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

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

With difficulty Tarh stood, picking up his belongings that the Chosen had deposited. With some unsteadiness he moved over to Mithra and climbed into the howdah saddle, squelching as he went. There was little he could do to try out his cloths and would have to wear them as is.

 

Leaning forward he whispered to the great Tortoise, then they were off. For the first few minutes, as they followed the Chosen Tarh took stock of their surroundings, the landscape and what he could remember of the orbital scans. His hands meanwhile were going through the routine of checking his equipment and weapons after the recent violent submergence in the river.

 

Catching up with Obadiah he pointed “I think we should try heading a little more that way.”

 

Navigation (Surface) Test to find safer/better way towards Tower that the Arbites are less likely to find them on.

Int: 45, d100: 33, Pass 2DoS

Also Stealth Test to try and remain stealthy/obscure any tracks

Tarh - Ag: 42, d100: 84, Fail, 5DoF

Mithra – Ag 30 +10 (Stealth +10) – 20 (Size): 20 d100: 38 Fail, 2DoF

 

OCC: Can’t see a combead or similar on the character sheet, so not sure if I gained on at some point and failed to note it down or just never had one. Though I think I recall speaking over comms during the initial asteroid base assault.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The bulk hauler dwarfed the Starhawk, easily doubling or tripling her volume. Though automated, the freighter still had access and inspection airlocks, as well all the necessary instruments for manual flight. It was a simple matter to conceal the dropship beneath the much larger hull and transfer Ressokov to its proportionally tiny cockpit. Hagga grunted at the mortal as he made himself ready in the pilot's chair.

 

“Remember, the autopilot will take you all the way down to the city. That's when you cut the remote controls. When you're over the landing fields, you’ll only need to alter your angle of approach a few degrees to bring you down on top of the bastion instead. Target the main tower - head on, full acceleration, maximum damage. Give the Imperials what they deserve.”

 

The pilot nodded without emotion, though Hagga still thought he could see the fire of hatred deep within. He nodded back.

 

“Good. They'll sing your name across the fleets of the Red Corsairs, Andus Ressokov.”

 

Rykaz left the man to it, and returned to the Starhawk. They detached, but stayed close, close enough to get lost in the sensor shadow of the larger transport. He looked to the others.

 

“Well, brothers, that's all we can do. Let's see if this bloody plan works.”

 

 

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh: 

 

Atesh woke from his brief nap with a start and moved to his dataslate.  It appeared that 'friends' would be coming.  He arranged some rags to hide his face and decided to stroll to the mess to grab some food before they arrived.  He knew that nobody at the camp would care about mutation, but that didn't mean he wanted everyone to know what he looked like.

 

Who knows what wannabe-corpsers or agents of the  throne might be watching as well.

Edited April 25 by Lysimachus

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

++Smiler to Stealth One, status? ++ 

 

The restricted channel. While there had been no fresh fires the arbites had seemed increasingly agitated, and approach to their fortress remained difficult. "Partially effective, access to primary target remains blocked". The limited machine spirits of the pict feeds had proven easy to bypass but automation here was limited and with it his reach.

 

The thunder of flak fire and aircraft overhead drew his attention upwards... where was that vessel based? "Potential objective located."

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

The Tower of Echoes was an imposing building, as was so much Imperial architecture: a towering spire, wider at the base but narrowing as it rose, surrounded by a circular pile of mortared stone topped with domes and a few smaller minarets.  Snarling and gibbering gargoyles lined the eaves.  The outer walls were supported by flying buttresses that arced up 20 meters or more, and every flat surface was covered with graven images of the Emperor and his saints.  The facility itself was encircled by an outer wall, no more than three meters high, though it was no serious defense.  It featured no turrets, nor were there any guards walking a parapet.  Few were the brave souls who wanted to actually enter an Astropathic Relay.

 

The lone gate in the exterior wall sat on the southwest side, where both a road from parts westward and a path coming up from a small jetty in the river met.  The approach had been easy enough; the fall of night had done much to conceal Obi and his companions, and the Arbites had fallen far behind them.  They had a watercraft and a pair of skimmers executed a standard grid search over the crash site, but the bright lights made them easy to track.

 

Obi walked in a deep crouch, his camo cloak pulled in tight across his plastron, about five meters north of the road.  Two armed sentries stood at the simple gate in the exterior wall.  They chatted amiably, barely paying attention, and the Mantis Warrior had considered killing them at a distance. . . but he wanted to make sure there was no one else out of sight to raise an alarm.

 

His slow progress got him up to the wall without issue.  He clicked his tongue into the vox twice, and got two clicks back from Tarh.  He let his autosenses pierce the darkness in the direction he'd come from, but even his enhanced vision couldn't pick out the man's hide.  Good.

 

A short vertical leap let him get his fingers onto the top of the wall and he smoothly heaved himself up and over the wall.  He dropped down on the other side, still cloaked by darkness and cameleoline.  He peered at the gate, and sure enough the two guards at the actual portal were not alone.  There was a sort of a guard house -- a small shack, really -- with an open door and as he watched, a silhouetted shape moved back and forth within.  He slid Silence from its sheath and closed the distance.  The guard from the shack stepped out into the cool night air and marched around to the gate, and he heard Tarh's vox-click in his ear as soon as he heard the new arrival begin to chat up the two other guards.

 

A quick glance into the shack showed it empty of other people, so he slipped around the front.  Silence flew from his grasp, and the monomolecular edge took the shack-guard in the temple with a wet thunk.  Before the man even hit the dirt, a red flash from the near-distance snapped out and drilled smoking hole in the forehead of one of the guards.  Obi sprang forward and grabbed the last man by the throat, choking off his scream before it could manifest, and closed the gauntlet's grip.  The man's neck bent at a weird angle with an audible snap.  He quickly dragged all three bodies into the guard house, retrieved his knife, and doused the interior light.

 

"Advance," he whispered over the vox.  "We're going in."

 

The courtyard between wall and main building was open and poorly lit; only the main entrance -- wide, double doors of bronze carved in bas-relief of the Emperor -- had bright lamps set on either side of it.  Silence clutched tightly in one fist, Obi crept to the doors.  Flattening himself quietly against the wall, he reached up to the lamp on his side of the door and ripped it down with one quick tug.  He was about to cross in front of the doors to get the second when Tarh's long-las flashed again out of the darkness and cracked the lamp-bulb.

