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

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

He and Tarh had exfiltrated from the now-empty Tower of Echoes, and Obi couldn't help but smile a little behind the impassive glare of his helmet's faceplate.  The landing had been rough, true, but the attack had gone perfectly.  The two had waited by the water, hidden beneath their camo cloaks, until the riots began. . . and the bulk hauler falling out of the sky and annihilating the Adminstratum quarter was their signal to move.  Tarh had his turtle to swim across the river, but Obi had to risk absconding with the small launch at the relay's jetty.  It could only have comfortably fit maybe three normal humans, the craft groaned suspiciously when he put his full weight into it, but the motor got him across the river at a measured pace.

 

They met up with a pocket of mortal militia near the riverbank, and Tarh seemed to settle in with them just fine.  Obi let him relax; his blood was up, and waiting felt like the wrong thing to do at the moment.  He slung Fate's Eye and drew his bolt pistol instead, and slipped off into the city to find the rest of his erstwhile brothers.

 

Brothers.  It was the first time he'd really thought of the other Corsair Astartes that way.  He'd been mentally keeping them at a distance -- even Varne, whose nihilistic philosophy actually overlapped with his own -- so he couldn't really say why he was beginning to come around.  Maybe it a conditioning thing.  He was no Chaplain or Apothecary, so who knew what kind of hypnotic suggestions had been inserted during his ascension.

 

He shook his head to clear the aimless thoughts as he wove through the city streets.  Fires were burning, and pockets of rebels were, here and there, trading las-fire with squads of PDF and Arbites.  He mostly avoided these, though on occasion he would pot-shot a few Imperials with his pistol just to give the militia the upper hand.  At one point, he came across a burned-out Rhino, its entire front half blown outward from some kind of explosive, and the livery burned away so he couldn't tell to whom it belonged.  He bypassed the wreck, working his way closer to the Arbites bastion, until he ran into the Rhino's owners.

 

 

He peeked around the corner of a red-brick warehouse maybe two blocks from the Rhino to discover three Sororitas, standing tall in their power armor, pumping bolt shells down the street at some enemy he couldn't see from his position.  He watched as one knelt and began to reload her bolter; he began to pull his head back into hiding but her plate's autosenses -- or maybe some divine favor -- picked him out and she pointed in his direction.  The other two whirled from their prior engagement and immediately opened fire on him.

 

Obi threw himself back as bolt rounds tore into the wall where he'd been sheltering, the mass reactives chewing out a section of the corner half his size.  Their armor was just as proof against his weapons as his was against theirs. . . but if he could get into the midst of them, his size and strength might give him an advantage.  He looked around, mind racing for a solution.  Then he looked up at the low roof of the warehouse, and the grin pulled at his lips again.  Punching and kicking handholds into the brick, he began to climb.  He was only about three meters up when the first of the Sisters jumped from around the corner, bolter up and ready.  He could almost feel her disappointment at the lack of a target.  Patience.

 

She looked back and waved, and the other two stalked into view, all of their bolters sweeping left and right and behind in a well-disciplined pattern.  Too bad they've never been trained to look up.

 

He kicked off of the wall and dropped down directly on top of one of them; the clatter their ceramite plates made upon colliding was loud and unfamiliar, and it made his teeth grate a little, but the sheer mass of his falling body smashed that Sister to the rubbled ground.  He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard bones snap from within her armor.

 

Out came Silence, and he launched into an attack.  He used his weight to drive the second Sister to the ground, his blade dragging across her gorget with an ear-splitting screeeeeech until it found the seal at the neck.  Blood spurted from the wound, splattering across his helm and occluding his vision, but he kept pushing until the movement beneath him ceased.  He rolled off the body and leapt to his feet, left hand wiping his faceplate clear while the right switched his blade to a reversed grip.

 

The last Sister was already advancing on him.  Her bolter lay on the ground, forgotten, as she had unhitched a chainsword from where it had been mag-clamped to her back.

 

"That won't help you," he said over the helm's emitters with a growling chuckle.

