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GM_Loki's Hand of Corruption: Fallen Angels

Game Master Lokio

You have turned your back on the Imperium, and abandoned the oppressive society of mankind. Now you fight for new masters, or only for yourself, to gain plunder, glory, and infamy. Perhaps you will gain enough power to command your own Black Crusade!

It is the 41st millennium.

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truely die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defense forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. This is a tale of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughing of thirsting gods.

Yet You are Space Marines, formerly the Imperium’s supreme warriors. Genetically enhanced and engineered with special implants to be the ultimate soldier, you are far stronger, tougher—and deadlier—than any human being. Where formerly you cleansed the galaxy with holy bolter and purifying flamer, you are now a vile threat to everything the Emperor strived to build—the most loathsome and deadly warriors ever to assail the Imperium.

Across dozens of worlds as the banners of traitors are held high and the galaxy burns, a single shout of defiance echoes across the Imperium.


++Greetings noble warriors! I hope this message finds you well. My name is Palmere Grath. You might have heard of me. If not, suffice it to say that I have heard of you. I am the master of a small merchant fleet that trades on both sides of the Great Warp Storms. I have something of great value to offer you and humbly request a meeting to discuss it. Meet with me upon the sorcerer’s world of Q’sal, and we shall discuss your furtures and fortunes.++

Regulus the Enticing re-reads the missive he received for the twentieth time, mulling over the message as he sits in a transport ship to Q'sal.

Who is this Palmere Grath? How did he know where to contact me? What could this "merchant" possibly have to offer the likes of me? It must be of great value, indeed.

His mouth twists into a smirk.

I have been idle for too many years. Perhaps this is the sign I've been waiting for to begin my work anew? Time will tell.

He looks over at the ratty urchin who sits against the leg of his purple and gold power armour.


Her large eyes turn to peer up at him from a grime-streaked face, the lho stick in her mouth trailing smoke.

"We shall arrive at our destination shortly. You will make yourself presentable."

She nods and scurries off. The Enticer's golden eyes follow her until she leaves his range of perception.

Yes. Time will tell.

Game on!

Male Astartes Forsaken

The transport ship cuts through the black of the void, and upon it Edhem broods. He closes his eyes and lifts his head, taking in a deep breath to calm his nerves. In doing so he feels the weight of the horns siting uncomfortably upon his brow, and it worsens his mood. It had been a particularly violent outburst, and he forbade himself from re-reading the message again for fear it would set him off again.

Q'sal, he thinks to himself. What awaits me there? It seems more than just a simple merchant is at work here.

He rises and feels his muscles stretch beneath his robe. He was sore, but that was hardly an issue for one like him. Stretching the tension from his muscles, he leaves his chambers and makes his way to the front of the ship where the servitor deftly maneuvers the ship towards his destination. Through the viewscreen, far in the distance, Edhem makes out the writhing warp energy surrounding the sorcerous planet.

More at work here indeed.

Iron Warrior Techmarine

The small raider Crythos has 'acquired' for this task exits the Warp on the edge of the system, a blip in reality as what was once the empty void gains a new object, a tangled mess of metal and energy controlled by frail organic beings.

The Iron Warrior reflects on this as he settles in the Captain's command chair, having needed to alter it to fit his impressive bulk. Iron within, iron without. Irony that vessels such as this were simply iron within. Perhaps that could be changed, and servitors were certainly an option, but they were so limited and not true..

His thoughts were distracted as the ship rumbled slightly as it moved through the gravity of the system and he rose, the crew backing away from him and bowing their heads with the tang of sharp fear filling the air as soon glanced towards the body of their former Captain, hanging against the bulkhead with his mouth in a silent, endless scream.

He ignored it, his attentions on the world they approached. "Scan that planet and determine any vessels in orbit, then prepare a shuttle for me."

He rather imagined the crew would flee as soon as he was gone, perhaps they might even attempt to open fire if they were brave or stupid enough, but the modifications he'd made to the power systems for the ship's weaponry would soon show them the folly of that course.