 

He paused a moment, waiting patiently, eyes never leaving the doors, until Tarh's smaller form coalesced from the darkness on the other side of the door.

 

"Ready?"

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

"Ready?"

 

He clicked the com in the agreed manner as acknowledgment, what more was there to be said. Long-las strapped to his back, it was ill suited for close quarter work, instead he took axe and laspistol in hand.

 

He had also brought the autogun, secured by harness across his chest. It would be too noise for the initial stages, but when things inevitably went sideways its higher rate of fire might be useful to pin down some guards.

 

Mithra and the cannon were down by the shore, hidden not far from the jetty, but out of sight, provided the bush the tortoise had begun munching on did not run out of leaves too quickly.

[Mojake]

Varne

 

"Sir, we've received the execution signal from the Razor," the young pilot's voice had a nervous edge to it as she craned her head round to shout at the passengers.

 

Varne's helm turned to face her, having remained still as a minstorum gargoyle for the past several hours, making the three men in front of him start. The space marine simply nodded.

 

The craft rolled and yawed sharply as it veered towards the western half of Harville. Varne scanned the brief glimpse of the cityscape he was afforded. Something has gone wrong. The flashing sirens of the Arbites were visible even at this height, before quickly being stolen from his view by another levelling shift in the craft's flight. The great dockyards now grew to fill his vision, and his autosenses adjusted to highlight the two largest northernmost locks which isolated the vast loading platforms from the giant river.

 

He lifted his gauntleted hand from the grip of the autocannon and pointed towards them, the sappers craning in their harnesses to see. "Those are our targets," he growled. "as soon as this craft lands, you will dismount and calmly approach your position. There will be no violence until I give the signal. Once you are in position and our pilot confirms as much, I shall leave the shadowed confines of the craft to take up the final position. It is at this point that hell will break loose. You will remain hidden. Once I reach the eastern terminus of the second lock, I shall set the first charge. I shall then take position and provide covering fire whilst you simultaneously set your charges. There is a good chance that you will be ignored entirely in the panic. If not, I will kill your attackers." 

 

The formal Opal worker, Symon, turned back round, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. "Lord, how can we survive this carnage?"

 

"If you are lucky, you won't," Varne watched the man's eyes widen, the surface tension breaking the droplets and cascading them through the patina of dust clinging to his cheeks. "However, I will hold the ramp of the Arvus for four minutes. Then we take off with or without you. I suggest you run as if a swarm of Tyranids snaps at your heels."

 

The worker's wide-eyed expression passed between his fellow humans in confused horror, "wha- what's a Tyra-"

 

"Silence," Varne's vox-emitter snarled, his scavenged, mis-matched armour looming over the man and the wet thunk of his tentacle slamming onto the deck inches from the quivering mortal. "Complete your task - or, ruin betide you, fail the Lord of Plagues." A short quiet descended over the passengers, nervous glances now written on all three of them as some form of peristalsis groaned and pulsed within Varne's leg less than a foot away.

 

"Sir..." came the pilot's voice. She cleared her throat then continued, "E.T.A. thirty seconds."

 

Varne's helm raised, his eye lenses again looking beyond the sappers and through the armaglass pane at the mess of industry that was Harville's dockyards.

 

Good.

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

“We will make it work or die in the attempt…”

 

Ukalegon looked up at the bulk hauler again. Something stirred in his breast, something akin to pride or maybe some thrill-lust that was becoming more pronounced the longer he served the Blackheart. Or maybe something else entirely.

 

“With your leave, Hagga, I will to join Andus Ressokov on his descent, his final flight. I wish to ride that doomed ship down to the surface, to witness the glory first-hand. I will meet you planetside, brother.”

 

The Lamenter stepped out of the transport’s airlock and jetted over to the bulk hauler. He latched on and let himself in through the airlock, squeezing his mass into the cramped interior, much to the surprise of its pilot.

 

++If you don't mind, I will be joining you, Pilot Ressokov. I have come to bear witness to your vengeance. For the Tyrant!++

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

Whilst he had been working on an algorithm package, he was alerted to a conversation recorded between Ukalegon and Hagga over the comm-leech in the jump pack. 

 

No doubt Ukalegon intends to bail out at the last minute on wings of flame. 

 

Ukalegon the discarding sabot. 

 

 

Later he watched Ukalegon transition to the bulk hauler. 

 

++Ukalegon happy trails, don't die as we couldn't live with the disappointment++

 

 

 

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

The Executioner frowned at the Lamenter's departing back. A courageous, but maybe foolhardy idea. He didn't want to lose one of their small complement of Astartes to something so senseless as dying in a suicidal crash, but he could hardly order his brother to do other than he wished. Maybe it would be well? Ukalegon's jump pack should allow him to escape in time, and perhaps having him there would ensure Ressokov didn't have a last minute change of heart?

 

As the two vessels separated and continued towards the surface, Hagga stood just behind the pilots of their converted gunship, looking out between them through the armoured frontal viewport. The light from Bounty's warming sun was thoroughly obscured, blotted out by the massive lander that hung what felt like only inches above them.

 

They descended together, the view changing from black into blue through the fiery reds and oranges of atmospheric entry. Dropping further and further, they passed through thin clouds to reveal Harville laid out ahead of them, the wide river sparkling away on their right, the brutal black bastion just visible dead ahead.

 

Ressokov held his nerve for a few moments, but Hagga knew instinctively that he wouldn't be able to wait much longer… Several seconds passed, then the hauler shuddered almost imperceptibly. Like a beast of burden that had thrown off its yoke and stretched its aching back.

 

“That's it. Slow us now, let them go,” he ordered softly.

 

Another long moment passed as the hauler gradually pulled away…

 

With a roar, the afterburners fired, suddenly blasting the larger transport forward with a huge flare, aimed squarely at the Arbites HQ like a huge bolt round. Hagga grinned.

 

“There they go! Honour to you, Andus Ressokov, and to my brother Ukalegon! ‘On wings of fire, in blood and fury and glory…’” 

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

The bulk hauler's rockets fired with savage force, pinning both Ukalegon and Ressokov in place. The Lamenter was grinning like a madman. This was the closest he had come to riding in a drop pod in decades, and he was enjoying every moment of it. The massive freighter careened into Bounty's upper atmosphere as a great fireball in a barely controlled descent, for the brutish slab of a ship had hardly been constructed with aerodynamics in mind.

