Iacton rests his hand on his sword's hilt, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. "Don't worry. These tunnels have been abandoned for centuries. Now follow me. The exit is this way.[/ooc]
Awareness if needed =
"I'll be paying ya fair coin if you make good speed. Lets move before he stirs the whole block looking this way. I would be passing good word of your fair dealings to others as well." I motion for Druuther to put Quincus inside the Rickshaw." I don't have the time to haggle proper. I don't want to explain to Johnnie that he lost his Ex because I was trying to save a couple coins. And I definately don't want to be caught in a fire fight in another gangs turf.
I hand the five thrones to the Twist.
"Be ready. We are expected."
Johnnie takes a position to the left of Iacton.
Orcut VII Underhive
"I'll be paying ya fair coin if you make good speed. Lets move before he stirs the whole block looking this way.I hand the five thrones to the Twist.
Stroinigli, the driver, accepts the coins in a long fingered hand that surprisingly only has the requisite number of digits, weighing their heft for a moment before dropping them into his pocket.
"We'be makin' good speed a'soon as ye an' yours scurry on in the cart, wolfie. First bit first, though hey...where'n ye be lookin' to git ta?"
"Be ready. We are expected."
Ivaanov glances back apprehensively at the lift when Rico says this, and then falls in with Uriah, behind the others, compact laspistol still clenched awkwardly in one hand. His vox buzzes, a disconcerting sound given the surroundings.
"I must assume you are indicating your fellow acolytes by this statement?"
"Heading to Torn Angel Lane, Stroinigli. I know a sawbones there to help the lady." I help Druuther to set Quincus into the Rickshaw as carefully as possible. Alot has changed in three years. The Wolves loosing a whole spire of turf...unbelievable! I wonder how much more has changed. I duck into the Rickshaw so I won't be seen by the street. My mind filled with more questions than answers. I just hope Emrit is still in his old pad helping people. I again press my fingers gently to Quincus's lips to check her breathing, and will do so periodically on our trip to the sawbones.
"Not necessarily, keep on guard."
Spire #16 sub-basement maintenance accessway number 232
The acolytes and Krade's retainers follow the access tunnel in mutually understood silence, casting wary eyes to the darkness filled chambers that occasionally appear to either side. Every ruined desk or discarded bit of equipment in these rooms seems to conceal a threat. Condensation drips from the huge pipes overhead, accumulating occasionally in stagnant puddles filmed over with a coating of fuzzy gray spores. Disconcerting rattling sounds and the haunting whistle of pressurized air in the conduits above periodically break the quiet. At times, the eerie flickering of the glow-globes seems to be keeping time with your heartbeats.
After almost twenty minutes of walking, twenty minutes that seem like an extended eternity, Iacton holds his hand aloft to signal a halt. Ahead, just barely visible in the dim light, are the ragged carcasses of a trio of fur covered, three-legged predatory beasts. They lie strewn across the passageway, trails of blood and exploded viscera surrounding them. As you look on, Krade's aide picks up a long, spent shell casing that could have only come from a heavy caliber weapon.
Iacton hands the spent casing to Rico. "Any of your associates use a gun this caliber?" He suddenly turns his head to look at the tunnel behind us. "We're being followed. Come, we don't want them catching up with us."
"Heading to Torn Angel Lane, Stroinigli. I know a sawbones there to help the lady."
After Druuther rests Quincus as comfortably as he can on the rear bench of the rickshaw carriage, the hulking ogryn climbs in himself and the entire cab shifts to the left under his great weight. Sitting to his right, you counterbalance the disparity in mass somewhat woefully, while providing Stroinigli with directions. Checking Quincus' pulse yields a rapid, fluttering sensation on the tips of your fingers, but her breathing is fairly regular, if somewhat strained.
You pull yourself under the ragged canopy of the rickshaw to better remain out of sight.