He'd also rigged the geller field, to ensure it would shut down once Warp transit was complete.

He hoped his masters would enjoy the light snack.

Hrask sits alone in the cavernous hold of the transport, the humming threnody of the Warp ringing in his ears. Before him lie the disassembled parts of his bolt pistols, arranged in neat rows on a tan oilcloth. One by one, he inspects the parts with a critical eye, pausing occasionally to scrub away some nigh imperceptible spot of dirt. As each part passes muster, he lovingly fits it into its appointed place and the deadly efficient weapons of an Astartes take shape before him.

He cocks his head to one side as the tone of the warp drops in pitch. Retrieving a pair of polished bolt rounds from one of the dozens of patches which festoon his chest, he fits one into each chamber and slams the bolt closed with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Satisfied, Hrask smiles.

They have arrived.

Male Astartes Sorceror

As energy between the nine rods began to spit and flicker, Eristal, the High Priest of Glasun, looked on in horror. The members of his congregation screamed and writhed as Chaotic power flooded through them. Their bodies chnaged before the holy man's very eyes. Horrible amalgamations of creatures formed. Most grew the body parts of unholy animals and terrifying monsters. Some gained the pieces of dark and terrible machines.

Eristal spun to face the hulking man in the incredibly blue armor encasing his form standing with his arms raised and a beautific smile. "Davila! What have you done!" Eristal screamed. "Only one was to be sacrificed to save the rest. Me! You promised they would be saved!!" Eristal's gaze was drawn back as he watched the former members of the church began to attack and eat one another like the horrible creations they now were.

The one called Davila laughed. "Such a feeble mind you have, priest. How can you not see the beauty of their transformation? Their souls have gone on to serve a much higher purpose."

Behind Davila the energies dark and beautiful began to rip a hole in the reality around. A vortex the size of a small building poured itself into the world right at Davila's feet. A face of inutterable evil looked back at Davila, one ringed with tentacles and mishapen bones with too many joints in its few limbs.

"The choice has been made! The price is paid!" Davila yells in triumph.

Still looking at the Chaos Spawns mewling and fighting amongst themeselves, Eristal screams, "It was supposed to be me! I was the sacrifice for their freedom!"

A cruel and triumphant look of glee appears on Davila's features. "You fool! They are free. Free from life as dull slaves, free from foolish hopes and unattainable dreams." Davila revels in the glory of the moment. Then at almost a whisper. "And yes, my sweet Eristal, the sacrifice is you indeed."

At this the terrifying and insanity inducing creature from the vortex steps forth moving as if gravity had no hold upon it. Seizing Eristal in its grasp, it brings the mortal to its face. Eristal screams and screams as the monster liquifies and penetrates the man's orifices until none of the monster remains. Eristal falls to his knees still screaming, but after a moment the screams turn to a horrible laughter while a crackling of psychic energy begins to dance around him and the souls of the spawns are sucked out of their misshapen husks into the body that once belonged to Eristal.

"yOU haVe DeLIverEd As PRomisED, davila. Go UPoN YouR ErranD."

With a last wicked smile, Davila turns and steps into the vortex. Now onto Q'sal.

Dotting. Just letting you guys know it was a busy day today, and I'll get on with the arrival tomorrow.

As your transports enter through the warp energy surrounding the planet, a new message transmits to your ships. You are directed to one of the many star-docks surrounding the planet while the message plays.

++Greetings again, mighty lords. I sincerely thank you for acquiescing to my humble summons. You may find me in one of the fine dining establishments in the open market of the city of Surgub. I do look forward to meeting such magnificent personalities as yourselves in person.++

As your ships dock, your shuttles make ready for launch onto the sorcerers' world. According to your scans, Surgub is a vertical city composed of crystalline spires located on an island in the bay of the great river Crelix. Your shuttles land just outside the city proper, and you are escorted into the city by handfuls of handsome slaves.

