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

[Mazer Rackham]

Bounty - Platform:

 

Xerxes:

 

In response, Prezcek speaks up after a polite cough. 'Perhaps after we take tea, we can go within and speak to the necessary parties who can assist you?'

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh Sapik

 

Atesh nodded acknowledgement to Crux'as, glancing around the landing pad.

 

He had not seen an agri-world before, having grown up on Pen---Crow's Eye.  Imperial foodstuffs did not reach his village, as they subsisted on whatever the Eye could provide up until the end.

 

He dutifully fell behind Crux'as, and kept his eyes peeled to take in how the people of this world lived as they made their way.  He scanned the eyes of locals for any betrayal of defiance, disharmony, or even mere ennui that could be levered open into rebellion.  He kept an eye out for hints towards the more ramshackle parts of town.

[Mazer Rackham]

Atesh:

 

As you begin your sauntering from the platform, you can see the centre blocks of Harville from this elevation. It appears to be well-dressed, local stone, but together by skilled masons, mostly human hands. This would be appropriate for an agrarian world, for even with limited cosmopolitan experience, this planet would rely on low-skilled labour, with only limited requirement for technological advances other than harvest machinery and processing silos.

 

No great bands of smoke rise from chimneys, no blotted clouds of smog or dust choke the skies. Harville gives the impression all is done by hand.

Except the Hall of Justice.

 

It rises in a grim, dark-granite block, to stare out over the large town - for that is what Harville is, not really a city - with angular revetments, crenellations, and each vertex capped with a sharp-faced eagle, staring malevolently down upon all and sundry from the fortified bastion. It is a reminder not only of the presence of something oppressive, sinister, but also of strength. Having faced lawmen before in your escape, and at other points of your existence, you may be forgiven for thinking them easy prey.

 

This bulwark perhaps stirs doubt that your future endeavours will be so...'flammably'...receptive. The Halls are big, and filled with the force of Law.

 

It is perhaps out of sight and mind of this grotesque, adamantine mace, that the lax and levity clot thicker.

 

Edited March 26 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The journey felt painfully slow. Not that the Razor was in itself a slow ship… far from it… but Hagga was used to travelling on vessels with a dedicated Navigator aboard. The lack of such a vital crew member forced them to stick to the warp routes used by the Merchant Navy, supposedly less stormy and much safer, rather than forging their own path.

 

Safer. Every time he thought about the way they were flying blind, required to return to real space every few light years to make sure that their position had not been suddenly and catastrophically changed, he felt his hands tighten into fists as his hearts filled with the desire to be in the midst of combat. At least in a fight he had some level of control.

 

Rather than watch the bridge officers do their jobs, taking measurements and plotting course adjustments and a myriad other tasks, Hagga considered how he could be of use to the ship. Anything would be better than this accursed waiting! After a moment, it struck him. He had been intending to visit the compartment assigned to serve as barracks for their company of Armsmen. From what Hagga had seen during the transfer, it appeared that these soldiers had maintained something of the discipline and professionalism of their former lives. That made them an asset to the ship, but there were questions to be answered. How many were they? Who commanded them? Were they loyal to the Red Corsairs? Had they fought beside Astartes before? Maybe Hagga could find out?

 

“Mister Imjin, on what Deck will I find our Armsmen barracked?”

 

OOC: Not expecting a particular response while you're busy with the Bounty team, boss. It's just something for Hagga to be doing while we are travelling?

[Mazer Rackham]

GM OOC: Preference doesn't mean ignoring anyone else. 

 

Hagga:

 

Imjin looks up from the plotting cogitator with its snaking cables hooking it into the navigation cogitator. The other crewmen are poring over similar tools and astrogation sextants.

 

'Deck 21, lord. The main barracks is above the arsenal and light munitions magazine.'

[Lord_Ikka]

The Smiler  

 

Crux'as took up one of the drinks and raised it high, "To profit and good tidings!"

 

They drank down the libations with the now-welcoming Custodians, then walked from the bare platform. As they moved, the Smiler nodded to his cell and commented to Prezcek.

