no other bloody word on that matter. I will again admit that I was wrong to react as I did at first, to leave you to deal with it alone, and I offer heartfelt apologies. It is now up to you whether to accept it or not.”

 

 

 

Edited March 6 by Lysimachus

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Crux'as lounged in what remained of the officer's wardroom. Things were looking up, as the cell had both the offer from the Tigress and a...bounty of targets to go after nearby. He wasn't too worried about losing or replacing the Dredge if it came to that, it was merely a way to get from place to place and project power after all. A smaller ship could do much the same, but faster. Well, he wasn't a soldier or warrior, so the minor differences of the type of ship they used meant little to him.

 

What did intrigue him was the Rogue Trader and her plans. They were an interesting group, Rogue Traders, full of arrogance and power. Depending on the circumstances and demeanor, they could be anything from a fanatical, militant Imperialist who conquered new planets by force to a sneaky, subtle businessman on the lookout for the best deal. The Smiler wondered what the Tigress was looking for and why she would employ such a nefarious group as themselves. The easiest answer is that the Dredge's....dregs, were disposable cannon fodder used to accomplish a goal while being untraceable to their employer. After all, a group of the Blackheart's followers raiding was fairly typical behavior so most authorities would not probe any further than that. 

 

Anyway, while speculating was a good diversion, true planning was required for what came next. They were planning on hitting the agri-planet before going to accomplish what the Tigress required. They needed more information about Bounty, specifics on where the armory was and how the foodstuff was stored, what the guard rotations were and the best way to get in and out of areas, what locals could be turned to the Lords of the Ether's cause. That sort of thing would be easier for mortals to accomplish- it seemed that having massive Astartes try to sneak about and acquire information from locals was not their specialty. The Smiler would take the lead, charming and lying his way through the locals. He would have backup, with the soldier Tarh and the heretek Xerxes accompanying him, as well as the newer member Atesh. The psyker had been glimpsed earlier, having received a "blessing" of sorts that would make it easier to deal with mutants, but might make Imperial authorities a mite unhappy. Still, the Twister of Paths had given his favor and Crux'as would not be unhappy that a fellow traveler gained some glory. 

 

The smile grew wide and deep. There were good times coming.

 

Those above us, see our actions that bring you glory. Enjoy the show and souls that will come your way.

[Xin Ceithan]

Rakash 

 

Placeholder 

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

The few hours of sleep was welcome, and Obadiah woke up feeling...refreshed was the wrong word.  Rested?  Maybe.  He scrubbed his face with his hands and blinked away the last of his bleeriness.  The peace of the catalepsean node was over; it was time to get back to business.

 

First, he slipped into his bodyglove.  The fabric stretched easily over his hyper-muscular physique, form-fitting to its contours.  He shifted it in places to ensure that the ports of his black carapace stuck through the appropriate grommets.  Then came the ceramite.  The boots were next.  His toes went into the "shoe" of the sandal-shaped ceramite, the heel pressed down until it slotted into the back.  The rise of the boot attached to that; the greaves would come later.  Step by step, piece by piece, he armored himself.  Greaves, cuisses, plastron, back-plate, rerebraces, vambraces, all slotted together and screwed in tight.  With each new piece attached, he could feel the sharp pressure of the input/output jacks sliding into the ports on his skin.  It was an old feeling that he knew well, but it was never comfortable.

 

Getting his power pack mounted by himself was more of a challenge than any other part of the armor.  Anyone watching might have laughed at the absurdity of it.  He laid it down on the ground, sat next to it, and leaned back and wiggled his torso until he could feel the spike-connectors snag.  Then he arced his back into a supine lean until the connectors latched and the system engaged.  A deep hum filled the room as the nuclear pile within warmed to its purpose.  He could feel the tingle as the connections to his black carapace activated.  New strength flooded his limbs as new awareness flooded his mind.  Haptic sensors in the surface of the armored plate meant he could feel the cool air of the chamber as if it touched his skin directly.  Such a strange sensation.