The twist climbs aboard his listing velocipede trike, and flicks a grimy kill-switch on the handlebars, causing a throaty, rumbling sound to emerge from beneath you. Two things happen simultaneously then, an ancient and ponderous suspensor array defies gravity and an ogryn's bulk when it engages under the carriage, and the engine driving the velocipede propels the rickshaw with surprising speed into the crowded street with a backfire so loud it clears most of the scavs in front of you that have gathered to remove the last of the scrap metal.
Stroinigli turns back to you and yells, just audible over the too-loud engine, as the carriage portion occasionally bumps and scrapes the roadway despite the suspensors.
"Hang on, stranjur-frens, Torn Angel Lane 'ere we 'goin!"
Does it look like the ammo for Rico's hand cannon?
Does it look like the ammo for Rico's hand cannon?
No, it seems much too large for that.
No, it seems much too large for that.
Then does it look like it came from Druuther's weapon?
I give a good natured chuckle. "Aye friend. You can call me Savalos."
No, it seems much too large for that.Then does it look like it came from Druuther's weapon?
I give a good natured chuckle. "Aye friend. You can call me Savalos."
Iacton hands the spent casing to Rico. "Any of your associates use a gun this caliber?" He suddenly turns his head to look at the tunnel behind us. "We're being followed. Come, we don't want them catching up with us."
"The orgyn's autocannon with Dove may be. But if they were here and they were the ones who initiated the failsafe that deposited us here, then they should be waiting for us. That they are not here, leads me to conclude that some other party initiated the failsafe and they are not friendly judging from the size of the munition that they use."
Spire #16 sub-basement maintenance accessway number 232
<<About time you got here. Give me a signal if you are in trouble. I have the one with the sword dead in my sights and Ishmael has the drop on the other. I'm presuming these are Krade's agents, that's why we haven't fired yet. Give me the all clear soon, though, my arm is getting tired.>>
In microbead: "Clear for now, they are Krade's agents, but we are being followed. They might be arbitors, do not fire unless necessary."
Iacton pauses in his investigation of the scene when he hears Uriah speaking into the microbead.
A moment later, about ten meters further down the corridor, one of the heavy cage doors opens outward and a tired-looking man dressed in faded gray fatigues with the tell-tale bulges of full flak armor beneath steps out, lasgun in hand. He signals down the tunnel, and another, younger, red haired man with a sardonic expression steps out from another door about five meters behind you, spinning an elaborately ornamented revolver around his finger before holstering it.
Ivaanov nearly jumps out of his potentia coil in surprise, spinning around and shakily aiming his compact las at the newcomer behind the party.
"Easy metal man, it doesn't have to stay in the holster."
Iacton keeps his hand on his sword. "Are these your companions?"
"Yes, this is Ishmael and Albrek," pointing at the person named. Pointing at the other two, "and this is Iacton and Ivaanov."
"Where are Savalos, Quincus, and Druuther?"
"Yes, this is Ishmael and Albrek," pointing at the person named. Pointing at the other two, "and this is Iacton and Ivaanov."
Albrek nods toward Iacton and Ivaanov.
"Nice to meet you. Albrek Vodak at your service."
"Where are Savalos, Quincus, and Druuther?"
The guardsman glances furtively toward Johnnie, who is still kneeling over one of the duct wolves.
"We were...attacked. Duct wolves. A fairly unfriendly xenos predator native to my world here, one that, until a few hours ago, I had been fortunate enough to have never met."
As Albrek continues his sentence, he turns from Uriah and Iacton to look at Rico, lowering his hoarse-sounding voice.
"They came from the pipes, ambushed us damn good. One nearly bit through Druuther's arm. We managed to waste them, but not before...before Quincus was bitten. Badly. Sav and Ishmael managed to get it off of her, but she was hurting. I was able to stabilize her, but she needed medicae, more than I could administer. Sav and Druuther went on ahead to the Grey Way, he said that he knew someone there who could help her."
The guardsman stares pointedly at this boots.
"By the look of her wounds, though, I...I...don't know..."
