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

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn:

 

Acchiersum stepped back and assessed his work. He'd scoured the ship for some paint, finding but one can of red. Still, he had done what he could with the soot from his saviour pod's hull and some fragrant oils that had been stored alongside his wargear. His armour stood resplendent in its new colours of red and black, polished and restored to the best he could do with what he had. 

 

A Red Corsair. He grimaced. He had borne that purple across a hundred battlefields, and now this fool's motley was his to wear. And yet this what better than what would have otherwise awaited. He recalled his fellows cut down by coordinated lasfire, their faces twisted with foolish rictus grins as they died without knowing that they been outsmarted, that purple marred by mud and blood. That he lived was proof of something greater, a destiny in these cold stars.

 

No point delaying this further. The warplate growled as he put it on, piece by piece. I'm not the only one unhappy.

 

++

 

Acchiersum, helmet in his right hand, watched with some amusement what occurred on the bridge. It was a shame that Hagga had slain him so quickly, he had been looking forward to more entertainment. Something within him said that there'd be no shortage of that soon enough, though.

 

"I think you've upset him"

 

Acchiersum smiled at that, his hand resting on his sword's pommel. He doubted the Executioner had been a calm man before he had met him. 

 

"I will join you. I couldn't bear for you to enjoy yourselves without me," he said. At least this would be better than drifting in that saviour pod. 

Edited March 12 by BadgersinHills

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: Ok, I think we've got enough to move us on now.

 

Juno:

 

The Krokodil has been prepared by the time you get there, with deck masters and menials wearing the life-support gear, and the servitors the perpetual wretched faces of indifference to the cold and airless void. The landing bays are clear, having all the flotsam and jetsam of space cleared up from the last time you saw it. Mourn's pod has been stowed in an equipment alcove, amongst tools and spare parts - a term loosely fitted around the Dredge as much as her bolts and rivets are.

 

Gas clouds billow from pipes as they are snapped free of couplers, snaking fuel lines carefully reeled in to the protective promethium bunkers in the armoured casements along the deck. Final checks are made, and the senior deckmaster waves his glow-flare lamp to ward the crew away and signal the vessel is ready for departure and occupation.

 

Whilst the rest of you board, Varne is approached by a navigation officer. His face peers from the enclosed life-support gear.

 

+Sir, I have the navigation charts here,+ he advises, presenting a dataslate, running a finger along the glass once you have it, +If you keep to the shallows here, the risk of rogue asteroids is minimal. The Bridge have identified Platform Four as the nearest to the Destroyer, but it is a cargo platform, and is exposed to the void. The Krokodil's ablative armour should be proof against heavy object debris, and glancing PDC intercept.+

 

GM: Varne, if you take the helm as discussed, feel free to narrate as you will, a few bumps and clunks on the way over is fine, when you pass into the repulsor field envelope, things will get a bit greasy on the flight surfaces, but no tests will be required. The landing platform is completely exposed, so you'll be out into zero-g, and zero-atmo. Feel free to narrate if you feel like it. Otherwise, take it away...

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

A boarding assault into the unknown, not an enticing prospect for any but it was increasingly clear that those at the fore of any action would gain position within what little hierarchy existed. What remained of the Astartes old instruction and hypno-indoctrination appeared to be slipping by the day replaced with respect for power alone.

 

Challenging them directly at this point would be foolish, joining them in open combat unwise. But the confines of a starship were the works of the mechanicus and sealed bulkheads had no respect for martial prowess or prideful fury.

Edited March 11 by A.T.