 

"I and my doctor would like to tour the city and its various food producers, if possible. Comfort, sustenance, and trade are our remit. My techpriest friend has been away from others of his ilk for too long and wishes to worship the Omnissiah properly. Finally, our security attaché would like guidance to the local defenders of the Imperialis Rex and perhaps interface with any other security groups. Would that be amenable?" 

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh

 

The wider universe was amicably demonstrating Atesh's lack of experience.  This ci---town, was possibly the largest settlement he'd seen (that wasn't a penal colony.)  He was shocked at the massive justice complex which displayed to him what a backwoods yokel he'd actually been until this moment.

 

He kept quiet and moved slowly with the smiling one, being careful not to dislodge his disguise or make any noises that would give away his deformity under the disguise.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga nodded his thanks to the acting Shipmaster.

 

“Good. If anyone needs me, that's where I'll be.”

 

Leaving the bridge, Rykaz moved down through the Iconoclast towards Deck 21, Eska shadowing him as always. As he approached the section given over to billet the ship's fighting men, he was pleased to see that two of the Armsmen, clad in faded blue and white uniforms formerly belonging to Battlefleet Maelstrom, stood guard at the bulkhead portal. Both carried boarding shotguns and looked reasonably alert. Good. Hagga noticed that one of the men wore a single piece of light carapace plate strapped to his shoulder, sprayed crimson and crudely decorated with a white claw.

 

The Executioner walked forward, but stopped at a respectful distance and thumped his closed fist against his breastplate just beneath the spiked brass collar.

 

“Hail, men,” he rumbled. “It pleases me greatly to see you carrying out your duties with honour. I am Hagga Rykaz, and I wish to speak with your commanding officer. May I pass through?”

 

Of course, two mortals couldn't stop an Astartes from going wherever he wished, but the proper forms, respect for military procedure, should be followed.

 

 

[Machine God]

The Astartes leader from the boring brief approached them, instantly they brought their weaponry to bear. 

 

 

“Hail, men,” Hagga rumbled. “It pleases me greatly to see you carrying out your duties with honour. I am Hagga Rykaz, and I wish to speak with your commanding officer. May I pass through?”

 

 

"Halt! What is the password?" The one with the Carapace ordered. 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited March 27 by Machine God
Tidy-up

[Mazer Rackham]

Hagga - Barracks:

 

The sentry, after his challenge offers a shrug.

 

'I have to ask, lord. You know the drill. I recognise you, though. Go on through.'

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn

 

He was bored, truth be told. On his old warband's ship there had always been some sort of entertainment, usually sampling increasingly strong alcohols (and in one blurrily remembered instance, a sip of promethium) or hunting down the predators lurking in the ship's bowels. He had failed to find any drinks suiting his refined palate, much to his disappointment. He doubted there would be much in the way of alien or mutant quarry in this newly acquired ship, though perhaps he would find some yet. The closest things he had found were Atesh Sapik, who was far too interesting and an valued member of the crew, and the washer-woman Miggins, who he had been assured was human despite her... oddities. Ah, but there had to be something to drink on this ship. 

 

"My friend, Imjin," he said, looking the man in the eye and smiling, "Where might I find some wine, or failing that, some fine recaff? It's an awful thing to go to war with a dry throat." 

 

 

 

Edited March 27 by BadgersinHills

[Mazer Rackham]

Razor - Bridge:

 

Mourn:

 

The Deckmaster turned Shipmaster once again turns from his precarious calculations with a rueful smile.

 

'Aboard this boat, lord I know not. However, should you check the Wardroom or the Captain's quarters, there could be something in there. If it is entertainment you desire, I am certain there are some crew up to no good somewhere.'

 

He decides he may have said too much, and his whimsical rogue smile, dissipates. He looks thoughtful, then fires a quick sidelong glance at Jaina at her comms terminal.

 

'I know of a performer, lord. She once appeared for a private audience with the Planetary Governor's family for his daughter's birthday. It was said her voice was enchanting. Perhaps if you were to attend the wardroom, I could send word to her? She's a little out of practice, but if you wish?'