 

“Steady, steady…”

 

The entire ship was shaking as they bludgeoned their way through the thickening stratosphere.

 

 

GM Only:

Spoiler

Ukalegon grasped the back of the pilot’s seat as Harville loomed into view and loosed his combat knife from its sheathe.

 

“Forgive me, Andus Ressokov, that I will not be joining you at your terminus. And forgive me that I must ask you to defer your revenge upon the Arbites…”

 

Ukalegon’s razor made short work of Rossokov, who gurgled blood and died quickly.

 

"But it is a revenge merely deferred and not denied. I will be your implement of their destruction. The Provost Marshall must see his domain reduced to ruins, and all he cherishes laid to waste before succumbing himself. This vessel, your tomb, has a new target..." 

 

He leaned over the pilot’s controls and altered its trajectory to miss the tower entirely, though its landing would still cause apocalyptic damage and mayhem.

 

"Forgive me, Hagga."  

 

OOC: Ukalegon alters the ship’s trajectory to miss the Arbites Precinct, sending it towards the Cathedrum and Administratum Complex instead.

 

With a final nod towards Ressokov, Ukalegon opened the hatch and bailed out and jetted away from the fiery hulk and watched from afar as it smashed into Harville like the fist of an angry god.

Edited April 27 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

Harville:

 

The automated vessel is given the signals to veer off. When it refuses, the voice of Precinct Control tells the pilot to obey or die. When they are ignored, the Hydra opens fire. It chews the vessel as it rears up at the precinct, before passing it at blistering pace, displaying the vulnerable belly and engines. The Hydra's barrels offer another burst before ceasing, as the threat passes.

 

None can stop the inevitable, when the cargo hauler plummets down into the town, pulverising the cathedrum in a simple swipe, and carrying on in a long trough, gouging the earth and masonry into rubble.

 

The Sisters and Administrators don't even know what hit them. They are all instantly killed in the explosion and landfall.

 

 

Edited April 27 by Mazer Rackham

[Mojake]

Varne

 

Following the hurried guidance of a nearby control tower, the pilot touched them down on an elevated landing pad overlooking a pair of huge cargo vessels laden with hundreds of shipping crates. Varne stayed low within the doorframe of the cockpit, watching the exterior vid-feeds as the rear ramp slowly creaked open. The two primary locks that served as the group's targets formed a pair of rhomboid staging areas for dozens, maybe hundreds of smaller vessels, milling around under the overwatch of three squat comms towers. Each of these staging areas probed out like fingers with wide waterways into the dock districts, allowing everything from small fishing vessels to medium-sized pleasure barges to moor alongside the myriad administratum offices which lined the edge of the water.

 

The primary lock sat almost two hundred meters from where the Arvus now idled, with the secondary lock - Varne's position - fifty meters away. The area was heaving with activity, and Varne scrutinised the displays to find any trace of Arbites or PDF. None were noticeable, but there were a number of private guards assigned to the more up-market vessels, as well as armed administratum lackeys posted to the doors of several offices. No threats.

 

The trio of sappers dismounted the bird and quickly lost themselves within the crowd. 

 

Soon, Kade's voice came over the vox, +V1 ready.+

 

Several more minutes passed before Symon checked in, +V3 in position.+

 

Varne noticed a bead of sweat running down the pilot's forehead as another two minutes passed without word from ibn Kharan. Then, his voice in a muffled whisper, +V2 ready, it's crowded though, boss.+

 

The Doom Eagle blinked across an affirmation signal on their private channel, nodded to the pilot and gave her a hand signal of all fingers splayed - five minutes. She nodded in return and let out a shaky breath. Varne turned, tore down the dark tarpaulin that bisected the Arvus' cargo bay, and stepped out of the lander onto Harville's dockyards.

 

From the commanding view afforded by the landing pad, he took as much of a running leap as his betentacled leg would allow and threw himself clear, igniting his jump pack and screaming through the air to slam into the ground several feet from the downstream gate of the secondary lock.

 

The screaming and shouting began. Varne added to the song by lifting his autocannon skyward in one hand and letting off a cacophonous three-round burst into the clouds, the monstrous recoil bucking against his elbow. There was pandemonium. Civilians and workers, officials and press-ganged petty criminals, Varne even spotted a ministorum priest amongst the press. The multitudes swarmed from Varne's transhuman presence, trampling over each other to spill between the buildings and through doors in horror, with more than a few tumbling from the bankside and into the murky water.

 

A brave - or foolish - office guard levelled an autopistol at the space marine and emptied the magazine against his pauldron and helmet. Varne levelled the autocannon and turned the man, and a third of the building's facade, into a crater with a single shot.

 

Satisfied with the panic, he grunted and lumbered up to the approach wall, unhooking the demolition charge from his belt and pushing the adhesive surface into the point at which the gate met the wall of the lock chamber.

 

Spoiler

Tech-Use (Demolitions)

• Intelligence (Trained): 40
• Infamy Points (3): +30
• Target: 70
• Roll: 9 (6 DoS)

 

Once the explosive was placed and primed, Varne stepped back. The area around him was empty of all but a single servitor, continuing to stack crates some ten feet away as the screaming and shouting continued unabated nearby. The Doom Eagle kicked his jump pack into life again and thudded onto the landing pad next to the Arvus. He turned, levelled his autocannon across the vista before him, his autosenses easily picking out the lone stationary silhouettes at their predetermined locations amidst the panic.

 

+Your four minutes begin now, do not disappoint.+

[Mazer Rackham]

++ ALL PLAYERS MAY POST ++

 

Edited April 27 by Mazer Rackham

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga watched with something approaching amusement as the hauler raced towards the bastion.

 

He looked away for a moment as sudden detonations erupted at the other end of the city. Good. Varne's demolitions team had been successful. He looked back…

 

What the…?

 

The hauler had sailed past its intended target entirely, and was now in the process of burying itself in the heart of the city.

 

How…?

 

How in the name of hell had Ressokov missed so badly? And how had Ukalegon allowed it to happen?

