Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent very slowly begins to work first his right wrist, and then his left, prattling on, while doing everything he can to make the movement seem as unobtrusive as possible.
Triggs listens without expression for some time, but he soon begins to narrow his hooded, snake-like eyes in irritation, the hideous roach-arm beginning to twitch spasmodically where it hangs at his side.
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Uriah finishes typing in the proper cipher, and his eyes scan over the very brief message. The voidborn pales as much as his already pallid skin-tone allows as he turns to Savalos.
[+++Incoming Transmission+++]
Authorizing: Code Iota/Identifax
Benedum 21T-777 Cipher Approved
{Engaging astropathic dataslate transcription subroutine}
[BEGIN ENCRYPTION]
+++Message Origin===Inquisitor Ahmazzi+++
+++Message Priority===Urgent+++
+++Message Destination=== Oremor+++
I look around to make sure noone can overhear. If I detect noone, I will turn back to Savalos. "Our master's message is dire. It says: I come to Oremor. Pray that you have found Krade by the time I arrive else all will be lost."
"Yeah figured as much."
"So lets finish our business here, and get back to work."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Sgt. Einhardt looks from Savalos to Uriah, a querulous look slowly resolving on his face.
"So. That's it, then?"
"We came all the way here just to leave again?"
Chroyle mirrors his expression of disbelief somewhat, but says nothing, merely looking down at his feet in dejected frustration.
The sergeant continues to look back and forth between the two acolytes, some of the irritation slipping from his voice as he reigns in his emotions, replaced by an exasperated resignation.
"I suppose then it would probably be too much to ask just what that message was that has left the two of you so ill at ease?"
I look over at the two Imperial Guardsmen.
"Uriah still has a message to send. If he declines then I will send something myself... Only proper."
I pause for a moment trying to find the words.
"Essentially we are out of time, and judgement is coming. Best we use our time to find Krade or we are all fragged."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Adjutant Triggs shakes his head slowly from side to side, like an instructor chiding a wayward progena. He pads closer, his slippers making a whispering sound over the floor, the occasional tinkling sound of the shattered crockery and silverware following him like chimes.
He leans in closely, but not so close to endanger his sharply pointed nose to your teeth or subject you to his fetid breath again.
"Now, now, senior clerk Sepheris, whilst I admire your rambling prevarication, this rather elaborate attempt at autobiography is not the sort of explanation I was seeking. I care very little for the privations of your unfortunate childhood or the various adolescent foibles you managed to overcome to become the man we see here today. To cut to the crux of things, I only wish to know who it is that you serve. My master has a great many enemies, particular amongst them the Holy Ordos of mankind's dead godhead, and there is every reason to suspect that you represent their interests in some capacity."
He sighs, pulling back slightly to look pointedly at whatever the corpse-breathed, raggedly gasping thing sitting behind you at the head of the table is. Something rumbles loud enough to shake the table slightly, a gurgling and squealing following in its wake no more than a meter from the top of your head. It is akin to the growling stomach of something enormous and painfully ravenous. You watch as Glyde, yellow-eyed and perfectly feral in his dark flak-armor, a las-pistol in one hand, your holstered Armsman clutched in the other, moves up on one side of the table while his tall, brooding subordinate, Stollow moves up along the other, walking toward your bound hands.
Triggs, looks up in mock indignation, waving them back slightly.
"No, no, I really am quite certain that will not be necessary. Senior clerk Sepheris is a reasonable man. He knows full well that there is nothing preventing all involved from resolving this matter in a perfectly amicable fashion."
He glances back at you, his living eye shifting like a squirming white grub in its filthy socket.
"He only need answer my question: Who does he serve?"
I turn to Savalos.
"I told The Master I will attach your report to mine. Tell me what you want to say and I will transcribe into the correct cypher."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Savalos gapes in awe as the upwelling baritone voices, lilting sopranos, and the basso-profundo funerary song of the Revered Dirge Nicodemus swell to a crescendo inside the immense spherical chamber that is the Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII. Blood red sunlight shines, prism-like, through the curving, diamantine walls of the structure, illuminating the astropathic choristers standing on their precarious ringing balconies in a warm, if unsettling glow. The titanic brass pipes of the resonating organ vibrate so loudly that the ganger feels his teeth rattle in his skull. Strident-smelling incense hangs in a hazy fog over the the entirety of the hollow crystalline globe, making his eyes itch and water, even as he tries to take in everything around him.
The twelve-sided crystal suspended in the heart of the great sphere pulses with perfect white light in time to the rising cadence, captured and matriculated up the vaguely trumpet-shaped focusing crystal, festooned with brass wiring and channeling conduits. Cogitators buzz and crackle with the pent-up energy, finally quieting once the voices drop in pitch and timbre as the visceral eruption of psychic energy is expelled to the stars above.
The Revered Dirge Nicodemus, positioned on a wide, sliver-thin metallic disk directly under the central crystal, bows his head in supplication upon completion of the sending.
