"Aye Ty, I remember you well." I offer my hand to clasp his.
"We have alot to catch up on. So the Old She Wolf have time to talk with her wandering pup?"
I take a long look at my surroundings, and the faces of my family, but say nothing.
The white-knuckle tension that has pervaded the cold, rockcrete-entombed vault of the lift terminus is released like a toxic gas vented into space from a starship when Tygault clasps your hand in his.
"Welcome back to the fold, Savalos, the pack knows its own."
As you look around at the faces, the young and barely blooded fail to show any outward sign but relief, while the few elders among them smile and nod to you in brotherly gestures of recognition that make you feel like you have finally, truly, returned home. Sigmunt lets out a grateful sigh, and clasps Tygault's hand as well. The respect shown between the two men as they lock gazes is one of mutual admiration now that they know who the other is.
Tygault lifts his head, the shadows leaving the edges of his eyes to reveal that one is now missing, wreathed in a nest of ugly scars. A gleaming, stainless steel bearing serves him as a simple prosthesis.
"As you can see, we've seen better days, but the time for licking our wounds is almost at an end. A Wolf never forgets."
He gestures for his brothers to make ready for departure.
"Of late, the She-Wolf said she has dreamed of you. Not of the pup she birthed, but of a Wolf, grown. Seems she was in the right, as always."
"Now that I am acquainted at last with the notorious Sigmunt Vendangio, who might these others be that accompany you?"
He points vaguely toward the shadow-strewn far wall as introductions are made by your companions.
"Come with us then, we'll take you to her."
"Of late, the She-Wolf said she has dreamed of you. Not of the pup she birthed, but of a Wolf, grown. Seems she was in the right, as always."
Could Savalos' mother be the presence I felt?
"Of late, the She-Wolf said she has dreamed of you. Not of the pup she birthed, but of a Wolf, grown. Seems she was in the right, as always."Could Savalos' mother be the presence I felt?
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
As Bothle stares at you blankly, his lower jaw hanging open, at a rare loss for words, the vox chimes again. After a pregnant pause that counts thousands of intervening kilometers, Einhardt speaks again, his voice a harsh whisper.
<<<"Cordon in place around the bird. No sign of them at all. Moving into place to breach.">>>
A faint sound, barely audible, is fading in and out like a tinny echo in the static underlying Einhardt's words. You push the earpiece closer to your head, trying to make sense of it.
Vincent strains to make out the fleeting sound.
"Welcome back to the fold, Savalos, the pack knows its own."
"As you can see, we've seen better days, but the time for licking our wounds is almost at an end. A Wolf never forgets."
"Of late, the She-Wolf said she has dreamed of you. Not of the pup she birthed, but of a Wolf, grown. Seems she was in the right, as always."
"Now that I am acquainted at last with the notorious Sigmunt Vendangio, who might these others be that accompany you?"
"Come with us then, we'll take you to her."
"Aye Wolves never forget. Seen alot since I have been back to make me bare my teeth."
"Will be good to see her again. Good to see all of you again. Have alot to catch up on. Going to need council on some matters too."
"This is Uriah, and Iacton; solid sorts. They kill Yellobacks well."
Gesturing to the twist.
"This is Stroinigli, damn fine wheelman. Pulled me and Aebena out of a real bad spot earlier tonight."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent strains to make out the fleeting sound.
The crackling static underlying Einhardt's voice dissolves into something else as his final words trail off into white noise. It is almost as if the vox-line is filling with the vibrato, buzzing whine of thousands of flies. Even as Vincent struggles to hear something further amid the pestilential din, he begins to feel a sharp pain from beneath the microbead nestled within his ear. A vulgar, impossibly deep, guttural muttering that could scarcely be called a voice intones something in a repetitive, insane cadence. Just when Sepheris can stand it no more, as a wet trickle begins to seep from his ear canal, the voices volume diminishes, the insane buzzing of the phantom flies growing quieter and quieter, replaced bizarrely by the ragged, earnest voice of a strangely accented man singing in an archaic Low Gothic patois:
...third eye seein' what's beyon' the parted veil,
lonely watcher, he muss'n fail...
walkabout...walkabout...
Touching his earlobe, Vincent isn't surprised when his finger comes away bloody.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
The crackling static underlying Einhardt's voice dissolves into something else as his final words trail off into white noise. It is almost as if the vox-line is filling with the vibrato, buzzing whine of thousands of flies. Even as Vincent struggles to hear something further amid the pestilential din, he begins to feel a sharp pain from beneath the microbead nestled within his ear. A vulgar, impossibly deep, guttural muttering that could scarcely be called a voice intones something in a repetitive, insane cadence. Just when Sepheris can stand it no more, as a wet trickle begins to seep from his ear canal, the voices volume diminishes, the insane buzzing of the phantom flies growing quieter and quieter, replaced bizarrely by the ragged, earnest voice of a strangely accented man singing in an archaic Low Gothic patois:
...third eye seein' what's beyon' the parted veil,
lonely watcher, he muss'n fail...
walkabout...walkabout...Touching his earlobe, Vincent isn't surprised when his finger comes away bloody.
Pressing his palm against his bloody eardrum, Vincent struggles to keep his voice steady as he confronts the voice. He hisses his words into the microbead's pick-up.
"Who are you?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Kaltos is so focused on the cluster of highly disciplined guardsmen surrounding the churraptus-class shuttle on the platform that he does not recognize the approaching threat until Albrek sharply elbows him in the side. The acolyte points with the barrel of his lasgun toward the base of Platform #7 on the side closest to Oktammor and Ivaanov's group in the cargo-8. The distraction comes at the worst possible time, just as the boarding team has placed the first of the charges designed to blow open the void-locked door at the top of the shuttle's loading rampway.
Following the angle of Albrek's rifle, Kaltos watches as boxy, tall-wheeled truck rumbles up toward the two 7th Legion guardsmen left at the base of the platform. The truck is almost cube-shaped, painted in flaking black and orange paint, with a pair of huge, piston-like mechanica attached to each side, angled downward toward the back of the vehicle. Each piston and much of the truck's filthy sides are coated in viscous, pitch-black lubricating grease. A block-lettered logo, faded to illegibility spans the high cab door visible from your perch. The entire rear of the industrial-grade truck appears to be some manner of commpressing door, hinged, mouth-like, and toothy. The opening to this metal maw is studded with levers and valves, with dangling lifter mechadendrites hanging lifelessly around what can only be a compactor. As the truck rolls to a halt just meters in front of the pair of guardsmen left as sentinels at the base of the elevated landing platform, your hear the hiss of pneumatic brakes from far below. You clearly see one guardsman fingering his microbead as the pair assess this new threat.
