Iacton moves to parry the shove, but not quick enough. After picking himself back up, he turns back to the gangers. "Go ahead. Go into the bathroom. Judging by the scream, I doubt you will enjoy what you find."
Precinct #77
Albrek coughs into his hand, clears his throat of phlegm, and after a seconds worth of reflection, spits into a trash can adjacent to Intelligencer Leprade's desk.
He checks his chrono, sighing through his teeth.
"An hour waiting, an hour to go until the rendevous. Your old friend always this punctual, Rico?"
"No, it is something else."
Somewhere, high in the Upspires
The high-speed lift vibrates ever so slightly as it ascends at incredible speed through the backbone of Orcut VII hive. Other than the slight tremor in the walls there is no physical sense that the lift is even moving. The attendant, a lobotomized servitor with a lower body encased in a barrel-like, highly polished unduz-wood housing stands near the duralloy doors, the tarnished brass fittings riveted into its head, shoulders, and chest reflecting the bright light from the golden glow-globes affixed to the roof of the compartment's four corners.
The lighted control panel flickers, the level indicator flashing by too quickly for you to ascertain just how high in the hive you have reached.
"Ivaanov, do you know how high up we are going?"
Sav, assuming you used the Aim action (+10 to WS) as half-action in lieu of movement, that would be a hit. Feel free to roll damage.
My goal is to punt it as far back as possible.
1d100
Iacton moves to parry the shove, but not quick enough. After picking himself back up, he turns back to the gangers. "Go ahead. Go into the bathroom. Judging by the scream, I doubt you will enjoy what you find."
Distracted by the piercing gaze of the horrid-looking commissar, Iacton reacts slowly to the ganger's shove, falling to the ground. He rolls back up to his feet in one fluid motion. The two gangers, having muscled themselves by him, proceed toward the door. When metal-mouth's friend reaches it, he gives the handle a sharp tug with one hand and grunts with the exertion. The door does not budge.
"Frigging holdin' it shut!"
Metal-mouth keeps a wary eye on you as you rise. He turns after his friend's remark, a confused look on his face.
"Whaddaya mean? Open it!"
Savalos feels his heart begin to pound in his chest as the hungry, mewling creature gets close. Pulling back his foot, he kicks it in the face as hard as he can, rewarded with a wet splortch of buckling tissue. It feels like you kicked a rotten melon. A squirt of bile-colored ichor plumes out, and the small beast is punted back into the metallic wall of the closest stall leaving a considerable dent. It waggles on the floor, and then uses two spindly arms to pull itself upright again. The thing pulls its feces covered face up from the spreading pool of muck and hisses at you like an angry cat.
The unsettling feeling of being trapped truly hits home when two more of the warp-spawned horrors scuttle out from beneath their stalls. Another pushes the door of its stall open with a withered little claw, and looks directly at you. It's feverish yellow eyes grow wide with an expression of hungry glee when it spies you.
"Come on. See Sigmunt. If we can hurt these damn things then we can kill them. But I need your help NOW!"
I watch as I see there is at least of four of the wretched little things. Wondering how to defend myself against them, and hoping no more crawl there way out of the pipes and sludge.
Still Going Up...
Ivaanov's vox buzzes its answer,
"The Astropathic Choir is situated inside Central Upspire level 3. The hive's spaceport is one the level immediately above. My internal gyrostabilizer is indicating that the lift is now slowing. Our arrival is imminent."
I will continue to put myself in between Sigmunt and the nurglings. Granted I am not happy with the odds. I plan on doing what I did before use Aim for +10 WS and punt whichever one closes with me. Preferrably the one that is already hurt. Just let me know when to attack again.
Precinct #77
The office door creaks open again to reveal a tall man dressed in a sober, well-tailored, slate gray suit. As he steps in, his suit coat opens slightly to reveal the matte black Tronvasse handcannon resting in a concealed shoulder holster. He efficiently makes his way to his desk, carefully depositing a handful of paper files in green folders and an expensive-looking dataslate/auspex device. His eyes never look toward you until he sits down, hands steepled in front of him.