 

Edited March 27 by Mazer Rackham

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn

 

"You've outdone yourself, my friend. Send word to her, if you will," he said, "How I wish to hear a sweet song."

 

Mourn's fingers rapped softly on the pommel of his sheathed sword, his smile unfading.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Wardroom - Mourn:

 

Deckmaster Imjin's hunch was good. One of the, so-called medicine cabinets contained a lazy-susan type compartment which would suffice to hide the bottle from a human nose, but a more refined set of nostrils connected to your palette? Ha!

 

The bottle is a fine Port, a naval drink of choice in wardrooms and gunwales and Captain's cabins wherever man has sailed, once cask-aged, now a maturity of over 200 years, it may serve the occasion well, or could even be just right for clearing the drains.

 

GM: Mourn, make an evaluate test. Half Stat if untrained, post your results in your reply.

 

It takes half an hour before you secure some fluted glasses, from a cabinet ignored by whoever was cleaning the place out before you, the crystal stems and bowls offering a pleasant ring when they clink together. It is musical in purity, establishing a rare quality far from the scow-like Dredge and the terrible deprivations of a cargo pod.

 

There is a gentle knock on the door.

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

Satisfaction of his fabrication of the Letter of Marque was fleeting, although it slowed down when he unjacked and withdrew from the noosphere. 

 

He was a man of questioning and innovation. Even though Xerxes was off-ship, he seriously doubted that his counterpart was a true Heretek. 

 

He was... 

 

In one of the mortals perhaps the word would be bored. 

 

 

But looking about at the gathering of Astartes, who could he ask that might have answers? 

 

Merely looking at the Sorceror made him angry and Hot-headed, but he needed answers if he truly wished to gain higher learning. 

 

He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. 

 

++Cyrandras Rakash do you have any knowledge of of an entity called Vashtorr the Arkifane?++

 

He tried not to shout. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited March 28 by Machine God
Rakash

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn 

 

The Deckmaster had excelled in his recommendation. As he examined the alcohol, he heard the knock on the door.

 

"Please come in," he said, turning his eyes to the door.

 

 

Spoiler

Evaluate (Commerce): 31/2 = 16 (rounding up) 

 

D100: 48. 4 DoF. (Degrees of Failure includes the initial failed roll, right? 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Wardroom - Mourn:

 

You think the drink is probably really only good for drain cleaner, and so with a small sigh of disappointment, sit it down on a table.

 

At your permission, the Comms expert, Jaina Maribor enters, ushered in by a Rating. She nods to him, letting him slip her arm onto the jamb. She looks a lot different, her hair clipped back and the crew uniform gone, to be replaced with a simple green robe. Jaina's eyes find you immediately, and she smooths her robe out, pushing the door closed behind her before standing straight and tall.

 

'You asked for a vocalist, lord? Shall I begin?'

 

Edited March 27 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Rykaz waved the apology away, and moved to pass between the guards.

 

“Understood,” he grunted without rancour. “Inform your commander I’m on my way in. What is their name, and where will I find them?”

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Bounty:

Prezcek talks as you all walk.

 

'Of course, we can arrange that for you Master Bardum. Within the complex are trade booths representing the different producers. The town council found it provident to provide the opportunity to take or arrange for our produce to go off-world with any visitors who wished to place an order either upon departure or arrival.'

 

He beams proudly at the commercial nous. For a place like this, it is actually relatively forward thinking.

 

'As for your Omnissian compatriot we have of course, an attaché here in Harville, Depot Master Grenz. He commands a small works department which mainly tend to our agricultural plant.'

 

He turns to sweep his hand out to the soldier, Teshub.

 

'Of course, our garrison officer, Captain Wainwright can have a word with your military advisor. His office can be found in town, above the alehouse, of course!' he proffers an obligatory chuckle.

 

He leads into a larger building, the cool of the stone walls and open roof accompanied by the snap and sweep of large silk baffles overhead to keep the sun off the comestibles and their hawkers, who are robed in a similar manner to the Custodians. At the sight of newcomers, the immediate farmers' market starts with a small buzz of conversation and hurried partings of the gossips, the storeholders quick to rush back to their produce stands.