You can smell the foul stink of rotting garbage from even your lofty perch high above the floor of Geltdown docks.
As the two guardsmen slowly approach the cab of the rusting, trash-stained vehicle, weapons raised, Albrek's voice suddenly falls into a much lower register, the worry evident in his disbelieving voice.
"Kaltos, please tell me that isn't a fecking garbage truck that just pulled up!"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Kaltos is so focused on the cluster of highly disciplined guardsmen surrounding the churraptus-class shuttle on the platform that he does not recognize the approaching threat until Albrek sharply elbows him in the side. The acolyte points with the barrel of his lasgun toward the base of Platform #7 on the side closest to Oktammor and Ivaanov's group in the cargo-8. The distraction comes at the worst possible time, just as the boarding team has placed the first of the charges designed to blow open the void-locked door at the top of the shuttle's loading rampway.
Following the angle of Albrek's rifle, Kaltos watches as boxy, tall-wheeled truck rumbles up toward the two 7th Legion guardsmen left at the base of the platform. The truck is almost cube-shaped, painted in flaking black and orange paint, with a pair of huge, piston-like mechanica attached to each side, angled downward toward the back of the vehicle. Each piston and much of the truck's filthy sides are coated in viscous, pitch-black lubricating grease. A block-lettered logo, faded to illegibility spans the high cab door visible from your perch. The entire rear of the industrial-grade truck appears to be some manner of commpressing door, hinged, mouth-like, and toothy. The opening to this metal maw is studded with levers and valves, with dangling lifter mechadendrites hanging lifelessly around what can only be a compactor. As the truck rolls to a halt just meters in front of the pair of guardsmen left as sentinels at the base of the elevated landing platform, your hear the hiss of pneumatic brakes from far below. You clearly see one guardsman fingering his microbead as the pair assess this new threat.
You can smell the foul stink of rotting garbage from even your lofty perch high above the floor of Geltdown docks.
As the two guardsmen slowly approach the cab of the rusting, trash-stained vehicle, weapons raised, Albrek's voice suddenly falls into a much lower register, the worry evident in his...
" Yes it does look like one. Lets make sure its not just a cover."
The Duct Wolves' Sanctuary
Tygault regards Savalos' companions in turn, nodding respectfully to each as the group walks toward the far wall of the titanic lift-well. The shades of the other Duct Wolves form a vaguely-visible mobile perimeter, surrounding and escorting them all to some unknown destination.
Looking at Iacton, he gives Krade's aide a wary stare.
"I know this ghost-skin by reputation and my few glimpses of him; he stalks the shadows of Vaxus, always watching. We have long wondered who he serves, we only knew it was not the Yellobacks. If you vouchsafe for him that is enough for the Pack."
Stroinigli he simply laughs at, revealing his familiarity.
"The twist is known to us as well. What we can't scavenge or steal, he finds for us, be it weapons, supplies, or information. His prices have always been more than fair for the Grey Bazaar; I think it is because he pities us, but the She-Wolf suspects his interest in so magnanimously helping to keep the Duct Wolves running strong in the pipes of Vaxus serves his interests as well. I am not surprised he has helped you. Again, your oath is enough for me, Savalos."
He regards Uriah with suspicion.
"This ghost-skin. This one the She-Wolf has seen in her visions. She has been waiting for him to come to us for as long as she has awaited you, her own flesh and blood."
Tygault tears his intense gaze away from the psyker, making a superstitious gesture with one scarred hand.
You all walk into foggy, blood-red light emanating from the far wall of the rockcrete liftwell. As you draw closer, you can see that it shines blearily out through the moist, cold air from fading lumen strips set into a twin-towered scaffold structure framing the massive garage door standing open underneath it. The huge automated door seems to have been a recent addition designed to cover a ten-meter wide, oval-shaped opening, perhaps what was once a massive window. More Duct Wolf muscle wanders about below, with two in each tower. One pair man a swivel mounted flamer, their vigilant faces illumined by the guttering pilot light, while the other two in the further tower smoke lho-sticks as one traverses a heavy stubber to follow your party passing beneath the scaffold's arch and their post.
The spacious area beyond is dimly lit by ornate, reddish glow-globes suspended from a forlorn looking plaster ceiling by tarnished golden chains in what once must have been the foyer of a once-grand hostelry. Vermin-gnawed, maroon and gold carpet with a classical design still visible beneath the dust covers the oddly canted floor, and Tygault leads the your band past dirt-smudged glass tables, ornate wooden chairs, and settees that have seen better days, traversing the angled floor with the familiarity a sailor at sea shows on an uneven deck. He stops before a series of unduz-wood inlaid doors, the hostelry's old lifts, and presses a brass stud to the side of one, sliding away a wrought-iron grate decorated with sainted figures of the Imperium that stands blocked the open shaft.
A grumble of old mechanica rumbles from within the walls as something deep in the shaft begins a laborious ascent.
What Tygault says next is spoken in such a matter-of-fact tone that it takes a moment to register the unmistakable threat implicit in it.
"You will not speak of this place, to anyone, lest they be your last words. I trust I am understood?"
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Pressing his palm against his bloody eardrum, Vincent struggles to keep his voice steady as he confronts the voice. He hisses his words into the microbead's pick-up.
"Who are you?"
As the singing grows fainter and fainter, the daemonic voice is gone, the buzzing leaves entirely, and the singer's lilting voice fades further as well. The last snatches of song are sung with what sounds like a palpable relief.
Vincent isn't even sure why he spoke to the singing voice, and feels doubly foolish for expecting any semblance of answer. So, he is nearly stunned when he hears the barely audible whisper that ends all sounds other than the static hissing over his microbead.
...I...I am called Ryuk...
The tone of faint voice as it answers is one that suggests that it is not even sure of its own identity, merely clinging to this name like a last vestige of self.
There is a pause of loud static, and Vincent is jarred from his reverie by another, familiar voice.
<<<Sepheris? Sepheris? Say again! We have trouble here. Something isn't right...>>>
Einhardt's voice is then drown out by a loud burst of interference that sounds like the droning buzz of tiny wings. Or perhaps it is your imagination.