[Mojake]

Varne

 

Varne studied the dataslate, clearly an ancient model, distastefully defaced to remove any association to the Imperium. Too much time on their hands. He studied the projected heading, the tapered line threading through the sparse void debris and through towards their target. He noted the faint pulses expanding from the Dredge, augur bursts crashing against the destroyer with a pitiful refresh rate. This ship upgrade can't come soon enough. He noted the point defence systems around the Destroyer and specifically around platform 4 - no signs of activity, as mentioned. Not quite as exciting as low orbit evasive manoeuvres in a Blackstar, but it’ll do. He gave the officer an almost imperceptible nod,

 

+ Dismissed. +

 

Varne marched towards the waiting Krokodil and grimaced. He remembered once, as a child, he’d witnessed the Arbites in his home quelling an insurrection. They had used augmented canids, not dissimilar to Eska, as a fear tactic and to bring fleeing rioters to heel. The dogs were the ugliest amalgamation of flesh and machine, scarred and battered, bolted and retrofitted – hell hounds in most senses of the word. They looked pretty compared to the rusted, barely-repaired shell of an aircraft before him. With heavy sighs rattling around inside his helmet, he made every effort to not break stride in defeat as he mounted the Krokodil’s assault ramp and strode to the cockpit.

 

After some thirty minutes of familiarising himself with the controls, he received the signal from the deckmaster that they were at full complement. He craned his neck around and counted his brothers - not fully trusting a mortal's competence - finishing on his most recent passenger settling into position. Varne thumbed an activation rune, waited, then again, and once more – causing the assault ramp to lift sluggishly and retreat into its frame. Third time’s the charm.  

 

As the klaxons blared and a voice echoed throughout the hanger to signal their departure, Varne reached out to his brothers behind him using his vox-bead.

 

+ We might have more luck reaching our destination with a running jump from the Dredge’s prow... +

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

As the Krokodil left the hangar, Hagga frowned. It might take a little time before they were able to report back. He'd much rather have joined the scouting party, but someone needed to be on the Dredge to oversee the transfer. He watched as a few menials scurried in to remove the body of the fallen Gunnery Chief. That had been necessary, hadn't it?

 

Of course it bloody had! The madman was derelict of all integrity, and then had dared to openly attack him! Even on a ship full of flaming stiff-necked Ultramarines, the response would have been the same! Still… he'd have preferred to engage these officers with honour rather than fear and bloodshed.

 

“That was… regrettable,” he rumbled loudly to the rest while the menials worked. “Some actions can’t be tolerated if proper order is to be kept… but it would be better if we can learn to work together with mutual respect. All Station Chiefs, in order of seniority please give me your names and an idea of your naval experience. I'd also value your thoughts as to where I can find someone to take over at Gunnery Control.”

 

 

 

Edit: A short time later…

 

Hagga walked slowly along the vast spinal corridor that formed a munitions highway for the Dredge’s gun batteries, Eska trotting along in his wake. Of course, half of those batteries were inoperable. Another third weren't even there anymore, the great blast doors he passed sealing away vented compartments empty except for scrap metal and ghosts. A few batteries still had crews, though. The Senior Helm, a grizzled naval veteran named Acastus Toulk, had suggested he look there for a new Gunnery Chief.

 

Edited March 11 by Lysimachus
Edit to follow Mazer's OOC hints!

[Mazer Rackham]

Varne:

 

This sow of a grox Krokodil creaks and rattles around you in horrific dread as the power thrums through your controls. It would be more accurate to say this bucket was ten-thousand rivets flying in close formation, as opposed to wilful construction of hammer and plate.

 

Still, these craft are meant for dashing across the void, cramming into enemy ships packed with souls for the reaping, and the engines are likely where all the money (ha!) was spent. Thrust vectors and manoeuvring jets show 125% of potential. This thing might be a wallowing duck, but on the straights it would likely give even a Shark a run for it's money (ha!).

 

Hagga:

 

The remaining gun crews move around their weapons, of which, sadly, there are not many. One stumpy and gap-toothed individual missing an eye and three fingers of his left hand repeatedly bobs his head up and down, mumbling 'yer lordship' any time he has to come near you. It seems your speech has done the trick, however, as the gun carriage looks like it has been cleaned.

 

It would have been better had they not just left all the mould cultivation scrapings all over the floor from where the unguent ports were gummed up with the basic crop for the rotgut stills you've heard about.

 

It's a start.

 

Regrettably, no-one here can fulfil the role so...violently...recently vacated. Still the tour of the ship puts your face to the voice, and since the former matches the grim expectation of the latter, everyone seems quite interested in what they are doing to say hello. It is safe to say, that several years of grime - whilst not indelibly removed - has at least been polished.