Intelligencer Lesatrade looks much as he did two years ago when you officially retired from the Arbites. His long, steel-gray hair is pulled back into a short, hacked-off tail behind his head. His narrow chin is dusted with a sparse, dyed black goatee that would look more appropriate on an Upspire artist than an Arbites investigator. His broad brow sits below a balding hairline, and above deeply-set and intense eyes of cloudy blue, ringed with expensive silver-sheen augmetic banding. His hawkish nose has been broken before, listing slightly left.
His eyes narrow, and a long-fingered hand moves quickly, deftly repositioning one of the gleaming crimson droughtcrab paperweights a centimeter or so to the left from where Albrek had moved it while fidgeting during the long wait. They return to their steeple position.
Lestrade's voice is as smooth and cultured as an Upspire gentleman, his inflection perfectly precise, his Fulcusian accent inflecting the syllables in a way slightly different than what a native Orcutian would utter.
"Investigator Rico. It has been some time. What brings you to the seventy-seven?"
Intelligencer Lestrade says this in a manner that suggests he knows exactly why you have returned.
Just let me know when to attack again.
Slipping in some of the filth I give a weak and inaccurate kick rather than loosing my footing completely and falling on my back surrounding by the much covered monstrousities.
Precinct #77
"Investigator Rico. It has been some time. What brings you to the seventy-seven?"
Intelligencer Lestrade says this in a manner that suggests he knows exactly why you have returned.
"My comrade in arms, Albrek."
"I believe that there is no need for me to state the why. He is back."
Johnnie allows a moment for that to sink in before continuing.
"Look, Intelligencer, I do not wish to make this into a pissing competition with who gets the credit. You can have it. I just want to see the Emperor's Justice done."
"Can I have access to the file?"
Precinct #77
"My comrade in arms, Albrek.""I believe that there is no need for me to state the why. He is back."
Johnnie allows a moment for that to sink in before continuing.
"Look, Intelligencer, I do not wish to make this into a pissing competition with who gets the credit. You can have it. I just want to see the Emperor's Justice done."
"Can I have access to the file?"
Intelligencer Lestrade stares you down as you speak. Although he keeps his features neutral, you sense that your presence here has kindled a simmering angering, somewhere, deep within him. He considers himself too much the professional and gentleman to let it show, though.
Two years, and more, and there is little love lost.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance...Mister...Albrek."
Even with the greeting to the guardsman, he never takes his eyes from Rico.
"I respectfully disagree. There is a reason for you to address the 'why' in this matter. Roughly two years ago, following the successful closure of perhaps the most trying case in the Precinct's history, you submitted your retirement paperwork to Adjutant Marshall Theodus' office. As is customary with the department's highest honor for retirees, you were allowed to retain your rank as Investigator, credentials, and authority as an arbitrator despite becoming what is essentially a pensioner on the active employment rolls. Contrary to what you may believe about me, I have no objection to this. I would be the first among many to acknowledge that you are far and away deserving of this honor for all that you sacrificed in the line of duty. Let us be clear on this. There is no pissing contest."
Lestrade pauses before continuing, some part of you believes he is subtly mocking your pregnant pause from a moment ago.
"My concern stems from the fact that you have not set foot in this precinct since that day. It is no secret that you have been off-planet for more than two years. I will not be so rude as to inquire where it is you have been, nor do I necessarily care. So, I ask again. Why? Why have you come back? The Eviscerator is dead, Rico. Dead. You killed him yourself. Your partner, former Investigator and now Senior Judicium Clerk Magistrate Quincus Dauln attested to this fact under oath. She has moved on with her life, achieving considerable professional success. The murders ceased. For two years. They have now begun again. The prevailing theory in the task force I lead working on the killings has profiled the perpetrator as a copycat, at the very worst an understudy or protege of the original killer's little death cult. He is not back. We have it in hand, Investigator Rico. I will gladly accept your consultation and advice on this matter as an Investigator Emeritus, but there is no pressing need for you to resume your duties in any other capacity."
