Seeing that the pure white furs were already removed from the Auldmaw I see no problem with the fanatics request.
"Go ahead."
At Savalos' word, the gangers with flamers spread out around their fallen demigoddess, mingling with the Redemptionists as their red robes fan out to encircle the nigh-mythic beast. There comes the staggered clicking of ignitors engaging from all around, and Savalos stands shoulder to shoulder with Castogaul before the Auldmaw's massive, slack jaws. With a downward sweep of his left hand, the fusillade of flamers erupt with combustive whoomps of scorching air, and the Auldmaw's bulk is engulfed, the licking flames rapidly spreading up her flanks and neck. The ring of somber men back away from the great beast's funeral pyre, their eyes tearing up as the acrid smoke begins to settle around her body.
Savalos watches for a time, trying not to be overcome by the conflicting emotions roiling through him like the curling flames that consume what may well be the last of an ancient bloodline.
Sergeant Einhardt considers Savalos' invitation for a moment, but respectfully declines, opting instead to remain in the Sanctum with his comm officer in an attempt to use the long-gain vox in an attempt to raise the man who sent him to Orcut Hive in the first place, Vincent Sepheris. Kaltos, injured during the confrontation in the Geltdown Docks, elects to stay behind as well and you arrange with Tygault to have one of the Pack's healers attend to him. Ivaanov declines as well, offering instead to use his own medicae training to aid Kaltos and also assist the sergeant and his subordinate by communing with the vox's machine spirit in an effort to amplify its signal.
After making the necessary arrangements, the Duct Wolves escort Friar Savonar and his entourage back to the entrance to the Vaxus Deep's slums, and the old prelate takes his leave, detaching a contingent of his Redemptionists, led by a sober, humorless, and horse-faced preacher named Castigaul to aid the Pack in purging the Auldmaw's Lair. Deciding not to place the Wolves' entire leadership at risk, Savalos convinces Luceros to remain behind, and instead dispatches Tygault to assemble a score of the Pack's best warriors armed to the teeth with heavy weapons and whatever flamers can be found in the depleted armory.
So it is, led by the three acolytes of the Inquisition, that a score of Redemptionists and as many Duct Wolves set out for the ancient cavern where the Auldmaw once made her lair. It is a testament to the faith of Savonar's followers that not a single one shows any fear or doubt on arriving in the Pipesource at the feet of the titanic carcass of the fallen matriarch. Their hushed exhortations for the Emperor's protection are mingled with the Pack's low dirge of lamentation as the unlikely bedfellows come to a halt at the feet of the huge beast.
Preacher Castogaul, showing all the emotion of stone pillar, nods toward the great corpse of the Auldmaw and speaks, his voice a dull monotone completely devoid of any outward emotion.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent leaves the lift and passes through the adjoining lobby, grateful that no one is there to see him arrive. The lack of security here is not unexpected, as the doors leading out of it are ward-locked, opening only to those who have been granted prior clearance or carry the bound Machine Spirits imprisoned in a ward accessor similar to the one provided to him by the Warden-Colonel.
Turning toward the archway in the wall directly ahead of him, Vincent brandishes the device and is relieved to see that his accessor still functions. The reinforced door, elegantly paneled in a decorative grid of ivory tiles, slowly opens, revealing the main corridor leading to Warden-Colonel Kreed's suite. Continuing into the tall hallway with its startlingly bright, pristinely white walls, Vincent passes by the heirlooms and military relics of the claustrum's long and storied history. He walks briskly, looking around at the various martial objets d'art and marble busts of the claustrum's prior leadership. As he follows the curving outer wall of the Aerie, he keeps a close eye on the vanishing point ahead, wary of anyone that might be coming from the other direction. The first security checkpoint is ahead, and so far the communion of Logis Blakswann has not suggested anything close to a more clandestine approach. This thought is still fresh in his mind when a sound suddenly stops from somewhere nearby, returning the senior clerk to himself.
He realizes it is because he has stopped humming the insidious tune again.
Glancing to his right, his eye is drawn to one of the hardened-plastek display cases and what is contained therein.
The object is breathtakingly beautiful for an implement of war; a gently curving power-saber, ensconced in a deep-green velvet display setting. The hilt is brushed steel chased with ivory scrimshaw filigree taken from the native cetaceans of Oremor prior to their eventual extinction, of course. The blade is argent in hue, the edge a triple-folded diamantine/adamantine composite whose technique for forging has been lost in the intervening ages since its making. Known as The Sliver of Calyx it was once wielded by the first Warden-Colonel of the claustrum, Trumenne Rhyste, and was rumored to have been blessed by the hand of Saint Drusus himself. Now, it sits here, largely forgotten, save for the occasional moment of adulation from a learned visitor touring the artifacts on their first visit to the claustrum.
Looking at it, constrained by his innate skepticism of such things, Vincent can't help but wonder why he can no longer recall the pernicious tune that he could not be rid of just moments ago.
As the Redemptionists file out of the crumbling banquet hall, the preachers form a protective phalanx around Friar Savonar, the cultists' hands never straying far from the chainswords and hand flamers kept at their sides. They all move with the stately grace of a ceremonial processional, and halt as one when the friar stops in his tracks, turning to face the acolytes who trail behind him.
Luceros and his bodyguard instinctively move forward to surround their new Packmaster and his allies, eliciting a thin grin from the old prelate.
"As you have earned our trust, we will return the guardsman and tech priest to you, as promised. We are eager to begin this holy calling. Who among you will accompany my faithful cleansers to this place of corruption of which we spoke?"
Cool!:
First post using my new iPad! I have to say it works great for posting with a wireless keyboard. Plus, no heavy old laptop sitting on my legs slowly killing me from deep-vein thrombosis, heh.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Central Express Lift Lobby, Unduz II
The lilting cadence of the tune continues to play idly in his head despite his efforts to shut it out, insidious, like something viral that has afflicted his mind.
The walk from where the terminus of liftbank AR-K2, where one of the claustrum's four outer elevator systems connects to the Aerie proper via the 35th level, proved eerily uneventful. The well-appointed corridors of the lower Aerie were almost completely deserted. Although the senior clerk made his pace a brisk one, and kept to little-used secondary accessways (routes passed on to him by Blakswann's communion), even the near constant vibrating noises of the arriving and departing aircraft could not be heard through the sound-dampened walls surrounding the aerodrome. The only sound was the distant, discordant wail of alarm klaxons. Unable to decide if this was fortuitous or a sign that things have become far more dire than even he anticipated, the senior clerk made his way quickly to the Central Spine liftbank and boarded the spacious car.
Using his ward accessor to proceed directly to the claustrum's pinnacle and Warden-Colonel Kreed's private offices and suites, Vincent cannot help but wonder what he will find when he finally arrives.
Trying and failing to hum the Fulcusian pop song that Bothle had been singing earlier, Vincent clears his head enough to consider his options. Even his newfound architectural knowledge of the claustrum will not allow him to bypass the final two security checkpoints leading to Kreed's chambers. He needs a plan.
As he tries to think over the melody plaguing his head, the lift continues its interminable ascent: 75, 76, 77...
What does Vincent intend to do to reach the Warden-Colonel, Ellipsis? Stealth or the direct approach?
The tense parley with the uncharacteristically reserved Redemptionists continues for another hour, and your impressions of Friar Savonar slowly evolve from perceiving him as the wizened mouthpiece of the cult to something more akin to its dictatorial prelate. It is clear he is revered amongst his flock, with the other hooded preachers deferring to him even while they offer their own whispered counsel. Still, there is the unmistakable sense that beneath his measured decorum there is a ruthlessly zealous firebrand, an autocratic authoritarian whose power is maintained by virtue of a holiness that is seemingly beyond reproach.
His pursed lips then part, the cowl falling away just enough for the acolytes to see the thin white traceries of burn scars long since healed over that run down his chin and throat. The Friar then intones a solemn benediction.
"May the God Emperor's divine blessing bestow itself upon our holy endeavor and those faithful souls who would sustain this accord in the face of His Enemies."
In the end, the Red Redemption of Orcut VII hive reach a tentative understanding with the Inquisitorial acolytes and their allies, extending their alliance with the Duct Wolves for as long as it will take to expunge the corruption of the Yellobouros, their traitorous Arbites allies, and the accursed daemonic beings which orchestrate these cabals of Chaos.
His hooded, old-man's eyes regard the acolytes and the Duct Wolves individually, the fervor slowly rising in them until they take on a searing intensity.
"Now the time has come to begin our purgation of this rampant corruption, my friends, where then, will our crusade begin?"
Yes, The Prisoner is detained in 7th Oremor Penal Claustrum on Unduz II. Whoever this Administratum clerk 'Sepheris' is, his message seems to confirm this fact.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Central Express Lift Lobby, Unduz II
After grasping the young tech priest's hand, Vincent cannot shake the unsettling feeling that they've met before, but surely, that is impossible.
Just the same, how many other things did he once deem impossible before the last few days decided to forever alter his perceptions.
Walking counterclockwise around the outer ring of Level 26, Vincent finds his eyes often straying to the hundred mile wide cultivated expanses of the vast plantation fields, as well as the emerald-green jungles which border them. He sees further signs that state of things in and around the 7th Penal Legion Claustrum are turning for the worse. Here and there plumes of pitch black smoke rise from the distant farms and outlying facilities that surround the central complex.
The humidity decreases on this largely abandoned level now that he has reached a point on the circumference where the windows remain intact, and feels the sticky sweat clinging to his body begin to grow clammy with the reduction in ambient temperature.
He walks for a long while, the layout of the facility now as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, every door and corridor revealing itself, what they open onto and where they lead known to him before he even reaches them. He feels his addled mind, rocked by the shock of his communion with Logis Blakswann, slowing returning to its normal patterns of thought, albeit with a great deal more accessible in his already copious memory.