Both Uriah, who has watched the Choir's sacred ceremony once before, and Savalos, a new witness to the majesty of the holy astropaths of Orcut VII slowly come back to themselves. The voidborn psyker's psyniscient senses ebbing away the lingering energy as it becomes diffuse once again, Savalos Thul checking the teeth in his head with one hand to be certain none have come loose.
For good or for ill, their final messages to their master have been sent.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
"Now, now, senior clerk Sepheris, whilst I admire your rambling prevarication, this rather elaborate attempt at autobiography is not the sort of explanation I was seeking. I care very little for the privations of your unfortunate childhood or the various adolescent foibles you managed to overcome to become the man we see here today. To cut to the crux of things, I only wish to know who it is that you serve. My master has a great many enemies, particular amongst them the Holy Ordos of mankind's dead godhead, and there is every reason to suspect that you represent their interests in some capacity."
"Ah, it seems that you have failed to make your questions clear Mr. Triggs. Had you simply used adequate specificity, you could have avoided much aggravation and wasted time."
Pausing for dramatic effect, Vincent continues.
"Now to answer your question, you see the particular verb 'to serve' is a somewhat incomplete summation of my unique situation. I am, you might say, free-lance. There are a number of interested parties and though I prefer a bit more leverage in these negotiations, your master is welcome to join their number. If you have specific questions as to their identities, I quite obviously have nowhere else to be."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Still bleary-eyed, the stink of bile in his mouth and the stench of something far worse hanging above him with its foul, pressing weight, Vincent makes the equivalent of a conversational riposte.
Triggs scrutinizes him intently, wary of deception, but sensing none, he responds, his heretofore careful mask of feigned insouciance slipping ever so slightly to reveal curiosity, doubt and perhaps a sliver of territorial jealously.
"Who then seeks your services, Sepheris?"
His answer is more clipped than he intends, but he recovers quickly, returning to his incongruously polite banter.
"I do personally find it surprising that a man of your particular character and intellect would deign to genuflect to anyone. Myself, I understand this sentiment exactly. My present arrangement is something akin to possessing a powerful and generous patron. I have been, and will continue to be amply rewarded for my services."
Adjutant Triggs' roach-arm quivers excitedly as he says this, feathery nodules brushing up against your arm, nauseatingly close.
"To be sure, there are pros and cons to any arrangement, but such a thing is a small price to pay for, say, extraordinary power and assured immortality."
"If my master expresses interest, what, might I tell him, is your price, Sepheris?"
I know I wanted to put alot more in my message, but I have no idea how much an Astropath can send at a time. Figure the Old Man can fill in the blanks with what I said. If I am lucky and see him again I can always give a more detailed report later. If not at least he has the jest of whats going on. Still no sign of Krade. He can use the Wolves as a resource, and everything has gone to Frag...
"So how long you plan on us waiting here Uriah?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
"I do personally find it surprising that a man of your particular character and intellect would deign to genuflect to anyone. Myself, I understand this sentiment exactly. My present arrangement is something akin to possessing a powerful and generous patron. I have been, and will continue to be amply rewarded for my services."
Adjutant Triggs' roach-arm quivers excitedly as he says this, feathery nodules brushing up against your arm, nauseatingly close.
"To be sure, there are pros and cons to any arrangement, but such a thing is a small price to pay for, say, extraordinary power and assured immortality."
"If my master expresses interest, what, might I tell him, is your price, Sepheris?"
"I am not surprised you think that. As for myself, tell your master 'I know the darkness and the darkness knows me', your master will understand."
"So how long you plan on us waiting here Uriah?"
"We will wait a few minutes, if The Master is going to answer it will be within that time. I assume you have started working on our exit strategy."
"So how long you plan on us waiting here Uriah?""I assume you have started working on our exit strategy."
"Nope. This part of the Hive is all new to me."
I take one last look at the Astropathic Choir to appreciate it beauty before I change my perception of it as a gilded cage keeping us in.
If I can I try to see if the patrols are scanning any of the groups leaving the Astropathic Choir. If they aren't it would make sense just to walk out like nothing is going on. Hoping we don't run into the Guardman who took notice of me.
Otherwise I am looking for any backdoor we can take. Even taking into consideration that we might have to go up before we can go back down to the Underhive.
"Its easy to have one person slip into a crowd. Alot harder when its a group. Takes time."
"You ever consider asking the Astropath your all chummy with if he has a back door out of here? After all he does know who we are..."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Several more nigh-symphonic choral performances pass before the Revered Dirge Nicodemus again appears in your antechamber. His tall, gaunt silhouette moves into the room with the same gliding gait, the dying echoes of the most recent astropathic song by the choir fading behind him.
He opens his splay-fingered, bony hands before him in a slow gesture of apology, his low, ponderous voice following after a seemingly interminable, pregnant pause.
"It is with deep regret, servants of the Ordos, that I must inform you that your messages will only reach its designated recipient when his vessel completes its translation of the Warp. Until such a time, an arrangement of the holy choir will solemnly chant your missive so that it can be sung to the Void the moment this occurs."
