Ahmazzi's page

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

"You can rest assured that I won't take anyone at face value who shows up on my doorstep, Savalos. After all these years I'm well aware of what that daemon is capable of doing. One advantage I possess are the advanced archeotech auspex arrays at my disposal, they're capable of detecting the faintest of Warp anomalies. I'd advise you to be just as cautious if one of your own shows up unexpectedly."

He pauses, pondering something.

"I'll send Nessa. While I have no doubt we're as secure beneath the Gear Box as we're ever going to be, she can do more good over there. Hell, it only makes sense now that she doesn't have any patients to look after here. With Albrek and one of the guardsmen my associate sent over from the claustrum seriously injured, she'll be glad to help in some way after what has happened."

"Just remember, these aren't Magistratum beat enforcers Krade's assassin and your hitman friend are icing. These are ranking Investigators and Intelligencers...we may see them as the high value targets they are, but you can be sure that the senior political hierarchy of the Adeptus Arbites won't take this bold attack on their senior officials lightly. No one yet knows that this is the hand of the Inquisition at work, and if they find out who is responsible, they won't be gentle. You can bet that Leprade will use this to his advantage as long your team is remaining covert."

"There are some of my eyes on the waste facility even now, but after the events at Geltdown and tasking the best of my undercover operatives with trying to track down where Leprade has disappeared to, I'm operating pretty thin now. I can't emphasize enough how much heat is coming down. Word is the 1st Oremor Legion will be arriving in Vaxus District to lend a hand in maintaining order by next day cycle. Use caution."

"I haven't been able to get any word from my contact at the 7th Legion's claustrum for some time now, but one of his agents managed to get out before all of the chaos and is en route here as we speak. I'll be detailing some of my deep cover men still able to sneak into the Geltdown Docks to retrieve him before the shuttle falls under quarantine, and I'll send him along to Oktammor's safehouse for debriefing."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Hearing Savalos speak, he changes tack. His answers to these questions are more to the point, and less conjecture.

"There has been no sign of Juan Rico, I've had my best investigators trying to track him down. After leaving my facility, he simply fell off the map. The last location we were able to obtain from him was a trace on the message sent containing the Arbites hit-list. It originated from somewhere in the seedier side of the Grey Way, near some of the more ancient casino-stacks. Speaking of this list, it seems someone has been acting on this intelligence, I'm presuming this was your doing?"

"We can provide a means of reaching the Choir that will avoid the primary lifts. I'll have Oktammor upload the cartographs and schematics of the route to one of your 'slates. It is circuitous, but it will get you there without any Arbites or Magistratum interference."

He pauses, listening closely to the next question. Waiting a few moments before he answers, you can hear the tone of a cogitator query being called up.

"As near as we can determine from the coordinates you furnished from the Vaxus Deeps, the most likely source is an old sanitation hauler yard and waste reclamation facility in the rimward side of Geltdown's Rustbelt, designated as the SA-RCLM-09 substation. The intervening levels, while many, all are comprised of waste sluices, automated reclamation manufactories, and hive sewerage support systems. Right on down to the Deeps and the sector you designated."

He sighs at the ganger's last question.

"Oktammor has informed you that your Ishmael, the boy, and your Yelloback prisoner disappeared. I have no excuse. In fact, I'm fearful for any of you to come back if my redoubt beneath the Gear Box is compromised. I have no choice but to remain. A lot depends on the Old Bones, regardless of what the tech-priests believe. I know only what my own Master has told me, and I trust him implicitly. I still am trying to determine exactly what happened. All I can say at this point is that the Yelloback prisoner was the first to escape, and it seems he took the others with him, as the cleric was sedated, and the boy had just come out of surgery to graft his vox. Nothing shows on any of the picts or the other countermeasures in place, and take my word that they are extensive. I suspected some manner of Warp involvement, and it was all but confirmed. Residual traces of Empyrean activity were detected in the holding areas of the sanitarium wing."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Dunkan Danicos answers Uriah's questions first, and his tone nakedly conveys his concern and uncertainty.

"I still cannot say. Leprade's cabal within the Arbites in Vaxus District is clear, and is danger enough. Whether or not he has handlers or allies further up the spires, I haven't been able to determine. Given the present unrest and chaos in Vaxus, and the abrupt declaration of martial law, he could well have support from further up, or, it could just be a case of the nobles and senior Adepta reacting proactively to what is perceived as a major threat to the stability of the hive."

"Taius Ceprus? I'm loathe to dwell on such a possibility, given what it would mean for our chances of success. It seems unlikely, but far more disconcerting developments have occurred so far for me to simply dismiss it out of hand."

"There can be no question that someone or something is intimately aware of our actions and intentions. It troubles me more than anything else about our present situation. What hope do we have if every move we make is forewarned against or foreseen? I suspect the daemon has a hand in this...and perhaps another."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

His eyes watering, his head swimming, Vincent regards the solid contents of his bile-filled vomit with morbid curiosity before regaining his senses somewhat.

Clammy hands coming off of his knees, standing fully upright again, his fist still clenching the pistol, senior clerk Sepheris surveys the banquet hall, trying not to breathe too deeply of the awful miasma. Whether it is the disorientation of the blood rushing to his head, or something caused by his blurry vision, he finds he has trouble focusing on what little is revealed by the frightened light penetrating the chamber. The long table appears to extend impossibly long into the deepest recesses of blackness, piled high with all manner of serving trays, stacked dishes, and strewn about foodstuffs. An entire half-eaten maulchups thigh, buzzing with moteflies sits discarded across a spilled tureen of jellied Fulcusian beets. Rotting ploins are piled high around shattered crystal carafes. Those glasses still standing, bizarrely enough, seem filled with dark gravy instead of water or wine. At least it looks to be gravy. Even stranger, whole containers filled with comestible cooking ingredients, tall tin jars of flour, entire cartons of churraptus eggs, even a stenciled crate of freeze-dried ration packs, are stacked along the length of the stained and rumpled linen tablecloth. Dozens of the chairs to either side of the table have been overturned or even broken apart into splintered spars of wood.

A single linen napkin, elegantly shaped into an Unduzian grotto crane, like the twin to the one Vincent found on his setting during his earlier meal here, lays upon its side as if dead on the near edge of the table. It mutely speaks of the foreboding he feels.

As his eyes try to adjust, Vincent senses, rather than sees an almost palpable feeling of someone or something's presence in the room with him. It emanates from the right side of the room like a noxious cloud of deeper darkness, congealed like Warp-tainted ink where the mirror hangs. The blighted schola is not sure he can fully trust his senses, with his vision still betraying him like he is looking into a carnival mirror, and his hearing picking up the faintest sound of buzzing vibrato. Only his nose tells the truth it seems, and it is making his stomach convulse again.

Vincent, please attempt a Challenging WP test to compel yourself to remain in the room. The stench is that awful.

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Moving their conversation away from Albrek to grant him some rest, the other acolytes approach the guardsmen and tech-priests. Conferring with Sgt. Einhardt, Kaltos, and Ivaanov, it is decided that the tech-priests, accompanied by the sergeant's second, an experienced comm officer named Pvt. Kotts and a brutish-looking grunt known as Hurchal, a giant of a man, will depart for the Gran Pallazzar to conduct preliminary surveillance prior to the arrival of the others. The less injured of the two guardsmen in for treatment in the makeshift surgery, a burned medicae officer named Chroyle, will join Einhardt and the acolytes in making their way Uphive to the Astropathic Choir. The fifth guardsman, their flamer specialist, is too badly burned from both the backdraft of his weapon and the toxic ichor of the tiny daemons during the Geltdown battle to leave the safehouse. His prognosis grim, Oktammor's own medicae officer offers to provide him what palliative care he can while his squad-mates are absent.

After some careful consideration and consultation with Oktammor, it is decided that Gran Pallazzar team will use the heretek's resources to disguise themselves as maintenance adepts working for the Vermillion Circus, or, as it is more colloquially known in the Grey Way, the 'Red Ring'. As the most infamous of the sanctioned casino-based pit-fighting arenas, it should provide them relatively unfettered access to the adjoining Gran Pallazzar. With the Mechanicus agents' expertise, they should be able to easily pass as authorized techs for the venue's stable of combat servitors. With Stroinigli coming along to facilitate it all, false identifications and uniforms should be a relatively simple matter.