He stops, turning down a darkened corridor whose lumen globes have long since gone out. According to the trivial minutiae of the Blakswann Mind, their work order to be replaced thirty-five years ago was never acted upon.
Stepping through another stuck-open bulkhead door, he finds himself in an express lift lobby accessing the remainder of the compound. He knows without needing to question why that the 26th floor however cannot be reached from any other point in the claustrum without the proper bypasses.
Stepping into the elevator, he stops short, frowning slightly as he depresses the button that will return him to the Aerie.
He had been humming to himself the strange snatch of song heard over the cogitator before the tech-priest Launce savagely deactivated it forever with the heavy stool.
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum, A Forlorn Pantry
Uriah Trantor wrote:
"We know heresy is in the Arbites. Some people cannot take more than a glimpse of my life and what we are facing. I am glad you are of sterner spirit. We are of the Ordos Malleus. We are facing two of the Ruinous Powers. One is of filth and disease and the other is betrayal of all that is held dear. They seem to be in opposition of each other, and the prize is this world."
"I've seen the face of this enemy, and I would be a liar if I said it didn't terrify me. That being said, I will do what must be done, for the sake of my men and the salvation of my home."
Sgt. Einhardt shakes his head, as if trying to rationalize something that just doesn't correlate to even the bizarre circumstances he finds himself in.
"I need to know, the man who sent me here, he's nothing more than a senior clerk in the Administratum, serving the 7th legion, and perhaps one of the most egocentric and inscrutable people I have ever encountered. Yet he seemed to know what Ekubal had become. How the hell does he fit into all of this?"
"We have identified two factions that have been active in trying to undermine Oremor. One led by an agent of contagion, which uses the number 7, and the other by the one who occupied the Eviscerator."
I have to think about this like a Regicide board. Plan your moves, keep your cards close.
Friar Savonar lowers his head in reflection, his eyes now lost in the shadows of his hood, his dry lips almost spitting the words.
"So, at last, after all these years it has finally come to pass."
Savalos Thul wrote:
"For the first part we have found that the Auldmaws lair has been defiled by filth. The same filth that overtook the Gearbox. We require your cleansing flames and prayers to the God Emperor. I expect there to be malign guardians to prevent us from this task. They must fail.
"We know of the place you speak. It shall be scoured with the fiery wrath of our holy flame to expunge the taint that has taken root there. It is well and good that your ilk praise the God Emperor and give him the fealty that he demands, but it is a shame your kind cannot forswear your fixations on the savage beasts of the sumps. Even so, it can be forgiven in the eyes of our congregation, and He that we Hold Most High, as the the Holy Throne is venerated in many ways, by many creeds."
Savalos Thul wrote:
We will also require healers to help battle the coming plague. Artifacts of Saint Trobriund have power over the contagion. I have felt it, and witnessed it."
The closest of the hooded Redemptionist's again murmur to their leader at these words, and he hushes them again with muttered blandishments.
"I wish to speak at length about this artifact in private, Thul, when the opportunity presents itself. Such a relic of the faith, if indeed authentic, is a thing of great power, both symbolically and corporeally."
"It must be protected by the faithful."
Savalos Thul wrote:
"The monster behind the Eviserator has shed its skin for a new one. We need to quietly find out who it is. You can share any lore by your judgment our character on how we can identify, and battle such a foe. This one is a plotter, and a planner. We have to move carefully to find where the spiders web's connect... We have found two. One is a den of serpents. In which we will need your numbers to help combat. The other we will assist those who wish to clean their own house. If you know of any other webs it would be good to know of them now."
Friar Savonar frowns, his lips turning downward in contempt at even having to speak of the thing that wore Waldrimm's skin.
"The Daemon will simply take a new face, as it has done since time immemorial, know only that regardless of the guise it takes, you must not falter, it must be destroyed."
"We well know of the Serpent's corruption. The Yellobouros serve the Changer now, and will be dealt with, in this we are united. Soon enough they will be judged upon the pyre."
Savalos Thul wrote:
"This is what I propose for our opening moves. Its going to be long and bloody, but whole of Oremor is at stake."
"I have seen the coming apocalypse. The Red Redemption will stand true and our fires will cleanse the corruption or we will perish trying."
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum, A Forlorn Pantry
Uriah Trantor wrote:
"First I have a question for you: Are you willing to help fight with us against the enemy that you have just gotten a glimpse of? If so, I can give you more information. I will tell one thing, as I have told others, the stakes we are facing are the destruction of your planet and the spread of the Ruinous Powers in this whole system."
"I'm cut off from my claustrum and the damnable man that sent me here, have faced an enemy that I've heard more than one man describe as daemons of the Warp, and now you tell me that the fate of this world, my homeworld, may be at stake? You make it sound as though I have a choice, sir. I didn't know that the Inquisition was so accommodating"
I nod respectfully to the Friar for the condolences. Keeping with my policy of having all the cards on the table I speak.
"I hope to prove to be just as strong of an ally to our friends. And a ward to those who need it. The Old She Wolf fell to the terror of all women of Oremor. The Eviscerator's blade..."
Saying it stings, but better the truth here. Better the truth.
Although he remains impassive, Savalos and Iacton cannot help but notice Friar Savonar's hooded attendants react to this revelation. Those closest to him murmur again to the ancient clergyman, and he irritably hisses at them to be silent.
"My flock and I are among the few who know the true threat that this so-called 'Eviscerator' poses. He is a servant and puppet of the Ruinous Powers and has left blood and mayhem in his wake during the hunt for your mother. In my meditations and prayers to the God Emperor He has long bestowed upon me visions of the apocalypse that is to come, and this evil that masquerades as a man is no small part of it."
Savalos Thul wrote:
"We have lost many this day, including Old Silus, all to another enemy. Our funeral howls will be long this night, and the day is still very young. Know the Pack is of one mind and purpose. We will hunt."
"Do not mourn your loss overlong, for each friend martyred to the Enemy and called to the Emperor's bosom is fuel for the fires of vengeance that sustain us."
Savonar licks his dry lips, and you can see the smooth white flesh of long-healed burn scars beneath his cowl.
"Consider this: these deaths that you lament today are what have allowed your Wolves to grow teeth again."
"You have asked for this counsel, now what do you propose?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Turning to the tech-priest, he casually removes his glasses and wipes them clean on one of the few unstained spots on his clothing. He fixes his naked gaze on the priest, and smiles.
"I intend to improvise."
The young tech-priest smiles again, the expression still incalculably weird to Sepheris on one of the Machine Cult's ilk.
"I had hoped you would say that. You know what must be done. Be careful. Rest assured, I will see Bothle to safety so that he may deliver your message."
"I do not believe we were ever properly introduced, and now we must bid farewell. It is unfortunate. You are a very interesting man, Vincent Sepheris."
He extends his hand, clasping your own tightly, flipping his auburn-hued topknot over his broad shoulders as he does so.
"My name is Launce."
Nodding once more, Launce turns, and briskly walks out toward where Bothle awaits in the outer edge of level 26. They confer a moment, their outlines limned in the yellow light shining through the missing windows, while the backlit wisps of tiny spores float through the outer ring like a lambent halo around them. They turn together and disappear out of view to the right, following the curve of the claustrum's outer wall.
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum, A Forlorn Pantry
Uriah Trantor wrote:
"My name is Uriah Trantor and I am the one you were to give this to. This confirms who one of the enemies is and we have heard the name of the other. What are your orders now that you have delivered your message?"
It is clear that Sgt. Einhardt has been through a lot in the last several hours. He stares through Uriah Trantor for a few seconds before successfully wrapping his mind around this question.
"My original orders for my squad were to investigate a commissar and a contingent of 7th Legion guardsmen that were absent without leave from the claustrum. Upon our arrival in the Geltdown Docks we came under attack by the rogue guardsmen and a swarm...a swarm of blighted monsters...at their shuttle's platform. By some Throne-granted miracle I cannot fathom, myself and half of my squad survived, escaping with your allies."
He pauses again, lost in thought.
"The truth is, I have no further orders. Since the ambush at the docks I haven't had an opportunity to contact Sepheris. This far below the surface even the long-gain vox-caster carried by my comm officer is useless."
The sergeant's eyes narrow considerably, the ice returning to his martial gaze.
"All I know is that I watched half my squad die, torn apart by child-sized monsters, and have since that time not been able to receive a single straight answer from anyone; not the Astartes-sized bloke in the cargo-8, not those damnably obtuse tech-priests, or anyone else for that matter now that I am here. Wherever here is!"
"Now, either shoot me for being insubordinate or answer the question I have of you, Uriah Trantor: what the FECK is happening here!?"
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum, A Forlorn Pantry
The 7th Oremor Penal Legion sergeant stares intently at Uriah Trantor, his ice-cold eyes betraying nothing of his emotional state, the firm set of his jaw showing that despite everything that has happened to he and his men since arriving in Orcut hive, he hasn't succumbed to his fears.
"Master Sergeant Einhardt, 7th Oremor Penal Legion, Unduz II Claustrum. I have in my possession a sealed message for delivery from Senior Clerk Vincent Sepheris, attached non-com of the Adeptus Administratum of the Unduz II Claustrum, to an unspecified contact. I have surmised from recent events that this dispatched directive should be delivered to whoever is in charge of Inquisitorial delegation present on Oremor. I'm assuming that is you, sir."
He passes a simple, sealed, clerical dataslate to Uriah.
Uriah:
Activating the sealed dataslate, Uriah looks down at a simple message that confirms his worst fears regarding the Prisoner:
Looking at the Old Friar: "If I had my way I wouldn't have taken this seat for a good long while."
I sit down heavily feeling the burden of it, the responsibility. I look into the old man's eyes.