Another lengthy pause, so long that you wonder if the ancient voidborn has fallen asleep standing before you.
His powerfully resonant words trickle out slowly from the folds of his hood, his tone suggesting he is unsure why you yet remain.
"Is there some final service, I or the Choir can perform for you, honored servants of the Ordos?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Adjutant Triggs narrows his human eye, and irises his augmetic, staring curiously at Vincent again, as if he cannot make up his mind about something. A thin smile, businesslike and cold, tells you with perfect clarity that he is through trifling with you.
"I will relay your message, but you mistake me for a fool if you presume you will live long enough to hear my master's thoughts on your poetic little turn of phrase if you do not tell me specifically who these 'others' are that have sought your services."
He flicks a glance to Glyde and Stollow, and then once again at whatever the thing behind you is. Your heart skips a beat when you discern the slightest flicker of true fear cast its shadow over Trigg's effeminate features.
He turns to you again. His words now coldly impersonal, nothing like the taunting, wheedling sycophant you have come to know.
"You dissemble too much, Mr. Sepheris. Answer my question."
"This will be the last time I will ask nicely."
Antechamber, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
"Is there some final service, I or the Choir can perform for you, honored servants of the Ordos?"
"We ask of you is there another exit besides the front entrance? Unfortunately, we can not accept the delay that the guardsmen at the entrance would cause us."
Spine-Catacombs, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
The Revered Dirge pauses again. Although this time you sense a hint of true hesitance on his part, mingled with his usual ponderous manner of speaking.
"Of course, faithful acolytes, if you would follow me."
The group leaves the antechamber and enters the spherical grandiosity of the Choir again, utilizing an elaborately decorated, wood-paneled lift, the individual panels on each railing carved with triptych scenes from Oremor's history, intermingled with illustrated parables of the Imperial Creed.
Savalos and Uriah cannot help but fixate on one of them as the descending lift hugs the curving wall, moving inexorably toward the center point of the lower hemisphere.
The middle panel of one triptych depicts a battle of some kind, likely during the subjugation of this world during the crusade well over a thousand years ago, but instead of the expected Eldar adversaries, the nearly faded lines of the woodcut show the forces of the Imperium surrounding a convoluted being of impossible size and dimensions. Even with the notched woodcut faded to almost total obscurity, you can make out vast, birdlike, triple wings that seem to envelop the Imperial forces, and bizarre appendages whose every strangely-angled inch are covered with staring eyes. Although marred, the textured detail of its central trunk and wings seem graven with peacock-like feathers.
The first, preceding panel of the triptych shows a cluster of Astartes and Imperial infantry rallying around a winged, angelic figure, a faceless cherubim holding aloft a serrated sword whose familiar profile looks strangely like an enlarged version of a scerrido.
Glancing at the final panel, you see more of the Imperium's forces, all of them arrayed in a headlong charge toward the daemonic thing. The central figure in the vanguard, at the very forefront, depicted larger than the rest, is an Imperial Commissar with chiseled features, and a cold, almost saturnine expression, his dark eyes are fixated upon the terrifyingly asymmetrical thing with a pronounced hatred.
As faded as the woodcut is, he is known to you.
It is Krade.
In a low whisper to myself...
"Holy Frag."
As I trace my finger along the panels following its details as importantly as any gang scrawl marking any territory or warning.
"Excuse me umm"
I have no clue what to call the Astropath leading us. Never been in my experience before to meet one til now. Guess he leads a choir of sorts...
"Choirmaster. Do you know the story the history behind these depictions?"
I look for more minute details as well that might give me a sign or clue using my knowledge. I am well versed in wall art as a way to hide messages and meanings. Look to see if there is any symbol of Wolves on the badges and banners of the Guardsmen.
Seeing the color of the wings, and the eyes of the monstrosity that over shadows them I know who this adverary is. I met it when I fell from the stairwell.
The Cheribum, the image of Krade, the scerrido. History is repeating itself...
I look for images of one who might be a symbol representation of the prisnor, or the number 7.
I pretty much have stopped in my tracks studying what is drawn before me. I just hope the Astropath is able to, and willing to share is knowledge with is.
Can we tell which group of Astrates is assisting the Guardsmen?
"Do you have a way to track down an individual?"
Remembering that Iacton told us his Master contacted him through the Yelloback ganger.
"If you saw an image of a person could they be contacted even though you have never seen them before?"
Spine-Catacombs,, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
In a low whisper to myself...
"Holy Frag."
"Choirmaster. Do you know the story the history behind these depictions?"
"Do you have a way to track down an individual?"
"If you saw an image of a person could they be contacted even though you have never seen them before?"
Despite being as overwhelmed as you by what he is seeing, Uriah's inherent sense of protocol and propriety almost forces him to shoot you a reproving look upon calling the Revered Dirge Nicodemus, 'Choirmaster'.