Sensing you are not quite seizing on his point, Lestrade continues, his voice gaining a bit of an edge.
"My men are pursuing numerous leads as we speak. Were it not for the little gang-battle bloodbath down in Ductside this evening near the Judicium foundation stack, I myself would be running down these very leads, instead of wasting nearly three hours on some worthless gang scum. A more paranoid man than I might question the timing of your return. Why now? A more ruthless man than I might ask some probing questions about why some slum-scav gave an eyewitness description of an injured participant in that ganger gunbattle wasting one of the Yellobouros punks that survived and surrendered with a shotgun blast."
Lestrade tilts his head to one side, gauging your reaction to his next words.
"Mr. Scollo mentioned you limped in, Rico. So how's the leg?"
Orcut VII Astropathic Choir
You feel miniscule. The Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII is shaped like a gigantic sphere of immense proportions ringed by ascending balconies, each alternately filled with arrays of powerful harmonizing crystals or gargantuan brass pipe organs. Each balcony, or loft, appears to be open to the exterior of the upper spire sky, the vertigo inducing effect the result of bands of perfectly clear diamantine windows that offer a panoramic view of the jet black sky and winking stars beyond. The space all around you smells of pungent native incenses and the burnt smell of machines taxed to the limits of their specifications.
As you ascend one of the many ornate catwalks radiating spoke-like from the circular platform in the sphere's very center, you are left in awe of the elaborately detailed, glow-globe illuminated posts marking the way, each engraved with either the iconography of the God Emperor of Mankind or a scene depicting one of many mythical astrological beasts associated with Oremor's ancient past. Ivaanov's high clearance under High Arbiter Krade's authority has brought you this far without any discernible complications. As you step on to the hundred meter wide disk suspended in the heart of the great sphere, you look upon the tiered amphitheater-like rows of baroque-styled benches that house the astropathic choir. Scores of maroon-robed figures look up with blind eyes to a perfect crystalline structure of roughly dodecahedral shape suspended by taut metallic wiring and various channeling conduits. The focusing crystal seems to float directly beneath the wider end of a great conical tube covered with gleaming circuitry and buzzing cogitators that cling to it like stubborn metallic barnacles. The sphere resonates powerfully with psychic energy, both already expended and the pregnant potential of that which is about to be released.
From the pitch blackness beneath the crystal, an impossibly thin, seven foot tall voidborn clad in maroon robes and tessellated vestments of cloth of gold emerges. He is flanked on either side by attendants that support the train of his attire and several runs of coiled conduit trailing from his neck, face, and head. His pale blue skin is smooth as polished glass, and nearly as translucent. When he raises his head from the obscuring cowl, you can see his eye sockets are two black hollows that seem to plummet into the very Immaterium itself. His voice seems to come from everywhere at once, carried by the peculiar acoustics of the countless crystals arranged all about.
"I am Revered Dirge Nicodemus. I welcome you to the Choir. The assembled choristers eagerly await the honor of singing the lyrical content of your communique to the All-Hearing Ears of the Emperor. Please, key in your message to the votive cogitator interface you see before you."
The Gear Box
The Yellobouros ganger tugs again at the door, this time with both of his powerful hands. He strains and hisses with the effort.
Despite bracing one leg against the wall and yanking with all his might, the ganger is unable to budge the door, which seems stuck fast. His companion with the abundant mouth jewelry begins to look irritated.
"C'mon then, Throne damn it, how hard can he be holding it, you sissy!?!"
Inside the restroom, Sigmunt's prodigious wave of nausea is finally abating somewhat. His wide, teary eyes look into Savalos' own, his confused expression almost like that of a man who has been struck deaf. He seems to be trying to focus on just what it is that his Wolf-brother is screaming into his face. He tried to nod in understanding, but nearly topples over with the vertigo even this small gesture brings.
