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

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga strode along the corridors of Brimstone, Eska padding softly beside him. The Tech-adept had apparently set up his workshop somewhere on this level, and Hagga required the use of his facilities.

 

He ran a hand over the big, rounded object hanging from his belt, caressing the hard organic ridges and troughs of it, remembering the joy he had felt on acquiring it. In his other hand, he carried a short piece of round steel, only a few feet in length, topped by a cruel looking gothic speartip - a section of metal fencing that looked as though it had been looted from an Imperial shrine. How it had come to Brimstone, Hagga didn't know, but it would do the job.

 

Eska cocked an ear, and Hagga heard it a fraction of a second later. The sounds of industry. Hammering, the crackle of forge fires. Ah, that must be it. He walked on, nodding to Xerxes as he entered the new armoury.

 

“I require the use of a welding torch, priest.”

 

It was a simple task, easily accomplished even for someone like himself without any real technical skill. And it was right to do it by his own hand, the spirits of the plains would favour it if he showed self-reliance.

 

After only a few minutes’ work, it was done. The flat, blunted end of the steel pole was firmly welded into the slot on Hagga's backpack where a standard might usually be mounted - the Executioners rarely bothered with extravagant banners.

 

The triangular spike at its top now held in place the item previously hanging from Hagga's belt, the pole passing through a hole he had carefully bored through chitin and bone with his combat knife. It grinned down from above his head with sharp fangs, a fear-inspiring visage of inhuman shape and proportions. The elongated skull of a Purestrain Genestealer.

 

The battle beside Iorek Redfang against the Patriarch and its attendant brood-warriors had been glorious. Hagga had killed the former owner of the skull in single combat, Heart-eater's flaming blade taking the beast's head as a final plaga mortifera. After the fight was over, the Wolf had wandered over, picked up the cranium, and presented it back to Hagga.

 

“Skillfully and bravely fought, lad. Your kin are skull-takers, aye…? I think this fellow a worthy trophy in your service to the Blackheart.”

 

Redfang had made a good point. It was a moment of real honour, the destruction of the Xenos here on Brimstone a true victory, unsullied by unanswerable questions about the right or wrong of his actions. It was a moment worth remembering.

 

 

 

With GM approval, Hagga spends 5 Components and Acquires a Trophy Rack (BC Core pg181).

 

NB. I know you said not to worry about rolling, Mazer, but I thought I'd chuck a roll in anyway, got an 11 so succeeds even without making any agreement with Xerxes!

 

Though looking ahead, it makes sense to have alliances between the PCs, so…

 

 

He nodded again to the strange Tech-adept as he was about to leave. He didn't trust any renegade, really, but perhaps some sort of accommodation should be reached? After all, not every task would be so easily accomplished as this one.

 

“My thanks, son of Mars.” He paused, considering the material wealth the Adept was already gaining from this venture. “If you will consent to continue as our armourer, I give oath that you will continue to be provided for from the spoils of our victories, and you will have my own protection if and when we must go into the field once more. I swear I will take no action to bring you harm, as long as your word is given in return.”

 

 

Edited February 7 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

LOCSIT: Penitence,

FAC: Dante's Barrow, x30.77, y45.90, z361m.

AUTH: ...

TIME INDEX: 1809 SOL, INCIDENT +4.5 (Hrs)

 

The shuttle engines blazed contrails into the dark, even as retinal after-images of the pursuing missiles blossomed into violet blooms of orange fire and sickly-grey smoke.

 

The expected comment, when it came from his left, was thoroughly sanguine. ‘I am amazed they succeeded.’

 

His reply was equally absent of slick rejoinder. ‘It worked, that is what matters.’

 

The light from the green sun at the heart of the Ithycan system painted his companion with verdigris wash, a bronze statue which moved in smooth, disturbing grace to face him fully, nodded. Turning, the giant watched as a man hurtled over the uneven ground to the rendezvous given, leading a small group of others. Miles from the penitentiary of Dante’s Barrow, the human had done well to cover so much distance. The labours of recruiting slaves to carry messages had paid off the gambit entirely.

 

Iorek Redfang may have approved the cunning and deception, perhaps not. ‘There is no honour in skullduggery – but there is nothing more honourable than victory!’

 

How quaint.

 

The man ceased jogging and slowly walked the rest of the way to the feet of the huge warriors garbed in the puissant warplate of ancient forges, now abandoned or lost to swirling vortices in the warp, and prostrated himself. ‘Operative 01104 reporting, my lords. I have brought others who wish to join our cause.’ It was about all he could manage.