The senior astropath inclines his hooded head slightly, craning his head very slowly in your direction. He shows no reaction, either to your questions or lack of titular decorum as he gazes at the woodcut. You have managed to get somewhat used to the small eternities of silence that precede his answers, so you wait patiently for him to speak.
"Hmmmm..."
His voice resonates so much it almost hums like an idling machine as he considers the carving.
"Unfortunately, faithful servant of the Ordos, I am not versed in which artisan provided the triptychs for the lifts or any of the other ornamental pieces in the Choir. His name, like all the others, is lost to the Ages, I am afraid. They are truly ancient, and date back to the completion of Orcut VII's spinal shaft. The Choir is, in a sense, the capstone to this work."
A wide shaft irises open beneath the curving path of the lift at the very bottom of the Choir's resonating sphere as if to validate this statement. The lift ceases its curving path and instead begins to descend vertically.
"This particular carving appears to depict the final days of Oremor's world-siege, when it was finally claimed in the name of the Emperor and Saint Drusus during the Angevin Crusade. It is thought that the foul Eldar who once dwelt here unleashed all manner of warpcraft, summoning daemons and the like when they realized their resistance was doomed to failure."
He points specifically to the being in the center of the middle panel, and then to the Astartes and guardsmen.
"I cannot identify these guardsmen, the markings are too faded. This heraldry marks the valiant Astartes as warriors of the Storm Warden and Space Wolf chapters, see here, too, this mark is the sigil of the Deathwatch, xenos hunters of the Holy Inquisition. They were called to combat the treacherous Eldar. Ah, and here, see this, the book bisected by the sword? These noble warriors are the purest of pure among the space marines, the noble Grey Knights, their duty would be to expel abominations such as this tainted thing from Oremor."
He pauses again, a long time before answering your next question.
"Ah, you misunderstand, my son. An astropath, even a collection of our kind such as the Choir do not have the capability to channel our song and the missives they convey to anyone but another astropath. It is true that our attunement to channeling the vagaries of the Warp allow us some limited sense to psychically converse with those we are familiar with, but truthfully, only the most powerful telepaths among our kind can communicate such messages beyond a planetary system."
I look for more minute details as well that might give me a sign or clue using my knowledge. I am well versed in wall art as a way to hide messages and meanings. Look to see if there is any symbol of Wolves on the badges and banners of the Guardsmen.I look for images of one who might be a symbol representation of the prisoner, or the number 7.
You recognize the snarling wolf's head sigil on the pauldrons of some of the space marines, but the markings on the guardsmen's banners are too worn away to identify. As the lift drops away into the dark, you use the dying circle of light from the opening to the Choir above to scour the triptych for any hidden messages or signs, even passing your bare hand over the whorls and curves of the wooden etching.
You see nothing in the woodcuts that depicts either the Prisoner or the number seven.
"Thank you. I appreciate the illumination you were able to share. I admit I am unfamiliar with the Choir, and its capabilities. This was my first visit here. Please take no insult from my ignorance. I just wished to understand the mural before me since the artist painstakingly recorded this event so it could be remembered."
Spine-Catacombs,, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
"Thank you. I appreciate the illumination you were able to share. I admit I am unfamiliar with the Choir, and its capabilities. This was my first visit here. Please take no insult from my ignorance. I just wished to understand the mural before me since the artist painstakingly recorded this event so it could be remembered."
Revered Dirge Nicodemus smiles slightly in the shadows of his hood, his voice following a long time after, grandfatherly and low.
"I take no umbrage from a curious mind, especially from one faithful to the Ordos and a student of history. The artist, though nameless, will always be remembered for the beautiful, moving nature of his work. As long as the Spire stands, there will be those who bear witness to his pious labors."
Sgt. Einhardt and Chroyle look on with interest, the medicae guardsman even kneeling to examine the raised wooden relief nearest to him. Try as he might to find anything hidden with the ancient woodcuts, Savalos comes up empty. If there is something else there, it is obfuscated or faded to such a degree that it is not apparent to him.
Uriah would call this discovery serendipitous were it not for the fact that nothing during their investigation thus far could be called coincidence. Still, it is amazing for what it suggests. How could such a thing be possible?
The lift enters a much wider shaft, emerging from a circular ring of seven such openings in the hemispherical ceiling above. As it slows to a halt above cross-shaped gantry catwalk suspended over an impossible abyss that tapers to a black pinpoint kilometers below, Savalos and Uriah take in the thousands of ancient lumen globes, ventilation apertures, and cross-shafts piercing this massive space. The shining durasteel outer walls show no signs of corrosion despite their ancient construction, and the central spinal girding, mirror-bright adamantine, reflects your awed faces like a gently curving mirror.
It is what emerges from the top of the sheath-like girding that makes your jaws hang slack.
A perfectly smooth, bone-colored cone of porcelain-like material that rises to the very ceiling of the huge shaft, tapering to a sharp point, stabbing upward like a perfectly straight tooth beneath the floor of the Astropathic Choir.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
"You dissemble too much, Mr. Sepheris. Answer my question."