I glance at Savalos.
"I belive there is an old saying: the enemy of your enemy is your friend. If you do not interfere with what we are dealing with, I do not see any reason for us to reveal a location that I have no idea of where it is. I do think we have at least in part some mutual enemies."
Looking at Iacton, he gives Krade's aide a wary stare.
"I know this ghost-skin by reputation and my few glimpses of him; he stalks the shadows of Vaxus, always watching. We have long wondered who he serves, we only knew it was not the Yellobacks. If you vouchsafe for him that is enough for the Pack."
Iacton returns Tygault's stare. "I serve the Emperor. Is that enough?"
"You will not speak of this place, to anyone, lest they be your last words. I trust I am understood?"
"You have my word. I will not betray the Duct Wolves."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
As the singing grows fainter and fainter, the daemonic voice is gone, the buzzing leaves entirely, and the singer's lilting voice fades further as well. The last snatches of song are sung with what sounds like a palpable relief.
Vincent isn't even sure why he spoke to the singing voice, and feels doubly foolish for expecting any semblance of answer. So, he is nearly stunned when he hears the barely audible whisper that ends all sounds other than the static hissing over his microbead.
...I...I am called Ryuk...
The tone of faint voice as it answers is one that suggests that it is not even sure of its own identity, merely clinging to this name like a last vestige of self.
There is a pause of loud static, and Vincent is jarred from his reverie by another, familiar voice.
<<<Sepheris? Sepheris? Say again! We have trouble here. Something isn't right...>>>
Einhardt's voice is then drown out by a loud burst of interference that sounds like the droning buzz of tiny wings. Or perhaps it is your imagination.
The sound of droning wings sends shivers down Vincent's spine, but Einhardt's words shock him back to reality. For just a second, Vincent's stoic mask falters and he practically shouts his response.
"Get out of there; it's a trap!"
Ty already knows my answer. Family is family.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Pressing his palm against his bloody eardrum, Vincent struggles to keep his voice steady as he confronts the voice. He hisses his words into the microbead's pick-up.
"Who are you?"
The confused look on Bothle's face turns to one of concern, as Vincent cannot hide his fear and discomfort. Wiping the blood from his hand almost absentmindedly on to his leg, he turns in place, wincing from the discordant buzzing filling his ears.
There is no answer to his question, and the oddly inflected voice is lost to the burst of static that overwhelms the audio circuit of the microbead, forcing Vincent to pull the device from his ear momentarily to avoid being deafened. Hearing Einhardt's voice, he quickly returns it to his dripping ear.
The sound of droning wings sends shivers down Vincent's spine, but Einhardt's words shock him back to reality. For just a second, Vincent's stoic mask falters and he practically shouts his response."Get out of there; it's a trap!"
His desperate shout causes Bothle to flinch backward with fear of his own, baffled as to why his normally even-tempered supervisor has become so abruptly unhinged.
For Vincent Sepheris the incontrovertible certainty that Einhardt and his squad are walking into an ambush comes with a rush of emotion, a purely visceral, instinctive reaction to the daemonic murmurs and cacophonous buzzing that for some indescribable reason presages a calling, or summoning to Vincent's ears.
As with the mysterious singing voice, there is no answer, only static from Einhardt.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
"Yes, it does look like one. Lets make sure its not just a cover."
Kaltos centers the magnoculars on the cab of the sanitation truck, zooming in to maximum magnification, ignoring the warning runes on the display as the enhanced visual takes its time to resolve into focus. Due to his position high above and behind the vehicle, it is impossible to make out anything about the cab's occupants. The first of the guardsmen running up to the driver's side door is occluded as well, his partner stopping in his tracks, just barely in view, to level the las upward toward the high passenger compartment.
Another loud burst of microbead traffic follows, garbled and confused, as an unfamiliar new voice walks over Oktammor and what you think is the guard squad's leader.
<<<SKSSHSHSHSHKKK..."...brek, Kaltos...what do you have for a visual on that ...SKSHSHSHSKKKKkkkk...pheris?...SKSHSHSHSKKKKkkkk...again! We have...SKSHSHSHSKKKKkkkk...here. Something isn't...SKSHSHSHSKKKKkkkk...Get...SKSHSHSHSKKKKkkkk...it's a trap!">>>
Something is very wrong, you can feel it resonating like an electrically charged tingle in your potentia coil. This is confirmed when the body of the first guardsman falls back into view, a smoking crater where his face once was. His companion at the base of Platform #7 begins firing erratically at the garbage hauler's cab, his tinny shouts of warning sounding very far away from your perch atop the crane. A burst of superheated plasma, answering fire from the cab, rips through his flak-armored body, rendering his frantic fire and desperate warnings to the convulsive gesticulations of a dying man as he collapses on the rockcrete tarmac.
You pull your eyes away from the zoomed display partly in horror, partly in disbelief at what you think you see next. It is simply impossible to comprehend.
The back of the sanitation hauler, basically a huge block of reinforced durasteel, appears to be bulging outward.
I glance at Savalos.
"I believe there is an old saying: the enemy of your enemy is your friend. If you do not interfere with what we are dealing with, I do not see any reason for us to reveal a location that I have no idea of where it is. I do think we have at least in part some mutual enemies."
Iacton returns Tygault's stare. "I serve the Emperor. Is that enough?"
"You have my word. I will not betray the Duct Wolves."
Tygault nods, satisfied with these responses, his vague unease with the two Voidborn still writ upon his facial expression.
He doesn't even look toward Savalos, and when Stroinigli affirms his oath of secrecy, the Duct Wolf steps into the pitch black elevator shaft without so much a moments hesitation.
Similarly to Tygault, your surprise at the ganger's lemming-like suicidal plunge is arrested almost immediately when you realize that the elevator has arrived, silently as a ghost, while you spoke. The interior is unlit and painted pitch-black, giving the suggestion of open space. Tygault seems to meld with the ebon void of the cramped looking car, his tattooed hand appearing from the darkness to beckon you all inside, and as you all step in you see that the elevator is not completely black, as someone has painted thousands of tiny motes of artistically rendered, reflectively silver starlight inside of it. The doors close with a whisper of air, plunging you into a darkness so complete, it is as if you are staring at the night sky while all of Oremor's moons are in their occluded phases. A gentle suggestion of movement, and the elevator is set in motion, the quiet breathing of everyone inside the only sounds.