"If I may..." Iacton moves to grab onto the handle and gets ready to pull. "I doubt we can afford to waste any more time with this door. Try again at the count of three?"
I make the sign of the Aquina as he says this.
"Thank you Reverend, May the the Emperor protect us and his will be done."
I type in using the Taper Cipher on transmission channel Iota:
Master, Krade kidnapped, contact never established, attempt on us neutralized on Void Needle. Contacted Krade's men, no mission brief, holovid evidence of Malleus and heresy in kidnapping. Strong evidence of subversion of government channels. Search for Krade, request further instructions. Transmission ended...Uriah
The Gear Box
"If I may..." Iacton moves to grab onto the handle and gets ready to pull. "I doubt we can afford to waste any more time with this door. Try again at the count of three?"
1d100
Iacton steps forward and pulls on the door himself, but finds it stuck fast. A foul stench is beginning to emanate from the scarred wood. The pair of Yellobouros enforcers seem almost at a loss for words when they hear what the assassin has to say.
Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
I make the sign of the Aquina as he says this.
"Thank you Reverend, May the the Emperor protect us and his will be done."
I type in using the Taper Cipher on transmission channel Iota:
Master, Krade kidnapped, contact never established, attempt on us neutralized on Void Needle. Contacted Krade's men, no mission brief, holovid evidence of Malleus and heresy in kidnapping. Strong evidence of subversion of government channels. Search for Krade, request further instructions. Transmission ended...Uriah
After Uriah finishes keying in the message, he reflects on the codename for the cipher. Taper. Truly, poetically, appropriate. We are as one holding a candle against the darkness, he thinks. Given the present circumstances we also seem to be just as blind...
The small votive cogitator hums as it processes the encryption protocol, the ultimate destination of the message unknown even to Uriah. The Master's strict dictates on secrecy are without exception. The green glow of the screen casts a ghostly glow as the illuminated characters blur and shift while being processed. The display goes black after a short time.
You feel the upwelling of psychic energy the moment that the multiple electro grafts feed their binary encrypted data through the connecting conduits to the Revered Dirge.
Ivaanov elbows Uriah in friendly fashion with one of his bony arms, his head tilting back almost reverentially, opaque goggles staring up at the massive crystal suspended in the center of the sphere. He has the air of a man about to share a fantastical performance spectacle with an uninitiated companion.
"Uriah Trantor, what you are about to witness defies even my most detailed abilities of explication. It is...awe-inspiring. Please, attune your senses most attentively to the majesty of what is about to occur. You will not regret it."
Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
A low, basso profundo tone slowly emanates from the complicated multichannel vox-device embedded in the Revered Dirge Nicodemus' throat. It resonates, slowly building in volume until it makes the very marrow in your bones vibrate. A sympathetic echo begins to chime from the countless crystalline structures arrayed all around the central platform, followed by the chorus of dozens of voices being raised in unison to join in harmony with the steadily rising note. Blue-white light begins to flicker and crackle around the edges of the great crystal, a shifting nimbus of constrained warp energy fluctuating and dancing with each change in pitch and cadence from the assembled choristers. The low note gradually diverges into a higher register for some of the participants, until a variegated vocal symphony of raised voices fills the sphere.
The surge of psychic energy building in the Astropathic Choir is most deeply felt by Uriah, who feels the entirety of his being quaking with the channeled power. Even though the voices of the assembled astropaths now vary greatly in tone and timbre, the low bass of Nicodemus all but consumes the psyker. The latent power in this one voidborn is staggering. As you watch, he holds his withered hands aloft to the great crystal and the orchestra of voices builds to a deafening crescendo, joining with and making a focal point of their towering conductor. A rippling, widening gyre of focused telepathic will channels itself through the Revered Dirge, witchfire lightning erupting from each of his hands to be sucked into the great dodecahedron before flashing upward into the starry night sky of Oremor.