"She won't be coming anymore. Her place is beside my Father now. If you want to say words to her your more than welcome, and I be willing to take you to her."
You can see little of the wizened old friar's face beneath the red cowl he wears, but his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly at your news, his pale brow wrinkling thoughtfully.
"That will not be necessary. You have my sincerest condolences, then, Thul. The She-Wolf, for all of her secrets and prevarications was both a worthy adversary and a firm ally when that day came. Your kind have a large void to fill, it seems. If I may be so bold, how did this sad and untimely event occur? I pray that it wasn't as a result of some unfortunate internecine strife?"
Friar Savonar glances around the long table, and it is clear when his eyes fix pointedly at Luceros who his last comment was intended for. It is also clear he has noticed that the other Alpha, Silus, is conspicuously absent. His shrewd gaze then follows along that side of the table, missing nothing, and you recognize that he has also taken note of the fact that Uriah and the guardsman sergeant never took their seats, either. A perceptive man.
Savalos Thul wrote:
As I let the words sink in. I take a look around the table and take measure of the new faces before me.
Eye contact during the long walk to this meeting chamber was all that was required for Uriah to make his intention of slipping away with the guardsman sergeant known, and Savalos is now grateful for the psyker's foresight when watching Friar Savonar survey the room. The guardsman seemed confident and stolid, even in the face of the remarkable circumstances he found himself in, uttering not a word. The remainder of the Redemptionists in their concealing, pointed hoods, say little, those closest to the friar only muttering occasionally to him behind lifted hands. They all appear to be deferring to the withered old preacher.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
The concern writ across Jerimus Bothle's face for his old friend is genuine when Vincent finishes his instructions. The portly clerk removes his cracked glare shades, makes to dust them off, then notices how filthy and damaged they are, and instead elects to let them clatter to the floor.
He wipes away the humid sweat and grime that mix with his teary, red-rimmed eyes, the tears not so much a display of sentimentality from the once-jocular clerk, but rather an aftermath of succumbing to the horrors of the inhuman voice. He makes to speak, but his voice quavers slightly, and Vincent sees the shame on his face as he tries to master his fears. He haltingly begins again.
"Boss, are you sure about this? That voice, the singing, that thing that spoke to us. I'll admit I've never been so terrified in all my life, but I would be worse than a coward if I ran away now leaving you to face whatever it is alone. The claustrum is falling apart...the legion killing the tech-priests...it's madness. What sort of chance will you have alone?"
As he speaks the young tech-priest moves along beside him, gaze downcast at the floor, saying nothing.
When Vincent finishes his instructions, Bothle takes the battered dataslate hesitantly, not even giving it a second glance with his watery eyes, trying to make sense of what his superior is telling him. Then, something registers as looks upon his long-time regicide partner and Jerimus Bothle secures the 'slate in his vest pocket. A new determination crosses his features, and he nods respectfully at Vincent in a manner that the normally casual Bothle has never done before.
"I will make certain it reaches its destination, boss."
Seeing there is little more to say, Bothle lowers his head thoughtfully, the tech-priest nodding once to you and then following him from the abandoned gene-lab. Before they are fully through the door into the brighter sunlight of the level's outer ring, the enigmatic tech-priest turns to linger for a moment.
"I will do everything in my power to make certain he reaches his destination."
Then pausing, an odd note of concern entering his modulated voice:
Luceros leads the strange procession of Inquisitorial acolytes, Redemptionists, and Duct Wolves through the labyrinthine corridors of the dilapidated hostelry that has served as the gang's bolthole since their hagira from the upper levels of Vaxus District, finally stopping before a set of tall double doors crafted from a hardwood so dark it is almost black. The notched and pitted doors are limned with ornate brass fittings that are so tarnished with age that they seem to almost blend in with the wood. Two of Luceros' bodyguard at the head of the bizarre parade of personages step forward and pull the massive portal open, blowing up a puff of grey dust, and revealing a long, oblate chamber that likely once served as a sumptuous banquet hall.
The huge dining room has fallen into decay like the rest of the hostelry. Antiquated plaster frescoes painted upon concentric rings on the ceiling are cracked and stained with blackish mildew beyond any recognition of what they once depicted. The left-hand wall has partially collapsed revealing another room that can only be the kitchen that once serviced this banquet hall, filled with a clutter of rusting appliances. Shattered piles of wooden chairs and the remnants of tables litter the circumference of the room like antique kindling.
Only a solitary hardwood table remains, but it is impressive in spite of its worn and dusty appearance. Like a lone, battle-scarred battleship in dry-dock it dominates the center of the room, its rectangular dimensions a full twenty meters long and nearly three meters wide. The stout legs at the near end are like curving pillars terminating in elaborate, lion's-paw feet carved by some long-dead master woodworker. An eclectic selection of mismatched chairs surround its titanic length, while a pair of larger seats upholstered in dark, grox-hide leather that could conceivably double as thrones sit at either end.
Without preamble or invitation, Friar Savonar trundles over to the nearest of these two places of honor, leaning heavily on his laud hailer staff all the way and settles his short, infirm body into it with a hissing grunt of effort. Luceros and his men seat themselves next along the right-hand side of the table, and the seven Redemptionist preachers that comprise Savonar's crimson-garbed honor guard awkwardly settle into the chairs nearest to their master after silently satisfying themselves that the Duct Wolves mean no treachery. The acolytes, tech-priest, and guardsman-sergeant file in to the other side, leaving the other place of honor for Savalos.
Friar Savonar, his cowled head barely topping the level of the table lets out a dry, raspy-sounding chortle of amusement as Thul approaches the chair.
"Heh! You presume much boy, to take that, the seat of your mother. Tell me, where then is Ariella, what matters occupy her so much that she would send her newly returned pup to treat with me?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Vincent slowly removes his right glove and runs his pale fingers across the data-port's engraved surface. He traces each concentric ring in turn before finally reaching its center and placing his palm flat on the face terminal. With celerity to impress any cardsharp, he whips a filament of silver metal from the flesh of his wrist and walks it over his fingers. He holds he filament's heavy fob between his middle and ring fingers for a moment, fingertips quivering in anticipation, before plunging the thumb sized cylinder into the data-port's yawning depths.
Vincent's eyes roll into his head as he reaches into the cogitator's moldering holds. His subconscious probes through the stagnant data-flow, searching for the proscribed techniques and terrible knowledge this place once contained.
As his mind enfolds itself around the sluggish flow of hibernating binary data in the long-forgotten cogitator, Vincent's conscious mind is left wondering why this particular device was left active after all this time when the other racks and components have been deliberately brought off-line or otherwise removed. It is almost as if it was left here for him, waiting to be discovered in the abandoned cloning lab.
Bypassing the encryption and security protocols is child's play with the authorization codes and ciphers remembered from Logis Blakswann's datacore and the Warden-Colonel's still active ward accessor. When all is laid bare, it takes his detached mind, cast adrift through the electro-graft linkage several moments to fully grasp the ramifications of what it is seeing.
One notable file, something of a status indicator relayed from the V-Block of the Oubliette itself stands out most starkly, the danger it reveals like a razor knife slashed across his neural pathways, demanding notice:
88D54-Tl3-CONFIRMING CREDENTIALS/GHOLEM-77 ENCRYPTION ENGAGED**ACCESS GRANTED**/ACCESSING STATUS DISPLAY-ACTUAL:
[b][***WARNING-WARNING-WARNING***/CONTAINMENT FAILURE IMMINENT] [PSYCHIC ACTIVITY {+19.877 ps/t} PRESENTLY EXCEEDS ALL ASSIGNED FAIL-SAFE PARAMETERS-IMMEDIATE QUARANTINE RECOMMENDED/ERROR/FALSE cmnd -h ID READ/NEG/117/***ERROR***/QUARANTINE PROTOCOLS DISABLED AT SOURCE/***ERROR***/] -PARSE PROMPT DISABLED- [+++REPORT/BIOMONITOR FOR BUFFER PENITENTS FOLLOWS/REPORT+++]
Vincent lurches back, his mind seething, almost squirming with the unbidden, writhing tendrils of unseen things, a harbinger of corruption that numbs the senses. The electro-graft retracts into his hand like an appendage burnt on a hot stove. The sound of lies? Flies? F(lies)? The noises fill his ears as the rusting cogitator's speakers hiss into life.
'walkabout...walkabout...
In the evenin' in the shallows,
'touched man he walkin' the barrows,
third eye seein' what's beyon' the parted veil,
lonely watcher, he muss'n fail...
walkabout...walkabout...
The singing fades away, but Vincent is given the sobering sensation that it is not because the singer is done, but rather he senses or somehow even hears the young tech-priest, Bothle, and Vincent listening in rapt terror.
An exhausted voice, tremulous with effort, speaks softly over the cogitator's vox-speaker.
'...help...help me...I can't hold him much longer...fetch the Stern Man...I beg you...come for me!'
The voice fades and is slowly replaced by a horrific buzzing noise, and you feel your eardrums begin to throb and ache again. Another voice, dark, sepulchral, and completely devoid of humanity whispers in a guttural, yet intimate tone:
'Vincent...listen not to the abomination calved from my being...listen to...'
You hear Bothle whimper like a child.
There is a sharp crack, and a shower of sparks, and you suddenly feel the hot blood running out of your ears, on to your neck and clothing. Looking up you see the young tech-priest, one of the wheeled stainless-steel stools clutched in both hands. An expression of true fear is stamped on his face. Chest heaving from the exertion, sweat dotting his brow and blood trickling in rivulets from his own ears, he tosses the chair aside, staring at the crushed faceplate of the broken cogitator.