"This will be the last time I will ask nicely."
"Since you insist on being so vexingly officious I shall skip the necessary lessons on grammar and syntax and skip right to the answer you are so ineptly seeking."
Pausing to clear his throat, then continues:
"We can start with the Warden-Colonel, who asked me to look into what he believed was an attempt on his life, caused by you and your fellows of course. Then there is one Sergeant Einhardt, who wanted assistance pursuing something of a vendetta against one Commisar Ekubal, with whom you are no doubt acquainted. Next is the tech-priests of the Omnissiah, whose exact instructions you would not doubt be unable to comprehend, but whose basic desire was for your master and his servants to come to various unpleasant ends. Rounding that all out are the various trade consortia, banks, corporations, politicians, nobles, and criminal syndicates of varying degrees of organization with which I maintain 'relationships'. Though since that aspect of my business does not concern you and you are being most irascible with regards to brevity I shall omit that portion."
Vincent finishes his answer, then, as if he remembers something he had previously forgotten, continues once more:
"There is another though, a professional, perhaps that is who you are looking for..."
Spine-Catacombs, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Forbidden Lore: Xenos/Eldar (1d100=21)
Savalos stares at the strange, tapering spire erupting from the adamantine sheathing with almost immediate recognition. It is the same alien substance that the titanic font from the Auldmaw's Lair is constructed of, deep in the very roots of the Underhive. Some part of him knows, too, even though all logic demands otherwise, that he is looking at the pinnacle of that same structure.
Even with the thick metallic cocoon hiding everything but the final ten meters of the material, Uriah shudders with the powerful psychic reverberations pulsing off the ancient structure. It points like a bony digit erupting from a fingerless gauntlet into the very heart of the Astropathic Choir above, thrumming with the resonating power of the Warp. He wonders if the generations of astropaths that have resided here for the last millennium have any notion of just what lies beneath their feet.
From their studies under the finest savants of the Ordos, both know the name of what it is they see:
I look at the Wraithbone like a child in awe. Wondering how majestic the structure must have been before it was covered by the crude carapace of the hive.
My daydream snaps abruptly with the realization of how great a danger everyone is in. Think of the waterfall of filth that poured in from below.
If the Astropathic Choir tapped into this as an antenna then if it were to be corrupted then every soul in the Choir would be in danger of damnation.
Anxiety grips me as I reach out to touch the smooth alien surface. Wondering how in Terra's name we can contact its creators to warn of the danger. Everyone involved needs to be warned.
"We have a problem."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
It is perfectly clear to Vincent that he has finally gotten underneath Adjutant Triggs' skin. He spits the next words rather than saying him, no longer even trying to conceal his frustrated ire as he shouts.
"Yes! You will tell me this professional's name Sepheris, and let the only words you speak be his name, or I swear by the simmering cauldron of the Grandfather that you will die, screaming in agony. Because, I assure you, the thing behind you is very hungry!"
An awful noise, somewhere between a momentous growl, sickening belch, and the braying of a huge animal gurgles from behind you as Triggs leans forward, yanking your head back by the hair to see what slouches so ponderously at the head of the table.
The form looming above you is a bloated, corpulent obscenity of a thing. The skin of its wide torso like a filth-caked wall rippling with trembling rolls of fat; green-tinged in hue and weeping with open sores. Scarcely humanoid any longer, it still possesses grotesquely fat arms that flail about wetly from either side of its droop-breasted chest, like an abominable infant throwing a tantrum. Of its legs, there is no sign, but it seems likely they are crushed under the avalanche of pooling flesh expanding outward from its naked lower body where it slouches upon one of the long divans that once sat beneath the windows of the dining hall, effectively burying the furniture under it.
Rusting chains bind the hideous monster to the mouldering couch, wrapped tightly in place across its heaving chest and interwoven in the rolls of fat and cascading, fleshy chins. Huge, wet, runny-egg eyes, black as pitch, regard you ravenously, as if you were nothing more than the thing's next meal; a rangy-looking game-bird, or perhaps a tasty looking popkin like the one this thing once offered you in what seems like a former life. You shudder in spite of yourself, knowing the truth almost immediately. Even beneath the hideously obese face, there are certain specifics of proportion, certain angles that still hint at a once-patrician countenance. If not for this, the wispy eyebrows, the crowning, patchy growth of bristly white hair upon the very top of the malformed, bloated head would tell you all you needed to know. Wincing at the burning stink of its bile-fume breath, you try to bury your terror.
Sensing this, Triggs yanks your head back again, forcing you to look as you weakly struggle in his grasp, the roach-arm caressing your neck teasingly.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sepheris, but it appears Warden-Colonel Kreed has had something of a relapse. But, rest assured, he is very grateful he can have you over for dinner again."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Not unexpected, and I have been saving my fate points for this sort of eventuality. Given Vincent's profound diastase for his present company and situation, he will be taking the latter option. In this case, does Vincent know of any convenient methods of egress for the Aerie?