 

The Sister's reply was to rev the chainsword, the engine purring as the teeth whirred with a whine.

 

"Fine," he said.  "Have it your way."  He took up a fighting stance just as she charged.

 

For a human, she was good.  Fast, though that may have partly been because of the armor.  He'd never had to study the power armor patterns made for unaugmented humans, but he knew they didn't have the Black Carapace.  He knew they didn't have the same speed and strength as an Astartes.  He'd say he knew enough.  A quick stab, withdrawn and converted into a slash, actually impacted his pauldron, and the chain-teeth dug at the paint marking his Mantis Warrior icon before juddering aside.  He'd been trained on the chainsword, but no one in his Chapter had ever tried to teach him how to fence with it, so the maneuvers were all completely new forms to him.  After that first strike, he played it safe, dodging as he could and deflecting the swinging blade with Silence or the back of a vambrace when he couldn't evade.  He quickly got a feel for her style.  It was certainly innovative, with almost no reliance on the brute force that Astartes chainsword training emphasized.

 

But once he had her pattern, the game was won.  He just needed patience.  Swing, jab, parry, withdraw.  As she drew back into a guard, he suddenly lunged forward, his knife-hand leading.  Of course she executed a perfect guard, and the chainblade came up and across to block the strike.  The whirring teeth actually ripped Silence from his grip, but that was fine.  The knife had been a feint.  The real attack was the bolt pistol that suddenly filled his other hand.  With the chainsword set to the side and his blade on the ground, he could only imagine the look of confidence on the Sister's face turning to sudden horror as he thrust the pistol against the eye lens of her helmet and pulled the trigger.  The red brick behind her got a little darker red, and then she fell to the ground.

 

He holstered the pistol, returned his knife to its home, and was about to step off again when Xerxes' flat voice filled his ear.   +Target compromised, access established, co-ordinates encoded+.  He blink-clicked the file open, and a ghostly map of now-accessible sewers beneath the city filled his vision.  He smiled as he replied.

 

+Wasp receives.  En route to rendezvous.+

 

He made his way to the listed coordinates to find Hagga -- and Tarh, surprisingly; he traded a nod with the other sniper -- and a few others waiting.  He clasped arms with the Executioner in a traditional greeting of warriors.  +Good to see you, brother,+ he said, and again surprised himself when he realized he meant it. 

Edited April 28 by Iron Father Ferrum

[Mojake]

Varne

 

He’d underestimated the defences. Two and a half minutes had passed in a blur, and he was over halfway through the belt of mass-reactives linking up into the ammo stock hidden behind his jump pack. The sappers had quickly set up their charges and began their daring sprint back to the Arvus. Kade had been gunned down like vermin by a group of militia who had taken cover behind a recaf stand. Varne liberated them of their cover, and their lives, with a burst from the autocannon. Symon had gone missing - Varne knew he had a wife back on the Razor, so couldn’t be sure if his measure of cowardice extended to spousal abandonment or if he had just taken a stray lasgun bolt in the panic. The Doom Eagle unleashed burst after burst towards the primary lock where ibn Kharan now ran from cover to cover, hounded by two separate squads of administratum rabble with autoguns.

 

Movement to his east, across the staging area, caught Varne’s eye. Several battle-sisters advancing up an avenue, backed up by a Rhino. He cursed in Gathii, sparing no final glance for ibn Kharan as he swung left and opened fire on this new foe. His first four-round challenge took one of the Sororitas in the upper-thigh and tore her in two. The rest of her squad quickly dove into cover and the staccato return of bolter fire ripped into the barriers lining the edge of the landing pad, with a couple of stray rounds boring holes in the ablative armour they’d welded to the Arvus.

 

Denied of decent targets from their desperate search for cover and loose formation, Varne rhythmically depressed the trigger to rain down a storm of solid shells upon the front of the rhino, tearing away armour plates, buckling the tracks, and eventually detonating some form of interior payload, causing the front of the vehicle to completely tear open with a billowing cloud of flame.