 

Silver linings.

 

It is when you come to the great dorsal loading deck that solitude really bites. It is a gallery some two thousand metres long, and with all the equipment robbed out to replace whatever was lost in the skies over Badab, it is truly a lonely, empty hole within the barely functioning hull. Perhaps this feels close to home, perhaps this is what happens when old warriors lose their purpose, their way. Such dark thoughts in a dark place - and it gets darker.

 

The midships of the gun gallery is split into a liminal orchestration, with gunwales empty and the great carrieages leaving a terrible, deep crevasse in the middle of the deck which none could cross. Blocks, lozenges, shafts of light fall in pillars of dust-glitter greyness, between the high adamantine embrasures, whilst the emptiness of absolute dark surrounds and bifurcates even the deepest traverses of this odd, oblong chequerboard.

 

The clump-trample of your sabatons, and Eska's pitter-patter feet are swallowed in this massive place, this place of absence.

 

GM: Hagga, I require you to make a Difficult (-10) Perception Test, or you may use Eska at Challenging (+0). You may only test on Hearing, but Eska may Test on Hearing and Smell.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon smirked at Varne’s jest.

 

+These things handle best if you hold your tongue just right,+ he quipped in return. +I respect your training, but I would advise against trying anything fancy with this death-trap. They function best when pointed in one direction -- keeps the flight paths of all of the components in alignment.+

 

He looked over his shoulder from where he stood in the entrance to the cockpit back at the tech-priest and the other two astartes, Obadiah and Mourn, the latter of whom had volunteered to take the place of Teshub, whose talents were better utilized elsewhere. All were secured in their cheaply built crash harnesses, and he took his place in the first row behind the cockpit and stood in silence as the ramshackle ship shuddered and strained as it was catapulted into the void and the shock of g-forces swept over and through all of them once the primary boosters ignited.

 

+Helm, ETA to station field perimeter?+

Edited March 12 by Necronaut
Removed mention of Ukalegon brooding on anything done/said by Obadiah

[Mazer Rackham]

Ukalegon/Krokodil 013:

 

+Field contact in five minutes, Kilo-Zero-One-Three.+

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Placeholder - Hagga listens to the dark.

 

Sorry, afternoon has gone a touch mental. Will fill the fluff in properly later… 

Eska doesn’t have HS or Autosenses, but does have Awareness, so I usually just use her for an Assist? (if that is agreeable?)

 

Hagga:
Awareness test: Per38 +10(HS:H) +10(Autosenses) +10(Assist) -10(Difficult) = 58, Roll: 55, 1DoS (oof, barely!)

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

In the deep dark you can hear the soft, rolling tread of heavy feet. The cadence however, is off, a pace which jars with mental preconception of footfall, defying normal gait.

 

Due to this It is difficult to pinpoint.

[Mojake]

Varne

 

+I respect your training, but I would advise against trying anything fancy with this death-trap. They function best when pointed in one direction -- keeps the flight paths of all of the components in alignment.+

 

Varne chuckled into the vox at Ukalegon's tounge-in-cheek warning. "If I crash us into the side of the ship, if Mourn takes a bolt to the skull, if Obi there puts his knife in your spine - none of it matters, you'll all end up in the same place one way or another." 

 

He flicked and rolled the craft a few degrees clockwise, narrowly avoiding a floating rock the size of a Land Raider, before pulling towards platform 4, killing the engines and engaging the rear thrusters in what would be as close to a smooth landing as he could manage.

 

Ignoring the cracks in the forward-facing viewport, and allowing his auto-senses to adjust for distance, Varne scanned the landing area for any signs of hostility.

 

Spoiler

If appropriate:

Awareness = 39

Roll = 26 (2 DoS)

[Mazer Rackham]

Varne:

 

You discern no targets in immediate threat range. In fact you discern no movement at all.

 

The only thing which enters your consciousness is the automated magno-plate which clamps the Krokodil down onto the pad.