It does not take long to locate him. As always, Palmere Grath is smiling when you meet him. It is not the false smile of a salesman or the genuine smile of a friend. It is the self-satisfied pleasure of a man who savours every sweet breath of air and every step in his lacquered boots. He wears a plush velvet robe ornamented with polished bone. The robe has a long train, carried by an achingly beautiful human slave who trails behind him. Three ork bodyguards complete the procession, every inch of their battered and barbaric armour a stark contrast to Grath’s adornments. He sits alone at a table flanked by his entourage, picking at some meat while sipping from what you assume to be wine.

"I shall be honest," he says as he sees you all enter. "I have had very little experience with your kind. Sit, sit... or... not. However it suits you, my lords. Do you eat? I hope I give no offense, but the legends of the astartes make you out to be quite superhuman, so I find myself at a sudden loss at what to expect."

The Enticer is pleased by his welcome, and looks over the assembled slaves with a smirk.

As befits a man of my stature.

"Lead me to your master."

The servants lead the towering legionnaire into the city, and eyes cannot help but linger and stare after him, whispers following in his wake. He can't contain a smile.

Yes. Stare. Behold my glory. I walked with the Primarchs, and stood at the hand of Fulgrim himself. I am indeed worthy of your adoration.

"Keep close, girl. I am told these wizards trade in souls."

Rita, eyes wide at the sight of the crystal spires of the city, gulps and hurries to keep up.

Eventually, the Emperor's Child is led to the presence of Palmere Grath, his mysterious host. He notes the others who have been assembled, even as Grath speaks.

Palmere Grath wrote:
"I shall be honest, I have had very little experience with your kind. Sit, sit... or... not. However it suits you, my lords. Do you eat? I hope I give no offense, but the legends of the astartes make you out to be quite superhuman, so I find myself at a sudden loss at what to expect."

Regulus is barely paying attention to the fawning merchant, taking stock of the other legionnaires who stand in the room.

An Iron Warrior, more machine than man. Ah, this one is certainly a sorcerer - though I am unsure of his allegiance. This one's armour is so pitted that I cannot make out his heraldry... blue and gold perhaps? And... well, now! Is that Edhem the Lost I lay eyes upon?

Regulus gives Edhem a nod and a smile, but says nothing. He turns to Grath.

"As a being of legend, it should come as no surprise that my appetite is equally legendary." The Enticer gives the man a disarming smile. "Please, fill my goblet to the brim and share your local delights. I cannot speak from my Legion-Brothers, but I for one am never above sampling the local fare."

With that, Regulus looks down at the human-sized chair proffered and chuckles. "However I shall stand, if it's all the same."

Regulus does, however, invite Rita to sit at the grand table, watching Grath to gauge his reaction. As a servant rushes to fill the Enticer's cup, Rita eyes the spread hungrily, and begins piling food on her plate. Regulus notably does not eat or drink anything until is has first passed her lips.

There are not many poisons that can fell an astartes... but one can never be too careful.

Assuming the girl doesn't die, and whether or not the others join in the repast, Regulus begins to pick at some choice meats. "Hopefully, your offer is as intriguing as your invitation."

Iron Warrior Techmarine

Crythos follows the endless slaves, taking little interest in them or their numbers apart from a tactical study of their nature and any weapons they carry. He's reminded me of insecs flocking around something greater and idly considers of Palmere.

When the heavyst Iron Warrior joins him and the others, hat consideration is increased tenfold. Three Ork bodyguards. He mentally dismisses them, now very focused on the apparent merchant. Orks only respected strength, so to gain their service suggested there was far more to Palmere then met the eye.

Cyrthos wondered if the others had realised how truly dangerous the apparently harmless man might just be. He therefore nods respectfully to the man, his voice heavy, metallic and grating.

"You would know something of us, as logic suggests. To hold power in the service of our Gods requires understanding, and it is clear you hold power. You have something of value to offer and that is believed.