 

Much of the city was now being destroyed in the throes of fire or flood, including the Administratum building and the Cathedrum, but this was still a bloody disaster! The Imperials had a structurally sound fortress that the Corsairs had no weapons capable of penetrating. It would be a rally point for all the defenders still in the city, and an anvil that the Corsairs would be obliterated against once the rest of the Imperials returned - and they would be on their way very, very soon if the Provost Marshal had half a brain…

 

Then more immediate problems broke the Executioner's train of thought. A heavy rattle and clatter against the hull, juddering their flight. Of course. The Hydra that should have been dead seconds ago still lived.

 

“Evasive action!” he roared. “Put us down somewhere in the city, below their firing arcs!”

 

Even in his armour, he felt the drag of the pilots’ sudden manoeuvring, and had to grab at a handhold on the internal bulkhead.

 

“We can drop you in the city, but there's nowhere to put her down, my Lord! It's too tight between the buildings!”

 

Hagga grimaced, switching to his vox even as he turned away to hurry to the troop bay.

 

++Fine. Find us a flat roof, and hover as low as you can over it for a few seconds! Then get the hell out of the city until we call for you!++

 

Astartes were foot soldiers. The best foot soldiers in the galaxy. If they could get on the ground, maybe he could figure out a way to turn this around. He didn't know how yet, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to give it a try!

 

“Mourn! Kraggan!” he yelled as he reached the bay, “get ready to jump! Eska, come here! Veni, throne-damn it!”

 

 

 

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Sapik: 

 

Sapik had been monitoring the vox while he waited in camp for the arrival of the friends.  Just before news of the bulk hauler's impact hit the network, Atesh felt the most exhilarating, delicious, horrifying thrill build up and wash through him.  

 

Shortly later, he came to himself.  He couldn't say he lost consciousness, exactly, but he definitely wandered from himself.  He wiped black blood from his nares, changed his face rag, and looked for Rakash.

 

Upon finding him, he exclaimed:  "Rakash!  Did you feel that?!  Ooohhhhhhhhh all goes according to plan!"

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

+As soon as we go in, every person you encounter must die,+ he voxed to Tarh.  +I'm going to the Choir in the tower, I want you to check the quarters.  Keep silent as long as you can, but if you must go loud, vox me so I know.+  He softly touched one armored fist to his plastron over his heart in salute.  +Good luck, friend.  Kill them all.+

 

And at that, he turned to the huge graven doors and shoved them open.  The interior was the usual gaudy, gothic architecture that one would expect, dimly lit by a series of glow-globes set high on the arcing walls.  A pair of humans -- a female astropath with metal banding around her soulburnt eyes and a skinny, older man in the robes of a servant -- stepped back in shock as the doors swung open, but they had no time to respond as Obi's knife caught her in the throat and Tarh's axe whirled end-over-end to embed itself in the heart of the man.  The two infiltrators jogged inside and retrieved their weapons.  Obi gave Tarh one last nod, then set off to find the on-duty Astropaths.

 

He flicked on his stummer, letting the machine's soft, almost subsonic hum cancel out the sound of his footfalls as he moved up through the levels.  Night had fallen, the time for repast was over, and many of the Tower's staff had, he supposed, retired for the evening; ideally, Tarh would have an easy time killing them in their sleep.  The place was not empty, though.  A few cherubim floated through the halls and chambers, the buzz of their gravitic motors making an odd discordance with the swish of their wings through the air.  These, he ignored, and they in turn paid him no mind as well as they went about their pre-programmed behaviors.

 

He did encounter more than a few humans, though.  He found one Astropath wandering down a corridor, seemingly aimless, but it snapped to attention as he entered through a side door less than a meter from the psyker.  He saw the brow crinkle in confusion as it regarded him with witch-sight.  In that moment, he desperately wanted to know what kind of corruption was sensed, but the thought lasted no longer than it took for Obadiah's left fist to pulverize the man's face.  He fell back from the blow, collapsing to the ground with a gurgle as he tried to pull in air through a ruined face.  Obi sliced his throat and moved on.

 

Another time he came up behind a pair of mortals.  They were deep in conversation, paying little mind to what was going on about them.  They wore the robes of menials, and he could tell that they were both female from the way their voices tinkled with laughter at some joke or anecdote.  He stalked up behind them, his steps light and covered by the stummer, and smashed their heads together from behind.  All that was left in his wake was ruined gray matter and shattered bone.

 

Up and up and up he went, killing silently and efficiently as he went, until he finally arrived at the main Choir chamber itself.  These doors did not give to a gentle push, sealed as they were, for the safety of those without.  +I'm going loud,+ he sent over the vox.  He hadn't heard anything from Tarh in the interim, and it was possible the mass of the structure between them was interrupting their comms, but he sent it anyway.  Better safe than sorry.

 

He sheathed Silence and took Fate's Eye in both hands, then shoulder-barged his way into the main Astropathic Choir chamber.  The door resisted at first, but the mass behind it proved too great, and the locking mechanism bent and shattered to give him entry.  Fortunately, the psykers within were not in the middle of a communion, so he was not exposed to any kind of warp-taint.  Unfortunately, the psykers within were not in the middle of a communion, so they reacted immediately to his intrusion.

 

He capitalized on the moment of confusion, snapping his bolter to his shoulder and letting fly.  Cough, cough, cough, each suppressed round hit an Astropath.  The first blew a man's head clean off, the second detonated on a woman's shoulder and detached her arm from the body, the third embedded itself in another man's midsection; when the mass-reactive exploded, it painted a good portion of the room crimson.  Two others began to run and scream.  Cough, said Fate's Eye, and one of them went down without a leg.  He tried to bring the bolter around to another target. . . but suddenly found his arms weren't behaving.

 

Hoarfrost, whitish-blue and crackling with power, rimed his form.  He found his muscles moving in ways he did not desire, yet despite every ounce of willpower he mustered, he could not fight the voiceless commands.  He dropped to his knees, laid the bolter on the ground, and lifted his helmet.

 

One of the two remaining Astropaths strode slowly up to him.  An older woman, wizened by both age and the terrible power she wielded, made her slow way to him.  Leaning heavily on a cane, her bent back meant that even with him kneeling, they were virtually eye-to-eye.

