The Pipesource
"I do not fear death, in any form. But this is intended to be my execution. I am not skilled enough to deceive my executioner, and I must continue His work. As I said, one of us won't escape this with our lives."
Silus steps toward you just as you are finishing your conversation with Savalos. He begins speaking quietly in his curiously reedy voice, as if he was privy already to everything said thus far.
"You would be wise to fear death, stranger. The Auldmaw has claimed the lives of both the brave and the canny. Make no mistake, it was no accident that Luceros issued the challenge in such a way; he already knew it would be you among the rest who would accept. In a way, it was an off-handed compliment, it means he sees you as more of a threat than your fellows."
As Silus speaks so candidly, he keeps his hands raised high, continuing to gesticulate extravagantly and incite the chanting of the gathered Pack. It is a strange contrast to his calm and measured dialogue with you, but you are beginning to realize that the Alpha with the magenta-hued dreadlocks and paternal affinity for the duct wolves is a markedly different breed compared to the rest of his kin.
Glaring at Iacton with a dire scowl that belies his almost pleasant tone of voice, he gestures emphatically over the assassin's head with the odd sonic scepter he holds. A wry smile, invisible to the Duct Wolves ringing the chasm, creases his face.
"Unfortunately for Luceros, I think he has chosen poorly if his intent was to sabotage this alliance. I sense there is something of the wolf about you stranger, perhaps this will allow you to prevail where so many others have failed. Or perhaps not. Whatever the outcome, the wolf spirit and our ancestors will be honored."
Darting a glance over your right shoulder, Silus squints through his telescoping spectacles, and abruptly takes a much more sober and serious countenance. He whispers under his breath:
"Speak of the daemon, your dearest friend even now approaches..."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the imposing figure of Luceros descending the last of the rough-hewn steps. His contingent consists of a number of Duct Wolf enforcers, and they gather in a semi-circle behind him as he pulls the fur-trimmed hood down from his head.
Silus gestures Savalos to move to one side, and then fixes his magnified eyes upon yours.
Whispering again:
"Are you ready to begin?"
Lift #19, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
The nervous-looking young guardsman, perhaps recalling how much he owes you, shuffles from one foot to the other uncomfortably when you hand him the lho-stick.
Speaking as discretely as his flustered demeanor allows, he eyes Bothle uneasily.
"Listen, Vinc...I mean Senior Clerk Sepheris, I know I wasn't able to come through with that thing at the Aerie, but I promise, I'll make it up to you as soon as I can. You know I'm good for it, I've just had a run of bad luck lately, you know what I mean?"
He reluctantly slips the lho-stick into his uniform's vest pocket, perhaps comprehending the poor judgment it would show if he arrived for a fire emergency while smoking.
As the lift reaches the Garage level and your path to the Datacore, he begins to open the override panel so that he can ascend directly to the clerical level after you step off.
Vincent acknowledges Murjoff's statement with a curt nod.
"Just remember your debts, Corporal."
When the elevator arrives, Vincent strides nonchalantly out and starts making his way to the Datacore.
"Are you ready to begin?"
Iacton draws his blade, his eyes never leaving the pipe. His answer is clear.
I watch as Iacton draws his blade.
"Put some cloth in your ears. Otherwise her howls will make them bleed."
I take my place with the others.
The Pipesource
Silus plants the scepter into the strange, uneven ground in front of the enormous pipe. The material beneath your feet is a sludgy admixture of ancient, crumbled rockcrete, gleaming flecks of corroded metal, and a stinking night-black soil, the sluiced effluvia carried down and collected from countless Uphive drains. Raising both hands high overhead, he motions for the crowd of Duct Wolves to quiet their chanting, smiling like a proud father when a lone Duct Wolf continues his final ululating howl for a few seconds too long.
When he speaks, his voice does not seem to be deliberately projected, but carries tremendously in the echoing cavern just the same. His low, reverential preaching voice, quite unlike his higher-pitched conversational tone of a few moments ago, demands the attention of the gathered throng.
"Brothers, Sisters, Blood of my Pack, the hour of reckoning has come for the one you see before me."
At this, there are some murmured utterances from the gangers ringing the chasm edge above, followed by skeptical, almost affronted voices hissing along the path spiraling around you.
A master orator, Silus takes it all in stride, gently waving his upraised hands downward in a gesture for silence, the subtle motions themselves promising that all will be explained in good time.
"Our triune, your Packmasters have ordained this candidate, and judged him worthy. He is a stranger amongst us, an outsider, but he has staked his life to seal a pact with our Pack. Any who doubt our wisdom in allowing this, or those who vouchesafe for him (Silus gestures with either hand to Savalos and Sigmunt, respectively) let your voice be heard!"