The unknown then, is the nature of this object or service, and what is required from us in return, as it is truth that nothing of value is given freely."

GM_Loki wrote:
Your shuttles land just outside the city proper, and you are escorted into the city by handfuls of handsome slaves.

Hrask steps down the sloped ramp of the shuttle clad head to toe in his battered armor. He gazes at waiting slaves from behind an impassive mask of armorplas and ceramite, standing impassively for long moments before the delegation's headman recovers his wits and manages to choke out a greeting.

Hrask grunts in reply, sparing no words for the petty underlings. He allows the slave to stutter partway through the usual selection of groveling platitudes before cutting him off with a curt wave of one massive hand. Another gesture is all that is required to convince the slave that his charge is tired of waiting.

Accompanying the slaves through the crystalline metropolis, he keeps his eyes in constant motion, evaluating this new environment. The city different than most he has visited over his exodus from imperial space, untouched as it is by the destruction and fury of war. Yet he senses the rippling undercurrent of conflict hidden beneath the placid exterior, the battles fought here will be of a different sort. As long as the money holds, Hrask could not care less.

GM_Loki wrote:
"I shall be honest," he says as he sees you all enter. "I have had very little experience with your kind. Sit, sit... or... not. However it suits you, my lords. Do you eat? I hope I give no offense, but the legends of the astartes make you out to be quite superhuman, so I find myself at a sudden loss at what to expect."

Hrask understands the importance of appearances in such negations and does has no intention of remaining standing while his host sits, as doing so would clearly show Hrask as subservient to him, a state of affairs which is far from true. However, Hrask, like Regulus, notices that the flimsy chairs of this establishment would crumple like tinder under his weight. He instead elects to lean lackadaisically against a nearby wall, at least as lackadaisically as one can whilst clad in nearly a half tonne of powered armor.

He takes the chance to thoroughly inspect all those present. The merchant seems to have summoned a diverse group of Astartes, all independent sorts such as himself. He knows a few by name or reputation and none stand out in his mind as either interesting or dangerous, though is is careful not to show any of them his back. Studying the ork bodyguards shifting irritably in the background, Hrask is glad he chose to retain his helmet. He offhandedly scrolls through the list of warlords with bounties on orks should the opportunity arise before turning his full attention on the marines jovial host.

Fixing Grath in his steely gaze Hrask speaks his first words since arriving on this accursed rock:

'I already ate. Now, if we could get down to business? I was assured this opportunity would be worth my time, so I suggest we not waste any more of it'

Seeing the orks shift aggressively at his terse statement, Hrask mentally rehearses killing them for the third time since entering the airy cafe. Mentally drawing a bead on each of their twisted faces and squeezing the trigger.

Male Astartes Sorceror

As the portal closes with a crackling and the scream of tortured souls, Davila surveys the cave where he entered. It is on an asteroid not far from the planet of Q'sal, and he sees that the transport he chartered is waiting. A man with wide eyes stares at Davila from several feet away.

"Are you my pilot?" The man nods mutely. "Then let us be on our way. No reason to keep our host waiting when his offer promises to be the right path."

The shuttle ship quickly got on its way. The crew was very much motivated to make the flight quick and they did so. Davila took in the sights and smells of the mass of mortals who did their best to shrink from the sight of one bearing the armor of a Thousand Sons Legionnaire. Arriving at Palmere Grath's meeting, Davila accepted the offer to sit and proceeds to make the appearance of doing so, even if he places most his weight forward as if squatting over the small chair.

Davila is pleased to see other Asartes. The wind of fortune was blowing.

Male Astartes Forsaken

Edhem adjusts the ambient light levels on his helmet as he exits the ship onto the brightly lit world. Following the trail of slaves, he welcomes the shade of the building. Edhem waves his hand dismissively at Grast's offer of hospitality. "Get to the point, mortal."

Those of you partaking in the food, you find it quite good. Also, Grath does not seem intimidated in the least by your brusque demeanor.