His yells gradually become audible to you as the sounds of swarming flies slowly recedes, the thunderous noise of your own pulse, pounding in your head finally diminishing. A foul smell lingers in the air.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent taps his gloved fingers against the face of his thumb as he ponders this revelation. He feels chills course down his spine as dark temptations bubble up from his psyche. Clutching his eyes shut, he traps down these desires with an iron will forged from decades of grim survival. He turns to the young priest with an unflinching gaze.
"Can anything of use be salvaged here?"
The young tech-priest watches Vincent's fingers cascade hypnotically for a time before answering.
"Perhaps."
"They abandoned the hardware, but something yet remains. It is why I brought you here. You need to understand for yourself."
He gestures toward the lone cogitator array that is still lit, and the clockwork rings of the data port piercing its rusting faceplate.
His next words are spoken as if he never intended to say them aloud, as if his reverie compels him to do so, the dream-like drone of his voice completing the effect.
"The Genetors cloned him, their masters naively believing that his lesser aspects, once sufficiently psychically hobbled and bound, could serve as a seven-fold buffer to contain his power."
Sav will go with using Charm. Its always a bad idea to threaten someone in there own yard, and starting off a relationship with deceit is even worse. But using guilt on the other hand, that Sav will use.
Well thought out, Sav, and overall a very convincing speech. I'm granting you an additional degree of success for the effort.
Success, by 3 degrees, +1 for a roleplaying award, for a total of 4 degrees of success. The old Redemptionist's Disposition has been swayed to 'Infatuated' (don't worry, not literally, Sav won't have to fend off his crotchety advances like a choir boy).
Savalos Thul wrote:
Did Uriah, and the others have the opportunity to tell me about the pool of filth?
Yes, you had a few moments to quickly converse on this matter. Also, just as an aside, the only two guardsman with the tech-priests are Sgt. Einhardt and his vox-officer, the other three, wounded, are back with Oktammor in the Vaxus safehouse.
Savalos Thul wrote:
"You asked me to choose my next words carefully. So I shall. You jeer, and mock my family about licking our wounds with our fight against the Serpent. That were in need of succor. There is no shame in that. For while you prostrate, and genuflect, and have been delinquent in your responsibilities. The Wolves have watched, and hunted."
"There is an ancient story about a Serpent that was allowed free reign in a garden. Where its inhabitants paid it no mind til they were led astray. Then it was to late, and it led to the destruction of the garden. My Wolves bleed, and die rooting out the Serpent, and its allies while you have turned a blind eye."
"Where were you when we had to set the Gearbox to flame? Where were you when we fought to save the soul of The Mercy. It too consumed by flames. Where were you when the gunfire echoed here in the Vaxus Deeps? ...Where were you while my brothers, and sisters died fighting the corruption that is eating away at the very foundation of Oremor?"
"It wasn't your time... We know you will do the Emperor's work. Hence why we came here to retrieve you. For now is your time. But you need the Wolves Senses, and the Wolves Counsel, and we can use your numbers. So come inside, and treat with us. I don't play my cards out in the street for impure eyes, and ears to see. You will receive any, and all proof inside."
I turn my back on the crowd of Red Redemptionists, and start to go back inside, and stop for just a moment before entering.
"We had to place our trust with you. Its time you need to place your trust in us."
"One last thing, I am the old She Wolf's blood. Our words carry equal weight with our people."
I step inside, and hold The Golden Aquila up high to be seen. Hating that I have to use it as a carrot on the stick; but hoping the Red Redemptionists follow peacefully. Sad to think I wish Ishmael was here. He could speak there language. Fanatic to fanatic.
The brass laud hailer drones with a buzz of feedback, as if its owner is momentarily at a loss for words. When he speaks again, his tone is less abrasive, more thoughtful, and you can tell immediately, for good or for ill, your words and the dramatic appearance of the golden aquila were the last things he expected, and put what must normally be a gifted orator off balance.
"So, the prodigal son has returned, then. Ariella must be proud. You speak in parables and allegory like a confessor, young Thul, or perhaps you were just bequeathed the silver tongue of your mother. Regardless, your words carry weight in these old ears. I am relieved to hear that another's eyes see the tide of corruption spreading through this hive like we do. We have watched the Serpent, these Yellobouros, shed their skin and take on the taint of something...else...it is why we offered your kin succor in the first place. Dare not doubt the conviction of the Emperor's holy avengers in this matter, however, when the time comes this Serpent will be beheaded, and cut seven times seven times in pieces and burnt upon the pyre of our wrath, its purified ashes strewn over the Garden to grow the people's faith in the Golden Throne."
The awed hush that had come over the assembled indigen Redemptionists slowly turns to a susurrus of pious whispers as you lower the majestic golden aquila. Something in the preacher's voice betrays some small measure of irritation that you influenced his flock so easily.
"I hear the truth in your words and will parley with you."
The red robed preachers around him seem to bristle at this, and you can see those flanking him, their faces hidden by the folds of their hoods, growing uneasy at this development. A slight, pale and palsied hand waves them both off in irritation, and the mob parts enough for all to glimpse a very short figure nearly mummified in red vestments. The laud hailer held in his other hand is nearly twice his diminutive height.
"You have my trust. However, my loyal disciples fear that I am becoming too rash in my dotage, but they should know by now that Friar Savonar leaves little to chance. One of the tech-priests and one of the guardsmen will be left behind with my followers as an assurance of my safety while your guest."
He gestures to Kaltos and the guard sergeant, and they are herded forward before him and his honor guard of seven red robed cultists, serving as an improvised human shield between the Redemptionists and the wary Wolves. One of the robed figures swings a lit censer back and forth as they make their way to the entrance of the Duct Wolf sanctum, the others keeping their chainswords and flamers at the ready for any sign of betrayal.
When Friar Savonar get closer, you can see that he is almost absurdly short, fully half the height of his followers. Just the same, he carries himself with an imperious authority, and a confidence that transcends his spare and withered frame and lack of stature. His robes are as soot besmirched as the rest, but are of a deeper, almost maroon hue, bedecked with golden braid and intricate brass aquilas meticulously pieced together from underhive salvage. He leans heavily on the tall laud hailer, but moves gamely enough. His thin, sallow lips, just barely visible in the shadows of his hood, are down-turned and set in a sour grimace, wreathed by a billowing white beard whose tips are ritually scorched with pitch.
When he reaches Savalos, Uriah, and Iacton, he does not deign to look up at them, his hooded head instead set straight ahead upon his hunched shoulders, the ghost of a smile rippling across his pinched, raptor-like mouth.
Success, by one degree. Savalos recognizes the preachers as servants of the Cult of the Red Redemption, literal firebrands of the Imperial faith known to have a significant following amongst the disenfranchised masses of humanity in the lower levels of many hive worlds in the Calixis sector. The Underhive of Orcut VII on Oremor is no exception, and the faith has maintained a persistent presence as long as you are able to recall. Although they champion the downtrodden in the lower levels, their propensity for bloody mob violence to burn out any hint of 'corruption' is a concern. Definitely 'Ishmael's people'.
Savalos Thul wrote:
I scan the crowd as my eyes settle on the Old Man, and listen to his threat. The weight of what will transpire next can't be ignored. Watching little licks of flame dance around I realize I am talking to a bunch of Ishmael clones. Frag me...
In a loud voice: "First off let me thank you for extending succor to My Wolves But respectfully know this, I don't tuck tail. I don't meddle in the Emperor's Will, but I am an instrument, and extension of it."
I pause to let the last few words sink in.
"Come treat with me. They're not going anywhere."
I gesture toward Ivaanov and the others.
"Be my guest, and let me extend our hospitality to you. I am sure there is much we need to talk about."
By the Throne I hope I just didn't start a firefight... Damn fanatics.
The old man still stands hidden amongst his crimson-clad bodyguard, but his raspy, commanding voice still booms with incredulous vitriol over the laud-hailer, the head of which pokes up over the crowd like a curious metallic serpent rearing up from the press of bodies.
"Your Wolves? Where is the woman, the leader of this band of scoundrels that we suffer in our holy parish? Our agreement was with her, not with one of her ruffian underlings. What audacity is this, then, that you would dare threaten my flock with your toothless wolves, whom the Emperor's holy host saw merciful enough to shelter from the serpent they so fear?"
The last is dripping with sarcasm and contempt.
"You are correct in one thing, these (he gestures to the tech-priests and guardsmen) are not going anywhere without our remit, and you and yours, self-declared servant of the Throne, shall be judged by your next words, so consider them carefully lest we seek to judge further the heretical import of your claim."
OK, Sav. Please attempt either a Difficult [-10] Charm, Deceive, or Intimidate test as part of your answer using the Social Interaction rules, as the Redemptionists are considered Disdainful/Suspicious/Brave as shown on the table on page 230 of Dark Heresy Core Rulebook. As always your choice of approach given the situation and quality of your roleplayed response can factor both for and against you.
Savalos' Awareness test fails. Sav, you can still try a Ordinary [+10] Common Lore Imperium skill test or Int characteristic test to identify the red robed figures in the mob.
Iacton's Awareness test fails, as well as his Int test.
Uriah's Awareness test succeeds by three degrees, his Int test fails.
Kaltos' Awareness test fails, his Int test is successful.
Kaltos:
Kaltos is fairly certain that the flamer wielding figures in the crimson robes are adherents of a Eccelesiarchal splinter cult known as the Red Redemption. You know only that they are notoriously intolerant of corruption of any kind, and are not to be taken lightly.
Uriah:
Uriah is nearly certain these are the Underhive equivalent of the Red Redemption, the cult that Ishmael cleaves to. Perhaps because of the feeling of acute paranoia he feels in the presence of these zealots, he notices that one among their number is bent over double, old and infirm, leaning upon two of his chainsword-wielding brothers as he turns to face the Duct Wolves. One crabbed hand clutches tightly at his guttering flamer, while the other holds a tall laud-hailer staff.