 

The main hangar entrance is 500m to your immediate 12 o'clock. You can see that crates have been stacked ready for loading, but no servitors or void-robed crewmen attend them. Navigation lights to continue to pulse on and off on the main superstructure and worker habitation silos.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga peered into the darkness. The steps sounded… wrong. Not human. An animal? He looked at Eska. He'd found her down on the lower levels of Huron's Avenger, but the Dredge was far more sparsely populated. Anything could be living in the vast spaces not controlled by the meagre crew.

 

Hagga hadn't ever cared much for hunting. He'd done his share for the clan in his childhood, of course, but he'd been too impatient for it, too eager to become one of his father's warriors. Fate had instead brought him to Executioners, but he still preferred making war over stalking.

 

The vox-emitters in his helm boosted his roar so that it echoed away, bouncing from far off stanchions and bulkheads.

 

“Who or whatever you are, stand forth and be seen!!!”

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

The footfalls smooth out, increasing to a swaggering march. Your Lyman's Ear now picks up the area the voice comes from, it is across the gap, dozens of metres separated from you by the abyssal omission of an ammunition carousel in the hull.

 

After a few moments the owner steps into a shaft of light, painting the thickset bulk of a Space Marine into silhouette. Over one shoulder the huge grip of an eviscerator chainsword. It lingers but for a moment, and continues walking in parallel to your position, before vanishing into the shadows which not even the darksight of your autosenses can pierce.

 

A dark chuckle rattles from a throat. 'Do you not recognise me, Hagga Rykaz, master of the Dredge?'

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The Executioner laughed out loud.

 

“Baraduk, is that you, you old whoreson?! The only one of Huron's kin I've met who I didn't want to gut after five minutes in their company?”

 

That wasn't fair. Cyrandras wasn't all bad, if you could overlook the fact he was a filthy witch.

 

“I thought whatever got loose on Brimstone ate your sorry carcass! How are you here?!"

 

Edited March 12 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

His flesh half Void-sealed, he activated the door release and exited the Krokodil. He leapt out alert, both as if it was zero G and if there was gravity present on the deck plate. 

 

 

 

 

AGL 44 = 44. Result: 09, Pass 4DoS

 

 

 

 

 

In the zero-G, he raced through the void to the door controls. He landed like a graceful spider and then he set to work. 

 

 

 

Edited March 12 by Machine God
The Blue Danube

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

He doesn't answer you, not immediately. Then the rich tones overtones of Badab drawl into a odd weft.

 

+When I wore his skin, he used that name. I let him have his wish, and die a hero. His end was...glorious. He fought without fear. I admired him.+

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

When you wore…?

 

The temperature seemed to drop. Hagga felt the chill, a shiver passing through him at the strange words. Not of fear. That had been burnt out of him long ago. Instead, a thrill of awareness. A sudden understanding that again he was faced with that… beyond-ness... that sense of glimpsing something outside of the material universe. The collar around his neck felt… not hot, but warm, radiating gently out from the icon at his throat.

 

“Aye,” he replied softly, “that's as good a death as any. Better than most, in truth.”

 

He shrugged, resigned to the possibility that his own end had come, placing his hand on Heart-Eater's hilt and openly loosening the sheath’s grip on her blade. If it was time, he'd follow the Huntsmaster's example and die with sword in hand.

 

“So, what do you want here, daemon? If you managed to jump from Brimstone all the way on board, then I can't see that little ditch between us stopping you for very long.”

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga:

 

Another chuckle, a wry mockery haunting it as the figure saunters forth and by the time it emerges into the next shaft of light, it has taken on the skinny, scrawny shape of a ramshackle human being, seemingly pitching and yawing as though it lacked any spine. It sports the shadowy garb of combat boots, skinny legs and a Cadian tri-dome helmet.

 

The shape may have altered, but the voice does not.

 

+I could never get the hang of the way you walk,+ it responds, almost absent-mindedly. +Baraduk was a much better specimen than...this. Milo was more fun, though.+

 

If it could sigh, you know it would have.