Navigation(Stellar)(18 + 10 = 28) =
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
...Something is very wrong, you can feel it resonating like an electrically charged tingle in your potentia coil. This is confirmed when the body of the first guardsman falls back into view, a smoking crater where his face once was. His companion at the base of Platform #7 begins firing erratically at the garbage hauler's cab, his tinny shouts of warning sounding very far away from your perch atop the crane. A burst of superheated plasma, answering fire from the cab, rips through his flak-armored body, rendering his frantic fire and desperate warnings to the convulsive gesticulations of a dying man as he collapses on the rockcrete tarmac.
You pull your eyes away from the zoomed display partly in horror, partly in disbelief at what you think you see next. It is simply impossible to comprehend.
The back of the sanitation hauler, basically a huge block of reinforced durasteel, appears to be bulging outward.
I pull out the lasgun and train it onto the back of the hauler. Wishing again that the heretic was able to come up with at least the long las if not the las cannon as I see the back back of the hauler bulge. "Lets provide cover fire." Over the vox "Oktammor its a trap get out there and provide cover fire. There is a sanitation hauler that needs to be taken out."As I am lining up possible shots I start chanting to the gun to awaken the machine spirit in it and to ask of its help guiding the shot accurately and the most damagingly to the target.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent furrows his brow as he tries to make sense of what he is hearing over his microbead.
The Duct Wolves' Sanctuary
Navigation(Stellar)(18 + 10 = 28) = 1d100
1d100
As the eerily silent elevator descends, neither Iacton nor Uriah can puzzle out what is so unnerving about the glimmering, painted-on constellations that cover the inside of the car. There is something quite familiar about their orientation to both Voidborn, however.
******************************************************************
Eventually there comes the familiar, vertigo-inducing settling of organs that the end of any rapid lift-ride creates in the gut, and then the doors noiselessly open, revealing first the tightly-spaced outlines of your companions in the claustrophobic car, silhouetted from without and then the source of the faint white light shining in from the spacious room beyond.
The muted glow is nearly blinding after the darkness of the elevator, and reflects in coruscating patterns across the floor of what once must have been a spacious ball-room in the now forlorn hostelry. The pure white light emanates from a massive, crystalline chandelier suspended over a circular depression surrounded by an elevated gallery with what look like abandoned opera or theatre boxes around its circumference. The entire chamber, with its curving ceiling and bowl-shaped floor looks vaguely spherical, and its long-lost splendor is still evident in the gilt-gold handrails, exotic woods, and hand-painted frescoes of crusade-era saints and luminaries. Curiously, chunks of shard-like crystal, perhaps the fragments of other, long-fallen chandeliers have been embedded in countless places on the half-sphere of the vaulted roof, cracking the plaster and marring elaborate, but faded frescoes of other memorable scenes from the liberation of Oremor from so long ago.
In the center of the dusty and warped unduz-wood floorboards of the circular ball-room floor, you can make out a raised dais, perhaps once a bandstand or stage. Arrayed in a semi-circular ring facing the elevator side of the room are a haphazard collection of three mismatched but once elegantly-upholstered chairs comprised of varied patterns and materials. Each is occupied by a person draped in thick, dark furs. At least a dozen other unworn furs lay draped or strewn randomly over the ball-room floor or on mismatched settees arrayed in a gallery before the stage. You quickly realize your mistake when you hear the padded footfalls of something on the balcony-level to your left, followed by a short, guttural snarl that is both liquid and keening to the ear. The dozen or so furs left so chaotically about the floor so far below begin to stir, hellacious-looking predatory maws opening to yawn or answer the growl from above, some even loping around on bizarrely asymetric triple legs, heads raised in high-pitched answering calls to their packmate. The duct wolf closest to you, although it keeps its distance, continues growling, its feral jaws slavering with off-white foam. Tygault stands perfectly still, as if waiting for something.
I stand perfectly still, waiting, knowing his mother would not want Savalos dead.
Common Lore: Underworld Test (1d100=63)
My mind wanders almost dangerously so. Overcome at the site of so few Alpha's standing on the stage above me. There use to be so many.
I try to bring up memories of this place, and its significence. Knowing I stood here once before many moons ago. When I was first inked marked as one of the pack; family for life.
The Den
Common Lore: Underworld Test (1d100=63)
My mind wanders almost dangerously so. Overcome at the sight of so few Alpha's standing on the stage above me. There use to be so many.
I try to bring up memories of this place, and its significance. Knowing I stood here once before many moons ago. When I was first inked marked as one of the pack; family for life.
Memories blur together as you look at the fallen grandeur of the place before you. Although it is not the Den you remember from when the Duct Wolves had control of Vaxus District, it bears striking similarities, with the elevated stage and feral guardians. That place, though, is long gone, burnt and ransacked by the Yellobouros in their conquest. This place is simply a sad reminder of what once had been.
You can recall a time when the thrones of the Alpha's numbered nine.
Silus' snarling guardian lopes toward you, fangs bared to kill, and you close your eyes, using every iota of will to subdue your fear. When the beast reaches you and the others, it skids to a stop before snuffling at your hand and boots, leaving a burning sensation where its spiraling, serpent-like tongue licks your calloused hand. Looking down below, over the balcony, you are grateful to see that Silus, rail-thin and imperturbable as always, seated in the left-hand chair, is one of the surviving Alphas. None other among the Duct Wolves could ever hope to master the will of these creatures as he does. You do not recognize the hooded figure in the far right seat, strong and powerful, shrouded beneath a mantle of jet-black furs. Your mother, seated in the center, even now raises her head to look up at you, her aged face, still beautiful in spite of the delicate scars and lho-stained skin, creasing in a tight-lipped smile when her sparkling eyes alight upon her pup.
The duct wolf, satisfied, lopes away disinterestedly for the stairs, and Tygault follows it, glancing over his shoulder to you as he goes, an apology in his whispered voice.
"I'm sure you understand; we had to be certain, Sav."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent furrows his brow as he tries to make sense of what he is hearing over his microbead.
Baffled as to the nature of the daemonic chanting and the furious chorus of buzzing flies, Vincent can only wonder at whom the oddly-accented singer's voice could belong to. There is no question though; your gut tells you that some part of the strange sing-song interjection impeded whatever horrible summoning came before it.
As you hear the frantic shouts and screams over the microbead from the Geltdown Docks, you begin to fear that whatever happened, it did not impede it enough.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
"Lets provide cover fire." Over the vox: "Oktammor, it's a trap get out there and provide cover fire. There is a sanitation hauler that needs to be taken out!"