 

‘On your feet,’ he told the criminal, albeit not unkindly. ‘Sarge, I want you to go with my brother to the exfiltration vehicle, while I debrief these others.’

 

‘Aye, lord.’

 

He waited until the asset and his colleague strode some distance, and vanished over the brow of the hill. He drew his combat knife, a blade the size of a mortal sword. It gleamed dully in the creepy green light. ‘Who is first?’ he said, chuckling, knowing it wouldn’t matter an inch.

Edited February 8 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

They had acquired quite a lot of materials in the mission, that had been catalogued and not requisitioned elsewhere or stolen from them. 

 

He and Xerxes had looked through it and he had his eyes on a couple of choice parts. 

 

 

Cautiously he approached the Space Marines.

 

"Ukalegon the Twice-Lived please excuse me. I have been going through the acquisitions and I wondered if you would like me to craft you an upgrade for your Jump Pack?" 

 

 

 

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

The first of the astartes had arrived, earlier than expected and clearly seeking to establish themselves in a position of leadership with displays of his victory here. A swift binaric instruction ensured the freshly repaired multilaser did not track the killer and test his ire.

 

A threat or demand had been expected and not a request for peace. Perhaps the astartes thought their position weak or perhaps their options were limited for there had been rumours of wild mutation and madness amongst the newer of the Tyrants recruits,

 

"My services are yours for there is an order of things. Spoils to the forge, and from such spoils the arms of war."

 

He tilted his head, "and what arms would you seek in this accord?"

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

Obi stepped out of the stolen gun cutter and into the main hangar of the Brimstone.  It was filled the expected activity of any military facility; technicians ran about reloading, refueling, and repairing a variety of aerospace craft.  As he watched a deck chief of some sort sauntered up to his gun cutter -- the Mantis Warrior's lips pulled into a tight smile as he realized he'd assumed ownership of the vessel -- and began inspecting it.

 

He ignored the mortal for now, and took a second look around.  He saw only baseline humans and a few mutants, but no fellow Astartes.  He knew there would some around here somewhere, and he couldn't suppress a bit of curiosity to learn their home Chapters.  He idly wondered if any of his fellow Mantids were here.  Steyn had defected with him to the Corsairs, but he'd been assigned elsewhere; Obi often wondered, in his idle time, where his spotter was operating.

 

He doffed his helmet and maglocked it to his side, then removed the camo cloak from around his shoulders.  He took a careful minute to roll it properly, contained with straps in such a way that a quick tug could unfurl it again quickly, then strapped it back around his gorget.  He slung Fate's Eye but left it loaded (one could never be too sure, especially considering some of the company he'd be keeping), and loosened Silence in its sheath for the same reason.

 

He idly stroked his close-cropped dark beard as he glanced around.  He turned to give Atesh and Mukta quick nods of acknowledgement and respect, then stepped off into the hangar.  He needed to find the armory.  There was some business to conduct.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon stalked the lower reaches of Brimstone, hunting. It had been some days since the strike team led by Hagga had breached the asteroid stronghold and put the brood of gene-stealers to the sword, and since Iorek had departed again with the Wolf of Fenris for parts unknown under the Tyrant’s orders. Wiping out the core of the gene-stealer infestation had broken the collective backs of aliens’ perfidious influence, but still some persisted, running, hiding. It was not the alien-human hybrid filth that concerned him or the others, but the pure-strain progeny of the Broodlord which yet clung to life and lurked in the darkest depths, which could infect Lord Huron’s slaves and start the cycle anew.

 

The flensed and polished skull of one of the hideous things clattered against his thigh plate where it was tied to his belt as he patrolled a previously unmarked tunnel, perhaps the remnants of a natural lava chute, or the product of a deranged work crew pushed beyond the brink of sanity and stamina. Wherever he was, he sensed he was drawing close to his quarry.

 

His back positively ached, and the pain had been growing progressively worse over the past few cycles. But today it was worse than before. An inspection while unarmoured by Hagga and the more sane tech-priest, Xerxes, had only yielded the diagnosis of mild inflammation most likely due to his cybernetic harness and the strain of semi-continuous combat, or possibly due to the crash landing days prior. 

 

By the… by whatever watched over such wayward souls as he, did his back ever hurt. It felt like his spine was twisting and distorting, but that was impossible. And how it itched! The only thing that seemed to alleviate the sensation was killing, and he would get his wish soon enough.