It is quite clear from the abrupt silence that such a challenge is unheard of among the Duct Wolves. Many in their ranks even bow, or pointedly bare their own necks in signs of supplication and acceptance.
"The Pack's will is then known. He is called Iacton, and thus begins his Blooding."
With a flick of his wrist that is too fast to follow, Silus' hand comes up in a blur of motion and a flash of serrated steel. As his left hand returns to his side, Iacton only just now recognizes the gleaming edge of the scerrido clutched within it. A single drop of fluid pools on the razor-keen tip before dribbling to the loamy ground, as if suddenly reminded of gravity's laws. The assassin feels the damp on his cheek, and slowly senses the pinprick tingling there, and the coppery scent of his own blood.
"This worthy is now marked by the tooth of our kindred, his blood, as mine, flows in offering."
Turning theatrically to face the vast, gaping void of the huge pipe, Silus points with one bony finger into the circle of blackness.
"Know then, whether you become hunter or hunted, predator or prey, that your teacher and foe is the Auldmaw!"
Where once there were was sacrilegious doubt from the crowd, it is now replaced with outright shock, the confused murmurings indicative of the fact that the rest of the gang plainly see this as not a sacrament bestowed upon an outsider, but a sacrifice offered to their demigod. The inherent contradiction unsettles them greatly.
Silus senses their collective reprehension, the fear and doubt that this baffling turn of events has engendered in them. He never loses his composure. As if quoting the holy scripture of the God-Emperor himself, he intones an aphorism of his pagan beliefs:
"The Pack knows its own!"
Silence reigns again, but it is not solely brought about by Silus' exclamatory reprimand. The throng parts in respectful deference at the top of the spiraling, rock-hewn steps, as the She-Wolf, arm in arm with Uriah Trantor, begins her descent to the mouth of the Auldmaw's lair.
Silus, his audience once again in hand, their rapt attention returned, points to Iacton.
"Bare your fangs that they may be judged worthy to be whetted with the blood of the Auldmaw!"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
As the first of the corrupted guardsmen reach the base of the crane, Kaltos finds it far easier to see them, so perforated with las-fire is the control booth wall facing them. Their faces covered in olive-drab, bug-like respirator masks, they seem like something inhuman, scuttling up the service ladders with the preternatural quickness of flies walking on walls.
Their brethren take a few more paces forward, shoulder their las-rifles and begin raining fire down upon the upper reaches of the crane again.
Kaltos ducks his head again, his body barely shielded by the burnt and ragged metal of the durasteel rail-post he leans against.
The las-fire sizzles and cracks against the battered walls of the control booth, one passing just over the tech-priest's right shoulder, spraying a curtain of sparks down on his head, but he miraculously is unscathed by the sustained fire.
Albrek centers his aim again, one shot from your adversaries blistering the air above him, as the other rips through the grillwork catwalk he rests upon and punches through his armor near the shoulder.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Unggh!
Albrek grunts in pain as the well-placed las-round bursts through the shoulder-plate of his guard-issue armor. With amazing discipline, he shrugs off the painful wound, and rips away another burst of fire down on the guardsmen below.
The spray of fire rips through the arms and chest of the closest guardsman, spinning him like a child's toy, and blowing him clean out of one of his boots. He is dead before he hits the hard rockrete tarmac.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Before his fellows can notice he is down, two more of their number are run over from behind by the churning wheels of the massive cargo-8, one thrown senseless to the ground, the other pulped under the front left tire.
Kaltos pushes his microbead deeper into his ear, desperately trying to make out Oktammor's shouting voice, as it is barely audible through the link over the din of battle.
<<<"If you can hear me up there, I see what you're trying...These things are almost inside...SKRRKRRRRRRSHHH're...trying to pull alongside the platform to help out those poor troopers...let usSKRRKRRRRRRSHHH-fore you drop them!>>>"
Two of Dunkan's men begin firing through the topside gunports, trying to clear away the blanket of squirming beasts that still cling atop the vehicle's roof.
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Murjoff returns Vincent's nod with hesitant one of his own, and the doors to the lift close with a scrape of sliding metal. Vincent waits a moment longer, satisfying himself once he sees the numbers on digital floor read-out above the doors ascending again, and then turns, walking briskly across the Garage toward the guarded checkpoint entry to the Datacore.