 

He chanced another glance to his right, noting that ibn Kharan was nowhere to be seen, the administratum rabble instead running up the thoroughfare towards the landing pad. He turned his back to the carnage, orienting himself towards the waiting ramp of the Arvus, then opened his vox channel to the pilot. As he made to speak, he heard an all too familiar sound piercing through the air - the unmistakable sound of wind passing over small fins, the gyroscopic spin as a warhead careens towards its target. He had just enough of a split-second to identify it as likely belonging to a shoulder-mounted, standard issue, Cadia-pattern, disposal missile launcher, before the missile struck the reinforced base of the platform.

 

The floor fell away and Varne tumbled across the, now inclined, painted image of the aquila, just managing to grasp a shorn I-beam with his new leg, the fleshy tendril curling around the groaning metal as the Arvus slowly slid towards him. Fortunately, the craft’s movement was arrested by a pair of cables, held in place with the pilot’s horrified expression comically pointing towards the upside-down Doom Eagle. His autocannon hung a few feet below him (above him?), suspended by the ammunition belt, swaying like the pendant of a grandfather clock.

As he reached up to find purchase and pull himself right, a secondary explosion sprayed him with flame, a nearby fuel line rupturing from the blast and tearing a crater in the roadway. The creaking of the beam, his lifeline, grew pained, and suddenly he found the brown waters of the canal rushing up to meet him. Yet again I tumble through the sky and into darkness - perhaps I should look for some symbolism. The last thing he saw before smashing into the depths was the distant, falling silhouette of a bulk-hauler piercing the clouds like a spear of the gods.

_______

 

His descent through the dark water was serene. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and experienced only a peaceful weightlessness. Fortunately, his grossly malformed leg had swollen to form a tight seal against the armour of his lower leg, thus he was spared a death by drowning. In those silent moments, for the first time since leaving the obscura den, he had time to be truly alone. He was disturbed to find that a pervasive sense of unease gripped him, and through the rapidly adjusting autosenses found that he was looking down at his hand, which held a detonator.

 

Is this the right path? You were so sure of yourself before, and now after a few hours of talking to the Shepherd you are willing to inflict plague and stagnation upon a whole city. How can the peace of nothingness and the horror of disease and decay be any farther apart?

 

He scrunched his eyes closed, his trembling hand held in stasis with an armoured thumb ready to depress the trigger.

 

What if he lied to you? You know the duplicity of the dark powers, you have fought with and against their champions. Now, you would climb in bed with one of them at the whim of a demented mortal?

 

The images of the obscura den flashed through his mind. The foetid euphoria, the joy in the expressions of the flock, the antithesis of torment. He saw himself, what he was becoming; his mutated leg, the way he had cowed that man in the Arvus with exaltation to the God of Decay. He didn’t recognise this person, and it frightened him.

 

You are a tool, Varne. He chuckled in the darkness as he sank fast, further and further down. Through Chapter Master Hearon, the Emperor used you. Through Inquisitor Croyle, the Inquisition used you. Through the Blackest Heart, the Tyrant used you. Now, through the Shepherd, the Pantheon uses you. You cannot fight your nature. Is the bolter a monster for unleashing its storm of iron, is the gladius a monster for following the arc it is set upon?

 

His thumb plunged down.

 

Four impressions of a vague displacement and pressure buffeted him in rapid succession, followed shortly after by an overwhelming sense of weight pressing upon him.

 

Thus, the river flows unbound unto Harville.

 

His boot hit the floor of the inner lock chamber with a faint thud, and his autocannon floated down a second after, which he lazily snatched from the space in front of him. For the last few moments he had sunk straight down without moving, therefore based on the direction of the detonations, he had a rough idea which way he faced. He lifted one leg after another, beginning a sluggish march across the dirty, rusted iron arena of this man-made basin - aiming towards the city center.

 

After a minute, he felt another wave of pressure, more powerful than those previous, even reverberating up through the earth and through the metal floor. The hauler has struck its target then. Obadiah and Tarh’s landing may have gone awry, but at least the rest is going somewhat to plan.