 

+++

 

The wretch had escaped into a side passage too narrow for him to pursue it any further, but he had wounded it badly. Ukalegon suspected the alien would succumb to its wounds in a few hours, but he had been denied the satisfaction of a clean kill. The horrid thing, like the cockroach it was, had vexingly decided to find a secluded location to die in agony. Fine.

 

The closer he drew to Brimstone's command hub, the more the swelling, throbbing pain along his spine grew again, as if triggered by his proximity to the place. He hoped the magi, Xerxes, was in his workshop. Something had to be done.

 

By the time he reached the final tens of meters to where the tech-priest had set up shop he was only able to crawl on all-fours like a wounded dog. He dragged himself almost prostrate into the tidy little forge-fane and hoarsely bellowed for its proprietor.

 

“PRIEST! I NEED…!”

 

Pain wracked him again and he recognized Hagga was there as well stooped over a work bench fashioning… something.

 

“Hagga…”

 

Ukalegon tore off his helm and forced himself into a seated position.

 

"Armour… help…" 

 

His words were slurred as his body’s natural pain suppressant response coupled with the nanomachines which befouled his blood worked overtime to ineffectually counteract the concurrent waves of agony that threatened to drown him.

 

Piece by piece, Hagga and Xerxes helped Ukalegon to pry off his armour and deposit it in a heap nearby, ignoring most of the necessary rites in their haste. The ex-Lamenter dimly noticed that some of his armour plates were slightly sticky when being removed, as if they had been starting to permanently bond to his bodysuit and skin with some manner of epoxy or other adhesive.

 

Once clad only in his tattered breech clout, he howled anew as the skin across his back, criss-crossed as it was by puckered scar tissue and the embedded cybernetic spinal harness, positively roiled as if something was inside of him, trying to escape. He felt his spine twisting and contorting sickeningly like a serpent or a whole nest of them. He fell forward again, prostrate, and his back heaved and flexed sickeningly.

 

The flesh-change was upon him.

 

“No, no, no, NO, NO, NO, N-YAAARRRGH!" 

 

Ukalegon’s spine straightened suddenly and then elongated, bursting forth from its terminus in his lower back. An impossible number of vertebrae snaked out from just above his backside, pulling along a fair assortment of wires, cables and other loose components from the cyber-harness along with them, all drenched in a churning sheet of red gore which coagulated and solidified before the eyes of all present. The new appendage whipped back and forth violently in its birthing throes, knocking over nearby tools and crates of sundries. The astartes’ spine had more than doubled in length, the lower half of which now protruded from him in a truly unsettling manner.

 

Ukalegon collapsed and lay twitching from the ordeal, the pain and discomfort finally having subsided, and he was left feeling little more than emptiness and relief.

 

A tinkling laughter just beyond hearing lingered on the air in the aftermath.

 

After a minute, his vision reasserted itself and he roused himself to see the others gathered around him looking on with a mixture of reverence and revulsion.

 

And then Ukalegon felt it and realized what had been birthed by his body. A tail. A lashing, semi-scaled tail, vaguely reminiscent of some therapod saurid from an epoch when giant reptiles ruled Terra.

 

He retched and tried to crawl away from the thing but it followed him, was attached to him.

 

“No, no, no…”

 

All he could do was mutter to himself in denial. This was his spiritual corruption made manifest. This was the price of betrayal. He had devolved into a bloody mutant before the eyes of his peers. He was truly fallen.

 

The ex-Lamenter grasped the horrible protrusion from his backside with one hand and shook his knife, easily as broad and as long as a mortal arming sword, free from its scabbard, prepared the hack the thing off. His blade rose but he met the gaze of Hagga, Xerxes and now Kraggan, who had mysteriously appeared, with uncertainty. Other mortal slaves and menials were gathered around nearby, many of whom had fallen to their grubby knees in supplication.

 

He had been touched by the Gods, afflicted with a curse from beyond the veil of reality. Or was it a gift...?

 

Ukalegon’s grip faltered and his sidearm clattered to the rough hewn floor of the chamber and he lurched to his feet, and steadied himself upon a nearby wall.

 

He was changed. Permanently. Had he harboured any thoughts of escaping Blackheart to search for his wayward chapter, they were banished from his mind.

 

He could only move forward now.

 

The crimson-robed, axe-wielding priest, Kraggan, stepped forward just then, and perhaps not knowing what else to ask of the towering, scarred, freshly mutated warrior, offered his services in overhauling the shock-trooper’s jump pack.