Stepping around stinking pools of coolant and oil, while holding their breath against the oppressive stench of exhaust, Vincent and Bothle make their way under massive load-picking cranes, Rhino APCs jacked up on service lifts, and the glowering, vaguely mushroom shaped guard towers overseen by 7th Legion guardsmen and supervising tech-priests. Walking on elevated pedestrian catwalks that span factory-pits of mono-task servitors laboring under showers of power-tool sparks, they pass over vehicle service accessways vibrating with the passage of cargo haulers and transports, all the while picking their way around the numerous slow-moving repair servitors and lobotomized mekaniks trudging to their appointed tasks. Many of the great bay doors to the titanic motor pool of the claustrum stand open, the verdant greenery of the outlying plantations looking surreal and welcoming in the far distance, like something from another world, a paradise in comparison, far, far removed from the oppressive, chymical reek of this one.
A great deal more vehicles seem to be entering than exiting.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
<<<"If you can hear me up there, I see what you're trying...These things are almost inside...SKRRKRRRRRRSHHH're...trying to pull alongside the platform to help out those poor troopers...let usSKRRKRRRRRRSHHH-fore you drop them!>>>"
"I am dropping it in a few seconds do you want me to wait."
Even if Iacton didn't show it, Silus' speed with the blade worried him. If he wished, he could of slashed his throat and not his cheek. He should just be thankful Silus seems to be on his side and be ready for the next time.
"Bare your fangs that they may be judged worthy to be whetted with the blood of the Auldmaw!"
But now Iacton must leave those thoughts behind, for the test was fast approaching. First, he presents Silus with his newest blade, the one with a blade sharpened to a razor's edge. The knives came out next, both the sword's companion and the blade that has been with him for decades, and they too were given for inspection. His navel shotgun came soon after, the light glimmering off the name engraved on it's stock. Almost as an afterthought, Iacton hands over his laspistol.
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Murjoff returns Vincent's nod with hesitant one of his own, and the doors to the lift close with a scrape of sliding metal. Vincent waits a moment longer, satisfying himself once he sees the numbers on digital floor read-out above the doors ascending again, and then turns, walking briskly across the Garage toward the guarded checkpoint entry to the Datacore.
Stepping around stinking pools of coolant and oil, while holding their breath against the oppressive stench of exhaust, Vincent and Bothle make their way under massive load-picking cranes, Rhino APCs jacked up on service lifts, and the glowering, vaguely mushroom shaped guard towers overseen by 7th Legion guardsmen and supervising tech-priests. Walking on elevated pedestrian catwalks that span factory-pits of mono-task servitors laboring under showers of power-tool sparks, they pass over vehicle service accessways vibrating with the passage of cargo haulers and transports, all the while picking their way around the numerous slow-moving repair servitors and lobotomized mekaniks trudging to their appointed tasks. Many of the great bay doors to the titanic motor pool of the claustrum stand open, the verdant greenery of the outlying plantations looking surreal and welcoming in the far distance, like something from another world, a paradise in comparison, far, far removed from the oppressive, chymical reek of this one.
A great deal more vehicles seem to be entering than exiting.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
"I am dropping it in a few seconds, do you want me to wait?"
Kaltos' response is only met by an incoherent burst of garbled static. It is clear from the tech-priest's vantage point that the cargo-8, rumbling engine revving loudly, is moving directly across the middle of his intended drop zone for the fuel canisters.
Even if Iacton didn't show it, Silus' speed with the blade worried him. If he wished, he could of slashed his throat and not his cheek. He should just be thankful Silus seems to be on his side and be ready for the next time.
"Bare your fangs that they may be judged worthy to be whetted with the blood of the Auldmaw!"But now Iacton must leave those thoughts behind, for the test was fast approaching. First, he presents Silus with his newest blade, the one with a blade sharpened to a razor's edge. The knives came out next, both the sword's companion and the blade that has been with him for decades, and they too were given for inspection. His navel shotgun came soon after, the light glimmering off the name engraved on it's stock. Almost as an afterthought, Iacton hands over his laspistol.
Summoning one of Lucero's bodyguards with a subtle flick of his hand, Silus motions for him to collect the old starship-rated shotgun and las-pistol from Iacton's hands. The young ganger, head bowed low and nervous from drawing the Alpha's attention, backs away with the weapons quickly, carrying them with exaggerated care. Finished glowering at the youth as if it was he that interrupted the ceremony, Silus turns back to you, stoically appraising the blades.
"No scerridos are these, but your fangs are worthy, outsider. Take what you will and pray that they are as keen the Auldmaw's own."
Looking up to the fissure in the roof of the chasm, scanning the rapt eyes of his Pack, Silus closes his own meditatively, the hushed sound of the polluted cataracts falling from the pipes in the abyss far below the only sound. Gesturing toward the great circular maw of the Auldmaw's pipe-lair with his left hand he intones loudly so that all may hear:
"The Blooding has begun; may the true Wolf survive."