 

Next, he picked up his right pauldron.  Where once he'd had his company and squad markings there, now it was a black field with a red saltire across it.  He sighed, resigned to the ignominy that seemed dictated by fate, and mounted it on his shoulder.  The left pauldron still bore the proud insectoid icon of the Mantis Warriors on a field of mustard-yellow.  He traced his bare fingers across the mantidae insignia for a moment before mounting that one too.  He pulled on his gauntlets, mag-clapped his helmet to his waist, then retrieved his cameloline cloak and wrapped that up with the quick-release.  His collection of grenades were hung from his belt, followed by his magazine pouches and pistol holster.  Silence and its sheath strapped to his breastplate, Fate's Eye hung from its sling at his side.

 

So armed and armored, he left his lonely corner of the Dredge and marched along the broken corridors until he reached the ship's bridge.  The mortals on duty came to attention when he entered, but he waved them back to their work.  He stood before the main oculus in silence, his thoughts locked behind an impassive mask, as he watched their destination creep closer.

[Mazer Rackham]

Bridge:

 

The chief comms operative reports the Dredge is receiving a signal.

 

'It registers as a salvation beacon.'

 

Edited March 7 by Mazer Rackham
Modified for presence of other players.

[Machine God]

Kraggan 

 

He observed the new blood, Obadiah enter the Bridge and he had come to attention also. Maintain the act, it was a good job that he'd maintained his rest and nutrient intake over the last two day-cycles.

 

 

 

The chief comms operative reported that the Dredge was receiving a signal.

 

'It registers as a salvation beacon.' 

 

 

He nearly brought up the last of the stale water he'd recently taken in.

 

He moved away from his station and brought his axe to readiness. 

 

Prey and acquisitions?! 

 

"What says Lord Obediah, will The Tyrant come to their aid?" 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited March 7 by Machine God
Food and Drink.

[A.T.]

Xerxes

 

A proximity signal roused Xerxes from his thoughts... perhaps dreams, perhaps fragments of the scrapcode that he had witnessed or tech-prophesies of what was to come. His attempts at rest had been restless since the destruction of the Brimstone and his days filled with effort to quarantine all information of what occured there - every servitor, ever scrap of sensor information from the dredge, devices brought aboard. The recordings he made duplicated a dozen times through filters and safeguard and yet he was unready to hear them, unsure of the potency they still carried.

 

A figure moved to stand before him, the mutant who perhaps precipitated these events for the damage to the station had not been terminal until the breach of the warp and coinciding awakening. It did not speak, perhaps unable.

 

"The astartes tell me that you are destined for the surface. Your apperance precludes such a thing."

 

The form was largely human, arms hands and fingers unchanged, and he had begun his work already upon word of their expedition. "You will wear the garb of a chirugeon corpse-taker, it is customary among the Imperium that they not remove their mask and its form should accomodate your needs. Such tools as you would need for the part I have already secured from one of the ships apothecariums, your lack of skill with them will not reveal the deception for no corpse taker is ever called upon to heal the sick."

 

Ephialtes plucked a dataslate from a nearby table and offered it to Xerxes, and on to the mutant, "study well the intonations of your role. The hood and respirator shall be no more than a hollow shell and the robes a crude facsimile." He motioned towards the ill-concealed pistol etched with an eight fold star, "and see that you dispose of that before we make landfall, I shall provide you with more fitting weaponry."

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

His head snapped to the side to gaze at the comms officer at the pronouncement.  He took a quick look around, but the shipmaster's seat was empty, and no other Astartes was present.  He grunted, wondering for a moment where Hagga was.

 

Instead, he looked at the auspex officer's station.  "Range and direction to the signal's point of origin?"

 

While waiting for the reply, he pulled his helmet on, waited for a moment for his war-plate's machine spirit to activate the helmet's systems, then blink-clicked his vox open.

 

+ Obadiah to all Astartes aboard-ship.  I'm in the bridge, and we've picked up a salvation beacon.  Still confirming if it's the Iconoclast's transponder or not. +