 

As the minutes ticked by during his languid crawl, he begun to notice a subtle current running counter to the colossal inflow caused by his demolitions. Following the flow of silt, he eventually found himself at a grate set into the side of the chamber, some form of sewage outflow perhaps. It was clear that the river’s weight was pushing the water back along its destined flow and Varne even had to mag-lock himself to the floor to avoid being slammed into the grate.

 

He unhooked a krak grenade from his belt, primed it, waited two and a half seconds, then let the current take it. The explosion tore through the grate, buffeting the space marine with yet another pressure wave. He shook himself loose, breathed deep of the recycled air in his helm, and trudged on through his makeshift entry.

 

A walk through a mile of filth beats climbing back out.

 

+Varne to Blackest Heart. I am entering the city sewer system from the west wall of the inner lock chamber. Does anybody read me?+

Edited April 28 by Mojake
Updated placeholder.

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

Hagga gripped the Mantid's arm firmly.

 

“Well met, brother. Glad to see you made it. Was your mission a success? We've had a few things... not go according to plan... but I think between us we can still pull this off.”

 

He looked around. Himself, Eska, Obadiah, Mourn, Tarh and his grox-variant-thing, Kraggan.

 

Ukalegon was inside, probably killing his way downwards already.

 

Crux'as and Xerxes were handling other matters on the surface - neither seemed well suited to an aquatic insertion.

 

He didn't know if Cyrandras and Atesh were on their way. Or Varne? Hopefully the Doom Eagle had survived his own explosives?

 

Either way, he figured once they were in, they had enough strength to deal with whatever Arbites were still left inside the bastion.

 

 

 

OOC: I know Badgers is busy, so I wasn't 100% sure whether to include him in Hagga's mental list, but I figured logically he was on the Starhawk so is probably around…?

Likewise with Kraggan, non-Amphib so I don't know if he's sucking up the d5 sewer Wounds and joining us, or sticking with the mortals on the surface?

 

 

 

 

Edited April 28 by Lysimachus

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

++Hagga, it is needless to say that the sewers are not compatible with my systems. I can operate better topside, providing technical support to the insurgents. I may have Intel for you later++

 

 

After the sewer team left, he headed further into the city. 

 

Perhaps there would be sport in the Merchant District? 

 

 

 

Edited April 28 by Machine God
Placeholder filled

[BadgersinHills]

Acchiersum Mourn

 

He stalked through the streets, grinning as he beheld the scope of the devastation that had fell on this city. Even if the Lamenter had let the craft miss the bastion, the city was still grievously wounded - and it was up to him and his fellows to end its wretched suffering. 

 

It was a task he would enjoy greatly. 

 

The sword seemed to share his enthusiasm as it darted in his hands, an extension of his lethal will, killing with every swing. Flak armour and carapace plate cracked under the sword's edge like crabs' shells under a hawk's beak. Crabs did not scream as they died, but his foes did and it was a sweet song, one that he had not heard for far too long. 

 

Acchiersum was laughing, truly laughing as he wrought death with his blade, revelling in what he had been made for.

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Bounty:

 

GM: The Kontors operation and other operations are underway. I will determine success of these independent actions randomly. I'll allow a little more time for everyone's narratives to connect up at their final staging points.

 

Crux'as:

 

The Lieutenant screws his face up. 'I was warned to expect you...sir. Come with me.'

 

He leads off, fumbling with his keys. He shouts to the other officers and men to open up in order to resist the invaders. It is at this point, as you approach the armoury door, a resounding shout bellows down the corridor.

 

'Halt there, and identify, in the name of the Emperor!'

 

'It's Lieutenant Navarro, Commissar. A Captain has arrived, with orders to open the arsenal!'

 

'And the password, Captain?' The Commissar shouts.