Grath’s smile seems to grow even larger, if possible. “Ah, yes. Right to business, then. I do like working with those who don't dally around and know what they want. I will be forward with you. The true matter is that one of my ventures has not gone as planned. I am looking to salvage what I can from the situation, thus I come to you. I think you may be able to turn my calamity to your advantage, if you’re willing. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Tyrant’s Cord?” His eyes flick between you, gauging your reactions.

A Challenging (+0) Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) Test will see what you know of this.

For those without the skill, Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) can be used untrained at a -20 penalty.

Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) 43 - 20 = 23 : 1d100=6

One degree of success.

Iron Warrior Techmarine

1d100 ⇒ 98

Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) 49+20(cerebal inplants)-20=49

Well, that's embarrasing.

Common Lore untrained target 21 1d100 ⇒ 68

Regulus smiles at Grath, saying says nothing. He has never heard of this intriguing sounding artifact, but doesn't betray his ignorance.

Better to let him guess at how much I know.

Male Astartes Forsaken

Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) Untrained [Target=24]: 1d100 ⇒ 88
Nope, never heard of it.

"Be plain, human. What is it that you want?"

Male Astartes Sorceror

Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) Untrained [Target=22]1d100 ⇒ 6

Apparently, being psychic has its benefits. What astounding info do I know, O Cruel and Maleficent GM?

Davila's face shows interest as the man speaks.

He registers the blank look on the rest of the Astartes faces. Oh, yes! This was definitely going to be fun.

Pyurultide is one of the many worlds that drift through the Screaming Vortex. Placing dates on the events of the past is futile for a world so warp-infused, but—whether a day or a millennium ago—Pyurultide was a world locked in conflict. The gods Nurgle and Slaanesh fought for dominion over the educated and technologically advanced people of the planet.

Pyurultide has continents but no oceans. The gaps between land masses writhe with a sea of insects and vermin. Nurgle’s influence was strong along the coast where this foulness lapped against the land, and here he had many followers. But the inlanders built magnificent spires that climbed above the blighted land. Driven by the desire for perfection, they built ever grander and more terrible towers. At the height of the inlanders’ power it was said their chaotic structures ascended without human intervention, eventually penetrating some dark heaven, where they entrapped angels whose tears coated the horrible spires.

At the centre of the inlanders’ spiralling sky empire was a dynasty of brilliant rulers, who held their people together through iron will and a horrible charisma. However, the Pox Tribes below eventually found a way to infect the flesh and then the loyalties of the high rulers. The instant that their hearts turned from Slaanesh, it is said the spiteful Prince of Desire smote their towers to ruin. The Pox Tribes consumed the survivors of the fall, and the Tyrant’s Cord—the symbol of the rulers’ dynasty—was lost.

Now Pyurultide is consumed by the unending biological warfare of the Pox Tribes. Each tribe carries its own strain of contagion, which defines its culture like a patron saint. With religious fervour they cultivate even more virulent strains of their disease of choice, and then use it against neighbouring unbelievers. Still, in the shadows of hospice cities and the phlegmy whispers of the dying, the legend of the old sky empire lives on. The gilded remembrance of the Dark Princes’ reign only grows brighter the longer they live in disease and decay, but a return to Slaanesh’s ‘glory’ is hopeless as long as the Tyrant’s Cord is lost. If a leader were to emerge wielding the Cord, hundreds of thousands of Pox Warriors would follow him—in rebellion against the Plague Lord, or anywhere else the new Tyrant chose to lead.

In fact, over the past millennia the Tyrant’s Cord has come to be synonymous with rulership on many worlds in the Vortex. He who could recover it would be known as a great leader. In addition, the Tyrant ’s Cord is suffused with warp-spawned energies and proves a great boon to the one who wears it.

"The Tyrant's Cord was the symbol of rulership of the sky empires of Pyurultide before it was overrun by followers of the Plague Father. In the fall, the Cord was lost, but I have found it. Legends tell that he who bears the Cord could not only unite the fractious tribes of that forsaken planet, but would be destined to be a great ruler of men amongst the Screaming Vortex in its entirety."