Pain and concern flashes over Johnnie's face in quick succession. "Where is she? Take me to her."
Despite the reassurances of the others, Ivaanov takes a moment before lowering his weapon. He then eyes Ishmael with obvious unease as the cleric saunters past him.
After regaining his composure, he kneels over one of the dead duct wolves and begins prodding at it with one of his digital probes, drawing an elaborate looking brass-plated auspex from his burgundy robes before passing it over the fallen beast.
"Fascinating. It must have an amazingly specialized kinesthetic sensory adaptation to allow it to ambulate on three limbs...and this dentition...are they serrated? Hmmm..."
Pain and concern flashes over Johnnie's face in quick succession. "Where is she? Take me to her."
Albrek seems positively downcast when he sees Johnnie's reaction.
"That's just it, Rico. I'm not certain where he took her. I'm sorry, there just wasn't time enough to formulate a precise plan. She needed emergency medicae attention. On the bright side, these are military-grade microbeads, their range in the tunnel seems close to a kilometer. If we get into the open spaces of the underhive we shouldn't have a problem raising him. The rockcrete around us seems to be killing the signal from outside the tunnel, though."
"Lead the way," looking at the Albrek and Rico. "We found evidence that all of us must see. But I must warn you, that it is evidence of Malleus and heresy."
I remain mostly silent on our trip to Torn Angel Lane. Making just enough conversation with Stroinigli to be polite. Wanting to unjam my autopistol. But this isn't the time or place. Save it to keep me busy at the saw bones.
Orcut VII Underhive, The Grey Way
The motorized, suspensor-aided rickshaw jinks and weaves through the narrow roads and trash-filled alleyways of Vaxus District, passing disinterested indigens, wandering scavs, and the occasional pair of disinterested arbitrators that were unlucky enough to have pulled a foot beat in the worst part of level -119. The majority of the infrastructure in this portion of the district is forlorn and bordering on condemned, with old hab-blocks gutted by opportunistic street-folk and once proud municipal structures in the Old Gothic style now choked with the collapsed ferrocrete of their upper levels.
Savalos ducks into the canopy again when the rickshaw rumbles past a trio of Yellobouros enforcers, openly armed to the teeth, cackling around a bloodied food vendor unlucky enough to have crossed their path. Provided the old traditions still hold, even a Duct Wolf such as he should be safe in the truce zone of the Grey Way. The hard part seemed to be getting there in one piece in the first place. As Stroinigli rounds a tight curve, another pair of the golden serpents, these wearing golden gelt-embroidered jackets for 'scales', enter a brothel lit up by dozens of multicolored glow-globes.
Throne, the district was just crawling with them!
Fortunately, the rickshaw leaves them behind, yawing back into a straightaway before ascending a steep 'hill' created by the road's passage over a gargantuan pipeline passing beneath and perpendicular to it. The taller buildings of the central portion of Vaxus district hove into view as your reach the crest, a panoply of towering structures illuminated by garish neon signs and luminen conduits. The surrounding parallel roadways begin to converge like the myriad spokes of a wheel, with center being the infamous oval-shaped circuit known as the Grey Way. The crowds on either side of the street begin to grow more diverse. Conservatively dressed merchants rub elbows with back-alley obscura dealers. Decadently attired whores shout catcalls to fervent Redemptionist street preachers carrying flickering gas torches, all intermingling with the endless throng of common citizenry, not only from this level, but also the Uphiver's slumming it and Underhive opportunists come up from the depths to call on Orcut VII's most interesting combination of street bazaar, entertainment hub, and black market.
As the rickshaw swings wide around an elaborately painted truck/mobile electoo parlor decorated with a stunningly realistic depiction of Oremor's three moons, the occasional feelings of nostalgia that have been nibbling at your subconscious become great, gnawing pangs of recollection. With this vista spread before you, the sights, the smells, and the sounds remind you of how much you have yearned for this, and a homesickness you never allowed yourself to acknowledge in your years away is gone for a blessed moment.