While the final details are being worked out, Oktammor retires to the listening post, returning a short time later.

"Dunkan is on the horn for you."

Following the large man with the mysterious origins, you re-enter the crowded listening post, and Oktammor has the bonded servitor flip a switch to activate the vox speaker on the main panel. Dunkan's gravelly voice comes through with nary a hint of static, the signal clear enough it seems as if he were speaking from within the room somewhere.

"We all have questions that need answering. In the interest of time, which is rapidly growing short, ask yours first and I will follow with my own."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Watching Albrek slip off into slumber, Savalos and Uriah quickly confer in the relative privacy of the far side of the chamber. Ivaanov, with his medicae training, double-checks the med-feeds in the acolytes arm, analyzing the dosage charting Oktammor's man has done. Kaltos watches the two Inquisitorial acolytes closely, but gives them their space, part of him grateful for the vouchsafing the ex-guardsmen gave on his behalf to his fellows before he passed out.

When Savalos and Uriah have decided on their course of action, Sgt. Einhardt walks over, sensing that some decision has been made. His three able-bodied men keep their distance, but remain alert, and it is clear how much they respect their superior.

"What happens now?"

Einhardt waits for a response.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent unholsters the pistol and then moves to enter through the louvered double doors, only to be thwarted when he finds they won't open. Turning the knob with some effort, he pushes against where they join in the middle, trying not to make a sound while exerting pressure with his shoulder. Feeling them give slightly under even his spare frame, he is fairly certain they are not locked, only stuck, either from some manner of overpressure, or tackiness brought on by strong humidity. Using caution, realizing how little sense the latter theory makes in the confines of the climate controlled upper levels of the Aerie, he shoves a little harder, and the doors part with vaguely moist, squeaking sound of warped wood rubbing together.

Darkness conceals the room beyond, but even in the gloom, Sepheris can see that things are in disarray. The maulchup's leather chair he sat in such a short time ago has been violently overturned near the doorway. Plates, cutlery and mouldering food lie strewn across the threshold where the wan light from the foyer feebly tries to penetrate. Even the outwardly curving bulge of the frescoed walls to either side, once delineating a sense of spaciousness, now seems constrained and claustrophobic, like a tightly sphinctering bowel trying to disgorge its contents.

As the gagging stink of the banquet chamber beyond washes over him, as if released from an unstoppered bottle, the senior clerk gags uncontrollably in response.

Vincent, please attempt a Challenging [+0] Toughness test.

The noisome stench possesses an almost tangible presence in the long room, like a roiling cloud of the most heinous miasma imaginable, foulness given life. Worse still is that the horrid aroma gives hints of terrible odors Vincent has encountered in his life and learned to despise; spoiled meat, rancid milk, the choking awfulness of a congealed grease-trap. Hanging over this bouquet are other, even worse smells, vomit, feces, and the coppery tang of blood. Eyes watering, his gorge beginning to rise, Vincent wonders how he will ever convince his reluctant, recoiling body to enter the chamber.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent's rather disoriented rear-guard fumbles the catch, and then reaches across his body to claw the pack of lho-sticks into his grasp. He removes one and lights it with still shaking hands, the butt hanging limply from his lip for a second as he tries to guide the flame to it.

Successful, he leans back into the wall and breathes an exhausted sigh of relief, inhaling deeply as the pungent smoke plumes out. Without looking at Vincent, his eyes riveted to the far door, he mutters:

"Be careful, Vince."

**************************************************

Vincent finds the other guard posts on his route eerily abandoned.

Approaching the louvered doors that lead into the Warden-Colonel's dining hall, he notes that, unlike his first time here, no light shines through the slats of the door. The darkness within is confusing, as he recalls one of the room's more prominent features is the full-length plasteel skylight in the ceiling. The weary senior clerk is hard-pressed to remember the time of day, could it be night already? No, he reasons that it has taken him no longer than a few hours to make his way here from Level 26, despite his rather circuitous route. It should be no later than early evening at the latest.

For some reason this gives Vincent pause.

It is then that the smell hits him. Nothing like the welcoming aroma of sumptuous foods cooking that greeted him earlier, it is instead revolting, like a gagging melange of spoiled food that has been left outside in the sun too long, rotten eggs, and offal. It seeps through the cracks in the door, a harbinger of the wretched stink that must be contained inside.

What do you intend to do next, Vincent?

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

"Anyone comes through that door, shoot them."

He raises his hand and points a single finger towards the heavy door from whence he came

Murjoff still bemused, shrugs weakly.

"Alright."

He looks off into space, his next thought trapped on the edge of his lips, not coming out until Vincent has nearly reached the door.

"Vince. Vincent. The only reason I didn't shoot you was because you weren't dead already."

Murjoff frowns as he considers what he just said, giggling slightly at some humor only he perceives in his madness. He then sidles close to the wall again, keeping his back tight to it and watching the door you entered from. He checks the pockets of his fatigues to no avail and sighs deeply.

As you open the door he calls out one more time.

"Vince, I don't suppose you have a lho-stick to spare, I'm fresh out."

Uriah and a rather pensive Savalos rejoin the tech priests in the listening station, and seeing them, Oktammor leads the quartet through another vault-like door into an adjoining corridor with modern prefabricated walls and lighting. Oktammor stops before an old, weathered metal door, presently ajar, but fitted with a rusting valve-lock. Pushing it slightly open, he says a few muttered words to the guard within, and turns back to the acolytes and tech priests.

"Take your time. One of my men has field medicae training, but there is only so much we can do for them here. Once it is safe to move them, we need to get your friend and the most seriously injured guardsman to Nessa as soon as possible."

Fatigue is starting to show on the once indomitable-looking Oktammor's face, and he looks back over your shoulder after a quiet tone sounds from his microbead.

"It sounds like we may have managed to get through to Dunkan. I'll get you by vox as soon as we verify the encryption is legitimate on the signal."

With that, the burly bodyguard pushes open the corroded door for you and makes his way back toward the listening post.

Stepping inside, you find yourselves in a large, horizontally-aligned cylindrical chamber, with roughly five meters or so width of level space between the curve of the walls. A series of four beds have been lined up almost end to end along this flat space, two of them occupied by guardsmen, one of whom appears gravely injured. Sgt. Einhardt and his three able-bodied men hover around the last, speaking quietly with Oktammor's designated medicae, an older, harried looking enforcer with salt and pepper hair and thin moustache. An empty cot separates Albrek from the others, with his bed's head set against the far wall of the drum-shaped room. An instrument tray and attached table hold empty syringes, bloodied bandages, and the las-scorched ceramite of the ex-guardsman's flak vest and armored sleeves. 'Brek rests on his back, a trio of plas-lines delivering fluid and blood to him intravenously. His head is propped up on some rough-looking Munitorum grade pillows, and once he sees you, a chagrined smirk tilts stubbled-lined mouth into a look that is half embarrassment and half stifled pain.

"Hey there, glad to see both of you are still with us. You guys must be some kind of good luck charms, between all my years at the claustrum, and even those dark days on Mara, I never once took a wound in a firefight or otherwise. Less than a week back on my homeworld working for the Inquisition, and I'm shot full of holes."

Quick aside, are Sav and Lorm going to check in on Albrek before leaving? Sgt Einhardt is currently in the makeshift medicae with his men, wounded and otherwise. Kaltos and Ivaanov meet the two of you as you exit back into the safehouse's listening station.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent fixes Murjoff with the look one reserves for crazies.

"Were they walking anywhere in particular?"

Corporal Murjoff looks at you blankly, oblivious to both your skeptical expression and veiled attempt at dark humor.

He answers you deadpan.

"I...I hadn't thought about that."

He pauses to reflect, his eyes glazing over even more.

"I think they came from the medicae. It wasn't long after we got the order to purge the Mechanicus from the Datacore that they started showing up. Everyone was jumpy enough and confused as hell about our orders in the first place, I mean, attack the tech-priests? Here? At the claustrum?! Once those things started attacking everything in sight, the non-coms figured that was why we were hitting the tech-priests in the first place...they must have released or tested some kind of virus and it got out of control. I don't know...everything got kind of crazy after that. At first, we tried to set up a cordon around the medicae, but reports started coming from the field units that these things were coming from somewhere else too, raiding the satellite plantations, assaulting the outlying penitentiaries...they were fecking everywhere. All this chaos...the one captain my squad came across had a look on his face like it was the end of the world. I don't think he had any idea just what was happening, either...he shot himself when things got real bad. Somehow, I got back here."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse (Several Hours Earlier)

Sgt Einhardt seems to take the measure of Savalos with his icy gaze, weighing the truth of what he says and coming away satisfied. He cracks his knuckles loudly and nods somewhat resignedly, but in a way that shows he has made a final decision. He looks like a man who lives by his convictions.