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Even with his nose wrinkling from the stench of the vehicle exhaust, and his eyes watering from the searing glow of countless weld-torches, Vincent can see something peculiar about the vehicular traffic flowing slowly into the massive motor pool.
There are a great many medicae transports queuing up for service and disgorging stretcher-borne patients, all prisoners by the looks of them. They are being unloaded by harried guardsmen in respirators and bio-containment gear in the northeastern quadrant of the Garage, apparently destined for the claustrum's central medicae facilities.
Bothle, moving quickly along the pedestrian catwalk, turns his head to look in your direction while waiting for you to catch up, recognizing your momentary distraction.
"What is it, boss?"
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Kaltos' response is only met by an incoherent burst of garbled static. It is clear from the tech-priest's vantage point that the cargo-8, rumbling engine revving loudly, is moving directly across the middle of his intended drop zone for the fuel canisters.
With a prayer to the machine spirit of the gun I unleash a spread of fire.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Realizing that the slow-moving cargo-8 will require some time to traverse the midst of the battlefield below, Kaltos stands to his full height and leans over the still smoldering rail of the control compartment, firing from the hip with his las-gun, the staccato whip-crack sound of each loosed shot echoing in his damaged helmet.
The corrupted guardsman scaling the central ladder looks up just as you center your aim on him over the side. You are both surprised at first, him that you are no longer pinned down by his companion's suppressive fire, and you by the fact that he has climbed so quickly that he is only three meters or so away from the lip of Albrek's platform. With his lasgun slung over his should for the ascent, he clings to the ladder with one gloved hand while fumbling at his belt holster for his pistol with the other. Your burst catches him dead center in the chest, ripping up his right arm in the process and making him drop the weapon. His agony is hidden mutely by the bug-eyed black respirator he wears over his entire face, but it forces his hand away from the rung he was clutching just the same. The guardsman falls after the pistol, pinwheeling away below you with a mask-muffled scream of surprise. He plummets to his death, landing with a loud crunch on the rockcrete twenty meters below.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
After following the terminal trajectory of the fallen guardsman, the hideously bloated commissar and Kaltos lock eyes for a moment and the repugnant servant of the Ruinous Powers pins him with a hate-filled stare. Sensing the changing tactical situation, he turns his obese form and leaps down with wholly unexpected, metal-crunching grace from the roof of the sanitation hauler's cab to its hood, and then to the ground, interposing it as cover between him and the steady rain of fire coming out of the wildly fishtailing cargo-8.
He turns back toward the crane when he reaches the ground and points with a fat finger, stabbing once, then twice in the tech-priest's direction as if marking him in his twisted memory for later punishment. Ekubal then raises his recharged plasma pistol and takes careful aim again.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Meanwhile, atop the landing platform, the 7th legion guardsmen struggle to sustain their fire against a fresh surge of the toothy-mawed abominations. The flamer belches another clouburst of scorching promethium from under the bright blue glow of its pilot-light, incinerating the first wave of the beasts, but the remaining guardsmen can barely keep up with the things scuttling toward them. One of their number loses his composure and begins banging on the sealed belly hatch of the churraptus-class shuttle after being thwarted by the locked access panel, and with nowhere else to run, his compatriots cluster around the angled metal ramp to make their last stand.
Kaltos can make out a shouted portion of the transmission from what sounds like the leader of the squad over his static-filled microbead.
<<<Hold the line dammit! Covering fire! SKRKSHHHHHK Get that flamer to the southern edge of the platform...there's SKRKSHHHHHK-lp on the way, we're not getting in the bird so stop trying!!!>>>
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
As if sensing the guardsmen's desperation, the creeping doom that is the swarm of tiny horrors finally begin a concerted push of their wriggling bodies to burst through the upper door-housing to the platform's rampway tower.
Those of their numbers, easily fifty or more, that are already atop the platform seem to suddenly stop running about crazily like gadabout roaches, and move en masse to charge the beleaguered guardsmen, as if suddenly harnessed by some malign outside intelligence. Some of them emerge, still burning, from the most recent curtain of flame, to drag down two of the poor souls into the spreading carpet of filthy, twitching hands and maws, devouring the men alive.
Although the petulant little monsters continue to screech and writhe atop the cargo-8, many of them have been cleared away by the jouncing motion of the vehicle or the steady small arms fire unleashed from the roof-top gun-ports. Still, many of them are even now encircling the flashes of light where the weapons fire originates, pulling together with their grotesque little claws in a cooperative effort to rip the hatch-covers away. No longer in the deadly path of the vehicle, one of the two corrupted guardsmen surviving on the ground runs past his dead, wheel-pulped companion to the back of the sanitation hauler, as if looking for something left behind, while the other fires ineffectually on the rear of the heavy truck. With a sharp squeal of air-brakes Oktammor has finally pulled the cargo-8 even with the southern edge of platform #7.