 

A deep, gutteral laugh emerged from Ukalegon. The insanity of what they had all just witnessed, the shock to his system, the fact that they were operating beyond the borders of anything, anywhere, and his general exhaustion finally broke his mind.

 

Eventually he regained his senses and stared down at the frocked and cowled cyborg, regarding him in the way of a predator assessing some new interloper to its territory. 

 

“Aye, priest, you may make modifications to my jump pack. Do what you must to set it to rights. Prove yourself worthy of the Blackheart's foundries.”

 

His new tail lashed back and forth again, almost with a mind of its own. He was mildly disturbed to notice that it was starting to produce bony protrusions along its length with some sort of webbing between the larger growths, all intermixed with parts claimed from his cyber-harness, or perhaps replicated and repurposed through some dark power beyond his ken.

 

"And see to it my war-plate is modified to accommodate this new… feature," he said, gesturing to his mutation.

 

He was corrupted. 

 

He was forsaken. 

 

He was reborn.

 

 

OOC: sorry for the delay in getting this posted up; I had to make some last minute changes to account for A.T. and MG’s posts (no problem there, lads!).

 

Mazer has granted me permission to spend some of our filthy lucre (I believe it was 20 Components for the job) to reset Ukalegon’s jump pack back to factory standards, which I will gladly take considering his Infamy is in the toilet at present. I'm not sure if I'm going to try to make an Infamy test for anything else… will post up questions in the OOC. I might claim one of those spare Legion weapons to act as a payment/bartering chip for any acquisitions or gear modifications.

Edited February 7 by Necronaut

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

He'd been about to answer Xerxes, to tell him that for the time being he was content with his personal armaments, when Ukalegon entered, obviously in pain. Hagga was quick to assist, aiding his brother Astartes to remove his battle plate.

 

What happened next was… horrifying. The Executioner could think of no other word to describe it. He stood in silence as the other warrior writhed and moaned. He stood, unable to move, as the touch of the warp twisted the Lamenter's flesh.

 

What should he say? What could he say? Hagga almost drew Heart-eater from its long scabbard, ready to offer his comrade the mercy of a clean death. That would be the honourable thing, the way of the Chapter. Or an amputation at the very least? Ukalegon seemed to have a similar thought, raising his own knife, but then he lowered it. Slowly the Assault Marine stood. He responded to Kraggan with a laugh that Hagga judged to be on the edge of total madness. Understandable.

 

What? What did he say? Modify his armour to accommo…? Why would he accept such a monstrous gift? Why would anyone?

 

Perhaps he feels there is no other choice?

 

Hagga still did not speak as Ukalegon turned and walked away. Shameful. Shameful to fail to offer support in a brother's time of trial. But if the Lamenter did not want the salve of a clean death, what other help could he offer? What counsel could he give? He needed to think.

 

“Eska, veni!”

 

He moved towards another exit, considering. He had seen warriors of the Red Corsairs corrupted in various ways before, but the Lamenter had seemed beyond such pollution of the physical form. A hero, courageous and self-sacrificing, one strong enough to resist the Gods’ defiling touch.

 

Perhaps... not…

 

And if that were the case, what did it mean for Hagga himself?

 

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

He had approached the Thrice-Dead and made his offer of fixing up a replacement jump pack.

 

He had seen the mutation growth happen to the Renegade Astartes, and he was in awe of the growth of Ukalegon's new tail. It was all genetics after all, hidden in the dark-age science employed by the False-Omnissiah in his works ten millennia ago.

 

Although in awe, he had approached carefully as if to affect a menial air. Put the brute at ease, let him think that he was in charge.

 

 

“Aye, priest, you may make modifications to my jump pack. Do what you must to set it to rights. Prove yourself worthy of the Blackheart's foundries.”

 

Ukalegon's new tail lashed back and forth again, almost with a mind of its own. 

 

"And see to it my war-plate is modified to accommodate this new… feature," Ukalegon said, gesturing to his mutation.

 

 

"Of course, be at ease do not be afraid of the change. It is part of your astartes body, of your kinds genetic makeup."

 

He turned and strode away to his workshop  As he did so another voice shot back from Kraggan, as if from a malevolent ventriloquist.

 

 

"Of course your genesire Sanguinius was a mutant too!" 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 7 by Machine God
Typo

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon started off to find an alcove to seclude himself in with his implements, but then turned suddenly at the sound of his gene-sire’s name and snarled at the tech-priest, “See to your work, magos. Do not mention His name again in my presence.”