"As I told your robed friend earlier, you'll have myself and my men at your disposal. My squad and I have something of a score to settle with Ekubal and we mean to make him pay for what he's done. That being said, it's not as if we're going to say no to the servants of the Inquisition, is it?"

Einhardt grins wolfishly as he says this, and you can't help but like the man for this.

After further discussion about your intentions, Oktammor rises and moves toward the door leading into the listening post.

"I'll try to raise Dunkan on the vox, I'm sure he'll want to speak to you now that you're all back in the fold again."

He looks from Sgt. Einhardt to the acolytes and then motions toward the other room.

"In the meantime, the room is yours. Please feel free to check on your injured men, we've set up a makeshift medicae in one of the old fuel silos between the abandoned garage and the safehouse barracks."

Savalos and Uriah should have an opportunity to catch up in private at this point, please let me know what you intend to do next, as well.

The Grey Way, Delphune Habstack 4, 63rd floor, Luxury Apartments

Investigator Pronuld cycles his prox-key over the reader to his apartment, his eyes still watering from the vapors of his own breath; stinking of amasec, and the medicinal-tasting halitosis brought on by ingesting too much stimm. Still, he smiles the carefree grin of the truly intoxicated. It was worth it. He had taken his share of the Yellobouros kickbacks for the Vanticleer job and rolled it into an evening of glorious excess and debauchery at the Gran Pallazzar. The daminek tables had been more than kind to him, and the company he bought afterward had been perfectly willing to fulfill his every desire, and while they had put a decent dent into his winnings, he still carried thrice the Gelt he had when walking into the grand casino almost thirty-six hours ago. Life was good. To think, he had once hesitated at Leprade's offer. What a fool he had been. Three years of following the Intelligencer's lead and he had quadrupled his annual earnings, allowing him to indulge his many vices (Throne Yes!) and set aside a nest egg of simply absurd size. Who knew, in another year or two he might just take that retirement and buy himself an island in the southern archipelago, or hell, maybe even move Upspire where the really good living was. So what if a few unlucky gangers or citizens had to disappear for the game to continue. In the end, the odds were stacked against those unwilling to see things Leprade's way anyway.

Belching as he steps into the darkened foyer, he leans against the threshold to steady his balance, chuckling to himself as the world swims deliciously around him for a moment. He needed sleep. The hangover from the stimm would be bad if he didn't get some rest. Plus, he had to be at least semi-presentable for tomorrow, what with Toomb's memorial service at 16-hour. Feck, he wondered if his dress uniform would even fit after all these years. As these thoughts percolate through his addled head, he stumbles into the sunken living room of his extravagant apartment, his heels clicking across the Unduz shellwood flooring as he staggers toward the couch. He misses the frantic winking light on his vox-messager on the nearby bookshelf, taking a breather on the curving sofa, a pit-stop of sorts before making his way to the bedroom. He exhales deeply, reaching in the gloom for the dish of Bundton's candied ploin-caps, munching a few in the dark. Deciding against activating the pict-viewer to see if any of his action on the participants in the Red Ring won tonight he gets to his feet and half-feels, half-sees his way to the corridor leading to his bed chambers. Stepping into the wide hallway, he stops.

Something felt off.

Something more than the cloudy fug filling his mind. What the feck was it? It was like the feeling he got when he ignored some vital piece of work, intending to return to it later, usually something in warrants or his supplemental reports. Leprade may be a corrupt bastard, but he still was a stickler for detail, and anything not done his way, on his terms, usually got a reprimand. Deciding it is just the amasec talking, Multan Pronuld continues his long march for his comfortable bed. He forgets entirely that he had left the hall lumen on, for just this eventuality, returning home drunk out of his mind.

He stops short when he sees the hooded figure at the end of the hall, its dark silhouette somehow standing out starkly against the deeper black behind it. The shadow's hands hang at its sides, perfectly still. For an absurd moment, Pronuld thinks someone has left a dressing-mannequin or target dummy at the entry to his bedroom as some kind of sick joke. It is only as the gleam of mirror-bright Fulcusian steel shines into his eyes, the shadow drawing a curving blade, that he begins to feel the rush of fear fill his chest.

Strange things go through a man's mind at such times. Pronuld often wondered what panicked, rapid-fire thoughts went through the heads of those he so callously executed at Leprade's behest were. He recalled one man babbling incessantly for mercy so he could get his vintage Malfian monowire harp out of hock at the local pawn. Absurd.

Of course, it didn't seem so absurd now. As the shadow slowly lopes his way down the hall toward Pronuld, picking up speed as he raises the shining sword, all the Investigator can think about is why he didn't check the scores from the Red Ring...if his team won he would easily be looking at another 700 Gelt by morning. The shadow is halfway down the hallway before Pronuld thinks to challenge him with a weak croak, three quarters of the way to him, blade high overhead, when his synapses finally fire enough to goad him to turn and run.

The voice behind him is sibilant and sonorous as the dark itself, like the call of an avenging angel come to bring down the Emperor's retribution upon the unfaithful.

"Murtan Pronuld, I pronounce summary judgment upon you for abandoning your oaths, and tainting your noble profession as arbitrator of the Holy Emperor's laws, both canonical and temporal, with the stain of corruption. For this, traitor, you will ignobly die."

Turning, Pronuld takes a stumbling step before stopping, realizing it is pointless to flee. Another shadow stands at the end of the hall holding a long-barreled pistol in his direction.

Murtan Pronuld, like the other thirteen ranking traitor-Investigators in Leprade's employ culled by Iacton and Sigmunt this night will never get the chance to fully enjoy his ill-gotten gains. As his head leaves his shoulders, cut away cleanly by the razor-sharp mono-edged blade, his last thought is left untethered from his brainstem, simply wondering why, this, of all nights, he just didn't stay in his room at the Gran Pallazzar.

*********************************************************

The assassins share a few quiet words before the one with the gun exits the apartment. Iacton cleans his blade on some sheer silk sheets he finds in a hall closet before kneeling down beside the corpse, positioning the severed head just above the stump of the neck. He daubs one gloved hand into the pooling blood, tracing it across the dead man's forehead into the shape of an "I". Murtan Pronuld only stares with surprised eyes straight ahead at the stippled ceiling of his apartment as Iacton leaves.

This one's for Davi.

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Savalos closes his eyes, trying to remember Iacton's exact words describing how the captured ganger was somehow possessed by Krade, his master, and wondering if the High Arbiter could have repeated the feat.

Uriah watches from across the table as the ex-ganger opens his eyes again, and he doesn't need to be psychic to know that they were thinking much the same thing. Oktammor raises his eyebrows slightly at the psyker's mention of the world's previous inhabitants, but he doesn't interject anything.

Oktammor shrugs his shoulders resignedly after Sgt. Einhardt's words. When he tangentially speaks of Danicos you can hear the intense loyalty in his voice.

"My boss, and he is my boss, and let me make it clear I have no qualms about saying so to anyone, would certainly welcome the opportunity to speak to the, ahem, clerk who sent you here, sergeant, as I believe they share a history of sorts. The problem lies in the fact that given the current confusion about what exactly is happening on Unduz II at your claustrum, and the ensuing interruption in communications this 'happening' has caused, we probably won't be able to explore that particular avenue anytime soon."

Tantalus Sub-Arctic Zone, Grid Zone Xi-Upsilon-05
25 meters Southeast of the Pyroclast-Gamma-9 Gatehouse Transport Station
241.817.M41
Brother Quintus'/Brother Emeric's Synchronized Chrono Readings: [2:24:07]

Perception test unsuccessful, Emeric

Grimacing when his auspex scan yields nothing due to the interference of the storm, Brother Emeric stops short, looking up in time to see Brother Syne, at the crest of the next icy hillock signalling another stop with a hand signal.

At roughly the same moment, the techmarine notices a tell-tale illuminate on his helmet read-out signifying an incoming signal on the Pyroclast-Gamma-9 Maintenance frequency.