The Pipesource
As Krade's aide steps up over a pile of crumbled rockcrete effluvia into the curved floor of the titanic pipe, Savalos and Uriah look on pensively, Iacton's tiny form looking like nothing more than a receding mote of color silhouetted against the titanic, inky-black eye of some benthic-dwelling leviathan.
Gently releasing the She-Wolf's arm at her request, Uriah steps away, countless new thoughts and memories fighting for prominence in his mind. He struggles to collect them in some semblance of order, and finds himself standing beside Silus, who fixates upon the entrance to the Auldmaw's lair almost like some sentinel statue. In fact, all of the gathered Duct Wolves stand watching, eerily silent and the cavernous Pipesource takes on the atmosphere of a sewer-like tomb.
"Petition your God-Emperor or whatever else hears your prayers, voidborn. Pray that your friend survives this Blooding. For, if he fails, and things come to pass as the She-Wolf has foreseen, I fear we will all perish."
Savalos moves to stand beside his mother where she waits her vigil as eldest wolf, isolated and alone, closer than any of the others to the cyclopean opening to the pipe. When he draws near, he senses her curious aura of frailty and inner strength, and takes her pale white hand in his own when she extends it from within the furred sleeve of her robe.
He can hear the tears in her pained voice, even with her face concealed within the cowl of her upraised hood.
"You have questions. We now have the time. Ask them, my son."
"May the Emperor grant Iacton the strength for the trial he is in, that he may continue the work he is doing in your name."
I make the sign of the Aquila.
The Pipesource
"You have questions. We now have the time. Ask them, my son."
I take my Mother's hand firmly. As much as I want to share sentiments I know now is not the time. All eyes will be on Iacton. I lean in close and whisper into her ear.
"I need to know what I can to kill your Hunter. I can beat the man. I know his weakness. How do I kill the Daemon?" Where do I need to look.
"Whats your relationship to the Old Man?" He recognized your cards...
And my final question reachs the Old She Wolves ear barely as a whisper. "You suspect a traitor within the pack?"
As he steps into the pipe, Iacton bows his head. "I shall fear neither blade nor bullet, for I am the Emperor's blade..." He trails off as he enters the pipe, the last sound heard being the soft scraping of blades being unsheathed once more.
Lair of the Auldmaw
As he steps into the pipe, Iacton bows his head. "I shall fear neither blade nor bullet, for I am the Emperor's blade..." He trails off as he enters the pipe, the last sound heard being the soft scraping of blades being unsheathed once more.
1d100;1d100
Iacton cannot shake the disturbing sense that he has been swallowed alive as he stalks deeper into the night-black gullet of the titanic pipe. The ritual torches behind him in the fissure-chamber have long since receded to flickering, reddish pin-points. Now, having forgone the offer to carry one of the lit brands or a lamp-pack, the only source of illumination for him are the clustered blooms of gray-green phosphorescent fungoids that cling to the rounded walls and ceiling like misshapen barnacles; their ambient luminescence providing just enough for his integral photovisor to compensate for his blindness in the inky darkness.
Even through his respirator, the stink is nearly overpowering, like the smell wafting up from a million uncleaned drains. He is reminded of the cloying reek of the bilge-decks of the Stern Hope, whose ventral holds were made so pungently aromatic by their constantly leaking reclamation conduits, channeling the craft's waste-water for the necessary recycling process. As a child, the tangled knots of pipe-work were an unexplored 'wilderness' to he and his sister, the foul smell simply an unfortunate background miasma to their adventures into the unknown. This was exponentially worse.
The cold water comes nearly to his ankles, chilling his feet even through his well-insulated boots. It fills the lower quarter of the pipe, forcing him to walk through it, as the curve of the walls is simply too steep to negotiate above the waterline to this point. Trying to keep his mind off of the discomfort, the assassin's mind wanders, considering for the first time what truly may be at stake. It is clear that gaining the cooperation of the Duct Wolves will prove essential to their mission, and if he ever hopes to find Master Krade, he must succeed in this, his Blooding. His inquisitorial companions have placed their trust in him, and whatever else may happen, he means to honor their faith in him. An acolyte. That is what he has become.