 

He whirled about again and snagged a whetstone from a nearby work bench and found a place to sit and sharpen the teeth of his chainsword and shortsword, his scarred but handsome face fixed in a rictus of unholy rage.

 

How far he had fallen. How far he had strayed from the vision of his gene-sire.

 

He watched Hagga and his familiar stride from the forge, clearly glad to quit the place and he was overwhelmed by shame and remorse and fury. The one person in this entire benighted operation he felt he could trust had turned his back upon him.

 

Dark thoughts consumed Ukalegon as he sharpened his blades and waited and watched while the forge-slaves toiled over his war-plate and iron wings under the watchful eye of the attendant tech-priests.

 

And his new tail twitched and lashed about, reflecting his inner turmoil.

Edited February 8 by Necronaut

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Crux'as wandered and roved. The Gods had gifted him with visions and he let his feet follow them. 

 

Lords of the High Paths, I heed your call. I will bring you followers and belief and blood and souls.

 

Perhaps soon he would see the truth of the whispers of new comrades and further missions of destruction. The smile widened. That would be good. Removing the tainted Xenos-kin was a good start, but the remnants of the miners/pirates were little use as followers of the Eightfold Path, too broken by the slow corruption of the Xenos or not worthy enough for blessings. More promising followers were needed, to be controlled and swayed  and guided by his silver tongue towards the Truth of the universe.

 

He patted his side. The small book, bound in human leather, rested comfortably by his sword. The Smiler looked down at it fondly and yearned to fill its pages with the true names of the Unborn and Unseen. His patron assured him that boundless power could be wrenched from binding the scavengers and predators of the aether, and Crux'as looked forward to seeing this come to pass. 

 

Bring me power.

Edited February 8 by Lord_Ikka

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

 

He strode up the corridor, and while his steps were the long stride of a Space Marine, his footfalls -- even in his Mk. VII armor -- were surprisingly light.  He had been directed to a chamber in this area of the facility based on the rumor that a pair of hereteks were setting up shop here.  He slid Silence from its scabbard and idly twirled it in his hand as approached the door to the makeshift armory, spinning and rolling the combat blade across his knuckles and the back of his hand.  It had become a bit of a habit for him over the decades, a way to exercise a little agility.  As a sharpshooter, patience was one of his highest virtues, but the ability to wait didn't mean he was immune to boredom.

 

Just shy of the door, Obadiah had to pull up short as another power armored form exited the chamber.  His fingers snapped closed on the knife's handle as he halted, though he made no move to sheathe it.  That usual ghost of a smile pulled at him again as he recognized the heraldry.  Another Maelstrom Warder!

 

"Greetings, headsman," he said as jovially as he could, then pointed to the open portal.  "Is this what passes for a forge here?"

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh Sapik

 

Atesh stumbled off of the shuttle after the demigod.  That had been his first trip off-planet, and his stomach had not appreciated the sudden thrust provided by the red button.  Had he not thought to strap himself into the seat, he might very well have been thrown to the decking. 

 

After returning the demigod's acknowledgement with a slight bow of his head in respect, Atesh considered his next steps.  He flicked open his lucifer, and meditated on the Changer's prior message.  A man with a permanent smile.  An axe.  Two heads and wires.

Edited February 8 by FabiusV4lcoran

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga looked up from his dark thoughts, taking in the green and yellow livery splashed with red saltires, just like those that daubed his own silver-blue warplate. A Mantid? He was suddenly reminded of his earlier comment to the Lamenter, that the Blackheart had sent here all of the warriors whose loyalty he couldn't fully trust. As much as the Tyrant proclaimed himself welcoming of all, his Astral Claws brethren still held all the places of honour at his side.

 

Still, that was fine with Hagga. He didn't trust the arrogant Claws any more than they did him. And the Mantis Warriors had a good reputation as skilled and cautious fighters, so this one might be a useful addition. He offered a grin in return.

 

“Aye, brother Mantid. It's not much yet, but we're working on it. Hagga Rykaz, formerly of the Executioners.” He held his arms wide, gesturing to their surroundings. “Now a Red Corsair of Brimstone.”