<<<'Success in finding a vehicle that might work. We have also found an Iron Snake that was holding off some penitents that are now dispersed. Need coordinates for a rendezvous.'>>>

The voice is Brother Caledonii's.

While Brother Emeric receives the message, his brethren reach the crest beside Brother Syne, who stares through the telescopic sight on his needle rifle. He tries to take in everything he sees in the looming shadow of the massive refinery gatehouse, its towering height serving as a windbreak of sorts for the whirling maelstrom of the blizzard.

The wide hangar doors of the primary refinery's gatehouse structure hang open like a broken maw, leading into the darkness of the transportation shed within. The place is anything but abandoned, however, as you can see the bright flare of las-shots through the swirling snow and the dull roar of hastily bellowed orders punctuated by the occasional krump of a detonating grenade. Advancing still closer, down the escarpment to get a clearer view of the tactical situation, Brother Syne can now see into the yawning entry of the gatehouse where the overturned wreck of a tracked cargo-8 rests on its side. Taking up defensive positions with one flank blocked by the crashed vehicle and the other covered by one of the massive hangar doors are a ragged squad of Imperial Guardsmen hunkered down in firing positions. The bodies of more Guardsmen are scattered across the area, and among them are the mangled and burned remains of at least a dozen Tyranid Termagants. Easily a score more of the hideous xenos advance on the Imperial position, supported by the huge, bat-winged monstrosities wheeling in the strong winds overhead. The nightmarish Shrikes begin to circle around in a tight, arrowhead formation, beginning a steep dive toward the wrecked cargo-8, their blood-drenched, scythe-like claws held hungrily before them.

Standing stark and straight amidst the soldiers is the unmistakable figure of a young Imperial Commissar, his long black coat whipping behind him, tattered and bloodstained. Displaying no fear or concern for his own safety, he is shouting admonishments to his men to stand firm and die for the Emperor's glory. Beyond them, on the southern corner of the protruding gatehouse structure, movement ripples through the rocks as more Termagants muster for a flanking attack.

What will you do?

Sgt. Einhardt has acclimated surprisingly well to the complexity of the situation he and his men now find themselves in, but he also appears to be a man whose patience only extends so far. It is obvious to Uriah that he is a thinking-man's soldier, cool, calm and collected as needed to retain the respect and loyalty of his men, but perfectly capable of the more aggressive martial tendencies that define the best of the Imperial Guard. For now, he is the former, but the psyker can sense the frustration simmering beneath his placid facade.

"No offense taken, acolyte."

He waits a moment before continuing, as if to tacitly imply you would certainly damn well know if he was, in fact, offended.

"Although it comes as a bit of a surprise that something as inconsequential as a small penitent revolt would need the intervention of one of the planetary governors, nothing would surprise me at this point after seeing what has become of Commissar Ekubal. Usually the 7th can deal with its own internal matters---being the handlers of several million prisoners day after day usually keeps you on your toes---but after what I saw of him with my own eyes in Geltdown, nothing is assured."

Chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, he goes on, looking at Oktammor.

"So, now that my message to the Inquisition is delivered, I need to know if you can help me contact the man who sent me here in the first place. It seemed pretty important that he speak to your boss. Hell, everyone here seem to think that this is all tied together somehow, yet I still can't fathom why on my side of things, a senior clerk, subcontracted to the Adeptus Administratum, is calling the shots for an official investigation into Guard corruption."

He pauses, considering something.

"And whatever you do, don't refer to him as my boss, because that is the furthest thing from the truth and he and I are going to have a long talk about just what he's gotten me and my men into when I see him next."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

Oktammor glances from Savalos to Kaltos, shaking his large head from side to side in the negative.

"I'm sure Dunkan will allow you to use whatever techniques you possess to process the security data when the opportunity arises, but as I said, his cogitational and dataloom array is one of the most powerful on this world. It is not a matter of stealth or subterfuge. The cleric, ganger, and boy just disappeared like they never were. One moment the pict-corders and bio-auspexes show them in their rooms with recognizable readings, the very next they are simply gone."

He looks directly at Kaltos, his eyes fixing on the tech-priest's for a time, as if trying to emphasize the sincerity of what he states, knowing the Mechanicus' opinion of his master and his trustworthiness.

"Nessa had just completed fitting the lad with a vox. Dunkan says she's devastated by what happened, she doesn't take losing patients very well, however it might occur."

Oktammor takes in what Savalos has to say regarding the Eviscerator and his new status among the Duct Wolves with relative equanimity, making it clear that there is very little in the way of revelations that can induce surprise in the hardened mercenary anymore. He seems to sense Savalos' primary concern, and the ghost of a knowing smile creases his weathered face.

"The girl, Aebena is fine. There has been no sighting of Krade's cherubim, though."

Folding his gauntleted hands upon the table with a creak and whir of power armored servos, he regards Uriah with some concern.

"Be wary of Governor Ceprus. I cannot deny that the Rosette will buy you an audience, but the gravity and momentum of events has increased dramatically. Word is filtering in that there is some manner of insurrection occurring at one of the southern penal claustrums as well, I'll let you deduce on your own which one it is. The governor of Orcut VII hive is likely to be a trifle on edge, pulled in many directions, and might not know just who his friends are."

Oktammor opens one of the hexagonal vault-doors by activating a prox-reader with something built into the gauntlet of his armor. Stepping inside, you see a long, metal-walled briefing chamber appointed in a utilitarian minimalism, with a long manufactory produced conference table surrounded by folding chairs. He steps around one side of the table and rather delicately settles his armored form into one of the surprisingly sturdy seats, and motions for the rest of you to do the same.

Sgt. Einhardt signals Pvt. Kotts and the other two guardsmen who met you at las-point in the ruined garage to wait outside, and then sits down himself after the acolytes, tech priests, and Stroinigli take their own chairs.

Oktammor pushes aside an unfinished mug of caffeine with the faded Shaultus Transshipping logo on the side, his normally gregarious demeanor subdued, his face weary.

"Not well. Holo reports and the transmissions we've been picking up from the Arbites channels are they're attributing the 'terrorist-act' in the Geltdown Docks to the same cell that kidnapped Krade and the senior clerk of High Arbiter Ruvos Halleon. Word also is that Governor Ceprus has become involved and is considering deploying the 1st Oremor Legion to impose martial law in Vaxus District until such a time as this cell is apprehended or eliminated."

He face then becomes positively ashen.

"I've spoken to Dunkan as well since we went to ground here."

He hesitates, and it is clear he does not know just how to put into words what he is next about to say, so he says it simply, and quickly, like taking a bitter medicine.

"Your friend, Ishmael is gone. As is the boy and the Yellobouros prisoner."

At first you misunderstand him in the most obvious sense of things; that Ishmael has died of his injuries...but as you read Oktammor's expression you realize this is not the case.

"They've simply disappeared. Neither Dunkan nor Nessa can say just what has happened to them, there was no sign of infiltration or covert entry of any kind. I personally implemented all of the physical security of Dunkan's redoubt and combined with the advanced tech he has set up for countermeasures, what is in place there is comparable to what protects the residences of most sector-governors. The medicae in particular is locked down tighter than a drum. There's just no logical explanation for how this could have happened."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

The acolytes, tech priests and guardsmen follow Oktammor through the fyceline-haunted stink of the decrepit garage until he reaches a point in the wall where there is a space between two dusty workbenches. Stopping at this dead-end, he turns a rusted bolt on the edge of a support beam that causes the wall and the tool-rack mounted upon it to slide up into the ceiling, a seamlessly hidden door activated to reveal a more modern-looking, vault-like room beyond. Dunkan's burly bodyguard ducks through the low clearance of the doorway, continuing to speak as he walks past two of his enforcers.

"I trust since you are all still alive that you accomplished what you set out to do?"

Beyond his rather imposing, armor-clad body you can see a number of similar reinforced doors leading from the room you have just entered. A bank of active cogitators and warbling communications equipment covers one wall, manned patiently by one of the heretek's hunched servitors. This chamber appears to be a listening station of sorts.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Murjoff's eyes glaze slightly and his mouth hangs slack, his narrow chin drooping to his chest like a raving imbeciles. He works his jaw a few times as if testing its reliability and when he speaks Vincent can hear the madness returning in his strained voice, as what he says cannot possibly be the utterance of a sane man.

"That the dead walk."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

"Them being?"