Spine-Catacombs, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Savalos' words echo with finality as the lift (more a detached, descending balcony with its ornate, wood-cut railing and balustrades) settles to a halt on a wide circular platform overlooking the surrounding abyss. The hive-spine, with its xenos-wrought wraithbone marrow hidden beneath its protective sheathing dominates the center of the durasteel circle. Seven walkways, radiating not unlike spokes from a central hub, lead off to other, smaller circles, each with their own, more conventional lift mechanisms. All at the ready to descend deeper.
The Revered Dirge, still answering slowly, misinterprets your question, remaining on the lift as the rest of you step off. When he responds, it is as methodically as ever.
"I apologize, Acolyte Thul, but I had assumed you would know your way from here. The turbolifts of the Spine-Catacombs are a secret known only to the servants of the Inquisition, myself, and the senior staff of the Choir. I have verified that the machine spirits contained within them will respond to your presence as friends and serve you faithfully. They can ferry you anywhere along the heighth of Orcut hive. May your mission, whatever it may be, meet with success. The Emperor's blessing be upon you."
With a gentle lurch the balcony-lift carrying the Revered Dirge begins its slow return to the Choir above, leaving you, as always, with far more questions than answers.
Savalos still feels a tingle where his hand brushed the exposed wraithbone. Uriah senses its presence like a closeness, his mind hearkening back to the smell of smoke and open flame in the Auldmaw's Lair. Silus' scepter begins to warm sympathetically beneath his robes with the proximity.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Stifling the gags that threaten to escape from his throat in the face of Warden-Colonel Kreed's loathsome exhalations, Vincent desperately tries to concoct a stratagem that will give him even the ghost of a chance to survive his present situation. Sometimes possessing a powerful intellect and a keen rational mind is as much a curse as a blessing, and he grimly accepts that he is likely facing his last moments alive. He briefly posits making an attempt to damage the black mirror, but his extensive study of such malefic things lends a caution to such a rash course of action that the more foolhardy wouldn't consider. Merely touching or interacting with such a powerful focus the Ruinous Powers could prove fatal, and judging by the potent warp-magick he has seen the mirror exhibit already, he quickly dismisses the notion as an even quicker way to assure his own demise.
For some reason he cannot comprehend, Vincent's mind chooses this particular moment to hearken back to the dense, snow-laden pine wilderness on the verges of the false schola's grounds, a place he would sojourn to whenever he could make the rare escape from the never-ending studies and rigorous control of his 'childhood' home on Sepheris Secundus. The scant stretch of trees that lay within the buzzing drone of the electricified anti-personnel fencing always brought some measure of peace to his nascent self, already burdened with the complexities and stresses that a genius mind must endure in captivity.
The sharp, pungent scent of pine needles, buoyed by the crisp cold air lets him forget for a moment the horror and cloying stench of his present, giving him the clarity of mind to finally act, pushing his very real fears below the surface. Perhaps it is just an artifact of his noetical programming, but some part of him would like to believe otherwise. He can almost see the feathery edges of the deep green trees swaying in the cold, subarctic air, that apparent softness that belies the sharpness of the individual needles...
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Cogitator Hub Cross-Conduit Terminus #117
"A masterful technical improvisation, Kaltos Havelock, it seems the bypass to the security feeds has been re-routed successfully, and the failure alarm has been contained by the subroutine's reactivation. Magos Triskaedestes has taught you well."
The gangly tech-priest begins to adjust dials and knobs on the pict-screens, and you watch as images of the Gran Pallazzar casino begin to wink into life in a sub-divided frame of images akin to the compound vision of an insect's eye. Another few minutes of work, and the audio feeds come fully online, overlapping voices of patrons, security, and staff blending with a bedlam of other sounds; the clack of markers, flapping of dealt cards, and the audible kaleidoscope of sounds from various gaming machines and currency stations.
The Grey Way, The Vermillion Ring, Hypogeum Sub Level B, Cogitator Hub Cross-Conduit Terminus #117
"A masterful technical improvisation, Kaltos Havelock, it seems the bypass to the security feeds has been re-routed successfully, and the failure alarm has been contained by the subroutine's reactivation. Magos Triskaedestes has taught you well."
"I was beginning to think that I had forgotten all of my technical skills when I learned the art of war."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent waits until Triggs' grip slackens slightly on his hair, while simultaneously tensing his torso beneath the chains and sliding his skinny ankles free of the loosely tied sash cords. Testing the bindings around his right wrist with a gentle tug, he relaxes his left hand, slowly drawing it out from its own loosened bonds, the movement hidden beneath the corrupted adjutant's body as he leans over the senior clerk, still consumed with uncharacteristic, frothing-mad fury.