 

The Cistern:

 

The cistern is just as Xerxes described, broad, deep, and cool. What he did not describe are the bodies that have washed down here, and the detritus of human existence. A rat uses one cadaver as both a raft and meal, the face long pulverised by debris. Children's knitted clothes, home-made and frayed at the edges float in strange and obscene suspension in the deep, foetid waters.

 

The only way is up - a single staircase set with lamps, with a sturdy bunker door between you and the sub-basement. It would take some strength to batter away the rotted sediment holding the buttressed plascrete, but an Astartes arm is more than enough.

 

GM: When you get here, just go ahead and narratively tear the door out, and fight your way up. Link up with Necro. Players should randomise some wounds on D6.

Edited April 28 by Mazer Rackham

[FabiusV4lcoran]

Atesh: 

 

Sapik caught his breath and surveyed the square.  Almost immediately, his eyes were drawn to giants in power armor, and he sidled over.  

 

He addressed himself to the Astartes who appeared to issue the most orders back on the ship.  

 

"Lord......Ry...kaz?  Atesh Sapik; here to burn corpseworshippers."

Edited April 28 by FabiusV4lcoran

[Lysimachus]

Hagga:

 

“Good man, Sapik,” Hagga did his best to ignore the psyker's hideously corrupted features. “Join Kraggan, and find Crux'as. I'm sure he could make use of your… abilities?”

 

Entering through water-filled sewers into an enemy stronghold was no plan for any of the mortals. Better they assisted with the looting of the Bounty's resources, whether foodstuffs or weapons. Denying such supplies to the Imperium was the primary goal… but if they could steal some of it too, even a tiny fraction of the whole, it would fill the needs of the Razor's Edge for a long time to come.

 

With that, Hagga nodded to the other Astartes and then descended into the filthy water.

 

***

 

Rykaz emerged in the huge cistern, brackish liquid pooling around his greaves. He quickly checked his weapons, and gave Eska a light, reassuring thump on her back. The hound, her thick fur slicked back, regarded their surroundings balefully for a moment, then let out a wet gurgle, regurgitating a foul clump of organic matter from her throat.

 

He looked around at the others. The mortal Tarh seemed even worse off than Eska, sagging against the great shell of his beast, but appeared to recover quickly enough. Somewhere along the way through the maze of flooded accessways and tunnels, they had managed to meet up with Varne. The filth and scum looked somehow fitting draped across his warplate…

 

“Are you ready, warriors?" Hagga snarled. "We don't know how many Arbitrators are still inside this fortress, but however many they are, they cannot be allowed to hold this place until their comrades return from the wilds. Be aware, Ukalegon is already above us somewhere, probably fighting his way down towards us. We will link up with him, and kill every last defender within these walls. For the Blackheart, brothers!"

 

 

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

"I was given no passcode Commissar. The Commander is under arrest, the Administratum destroyed, and the Provost Marshal just killed by terrorists. There is no time for this, we need those weapons for the Emperor now!"

 

Crux'as gripped his sword, watching the guards carefully. Overcoming them and gaining entry would be difficult, but if it came to that...

 

Cor'gail, give my words power and confuse this dupe of the Corpse-God!

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'as:

 

'If you have no passcode, then you do not have authority to enter this bastion! My authority however..!'

 

A gout of flame from a military-grade unit washes down the corridor, stealing everyone's breath. It barbecues two of your men, one of the defenders and Lieutenant Navarro instantly, and threatens to singe your eyebrows if you tarry. You will have to force your way in.

 

'I am the righteous guardian of this bastion, and I decry any who enter falsely as thieves! With my last breath shall I hold-fast, with my faith, I will withstand! Begone! Begone to your deaths in the sight of the Throne, or die as miscreants to the devices within this sanctuary to war!'

 

His speech is full of thunder and confidence, visibly shaking those survivors of your group who are less than immersed in the will of the dark divine. His words carry true power, as much as your own, and steel-clad mace of oratory meets the serpentine grip of your slithering wit.

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

The smile tightens, hard and deadly. Crux'as motions to his men to attack, then calls to the defenders.