As I am lining up possible shots I start chanting to the gun to awaken the machine spirit in it to ask of its help in guiding the shot accurately and the most damagingly to the target.
You aren't even certain that your transmission went over the microbead to Oktammor, but Albrek hears you clearly enough, and he adjusts his las to aim down at the sanitation hauler, sighting along his red-dot rangefinder. Sensing something is amiss, about half of the 7th Legion guardsmen arrayed on the elevated landing platform begin moving away from the shuttle at double-time, heavy packs and lasguns jouncing as they run, toward the eastern edge and the switchback rampway leading to ground level.
The surreal bulging of the meter-thick durasteel trash unit on the back of the vehicle continues, until a bubble-like extrusion of metal bursts in a rain of pinging shrapnel on the platform side just as the compactor jaws yawn wide open with the impossible pressure building within. The multi-ton garbage hauler actually shudders in place as a noxious cloud of clearly visible, gray-green gas puffs out to ring the truck in a malodorous toxic fog. No longer pent-up within, it spreads quickly across the rockcrete tarmac, rolling away to fill the alleyways between the cargo containers and skirt the edge of the cargo-8 where the others stand sentinel. It continues to bloom, almost mushroom-like, and passes above the heads of the wary guardsmen looking over the edge of the platform at the vehicle below. You realize the severity of the threat when one of the guardsmen (unlucky enough to have the passing cloud envelop his helmet as he looked down), falls to his back atop Platform #7, dropping his las. The soldier proceeds to wrench at his head frantically, legs beating a tattoo upon the metal landing pad as he goes into a seizure of some kind. One of the other guardsman rushes to his aid as the rest back away from the edge, but his gagging body language tells the entire story. He jerks away almost immediately in revulsion from his comrade-in-arms, ripping his own helmet off to wretch on his feet, even as his fallen companion goes still.
The toxic plume of the rancid mushroom cloud is slowly drifting toward both you and Albrek, high above on the crane. The truck and almost everything else below at street-level is occluded by the gas.
The Den
The duct wolf, satisfied, lopes away disinterestedly for the stairs, and Tygault follows it, glancing over his shoulder to you as he goes, an apology in his whispered voice."I'm sure you understand; we had to be certain, Sav."
"Aye"
I am more stunned by the fact that only three Alpha's remain. Only three bloodlines go back to the founding of the Duct Wolves.... Silus, my Mother by marriage, and my mind nags wondering who the cowled figure is. Nothing distinctive to mark him out from the crowd. I wonder if his role was that similiar to Sigmunts.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
I make sure the respirator on my helmet is secure I turn on the IR to try to see through the toxic cloud. Over the microbead "We need to have someone who can go fully internal to check out the truck, Oktammor if you have the helmet for the power armor now would be the time to secure it and go look."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Baffled as to the nature of the daemonic chanting and the furious chorus of buzzing flies, Vincent can only wonder at whom the oddly-accented singer's voice could belong to. There is no question though; your gut tells you that some part of the strange sing-song interjection impeded whatever horrible summoning came before it.
As you hear the frantic shouts and screams over the microbead from the Geltdown Docks, you begin to fear that whatever happened, it did not impede it enough.
Vincent feels powerless as he listens to events unfold over the vox. The cries of the dead and dying ring in his ears, there is nothing he can do.
The Den
Tygault stops when he reaches the bottom of the curving stairwell, stepping aside and motioning your group forward toward the elevated dais where the three make-shift thrones stand. With your respective encounters with the duct wolves from Accessway #232 still fresh in your mind, it takes a profound effort of will just to move forward amongst the vicious creatures. Savalos boldly takes the lead and the rest follow, moving between the beasts as they lounge about, their slavering jaws yawning open and closed, wet muzzles sniffing the air as you pass. Risking anxious glances to either side as they surround you, you get the sense that their primal instinct to rip you all to shreds is barely being kept in check by some overriding external impulse.
Looking at the gaunt man on the far left, and the delighted satisfaction he shows at your obvious uneasiness makes it clear just who or what keeps the duct wolves at bay. Silus is a tall, bony, gawky-looking man, his lankiness evident even while sitting in the tweed-patterned ease-chair. His face is drawn and pale, the skin stretched tightly over his skull, off-set dramatically by the yarn-like, blood-red dreadlocks that droop from atop his head. His robes look like a garish collection of multicolored leisure clothing stitched together from a hundred different contrasting patterns. A mantle of thick black fur wreathes his neck, from which dangle an assortment of bone fetishes and urban-totems, crafted from the constituent parts of and depicting duct wolves. A heavy looking copper colored sceptre rests across his lap, one long-fingered hand caressing a reddish crystal globe on one end which hums with some manner of sonic vibration.
In the center, the Old She-Wolf, Arellia, regards each of you in turn with intense, narrowed eyes. She casts a sardonic, sidelong look at Silus when he lets out a mad little titter at your discomfort. She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, a curiously comforting gesture given your present circumstances and you find it hard not to warm toward her. She really is quite beautiful, despite her advanced age. You can imagine the softness of her present features in her youth, although now hardened and angular with age, would have made her quite stunning in her time. She still wears make-up; a thin base of white powder dusting her cheeks and brow to hid small scars, spidery black lashes curving expressively upward accentuating her round eyes, and bright orange-red lipstick, not quite evenly applied on her pursed mouth. She holds a slender lho-stick between the fingers of her right hand, tapping the spiraling jade holder against the worn wooden arm of her carmine-colored 'throne', the natty upholstery spotted here and there with burn marks where the ashes fall. Her white, wispy hair blends with the ivory-colored duct wolf fur mantle around her neck, appearing almost mane-like. They contrast sharply with the ebon-colored fur robe she wears about her spare frame.
Arellia Thul takes a deep drag from her lho-stick and pins Uriah with her mercurial gaze, as if sharing a funny secret.
When she sees her son, the pup she last laid eyes upon more than three years ago, her expression softens almost imperceptibly, and she holds his gaze for a good long while.
The cowled figure in the pitch-black, head-to-toe fur robes stiffens slightly in his cracked leather seat. You can just make out a bulbous, patrician nose and a pair of leaden gray eyes weighed down by the drooping bags beneath them in the shadows of the hood. You get the sense that whoever he is, he is not at all happy with the present circumstances, your intrusion, or the radiant smile that is now on Arellia's face.