 

"I know you," she whispered.  "I've seen your shadow in my dreams.  Death in the dark, I was told."  Her voice was thin, her whispers breathy, just as ravaged as the rest of her.  She reached out a bony hand and touched his face.  "You were much scarier in my dreams though.  Your face is much handsomer than the skull in my dreams."

 

He forced his face into a wide, open-mouth smile.  "The skull you saw?  It wasn't mine," he retorted, then spat in her face.

 

Space Marines were notorious for their size and strength.  Even outside of their armor, they were stronger than any baseline human and exceedingly difficult to kill, thanks to the various organs that were implanted in their bodies.  Yet, one of these organs was often forgotten about, even by those who encountered Astartes on the regular basis, as its gift to the Space Marine did not commonly come into play.  This was the Betcher's Gland, a set of additional salivary glands implanted in the lower lip and hard palette, that allowed an Astartes to literally spit acid.

 

The aged Astropath screamed in pain as the Betcher's acid bit into the flesh of her face.  The skin where acid hit sloughed away rapidly, and the woman collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain as her face dissolved.

 

As soon as the pain hit her, her concentration was shattered and Obi found his muscles belonged to himself again.  He sprang to his feet and lunged, catching the last Astropath as the young woman tried to flee past him through the main door.  His hand closed around her shoulder with a semi-audible crack, and she cried out as he inadvertently crushed her scapula.  He dragged her back inside the Choir, past the smoking remnants of her superior, and dumped her on the floor on the chamber.

 

He kneeled down next to her, drew Silence from its sheath, and pressed it against her throat as he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

 

GM ONLY:

 

Spoiler

"I need you to send a message for me.  One last whisper out into the void before I spill your blood.  I know you're afraid, but do this for me, and you may get your revenge.  Do you understand?"

 

She nodded back weakly, her terrified eyes as wide as a saucer.

 

"Good.  This message is for Lord Tyberos of the Carchardons Astra.  Tell him, 'The Ghosts of Endymion send their regards'."

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon barely spared himself a moment of grim satisfaction at the sight of the destruction of something as beautiful as an edifice to the God-Emperor as he fell through the clouds at terminal velocity. There was work to be done. He ignited his jump pack again and turned over into a steep dive, plunging near vertically down towards the heart of bastion which the bulk hauler had narrowly missed, his auto-senses firmly fixed upon the massive tower at the center of the fortress.

 

He was going to make this a spectacle.

 

Were it not for his Lyman’s ear and unnatural fortitude, he would have blacked out from the g-forces alone, but he was made from far sterner stuff than the average mortal, gene-forged for moments such as these. 

 

His vision narrowed as the roof of the central tower grew beneath him.

 

He was laughing, finally pushed past the brink of reason and guilt and shame and hate as he dove through the clouds. Tracer-led fusilades of heavy bolter fire arced up towards him and he danced and barrel-rolled around them during his break-neck dive like a bird of prey. None could touch him. He was a red-and-black meteor, a ceramite falcon.

 

He filled his hands with his chainsword and infernus pistol, and at the last possible moment, performed a forward somersault and slowed his descent, now fighting against Bounty’s massive gravity well, and leveled his sidearm at the roof, vapourizing a hole in the rockcrete beneath him in the manner of a boarding torpedo.

 

Ukalegon landed in a cloud of choking smoke and debris and shouts of confusion and horror and pain. He rose to his full height and searched through the miasma of detritus for survivors. He was surrounded by large panes of armaglass on all sides, and he could make out the black pillar of smoke rising to the east where his chariot had crashed. 

 

The comms personnel, those not killed by the sudden and violent appearance, gawked at him, and he engulfed them in a gout of burning promethium with the wave of his hand. He was soon greeted by lasfire and he turned upon those of the Provost Marshal’s surviving bodyguards, rendering them into horrible red stains with his chainsword. By this time, the marshal, to his credit, had managed to claw his way out of the rubble and debris left by Ukalegon’s entrance, and now stood, bloody and bruised, but defiant, with his shock maul and bolt pistol in hand.

 

The Lamenter grinned wickedly at the human and raised his chainsword in salute.

 

“You will die for this, trai-"

 

Ukalegon was upon him in an instant, covering the gap between them with inhuman speed, and severed the arm bearing the crackling mace at the elbow in one stroke.

 

He felt the dull impact of a bolt round detonating against his breastplate at point-blank range, but he ignored it, dropped his infernus pistol, and grasped the marshal by his remaining wrist. He squeezed until he felt the man’s bones pop and break in his iron grip and the bolt pistol clattered ineffectually to the floor.

 

"Not yet, Provost Marshall, not yet. First I wish for you to see what is befalling your fair city of Harville, now that the Red Corsairs have found you, and Huron Blackheart, Lord of the Maelstrom, has demanded your world be offered up in sacrifice." 

 

Ukalegon released the man's wrist, who fell to his knees in pain, cradling his broken arm in his lap.

 

“Look out yonder, see how I have obliterated your holiest of sanctums and murdered the shrine of your God. Observe how our forces sweep through your streets, burning your good works to cinders, and how your levees burst and drown the rest. Hell has come for you, and we shall reap this world for all of its bounties." 

 

"Please… no… why…" 

 

Ukalegon reduced some of the armaglass window panes to molten slag with his pistol and smashed out the remaining material, then grabbed the provost marshal by the throat and dragged him over to the yawning, jagged opening. He stood before the precipice, and held the weakly struggling human out over the chasm.

 

He activated his armour’s external vox projectors and amplified his voice to a terrifying roar, bellowing his defiance down at the rest of the arbites fortress.

 

+DEFENDERS OF BOUNTY, HEED ME! HURON BLACKHEART OF THE MAELSTROM HAS COMMANDED THAT YOUR WORLD DIE! HAGGA HEART-EATER AND HIS FORCES HAVE COME FOR BOUNTY! I, UKALEGON THE BLACK, HAVE SLAIN YOUR EMPEROR'S FAVOURED DAUGHTERS FROM ORBIT AND DESTROYED HIS TEMPLE! NOW YOUR MARSHAL SHALL FEEL THE TEETH OF RETRIBUTION, AND SO TOO SHALL ALL OF YOU!+

 

He swept his chainsword out in an arc towards those tens of meters below who gawked up at him while he ranted at them.