Savalos, Iacton:
Although you cannot be sure, you are fairly certain that the red garbed preachers belong to the sect known as the Red Redemption, the cult that Ishmael follows.
The tension is as palpable as the reek of promethium as the crowd parts just enough for those in the Duct Wolf contingent to see the two tech-priests and their guardsman counterparts, backs pressed to the older groundcar. A body, one of the indigens from the looks of things, slumps lifelessly on the ground by Stroinigli's Sabrewolf, a complicating factor if there ever was one. Although it is clear the cultists outnumber you, they leave nothing to chance, and fully half of their number pivot to face the arriving Duct Wolves, puffs of smoke fuming into the air from their flamers, their chainswords buzzing hungrily in response to this new threat.
Those of their number who held their hands high in a signal to avert immediate violence, now lower them, content to regard the interlopers in stony silence.
Savalos calls out to them, his voice echoing strangely in the irregular hollows of the frowning edifices, but there is no answer, and the silence persists.
Finally, when the intensity of the interminable standoff becomes almost unbearable, with the strong arms of the Wolves twitching with the exertion of holding their guns at the ready, and the flamers of the cultists guttering down to flickering blue pilot lights, an older man's booming voice speaks in answer to Savalos, amplified by a vox laud-hailer:
"You? You are no Alpha of the Wolves that I have ever treated with! Your kind dwell in succor at our sufferance, a mercy that can be rescinded with a word if you dare to continue meddling in Emperor's holy work!"
A feeling of pride tinged with regret fills Savalos as he stands amongst a score of his family, his Pack, ready to hunt again. Regret that his parents and so many of his friends and brethren from the Wolves could not live to see this day, a rebirth of sorts for their way of life. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Sigmunt and Tygault, he watches as the massive garage door ratchets up, clanking ponderously as it goes.
Uriah and Iacton, approaching at a sprint with Luceros in tow, notice the central figure in the throng of Wolves ahead incline his head slightly, as if speaking to empty air. Backlit in shadow by the blood-red stablights arrayed along the sanctum's fortifications, it is clear the figure standing before the rising door is Savalos, as his voice then crackles over the 'bead, clearly for a change, in response to Uriah's last transmission.
The reunited acolytes have but a few seconds to confer before the door clanks away into the ceiling, and they find themselves looking out over the rockcrete lift-terminus plaza where Stroinigli originally parked the Sabrewolf so many hours ago. Despite this wide expanse set amidst the crumbling squalor of the Vaxus Deeps, the tumbled-down buildings, and perilously compressed architecture seem to frown down upon the scene revealed, the gloomy darkness above making things feel closer and more claustrophobic than they have any right to be.
The Duct Wolves around you tense as one, unholstering pistols and racking scatterguns with a feral intensity that does nothing to belie their persecuted state.
Almost immediately, it is clear why.
A mob has amassed around the Sabrewolf and another, far older groundcar parked near the center of the plaza, right on the very doorstep of their hidden redoubt. They number well over fifty at first glance, most garbed like street scum, clustered in close groups around crimson-robed figures whose very hands seem to billow with pluming flame. There are perhaps a dozen or so of these more obvious personages dispersed among the club and pistol-wielding indigens. About half of the assembled mob wheels around at the sound of the huge garage door opening to face the new threat, some even leveling antiquated rifles and revolvers in the direction of the assembled Duct Wolves. A few of the red robes hold up heavily gloved hands, bound in grayish insulating tape, in an attempt to stay the rash actions of any of their more trigger-happy companions.
Although I am sure your characters have their suspicions, you can positively identify the red robed figures with a successful Ordinary [+10] Common Lore: Imperium test, or a Challenging Intelligence characteristic test.
Everyone also please attempt a Challenging [+0] Awareness test
Two degrees of Success (Hopefully my losing streak is broken)
Success, two degrees, beating the streak pays off.
Vincent's eidetic mind opens, blooming like the violet chrunia flowers of the Unduz jungles. Perhaps at the mention of V-Block, the implanted memories of Vermillion-coded secure schemas for the construction of the Oubliette's deepest vaults resurface from his implanted memories, files and blueprints sealed away by Inquisitorial Writ upon pain of death by the Ordo Malleus, some even stamped with purity seals and benedictions to the God Emperor.
Despite the thousands of crabbed notes, printed call-outs and technical jargon crowding the visualized page, the relevance of the designs to the present moment is clear to Vincent immediately.
The floorplans show a large, centralized, stasis-sealed spherical vault, shielded by powerful psy-dampers and hexagramtical wards, in turn encircled by seven smaller spherical cells, similarly warded. The entire cyst-like grouping of penitent vaults sits isolated several levels below V-Block itself, accessed only by a single lift system that pierces the bedrock of the claustrum through a further series of psy-shielded, psyho-reactive bulkheads before terminating in a similarly warded cellblock wing that sits atop the eight cells like a lid.
Your mind feels a tickle, and you tease out something further.
No, the lift is not the only way into the Oubliette...one other route exists, but it does not exist on any of the schematics or the ancillary documentation. It comes from the living machine-memory of Logis Blakswann himself, whom nothing in the claustrum could be hidden from: an imprint on the living webwork of the facilities power draws and air handling cycles that reveals a long, diagonal shaft, more or less the modern equivalent of those once used to access certain ancient tombs, originating from a sealed suite of offices designated for visiting agents of the Inquisition in sub-level 7. It terminates at the end of the Oubliette's lowest wing above the eight spherical cells.
Provided there is nothing further for Uriah, Iacton, and Luceros to do in the Auldmaw's Lair, and assuming they were returning to the Duct Wolf Sanctum in the ancient hostelry after conferring with Luceros, both will have been able to receive Ivaanov's message (this is possible because I am assuming more time has passed above with Savalos: grieving, conducting his augury, conferring with the Duct Wolves, etc).
You also would be in microbead range for Savalos if either of you would like to make contact to coordinate your response. Assume if you do respond you will be able to intercept Savalos' group as they move to the lift to street level.
You also have the choice of remaining in the Auldmaw's Lair and investigating further. If you decide on this tack, you obviously would not be able to receive the message due to interference with your depth underground, but would have the option of exploring the lair further or examining the tainted matter more closely.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Vincent lets out a harsh chuckle.
"Of course they did."
Vincent pauses just a moment as a new plan germinates in his mind, then snaps his gaze back to the tech-priest.
"You wouldn't happen to know were these 'improvisations' are now?"
Vincent, attempt a Difficult [-10] Intelligence characteristic test to dredge up a pertinent piece of information regarding the architectural layout of the Oubliette in V-Block.
The tech-priest smirks once again with your laugh, and he flips his topknot back over his left shoulder again. His augmetic ocular appendage then irises out from the cogitator he was regarding to focus on you and Jerimus once more.
He looks at you as if trying to plumb the depths of your understanding, wondering how much you have already figured out on your own.
"Only one of them remains, in V-Block, with the Prisoner. The others...they didn't last."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Test unsuccessful
Vincent sits himself down before the flickering cogitator screen and kicks his feet up onto the console. He regards the young priest from behind his mirrored glasses as he gives his answer.
"Specifics I cannot illuminate, but I can tell you that the Prisoner is powerful. The kind of power that attracts men like carrion attracts flies, each one eager to scrape off a little piece for themselves. Does that elucidate matters for you?"
He pauses for a moment, then speaks once more.
"They're empty are they not?"
The tech-priest's face remains solemn.
"You have no idea how apt an analogy that is, Vincent..."
He regards you with a more intense scrutiny, his curious expression a familiar one to you; that of those who are doing everything in their power not to underestimate Vincent Sepheris, but are still fearful they are.
"...or perhaps you do know?"
He regards the upright cloning creches with some distaste, but also a with a certain unapologetic professional pride that reveals to you just where this strange tech-priest sits in the matter of their unsanctioned practical use.
"The truth as it has been told to me, is that they could not bind him. Even here, with the most sophisticated psy-dampers and elaborate contingencies in place, in a cell engineered by the most resourceful of the Priests of Mars, utilizing the generations-old techniques of the Scholastica Psykana Calixis, and the binding hexagramatic wards of the Ordo Malleus, they simply could not contain him."
"The Prisoner's psychic power simply was too great."
He sighs deeply.
"So, they improvised..."
The tech-priest gestures expansively, with shoulders theatrically slumped in defeat to show what the end result of such improvisation must have been.
Iacton silently turns to Luceros, his face betraying no emotion. "Where can we meet these preachers? They seem like... kindred spirits."
"We have means of contacting them. In truth, here in the Deeps their numbers are many, so it should pose little difficulty. Truthfully, it is a wonder that you found our sanctuary in Vaxus before they found you. To them, you would have been obvious outsiders."
He considers his next words carefully.
"The red-robes are the guardians of the common underhivers, those who toil beneath, whom the Ministorum's church have forgotten. They are folk heroes and avengers to those among the meek who still cleave to their faith in the Throne. However, their faith is as a scerrido's edge, it can cut both ways. They are not merciful to those that threaten their creed...or those who show any sign of being tainted."
Luceros looks meaningfully at Uriah.
"Our alliance is one of convenience more than anything else, and is tenuous at best."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
"From all appearances, people or things which once were people. This would not be the first time I encountered such a collection, though I had not thought our Priests of Mars the type."
Upon closer examination, Vincent notices that each of the seven upright capsules is empty, the stained traces of whatever sustaining solution was once contained within now reduced to dry smears upon the armaplas doors.
At your answer, the young tech priest seems to stifle a laugh of all things, maintaining decorum somewhat by bringing his hand up to his vox to muffle the discordant sound. There is the unmistakable hint of sarcasm in the thread of his next words.