The She-Wolf speaks, her voice both husky with her addiction, and loud enough to carry throughout the old ball-room. Her tone is pleasantly surprised, almost wistful; she addresses her son with warmth and the rest of your group with a politely dignified, almost magisterial imperiousness that sounds ironically affected.
"The Long Walk is ended for my young Wolf, he returns to me. I love you my son, and I've missed you."
"Welcome, all, to the Den. You are guests here under our auspices, recipients of our hospitality. Don't mind Silus' cranky little pets, they're anxious for their dinner."
Almost on cue, one of the duct wolves snaps at Stroinigli, and Silus raises the sceptre, spinning it slightly in hand. A faint subsonic quaver, barely audible in your range of hearing, sensed only by a dull thrum in your eardrums, quiets the beast, making it whimper almost pathetically. It lowers its head and Stroinigli moves closer to Iacton and Sigmunt.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
I make sure the respirator on my helmet is secure I turn on the IR to try to see through the toxic cloud.
Over the microbead:
"We need to have someone who can go fully internal to check out the truck; Oktammor if you have the helmet for the power armor now would be the time to secure it and go look."
Kaltos activates the built-in respirator on his vox-cowling with a thought, the neural interface powering it up almost immediately. Not wanting to take any chances, he slaps down the respirator and IR visor of his flak helmet, now staring at the havoc-filled scene around him through a patina of blood-red plas. His breathing is now a steady stream of strangely echoing hisses in his ears.
Albrek follows suit, tightening the neck straps as he fits the mask snugly over his own face.
Toggling the microbead as the fetid cloud inexorably draws closer, dispersing ever so slightly as it rises, Kaltos calls Oktammor. The tech-priest is only answered by more of the feedback and clicking static, intermingled with shouted orders and oaths. The coldly efficient sergeant's voice barks out commands that are indecipherable due to others walking over his transmissions.
The mushrooming, stinking cloud is mustardy-green and absolutely opaque. Although you see furtive flashes of heat signatures from the guardsmen atop the platform where the rancid mist is spreading, you see nothing from within the epicenter of its origin, the rent asunder garbage hauler.
My expression softens with the Old She Wolfs smile.
"I am glad to be home, and amongest family. While the Long Walk has come to an end. I have seen much that has saddened and angered me. Mostly for not being here when you needed me. Mother your Pup has found the meaning behind the Cards when The Alpha's gave me leave to take the Long Walk three years ago."
"While the Long Walk is over, a Hunt has begun. These who stand beside me have joined me in this Hunt. I hope to have The Alpha's ear, and council."
"I have also found one of our wayward Pup's. Johnnie Rico is home, but he is Hunting alone."
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
...The mushrooming, stinking cloud is mustardy-green and absolutely opaque. Although you see furtive flashes of heat signatures from the guardsmen atop the platform where the rancid mist is spreading, you see nothing from within the epicenter of its origin, the rent asunder garbage hauler.
Per 38/2=19 Hum I might have to deviate from my planed progression to pick up awareness. I keep having to make them ;-)Seemingly unknowingly I start humming the soothing machine noise coming from the working respirators. It seems to have a calming effect on him.
The Den
My expression softens with the Old She Wolfs smile.
"I am glad to be home, and amongst family. While the Long Walk has come to an end, I have seen much that has saddened and angered me. Mostly for not being here when you needed me. Mother your Pup has found the meaning behind the Cards..."
The She-Wolf regards her progeny with familial pride and perhaps, a deeper understanding of some kind.
"My son, the Long Walk calls when it calls. You bear no blame for our fall, it would have come with or without your presence. You sadness is shared, and your anger is welcome; we will need it if we are to reclaim what is ours."
When Savalos mentions the Cards, Arellia's shrewd eyes narrow slightly.
"Good. The Long Walk has brought you the enlightenment you once sought. The journey is the Wolf's teacher. His experiences, the lessons taught. Never forget, understanding always awaits those who dare to search for it."
"While the Long Walk is over, a Hunt has begun. These who stand beside me have joined me in this Hunt."
Arellia casts a quick, all-encompassing, and appraising glance over your companions. She seems to measure you all with her gaze, and by her wry grin of approval you assume you have passed muster in her eyes.
"These worthies I have seen in my own visions. They are your Pack as much as we are now, and though they do not carry our birthright we welcome them into the fold."
"I have also found one of our wayward Pup's. Johnnie Rico is home, but he is Hunting alone."
At this, the cowled figure breaks with decorum, passionately interrupting the She-Wolf, the elder of the Packmasters assembled. His voice carries in the echoing chamber, full of an unquestioned authority and dripping with contempt for Savalos' words.
"My brother is not one of us any longer, son of Tyvenius. He shamed his family by turning his back on the Pack long ago, when you were but a pup, and for what? To betray his birthright by serving the rule of law that has always oppressed our kind. May the pariah die alone and broken, as he deserves, and speak his name no more."
Lucero Rico, Johnnie's elder brother, sneers from beneath his hood. The disdain and hatred he still holds for his sibling's perceived betrayal has not waned in the intervening years. If anything, it is stronger. The unprovoked venom in his words to you, always one of Juan's friends, is all the more pointed given that he chose to convey these sentiments on your very homecoming, disrespectfully interrupting your mother, the most senior of the Alphas present, to do it. The fractured loyalties that remain, marring the cohesiveness of the Pack, could never be made more evident to you.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Seemingly unknowingly Kaltos starts humming with the soothing machine noise coming from the working respirators. It seems to have a calming effect on him.
Kaltos can make out nothing, even with the IR enhancement provided by his visor. Albrek slaps down his own respirator, and the sounds of his labored breathing are the only sounds the tech-priest hears with exception of his own labored exhalations. Even the microbead chatter and shouts from below have gone disturbingly silent.
As the cloud roils by, engulfing the crane and enveloping your position, you feel an itching sting across what little of your exposed flesh is touched by it. A dusting of wet, gas-smeared streaks comprised of vile, puce-colored liquid is left behind as it passes, the sticky patina possessing a foul reek that permeates even your respirator.
As loud contamination klaxons begin to sound around the platform below, their strident warble further confusing things, you notice that the fog is clearing somewhat.
You almost wish it hadn't.