Grath grins and leans back into his seat. "I located the Cord and sent hired soldiers to retrieve it.My intent was to sell it to an aspiring warlord here in the Screaming Vortex. However, the ship carrying his hirelings, as well as the Cord, was caught in the Fifth Interstice."

He sighs. His smile fractures in an obvious sign of frustration. "Unable to navigate the intersection of the Fifth Interstice and Eighth Transjunction, the ship’s sorcerer-navigator crashed the vessel on Sacgrave. I know better than to expect anyone actually capable of retrieving the Cord to do anything but keep it for himself. To that end, I have decided to sell the only piece of the venture I still have in my grasp: the location of the crash and therefore the location of the Cord."

Grath relaxes and opens his palms towards you, his smile returning. "I know where the Tyrant’s Cord is, but hostile parties almost certainly stand between you and it."

Grath wrote:
"I know where the Tyrant’s Cord is, but hostile parties almost certainly stand between you and it."

It has been too long since I have had followers. If this Cord does as he suggests... I could bring an army to bear. Raid the Imperium. Forge an Empire of my own...

Regulus smiles.

"Then those fools stand in a very dangerous place indeed." His golden eyes twinkle greedily. "I'm in. What is your price?"

Male Astartes Sorceror

There could be no more obvious answer than the Architect of Fate had indeed sent Davila to glory. To be present when the Tyrant's Cord was raised on high to the masses? When revolt and a cry for new leadership broke the backs of those fools who worshipped stagnation and perpetual decay?

Davila laughs out loud as future images assail his mind. Whether he held it himself, or ascended at the side of one who did to guide and help direct the path of a new power, Davila knew that there was nothing more important than this!

Looking at the Enticing One, Davila could feel the need for the Cord coming from Regulus as one can feel the approach of the inky darkness at sunset. The change in the Slaaneshian, the desire to acquire the artifact...Davila felt even more alive than when the demon took Erastil's will and shattered it into a thousand pieces. The distrubance in the psychic eddies that surrounded all at this conference filled Davila with a hunger to see this through.

But first...what would Grath request of them for this information? Davila was tempted to try and strip the knowledge from his mind himself, but he knew already the other Astartes present would misinterpret his intent and surely attack. No better to wait until the offer was made before bringing a change to this man. Davila laughter subsides to a throaty chuckle. That would surely come soon enough.

"So you offer what many would call a mighty gift. Perhaps I speak only for myself, but I presume you know that 'hostile parties' are the ones we Asartes most like to attend. And quite an assembly of the finest in the Vortex, unless I am again speaking only for myself."

Davila leans forward, one hand on the table to help balance him. His voice is soft and slick, like the sound of a serpent's scales on fine sand. "You know we of all those in this place can find this...trinket...Let us dispense with the pretense of bargaining for now. You have whet the appetite for glory in these fine battle brothers. Best you give them their path before any reason to doubt your veracity enters these proceedings. You have your price. We would hear it, so that we can be about our godly business."

Iron Warrior Techmarine

Cyrthos remained silent as the others spoke, mulling over possiblities. For one, he very much doubted the merchant had planned to sell the object to another when he could vastly increase his own power.

He also knew every single Chaos Marine there would seek it for themselves and that their alliance would most likely end in bloody violence. One world was of no great consquence, but if the Cord could affect other worlds.. then it was truly significant.

"I cannot help but notice that what you offer only splits one way, yet here there are five of us. There is something you are not telling us."

Male Astartes Forsaken

Edhem narrows his eyes at the greedy merchant. "So you failed and now you want us to get it, is that right? How do we know these 'hostile parties' aren't working for you."

"No catch, my friends," Grath says while leaning forward in his seat. "I simply have an expensive piece of venture on my hands that is costing me more the longer I have this information, and I would very much like to get it off my hands."