 

The smell of fresh bread, berry squashes and mint, cut and cured meats with spices and sauces assail the nostrils and stomach.

 

'We can of course offer your party guest quarters, Master Bardum, although I regret the appointments will be small - we are expecting Regimental Commanders from one of the Infantry Companies here on Bounty for large-scale manoeuvres - there is supposed to be a parade - perhaps your advisor would care to watch?'

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

"Most kind, Custodian Prezcek. We will gladly take our rest in the guest quarters, and I believe Master Teshub would find the parade quite interesting."

 

The farmer's market would make a good start to his and Atesh's investigations, while the other two had clear directions on where to head. They would split up soon and begin their act.

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh

 

A question occurred to Atesh, and he was thankful for the distortion caused by the mask rendering his voice toneless and artificial:  

 

"Custodian, are all markets across the city as thriving as this?  Also, we have medical supplies in need of replenishing.  Where is the nearest medic facility?"

[Mazer Rackham]

Bounty:

 

Atesh:

 

'This is our trade hub, sir so it has a little more grandeur, but yes - our communities are all agrarian, and the Town Council does it's best to implement good ideas across the world.'

 

In response to your second question, Prezcek continues. 'We don't have one immediately here, no' Prezcek replies, 'it is about half a mile outside the town limits, run by the noble and beloved Sororitas. Mother Superior Hospitaller Khordelia. She is one of Bounty's own alumni - returned to us by the Throne's grace.'

 

Razor - Barracks:

 

'Staff Sergeant Eisner, sir, ever since Lieutenant Jenkins was bitten in half by a Space Shark about five years back. You can find him inside.'

 

Edited March 28 by Mazer Rackham

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn

 

"Please begin, my friend. I only regret I have nothing finer to offer you than... this, " Mourn said, looking dismissively at the port. 

[Mojake]

Varne

 

Varne wandered the ventral sub-decks of the Razor's Edge. The long wait until their departure to the gas mining platform had given the Doom Eagle plenty of time to outfit himself for battle, checking his new weapon and wargear, making adjustments here and there. Now that he was ready, he found himself listlessly exploring the Corsairs' new ship.

 

Passing through a large gallery, black-market traders scattered before his presence back into whichever warrens they'd recently claimed as their own. He had found himself following a bundle of power conduits set into the deck beneath him for the past half hour, and at its terminus he discovered a leathery curtain marking entrance to a sanctum of sorts. Grey-green smoke curled from beneath the ragged hem of the stained flap and billowed around his armoured boot. Do I see shapes of beckoning hands within those fumes? He blinked and gave his head a slight shake. Curiosity got the better of him; pulling aside the curtain he strode into the chamber through the heavy vapours.

 

The room was small, barely larger than a storage bay, littered with rusted bunks and rotting divans crowded around a shallow pit in the center. Red lumens flickered erratically and struggled to punch through the smog, but Varne's auto-senses adjusted in a fraction of a second. Mortal forms spilled from the furniture - half a dozen bodies draped over each bunk, each of them putrescant, their marbling skin sunken and clinging to their bones. And yet, Varne noted, they lived. A few pairs of those eyes followed his silhouette as he moved towards the central pit, the occasional lazy movement of one body sliding over another, the friction of their papery skin tearing sores and leaking their contents onto their bed-mates.

 

Trudging amongst the biological debris was a dark-skinned man. He wore a stained and torn pastel-orange robe, with a matching headscarf trailing down his back. Stepping over the supine form of one of the rotting bodies, the man adjusted a pair of cracked spectacles before reaching into a deep pocket and withdrawing two small spheres of a dark, oily substance. He thumbed these into a towering piece of rusted equipment resembling an air filtration unit one might find in a hab-block, one of many dotted around the room. Turning a dial, the growl of ignition rumbled from the tower as the hazy smog billowed in weighty plumes and mixed with the cloying atmosphere.

 

Varne approached the robed man as he drew a sheet up the length of one bunk, tucking the occupants into its warmth. "What manner of trespass did these souls commit to be punished so?" 