Chiding himself for the barest of splashes, Iacton begins to move toward the left-hand edge of the pipe, walking with finely-honed balance along the gentle curve beside the murky, effluvia-filled waterway. Now that its level has receded somewhat in a slightly inclined stretch of the passage he has adequate room to walk. Here, an hour into his sojourn through the lair of the Auldmaw, he finds massive clusters of bell-shaped mushroom caps sprouting from the walls, born aloft on polypous, tentacular stalks that twist and bend to block his path in places. Their thumbnail-sized spores drift aimlessly in the cavernous pipe, glowing a lambent blue-green, borne aloft by the foul gases that linger near the rusting vents and small outflow pipes.
The eerie sound, when it comes, is deafeningly loud. Echoing with a gong-like reverberation through the metallic pipe, it makes the floating spores flutter and dance. The unique noise is one Iacton remembers well from his flight with the others along sub-basement maintenance accessway number 232. Preceded by a subsonic ping of the eardrums like a shipborne echo-locator, it further modulates to a series of deeply-pitched, barking whistles, almost sounding like a lowing, crooning interrogative {what-is-there-what-is-that?} to the assassin's ears. He thinks of his lone misstep and the splash it made, and slowly edges his body back into the pipe wall so that it is nestled, hidden for a moment, wreathed by the outgrowths of twisting fungi.
It sounds like the duct wolves beneath Spire #16, only much, much, larger.
The Pipesource
I take my Mother's hand firmly. As much as I want to share sentiments I know now is not the time. All eyes will be on Iacton. I lean in close and whisper into her ear.
"I need to know what I can to kill your Hunter. I can beat the man. I know his weakness. How do I kill the Daemon?" Where do I need to look.
Your mother returns you touch with a gentle clench of her own long-fingered hands, turning her cowled head ever so slightly so that your might hear her hushed voice better.
"It was never a question of Waldrimm the man, my son. He has carried that unnatural thing within him since that bloody day so long ago, a willing victim of his own avariciousness, jealous lust, and dark curiosity. The daemon within toys with Waldrimm, it transcends our febrile notions of time and reason. If it had wished me dead, I would be dead a thousand times over a long time ago. No, it inflames his blind hatred of me to serve its purposes when the need arises, but keeps him cuckolded to its own desires otherwise. I know only that it is ageless, insane, and its scheme is so convoluted and labyrinthine, so long in the planning, that it makes the petty concerns and motives of our own lives seem like the prattling of children to it."
"I truly fear it cannot be defeated."
"What's your relationship to the Old Man?" He recognized your cards...
"Your benefactor is not known to me, but I sense he is no less a masterful schemer than our foe. He has chosen you, chosen the others for his own designs with reason. It is no coincidence you are all here at the convergent crescendo of this madness. We can only hope that your master possesses the answer to this riddle."
And my final question reaches the Old She Wolves ear barely as a whisper. "You suspect a traitor within the pack?"
"No. Luceros, the bravest and most stalwart of our warriors is only obeying his deepest vows, to keep the Pack alive at all costs. He has forgotten that sometimes it is better to perish than live on in fear."
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Even with his nose wrinkling from the stench of the vehicle exhaust, and his eyes watering from the searing glow of countless weld-torches, Vincent can see something peculiar about the vehicular traffic flowing slowly into the massive motor pool.
There are a great many medicae transports queuing up for service and disgorging stretcher-borne patients, all prisoners by the looks of them. They are being unloaded by harried guardsmen in respirators and bio-containment gear in the northeastern quadrant of the Garage, apparently destined for the claustrum's central medicae facilities.
Bothle, moving quickly along the pedestrian catwalk, turns his head to look in your direction while waiting for you to catch up, recognizing your momentary distraction.
"What is it, boss?"
At the sight of the guardsmen and their patients Vincent's mind drifts back to Ekubal's bloated form, flies pouring from his mouth. He remembers the Warden-Colonel's ague and the he wonders if his day could possibly get any worse.
"Nothing good Bothle, nothing good."
Keeping my voice low I continue to whisper into my Mothers ear.
"I know it can be beaten. It can be tricked, and it can't reign in Waldrimm's emotions if they are stoked enough. I believe Johnnie is the key to defeating it. He did it once before when he was a street enforcer. But he can't do it alone."
"The Old Man knows the cards you gave me. Speaking of which. I need a magnifying glass. I need to take a closer look at one of the cards."
"Good. That sets my mind at rest. I have seen too many betrayals of trust recently. Its become second nature to question."
Iacton waits, knowing that his foe will arrive soon enough. He won't find it by blindly wandering the pipes, but if it makes it's presence known somehow he can find it before it finds him.