 

Through a constricted windpipe the provost marshal choked out his last words, some final curse, which was lost to Ukalegon, swept up as he was in this moment of dark glory.

 

 

+BEAR WITNESS! BLOOD FOR BLOOD! VENGEANCE FOR THE FALLEN!+

 

The Lamenter hoisted the human up above himself and savagely buried his chainsword in his torso and with a horrible flesh-chewing racket, sawed clean through him, flesh, armour and all amid an eruption of blood and viscera which gushed over Ukalegon's armour and rained down onto the courtyard below, followed shortly thereafter by the marshall’s lower half which landed with a dull, bone-crunching splat.

 

+YOUR DOOM IS HERE!+

Edited April 27 by Necronaut

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

OCC: removed 

Spoiler

The grand door to the Tower of Witches was locked, not unsurprising given both the alert and the lateness of the hour. The Chosen tested the door a few times, and the hinges, and while he could have no doubt brought it down that would have been noticed. Instead they seared the slain guards to no alive, but the guard house proved more fruitful. A set of keys in the bottom draw of the duty desk, with one key helpfully ladled ‘Spare - Delivery Entrance’.

 

Walking along the inner perimeter of the outer wall they where about one third way around on the river side when said door appeared, along with two storage sheds. He took a peek inside one, his Preysense mask compensating for the dark.  Boxes, barrels and half empty shelves, what was inside he could not tell, but in one corner he spied a weapons rack, mostly full. If the empty slots corresponded to the guards on duty then there weren’t many left.  

 

Inside a chill begun to make itself felt, a child of the soul, for the damp cloths had mostly dried out. He did not like it. Within moments he spotted a downwards leading staircase, the signs by the door spoke of maintenance.

 

New start

 

Walking along the inner perimeter of the ground floor he were about one third way around on the river side when he came across several storage rooms. He took a peek inside one, his Preysense mask compensating for the dark.  Boxes, barrels and half empty shelves, what was inside he could not tell, but in one corner he spied a weapons rack, mostly full. If the empty slots corresponded to the guards on duty then there weren’t many left.  

 

Back in the corridor a chill begun to make itself felt, a child of the soul, for the damp cloths had mostly dried out. He did not like it. A little later he spotted a downwards leading staircase, the signs by the door spoke of maintenance.

 

++I’ll see if there is a way to cut the power down there, or at least draw attention away from the witches further up.++

 

Trading the chill of sorcery for the damp of a basement near a river was somehow comforting, as was the slight tinge of rot in the air. He speculated that the lower levels had flooded at some point and no one since had property dried them out.

 

The fuse and power panel when he found it was dusty, tripping some fuses would impair the power nicely. With care he pulled on a few wires, a few sparks and flickers was good, but not enough. A few more and the better part of his canine of water, no doubt contaminated by the river, and the sparks shone brightly for a moment before all went dark.

 

It took less time then he would have liked for footsteps to sound above him, someone coming to check the power. First one then two lantern shown down, of course they would come as a pair.

 

Backing up to a wall, and hopefully outside of the coming guards line of sight, assuming they head straight for their goal and did not search, Tarh readied his Laspistol, three shots to the back each, then the axe to make sure.

 

As plans go it worked well enough, on the first guard. The second had dropped as soon as the las-bolt flash illuminated the dark. Tarh adjusted his aim but the guard scrabbled for cover. His mistake however was to go for the vox unit on his belt, the blinking red light as clear as a signal fire to the preysense filters, and five las-bolts later the guard slumped lifeless, vox unit untouched.  

 

Heading back upstairs he tried to catch up with the Chosen, but as he neared the front entrance hall he found a door labelled ‘security’ half open  to one side. Peaking insight a security desk with pict screens, and two mugs beside the stations. The source of the two guards perhaps?  He tipped the mugs over, perhaps it would harm the electronics when power was returned.

 

Two further floors up he found the first of several corpses, shrivelled old men and women, bold and eyeless. Where these the corpse gods witches? They did not look like much, an image cast in that of their god judging by what he had seen in their temples, but then it never pained to underestimate sorceress of any strip.  

 

Tarh stopped, froze, had that been a scream. He waited for a long count but no alarm rang out, and no screams echoed back. Maybe he was imagining it.

 

By now he had noted the mark by each door that housed a corpse, the Chosen was indicating where he had been. No need retread ground, Tarh returned to the central staircase and ascended further, skipping several floors when he saw marks.

 

The soul chill was back and stronger, while he hesitated on the threshold; it also confirmed to Tarh that there were witches left up here. He thought about waiting for the Chosen, perhaps he had overtaken him. It seemed a good thought. And yet, and yet what if he had not, and there was work left to be done.

 

With trepidation he pushed on, hand firmly griping his pistol and axe. Soon he stopped, uncertain, ‘jumping at shadows now’ he asked himself.

 

Reciting by rote a pray of warding, calling on the pantheon to shield him, he continued step by step.

 

A rustle of cloth and patter of bare feet on stone was all the warning he got as another eyeless witch rushed him from a side room. Energy crudely wreathing the foes fist.

 

A snapshot of the las-pistol went wide, there there was no distance. Tarh danced backward, badly, but glowing fits was never a good omen. A blow hit him square, and the front of his harness caught flame. A quick pull on the autogun harness freed him from it and the burning webbing. In so doing he fell backwards, axe and pistol both went flying.

 

Despite the eyless skull the witch had no trouble seeing him as Tarh tried to create some distance, he needed his long-las now. Alas it was not the long-las, but the discarded autogun that did it in for the Astropath. The witch fire cooked of some of the ammunition and the gun shot wildly before shaking itself apart in a small explosion.

 

So much for quite, Tarh though as he picked himself up, but the pantheon must be looking out for him tonight, for the witch had not only caused its own demise, its body had shielded Tarh from the same. Emboldened he pressed on, until sometime later, Tarh was not entirely shore how much, he came across the Chosen, standing over a dead witch.

 

++Any more levels to clear?++ he asked, but the Chosen shook his head.

 

Wearily Tarh turned to head back towards the grand staircase, so many steps down and he was feeling weary and sore. Perhaps he could get a few hours rest after they crossed into the city, but first there would be another cold wet journey across the river.

 

‘Oh pantheon, let there be a dry bed in a safe house’ he thought, he knew it would be too much to ask for it to be warm as well.

