Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"Seventeen, are you there?"
Vincent curses under his breath, "What do your men see?"
When you step out into the humid, recirculated night-cycle air of Vaxus District again, the weight of your burden has returned, like a frigid, soul-burning lodestone only kept in check by your late sister's memento. Slipping into the back of the luxurious groundcar you say nothing. The others could never possibly understand.
As we drive down the lonely streets I turn toward Iacton who seems consumed in his own thoughts.
"Think all of us are here to face our daemons. Not sure what yours are. None of my business either unless you make it. Each burden is unique to each man. Remember everyone needs to lean on someone sometime. Just know your not alone..."
I pat his shoulder in a hope of showing solidarity.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
"Is there an other angle to view the platform? Or any way we can get to a higher vantage point that's with in range?"
The fat-bellied Agri-Scow passes overhead, deafeningly close, shedding droplets of pattering cloud condensation on to the roof of the cargo-8. As it settles over a nearby platform, much larger than the one occupied by the churraptus, it rotates slowly in midair, its VTOL maneuvering thrusters firing with sequential bursts of white-blue flame. As it descends, twinkling running lights illuminate the transport's bulk. The stylized words, "Fat Lady" are inscribed on the bulbous fuselage.
Looking around through his own viewport, now partially blocked by the wide-bore barrel of the autocannon, Albrek points toward the highest platform on the dormant crane assembly nearby.
"Now that, that right there would provide a commanding view of just about everything."
Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent curses under his breath, "What do your men see?"
"It's what they don't see, Seventeen. There's no sign of your rogue commissar or any of the guardsmen that accompanied him to Orcut VII anywhere around the shuttle. This with the bird under continuous surveillance for the last ten hours by at least one of my agents."
Danicos lets out a frustrated sigh.
"The last time anyone was observed near the craft was less than an hour ago. They have always had at least two guardsmen making patrol circuits around the pad since we began monitoring, rotating their duties hourly. Since the last two went back inside the craft, nothing. It's altogether possible that they've sequestered themselves inside the churraptus, but there is some doubt there, as well. The feeling from those eyeballing it right now is that it might be abandoned, although I've no idea how they made it out unobserved. I'm not sure what this means for your arriving contingent. Any new intel on your end?"
Lower Vaxus Throughway, Exit 88
The Sabrewolf flits across three lanes of fast-moving traffic, performing like the powerful canid namesake under Stroinigli's capable hands. Sigmunt rides shotgun, providing direction to the twist, while Iacton, Savalos, and Uriah sit in the spacious rear passenger compartment. As tunnel glow-globes flash by in a near continuous blur of streaking green light, the groundcar slows, exiting on to a corkscrewing rampway, one of the last outlets from the throughway, to begin its spiraling descent to the first level of the Vaxus Deeps. The wide, curving circuits are vaguely disquieting; like being poured down a drain.
A pensive silence has settled over the interior of the vehicle, one that obviously unsettles Stroinigli somewhat. He breaks the quiet, his soft voice a not an entirely unwelcome break to your worried meditations.
"So frens, if you don't mind my asking, why the sudden change of plans?"
"So frens, if you don't mind my asking, why the sudden change of plans?"
"Eviserator"
Figured Stroinigli already knew the answer, he just wanted conversation.
I look at my reflection in the window and grimace at how wide a scar is on my face. Understanding the look of horror on Aebena's and Stroinigli's faces when we peeled away from the Daemon. I can only imagine how terrible of a wound they saw. Best not to linger to long on thoughts like that or they will chew you up.
"My Family is the best bet for any intel dealing with the Yellobacks, the Withdrawn Viel, and Leprade. Might even get lucky and have word on Johnnie, and have someone watch his back. We also need as much information about Wally as possible."
My pet name for the monster spills out with a tinge of bitterness.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
"Is there an other angle to view the platform? Or any way we can get to a higher vantage point that's with in range?"The fat-bellied Agri-Scow passes overhead, deafeningly close, shedding droplets of pattering cloud condensation on to the roof of the cargo-8. As it settles over a nearby platform, much larger than the one occupied by the churraptus, it rotates slowly in midair, its VTOL maneuvering thrusters firing with sequential bursts of white-blue flame. As it descends, twinkling running lights illuminate the transport's bulk. The stylized words, "Fat Lady" are inscribed on the bulbous fuselage.
Looking around through his own viewport, now partially blocked by the wide-bore barrel of the autocannon, Albrek points toward the highest platform on the dormant crane assembly nearby.