The awful odor of the Warden coupled with Triggs' cloyingly sweet colognes (no doubt ablutions intended to mask his own unsavory scent) makes Vincent gag again, and he almost chuckles, so grateful that there is nothing left to vomit up. Making a fist with his right hand, he tugs sharply, and sure enough, although the tight cord remains, constricting his wrist, the other end breaks off with a whip-crack snap from whatever was haphazardly securing it to the long table. Yanking his body forcibly upright, the senior clerk slides free of the chain loosely holding his lower body in place and rolls off the table into Triggs, intending to slide under his hideous arm and past him. Vincent feels the eye-watering pain of his thin hair being pulled from his scalp as the adjutant's hand comes free, but loses precious time in his carefully choreographed escape when his left wrist stays bound fast for a moment, wrenching his arm up behind his back as he falls to the floor, punctuated by a hot, burning sensation in that shoulder. With the determination of a man who would rip his own arm off to survive, he yanks again, feeling the rough cord (some manner of cooking twine?) tear into his flesh painfully, but widening it just enough for him to slip free.
Just as he makes to rise, he risks a glance toward the corrupted guardsmen of V-Block who are even now rushing toward him from the foyer entrance doors on the other side of the room. Stollow bellows something loudly, and Glyde, whose feral grin suggests he is completely unsurprised by the turn of events, stalks purposefully forward, drawing a pistol from his belt with a killer's grace.
Driving up from a squat, Vincent hear's Triggs' screech from behind him, soon drowned out by the throaty roar of the Warden, denied his promised repast. A chitinous leg snags on Vincent's robes, the fabric tearing as he tries desperately to pull away.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
The witty reposte dies in his throat as Vincent struggles with the bonds which hold him, instead resorting to a colorful collection of invective.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
The Warden's horrible yell turns into a drawn out, croaking belch that rips at Vincent's eardrums, further compounding the madness of what is taking place. He rolls up from the floor, the tines of a fork embedded into his palm, and yanks it out without a thought, his shoulder still throbbing with pain. Feeling the whisper of Adjutant Trigg's awful appendage tug at his robes, he quickly tries to scamper out of reach.
Trigg's practically screeches aloud when he sees Glyde draw his pistol.
"NO! NO, DAMN YOU! The Master desires him alive!"
The tug of the roach-limb tightens as the chitinous barbs dig in to the soft fabric.
With a ripping sound, Vincent somehow pulls free.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent backs quickly away from the hideous adjutant, gracefully picking his way through the debris. He crouches to retrieve the dropped saber.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent scrambles forward on all fours, sweat pouring into his stinging eyes, sweeping away the mounds of broken cutlery, rancid food, and scattered silverware. Staggering to his feet, he stumbles forward, nearly slipping on a spilled trencher of rotting fish. The thick gloaming that radiates outward from the heretical mirror envelops him again, and his body shudders with an involuntary revulsion so powerful he nearly loses consciousness again. This was mad. Pointless. Even if he could see in the supernatural darkness now clouding his vision, what would he have done? He is no swordsman. True, even the weakest and least uncoordinated of the schola's pupils were trained in the rudiments of fighting with a blade, but he never even approached passably proficient in such martial talents. His weapon was always his mind. Vincent turns, seeing Glyde effortlessly stride forward over the piles of debris, Stollow just behind him, his logical mind knowing what probability demands come next.
Then he sees it. The saber of Trumenne Rhyste, the Sliver of Calyx, whalebone hilt protruding from of all things a stained gravy boat, the triple-folded blades still gleaming brightly amid the dross all around it. Stepping forward, heedless of his surroundings and the fate that awaits him, he plucks it from its undignified cradle and brandishes it before him, pupils widening as the argent light flares all around him, banishing the bleak gloom. Simultaneously, the senior clerk's mind clears. He smells the scent of pine again. Whatever comes, will come.
Right now, Glyde comes, closing the distance to Vincent, the clerk's own Armsman-10 held in check at his side. His face is the emotionless mask of a pure killer, devoid of such niceties as humanity.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
If Triggs does move up and engage him, he shall disengage 2 meters north.
Vincent slides his filthy fingers along the smooth, cetacean-bone hilt of the Sliver of Calyx finding the polished, tear-drop shaped silver stud on the pommel that activates the weapon. Depressing it just as Triggs begins to move in his direction, the power saber hums to life, the displacement of the power field as it engages making the hair on his arms stand on end and causing the weapon to illuminate the area around him with an even brighter silver sheen.
Triggs stops dead in his tracks, the corruption within the twisted former adjutant somehow warning him of the inherent purity of the weapon. His lone, jaundiced, organic eye squints into the flickering argent light, his face wrinkling in hateful apprehension. A reedy, rasping noise, not unlike the sound emitted from the giant hissing roaches of the Unduzian archipelago escapes his lips. Even so, Triggs interposes himself between Vincent and the northern door, while maintaining a safe distance.
Turning toward the traitor compels Vincent to gaze upon the Warden looming behind him once again, and he immediately wishes he hadn't. As the edges of the sanctified light touch upon him, the thing that was Alekszander Kreed bellows even louder, rolls of turgid flesh rippling across its swollen body in agitation.