Murjoff looks blankly ahead into space until Vincent's words slowly settle into his addled mind like the last sands deposited in the bottom of an hourglass.

He looks at Vincent curiously, as if he cannot quite comprehend the naivete of the senior clerk's line of questioning. Then, a dawning realization crosses his snot-smeared features, and his cracked lips part in the dim, yet terrifying grin of a madman expressing disbelief that another has not perceived the terrible things he is privy to.

"You don't know yet, do you?"

The Vaxus Deeps

Savalos confers with Luceros prior to departing, explaining his immediate plans and requesting that the Alpha send the more subtle of the Wolves out to stalk the Districts above, to shake down the rumor-mongers and confer with the information brokers in an attempt to find out more about the mysterious Withdrawn Veil. Confident that Luceros understands the importance of this task, the Twice-Blooded Packmaster takes his leave.

As Savalos exits the fortified gates of the old hostelry into the Vaxus Deeps, he tries not to breathe too deeply of the musty, spore-laden air that fills the deep Underhive, all too cognizant of the bleak ruin of slouching, compressed old buildings struggling to support the vast hive above his head. He tries not to think of how far his Pack has fallen, putting such morose, unproductive thoughts aside for the matter at hand.

An interesting caravan of sorts leaves the vicinity of the Duct Wolf Sanctum. The throaty, predatory growl of the Sabrewolf's large engine preceding the cantankerous, grox-like grunts of the beater groundcar loaned to Kaltos earlier by Oktammor. Stroinigli keeps his vehicle in a low gear so as not to outdistance the stuttering vehicle occupied by the two tech-priests and the guardsmen. Glancing around at the forlorn streets and omnipresent alleyways as they swerve around mounds of trash and leaning buildings, Uriah cannot help but wonder how this possibly can be the same place as his recent vision, however far removed it is by the passage of time. The Eldar farseer's final words about Krade continue to echo through his mind, gnawing at his memory along with the ghosts of Ariella's psyche.

Even with his cogitator-efficient mind, it is hard for Kaltos Havelock to make any sense of the circuitous, labyrinthine route they take to return to the heretek's safehouse in the Vaxus Deeps. He is strangely grateful that it is the mutant that leads the way, doubtful that he could have found his way back even with the considerable aid of his auspex. Forge worlder that he is, he wonders how anyone with a rational mind could possibly dwell in a such a disordered amalgam of twisting byways and crumbling buildings.

The vehicles finally reach the safehouse without incident, and the ruined garage doors open in tandem with seamless and precise movements that belie their dilapidated appearance. The acolytes drive in slowly, the engines idling as the cars come to a halt, watching as their approach is covered with paranoid vigilance by a pair of guardsmen leveling lasguns and a contingent of Dunkan's enforcers. Oktammor stands amidst them all, aiming Albrek's trusty autocannon at the Sabrewolf while standing in front of the massive cargo-8. The long truck looks like it has sustained a great deal of abuse since Uriah and Savalos last saw, it, now covered in blast-burns, paint-scarred dents, and what seems to be some kind of acid-scoring across most of its armored plating.

Only when the acolytes and tech-priests step out of their vehicles does the heretek's massive gene-enhanced bodyguard lower the barrel of the intimidating weapon, setting it down with one expansive, meaty hand before slowly walking forward to meet you all.

Oktammor's gravelly voice carries well in the echoing old garage.

"Welcome back. We need to talk."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Murjoff fingers the the small hole in his fatigues, rubbing one grimy finger against the spot in his reinforced flak vest that stopped Vincent's bullet. His expression is still that of a man who has not fully recovered his senses or touch with reality. He appears little bothered by the fact that the senior-clerk just shot him.

Perhaps even a little disappointed in the gunshot's result.

"Someone? Huh, heh, more like everyone. Surprised my clearance for the Aerie still worked with the lock-down in place. Maybe we'll be safe here, next-to-highest level of the Keep and all---or maybe not. If they come here we won't need to worry, we'll be dead too, like them."

The Vaxus Deeps, the Duct Wolf Sanctuary

Uriah opens his eyes slowly, the disorientation making his body feel as though it is floating somewhere above him. He stares into the flat light of a yellowish lumen strip, sensing the press and steady susurrus of a rebreather clamped over his face. As his vision begins to clear, he sees Ivaanov's bug-eyed goggles peering down at him clinically from above, the grating pitch of his vox saying something the psyker can't quite make out.

Nearby, while in the midst of his conversation with Sgt. Einhardt and Stroinigli regarding the logistics of their departure, Savalos turns to find Kaltos conferring quietly over his microbead.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

Uriah's vision begins to swim, the Oremor-That-Was rippling around him, distended and frayed at the edges, the crash of the sea replaced by a sonorous, repetitive hush-hush sound, the brilliant sunlight pulsing from red-gold to a dull, yellowish artificial glow.

Farseer K'lei-eth seems aware of this change in the psyker's perception, but is largely unperturbed, merely sitting back in his wicker throne once again, watching the effect upon you with all of the sentiment of someone watching an ant drown in a puddle.

"My power wanes, Uriah Trantor. It is now time for you to return, and for me to rest, but we shall soon speak again, as there is much to discuss."

He gently strokes the head of his pampered pet, eyes never leaving yours.

"When you find Krade, tell him I have not forgotten our pact."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent smirks as Murjoff fails to respond to his first plan. Vincent's strength was always manipulation, not heart. Murjoff's emotion armors him against any construct of logic Vincent might create.

So much for the complex solution, on to the simple one.

Vincent shoots him.

BS 36 : 1d100=4

The sound of the Armsman-10 firing in the echoing confines of the security checkpoint is deafening, and the round strikes Murjoff in the shoulder just as he raises his laspistol to his head with his right hand.

Successful hit, rolling damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5, the entirety of the damage is mitigated by Murjoff's flak armor and Toughness Bonus.

The round throws the guardsman out of his chair, the force pirouetting him to the right, and throwing off his suicidal aim. The shot instead rips through the lumen-fixture above with a whip-crack hiss and buzz of damaged filaments. The gun clatters across the top of the desk as he falls to the ground, the chair now idly spinning in circles. The terrified guardsman begins to kick himself across the floor frantically, moving to the right out from behind the desk into view again, holding his shaking hands before his pasty white face. He looks at you, horrified at just being shot, but somehow shocked out of his mania because of it.

With spittle still flecking his chapped lips, he peers through the gap in his splayed fingers at you for a moment longer with his wide, white staring eyes before lowering the hands slowly, looking around as if wondering how he came to be on the floor. He stutters his words out in the hissing little voice of someone suffering from severe hypothermia or mortal fear.

"V-V-Vincent? I-I...what are you doing here? Throne! You're alive, too! I mean really alive!!!

The Vaxus Deeps, the Duct Wolf Sanctum

After Iacton and Sigmunt take their leave, Savalos and Kaltos exit the run-down banquet hall only to run into Sergeant Einhardt and his communications officer, escorted by Stroinigli.

The 7th Legion sergeant regards Savalos with the squint-eyed suspicion that authority figures have been focusing upon him since he was old enough to foist a scerrido.

He speaks, interrupting Stroinigli.

"You have the look of a man on a mission. Not that I don't appreciate your strange little clan's interesting take on hospitality, but I have men I need to get back to, and if you're headed out, I'd at least like your leave to depart so we don't get 'mistakenly' shot. This twist won't tell me anything about what's going on."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Deceive 30 : 1d100=77

Corporal Murjoff's opposed Scrutiny test, 1d100 ⇒ 50

Spit spraying from his lips, his eyes wild and half-mad, Corporal Murjoff begins shouting almost incoherently, stabbing the barrel of his autopistol in Vincent's general direction.

"You're a FECKING LIAR! LIAR!"

"They're all dead---all of them! They told us the Mechanicus made the virus and they had to be purged or more would get sick. It didn't matter...didn't matter at all. When they came..."

"...oh, sweet Throne, when they came we couldn't stop them, nothing stopped them!"

He looks at you a moment, a bleak, hopeless expression collapsing his face into wracking sobs again.

"You found me...you found me...I can't kill you, you're already dead...but you won't GET ME!!!

Murjoff spins the pistol around and mashes the barrel into the side of his head, prepared to pull the trigger.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

"The entity who is of the other Ruinous Power has left the host, but we know who the entity wants as its new host."

Farseer K'lei-eth looks doubtfully at the psyker.