"Now that, that right there would provide a commanding view of just about everything."
"Ok you and I should head over there. The rest of you should keep an eye on us and what you can see of those vehicles."
Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"It's what they don't see, Seventeen. There's no sign of your rogue commissar or any of the guardsmen that accompanied him to Orcut VII anywhere around the shuttle. This with the bird under continuous surveillance for the last ten hours by at least one of my agents."
Danicos lets out a frustrated sigh.
"The last time anyone was observed near the craft was less than an hour ago. They have always had at least two guardsmen making patrol circuits around the pad since we began monitoring, rotating their duties hourly. Since the last two went back inside the craft, nothing. It's altogether possible that they've sequestered themselves inside the churraptus, but there is some doubt there, as well. The feeling from those eyeballing it right now is that it might be abandoned, although I've no idea how they made it out unobserved. I'm not sure what this means for your arriving contingent. Any new intel on your end?"
Vincent considers this new information of a moment before replying:
"Unfortunately, you observers may be right, the commissar himself has certainly exhibited similar abilities in the past. There may still be evidence we can use, give me the location and I will order my men investigate."
As soon as the lift opens, Vincent will make haste to the nearest cogitator access point; he has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly where the commissar and his men have gone.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
"OK, you and I should head over there. The rest of you should keep an eye on us and what you can see of those vehicles."
Albrek nods, relieved to finally be taking some action, any action. He points toward the autocannon mounted at the hardpoint in the cargo-8's side and calls over to Oktammmor.
"I'm assuming you're familiar with how to fire this thing. I've set up a good enfilade on the rampways ascending up to the platform, and it should give you a good field of fire across the closest lip of the decking, but our angle here makes hitting near the shuttle practically impossible. Once Kaltos and I are at the top of the crane, this won't be an issue. Worst case scenario, if things get sketchy, light it up."
The guardsman adjusts his helmet straps and walks to the tailgate of the truck with Kaltos. Looking back at Oktammor one last time, he tests his microbead. Satisfied with the big man's nod, the pair clamber out and dash through the narrow alleyways created by the stacked cargo containers and the crisscross shadows cast by the crane gantry.
Albrek snatches a glance back at the tech-priest, a look of pleasant surprise creasing his weathered face when he realizes that the Machine Cultist is stealthily keeping pace, maintaining cover, and bounding corners with his own las to cover their approach. His voice crackles over the 'bead as he ducks beneath the crane tower, signaling Kaltos over with one hand.
<<<"Nice movement. I get the impression you're no ordinary gearhead, are you? So who did they send for old Dunkan? What are you, Skitarii, one of their hyspasists?">>>
Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent considers this new information of a moment before replying:
"Unfortunately, you observers may be right, the commissar himself has certainly exhibited similar abilities in the past. There may still be evidence we can use, give me the location and I will order my men investigate."
As soon as the lift opens, Vincent will make haste to the nearest cogitator access point; he has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly where the commissar and his men have gone.
Dunkan doesn't hesitate, not wanting to jeopardize either group by withholding intelligence.
"My contingent is hunkered down in an old cargo-8 tucked between cargo containers on the eastern lip of Platform #7, about thirty meters from the loading rampways. Two inquisitorial acolytes, a pair of tech-priests, and a half-dozen of my men. They're armed and can cover your group's approach. I'd recommend sharing your vox frequency so that they can coordinate, if you are able to provide it. They are on channel 188.97. We don't need things getting confused and leading to a friendly fire scenario."
Stepping off the lift, Vincent realizes he is near to Bothle's offices, and sets off in a brisk pace in that direction. Reaching the door, he raps loudly, it hisses open promptly, granting him admittance.
Jerimus Bothle turns around slowly in his chair, bony legs propped up lazily on his console, green-tinted wraparound glare-shades covering his eyes in spite of the fact that he is working in a dimly lit control room illuminated only by pict-monitors and cogitator read-outs. Three days worth of salt and pepper growth cover his chin and lips, growing in patchy and unkempt. He makes a "from wither did you come" gesture with one hand, twirling his fingers theatrically.
"Hullo, boss. To what do I owe the honor of such a spontaneous housecall? Audit time again already?"
Somewhere in the Vaxus Deeps
Satisfied with the answer, Stroinigli seems about to blather on further, but catches himself instead, holding his tongue. The mood in the groundcar is not a conversational one right now, and he regretfully succumbs to it with the rest of you.
After giving a few more terse directions, Sigmunt taps the glass on the passenger side door.
"Pull over here."
The twist looks at the dour hitman skeptically.