 

+You are a good killer, Hagga Rykaz of Stygia, and I am curious. Do not be alarmed. I merely make myself known. I have my eye on someone else from your company - and that...delicious little spat in the landing bay was giddy. Soon now, he will be ready. The needles in his mind will snap - and then, Hagga Rykaz of Stygia-!+

 

He lopes off into the shadow, laughing like a drain, a harrowing cackle increasing in otherness until it is a banshee wail of cruel and distorted laughter.

 

Then you are alone.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

That was easy enough…

 

Kraggan practically leapt out of the Krokodil and thrust himself across the half klom gap between the landing pad and nearest hangar bay, and Ukalegon grunted to himself in amusement at the mortal’s gusto. He freed himself from his harness and turned to address the others.

 

+Try to keep up,+ he voxed with a wink, then stepped out and fired a burst from his jump pack and sailed off into the darkness, a ragged, ceramite-armoured draconid, or some other creature of the night.

 

+Stay sharp, priest. There might be automated defences.+

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

that… delicious little spat in the landing bay was giddy.

 

The words hit him. He hadn't known exactly what had happened on Brimstone, except that one of the witches had done something to bring the powers of the warp into play. He still didn't know what had happened… but what he had just heard seemed to confirm that the being known as Delphynie had been involved.

 

++Comms, this is Rykaz. Relay the following message to Ukalegon Moros and Cyrandras Rakash on secure channels:

 

The Daemon-Bitch just appeared to me in one of the empty sections of the Dredge. She's gone again now, but what she said makes me think she was somehow involved in what happened to Brimstone. Be careful. Rykaz out.++

 

Hagga signed off and stood silently for a few moments, looking across the huge chasm and into the shadows. No sign of anything. He found himself running his hand along the edge of his collar, and tracing the shape of the icon with his fingers. The heat was gone from it again now, but the more he thought about it, the more it had felt like something was… protecting… him?

 

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

He exited the rickety landing craft with much less enthusiasm as Kraggan and Ukalegon, and paused at the base of the ramp to sweep the area.  No movement, no heat signatures, nothing on his helmet's auto-senses.

 

+ This place is a tomb,+ he voxed.

 

He followed the other two at a more measured pace, moving across the abandoned hangar floor in a combat glide.  Fate's Eye was up at the high-ready, sweeping back and forth, as he made his move.  The Tigress' envoy had certainly implied this place was empty and the vessel theirs for the taking, but Obi was not the trusting sort.  Whatever the predilections of his erstwhile companions, he at least was going to approach this mission with the same customary patience and caution he applied to every combat operation.  Sergeant Jahns' voice echoed in his head once more: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

[Mojake]

Varne

 

Clambering out of the pilot's chair, Varne unlocked his missile launcher from its mount and lugged it at hip-height by the top handle, the recoil suppressors in his other hand locking into place as it wielded his bolter. He strode past Mourn as the other Corsair made final checks on his gear, turning back briefly as he dismounted the assault ramp, "you should get a menial to find the other half of that paint drum on our return."

 

The Doom Eagle jogged across the open space and joined his brothers and Kraggan.

[Mazer Rackham]

Landing Pad Four:

 

When you reach the hangar airlock, completely unmaligned, you can see that it is closed, but unsecured. Indeed, the access panel is a haptic puddle of green light, indicating it merely wishes to be opened at your discretion.

 

GM: Mourn, as you have a functioning Mucranoid gland - for some narrative direction I would make mention of being disgusted you had to 'sweat' or somesuch, and the gumming glue of the thick mucus gives you enough seal to breathe (via your third lung). However, I will require you to make a Challenging (+0) Toughness Test to avoid the effects of void-exposure. Failure means you take (D6 = 3) Wounds ignoring arm/toughness.

 

Edited March 12 by Mazer Rackham

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

Reaching the hangar airlock, completely unmaligned, he saw that it was closed, but unsecured.

 

Suspicious he examined the access panel.

 

It showed a haptic puddle of green light, indicating it merely wished to be opened. 

 

He moved away to allow the Astartes more room to enter. 

 

 

++Exalted Ukalegon, the door has been dealt with. Just press the Green Button and you can enter++