"Do you? Are you so certain, Uriah Trantor?"

"Do not presuppose that you possess even the faintest inkling of the deceit that this warpspawn is capable of; believing such and the overconfidence it breeds will only spell your own downfall. There are far too many who have already made this grave mistake, and I would not see you follow in their footsteps."

He lowers his voice slightly, as if engaging in soliloquy instead of speaking directly to you.

"The Changeling daemon is ancient, far older than this world, more ancient perhaps than the history of my people, who so foolishly made this world it's prison. It has taken on and subsequently shed countless guises in its existence, masqueraded with the faces of Eldar and Man alike, all to one purpose, all for one goal. To be free of the world that binds it."

He looks up at Uriah, as if recalling that he was addressing him.

"For the Changeling to be free, Oremor must die."

The Duct Wolf Sanctum, The Main Gate

As the contingent of soot-smeared Redemptionists disperse out of the main gate to the Duct Wolf compound, Savalos warily watches Preacher Castogaul depart. His parting gift to the new Packmaster was an encrypted vox frequency by which Friar Savonar and his flock could be contacted when the time came, or the need arose.

The horse-faced preacher stares Thul down as he walks away into the Vaxus Deeps, his tall frame throwing a looming shadow across the assembled gangers, backlit by the flickering pilot-lights of his throng of flamer-toting zealots, a message clearly sent with his eyes:

All affronts to the Emperor must purged. Everyone and everything that is corrupted must be cleansed.

Savalos thinks he now knows precisely what is meant by the proverbial deal with the devil.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

"One of the agents of our enemies we know as the Prisoner. He is of the power that is of corruption, filth, and disease."

K'lei-eth steeples his long-fingered hands before his face.

"Yes, I have dreamed of this being as well. A powerful avatar of the Corrupting One who keeps our Blessed Mother Isha as his thrall. This Prisoner will carry within him a plague like no other, one of the manifold dooms of this world."

"He is one of the catalysts."

K'lei-eth regards Uriah with a knowing, probing look.

"You know of the other, as well, do you not, Uriah Trantor?"

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent musters up his most honeyed tone to talk the corporal down. He needs Murjoff alive for whatever scraps of useful information may lurk in his broken mind.

"Put the weapon down Corporal. It is over now."

Vincent, please attempt an opposed interaction test with Corporal Murjoff by making either a Deceive or Charm test, your choice.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

The Eldar, K'lei-eth, inclines his head again ever so slightly, affirming what you say to be truth.

"You are very astute, mon-keigh, I can see why you will eventually be chosen by him. This is indeed the past of the world that I have drawn your Warp-shade from, the version you walk upon in your time is far different than this. It is Lilaethan, blessed of the goddess, a 'maiden world' in your language. It will yet be many of your lifetimes before humanity comes to make war upon my people and drive us into the Void."

The Farseer looks contentedly around him at the otherworldly beauty of the virgin planet, inhaling deeply of its verdant bouquet.

"Of course, then, everything will change. As has been the result in so many of our races interactions, it will be steeped in blood, hatred, and regret. When my descendants leave this world, either in death or by displacement by your kind, much will change. These things I have foreseen with more clarity than anything I see with my own eyes, even now. There is, however, one thing that will not change."

He stares into your very soul, iron-hard eyes gouging deeply there.

"Oremor will remain a prison."

He pauses thoughtfully, to let this revelation settle with you.

The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum

Riding the rickety lift back to the Sanctum, Savalos grows more and more unsettled as he watches Uriah's unconscious form writhe and twitch in the arms of Iacton and Sigmunt, who now support him from either side. His hands still clench Silus' scepter in a death-grip, and even the prodigious combined strength of the Duct Wolf hitman and Krade's agent could not wrest it free. The psyker's eyes flutter like caged birds behind their lids and his breathing has slackened considerably.

Sigmunt, unnerved, looks at his Packmaster, brow still stained sooty from the conflagration in the strange chamber far below.

"What manner of fit is this Sav? He thrashes like a man possessed."

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Raising the gun to chest height, Vincent cautiously walks into the security lobby, keeping the autopistol trained on the seated figure. His footfalls echo on the marble tiles, and the man in the chair shireks in terror, flinching hands coming up quickly away from his face, springing to his feet as if he means to flee for his life.

His features are puffy and flushed, his cheeks and nostrils coated in tears and snot. His eyes, perhaps most disturbingly, are red-rimmed and hollow, the eyes of a man who has seen too much, too soon. Sepheris is reminded of pict-stills he has seen in the past of guardsmen and PDF whose minds have collapsed under the horrors of war. Forgetting for a moment in the man's vulnerable state that he wears the flak armor of an Imperial Guardsman of the 7th Legion, and is thus martially trained and dangerous, the senior clerk is too surprised to act when the man brings up a laspistol from his holster and points it at him.

It is only then that he recognizes the bedraggled man is Corporal Murjoff.

"Stay!!! Stay there! Another step and---and---I'll kill you! Whatever you are! Please!"

The whining, plaintive voice is that of a broken child, not the somewhat dim-witted, bravado-fueled loyal guardsman that Vincent once blackmailed over a few cases of lho sticks. Something has unsettled the bedrock of the young corporal's world.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

Completing his circuit around you, the lithe Eldar dips his head slightly in a minimal gesture of acknowledgment. Faint lines, they could not be called wrinkles they are so slight, form around the Farseer's eyes, and you get the distinct impression that he is channelling untold reserves of his inner will despite outwardly showing only the barest impression of concentration across his vulpine features.

"You must forgive my hesitance; it is sometimes difficult to formulate questions about matters that for myself have not yet come to pass. It is likewise difficult to explain this uncertainty to those such as yourself when I have ironically already augured the answers to queries that I do not know I will pose."

He raises one pencil-line thin, tapering eyebrow, a brief look of amusement crossing his face.

"I do not mean to confuse you, Uriah Trantor, but conversing with your kind about such matters is altogether difficult. It is not your race's fault, merely the brevity of your vantage point in the scheme of the continuum."

"Do you know why you are here?"

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

Uriah braces his hands to either side, and pushes himself to his feet while breathing deeply of the pure air, the redolent stench of the Auldmaw's lair suddenly absent from his clothing and nostrils. He stands upon a wide, grassy plateau, dominated in its center by the towering fountain, concentric rings of moss-festooned white stone radiating outward from the pool at its base. The reason for the sound of the crashing ocean waves is immediately evident as he looks to his right, where the plateau falls off to the blue-green sea surging against the base of the promontory hundreds of meters below. Were it not for the familiarity of the stars in the twilit sky, he would still be wondering where he is, but they mark the world as Oremor, the astrography of his position almost instinctive to the voidborn. Some kilometers in the distance he sees a massive spire, pale-white and tapering to a point at a nearly impossible height that is clearly the Eldar monument from his vision in the Astropathic Choir.

Sitting across from him, in a wicker throne threaded with fungoid-blooms and ivy, is a tall, slender humanoid with alabaster skin and narrow, piercing eyes of deepest green, resplendent in an emerald robe woven from carefully cultivated plant-life. A tapering head-dress surmounts the narrow skull of the being, intricate and convoluted, with whorls and swirls of viridian shades gleaming from the coral-like substance it is crafted from. The figure's slender fingers rest idly in its lap, curled around a distinctive scepter, identical to the one you hold in your own hands. Resting at ease near the stranger's slippered feet is the animal that just licked your face. There is something strangely familiar about it. The creature is covered in thick, green-brown fur, but also possesses hardened, chitinous skin beneath, skin that blends seamlessly into the form of bone-like fangs at edges of the predator's jaws. The triple-eyes arranged in a semicircle across the front of its skull are also vaguely insect-like. It becomes clear when the beast scratches an orifice where an ear might be, that it is actually tripedal, and uses the third, hind leg to rub at the irritation. It can only be a duct wolf, albeit one of their kind long before they left the verdant fields of Oremor-that-was for the lightless tunnels of humanity's Underhives.

Patting his pampered pet as he rises to his feet, the Eldar (for to Uriah, that is all this being can possibly be, although he has never seen an actual xenos in the flesh) stands upright and moves forward a few paces with a perfect, otherworldly grace that makes the psyker feel ungainly and painfully awkward, even more so than his present disorientation would suggest. He circles around Uriah Trantor slowly, appraising him with his warmly engaging, yet ancient eyes, moving with the same predatory elegance of his pet.