"Here? In case you hadn't noticed, that's an alley filled with dumpsters, fren."
Sigmunt regards him icily, and Stroinigli complies with a shake of his head and a sigh. He puts the Sabrewolf into park and raises both hands off the wheel in an exaggerated 'what now' gesture.
Sigmunt merely pulls forth three rolls of bandages from inside his Shaultus Transhipping jumpsuit, handing one to the twist and the other pair behind him to Iacton and Uriah. His wounds gone, he has no need of them now.
The Duct Wolf hitman remains coldly impassive.
"Now, everyone but Sav here puts these on like blindfolds, and I do the driving."
Stroinigli forces a laugh, trying to keep the nerves from his voice. He peers back at Savalos over the seat a quizzical expression over his flicking neck tendrils.
"Is this guy serious?"
V-Block ~ The Oubliette
He stopped his pacing and dabbed at one ear with his filthy finger, sensing the wet trickle of moisture there.
It came away bloody.
He wasn't surprised. The buzzing through the wall was the pestilential chorus of a world covered in flies now, skitter-scampering over a sea of mewling maggots. It drowned out everything else. Even his own thoughts. More and more he could feel the Other's touch pushing past him, through the walls, ignoring his own gift when it was always held in check before. The Other was growing stronger.
Change was in the air.
Pacing again, for want of anything better to do, he starts singing again, straining his imagination to hear the hand organs and heavily accented voices of his people, anything to block out the buzzing. He was fairly sure now that all of the other touched minds he sensed from time to time, the unlucky few who shared his fate as human barriers honeycombed around the Other's prison in their own dark holes were dead. The buzzing got them as surely as the tarn-gar gets the sleeping stiltbeaks. Like fireflies snuffed out by ball-lightnin'. He knew he couldn't last much longer himself. Once he was gone, the levy would burst, the droning swarm would surge out, and all hell was gonna break loose.
He didn't stop singing, though. As long as he kept singing, he was alive. As long as he was alive, there was still hope.
"lonely watcher, he muss'n fail...
walkabout...walkabout..."
Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Dunkan doesn't hesitate, not wanting to jeopardize either group by withholding intelligence.
"My contingent is hunkered down in an old cargo-8 tucked between cargo containers on the eastern lip of Platform #7, about thirty meters from the loading rampways. Two inquisitorial acolytes, a pair of tech-priests, and a half-dozen of my men. They're armed and can cover your group's approach. I'd recommend sharing your vox frequency so that they can coordinate, if you are able to provide it. They are on channel 188.97. We don't need things getting confused and leading to a friendly fire scenario."
Stepping off the lift, Vincent realizes he is near to Bothle's offices, and sets off in a brisk pace in that direction. Reaching the door, he raps loudly, it hisses open promptly, granting him admittance.
Jerimus Bothle turns around slowly in his chair, bony legs propped up lazily on his console, green-tinted wraparound glare-shades covering his eyes in spite of the fact that he is working in a dimly lit control room illuminated only by pict-monitors and cogitator read-outs. Three days worth of salt and pepper growth cover his chin and lips, growing in patchy and unkempt. He makes a "from wither did you come" gesture with one hand, twirling his fingers theatrically.
"Hullo, boss. To what do I owe the honor of such a spontaneous housecall? Audit time again already?"
"Fortunately for you, no. I need to use your terminal."
Vincent steps over to the terminal and uses his own codes to upgrade the clearances before instructing the cogitator to locate Commissar Ekubal within the claustrum. He will then use Bothe's vox to raise Einhardt's team.
"Yeah he's serious."
"Look at it this way. We had to earn our trust with Dunkan. Hence he blindfolded us til we earned it. Same thing here. The Alpha's will make there judgement."
"On the plus side you all will have Sig, and myself speaking for you."
"That is fine. I trust you and know you have your secrets. Everyone put on the blindfolds."
"We are doing the Emperor's work. They will find us worthy." Iacton puts on the blindfold.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
"OK, you and I should head over there. The rest of you should keep an eye on us and what you can see of those vehicles."Albrek nods, relieved to finally be taking some action, any action. He points toward the autocannon mounted at the hardpoint in the cargo-8's side and calls over to Oktammmor.
"I'm assuming you're familiar with how to fire this thing. I've set up a good enfilade on the rampways ascending up to the platform, and it should give you a good field of fire across the closest lip of the decking, but our angle here makes hitting near the shuttle practically impossible. Once Kaltos and I are at the top of the crane, this won't be an issue. Worst case scenario, if things get sketchy, light it up."