The voices die, their performance at its climax.
You hear Nicodemus' voice in your heads as much as in your dull, aching ears when he next speaks, the weariness following such an exertion of will evident in his rasp.
"Your message is sent. We will summon you from the adjoining narthex when your anticipated reply is received. May the Golden Throne Hear Our Cry Unto the Void. May a Voice Cry Out in Answer."
"May it be his will."
I feel stunned by the power I felt. I stand still for a moment to collect myself and then go to where the Reverend directed us to.
The Gear Box
Some measure of his wits returned, Sigmunt looks to Savalos, eyes wild, stringy hair askew, retreating to the door.
"Thul! Thul! The door, get the door!"
The scurrying, scuttling creatures are drawing nearer, and the loose squelching sounds coming from behind the filth spattered stalls suggest that more are freeing themselves from the toilets. A loud crack is followed by the strained hiss of water escaping from a blown pipe somewhere nearby. The churning, curdled liquid in the sinks is now forming bubbles that pop one after the other with a gassy stink.
Savalos backs up as well. The creatures have noticed one another. They now move in unison toward you.
"My leg will heal."
"But to the point, I am here to help. Hence, I ask with respect access to the files."
Johnnie ignores Lestrade's reference to the gunbattle.
"The Emperor demands that we do all we can to fight the enemy within, without and beyond. And I submit to you sir that the Eviscerator and his ilk are the worst sort of scum that ever existed and our duty as arbitrators demand that we stop at nothing to put an end to them."
Hearing that more of those hideous things are bursting out of the pipes and tiolets. I know there is no way I can fight them off. It would only take a matter of moments before me and Sigmunt would be overrun.
"On the count of three Sigmunt help me bust open that door. ONE, TWO, THREE!" I throw my entire body into the door. Hoping it gives before my body does. Once through I plan on grabbing Sigmunt, and scrambling as far as I can. Giving myself as much distance as possible so I can find something I can use as a weapon, and plan my next coarse of action.
The Gear Box
Savalos shouts at Sigmunt who nods vigorously now, some of his wits about him again. The hitman wipes the bile and dribbling phlegm away from his soiled face with one sleeve of his coverall all the while watching his brother Wolf with wide eyes as he counts down to ramming the door.
Outside, one of the Yellobouros thugs yanks at the door again while his companion stands sentinel, watching Iacton warily, not wanting to draw the attention of the Gear Box's security.
On three, Savalos and Sigmunt, boots slipping and scrabbling for purchase on the filth-slicked floor, get as much of a running start as they can with the vile little creatures closing in. Charging, the pair slam their shoulders into the wooden door simultaneously with terrific force.
Savalos and Sigmunt crash into the door with a resounding bang just as the burly Yellobouros ganger sharply tugs on the handle again from the opposite side. Iacton watches as the entire door trembles in the frame, the thug reflexively pulling back his hand from the painful collision, but it stays stuck fast. The edges are still swollen and almost supernaturally overlapping it's outermost edge. The lone consolation is that an audible crack sounds from somewhere within the aged hardwood.
The tiny horrors begin to surround Savalos and Sigmunt, tiny, needle like teeth snapping and biting in their disfigured, rotten-fruit shaped forms.
The confused Yellobacks still do not seem to have a complete grasp of the peril of the situation unfolding. The metal-mouthed one now is berating the other for being a weakling. They still seem to think that Savalos is somehow keeping them out of the room. You wonder briefly how much of their intelligence has been diluted by the repeated glanding of steroidal hormones. Hell, you wonder if their bulging arms are even flexible enough to wipe their arses.
The Gear Box
With the two gangers occupied with hurling insults questioning their respective levels of masculinity, you take a moment to glance around at the main floor of the Gear Box to see who else has noticed the commotion. Surprisingly, few of the patrons in your immediate vicinity have taken much note given the both late hour and the steady flow of intoxicating beverages from the bustling serving staff. A manufactory worker sitting by himself at one of the smaller tables is watching the thugs berating each other with vapid amusement, but he seems too drunk to really have a sense of what is truly going on given his florid appearance and blank gaze.