 

     

Edited April 27 by Trokair

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

The assault had come with scant warning from above and Xerxes counted himself fortunate to be within the reinforced and somewhat remote walls of the mechanicum facility as debris and fire rained down. The impact provided ample excuse to hide the true cause of power and comms failures as servitors positioned at key junctions severed the links and then moved to rejoin him - the dutiful magos responding to an attack on the city in familiar robes and clear identification.

 

The cathedrum and mercantile districts would doubtless hold treasures amongst the twisted steel and fire and the arbites would soon enough be directed further afield... but as he moved through the streets fresh warnings flashed across the dataslates connected to the city augers - breaches and overpreasure within the drainage system beneath the city, a web of red signals that ran across his maps even as far as the fortress itself.

 

Quickly he interfaced with the auger network degrading those warnings as best he could and spreading more false signals. The walls were breached and few would know.

 

A coded transmission, "Target compromised, access established, co-ordinates encoded".

 

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh Sapik: 

 

Atesh found himself riding in a hastily-armored ground vehicle with a bunch of other rebels he joined after crowing to Rakash about how well the plan went.  Rakash had said something about the craft missing its target, but Atesh hadn't paid much attention.  The plans of the demigods (strong-minded, but limited in scope) mattered nothing in the multitudinous skeins of fate.  Not for the first time, Atesh meditated on whether fate was actually a Crow, or a spider with threads connecting all through the aether.

 

The impromptu carrier in front of his was blown to the empyrean, having been hit by some defense (automated or other.) Atesh's carrier stopped immediately and he confusedly scrambled to the side of the street for cover.  It appeared he was only a few blocks from the mercantile square he'd visited with the grinner on their first sojourn.

 

Atesh ducked again  as the carrier he'd ridden burst into flame.  Apparently, the incendies he'd lovingly crafted on the ship found their way to a heat source.  Shame.  Thankfully, fate had saved two bottles just needing a wick and a light in his pack.

 

Four more rebels joined him in cover; he smacked their improvised armor for their attention and motioned them to follow him.  The squad backed away from the source of fire down the street opting for another way to the rendezvous.

 

Upon rounding a corner to find a parallel route, they immediately bumped into some PDF troops who appeared to be looting a local residence.  Atesh started laughing and reflexively tossed flame in their direction while his squad opened up with their lasrifles.  

 

More PDF came out of the...apparently not?...looted house, and Sapik called the most organized retreat he could.

 

"Oh :cuss:!  Not this way, NOT THIS WAYYYYY!"

 

Atesh never saw what happened to his squad.  He took winding, circuitous routes through the city running from fight to skirmish and ducking between exchanges of crossfire.  He found himself following a wall that appeared to delineate the district he'd entered and stopped to catch his breath in front of a burning building.  The flames calmed him, and as he stared he felt his heart begin to slow and his breath catch.  He found himself with three choices to try and find his market: back the way he'd come, off to the right, or directly on.  He decided to continue straight. 

 

As he took his first step, he heard a quiet but crisp snap of broken tension, and saw two small metal objects fall from a balcony. He recognized the objects' explosive nature just in time to think of an obscenity and be atomized.

 

The end of the vision quickly brought him back to himself, and Sapik bolted down the path to the right.  He burst into what appeared to be a market square being used as a forward base in the Battle of Harville.  As he started to reach into the ghost realm with his hate and surprise, his emotions evaporated as he recognized the signs of the Eight on several pieces of armor. He almost sobbed, laughing in relief that he had reached the intended rendezvous.  

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga fought his way down the city streets towards the mercantile district, boltgun in one hand, Heart-Eater blazing in the other. There were more than a few soldiers out, attempting to make sense of the chaos, but they seemed to be lacking much of any kind of coordination or cohesion. Squads of PDF troopers for the most part, a few Arbitrator fire-teams, and he even traded bolt rounds for a few minutes with a lone Battle Sister on the other side of a water-logged square. Nothing to give him any real trouble. Yet.

 

Panic was spreading from all sides, and mortal civilians - loners or small groups so far - scrambled to and fro in the madness. Hagga didn't bother attacking them, of course. What honour was there in that? Eska snapped and snarled at any that came too close, and the monstrous, baleful hound was more than enough to send them running back from wherever they had come.

 

His vox link flared to life, at the same moment that his audio pick ups detected a familiar voice raised high. Hagga listened as Ukalegon spoke, just visible at the highest level of the Arbites bastion, and as he did, a sneaking suspicion suddenly began to grow in the Executioner's mind.

 

...bloody grandstanding son of a…

 

He snorted, half in affront at the minor treachery, half in amusement at the prideful boldness, and opened his private vox to his blood brother.

 

++Impressive flying, brother. Amazing how those skills deserted you when you were on that freighter, aye…? Maybe when you're done proclaiming how big and bastardly we all are, you'll go make sure the lawmen's Astropaths are all flaming dead too, so we don't all end up as infamous bloody corpses?++

 

 

Edit:

 

A moment later, Hagga's vox buzzed again. Xerxes this time. Co-ordinates to follow. Sub-surface access to a necessary target. He frowned, and looked down at Eska. If hard vacuum hadn't bothered her, this shouldn't either.

 

"Ready to get wet, girl?"

 

 

OOC: Eska obviously doesn't have Amphibious, but she does have Machine (no need to breathe) which I'm assuming should cover her as far as sewer diving goes!

 

Wounds taken d5: 2, now on 10 remaining.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited April 28 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

Whilst he was working on the Star Hawk, he was working on myriad things at once. 

 

They were suspicious of him, he was always suspicious of all of them. 

 

Yes the one of the back door codes. 

 

Do the act, the mystery for the masses. Whilst you see all. 

 

 

"My eyes to your eyes Lamenter, your machine speech to my machine spirits!" 

 

"Grant me sight beyond sight, GOSUB."

 

"There is a hole in your mind. Shall we play a game?" 

 

 

He concentrated to maintain a link, to gather an audio-visual video transcript of what occurred between Ukalegon and the pilot of the Bulk Hauler. 

 

He managed to record something, however the signal wasn't great there was a degree of degradation. He would have to work on cleaning up the recording before he could pass it on to Hagga. 

 

"Smith has been clubbed to death in a house east of the Sea!"