The guardsman adjusts his helmet straps and walks to the tailgate of the truck with Kaltos. Looking back at Oktammor one last time, he tests his microbead. Satisfied with the big man's nod, the pair clamber out and dash through the narrow alleyways created by the stacked cargo containers and the crisscross shadows cast by the crane gantry.
Albrek snatches a glance back at the tech-priest, a look of pleasant surprise creasing his weathered face when he realizes that the Machine Cultist is stealthily keeping pace, maintaining cover, and bounding corners with his own las to cover their approach. His voice crackles over the 'bead as he ducks beneath the crane tower, signaling Kaltos over with one hand.
<<<"Nice movement. I get the impression you're no ordinary gearhead, are you? So who did they send for old Dunkan? What are you, Skitarii, one of their hyspasists?">>>
"I am from the martial arm I do not lack the knowledge of tactics and the ability of use of them. I have not trained in the application of more stealthy individuals but I know how they should be used."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"Fortunately for you, no. I need to use your terminal."
Vincent steps over to the terminal and uses his own codes to upgrade the clearances before instructing the cogitator to locate Commissar Ekubal within the claustrum. He will then use Bothle's vox to raise Einhardt's team.
Sensing his supervisor means business, Bothle drops his flippant act and pushes off with both feat to roll his chair out of the way. Stepping into the void, Vincent's hands fly over the keys, using the advanced security privileges that Kreed's ward accessor grants to call up search parameters that he otherwise would not be able to engage.
Sensing just what Vincent is doing, Bothle leans in closer to watch.
"Whoa...did you just...I mean, did you...how did you do that?!"
Shaking his head in disbelief, the gravity of the situation begins to settle in, and he ceases his yammering.
As the subroutines of the surveillance search begin to run in the background, you punch in a vox-feed direct to Einhardt's microbead, being careful to use the Warden-Colonel's personal encryption protocols to prevent anyone from listening in. The answer from the Geltdown Docks is abrupt, following a burst of static.
<<<"Alright, we're down. What now, Sepheris? Where's the target?">>>
Somewhere in the Vaxus Deeps
Stroinigli somewhat reluctantly relinquishes his seat and control of the groundcar to Sigmunt, who stoically waits while everyone but Savalos secures their blindfolds. The severe and quiet hitman patiently sits until they are all on, tugging on the twist's eye covering once he is in the passenger seat to make certain it is tightly bound.
Satisfied, Sigmunt pulls the Sabrewolf away from the curb and begins to drive. For the visually impaired in the vehicle it is a disorienting journey of many turns, sudden stops, and on occasion, even the stomach-lurching feeling of vertical descent. During an especially jarring period of acceleration and hard corners, Stroinigli sighs loudly.
"Take it easy on the old girl, fren, she's an antique!"
Ignoring his plea, Sigmunt drives on, lighting a lho-stick and savoring the smoke with each drag.
For Savalos it is a disconcerting ride through his own past, watching as the faded and dilapidated facades of old watering holes, pict-theatres, and eateries flash past in a blur of boarded-up windows, dead neon-lumen lights, and blighted, graffiti marked walls. Few Underhive citizens brave the streets at this hour, and those that do bare the unmistakable postures of folk who are either dangerously hardened or perpetually indigent. Everything seems lower in the Deeps, the looming hive-ceiling of this level feels almost claustrophobically closer than the levels above, while the stench from the recirculated air is pungent with industrial run-off from Geltdown flues and the expelled gases of subvent-chimneys. Waste and garbage are strewn through the narrow alleyways and even the broader roadways, and Sigmunt frequently maneuvers around half-mad Redemptionist street-preachers and the criminally intrigued who loiter around the extravagant vehicle as it slows. One glance from the Duct Wolves' cleaner is usually enough to send most on their way, but there are some that aren't even swayed by this pointed message. As the groundcar descends upon the third lift in your confusing sojourn, this one tucked into the corner of a virtually abandoned multi-level carpark, it sinks in how far your gang has fallen, their once-proud traditions and power reduced to this; hiding in the very holes that their lowliest competition used to squirm out of when they were feeling particularly brave. It saddens your heart, and hurts your pride.
When the lift clangs to a halt at the bottom of the deep shaft, Sigmunt activates the powered window on his side, and speaks into a rusted intercom unit that appears nonfunctional. The entire vast area the car has settled in is wreathed in hanging fog created by copious condensation clinging to the crumbling rockcrete walls.
"This is Sig. I brought the pup home from his Long Walk. We're here to see the She-Wolf."