Your IR visor picks out the cold blue of the shattered sanitation truck again, but is soon drawn to swarming mass of purplish signatures now surging out of the compactor's gaping maw. They are tiny at this distance, hundreds and hundreds of independently moving, globe-like shapes, clambering over one another with tiny arms and legs in their voracious haste to reach the ramp-way leading up to the platform's elevated landing pad. A terrible caterwauling, so loud and shrieking that it overwhelms the honking klaxons begins. If it weren't for the discordant, wetly biological belching and gas-letting, mixed with infantile buzzing and babbling, you would describe it as eerily like the excited vocalizations made by students released on their last day of scholam.
Albrek hissing exhalation stops, and you know he has seen it as well.
"Oh, no..."
Knowing who the third, and final member of the Alpha's is. I choose my words carefully, but refusing to abandon my friendship to Johnnie rising to his defense.
"Thank you Mother, for the Long Walk did teach me much. For without the Alpha's blessing to leave I never would have learned so much."
I move my long hair to the side to revealing my neck symbolically showing my respect for the Alpha's position of authority.
"I would be remiss if I did not share what I learned on my journey. The wayward pup Brother of Honored Lucero did not go stray by his will. He was caged, and his mind was scrubbed and broken til he was made anew by those who use the Law. I would be remiss if I did not speak of this for no shame did he commit for he remembers not his true self. I will also speak of his mate. She was an agent of the Law, and turned from it to help him, and those who stand beside me. She gave her trust to me."
I throw her arbite security badge onto the raised platform for the Alpha's to judge.
"She was Wolf Kissed. An Alpha Female kissed her deep in the chest, and the thigh. She is one of us. Yet she was taken by Yelloback scum, and is being held some where with the Withdrawn Viel . Her Mate goes alone to save her. Are we not the pack?"
"I have many more words to speak if permitted. Need for the whole pack to hunt. The loss of old friends, the gaining of new allies. An Enemy who Hunts my beloved Mother, and the Blood Debt I must settle for the love, and honor of my Father. For any future of raising my own pups. Will you allow me to share more of what I have learned?"
Scrutiny(40) =
Iacton simply watches the proceedings, waiting for the moment he should interject.
The Den
Iacton simply watches the proceedings, waiting for the moment he should interject.
When Savalos mentions the Cards, Iacton's keen vision notices the She-Wolf flick her eyes almost imperceptibly up to a portion of the domed roof where a tight cluster of embedded crystals protrude.
Their pattern and arrangement seem familiar to him...
Knowing who the third, and final member of the Alpha's is. I choose my words carefully, but refusing to abandon my friendship to Johnnie rising to his defense."Thank you Mother, for the Long Walk did teach me much. For without the Alpha's blessing to leave I never would have learned so much."
I move my long hair to the side to revealing my neck symbolically showing my respect for the Alpha's position of authority.
The three elders nod their heads in unison when Savalos makes his sign of obeisance, even Lucero acknowledging the traditional gesture without comment, respecting the sanctity of the gang's age-old customs.
"I would be remiss if I did not share what I learned on my journey. The wayward pup Brother of Honored Lucero did not go stray by his will. He was caged, and his mind was scrubbed and broken til he was made anew by those who use the Law. I would be remiss if I did not speak of this for no shame did he commit for he remembers not his true self."
Lucero Rico regards you with renewed contempt, biting his tongue and allowing you to finish only because of the scathing look delivered from his peers following his previous breach of tradition.
"I will also speak of his mate. She was an agent of the Law, and turned from it to help him, and those who stand beside me. She gave her trust to me."I throw her Arbites security badge onto the raised platform for the Alpha's to judge.
"She was Wolf Kissed. An Alpha Female kissed her deep in the chest, and the thigh. She is one of us. Yet she was taken by Yelloback scum, and is being held some where with the Withdrawn Veil. Her Mate goes alone to save her. Are we not the pack?"
Silus raises his thin eyebrows at this, muttering to himself, all things pertaining to the natures of his beloved beasts and those they mark, almost holy to him.
His reedy voice responds with a ceremonial refrain that suggests his agreement, even though neither Ariella or Luceros speaks.
"All those Blooded are of the Pack."
Luceros eyes the access badge suspiciously. He seems to sense the Old She-Wolf's attention on him. As the Alpha who leads the warpacks his position of authority is unassailable, but even he knows when to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, what you say next is too much for him to tolerate and his eyes widen in anger with each word you say.
"I have many more words to speak if permitted. Need for the whole pack to hunt. The loss of old friends, the gaining of new allies. An Enemy who Hunts my beloved Mother, and the Blood Debt I must settle for the love, and honor of my Father. For any future of raising my own pups. Will you allow me to share more of what I have learned?"
Both Luceros and Silus turn their heads from you to Ariella upon the mention of the one who hunts her, Silus showing fearful concern, and Luceros utter outrage. When the latter speaks again, he is positively frothing in a rage.
"Waldrimm and whatever tainted-spirit infests him will never cease until he finds you, and has you, Ariella! I told Tyvenius the day of his death that you would be his undoing. Now, all these years later, you will be the death of us all! It was his machinations that led to our downfall, he will not rest until he slakes himself on your blood and every last Wolf is gone. Yes, yes, speak more of this Savalos Thul; tell us what we should do in the face of the thing that has singlehandedly eradicated our way of life, all for the misguided honor of protecting your dear mother, tell us how to defeat what no mortal man can!"
Ariella lowers her head, snow-white hair hanging lankly over her creased brow, as she succumbs momentarily to the pain of what can only be the truth. The fact that your father's love for her has led to the undoing of the family that reared and raised him, that took her in as their own, is nearly too much to bear. She is a strong woman, though, and her moment of weakness is brief. She turns a glowering gaze upon Luceros, pinning him to his seat in her maternal anger.
"Speak no more of my late husband, Luceros, lest you wish to lose your tongue by my scerrido. I still lead this Pack despite what your pitiless heart yearns for every waking hour."
She turns back to Savalos, and he can still see the ghost of the pain behind her noble eyes.
"You may speak my son, but not of the one who hunts me. In time we will talk of this, as mother and child, but now, now is not the time or the place."
The Den
The shape of the cluster is naggingly familiar to Iacton. Although he cannot recall what it may represent precisely, he is certain a star-chart or the navigation cogitator of a voidborn starship would be all he need to find out.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Over the microbead "Albrek do you know how we can take care of such a large number of those creatures? Are they easy to kill? You have encountered these before correct."