"As we are in Q'sal, I feel it is only appropriate to base my price in souls. I'm sure you will sacrifice many in the completion of this, and all I ask is you throw a few my way."

"And how exactly to you expect us to do that?

If you've been in the Screaming vortex for any amount of time, you'd probably be aware that this is a fairly common form of 'currency'. Basically you dedicate some of your kills to him. Mechanically you reduce your Infamy characteristic by 3. You are allotted a Challenging (+0) Infamy Test to negate this.

For those of you well-versed in Black Crusade, note that this is different than the system in the Core Rulebook. It's from the GM's Kit.

"Are my terms acceptable?" Grath puts forward, his impatience leaking through his smiling demeanor.

Grath wrote:
"Are my terms acceptable?

Regulus laughs, looking among his Legion Brothers, gauging their expressions. "What are a few paltry souls, Brothers?"

He turns back to Grath. "I find your price fair, Merchant. Let us deal."

Male Astartes Forsaken

Edhem stares levelly at the human, the eyes behind his helmet betraying no hint of emotion. He offers Grath the slightest of nods, acknowledging to him that he accepts his terms. Infinite variations of possibilities run through his mind like a raging torrent.

'Very well, you shall have your price. Let us hope, for your sake, that I find the reward worth my time.'

Male Astartes Sorceror

"It seems that we are all of a singular mind then. That wasn't so hard. I...we...appreciate you coming to the point so quickly. What details shall we now require?"

Grath claps his hands together excitedly. "Well done! Trust me — you’ve won the better end of this bargain. I did attempt to retrieve the Cord, but my ship, the Deluge, crashed on Sacgrave on the return voyage. The mercenaries I hired have a retrieval beacon. If any of them survived, you should be able to find them using its frequency.

Grath pulls out a small dataslate and begins punching in commands rapidly. "I'm transferring you all the coordinates now." He stands, signalling the end your business discussions. "My lords," he bows. He then signals to his entourage and leaves. His followers follow closely behind, save for a few menacing scowls and snarls from the orks.

Anyone with a vox and auspex can make a Routine (+20) Tech-Use Test to track the signal, which has a broadcast range strong enough to detect from orbit.

So what's the game plan? How are you getting to Sacgrave?

Hrask, a soldier rather than a leader, waits for one of the other marines to offer a suggestion.

Male Astartes Forsaken

I mentioned a ship in Edhem's intro. We could take that if GM_Loki has no problem with me having a ship. Regardless, we should probably travel together.

Regulus turns to the other astartes after Grath has left.

"Brothers! It pleases me to be standing amongst fellow Legionnaires again. I relish the chance to spill the blood of our foes alongside you."

He nods again at Edhem.

"It has been a long time." The Enticer's eyes shift to the horns protruding from his head. "I almost didn't recognize you."

He looks to the others.

"I am called Regulus. Once I walked amongst the Emperor's Children, and stood shoulder to shoulder with great heroes such as Eidolon, Lucius, and Fulgrim. I walked on Terra when the Warmaster led his rebellion, have spread the word of Slaanesh to hundreds of eager supplicants, and shed the blood of thousands."

At this point, he gestures to Rita, who looks in awe at the other space marines.

"This is mine. She serves me well enough."

His eyes shift between his new allies, taking everybody in.

"I would know the warriors I am to embark on this endeavor with. Who's names will be burned into legend alongside mine?"

Nothing wrong with a bit of bragging and chest-thumping. We're all Space Marines, after all. ;)

Once adequate introductions are dealt with, Regulus changes the subject.

"If we are to start our quest upon Sacgrave, we will need passage. Does anyone know of a vessel that might take us? Or shall we go about arranging transport?"

I'm fine with you having a ship, Edhem. If the rest of you are okay with using that as your group's transport, it's fine with me. Go ahead and make me that check, Edhem.

Male Astartes Forsaken

Edhem pointedly ignores Regulus. My how far the noble have fallen.

Is everyone okay with my ship?

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