You know the fundamental risks that Sigmunt is running, violating multiple taboos by coming here and revealing himself, when his most important responsibility in the gang is to maintain his anonymity as their on-call liquidator. You can see, and the others can sense his tension as he awaits a response. When nothing comes, no answer at all, he turns around, his face set in an expression of unease. He is about to speak when there is a grinding rumble from some distance away, and a large garage door grinds upward, flooding reddish light into the vast lift-terminus. The bloody illumination reveals dozens of heavily armed shadows in close proximity, their shoulders hunched beneath thick furs, pointing a deadly array of weaponry at the Sabrewolf from where they were surrounding you in the dark. One slowly approaches, a sawn-off autogun clenched in both hands and pointed at the driver's door. The knobby, yellowed skull of a juvenile Duct Wolf stares from atop his black-billed cap like a remorseless executioner. An array of ink spirals up his exposed forearms, convoluted geometric designs that tell a long story. When he speaks, his voice is raspy, with a liquid wetness from the dank air.
"Get out."
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
<<<"I am from the martial arm I do not lack the knowledge of tactics and the ability of to use. I have not trained in the application of more stealthy individuals but I know how they should be used.">>>
Kaltos and Albrek reach the narrow lift platform at the foot of the crane, and the guardsman peers at you pointedly after checking his firing angles, tapping the complicated looking control panel mounted on the thick-barred rail.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
<<<"I am from the martial arm I do not lack the knowledge of tactics and the ability of to use. I have not trained in the application of more stealthy individuals but I know how they should be used.">>>
Kaltos and Albrek reach the narrow lift platform at the foot of the crane, and the guardsman peers at you pointedly after checking his firing angles, tapping the complicated looking control panel mounted on the thick-barred rail.
What can I tell of the kid's history by the tattoo's? Do I know him?
I nod to the kid, and start guiding the others out of the vehicle. I try to bite back the anger and shame that my family has been pushed down so far to live in these conditions.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
Kaltos examines the panel for some time, but finds no viable means to activate it. It appears it is specifically designed to be interfaced by an industrial-class heavy servitor. Somewhat at a loss, he glances over to Albrek who is still standing sentinel at the corner of the lift compartment, keeping his eye on the landing platform. The grizzled ex-guardsman looks back at Kaltos, shaking his head in grudging acceptance before pointing to the inset ladder rungs running up the nearly vertical incline of the crane's boom.
"I guess we climb, then."
The first of the maintenance platforms for the towering cargo lift is nearly twenty meters overhead. Albrek steps around you and begins the treacherous ascent.
The Duct Wolves' Sanctuary
I nod to the kid, and start guiding the others out of the vehicle. I try to bite back the anger and shame that my family has been pushed down so far to live in these conditions.
Assisting the others out of the vehicle, Savalos keeps his hands raised, whispering to his blindfolded companions to remain calm and refrain from any sudden movements. Sigmunt steps out as well, hands held high overhead, the new, royal blue Shaultus Transshipping overalls looking absurdly clean compared to the filthy, ragged clothing worn by the throng of gunmen covering you.
The Duct Wolf with the skull perched atop his cap gets closer, his face still concealed from view by the ring of shadow cast over his eyes and nose. From somewhere close, Uriah hears a young, gruff, voice mutter disparagingly, "Two gangly spacers and a twist...who the hell are these guys? Why is that bloke wearin' furs?"
He is perfunctorily shushed with a hiss by one of the other men in the rear nearby.
Glancing at the visible tattoos on skull-hat, you try to make sense of his story. You don't recognize him by his gait or posture.
Stroinigli can't help himself, the unease evident in his voice, he hisses:
"Are you fecking sure we're in the right place?"
Quietly, Uriah says to the others:
"Keep calm."
"We are doing the Emperor's work. We will not die here." Iacton whispers to his fellows before stepping out of the car, his hands held high and away from his weapons.
Common Lore Underworld Test (1d100=49)
I scan the area seeing if I recognize any of the guards. Seeing how badly the Wolves were hit, I can see why they are being so careful.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Sensing his supervisor means business, Bothle drops his flippant act and pushes off with both feat to roll his chair out of the way. Stepping into the void, Vincent's hands fly over the keys, using the advanced security privileges that Kreed's ward accessor grants to call up search parameters that he otherwise would not be able to engage.
Sensing just what Vincent is doing, Bothle leans in closer to watch.
"Whoa...did you just...I mean, did you...how did you do that?!"