I look Lucero straight in the eye. He can growl at me all he wants, but I won't tolerate him disrespecting my mother.
"The Consequences of not following our Honor is more severe than the tribulations we are set against."
Gesturing to the Duct Wolves around me.
"They have always remained, and so shall we."
Hearing my Mothers voice I soften my tone.
"Then I will speak of him later."
I compose myself hashing up vivid memories of the recent days.
"Emrit is no longer with us." I leave it short and sweet. No need to go over the details. They can assume what my silence means as to who killed him.
"Of allies found, we are working closly with the Patron of the Gearbox. His enemies and ours are the same. I would like to see a formal alliance between both groups. We can see and hunt where he cannot; and he has resources and connections we don't. I have also reunited with my mate Jerik's daughter. She is safe, and in his peoples care."
I clear my throat as I start my next part.
"As for the Hunt. There is many I seek as prey, but there are more than I, and those with me can catch. I ask for my brothers, and sisters to join me in this. The Law while causing us hardship need our help. There herd needs to be culled from those who are corrupt. We know what to expect from those whose views of Justice are unwavering. These others helped Trizo in his rise to power. I have there names."
"I also need the eyes of the hunters if we have any hope of saving the Wolf Kissed from inside the Withdrawn Viel. I know not this place or its ways."
I look toward the others in my group.
"You have hunted by my side, and proven your worth. Is there anything you wish to say to The Alpha's?"
I nod to Savalos, step forward, and say to the alphas:
"The stakes are higher than most on this world can imagine. This world is at risk of destruction by dark forces allied with, or part of the immaterium. As I said earlier to the man who brought us to you, we have mutual enemies that must be stopped at all cost."
I look at Savalos' mother:
"I have had visions of two possible ends to this world, one each for two of ruinous powers from the warp, and neither one would I want visited on any world, let alone one I am standing on. Those are the stakes we are dealing with. I will wait your decision."
I will step back afterwards.
The Den
I look Lucero straight in the eye. He can growl at me all he wants, but I won't tolerate him disrespecting my mother.
"The consequences of not following our Honor is more severe than the tribulations we are set against."
Gesturing to the Duct Wolves around me.
"They have always remained, and so shall we."
Luceros listens to your words, but his expression is still simmering with cold anger such that he does not make eye contact with you while you speak. He inclines his head slightly in agreement with your comment about the Duct Wolves, but there is something else there as well, a twinkle in his predatory eyes that could be a flash of cunning inspiration.
Hearing my Mothers voice I soften my tone."Then I will speak of him later."
I compose myself hashing up vivid memories of the recent days.
"Emrit is no longer with us." I leave it short and sweet. No need to go over the details. They can assume what my silence means as to who killed him.
"Of allies found, we are working closely with the Patron of the Gearbox. His enemies and ours are the same. I would like to see a formal alliance between both groups. We can see and hunt where he cannot; and he has resources and connections we don't. I have also reunited with my mate Jerik's daughter. She is safe, and in his peoples care."
Your mother and Silus listen intently and you can feel the weight of their gazes upon you, judging what you have to say. Both show sadness in their own way at the mention of Emrit, your mother narrowing her eyes in sympathy, hand going to her chest, and Silus sighing disconsolately. Even Luceros looks up with grim interest, shaking his head from side to side.
Only the She-Wolf looks intrigued when you mention Dunkan Danicos and his faction, Luceros regards you with even more suspicion at the mention of more outsiders, and Silus betrays nothing with his impassive smirk.
I clear my throat as I start my next part."As for the Hunt. There is many I seek as prey, but there are more than I, and those with me can catch. I ask for my brothers, and sisters to join me in this. The Law while causing us hardship need our help. Their herd needs to be culled from those who are corrupt. We know what to expect from those whose views of Justice are unwavering. These others helped Trizo in his rise to power. I have their names."
"I also need the eyes of the hunters if we have any hope of saving the Wolf Kissed from inside the Withdrawn Veil. I know not this place or its ways."
Your words draw Luceros' attention back like hank of bloody meat before one of Silus' pets. Glancing at the She-Wolf and seeing her silence as a tacit approval that he can speak, he leans forward, the spidery black tattoos covering his forehead and cheeks becoming visible in the faint illumination of the chandelier far overhead.
"You have no authority to call a Hunt, Thul-the-Younger, you may carry your father and mother's blood in your veins, but this does not entitle you to speak for the Pack. You are no Alpha."
Seizing upon the fact that the rest of the triumvirate have not silenced him, he grins and spits out another challenge.
"It is no revelation to us that the Law aided the fall of the Pack and elevated the snake Trizo to his pretender's throne. You speak of a list, you speak of names? As if only a few of them rejoiced in our demise? Who then gave you this list that his word can be so trusted? How is it we do not know that this contrived Hunt will not send the few warriors we have left to their deaths?"
Silus appears thoughful, nearly swayed by Luceros' argument. Your mother only pensive, but neither speaks out against Rico's brother. They wait in silence for your explanation.
The Den
I nod to Savalos, step forward, and say to the alphas:
"The stakes are higher than most on this world can imagine. This world is at risk of destruction by dark forces allied with, or part of the Immaterium. As I said earlier to the man who brought us to you, we have mutual enemies that must be stopped at all cost."
I look at Savalos' mother:
"I have had visions of two possible ends to this world, one each for two of ruinous powers from the warp, and neither one would I want visited on any world, let alone one I am standing on. Those are the stakes we are dealing with. I will wait your decision."
I will step back afterwards.
Luceros chuckles, a look of incredulity crossing his face, for the first time in this counsel, truly amused by something.
"Ah, so now the ship-born speaks and he bears ominous tidings that the very world will soon end. Hah! Were this not so pitiful and contrived I would think it a farce."
Silus appears baffled by this turn of events, but doesn't outright dismiss what is said. He looks to Ariella with something very close to concern; whether it is for the veracity of what Uriah said, or his doubts about the voidborn's sanity, none can say.
The She-Wolf never loses eye contact with Uriah, and the psyker realizes that she is mouthing the words he says in time with him, as if she knew what they would be before he spoke them. As he steps back, she closes her eyes, drawing a deep-breath into lho-wheezing lungs.
"There is another fate for this world, one you have not seen to this point."
She turns her head up to the strangely arrayed chandelier-crystals jutting from the domed roof of the decrepit ballroom, opening her eyes again, glancing this way and that.
"I have seen the third ending; it is by far more terrible."