Looking back to the bar, in approximately the place that you and Savalos were sitting earlier, you see the widely built man in the machinist's leathers that was at the podium when the others departed. His arms are still crossed over his broad chest, revealing the ten gear-shaped rings he wears. He holds his hand to one ear, to better listen to some manner of microbead set invisibly inside, and looks in your direction. He eyes you with the bold, self-assured confidence that only someone completely in authority can manage, before flicking his eyes to the two arguing gangers. He scratches at his thick, black muttonchop sideburns, and then mouths a command.
Fearful of what this might mean, you break eye contact, looking to either side, and watch as a small group of five hardened men and a single woman in similar machinist's leathers begin to converge on the restroom doors, moving slowly but purposefully, gently pushing aside the more enthusiastic revelers that step in their way with firm hands. One of them reaches to his side, placing his hands upon a small cylinder of machine-brushed black metal. Shock maul, you think. Given that these are the first people you have observed in the establishment carrying weapons of any kind, you surmise that Gear Box security has finally arrived at the party.
Astropathic Choir of Orcut VII
Uriah, Ivaanov, and Ishmael, accompanied by one of the Choir's unblinking chrome-skinned servitor attendants, are led to a waiting area that looks for all the world like the foyer to some baroque cathedral. The chamber is one of four identical such areas attached to the titanic sphere of the Choir at equidistant points around it's central circumference, a narrow spiral stone stair leading off of each to the guilds more expansive areas below. It is a good thing the room is crafted from perfectly fitted alabaster-hued stone quarried from the primeval mountain ranges that encircle the northern continents polar region, otherwise in the nearly unlit vault you would be unable to see anything. A single pale blue glow-globe ensconced in an antique chandelier in the center of the ceiling is the only artificial light, casting elongated shadows from the tall-backed chairs meticulously arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. The dim light lends the room a soft purple color that would be much darker were it not for the winking lights of the starry night outside reflecting off of the mica chips imprisoned in the stone of the walls.
A small gap in the ring of antique chairs allows access to the seating. In the center of the uncomfortable looking chairs, a wide, circular table fills most of the interior space. The only object on the table is a small lectern of gilt-gold upon which rests an ornate data-slate decorated with scrolling symbology of the Astropathicus, jacked into a recessed cogitator unit. The entire apparatus sits upon a smaller, circular wooden disk in the center of the table that appears capable of being rotated to face the individual chairs. In each corner of the room is a spartan alabaster and shellwood washing stand with mirror, the shelves beneath each holding assorted toiletries and refreshments.
Without a word, Ivaanov makes his way to the circle of seats and settles in for the wait. Ishmael, ignoring you for the most part proceeds to the panoramic diamantine window to look out over the illuminated expanse of the upper hive. You slowly walk to nearest washing stand, still numb with the aftereffects of the choir's psychic song. Your mind feels vast and tenuous, floating away from itself with the neurological weight of what you just experienced. You wonder how the others are making out with their respective assignments.
My shoulder aches as it smashes into the unyielding door. Hearing the crack I wonder if its my bone or the wood that made that sound. I put those thoughts behind me as the hissing of the creatures surrounding us moves closer. "Again Sigmunt ONE, TWO, THREE!" If the door doesn't give this time. I doubt we will have another chance. For that brief moment matching Aebena's gaze. I wish I just took a minute to tell her that I still loved her. The two things one can be certain of in life; Death, and Regret.
Precinct #77
"My leg will heal."
"But to the point, I am here to help. Hence, I ask with respect access to the files."
Johnnie ignores Lestrade's reference to the gun battle.
"The Emperor demands that we do all we can to fight the enemy within, without and beyond. And I submit to you sir that the Eviscerator and his ilk are the worst sort of scum that ever existed and our duty as arbitrators demand that we stop at nothing to put an end to them."