Shaking his head in disbelief, the gravity of the situation begins to settle in, and he ceases his yammering.
As the subroutines of the surveillance search begin to run in the background, you punch in a vox-feed direct to Einhardt's microbead, being careful to use the Warden-Colonel's personal encryption protocols to prevent anyone from listening in. The answer from the Geltdown Docks is abrupt, following a burst of static.
<<<"Alright, we're down. What now, Sepheris? Where's the target?">>>
Vincent relays Danico's directions to Einhardt, adding: "Check your fire, there are friendly forces in the vicinity."
The Duct Wolves' Sanctuary
"We are doing the Emperor's work. We will not die here." Iacton whispers to his fellows before stepping out of the car, his hands held high and away from his weapons.
Iacton feels it, a tingling in his skin, the straightening of the hairs on the nape of his neck. Even though he cannot see the armed men assembled around him, he can sense their tension and mistrust. The smells at the bottom of the garage's huge lift-well are dank with the ubiquitous fungal blooms of Oremor, while every sound is strident, echoing discordantly from the enclosing rockcrete walls.
Even as you preach calm, you prepare yourself for anything.
Quietly, Uriah says to the others:
"Keep calm."
Uriah steps out of the vehicle, allowing himself to be led by Savalos. His inner eye opens instinctively, perhaps trying to compensate for the corporeal ones that are blinkered by Sigmunt's bandage. When he does, he feels the revolting, inconstant fluctuation in the Warp that is the plume carried by Iacton, and he knows for certain that he stands directly beside the man even though he cannot see. The thing is anathema to him, and he shrinks away from its presence almost involuntarily, only freezing when hears the wary mutters and whisper of weapons being raised around him.
He elects to adhere to his own counsel.
As he tries to relax the revulsion filling him, he senses something else, faint, barely perceptible, akin to the feeling of being watched. It recedes slightly, as if sensing his notice, and it is ever so gradually replaced by the feeling of entering a room that someone else has just vacated.
Common Lore Underworld Test (1d100=49)
I scan the area seeing if I recognize any of the guards. Seeing how badly the Wolves were hit, I can see why they are being so careful.
The morose feeling welling within you only grows when you see how young most of the Wolves are around you. They would have been but pups when you went on your Long Walk, barely out of their teens even now. A few older men are numbered amongst them, but none that you immediately recognize. Most of these are scarred and suffused with deadly intent, their preternatural wariness ratcheting the tension of the standoff almost to the breaking point. They are the hardest of the hard; the survivors. You begin to think that Sigmunt, anonymous as he is to the rank and file of the gang, was perhaps the worst choice of your former brethren to reintroduce you to your kin.
Looking at the exposed forearms of skull-hat, you notice an interlocking series of ten black diamonds linked by chains of tooth-like crescents. On his left wrist is the depiction of a scerrido piercing the skull of a duct wolf not unlike the one perched atop his hat. This tells you two things respectively, he has personally slain more than his fair share of Yellobouros, and that he is one of the few who survived the Trial: killing a duct wolf with only the aid of his heirloom gang-dagger. It marks him as one of the inner circle of the gang, the trusted second to one of the alphas or perhaps, with the attrition the gang has suffered, a pack-leader himself.
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent relays Danico's directions to Einhardt, adding: "Check your fire, there are friendly forces in the vicinity."
There are a few seconds of hesitation, the lag of the great distance effecting the transmission prior to Einhardt's reply. His voice is clearly irritated at this new complication.
<<<"Copy, that. Not to be a bother, but could you possibly relay their numbers and positions more clearly relative to our approach so none of my men accidentally light them up? I mean, I'll never balk at back-up, but it is nice to know who your friends are so you don't accidentally kill them. Over.">>>
The Duct Wolves' Sanctuary
spend fate point = 1d100
Made the roll by 7.
Although it is difficult to discern, drowned out as it is by the overpowering Warp-shadow cast by the feather, you think you sense the fleeting presence of another psychic being slipping away through the Empyrean, like a gently receding wave pulling away the moment it felt your notice.
Seeing the tat of the scerrido, I nod to the younger ganger with respect acknowledging his lineage, and place within the gang. I pull up my sleeve revealing my place in the family hoping it will settle matters better than Sig's words.
The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7
Kaltos examines the panel for some time, but finds no viable means to activate it. It appears it is specifically designed to be interfaced by an industrial-class heavy servitor. Somewhat at a loss, he glances over to Albrek who is still standing sentinel at the corner of the lift compartment, keeping his eye on the landing platform. The grizzled ex-guardsman looks back at Kaltos, shaking his head in grudging acceptance before pointing to the inset ladder rungs running up the nearly vertical incline of the crane's boom.