"Your disorientation will pass shortly, mon-keigh. Being of the kilithikadya, or the future-that-is-to-come, your manifestation here is tenuous at best, and it is only through the part of myself that is invested in the shryyr that you hold that we are able to converse in this manner."

The tall Eldar stops in front of you, almost within arm's length, imperious even with elegant rusticity of his garb.

"You may call me K'lei-eth, the appointed guardian of this Lilaethan. To my people, I am Exodite and Farseer. I regret to say that I have not already made or will yet make your acquaintance, as you are yet to be in my span of years. Who is it, that I am addressing then?"

The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font

As two of the Duct Wolves lift Uriah, Savalos stops short in front of his fellow acolyte, watching as his eyes move rapidly behind closed lids, and his body spasms slightly. One of the gangers has a history of medicae training and advises the Packmaster that although unconscious, the Voidborn's respirations and pulse are within normal ranges, albeit excited by the seizure, it seems.

You notice the cerulean blue glow of the scepter has diminished significantly in the time it has taken you to reach your friend from the firestorm at the tainted font.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Peering through the widening gap in the unpowered door, Vincent surveys the lobby checkpoint beyond, his eyes narrowing in the dimness of the amber emergency lighting shed from the flickering lumen strips above. As before, a single, undulating curve of white desk, without edges or obvious angles rises from the floor in the middle of the room to just over waist height, the surveillance pict-feeds, recessed cogitators, and other accoutrements of the guard post hidden beyond the curving edge from this side. Partially open doors, similar to the one you stand in, are in the middle of the wall just behind the desk.

A slumped figure, head clenched in both hands, leans forward upon the curving white console, sobbing uncontrollably, his breath leaving his lungs in great, wheezing heaves.

Things smell even worse in here. Like a toilet that has not been sanitized in some time, or an overflowing latrine.

You notice a long, angular arc of bright red blood spatter splashed across the front of the pristine white color of the decorative desk.

The Wellspring of E'auvennade

Uriah opens his eyes, the searing pain of the gran mal seizure suddenly absent, and wonders if he is, in fact, dead.

He lies upon his back, the cold, marble-like stone of the floor strangely cushioned now in places by something soft to the touch of his slender fingers, splayed at his sides. Opening his eyes, and glancing to his left, he sees that the substance is a patchwork blanket of blue-green moss, the filamentous, beak-like shape of tiny spore-capsules swaying to-and-fro in a light breeze that smells vaguely of the ocean. Voidborn that he is, these accents of the natural world would be alien enough to Uriah in the most normal of circumstances. Finding them here, ostensibly in the Auldmaw's lair, is confusing, to say the least.

Resting his still-sore head against the ground, he opens his eyes again, and finds them looking up into the vibrant, midnight blue of the early evening sky. A tapestry of stars, and the curving crescents of all three of Oremor's moons hang like a series of incrementally larger hooks in the vista before him, their hues reminding him of their names; Yphanus, Sefulus, and Cacius. The last of their number hangs just over the horizon, and is partially blocked by the towering monolith rising above him. The enormous, spire-like fountain is no longer the color of old bone, but a pristine white, so pure that it is almost blinding to look at even with what little light remains from the setting sun. The sunset gives one half of the titanic font a rosy hue, that bespeaks a warmth and sanctity that seems to soften the pounding in the psyker's skull. Water flows down in gentle rivulets along the length of the titanic fountain, drizzling from the pinnacle before splashing along the tiered basins and cascading down into the lower pool. The powerful spray of the flow as it strikes the bottom basin has already caused a pleasant, flowery-smelling mist to bead upon Uriah's face and clothing. There is no sign of the arching walls or unseen dome above that formerly contained the fountain. In fact, beyond the mossy white stone of the circular court, tall grasses wave back and forth, and to the south Uriah Trantor can hear powerful waves crashing against rock.

He is clearly outside.

Just when he thinks he has truly gone mad, a mellifluous voice, cordial and commanding, calls to him from somewhere nearby.

"Wake traveler, and know that you are welcome, here in the twilight betwixt the future and the past. I have been waiting a long time for you."

Before Uriah can react, a canid-like face, covered in green-brown fur with mandibles strangely more chitinous than flesh and bone, hovers over his own. A long, pink, tendril-like tongue snakes out to wash over his face affectionately, leaving a sticky, sap-like fluid behind where it touches. Triple convex eyes, compound like that of fly regard him curiously before the animal's strangely-shaped head disappears, heeling to curious words in a musical tongue you cannot comprehend, spoken by the same soft voice you just heard. You listen as the animal pads away obediently to its master.

What will Uriah do?

The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font

Scrutiny Test (1d100=8)

Castogaul's Deceive test, 1d100 ⇒ 79, Savalos win the opposed test.

It is clear to Savalos with a glance that the preacher, Castogaul, is unsuccessfully hiding his reaction, and has passed judgment of some kind upon Uriah. He turns away and raises his flamer to chest height, before speaking.

"Burn it all."

The Redemptionists encircle the polluted font, followed by the similarly armed Duct Wolves when Savalos nods his assent. Their new Packmaster joins them, adding his own flamer to those leveled at the Eldar monument.

With staggered blasts of hot, incinerated air, the many flamers erupt with cleansing fire and the chemical smell of promethium. Savalos wrinkles his nose in disgust, not from the stink of the accellerant, but from the foul stench of the corruption pouring forth from above, which is in no way masked by the flamer's combustive assault. If anything, the reek grows worse for a time.

Still, while washing the blanketing curtains of flame back and forth around the font, it is clear that the oily black sludge is being burnt away, at least where it fills the circular pool at the base and the lower basins. Minutes pass, and as a fine sheen of sweat begins to bead across his brow, Savalos gradually begins to raise the angle of his blast, with the others following suit and scouring away the blasphemy, all the while blackening the once-pristine fountain, meter by meter. When the seeping cascade of filth pouring forth from the unseen ceiling finally catches alight, it begins to change color and consistency, from a watery, pitch-black to a more muddy, brownish hue, the fluid becoming more syrupy and gelid, before the flames truly engulf it, finally rendering it down into a dessicated, fibrous-looking, ropy mass, reminiscent of a thick stalactite comprised of dried-out snot. As the flamers wink out one by one, finally running dry of propellant, the acolytes and their retinue back away from the still smoldering carnage, settling their watery eyes upon the utter ruination of the font, which now looks like nothing more than an enormous, blackened bone stained with brownish blood.

WP(50) Test = 1d100

failed by 1 degree

When the sudden, molten wash of heat from the flamers simultaneously igniting proves to be too much, Uriah is wracked by a paralyzing seizure, falling forward into unconsciousness before he even hits the floor. Still clutching the shining scepter in both hands, he listens as the ethereal choir of voices filling his mind fades and distorts before leaving altogether, finally falling silent as the psyker is enfolded into the blessed blanket of oblivion.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent considers the problem for a moment, then draws a pair of objects from within his coat, his ward accessor and his pistol. He carefully checks the chamber of his Armsman-10, then slides home the ward accessor.

Vincent knows some risks are worth taking, there is too much at stake not to take the gamble.

Rechecking that there is a round chambered in the autopistol, Vincent sweeps the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor over the hemispherical sensor bridging the near invisible seam in the display case. With the vacuum-pop of a powerful stasis field being disengaged, the top of the case rises slowly with a faint whir.

Without preamble, or pretext about the proper, Ecclesiarchically-sanctioned manner of lifting a priceless artifact from its centuries-long cradle, the civilian senior clerk of the 7th Legion's penal claustrum barely considers the moral implications resultant in his deliberate theft of a priceless Ministorum artifact.

The sabre feels good in his hand, and he has stopped humming the song. For now, that is all that matters.

With no sign of any alarm, Vincent turns away from the empty case and continues down the corridor toward the Warden-Colonel's suite. None of Logis Blakswann's numerous schematics of the facility flitting through his mind can help him in his approach now, it is simply a straight shot to the first of the two remaining security checkpoints.

After a few more minutes of walking, Vincent stops before the partially open bulkhead doors leading into the first security foyer. The doors, tastefully appointed with the same mosaic of porcelain-white shells as the rest of the portals in the Warden-Colonel's portion of the Aerie should be closed. A bad smell comes through the half-meter wide gap in the power-less doors. The curve of the corridor prevents you from seeing what is inside.