Stroinigli slows the rattletrap rickshaw as it pulls on to Torn Angel Lane, the attached carriage gradually settling to the cobble-paved side street with gentle scrapes of the undercarriage as the suspensors power down in front of the crumbling, triangularly-shaped facade of Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy.
Pain and concern flashes over Johnnie's face in quick succession. "Where is she? Take me to her."Albrek seems positively downcast when he sees Johnnie's reaction.
"That's just it, Rico. I'm not certain where he took her. I'm sorry, there just wasn't time enough to formulate a precise plan. She needed emergency medicae attention. On the bright side, these are military-grade microbeads, their range in the tunnel seems close to a kilometer. If we get into the open spaces of the underhive we shouldn't have a problem raising him. The rockcrete around us seems to be killing the signal from outside the tunnel, though."
"Who took her?! Savalos?! In what direction?! Think!"
I hop out so I can help Druuther pick Quincus out of the vehicle. "Thanks again Stroinigli. I will spread your good name around." I see if Kalaziel also disembarks. Once Druuther has Quincus in hand. I quickly run up to the doors and open them. Looking for a Medicae.
"Focus Rico, I know that you care what happens to her, but we are in a dangerous situation, and I need you to be at your best. Let us get out of here. Remember, Savalos and Druuther are taking her to get medicae aid, you yelling will get us killed. Take a deep breath and focus. We will find them, until then, pay attention to the mission and our surroundings. I repeat, let us get out of here."
Spire #16 sub-basement maintenance accessway number 232
As the others converse, Ivaanov continues his examination of the dead creatures. Satisfied, he raises his auspex from one of the gore-stained carcasses, holding it aloft back in the direction you came in, using the weak light to read the screen display.
When he does this, he pauses, eyes going from the screen to the tunnel back in the direction of the lift, to the screen again. He looks from the glowing green screen back toward the others, mouth slightly agape. When his vox engages, it is deliberately modulated to a lower volume.
"I...err...that is, according to my auspex we are being pursued. I have detected, quite by chance, a conspicuously large cluster of anthropomorphic life readings some five hundred meters back in the direction of the lift to Spire #16. Although the signals are overlapping partially, there is a very high probability that there are at least twenty or so persons following us, barring any unforeseen malfunction of my device.
As the tech priest raises the auspex overhead to get better light on the display again, it passes along the many lengths of ductpipe choking the ceiling above for a moment. Even from where you stand the numerous pinpoints of bright light that suddenly flare into visibility on the screen are obvious. When coupled with the steady beeping detection tone of the auspex, you begin to have a sinking feeling.
Ivaanov groans, whispering:
"I fear that is not our only problem."
Johnnie takes a deep breath. "Albrek, tell me in what direction they went. That will give me an idea where they could have gone. I know Savalos and his ways. Once a ganger always a ganger."
In response to Ivaanov's pronouncement, "It seems duty compels me to trust in the Emperor's good graces."
"Let's move out."
Iacton reaches into his pocket for the ID card as he continues to the exit.
Ishmael frowns.
"I guess this was the tail we were waiting for. I'm not sure that I want to remain behind to see what else it might bring."
"The Emperor protects!"
As if on cue, there begins a great rumbling in the pipework back in the direction of the lift, as if a great blockage is being freed from some oversized piece of plumbing. It is followed by a steady, repetitious, tripartite pounding, that echoes above you from many directions.
A radio squawks some urgent chatter from some distance behind you, silence and stealth forgotten all of a sudden by your pursuers.
Albrek's eyes widen.
"This is not good. Not good at all."
He peers at the pipe to his left, descending to the floor of the tunnel like an improvised ramp from the ductworks above. It begins to shake and rattle, red, oxidized dust falling from it.
"RUN!"
Iacton dashes down the hall, making a beeline to the exit.
"The Emperor protects!"
"The Emperor protects."
I follow Iacton, making sure that everyone else is following also.