 

"By the Throne, the Commissar is in league with the terrorists! All those who follow the Throne and wish to defend Harville, attack!"

 

Nom'zas slithers from it's sheath, held up in a fist. It slashes down, points at the corridor. A harsh battle cry rings out as men run down the hallway. One of Crux'as frag grenades leads the way as the rebels begin their assault.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Armoury:

 

The notion a Commissar has fallen to treachery is facile - but the mental confusion it spawns gives the attackers a moment, and they take it. The main defenders are cut down in a hail of bullets, lasbolts and blades, until your assault party reaches the end of the corridor the loyalist was lurking. A heavy, barred gate is pulled across - a defensive portcullis, behind which leads another corridor, and a heavily armoured door.

 

The loyalist emerges from hiding with his flamer, rich-black frock coat, and frogging in excellent order, his face a square-set flinty firmness. The mania of the fanatic lingers, and yet, the hero of men has tuned it to his purpose. He is not cowed by your words, nor fooled by your mischief. His chainsword and laspistol are holstered, but ready, rigged from experience, not drill.

 

'Die, traitors!' He unleashes a long burst from the flamer and the open gate proves his cunning. The first wave of your men is immolated in howling pain, and the survivors reel away from the deathtrap. The Commissar wedges the trigger of the device and leaves it to cover his retreat further into the bastion. 'Your destiny is hellfire!' he bawls over the roaring flames. 'Come and claim that reward promised to you by your degenerate masters!'

 

One can only wonder what weapon he will choose as his implement of vengeance next...perhaps there is another way in to be found before he emerges with something quite...spicy.

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

"Move! Cover and fire!"

 

This was not working well. The armory is designed to defend, but perhaps there were ways around that.

 

Cor'gail the Wildweaver, my patron. Lend me your cunning!

 

Spoiler

OOC: Using Peer [Daemon-Prince] to petition the Smiler's Patron for a favor.

 

The Smiler divided his remaining men up into two section. One would cautiously advance after the Commissar. The rest would go with him and trust in a daemon's humors.

 

[Necronaut]

Ukalegon

 

Ukalegon grunted a half-amused, slightly guilty acknowledgment at Hagga over their shared comms channel and descended into the arbites citadel in search of the surviving astropaths that his altered flight itinerary had heretofore spared. 

 

What had possessed him to do this, to risk the success of the operation for some fleeting glory? Was this the work of the daemon? Had her talons sunk deeper into his psyche?

 

Questions which would have to remain unanswered for now.

 

The Lamenter butchered his way down the tower, sparing none. Multiple times he stopped to glut himself on the spilled blood of his victims and by the time he reached what he presumed to be the armoured core of the citadel where the astropaths most likely resided, his armour was a gore-caked ruin. The lower half of his handsome, unshaven face was completely painted with arterial claret and he was thoroughly blood-drunk and utterly crazed by the slaughter. He half-stumbled into a large chamber and rammed his pointed helm back in place just in time to feel human-calibre buckshot spray and ping off of his armour. He felt the provost marshal, what was left of him, whose remains he had lashed to his breastplate, thump wetly against him as he reeled around, hard-earned combat reflexes taking over despite the stupor that befuddled him.

 

Work tables had been turned over into makeshift barricades and a half dozen judges had opened fire upon him with their pitiful, small calibre firearms, and a small army of scribes and verispexers were fleeing out of the portal on the far side of the room. With a bestial snarl and a lash of his hideous, armoured tail, Ukalegon lunged into his assailants and hewed them apart with deft swings of his chainsword, and then bathed those fleeing civilians who had not yet escaped in a sheet of flame from his arm-mounted flame projector. Those already through the portal howled in panic and pain in equal parts and keyed the emergency override for the blast door, which rammed shut in front of the crazed marine, causing him to skid to a halt in front of it.

 

His prey was playing hard to get.

 

Without missing a beat, Ukalegon charged his infernus pistol and burned his way through the blast door, and with an incoherent roar chased down those remaining bureaucrats, redecorating the grim and staid interior of the arbites bastion with their entrails.