"No, such cloning chambers are anathema, heretikal to even the most radically unorthodox of my order, the Adeptus Biologis. Still, there are those who have gazed upon their proscribed schematics, some even indoctrinated into the techniques of their use, if only to identify them to better root out such affronts to the Omnissiah."
The tech-priest makes a circuit of the operating theater, seemingly familiar with these surroundings by the way he checks various instrumentation and the flickering readouts on the lone cogitator array still functioning.
"Such hypocrisy."
"As I am certain you can attest, there are those who knowingly flout the imposed restrictions placed on such forbidden knowledge, who are willing, through their own damning curiosity, willful arrogance, or belief that the end justifies whatever means is required to achieve the final result. From this perversion of logic, be it rationalized for good or ill, is what this assemblage of archeotech represents."
His pause is deliberately overlong, as if goading you into gainsaying the implication of what he has just spoken.
"All to contain one prisoner, or rather, the Prisoner...such extraordinary lengths...but to what ultimate purpose?"
Vincent, you may attempt to make a Difficult [-10] Forbidden Lore [Psykers] test to unravel some of this riddle, a tough test, I know, but the information hinting at the answer is truly obscure.
No sooner do these words escape the steaming vox grill of the tech-priest does Einhardt swing around, lasgun pivoting to face the crookedly leaning alleyways on the far side of the cracked rockcrete roadway.
"I'm guessing your companions and their allies are not so punctual that they've already arrived."
He curses under his breath.
"If not, we have a big problem."
Kaltos and Ivaanov turn as one to see that during the distraction of contacting the others, a great many of the denizens of the Vaxus Deeps have taken note of them, emerging stealthily from the ruins. Both vehicles are now encircled by a mob of no less than thirty robed figures, most keeping to the shadows and interstices of the collapsed structures and hollowed-out civic buildings. The gathering throng shows no fear of the strangers in their midst, advancing as one to narrow the enclosing circle, and becoming more visible in the process.
Most appear outwardly similar to the men who were driven off from the twist's vehicle a short time ago, clad in stained and filthy russet-colored leathers or black plas ponchos with stitched-on cloth hoods. Many of them carry improvised weaponry; clubs, fire axes, or lengths of heavy rebar. A privileged few also hold outmoded revolvers or antiquated rifles at the ready. Those that arouse your concern the most, however, are the handful clad in blood-colored hooded robes, trimmed or adorned in places with golden foil or salvaged metal wrought into the shapes of ecclesiarchal symbols, such as the sacred aquila. These imposing few lead on at least five of the closing fronts, one of each trio holding what appear to be open flames in their hands, the fiery red plumes flickering brightly in the gloom.
As they draw nearer, you observe that each of the fire-carriers wears heavily insulated gloves that protect from both the bitter cold of the underhive and the intense heat of the flamers they carry. As their mouths plume from beneath their hoods with their individual respirations, the flamers gout in time with white-hot belches of flame; heralding their deliberate advance like the fiery breath of agitated dragons. Each these five is in turn flanked on either side by a similarly dressed figure, albeit with lesser amounts of improvised religious adornments on their robes, whose presence is announced by the toothy buzz of their chainswords.
They stop to surround you from a distance of roughly three meters away, the stink of promethium becoming overpowering in such proximity.
"We must purify that with fire, as a companion of ours would have said. If we do not have what we need to do that, we will come back with the necessary weapons or items."
I look at the others to see if they have what we need.
Luceros, still unable to take his eyes off of the midnight black cataract pouring from the unseen ceiling into the towering fountain grunts an assent, but the solution he offers sounds as complicated as the problem.
"Yes, we know of those who have the proper tech and resources to purge this affront, but I am fearful that they will have as many questions of us as to why this abomination exists. We must have the correct answers ready. They are not the forgiving type."
He expounds further:
"The Vaxus Deeps have long been given over to their ministrations, and those who manage to eke out any kind of survival here do so only at their sufferance. This includes our Pack. We paid a steep price for our sanctuary here, a tenuous truce that was brokered by Ariella following our defeat and one that includes a promise not to interfere with their preaching...as well as to remain free of taint they so zealously purge."
"It is the taint caused by the agents of the one who is of plague and corrution. This is one of the things we are fighting."
I make the sign of the Aquila.
Uriah shudders at what he sees, the dark part of him that has been laid bare to such forbidden knowledge in the past rising in his thoughts, thoughts that the Scholastic Psykana had trained him to repress and lock away lest he should succumb.
Instead he focuses on the cacophony of distressed voices that still sing elegiacally to him from the strange scepter. He tries to see the fountain through their eyes, as it once was, before the taint, and instead another image sears itself into his mind's eye, a stark and vivid memory from his vision in the astropathic choir. A towering series of spires, a city as smooth as unblemished porcelain, rising like delicate fingers to the sky. The fountain bears all of the hallmarks of Eldar craftsmanship, like the cities in your dreams.
I'm not sure if you and Iacton intent to investigate further, Uriah, but you are some distance from the polluted font. Once you two let me know, I will continue the scene.
"Peculiar, I do not recall there being a medical facility on this floor."
The young tech-priest watches as you approach with Bothle, all seriousness now, the last vestiges of the amused expression gone from the corners of his pale lips. Perhaps he has sensed your growing irritation, or perhaps your arrival here is nothing to joke about.
"There is no need to vacillate, you know there was no medicae facility on this level of the claustrum...it is not in the master schematics, any of their revisions, or any of the ancillary errata concerning the construction or refitting of the claustrum. You know this because you partook of Blakswann's communion. Ergo, like myself, I know you accepted the communion because you knew how to get here in the first place."
"Whether you were cognizant of it yourself is irrelevant."
"I can see that you have not yet recollected everything from the experience. No matter, it will come in time. However, time is now something that is in short supply, so allow me to elucidate."
He raps upon the man-sized tank nearest to him, the transparent armaplas hatch rattling slightly, the hollow sound not unlike a bell tolling.
"This is a creche of sorts, do you care to hazard a guess as to what it was used for?"
The tech-priest gestures expansively to the other six tanks, arrayed in a circle around the operating theater.
Savalos emerges from the shuddering lift, the metallic grate pulled aside by the two duct wolf guards flanking it. Stroinigli is waiting on the other side, holding one pale hand over his microbead earpiece, concentrating.
Your own earpiece hisses to life as you enter the dilapidated lobby of the ancient hostelry, a tinny voice barely audible through the static.
The tinny voice is garbled, but the words you can make out are immediately recognizable to you as elementary fragments of the Taper Cipher.
The voice is Ivaanov.
<<<"Nemo surdior est quam is qui non audiet...">>>
As decrepit as the exterior of the ancient groundcar is, the machine spirits of its rebuilt engine prove surprisingly loyal to your touch, and the journey through the blighted underworld of Orcut VII's deepest slums proves relatively uneventful.
A trio of rag-clad indigens scatter as your vehicle pulls to a halt beside the glaringly out of place Sabrewolf. Parked haphazardly in the shadow of listing gothic-style buildings compressed one atop one another, their forlorn and variegated architectural strata crushed by the incalculable weight of the hive above, it gleams like a diamond in a coalfield.
Ever one to state the obvious for sake of clarity, Ivaanov announces that the signal originates from here. Exiting the vehicle into the biting cold of the lower hive, the tech-priest confers with Pvt. Kotts before raising the vox-phone to his ear. The guardsman, upon receiving a curt nod to proceed from his sergeant, removes the comm unit from his shoulders and adjusts dials upon the transmitter.
Casting his eyes warily about into the blank eyes of hundreds of shattered windows and the mouths of countless leaning alley-entrances, Sgt. Einhardt turns to Kaltos, las cradled lightly in his arms.
"I hope your companions answer quickly, it won't take long for word to travel down here that there are uphivers foolish enough to be about."
Einhardt steps over the corpse of an electrocuted indigen who was foolish enough to touch Stroinigli's luxury groundcar, whose lifeless presence seems to punctuate his admonition.
"What could have possibly brought your friends down here, anyway?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
"Then let us continue, come along Bothle."
Bothle slowly turns from the smirking tech-priest, his undisguised look of bafflement lasting overlong, giving way slowly to one of frazzled assent upon registering your words. He steps forward to follow you, making a wide circuit of your perplexing guide.
As you set out in the direction of the closest doorway, skirting around one of the exposed lift shafts, Jerimus rushes to keep up, finally matching your pace. He voices your own unspoken concerns in a conspirational whisper, the sweat beading on his brow trickling down his dust-covered face, peeking back over his shoulder as the tech-priest follows at a distance.
"Who is he, Vince? I mean, can he be trusted? There's something about him, something that I can't place that just doesn't feel right, you know?"
He wipes his brow, only furthering the grimy mess that adheres to it from your ascent in the confined ventilation conduit.
Just as you reach the doorway, a shadow slips from the ceiling somewhere deep within, followed by a leathery rustling and a keening screech. You have almost no time to react before the emerald-green thing is upon you, jaws flaring to show needle-sharp teeth, triple-wings flapping madly toward your face.
With a percussive, booming report, the startled churraptus is blown out of the air, the ruined thing skidding across the floor to come to a halt twitching at your feet.
The tech-priest walks past you confidently, never breaking stride, holding the weathered-looking, mass-produced revolver pointed toward the high ceiling like a Gunmetallican duelist. The plume of gunsmoke trails after him like a grey ghost. Glancing about as he steps through the doorway, he holsters the weapon, satisfied that there are no more of the flying vermin about.
Noticing you looking at the weapon, he pats the weapon's rubberized grip.
"A gift from a mentor, given long ago. For all of its imperfections, the spirits in this simple machine have served me faithfully."
Beckoning you forward absently with one hand, he steps into the circular room beyond the empty doorway.
Bothle finally lets out a hiss of tension he had been holding since the gun went off, shaking his head doubtfully. When you step forward he reluctantly follows, muttering under his breath.