"I guess we climb, then."
The first of the maintenance platforms for the towering cargo lift is nearly twenty meters overhead. Albrek steps around you and begins the treacherous ascent.
The Duct Wolf Sanctuary
Seeing the tat of the scerrido, I nod to the younger ganger with respect acknowledging his lineage, and place within the gang. I pull up my sleeve revealing my place in the family hoping it will settle matters better than Sig's words.
His gun never wavering from your chest, the veteran Wolf's head dips down ever so slightly, his eyes still wreathed in the shadows cast by his morbid cap as he regards your own ink. He looks for a good long while, the numbing cold of the dank lift-well chilling your bones and making the tension almost unbearable. Finally, the lead Wolf cracks a menacing smile, the dimpled scars on his cheeks stretching around his amused lips, framing a toothy, bone-white grin. He raises his truncated autogun to point into the air and lets out a grim chuckle that speaks of his never-ending chagrin at the peculiar and sometimes cruel nature of the universe.
"Sav Thul, Son of the She-Wolf, finally found his way home."
His voice is low and sinister, but every word is heard quite clearly in the tense silence. None would dare make noise anyway, least of all under the circumstances, for fear of his wrath. His commanding presence and authority among his brother-wolves is undeniable.
The remaining Duct Wolves raise their weapons to guard positions, and Savalos' erstwhile brethren seem to relax somewhat.
"Your new friends can remove their blindfolds, as well. If the mysterious and renowned Sigmunt here did his job properly you're all too far into the belly of the beast to pose a threat at this point. If he didn't, well, let's not dwell on that one, eh?"
"So, Walker, do you remember me or not?"
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
There are a few seconds of hesitation, the lag of the great distance effecting the transmission prior to Einhardt's reply. His voice is clearly irritated at this new complication.
<<<"Copy, that. Not to be a bother, but could you possibly relay their numbers and positions more clearly relative to our approach so none of my men accidentally light them up? I mean, I'll never balk at back-up, but it is nice to know who your friends are so you don't accidentally kill them. Over.">>>
"They should already be in position around the lander, more than that I can't say. According to my information the only persons in the vicinity of the lander are either Ekubal's men or friendlies. The guardsmen should be easy enough to identify, so just be careful before shooting anyone else."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"They should already be in position around the lander, more than that I can't say. According to my information the only persons in the vicinity of the lander are either Ekubal's men or friendlies. The guardsmen should be easy enough to identify, so just be careful before shooting anyone else."
There is another lull and then the buzz of the vox answers you again.
<<<"Received.">>>
Einhardt's voice takes on a slightly sarcastic tone.
<<<"We have the target in sight. By your leave, then, Senior Clerk Sepheris, we'll be moving in to do our job.">>>
Bothle cannot contain his apoplectic state any longer, scooting forward on his wheeled chair, he bumps into his desk, jarring the regicide board, and knocking some of the pieces over in his haste.
"Whoa, whoa, bossman, Vince! What the feck are you playing at? Did you just order Einhardt and his crew to move against a commissar? Do you have any idea... have you totally lost it?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Kaltos labors to keep up with the nimble Albrek, taking it slow and steady, being very careful not to look down. The agile acolyte reaches the first of the towering crane's narrow service platforms, a meter-wide, skid-plated, metal oval that is haloed around the superstructure of the boom. He clambers atop it, through an open hatch above the ladder, disappearing form view.
When the tech-priest pulls himself up through the narrow circle cut into the platform, he crawls forward slowly on his belly, the heavy bulk of his cyber mantle scraping loudly against the dinged and scored flooring. Reaching the point where the ovular balcony overlooks Platform #7, he sidles up beside Albrek, who has already braced his las, and is even now peering through his scope, angling the weapon down steeply to scan the shuttle and the vicinity around it from nearly twenty meters above the rockcrete floor of the Geltdown Docks.
"Sav Thul, Son of the She-Wolf, finally found his way home.""Your new friends can remove their blindfolds, as well. If the mysterious and renowned Sigmunt here did his job properly you're all too far into the belly of the beast to pose a threat at this point. If he didn't, well, let's not dwell on that one, eh?"
"So, Walker, do you remember me or not?"
The voice is immediately familiar to you. In fact, you should have put it all together sooner. There is, of course, much more ink now, and many more wrinkles, but the scarred cheeks, the calloused hands, the bric-a-brac of trinkets and kit adorning his furs and leathers. It is Tygault, once one of your father's former pack, turned an old man since you last saw him.