Vincent, will you approach the doors, and if so, how will you be taking any precautions or actions prior to doing so?

The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font.

"Don't get distracted from our task, and burn the filth. The stonework isn't going anywhere. You can worry about it once our greater mission is done."

Not unless I move it, and hide it first.

Castogaul and a handful of his brethren who are close enough to hear Thul's words eye the spire-like fountain with loathing, and move to ignite their flamers. Savalos catches the preacher weighing the sincerity of his final words before he casts his suspicious zealot's gaze upon Uriah and the brilliantly shining scepter he strains to hold upright and aloft.

Savalos please attempt a Scrutiny test, opposed by Castogaul.

Uriah Trantor feels as though he is lost in a coruscating nimbus of cerulean blue light. The sibilant choir of long-dead Eldar voices filling his head has become a din of overlapping whispers filled with muttered imprecations, cries of inconsolable dismay, and sorrowful, plaintive wailing. It is as if they can somehow perceive the loathsome defilement of their ancient monument. He also feels the eyes of the others upon him, but cannot help the growing sense of otherworldly detachment consuming his psyche.

Uriah, please attempt a Challenging [+0] Willpower test.

The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font

Spitting bile from his mouth, while holding one gloved hand partly over his nose, Tygault answers Savalos as best he can.

"No clue, Thul. But it takes me aback some that we can't even ken where the ceiling is in this place. Long ago, I had heard tell in my aunty's nursery stories that the Auldmaw and her mate owed their size and long-life from drinking deeply from the trough of the Old Ones, but I never would have thought it was so big...or that I would ever see it. Feck, the thing must stretch nearly all the way up through the 'Source and into upper Vaxus somewhere."

Hearing this, Castogaul, now with a makeshift respirator built from tarnished binding wire and an old carpenter's mask, mumbles his monotone almost unintelligibly through the protective barrier over his mouth.

"Do not be deceived by this monument's "beauty", it was anathema before it was polluted by this vile effluence. This ghostly stone, these unnverving carvings and sigils, they are the remnants of the accursed xenos who dwelt on this world before the Emperor's light cast them out into the Void. The corruption here must be burnt away, and every stone of this mockery be cast down, so no two are left standing upon each other."

As vehement as the preacher is about exhorting his men to do so, you wonder if he is really seeing the enormity of the task before you. Not to mention that the entire font---impossibly so---seems to be one, single, smoothly contoured piece of stone.

The Auldmaw's Lair

The horrid smell hits the cautious band like a gagging, miasmal wall of corruption. An awful, awful stench, almost overpowering in its unwholesome intensity, like rotting flesh immersed in a warm, stagnant, cesspool, causes many among the Wolves and Redemptionists to heave their last meals upon the bone-pale stone flooring or raise their arms over their faces in a fruitless effort to cut off the stink. The acolytes, although as nauseated as the rest, are made of sterner stuff, having experienced it before, or something akin to it, already.

The increasingly intense blue glow from Silus' scepter eventually grows brighter than the light of the flamers borne by the cleansers, casting ghostly azure light all across the nearby walls, illuminating strange inscriptions that seem to glow with their own sympathetic light. The increased luminosity in the vault then begins to pick out the feature which dominates the chamber; a massive structure circumscribed by a gigantic bowl-like base of the same porcelain-colored stone that appears at once as fountain, tree, and pillar.

For the psyker, the vile, true name of the Ruinous Power responsible for this defilement buzzes around his already troubled mind along with the overlapping echoes of the singing voices... 'Nurgle'...'Nurgle' ...until it is all he can do to remain upright on his feet.

As the blue light of the scepter becomes its brightest, now wavering and dipping vertiginously in Uriah's shaking hands, it illuminates the jet-black stream of filth cascading downward from the unseen roof of the titanic vault, the endless waterfall of tarry sludge splashing and slopping along the elegantly terraced bowls and basins that cling randomly, almost barnacle-like, to the towering expanse of the enormous xenos fountain. The hue of the foul substance is blacker than black, almost a Void-like absence of color, a nullity that absorbs the light cast upon it. It spatters and smacks against the stained humanoid statues ringing the base of the font before seeping into the huge bowl. The deliberate defilement of the enormous, alien font, once clearly possessed of an elegiac beauty, as obvious a symbolic wellspring of purity as anything you have ever encountered in your lifetime, is utterly heartbreaking.

The only analogy that presents itself, is of an insane heretic deliberately defecating upon one of the Emperor's holy altars, and reveling in the act.

The evil here is palpable.

The Auldmaw's Lair

Psyniscience(50+20) = 1d100

Made it by 3 degrees.

The further Uriah proceeds into the ancient vault, the louder the plaintively murmuring voices from the xenos scepter become to him. Although he knows it is only in his head, the same choral dirge of loss and lamentation as before assails his senses. It is as if the beings whose ghostly echoes remain here are pleading with him for some manner of deliverance.

The sphere atop the scepter again begins to glow with a lambent blue hue that seems disconcertingly 'off' somehow from the normal color spectrum.

The Auldmaw's Lair

Uriah and Iacton find their return journey to the Auldmaw's lair to be far better illuminated than the prior sojourn a few hours ago. The pilot-lights from dozens of flamers shed warm light throughout the gigantic pipe works, some of them even kept continuously lit to better brighten the way. There is no sign of the Auldmaw's progeny, likely because of the scepter that Uriah bears, but Iacton speculates that such a large, heavily armed band surrounded by a fiery orange glow and the stink of promethium like theirs would be more than enough to put off the top-tier predators of the Underhive's labyrinthine tunnels.

They take the lead as the cleansers take their first steps into the unreal vastness of the matriarch's den, and you can sense the others hushed awe upon entering the staggering dimensions of the chamber. The confusing echoes of your footfalls and the ethereal acoustics of the lair magnify even the smallest sounds tenfold, all while someone speaking right next to you conversationally may not even be heard. The greater wash of light from the many flamers borne by the party cannot pierce the inky darkness enough to reveal where the elegantly curving, bone-white stone colonnades reach the ceiling lost somewhere above.

Bypassing pools of murky sewer-water and the desiccated remnants of the Auldmaw's past kills, Savalos winces when he sees the bloody fur intermixed with the diaphanous scales and mouldering molts of the Auldmaw's shed skin; scraped off around some of the otherworldly pillars. Her blood-stained fur lies in knee-deep drifts in places, as if chewed off by a canid suffering from mange.

The dross of the sewers is piled in places, the rear axle of a groundcar here, a shattered pile of burnt-out lumen globes there, even a burnt-out autocaf maker. The flotsam and jetsam of the Vaxus Deeps.

Uriah, please attempt a Routine [+20] Psyniscience test.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Search 22 : 1d100=67

Vincent squints at the locking mechanism but, odd it seems, cannot pinpoint a flaw in the system.

Vincent's uncertainty about the case's security does not mean he is so foolish as to believe there are no countermeasures or tell-tales in place. He has little doubt that the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor will open the display, but is fairly positive that someone, somewhere will be made aware of the action.

Vincent, the first of the Warden-Colonel's main security checkpoints is in an opulent lobby about fifty meters further down the curving corridor, past the Oremor 7th Legion's extensive military history museum where you stand now, which lines either side of the hallway along the approach.

Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II

Vincent pauses before The Sliver of Calyx and runs his hand across the plastek casing. The steel ripples in the light like silver waves across an ocean of white. The imagery strikes Vincent as oddly fitting.

He sees now what the sword really is, a ripple of the past, the power of its past masters coursing within. The psychic imprints of those powerful men weaving their way through time, awaking some spark of soul within the blade. He knows of such relics, the library held countless chronicles of items passed through the ages, from inscrutable xenos treasures to blessed charms to trinkets maligned by the touch of the warp, but never expected one one laying right under his nose. Though any historical collection may contain a handful of baubles with a spark of power, one which can drive away warp-spawned thought is another thing altogether. The The Sliver of Calyx has true power, power he can use.

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Vincent smiles.

Examining the reinforced plasteel case, Vincent cannot help but grin. For a change something finally seems to be working out to his advantage. The seal on the display is a recessed input that accepts a ward accessor, likely only keyed to the highest of security clearances.

Like the one he already possesses.

Vincent, who I have no doubt will be dubious about such a gift-horse, can make a Search skill test to examine the case more closely if he wishes.