A quick glance behind him shows Glyde and Stollow closing quickly and he rushes toward the edge of the banquet table, cognizant of the lethality of the weapon he now carries.
Glyde continues his purposeful walk toward Vincent, clearly unfazed or unimpressed by the presence of the power saber in the clerk's hand, picking his way carefully over the clusters of culinary detritus covering the floor. He casually raises the Armsman-10 one-handed as he advances, pointing it at Vincent.
"Stop moving, or I will shoot you."
One look into the guardsmen's strange yellow eyes tells Vincent he is deadly serious.
Stollow pauses long enough in his long-legged gait to sweep up a hardwood chair-leg, ostensibly to beat you half-to-death with, before continuing forward himself.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
From his perch atop the warden's table, Vincent stares back Glyde with his own unnatural gaze. His voice echoes throughout the tainted as he replies.
"No you won't, you will be a good little doggy and do what your master tells you."
Then with a flourish, he sweeps the shining blade through the table below, aiming to sever it in two.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Triggs warily stands his ground, blocking Vincent's path to the northern doors, his grotesque arm waggling in agitation.
Vincent takes a few shuffling steps, his feet encumbered by the heaped debris on the floor. He gradually picks up speed, the sound of clattering utensils and cracking plates filling the room before he finally jumps from the floor to the stained, cluttered tabletop. Almost as surprised as his adversaries that he actually made it, he corrects his balance quickly as the linen tablecloth, redolent with filth, slips slightly beneath his feet.
Raising the gleaming blade overhead like some miscast hero in a Ministorum passion play, he yells out to the corrupted guardsman, slashing down with all his might. The hackneyed and ancient proverb likening the cutting power of such potent weapons as akin to a 'knife through butter' flashes through his thoughts as it slices into the thick, hardwood table with almost no discernible resistance.
Spine-Catacombs, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Savalos and Uriah watch one another depart on separate lifts from the Spine-Catacombs of the Astropathic Choir, the psyker and Sgt. Einhardt ascending to the topmost spires, and the Duct Wolf and the older medicae, Chroyle, going down, back into the Underhive. Both feel uneasy about the separation. With Ishmael missing and possibly dead, Albrek gravely injured in the safehouse, and Rico gone rogue, they are the only remaining assets Inquisitor Ahmazzi has active on Oremor---and they are splitting up. Without realizing it, they both grimly reflect on how much has changed in just a few short days.
As Uriah's lift picks up speed, sealed hatches irising open as they climb to the Upspires, the guard sergeant shuffles his feet slightly, his body language suggesting he is not sure how to say what he has on his mind. Shaking his head, he decides to forgo a lengthy preamble, and just spits it out, forthright and honest, though still deferential to the acolyte.
"With all due respect, even as a servant of the Ordos, just how do you expect to be granted an audience with Governor Ceprus when half the 1st Legion is scouring the hive for us under the impression we're terrorists?"
********************************************************
Chroyle leans on one of the lift rails, pulling off one boot and scratching at the hole-filled guard sock beneath, a look of delayed gratification crossing his face. Noting you looking, he shrugs, sliding the boot back on.
"Seemed that would've been a bit rude to do in the presence of the esteemed High Dirge, but my canid's have been barking since we left the vox-spine outside the hive. Believe you me, no one is happier than I that we can ride this lift back down."
Seeing your worried expression, he changes tack.
"I saw your faces back there in the Choir. I'm guessing the message you two received wasn't the best of news, was it?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Spine-Catacombs, Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Chroyle leans on one of the lift rails, pulling off one boot and scratching at the hole-filled guard sock beneath, a look of delayed gratification crossing his face. Noting you looking, he shrugs, sliding the boot back on.
"Seemed that would've been a bit rude to do in the presence of the esteemed High Dirge, but my canid's have been barking since we left the vox-spine outside the hive. Believe you me, no one is happier than I that we can ride this lift back down."
Seeing your worried expression, he changes tack.
"I saw your faces back there in the Choir. I'm guessing the message you two received wasn't the best of news, was it?"
Looking over at Choryle as he scratchs his foot.
"Well it could have been better."
I stretch a bit to loosen up. Wondering who got the shorter end of the stick; me or Uriah. My guts telling me there is going to be a huge fight once I get down there. Either those slime covered things, Redemptionists, or Wolves. Either way I am not looking forward to it. As for Uriah, he has the personality that would find it hard to charm a cracker much less a planetary governor. Not sure if he is slimier than what me and Sig fought in the Gear Box... Just hope Uriah surives the ordeal, and we all meet up at the Gran Pallazar.
Realizing the fountain is wraithbone, and connected to the Astropathic Choir what I am thinking of doing will be either genius, or the dumbest damn thing I have ever done. Only time will tell. I grip the Golden Aquila in my pocket...
"Let me take a look at your foot. With all the disease and things happening about it doesn't hurt being a bit careful eh?"