 

He came out of his Trance and shook his head.

He definitely needed to clean up the recording. 

 

 

He later saw the bulk hauler missing the Arbites Citadel and their bird took a lot of hits, which meant they had to bail out mid-flight. The Astartes did it as second nature, he relied on downloaded files. A spider leap and a destroyer roll landed him safely. 

 

Later they received Vox from the High Magos and proceeded to a breech in into the sewers under the wall of the Citadel. 

 

 

 

 

Edited April 28 by Machine God
Placeholder filled

[Trokair]

Tarh

 

The Smiler had laid the groundwork well, a safe house, well safe water front warehouse by the docks to be exact, had been ready for their arrival after the Chosen signalled success at the tower. The rumble that the Smiler had assembled had been in awe, or right out terror at the sight of the Chosen when they entered, but discipline had been quickly restored.

 

There had been no bed, but he found a corner to nap in. Woken way to off then by the coming and going and other preparation, no matter a solider got what sleep he could. With daylight outside he was woken by a militia man, several more, a squad in fact, standing nearby.

 

“Time to go, we need to be in position shortly.” And indeed the warehouse was empty, most of the troops already dispersed. Of the Chosen there was no sign.

 

Saddling up he let the squad lead the way, there streets where busy and the unrest palpable, and despite the cover he had thrown over the autocannon to disguise its presence the great Tortoise drew attention. He was perhaps a few streets away; it was hard to judge in the crowded mercantile quarter, from the designated rendezvous point when he heard faint explosions in the distance and panicked crowds.

 

The men he had been with dashed into a nearby building. Following was no option so instead he took a side street, a little while later coming across an enclosed garden. As a waiting point it would do.

 

Flackfire rung out across the city and drew his attention skywards, the bastion killer part of the plan was making its decent. He lost sight of it behind the roofs before it hit, but felt the impact as everything shook, badly. Time to go.

 

Retracing his steps he found the streets flooded, at least half a meter of river water, and the building the militia men had taken cover in looked half collapsed.

 

It took him a while to navigate and fight his way forward, until he spotted a familiar sight at the other end of the street, Hagga and his hound. Another minute and a bit and he pulled up alongside the Chosen.

 

“Has there been a change of plan? I did not think I would see you down in the streets.”

 

He let the chosen fill him in, the bastion stood and they were preparing to infiltrate it. With the squad he was supposed to support lost it seemed as good a plan as any and Tarh followed the Chosen as they gathered. Too late he realised that it would be a subnautical assault. Through flooded tunnels and part of the sewer network.

 

Cursing under his breath, would he ever be dry on this planet? Tarh kept his eyes open the last few streets to their entry point for anything that might serve as an air bottle or other reserve. The best he could find was a pair of barrel from a warehouse. Emptied out and sealed, strapped to Mithra’s side, with a hose as makeshift airline he had perhaps a few minutes of air, but better than nothing.

 

In the end he did not know how he made it through the tunnels; one or more of the Chosen had to have been clearing the way, and guiding Mithra. Tarh had clung to the howdah saddle, head down, holding onto the hose with his teeth, taking breaths sparingly. Until something ripped one of the barrels, and suddenly there was water in his air. Pulling the hose away he clung to Mithras back, lungs burning, for so so long.  

 

Surfacing was a new agony as gasping for breath the water that had still been in his mouth went down the wrong way. Coughing and for the second time in two days retching up river water he recovered a little. Enough to take stock that Mithra was ok, and both Autocannon and Long-las dry under their oilskin wrappings. The laspistol he was less sure of, better not rely on it if he could.

 

 

 

Spoiler

Wounds taken d10/2: 7 becomes 3.5 = 4, 11 wounds left (started with 15)

Self First Aid Medicae If I may

Int: 45 +20(Medikit) = 65

d100: 50, Pass, heal d10: 2, 13 wounds left if permitted, 11 as per above if not.

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

This was not the plan!

 

His thoughts spiraled quickly, but a brief breath and meme-notic meditation cycle brought him out of his emotions. The Fate-Spinner did not act on emotions, but on contingences and secondary plans. Very well, he would act.

 

"Sergeant Vix, secure the area- take out any Imperiumpatrol that looks weak. There will be operatives coming it, you will know them when you see them, protect them and follow their orders implicitly. Sergant Evvert, gather your men. We're heading to the armory."

 

Crux'as snapped out the orders. His mind worked fantically. The hauler came in sooner than expected and had hit the admin area rather than the Arbites bastion. That meant that the Imperium forces had a solid redoubt from which to coordinate, a base that was not going to be harmed by the few demo charges that he had access to or any heavy weapon that the rest of the cell had scavenged. No, they needed to get to the heavier weapons stored in the armory to do anything to the bastion. Even if the Astartes didn't want to attempt to destroy the Arbites, the armory was still a target and needed to be taken down.

 

He turned his vox-bead to another channel.

 

++Firebreak 1 and 2, codeword: Enflame.++

 

That would send the plantation fighters to attack the kontor warehouses. Whether or not they were even in position was unknown, but if they were able to firebomb the warehouses it would accomplish some of what needed to be done and hopefully draw more attention to the east, rather than west/south-west where he was planning on going. Another flick of the bead.

 

++X, this is Smiler. Moving to arms. Firebreaks codeword: Enflame. Rendezvous my original base in one hour.++

 

Xerxes had some intel already, but at the moment Crux'as could not use it to do anything. He needed that armory opened.

 

====

The platoon ran quickly, roughly stamping through the gawking crowds. A few minor tussles with wayward Arbites squads meant that the thirty-five man platoon was now down five fighters, but still had enough muscle to move to the armory at good pace. The armory was set back in an embankment, with a couple of squads to guard it and a pair of heavy bolter turrets emplaced to ward the door. The guards looked pale and nervous, the junior lieutenant at their head sweating.

 

The Smiler strode up, waving his command group to accompany him while the other men spread out. Not specifically threatening, just watchful. A little projected authority, a raised voice, a rush to make a decision- this was what was needed.

 

"Captain Severin. Access to the armory is needed immediately Lieutenant. We need the equipment to support the Arbites against the terrorists who destroyed the Sororitas. Open that door now so we can start fighting the enemy!"

Edited April 28 by Lord_Ikka