Leprade looks at Johnnie incredulously, unable to refrain from wearing the bemused expression on his face at the former investigator's dogged determination. There never was any question in your mind that Leprade is more intelligent than you, but he never could quite master the skill of coupling his incisive rational mind with his investigatory instincts, and for that reason you will always be the better detective. The hard part for Leprade, is that he is smart enough to know this, and part of him will always resent you for it.
"The same old Rico."
Leprade laughs, a forced chuckle to mask his rising vexation.
"Since I know you aren't so thick as to have completely missed the subtext of what I just said, I'll proceed with the assumption that you chose to ignore it. Fair enough. I won't even bother with trying to get you to divulge an explanation for why you decided the best sort of homecoming was a pitched gun battle with the Yellobacks, in their home turf, no less. The truth is, I will never quite understand you, Rico.
He seems to relent on some troubling internal decision.
"But I do respect you. I have little doubt that your next move would be to back-door me with the Adjutant Marshall if I denied you, anyway. So, since I stand nothing to lose, you may examine the collected investigatory dataslates, the forensic reports, hell, I'll even let you poke through the cataloged evidence. My only condition is that you are under no circumstances to attempt any field work. Everything goes through me. You will serve as a profiling consultant only. We're at a point where we have eyewitness information, a possible lead on this psychopath's identity, and every sign that he is about to strike again. We mean to catch him this time, and I don't need you rampaging out in Vaxus running roughshod over the groundwork we've laid to trap the Eviscerator."
Leprade can't mask his anger now. You realize how furious he must be at himself for letting slip his mask of perfect control.
"Understood?"
The Gear Box
Sigmunt grasps his own throbbing shoulder as the creatures begin to snap and bite, methodically surrounding the two of you as more begin to emerge from the shattered toilet and scramble across the excrement covered tile.
The two Duct Wolves kick at the creatures, but nothing seems to intimidate or dissuade their ravenous attack.
As Sigmunt kicks the first creature back with one of his jackboots, its horrid little misshapen companion bounces forward, serpent quick, biting deeply into the hitman's calf, ripping into the coverall and clinging there like some tenacious pit-dog, rending and squealing through its vise-like teeth. Sigmunt screams in agony, punching the squishy tumescent flesh of the monster until it drops away. The abomination almost seems to be smiling a rictus grin as it gulps down the torn shred of fabric.
Four more of its accursed ilk begin to waddle up behind it.
psyniscience = 40+20 = 60
May it by 37, 3 degrees of success.
Kicking out repeatedly at one of the nurglings, the other manages to sneak in and clamp down on the heel of your other foot.
Fortunately for you, the creature only clings on for a moment, the thickness of your boots keeping the razor sharp fangs from piercing your flesh. Kicking out and yelling as Sigmunt screams with the agony of his bite, you fling the nurgling off.
The guards are coming. When they arrive, they're likely going to haul all three of them away without even attempting to open the door. If he doesn't act now, all may be lost.
Iacton turns to the gangers and speaks to htem in a voice as cold and piercing as a knife to the back. "Either stop your bickering and open that door, or stand aside and let another try."
Psyniscience = 1d100 40+20 = 60
Made it by 37, 3 degrees of success.
You sigh deeply as you reach down into the alabaster bowl with shaking hands to splash water on your face. The brisk, arctic coldness of the liquid is exquisitely refreshing. However, it brings with it the shivering reminder of how fundamentally exhausted you are.
As the chilling water trickles down your chin, you catch it in your cupped hands, leaning forward over the rippling bowl. Watching it run off of your palms, you see the starlight catches the water just right, making the midnight-blue light of the stone chamber undulate and thicken in the gloom so that it appears ink-like and thick when the water finally settles.