 

 

Edited February 8 by Lysimachus

[Mojake]

Varne:

 

Varne Nabor wandered through the lower levels of Brimstone as a ghost, his only proof of corporeal form being his transhuman stride stamping prints in the thick dust as he passed dormant cogitators and logic-mills. He caught his reflection briefly in the panelled glass of a data-loom; his patchy blonde hair cast in a green hue from the overhead lumen strip. The broken analyser feeding into the machinery held a curved spur of smooth metal, deep parallel ridges coursing its length. 

 

Threat-Xenos: Necrodermis. 

 

Varne's mind wandered back to his first operation after secondment to the Long Vigil, battling a sect of Destroyers on the agri-world of Deonine 389. The Watch Captain's denouncement of the xenos still rattled around in his memory.

 

"These cursed abominations do not kill for glory, nor for some dark god. They do not wish to rule or enslave the Imperium. They kill because they think existence itself is a flaw. They're turning the galaxy into a graveyard, and we will deny them!"

 

Varne let out a low snort of amusement at the recollection. 

 

The galaxy isn't a graveyard. The galaxy is the crowded corridors of a hospitallum, air thick with plague and rancid meat-stink, chirurgeons dropping from exhaustion as the dying multitudes look on, powerless to help themselves. Their existence is no grand flaw, it is a precursor - a sentence to be served - to achieve absolute peace. 

 

Tilting his head back, he let his eyelids slowly close as he remembered his slow pilgrimage through the ash-wastes, and a brief smile touched his lips. Short-lived was the peace within as his eyes opened and regarded the embossed 'I' on a circuitry panel above him, his jaw tightening involuntarily. 

 

Such hypocrisy that he and his brothers were sacrificed to prolong the life of others. By what authority do the despots of Terra decide who is blessed by death and who is cursed with life?

 

He continued his wander whilst his faltering smile found itself again, imagining mankind given the freedom to slip into oblivion, the institutions of the Imperium fallen to ruin.

 

+++

 

The scents of sweat, promethium and cheap amasec filled Varne's nostrils as he moved amongst the racks and pallets of spoils from the Blackest Heart's most recent venture, malnourished human menials in tattered void-suits scattering and falling from his path with quick bows of deference. 

 

He tossed a battered dataslate atop a fuel drum with disinterest and turned to leave when he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. An unarmoured Astartes marching across the vast supply-hold with what appeared to be a barbed tail flicking behind him. Varne's brow raised, this corrupted warrior's cognomen was unknown to him. After a moment, his curiosity set him off in the other man's wake.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

"Obadiah Barzani, Mantis Warriors 7th Company," he replied.  He slipped the blade back into its chest rig and gave a quick fist-to-heart salute.  "Well.  Formerly, as you said."  Obi had always been on the shorter end of average for an Astartes; his slighter build made it slightly easier to be stealthy, but it also meant he was looking slightly up at the Executioner's face.  He resisted the urge to try to eke out another centimeter or two from a different posture.  It an unconscious thing he had been fighting against for decades, and it bothered him a little that no matter how much he told himself it didn't matter, it still happened every damn time.

 

"Well, I won't keep you if you're about some business."  He nodded towards the forge.  "I have a request for our tech-priests."

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler

 

Whispers and secrets sank into Crux'as as he walked. While the miners of this place were not the best material for worshipers of the Gods, they did respond to his questions and suggestions about the local area. A sneaking suspicion that the reavers would leave soon irritated the Smiler, he wished to burn the Corpse-Believer's planet around their heads, but there were still ways to hurt them before the cell left. The holy planet Benediction was out of reach for now, but its food source, Bounty was not.

 

"Tell me, my little friends, where do the Enforcer brass-coats keep their weapons? Where does the Munitorium hid their bounty on Bounty? Find the secrets, sing them in my ears...."

Spoiler

Fellowship Tests (Q1 - weapons/Q2- food storage)

Target - 52

Roll Q1 - 02

Result - Pass, 5 DoS!

Roll Q2 - 44

Result - Pass, 0 DoS

 

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

He entered the forge space, eyes flicking around, alert to threats as always, and drew up short.  The. . . man. . . to one side was obviously an Astartes by his size and the chainsword he was working on, but the disturbingly reptilian tail protruding from his lower back was an unexpected addition.  Obi studied him for a moment, but said nothing and continued his scan.  It was not the strangest mutation he'd seen in one of his brethren since entering the Tyrant's service.  One of his former Mantis Warrior brothers at Huron's court had an insectoid head.  That gave him a shiver, but he discarded the thought and walked up to a red-robed adept who appeared to be inspecting a rather beat-up Astartes jump pack.