 

He continued his search for the astropathic sanctum, finally coming upon a grand set of double doors, bearing the all-seeing eye of their order, and he immediately recognized the psychic pressure of their craft pressing against his skull as he approached. No matter, no door could bar him entry…

 

He leveled his infernus pistol again and discharged the terrifying weapon, but instead of the great doors melting and sloughing away, he was instead temporarily blinded by the enormous discharge of crackling electromagnetic feedback. His auto-senses adjusted and compensated a few moments later, but the portal stood blocked, the redoubt uncompromised.

 

They had a field generator. There was no entry to be gained. Damn them!

 

He was powerless to do anything. He was too late.

Ukalegon howled in impotent fury and stalked about for a time, hoping, praying that the field might falter temporarily.

 

The stark reality of the fallout from his hastily concocted plan for personal aggrandizement crashed into him in that instant, and he sighed heavily.

 

++Hagga. Ukalegon. The astropaths are in communion. There is no entry to their sanctum. I have failed.++

Edited April 29 by Necronaut

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'as:

 

GM: @Lord_Ikka roll D10's x your IB. If any single die comes up 9, you may ask me for a Small Favour (someone jemmies the gate lock, someone spots an access hatch etc) if you roll 2 x 9's, you may ask for a Substantial Favour (the next weapon used misfires, bit of debris breaks a hole in the wall, that kind of thing). If you roll 3 x 9's or more, well....

 

GM: In fact, if Atesh @FabiusV4lcoranis nearby, I will allow you to 'pool' your dice.

 

Edited April 29 by Mazer Rackham

[Mojake]

Varne

 

After grumbling about the long journey through the cramped confines of the sewer, attempting to triangulate the location of his brothers, Varne finally met up with them in a huge cistern chamber. They had filled him in on the details of the Wasp being shot down, and informed him of the failed strike on the bastion - which led them to their current, updated task.

 

"For the Blackheart, brothers!"

 

As the group trudged through the filth, Varne moved alongside Obadiah, recognisable after a moment due to his proximity to Tarh and the goliath testudine.

 

"How do you fare, Mantid? Did you get a moment to witness the extent of the flooding wrought by the dock attack? I found myself... distracted."

Edited April 29 by Mojake

[Mazer Rackham]

All Players:

 

Jaina Maribor's voice is relayed through your vox-bead network, even if the depths of the cistern break some of them up, the message is fairly clear.

 

+A-l g--und un-ts, we are de-e-ting a ve-..sel on ap..pro-ach. Syste- d-fenc. moni--or. Three ho-ur- unt-.. inter-c..t. Re-c..mend comp-..e objec-..ti.. and e-xf..l as soo- as po-ssib-.+

 

Edited April 29 by Mazer Rackham

[Iron Father Ferrum]

Obadiah:

 

Obi did his best to ignore the contents of whatever the sludgy liquid they were trudging through consisted of.  He looked over at Varne as the Doom Eagle moved up to his side, and the other man's voice filled his ear.

 

+How do you fare, Mantid? Did you get a moment to witness the extent of the flooding wrought by the dock attack? I found myself... distracted.+

 

He shrugged a little and rolled his shoulders, looking up into the faceplate of the taller Astartes.  +I didn't get a good look at your handy work, unfortunately.  And besides, between this delightful trek and my crash-landing in the river, I've seen enough water to last me a good while.  Well.   Liquid, at least.  I don't think this murk qualifies as water anymore.+  He laid one hand on his slung weapon and muttered a quick solace to the weapon's machine spirit.  +If this drek gums up my bolter, I'm going to be pissed.+

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

Spoiler

Dice Rolls

2, 10, 5, 9

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Crux'as:

 

From nowhere, one of your men brandishes a set of spare keys. They are passed hurriedly to the front, just as the armoured door swings open once again. Through the lintel, the Commissar appears, and upon his back is an 81mm Imperial Guard mortar.

 

It's a race.