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
At the sight of the guardsmen and their patients Vincent's mind drifts back to Ekubal's bloated form, flies pouring from his mouth. He remembers the Warden-Colonel's ague and the he wonders if his day could possibly get any worse."Nothing good Bothle, nothing good."
Not daring to linger any longer than necessary in the Garage, Vincent turns, his thoughts troubled, and waves Bothle along toward the entry to the Datacore.
After another short exchange with the monotone servitor at the doorway the pair are granted entry by virtue of the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor token. The sterile, overly oxygenated, and vaguely metallic smelling recirculated air within is a welcome reprieve from the foul fumes of the Garage.
Bothle stands beside you as the door seals, his discomfort in the enclave of the Adeptus Mechanicus evident in his body language.
Looking around in awe at the advanced cogitator equipment seamlessly integrated into the stainless steel finish of the adjoining corridors, he whispers to you.
"I hope you have a plan, Vince."
The Pipesource
"Petition your God-Emperor or whatever else hears your prayers, voidborn. Pray that your friend survives this Blooding. For, if he fails, and things come to pass as the She-Wolf has foreseen, I fear we will all perish."
"As I have seen, also. Not just this world , not just us, this whole system is in danger of destruction. I told you and the others the stakes. I hope the other one of you alphas (implying Luceros) does not let other concerns interfere with the work that must be done."
EDIT: "He is already causing difficulties that will delay us, and possibly cause the death of an ally, and that might cause us to fail. He is letting his prejudices cloud his judgement."
The Pipesource
Keeping my voice low I continue to whisper into my Mothers ear.
"I know it can be beaten. It can be tricked, and it can't reign in Waldrimm's emotions if they are stoked enough. I believe Johnnie is the key to defeating it. He did it once before when he was a street enforcer. But he can't do it alone."
Ariella tenses at this, her concern written in the kohl-rimmed eyes that find your own.
"You still do not understand my son. Juan Rico is being drawn to the thing within Waldrimm like a moth to flame, much the same as Waldrimm was beguiled by it so long ago. It let Johnnie believe he had banished it, in much the same way its purposes were served by sparing you and the girl."
"You are correct though, the daemon cannot be faced alone."
"The Old Man knows the cards you gave me. Speaking of which. I need a magnifying glass. I need to take a closer look at one of the cards."
"The cards once belonged to your grandfather, and his father before him, and so on and so forth back to the time of the Angevin Crusade. They were to be my own bequest when I came of age, as I had no brothers. I inherited them the night that thing nearly ended our line. This heirloom now belongs to you, my son. It is no surprise to this old lass that your Master has taken an interest in the cards, as you no doubt know by now, they are quite...unique."
It seems only your mother, the She-Wolf, remains still when the echoing call of the Auldmaw sounds from within the massive pipe, everyone else starts involuntarily or turns in visceral fear toward the howl resonating from the circular void.
Lair of the Auldmaw
Iacton waits, knowing that his foe will arrive soon enough. He won't find it by blindly wandering the pipes, but if it makes it's presence known somehow he can find it before it finds him.
1d100
Iacton freezes in place, trusting to his rigorous training to slow his pounding heart and still the tremor in his hands. Turning his head ever so slowly to his left, in the direction away from the Pipesource and his companions, he watches as a hulking shadow moves through a cross-pipe running perpendicular to the one he presently lurks within. The sloshing sounds of water displaced in the things wake are strange; a tripartite rhythm created by the duct wolf's unnatural tertiary gait. A steaming exhalation of vaporous breath flows from its maw as it turns to look in his direction, testing the air with deep, snorting breaths. A blooping series of cetacean-sounding barks follow, as it sounds the intervening distance.
The shaggy beast is easily twice as large as the vicious predators you encountered in the bowels of Spire #16.
My words fall to silence as I hear the howl of the Auldmaw. Its Iacton's time, and the fate of this newborn alliance rests within him. I wait for a long moment before I speak again is a hushed tone.
"What do you know about High Arbiter Krade?"
"What can you tell me about our family in the spires I never knew? Are there any debts we can cash in against the enemy of our line?"
It is only a matter of time before the Auldmaw notices him.If he had any hope for this, he had to get the first strike...
Iacton leaps forward and attempts to slash at the great beast.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
The four remaining corrupted guardsman clinging to the superstructure of the crane almost comically turn as one, the bulbous eyes of their grotesque, weevil-like respirator masks following the plummet of their companion. Recognizing their vulnerability, the lower two on the ladders draw las-pistols and begin firing at Kaltos and Albrek's positions, as the closer pair continue climbing all the faster.
The las-rounds burst against the lower edges of the catwalks with showers of sizzling sparks, but neither Albrek or Kaltos is struck. However, it provides enough of a threat that the two climbers are afforded an opportunity to nearly reach the acolytes.