 

"Magos Kraggan, I believe?" he said, "I have need of you.  My name is Obadiah Barzani, and I need you to sharpen this for me."  He drew Silence from its scabbard with a whisper of steel on leather and presented it to the adept.  "Laser it down to a monomolecular edge.  I hone it how I can, but your tools will be more effective than mine, I wager."  He glanced at the other Space Marine and his lashing tail for a moment.  "Consider it a low priority, however.  I don't want to jump the line."

 

(Cleared with Mazer.  To give it a Mono upgrade is an Extended Test, requiring two Difficult (-10) Tech-Use Tests. You require 3 cumulative DoS with no Components required.)

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

He showed off an affected cringe at harshness of Ukalegon's command. 

 

Where had that voice come from? He wondered. 

 

"Of course, noble Ukalegon! Once I have the work done I shall send a brace of Thralls over to guide you to my Forge for the fitting, do please excuse the blood."

 

As he left he was stopped by another Astartes. 

 

"Magos Kraggan, I believe? I have need of you.  My name is Obadiah Barzani, and I need you to sharpen this for me." 

 

The Space Marine presented to him a Combat Blade. 

 

"Laser it down to a monomolecular edge.  I hone it how I can, but your tools will be more effective than mine, I wager." 

 

He took the blade and slashed it across his left palm, causing blood to drip to the floor.

 

"Yes, sharp but not as sharp as it could be."

 

He licked the blade clean slowly, as if he was enjoying it. Then he handed the blade back. 

 

"If you aren't in a rush, I would recommend you to Xerxes."

 

Kraggan conveyed instructions on how to find Xerxes, and then waited for a response. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 9 by Machine God
Typo

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'As:

Through your ways and means you glean what you can from rumour, hearsay and previous experience of those currently in your circle.

 

GM: I've proffered info about Bounty specifically, as requested.

• Enforcers:
  • Operate from a citadel of justice known as the Sentinel Bastion,
  • There is a single company of Enforcers there (to best recall),
  • Are supported by a local PDF militia who also serve as production workers for harvesting,
  • Since the world is agrarian, the Enforcers and PDF are mechanised,
  • The enforcers have no fixed bastions in the townships.
• Agriculture:
  • The bulk of the foodstuffs are gathered into mobile silos, then transported to Harville, the Capital, for storage in hardened Imperial bunkers.

 

Hagga:

 

The menials move to your orders, albeit with a lazy swagger, thrum of tentacles or drooling maws.

 

GM: Your Orders are really three orders split across four things, so I'll roll the Dredge repair and scavenge into one order (which it kind of is) and give two security sweeps:

• External Security sweep:
  • A visual and sensor scan has been conducted by Krokodil with the support of the Dredge. Signatures of small craft have been detected at maximum envelope. The augury cannot confirm IFF signatures, but the drive outputs are inconsistent, meaning the craft are not uniformly constructed.
• Internal security sweep:
  • Three combat teams have been despatched to 'robustly' survey the populace and do a headcount. Your current staff stands at 47 menials of various profession, and 12 docker/flight deck semi-professional, for a total of 59. Your 'armsmen' stand at 12 effectives. This will take five days.
  • Iscario Seneca has been delegated to remain on Brimstone. He hates you all for it. He begins genetic testing of the menials. This will take ten days.
• Dredge Repairs and Scavenging:
  • Dredge survey reports a number of facilities are non-optimal. Salvage of the wreckage from the battle will be refactored, but will require the attentions of Hereteks.
    • Current functions:
      • Rotgut Still 100%
      • Obscura Den 100%
      • Entertainment Venue 100%
      • Engines 100+%
      • Weapons 10% (Requires 60 Components, 20 Supplies, 10 Fuel)
      • Life Support 76% (Requires 24 Supplies)
      • Navigator/Daemonsight blister (empty) 56% (and looks like something clawed out of it...)
      • Hull Integrity 69% (Requires miracle - technically '31 supplies', as supplies covers salvage)
      • Command Functions (intra-ship vox etc) 51% (Requires 49 Components)
        • Augurs are intact, as are bridge functions. It's literally the essentials.
    • Repair time estimates for one system:
      • 7 Days for 70+
      • 14 Days for 60+
      • 21 Days for 50+
      • 28 Days for 40+
      • Anything else is a *suck air in through teeth* job...