 

The man sets up the mortar, partially concealed by buttresses and crates, as the keys are fumbled into locks.

 

Clack.

 

One of the tumblers falls. The bipod snaps into position.

 

Clack.

 

The second lock. 'Hurry!' one of your men bawls, as the mortar barrel comes up.

 

Clack.

 

The door is thrown open by your mob, and in the same instant, the Commissar drops the bomb into the tube with a rattle of metal on metal, a sleek-schloop.

 

The world goes still. The bomb goes off, a puff of displaced dust around the barrel. It strikes the ceiling and skitters along it for three metres befrore plunging one metre from your feet. It explodes.

 

The blast is enormous in the confined space, as even as it goes off, the Commissar follows it with chainsword revving and damnation lashing over your shoulders. Your comrades are obliterated in fire, and steel. You are hurled to the ground, face blackened and scorched, but in the sudden pasting you've taken, the zealot assumes that, covered in gore and soot, blood streaming from your nose and face, he has killed you.

 

He runs outside to die a hero, cutting down many of your troops before he is finally finished off. Straining to get upright, your body is stiff. The blast pattern of the shell has all but missed you. Had you been one step further forward, or back, you would be dead.

 

The keys are in the hand of one of your men. His hand, however, is not attached to his body.

 

GM: You take D10 (9!) Wounds, but you live, and the armoury is open. Leave the curtains?

 

 

[Machine God]

Kraggan

 

He moved into the city. Tracking cables and checking the red boxes and the yellow skull zags as he worked, to access a comms grid.

 

Trying not to get fried or infected as he did so. He crept into the Vox to see where the others were and sensed that Teeth was stuck. 

 

A locked door? 

 

 

Finally getting into the city grid, he could see how he could help. 

 

 

 

Dice Rolls

9, 4, 1, 1, 8

 

 

 

 

He sent a data-gremlin to work on the lock. 

 

 

 

[Mazer Rackham]

Kraggan:

 

GM: Unfortunately your security-djinns can only get so far. Tech-use doesn't work on physical locks. You get blurry picter images of what transpires, but can assist no further. At least the armoury is open.

 

GM: However, your interest in a Tzeentchian pact betwixt your Fate-Struck comrades has not gone unnoticed...meddling in the affairs of the Trickster is frowned upon by the Warrior....how this will manifest remains to be seen.

[A.T.]

Xerxes:

 

Whether the assault was a success or failure only two things mattered now, escape and what was taken as prize, the personal conquests of the astartes and political machinations of the trader meant nothing to him.

 

Carefully prepared scrapcode began to initiate as he made his way through the city blinding cameras, falsifying signals and commands and drawing more and more servo-constructs under his control. Without a central command the auxiliary vox systems would be easy to compromise to provide him with the authority he required.

 

What little remained of the temple and surrounding district not smashed to rubble or sunk lay beyond, a rallying point for every transporter, servo-hauler, and augmented slave that he might rally to his cause. Beyond the lighters that must be secured and a path created for the rest.

 

Fresh commands, falsified orders. All craft grounded, terminal authority granted to servitor workforce. Only the weapons and augers of the arbites now... and the airfield as he searched the logs of those automata sent out to locate it, where did it hide?

Edited April 29 by A.T.

[Lord_Ikka]

Crux'as

 

Coughing, the Smiler rose from the blast. He was bleeding from shrapnel wounds all over his body, organs hammered by the shockwave.

 

Praise the Lords of the Warp!

 

He switched his vox-bead.

 

++Sergeant Vix, bring your platoon to the armory at once.++

 

Looking around, the battered Apostate ordered his few remaining men to guard the door to the armory. When Vix got here with the second platoon, they would take everything.

 

Take it all and leave nothing behind. Thank you Cor'Gail, I dedicate this victory to you.

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: @Lord_Ikka have your guys pick you up and high-tail out of there on a tractor, chimera, whatever. You're done, son. Get to Da Choppa Starhawk.

 

Edited April 29 by Mazer Rackham