 

"Punished?" the man replied in heavily accented gothic, a gentle smile on his lips. "My lord, these people are my flock, and I assure you that they exist in a state of euphoric oblivion." Varne saw it then, in the yellowed eyes of those few that watched him, a creasing at the corners of those sunken orbs, a glimmer in the sclera - eyes of laughter.

 

"Euphoria? They rot as corpses, you fool" sneered the Doom Eagle. "It is a poor shepherd who sits idly as his flock is riven with disease."

 

A pause. "Such negative connotations," the man replied, procuring a long, curved brass pipe from his sleeve and lighting it, "these folk are favoured and cared for by a parent who loves them dearly."

 

"Shepherd, parent - which is it? I see only an enabler," Varne injected venom into the accusation.

 

The man exhaled and added his own smoke to the pervasive cloud, "I do not refer to myself, my lord. There is a greater master, watching over these wretches with a grandfatherly gaze, I am but his focal point."

 

It was beginning to make sense. Varne was new to the intricacies of 'the pantheon', but he'd heard enough muttered prayers and proclamations from the menials during his explorations of the Dredge and Brimstone to recognise this cult for what it was.

 

"You speak of the Lord of Decay," he offered, matter-of-factly. 

 

"One of many monikers, and perhaps one unkind to the blessings that we provide in this chapel," the man moved again, propping up a barely-conscious girl who had begun to choke on vomit, wiping the corners of her mouth gently with his stained robe.

 

"Ah, from 'shepherd', we now arrive at 'priest'. Tell me, cleric of plague, the purpose of all this?" Varne swept his arm in the direction of the masses, the motion wafting the shape of a huge grin through the pungent smoke, before quickly fading.

 

Pushing the spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, the man gave an endearing look towards his faithful flock. "These children suffer from lack of purpose, and be assured, my Lord, there is no greater suffering within this galaxy, nor without, than that overwhelming emptiness." The Doom Eagle swallowed as his hearts quickened at the man's words. "I exist as but one of Grandfather's many tools to end such torment. In this chapel, we wipe away pain, remove the fog from clouded minds, and delight in the gifts that He bestows." The priest closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, the vortices in the smoke coalescing for the briefest moment into a crown of antlers, "we, Angel of Death, are the true deliverers of peace."

 

_______

 

Varne took a meandering path back to his quarters in contemplation, working his jaw and exhaling in quick deep bursts as he worked to navigate his clouded mind. He stopped then, suddenly, and made an about-turn, heading in the direction of the practice cages. I need to destroy something.

[Mazer Rackham]

Mourn:

 

A quick sniff, and Jaina seems to understand to what you refer.

 

Nodding, Jaina clears her throat and takes several deep breaths. The start of the Aria is sweet, a lullaby-lilt preface, preparing your ears for her voice before raising to power as she describes someone from the ancient days in her native Badabian tongue. The tale of ancient hero is told by the tremble and timbre of her tone, the heights of his valour, the record of his triumphs, as she stretches her range from the melancholy to the regal bombastic. Where the aria should be accompanied by male depth, she compensates, her feminine vocal stooping to lend a whimsical poignancy to whatever terrible tragedy suddenly befell the great king.

 

Her diction and pace dictates the struggle between the king's ennui and failures, to his decisive action, until she blends another name to the tale, and harmony comes between both. A stabilising companion. Joy now inflects her every note, the journey of two great companions, on adventure and risk, trouble signified by gasping stops and her own physical, dramatic poses.

 

As the story unfolds, she adds body language to punctuate horror, pride, and finally sorrow, when the two companions are divided by death in battle.  Her great notes, a gulping plea of the king to return his greatest friend, the dearest part of his joy - but it is not to be.

 

Nought but tears, and the wretched suffering of one who is less for the sacrifice willingly given of the better part of him.

 

The aria ends as Jaina collapses slowly, pitifully, into an almost foetal ball, her gentle, tiny voice the whimper of someone lost to grief.

 

GM OOC: Performance D100: 012, Jaina 'smashes it' as the kids say.

 

Edited March 28 by Mazer Rackham