The room beyond is roughly elliptical in shape, and is much darker than the sun-drenched circumference of the level. The tech-priest moves with conviction, activating a series of switches just to the right of the entry and bathing the room in burnt-orange emergency lighting from damaged lumen strips covering the ceiling in concentric rings. The weak lighting illuminates the room further, casting looming shadows from empty cogitator racks that encircle the chamber. A series of shallow steps descend into a wide, recessed circular area. Here a septet of cylindrical, man-sized holding tanks stand silent sentinel like deteriorating dolmens from a bygone age. In the middle of the pit, reflected in the smudged glass doors of the tanks are the last remnants of some manner of advanced operating theater: a trio of stainless steel instrument stands, a pair of rusted gurneys, and an advanced medicae surgical bed, complete with integral restraints and life support equipment. Like a dead, multi-limbed spider ensconced in the center of the ceiling above hang dozens of limp mechadendrites fused to a half-dome core. The dark, insectile eyes of disabled pict-corders gaze blindly at the table below from where they are recessed in the surrounding ceiling. A few cogitators remain active on one of the free-standing racks, their winking green lights flashing in time to the strained susuruss of their cooling fans.
The tech-priest stops near the edge of the surgical pit, leaning on the railing circumscribing its perimeter.
"Well, well, what have we here?"
Vincent please attempt a Challenging [+0] Common Lore [Tech] skill test.
Iacton grimaces, foul memories coming to the surface. "We have found the source of the taint." This was the work of the corrupted guardsmen, he was certain of it. The question is, why?
Luceros, his demeanor showing a new-found respect for Uriah for driving driven off the duct wolves, cranes his head upward in the dimming blue glow toward the slurry of foul-smelling, tar-colored fluid trickling down from the vaulted roof lost so high above. He wrinkles his thick nose in revulsion.
Speaking to the two voidborn in a superstitious whisper, he mutters:
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Vincent narrows his eyes as he regards the unusual tech-adept, then shrugs in reply to his witticism.
"You place too much trust in the efficiency of the Adepta."
The tech-priest actually smiles, a disturbing sight for its outre strangeness, and it puts Vincent even more on guard. For all of his keen insight into human nature he finds it extremely difficult to read the young man.
"Perhaps."
"Maybe then, they were neglectful enough to have left an active data port or cogitator bank for our use somewhere in the vicinity."
He makes a show of raising his hand to visor his eyes from the glare of the sun, looking toward the empty doorways leading into the core of the level with nearly theatrical curiosity.
You think you prefer the cold, emotionless, and barely human manner of tech priests like Lexmechanic Gulvar. This ones act is wearing thin with you.
Kaltos notices Sgt. Einhardt look curiously at Albrek's unconscious form when his name is mentioned, but the fierce looking officer catches the glance and looks away toward his men, who are even now gathering their kit and attending to their wounded as they move to exit the truck.
"I've seen places a lot worse than the Vaxus Deeps, tech-priest, if you can lead me to our contact, then I am coming."
Einhardt motions to one of his men, quite likely his second, and whispers some orders and words of encouragement. The adjutant steps away and speaks to another guardsman, a youthful trooper with a shaved head and penitent tattoos on his brow who quickly comes over to his commanding officer. A high-gain vox is strapped to his back, obviously a communications officer.
"Private Kotts, you'll be accompanying myself and the tech-priests here to our contact. Make ready and get that vox calibrated for hive-work."
The private confers with one of Oktammor's men to obtain the requisite encrypted frequencies, and then shoulders his lasgun before turning to follow.
As the tech-priests, Dunkan's retainers, and the 7th Legion guardsmen disembark from the ravaged cargo-8, Oktammor walks with the servants of the Omnissiah, directing them toward a vault-like door guarded by two more of Danicos' enforcers. The men stand aside respectfully at the large man's signal.
Oktammor stops, swipes a ward accessor in front of the doors prox sensor and turns to Kaltos.
"Use care, the Arbites grasp might not extend to the Deeps, but there's more than enough danger about to justify keeping a low profile. There's an old groundcar in the adjoining garage, it should blend in well enough with the battered excuses for vehicles used by the locals. The guard comm officer has our signals information now, so stay in contact. I know Dunkan will want to hear from you when you reunite with the acolytes to find out where things stand. Good luck."
The area beyond the gigantic vehicular lift shaft and the modern-looking safehouse is minuscule by comparison, a shoddy garage filled with old groundcar tools, a rusting repair platform, and filthy fuel drums that smell of oil and strident fyceline. Parked before garage bay doors padlocked from the inside, is a beat-up looking civilian groundcar with a buckled rear-end, cracked windows, and shattered safety lights. As you step forward, the hidden door you passed through slowly closes until it is recessed into the wall, the old tool rack on the garage-side looks like it has hung in its place undisturbed for decades.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Common Lore (Administrarium) 48 + 20 = 68 : 1d100=74
Failure by 6.
As Vincent tries to catch his breath in the heavy air, the blood rushing to his head mercilessly from the ascent, the tech priest draws closer, the same sly half-smile on his face as he surveys the abandoned level with the senior clerk and his aide.
Flipping his topknot aside again, he regards Vincent openly, his golden ocular augmetic irising closed in somewhat of a squint in the light of Oremor's sun.
When he speaks, his youthful voice takes on the character of a schola teacher, trying to lead a wayward student along the path of the correct answer in the vaguely patronizing but genuinely helpful tone Vincent is all too familiar with. Under other circumstances, the young man's coy demeanor, coupled with being barely half Vincent's age, tech-priest or no, would infuriate the senior clerk. But in this instance it does not.
"Peculiar, is it not, that the bean-counting Administratum of this facility, such supposed experts in maximizing agricultural yield would leave such a 'field' fallow for so long, eh, Sepheris?"
His gaze sweeps along the curved inner wall, beyond the lift shafts and forgotten construction equipment toward the open doorways.
Vincent test Perception to penetrate the tech-priest's veiled words, the base difficulty is Challenging [+0] but can be modified to merely Routine [+20] if you succeed on a Challenging [+0] Deceive skill test.
While his mind tries to make sense of the significance of the improvised array before him, Savalos extends his hands on the warped wooden table to steady himself. When he recalls the missing card, his left hand brushes up against the golden aquila liberated from the hidden altar in Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy. Recalling that he had employed the holy relic rather mundanely as an improvised paper weight when he originally set the cards down, he notes that one still remains, pinned under the curled talon of the radiant talisman.
Pestilence
Lifting the aquila slowly off of the malign card, he flinches when he feels warm liquid trickle over his thumb and forefinger. A hairline crack has appeared in one of the nine crystal vials remaining in the rigid feathers of the sacred eagle's wing, damage likely sustained during the confrontation with the Auldmaw. Staunching the slight flow, Savalos is relieved to see that the vial of precious holy water is still three-quarters full. Flipping the vial and replacing it in its nested groove so that it no longer leaks, he looks at the card, setting the aquila aside once more.
Where the water has pooled on the card, it has bleached the surface of the sinister-looking tableau of disease and death depicted upon it a blindingly pure white, far whiter than the underlying paper stock it was printed upon could ever be. The seven, leering skeletal visages have been washed away, erased by the sacred waters of Saint Trobriund as if they never were.
A familiar tread of footfalls comes from behind the Packmaster of the Duct Wolves at that fated instant, and Savalos knows Sigmunt's arrival at this particular moment is no coincidence.
He remembers the miracle in Nessa's surgery and the Emperor's divine will becomes clear to him in a rapturous epiphany, at least on this one matter.
Saint Trobriund, blessed medicae of the Fenksworld sumps, miraculous healer of the destitute, holy vaccinator and innoculator of the diseased...
...only a little less than nine vials remain.
Sigmunt hesitates, sensing something transpiring beyond his ken in the quiet moment he unintentionally interrupted. When he finally speaks it seems to return reality to its proper underpinnings again.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Unduz II
Vincent Sepheris wrote:
Vincent stops to catch his breath after the harrowing climb to the claustrum's abandoned 26th floor, it being years since he has complemented his mental exertions with this much physical exercise.
As the fog of weariness melts away, Vincent looks around for a workstation he can use to catch up on the events he has missed during his escape from the datacore.
Vincent is looking to escape the claustrum as soon as he can, most likely by either smuggling himself out of one of the usual transports or by acquiring his own. He will try and investigate the security on these two options first before moving on to less palatable alternatives.
By the time Vincent reaches the terminus of the ventilation shaft the unaccustomed exertion combined with the rising humidity is making every step a challenge. His undershirt plastered to his bony chest, sweat pouring from his brow, he finally detects the wan glow of natural light ahead, slanting through the narrow openings in a grated hatch. Turning to make certain his companions are still close, he sees Bothle directly behind, his doughy face flushed and speckled with grit. The enigmatic young tech-priest crouches a few paces behind, betraying no sign of fatigue, his expression expectant, but otherwise unreadable.
Pushing against the metal grillwork with as much strength as he can muster, Vincent is relieved when it bows outward easily, the half-dozen or so humidity-rusted screws that hold it in place popping off one after another, their Administratum low-bid construction succumbing to the harsh subtropical climate and the perils of using substandard generic alloys.
Peering out of the shaft, which ends its run in a wall approximately two meters above a wide expanse of drab gray flooring, Vincent finds things much as he expected them: a large curving room whose clerical partitions and cubicles have been removed or demolished according to the vagaries of some senior Administratum space planning clerk's abatement decree. Fold out work-tables with the tools of various trades stand like isolated islands abandoned amidst the sea of empty space, while the shining metallic walls of lift-shafts penetrate the construction area from floor to ceiling here and there, looking like nothing more than lonely support pillars in the absence of so many walls.