"We do not want to kill arbites unless absolutely necessary."
"Hey is Emrit in here? There is a victim of an animal attack I brought in. Chewed her up real good." I continue looking for someone who can help her before she bleeds out or dies of shock. I am not polite as to which doors I walk through to find medical help.
"Stay low and try not to get killed!"
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
Stroinigli repeatedly nods and waves, as if he understood what you said to him over the backfiring engine. The rickshaw driver then fires up the carriage's suspensors once again. He pumps the accelerator a few times and then motors off back toward the Grey Way.
Both you and Druuther rush up the steep flight of rockcrete steps leading into Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy, the impatient ogryn taking them two at a time. Looking ahead, you watch as Kalaziel flutters up and alights on the head of some winged Sororitas saint's statue flanking the entry doors. She stares down, impassively watching as you push your way into the hospice, the abhuman following, ducking his head to clear the weathered stone lintel.
Bursting into the hospice, you are greeted by the expected smells of stale urine, strong disinfectant, and rather unexpectedly, the spicy smells of what might be freshly cooked tepic stalk.
The entry foyer is vacant. A ramshackle, antique roll-top desk, covered in the stacked paperwork and the ink-stained blotter of an overwhelmed street medicae, juts out from what once may have been a cloak room. A row of pre-fab polycarbon chairs ranges along one wall, beneath a crookededly hung, faded painting depicting St. Trobriund administering care to the sump-lepers of Fenksworld. The half-circle stained glass window over the entry doors is caked with grime and littered with the crusty shells of dead insects.
As the ogryn follows you down the hall, going from door to door, a frighteningly thin man half-stumbles, half-runs down the interior stairs behind you holding an old arbitrator's nightstick out before him as if he means to use it. He reaches the lower landing, spies the ogryn, and promptly stops dead in his tracks with a look of surprise comically widening narrow, piggish eyes set deep in his pox-covered face. The man appears indecisive as to whether he means to flee out the front door or back up the steps. His indecision costs him, and he stumbles, cracking his chin on the riser when he attempts to escape back up the stairwell in a panic.
Spire #16 sub-basement maintenance accessway number 232
Heeding Rico's shouted warning, all six of you run headlong down the tunnel in the direction of Iacton's exit. Almost immediately, the long, low howling of the hunting duct wolves fills your ears, followed by the shouts of men and staccato cracks of desperate and random small arms fire, punctuated by undisciplined squawks of radio chatter that echoes like the ghosts of men yet to die.
Then the screaming begins and your feet really begin to pound the ferrocrete, the agonized cries providing all the incentive you need to keep moving even as a painful stitch creeps up your side. When the ramp-like pipe descending to the floor that you just left behind begins to loudly shake and groan, you run still faster.
Before long, the weak light from the glow-globes is gone altogether and you are fleeing headlong into absolute darkness. Albrek has the presence of mind to flick on the gunlight mounted to his las just seconds before Iacton and Rico nearly plummet into a wide fissure on one side of the tunnel. Retracing their steps, they easily bypass it with the rest of you, and your panicked band presses on.
Eventually a tangled catastrophe of rusted, fallen pipework comes into view, blocking your path until Iacton is lucky enough to find a gap large enough for you all to squeeze through. The sounds of the screaming and gunfire have ended. Upon reaching the other side of the ductwork deadfall, you all wordlessly take a moment to catch your breath.
When the ululating howls reverberate down the tunnel, you immediately begin running again, forgoing your short respite as a matter of necessity without any objections from your tired companions.
You come to a sudden halt when the tunnel abruptly dead-ends at a wide duralloy bulkhead door, shrouded in a hanging curtain of blood-red fungus. To the left of the door sits an antiquated looking card reader device, its housing ripped off and discarded to one side. A small mesh covered window sits in the center of the door, although no light shines through from the other side. You are left to feel your way over immense piles of rubble to reach the portal by the flickering glow of Albrek's gunlight.