GM: You only have enough menials to complete one system at a time. However, if a Heretek is in attendance, he can shave off a day (per Heretek) with a Tech-Use Test inverse to the completed threshold (so for example, on a 7 day repair the threshold is 70. This would incur a Very Hard (-30) Tech Use Test. You only get one day, doesn't matter on the DoS you score - it's a day, building a spaceship is hard graft.

 

GM: Note also that if your Hereteks are building ships, they are NOT making guns. I am going to rule that the current work orders pending in the Forge/Workshop is going to take at least four days (for both Hereteks, no splitting up to narratively boomerang around it) before the Dredge even gets a look in. Let this inform your actions.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The ex-Lamenter nodded absentmindedly to the ragged tech-priest and resumed sharpening his chainsword, brooding upon the growing realization that his battle with the greater daemon upon the Blackheart’s ship had done far more harm than he realized, and that she was likely the culprit behind his new… disfigurement. While he continued to weigh the costs and benefits of having the bloody thing amputated versus keeping it, he noticed an interloper had entered the workshop, evidently one from Iorek’s coterie for he had not met this one before.

 

The newcomer was clearly an astartes, and bedecked in sable warplate with the familiar crimson saltires splashed over his pauldrons, though the left was what caught Ukalegon’s eye. 

 

The Deathwatch? A xeno-hunter gone rogue?!

 

The other marine was watching him, and had maybe been following him. 

 

Another astartes entered behind the first, apparently a wayward alumnus of the Maelstrom Warders like himself, to whom Ukalegon dreaded being introduced in his current state, but that could wait for the moment.

 

Attempting to hide his surprise at the presence of the renegade Deathwatch trooper, Ukalegon called across the chamber to the other astartes in between passes with the sharpening stone, “Ho, Deathwatch! What brings your kind to this den of iniquity? If you're here to hunt aliens, I may have saved some for you in the bowels of this miserable rock…”

Edited February 9 by Necronaut

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

He didn't bother to hide the sneer of disgust that curled his lip when Kraggan licked Silence.  He took the weapon back, made a great show of wiping the blood and saliva off on one of his ammo pouches, and re-sheathed it.

 

"Xerxes it is, then."  He gave another look at the be-tailed Astartes -- who was now chatting with yet another, and in Deathwatch livery no less! -- before making his exit.  Obadiah hadn't gone into the Tyrant's service blindly, but some of the more esoteric practices of the various heretics he now found himself amongst still made his gorge rise from time to time.  The adept had licked his own blood off the blade.  And don't forget the tail.

 

Obi paused in one of the twisting corridors that threaded this rock, leaning back against the rough-hewn surface, and hung his head.  He screwed his eyes shut and let the memories of Endymion crash back in for a moment.  He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before pushing the vistas of charnel fields and burning cities out of his mind.  The Imperium did that, not the Archenemy.  I know who my enemy is.

 

So fortified, he resumed making his way across Brimstone to the location that Kraggan had indicated.  This forge looked bigger, the main chamber had what appeared to be a few workshops extending off, and had a small bustle with some menials doing minor tasks.  He entered fully, whipped out Silence again, and cleared his throat.

 

"I'm looking for Xerxes."

[Machine God]

Kraggan:

 

He watched the short Space Marine departing in the direction of Xerxes' workshops.

 

"It matters not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows!"

 

With his bleeding sinister hand he reached into his robes and withdrew a glass bottle with a screw top lid. He opened up the bottle and squeezed his wounded hand over the top gathering a sample of blood and trace elements of adamantium from the Combat Blade and he spat some more of the blood within his mouth that he had collected into the bottle.

 

He then sealed the bottle and put it away for further study.

 

 

 

 

INT 49 +20 (Tech use - Experienced) = 69. Result: 27, Pass 5DoS 

 

 

 

Through force of will he let his hand bleed, then instructed the Black Blood within him to coagulate and seal the wound.

 

He then returned to his Forge to begin work upon the jump pack and armour. From initial examination it looked promising, he was thinking Wings?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 9 by Machine God
Tidy up

[Mazer Rackham]

Obidiah:

 

GM: Please perform a Perception Test, and post the result here.

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah

 

Spoiler

Per 42

Roll: 38, Pass.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Obidiah:

 

GM: Not bad, but you didn't Pass enough.

 

For a fleeting moment as you linger between between memory and the present, you get an itch between your shoulder blades, an old instinct of your mortal shell tells you someone is watching - but you can perceive nothing else.

 

To all intents and purposes, the corridors and passageways are empty.