The diffuse light is indeed natural, bright equatorial sunlight that is diminished somewhat after penetrating the fluttering, transparent plas weather partitions lining the floor to ceiling windows along the curved edge of the claustrum's outer wall. In places the plas curtain is dirty, ragged, or ripped away entirely, allowing a wash of sweltering, sticky air to flow in, carrying with it the distant jungle sounds of Unduz II.
The construction area appears completely deserted, like it has not been worked in for some time. Even from your perch in the shaft you can see a thin layer of dust covering everything, along with brownish, patchy growths of windblown fungoid spores in isolated damp spots here and there. Extending the length of your body, you drop easily from the shaft, and are soon followed by the others.
The heady scent of the surrounding plantation system's biologis-engineered soil fertilizers combined with the ubiquitous smell of the jungle's myco-growth mix strangely with the artificial stink of smoke and fyceline from the fighting outside. The occasional staccato burst of gunfire, or far-off explosion can still be heard if you listen closely, even from this relative height.
It is unlikely you will find a workstation or data-port in this portion of the construction, but open archways, sans working doors, are visible in some of the walls leading into the interior of the level.
Jerimus and the strange tech-priest wait on your lead.
Vincent, please attempt a Routine [+20] Common Lore Administratum test.
I've spent my whole life reading cards, gamblers faces, and playing hands. Always trying to read whats going to be played next, and when someone is bluffing. I look at the cards laid out before me knowing if I guess wrong people will die. Course they may already be dead. Its just that their card may not have been played yet.
I think of Aebena, and the life I still hope we will have together. Sunshine, who I hope is still well and sane. For if the Daemon took Johnnie, she may be the only leverage we have to win him back from its grasp. Uriah, Dunkan, Iacton, Leprade, Kalaziel, Nessa... we are all just face cards. I just hope I am not the Joker. I arrange my cards upon the table before me looking for the pattern. Like when I was a young pup watching over my mother's shoulder so long ago.
Success, by two degrees.
Lost in his thoughts, Savalos finally opens his eyes again, and chuckles in spite of himself. Despite being well-versed in the proper techniques of arranging the placards of the Emperor's Tarot, he is surprised to find that in his reverie he has dealt a hand to himself and an opponent who is not there, as if beginning a game of Heretic's Wake.
Glancing down at his cards, Savalos sees The Inquisitor, The Heretic, The Titan, and The Arbitrator.
Looking across at the other hand, he sees the The Great Eye, The Shattered World, The Prisoner, and The Daemon.
Looking to his mother's still corpse for guidance that will never come, he sighs deeply. He may now know the sides, but he has no inkling of what card to play first.
As the cerulean glow shining from the bone-white walls reaches its brightest, both Uriah and Iacton can make out the un-color of a viscid black stream of fluid that pours from the unseen ceiling above in a waterfall-like arc to splash upon the pinnacle of the ancient xenos fountain. The jet-black liquid trickles down from the descending basins, seeping through their many cracks and splashing grotesquely on the pure alabaster bodies of the slender statues.
A horrific stench, like feces mingled with gangrenous wounds wafts in your direction from the fountain, reminding Iacton of the gagging smell that issued forth when the restroom door in the Gear Box burst open.
The voices from the scepter fade for the others, but in Uriah's mind they begin to grow discordant, confused, and angry. As if outraged by some defilement they have unexpectedly witnessed.
Vincent closes his eyes as the data swims across his vision, making connections, examining possibilities. Teasing a route from the crush of information, Vincent opens his eyes once more and gestures his companions onward.
Vincent will take the safest route out of the Datacore. Where is the 26th floor in relation to other notable areas of the claustrum?
Grateful to be moving away from the sounds of unfettered violence in the Datacore, Jerimus Bothle eagerly follows Vincent's lead as he moves them into the neighboring coolant conduit. The strange tech-priest follows as well, the unreadable half-grin still stamped across his youthful features. The senior clerk finds he moves with no hesitation whatsoever, instinctively removing the sixth vent panel he comes across, already certain of where it leads. Stepping up into the narrow space, he continues on through the hexagonal shaft, trying not to breathe too deeply of the stale, recirculated air; air that now smells not only of the Datacore's machine-expelled ozone, but also the acrid stench of smoke, expended cordite munitions, and pungent promethium.
Squatting in a crab-walk as the shaft begins a pronounced ascent, Vincent makes his way toward the 26th level of the claustrum.
Vincent, the 26th level, which has been under construction and slated for refurbishment for the last three years, sits approximately at the top of the first quarter of the claustrum's height. Its location and current unoccupied state provides relatively easy access to the major lift systems of the complex, allowing you to reach a number of possible destinations:
The open facade leads to the exterior of the complex, albeit at the 26th level, some distance above the Unduz jungles spread out below.
Lifts descend into the lower levels of the claustrum, reaching the minimum security penitent housing on the first ten floors.
Bi-directional service lifts provide a means to reach the outlying administrative buildings, guard barracks, secure seed stores, and a way back to the Garage.
High speed lifts and service stairwells ascend to the Administratum floors for the clerks and and support personnel quarters (including your own offices).
A defunct service lift in the long unused central shaft also penetrates to the very bowels of the claustrum, descending to the maximum security penitent housing, the adjoining Panopticon complex, and even further below, to the legendary V-Block and the Oubliette.
As Kaltos finishes speaking, there comes the clanging sound of the garage doors closing behind the vehicle, followed by ratcheting, grinding noises and a sustained vibration that can be felt through the floor-plates of the cargo-8. With a jolt, the occupants of the over-sized truck feel it begin to descend on what can only be a massive lift.
Sgt. Einhardt turns from the tech-priest, seemingly of no better disposition than before, but apparently placated with the explanation for now. He moves to his men, conferring with them quietly and checking on the conditions of his wounded.
Oktammor makes his way to the rear of the cargo-8 once again, the flickering green emergency lumen panels that have come on to compensate for the sudden darkness casting a sickly glow over his harried looking face. Stopping before the tech-priests, he carefully considers his next words.
"We've arrived at one of our safehouses, but things are going to hell up above. The explosion in Geltdown Docks is all over the holos and the arbitrators are out in force. We've lost another one of the decoys, and the Arbites have surrounded the Shaultus facility. I've been in contact with Dunkan briefly on an encrypted link, but he's been unable to raise your companions on vox-feed or microbead."
Oktammor pauses, letting this all sink in.
"Damned 'thopters firing on the civilian throughways...this is tantamount to martial law. The powers-that-be won't tolerate what they construe as a terrorist act in their shipping hub. We have no choice but to lay low and take a bunker mentality for now. Throne forbid if any of this is traced back to the Gear Box, because if Leprade and his dogs come calling again you can be assured they'll tear the place apart, piece by piece, until the find what they're looking for."
"We can't let that happen."
As the lift finally settles to a halt with a resounding clang, Oktammor swivels awkwardly in his powered armor, craning his neck down, to peer out of one of the open gunports. Satisfied with what he sees, he nods to himself.
"We've traced the tell-tale beacon in Stroinigli's groundcar to somewhere nearby, here, in the Vaxus Deeps. It is by no means safe territory, and unfortunately, I cannot spare the men to escort you right now, but you may be able to get into better microbead range if you can locate the Sabrewolf they were driving."
Handing Kaltos a small homing auspex with a red tell-tale blinking on the tiny pict-screen, he looks from one tech-priest to the other.
"I'm assuming I need not explain to either of you how this device functions, the machine spirit within is a perceptive one, and it should lead you to their vehicle."
Uriah feels the scepter pulse in his hand, and the smoky orb atop it flares with a bright cerulean light. Iacton, who was already reacting to the feeling of being watched, spins around and quickly unsheathes his blades. Even the over-awed gangers snap out of their nigh-religious distraction, quickly forming a defensive circle around the acolytes, weapons pointed into the darkness as the halo of blue light gradually expands.
As the perimeter of the scepter's glow reaches the second rank of pillars, the dozen or so duct wolves that have stealthily shadowed you through the pipes growl with irritation, their subsonic barks echoing resoundingly through the strange vault. The largest of them, a brutish-looking male with a snaggle-toothed jaw and jet black fur, yawns aggressively, showing his jagged fangs.
As he pads forward, the others follow his advance. Outnumbered two to one, Luceros levels his handcannon, prepared for the worst.
That is when the faint singing in Uriah's head increases in volume, becoming a rising choir of melodic chanting that makes it difficult to hear Iacton's hissed warning and Luceros' shouted orders. As the singing builds to a crescendo, Uriah concentrates with all of his will on the alien voices, yielding to them and opening his mind as conduit that projects their perfectly harmonized sonic energy outward, carried by his psychic talents.
The pack leader yelps in surprise, the weirdly warbling cry of pain causing his fellows to falter, until they too are yelping and barking in discomfort and agitation. The alien voices grow in pitch until the others can hear them, and Luceros wisely commands his men to hold their fire. Although the lead duct wolf thrashes his head from side to side, scratching at the ground convulsively, his animal instincts are not enough to fight the sonic assault. When he bolts for the shattered pipe you entered from, the others follow suit, howling and barking in concert, as if their discordant cries could drown out the painful symphony.
They are gone as quick as they came, but the ethereal choir remains, growing louder and louder. The scepter shines brighter still, until it is glowing enough to illuminate the far walls, revealing elegant glyphs and sigils that gleam with a sympathetic blue light of their own. Turning to look toward the cathedral-sized vault's center as the chamber becomes bright as day, Iacton spies a towering structure of the ubiquitous smooth stone that is at once a marvel of entwined statuary, spiraling columns adorned with descending, shelf-like basins, and an encircling fountain wall at its base.
Under duress, Uriah has divined how to activate the beast-taming scepter. Much of its power remains unknown to him, however.
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