A sharp pain seizes you at the top of your spine, radiating upward toward your skull, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut with the severity of this sudden fit. When you open them again, the cloying, corrupting cloak of the Immaterium has enfolded you like hazy, shimmmering curtains of violent, violet energy. It seethes of its own accord, tide-like swells of the Empyrean starving for the morsel of mortality your form represents.
Looking down into the wash basin, you see the water is no longer a reflection of the Oremor night sky, but rather a vivid window through the sky itself, as if you were looking down toward the emerald-hued planet's surface, spreading away in all directions beneath you.
The stark outlines of the northern continent's hive cities rotate toward you as if depicted on a spun globe. As you watch, the spires of Orcut VII warp and twist, melting and running like wax, changing form endlessly, almost like a time-lapse picter, as the cityscape resolves itself into countless different permutations. Possibility itself ebbs and flows with the passage of time, revealing the Imperial outpost it once was, the present day hive, and the superhive it may one day become. All this before flickering with millions of other twisted possibilities, among them a curving, inscrutable Eldar monument bathed in the light of a younger sun, then a towering cityscape built from spires carved from bone as delicate as porcelain ladies fingers, all shrouded in a blizzard of indigo feathers, to finally a hollow, empty, soulless shell of what it is now, festooned with filth and rusting firmament, bleeding yellow-brown bilge-rot into the tainted ocean around it, as bloated black flies twitch randomly, banging mindlessly against the dust-choked windows of the great Choir sphere.
The curve of the planet spins beneath you showing the southern archipelago, the Unduz continents where the plantations and claustrums stand out starkly on the broad floodplains. Your eyes fixate on one of the penal colonies, where a blot of utter blackness in the shape of a bloated man waits patiently in the deepest, darkest oubliette of the donjon. He snaps his head back, in ecstasy or agony and a fountain of roaches pours forth, swarming over the claustrum, the Unduz archipelago and the oceans themselves. A seething tide clawing over itself to reach the northern continents before climbing over, into, and under the hives, infesting them utterly. A single indigo colored feather, shot through with heliotrope and adorned with a staring eye floats down lazily over it all, shifting with infinite possibility. When it is pierced by the highest tine of the highest spire, the edge of a pitch black circle begins to cast a lengthening shadow over first the hives and then the world itself, whether the reflected light or the shadow of an ink-black sun, you cannot tell. The circle grows ever larger, consuming everything in its malign radiance, like a blot of nothingness eclipsing all that is, was, or will be.
Your eyes snap open to find your own reflection staring back at you from the alabaster basin, the gleaming reflections of Oremor's three moons, Yphanus, Sefulus, and Cacius, full and bright, forming a triangular halo about your head in the water's surface from where they shine down from the skylight above. You grasp the edge of the basin stand and begin to shake uncontrollably, convulsions passing through your body.
"Crystal, Intelligencer," says Johnnie with a smile on his face.
I will get corruption points = which gives me a total of 4 CP.
I will hold on to the basin until the convulsions pass, then splash more water on my face, take a deep breath. Again, I will try to collect myself and then walk to the seats and sit down without a word.
Iacton turns to the gangers and speaks to them in a voice as cold and piercing as a knife to the back. "Either stop your bickering and open that door, or stand aside and let another try."
The gangers cease their argument long enough to stare at you in puzzled disbelief. They seem to be incredulous that you are still harassing them. Fortunately, the agonized scream of someone inside the restroom distracts them from their plans for you and they involuntarily recoil from the door in fear, leaving an opening for you to reach the handle if you so choose.
Apparently they aren't as strong as they look and they are far stupider than they first appeared.
One has the wherewithal to notice that some of the bouncers are headed their way. He nudges his companion with the metal-studded lip and says,
"Fock, lookit!"
Iacton finds himself thinking that whatever one can say about the Gear Box, whether it is tradition, fear of the owner's wrath, or the imposing servitor at the entrance, even the lowest of lowlife's seem terrified to violate its rules. You must admit, the prospect of what might happen is beginning to make you uneasy as well.