"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.
I take off my blindfold. I will stay silent for now, because it is Savalos' play, but when we are in more private area, I will tell them what I sensed.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Kaltos labors to keep up with the nimble Albrek, taking it slow and steady, being very careful not to look down. The agile acolyte reaches the first of the towering crane's narrow service platforms, a meter-wide, skid-plated, metal oval that is haloed around the superstructure of the boom. He clambers atop it, through an open hatch above the ladder, disappearing form view.
When the tech-priest pulls himself up through the narrow circle cut into the platform, he crawls forward slowly on his belly, the heavy bulk of his cyber mantle scraping loudly against the dinged and scored flooring. Reaching the point where the ovular balcony overlooks Platform #7, he sidles up beside Albrek, who has already braced his las, and is even now peering through his scope, angling the weapon down steeply to scan the shuttle and the vicinity around it from nearly twenty meters above the rockcrete floor of the Geltdown Docks.
Quietly I whisper "Look to the left side Ill look at the right."
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
There is another lull and then the buzz of the vox answers you again.
<<<"Received.">>>
Einhardt's voice takes on a slightly sarcastic tone.
<<<"We have the target in sight. By your leave, then, Senior Clerk Sepheris, we'll be moving in to do our job.">>>
Bothle cannot contain his apoplectic state any longer, scooting forward on his wheeled chair, he bumps into his desk, jarring the regicide board, and knocking some of the pieces over in his haste.
"Whoa, whoa, bossman, Vince! What the feck are you playing at? Did you just order Einhardt and his crew to move against a commissar? Do you have any idea... have you totally lost it?"
"Go ahead Einhardt, you know what to do."
Vincent looks back to Bothe for a moment and lowers the vox-reciever.
"Those facts are, one could say, open to interpretation."
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Quietly I whisper "Look to the left side, I'll look at the right."
Soon after settling into a prone posture with the magnoculars, Kaltos begins to pan them across the southern edge of Platform #7. The cargo-8 seems like a toy from this height, boxed in by the massive shipping containers surrounding it. The containers, in turn, look like modular metallic mountains, threaded through with narrow and perfectly parallel canyons. While adjusting the focus, Kaltos notices a staggered line of five armed figures clad in matte green flak armor skulking through one of these artificial defiles. They move with military discipline, checking their angles and covering each other as they advance.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Soon after settling into a prone posture with the magnoculars, Kaltos begins to pan them across the southern edge of Platform #7. The cargo-8 seems like a toy from this height, boxed in by the massive shipping containers surrounding it. The containers, in turn, look like modular metallic mountains, threaded through with narrow and perfectly parallel canyons. While adjusting the focus, Kaltos notices a staggered line of five armed figures clad in matte green flak armor skulking through one of these artificial defiles. They move with military discipline, checking their angles and covering each other as they advance.
Quietly I whisper "Look to the left side, I'll look at the right."
"Are these our 'backup.' They seem to be proficient at least."
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
"Are these our 'backup'?"
"They seem to be proficient at least."
There is a pause and crackle of static before Oktammor responds.
<<<"They're Oremor 7th Legion, well-trained guardsman from one of the southern claustrums, they are disciplined. Truth is, as Dunkan said, we're the back-up on this one. They will take the lead in investigating the shuttle based on our intel so far. The guardsmen from the shuttle and the corrupted commissar, Ekubal, who leads them are absent without leave. The ones you see below are the security contingent sent to bring them to heel.">>>
As the group of five quickly ascend the zig-zag rampways alongside Platform #7, Albrek points with one finger over the lip of the breathtakingly high rail toward a second group of five coming toward the shuttle from the far, northern side. More of the 7th Legion, apparently. Flanking their target in a classic pincer. There is still no sign of any opposition to this point.
Oktammor chimes in again, his next message obviously intended for more than just your band.
<<<"This is Overwatch. We have you covered at this time. Maintaining firing salients from the cargo-8 and the a high vantage on the crane. Still no outward sign of the targets, maintain caution on approach.">>>
The voice of a professional soldier answers, cold, hard and authoritarian.
<<<"Receive that, Overwatch. Expect to cordon and breach in five. Nothing showing on approach on our end, either.">>>
Bothle's Office, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"Go ahead Einhardt, you know what to do."Vincent looks back to Bothle for a moment and lowers the vox-reciever.
"Those facts are, one could say, open to interpretation."
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.