The nearest pulls himself up on to Albrek's catwalk seconds later, pulling his lasgun and dropping to a crouch to fire. The other keeps moving hand over hand up the adjacent ladder in an attempt to reach Kaltos on the control booth's narrow platform.
Noticing almost too late that he has company, Albrek swings his own lasgun up and unleashes a burst of sustained fire just as his adversary takes aim.
Surprised by his new foe's sudden arrival, Albrek sprays wildly, his fire ripping into the railing and the top of the ladder, just missing the guardsman.
Meanwhile, below, the cargo-8 lurches into gear again, slewing wildly as it scrapes with a horrific grinding of metal on metal against the base of Platform #7 in the driver's effort to get as close as possible.
About a dozen or so of the tiny daemons still cling to the roof, the dorsal gunpods continuing to chatter in efforts to clear them off. The vast majority of the tiny horde even now scurries to catch up to the idling vehicle.
Kaltos hears a buzz over microbead, and the indistinct sound of Oktammor's desperate voice.
<<<"SKRRSHHHHH...or never, DROP THEM!">>>
Lair of the Auldmaw
It is only a matter of time before the Auldmaw notices him.If he had any hope for this, he had to get the first strike...
Iacton leaps forward and attempts to slash at the great beast.
1d100;1d10+3
1d10
The assassin pushes off from one of the massive rusting rivets on the curved pipe-wall, dashing forward along the sloping surface, his footfalls padding with relative silence across the filthy, packed mats of shed spores, propelling them into the fetid air again. The squealing echoes of the beast's calls change in pitch as it senses him to an amplitude that is nearly ear-splitting just as Iacton leaps toward it, sword flashing down in a killing arc toward the duct wolf's center mass.
The curved monoblade slices through the flank of the creature, just above its right foreleg, sluicing a sheet of bile-yellow blood in a wide spray against the far wall of the crossing pipe. The terrible shriek that follows nearly deafens Iacton in the echoing cylinder of metal, but he somehow lands on his feet, skidding nearly half a meter across the slime-covered floor. He spins to face his adversary as the beast turns on him in a feral rage.
The Pipesource
My words fall to silence as I hear the howl of the Auldmaw. Its Iacton's time, and the fate of this newborn alliance rests within him. I wait for a long moment before I speak again is a hushed tone.
"What do you know about High Arbiter Krade?"
After hearing the bellowing howl of the Auldmaw, even your mother seems reticent to break the hushed silence that has fallen over the rest of those present in the Pipesource. When she does, her voice is soft, barely audible over the ghostly echoes still reverberating through the cavern.
"I know only that he is somehow the crux of everything that is occurring on this world, and he may be the only one who yet knows how to prevent the coming apocalypse."
"What can you tell me about our family in the spires I never knew? Are there any debts we can cash in against the enemy of our line?"
"I was but a girl when I fled from Waldrimm and the daemon, but even then I knew that our family was relatively destitute when compared amongst the spire-nobility of Orcut VII. I remember that our failing agricultural holdings on Unduz III troubled my father to no end. My old life in the spires is something I have turned my back on forever, my son. This is my home, you and the Pack are my family now."
"Still..."
You mother pauses, a terrible subsonic shriek piercing the silence, forestalling her reverie.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
I throw the lever to have the barrels plummet to the ground and then turn toward the ladder to the control booth and unleash a spray of fire.
The Garage, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Not daring to linger any longer than necessary in the Garage, Vincent turns, his thoughts troubled, and waves Bothle along toward the entry to the Datacore.
After another short exchange with the monotone servitor at the doorway the pair are granted entry by virtue of the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor token. The sterile, overly oxygenated, and vaguely metallic smelling recirculated air within is a welcome reprieve from the foul fumes of the Garage.
Bothle stands beside you as the door seals, his discomfort in the enclave of the Adeptus Mechanicus evident in his body language.
Looking around in awe at the advanced cogitator equipment seamlessly integrated into the stainless steel finish of the adjoining corridors, he whispers to you.
"I hope you have a plan, Vince."
Vincent looks around for the door's controls, eager to sequester himself from his pursuers, and whatever else is happening.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Cautiously peeking his head over the still smoldering rail, Kaltos realizes he has almost no time left before the corrupted guardsman is upon him. Gauging the crane's position as it ponderously swings into place, he waits impatiently, urging the ancient thing on with hissed benedictions to the Omnissiah. Knowing that he can wait no longer, he triggers the emergency release at the last possible moment, nearly falling to the deck with the sudden vibration that shivers through the boom's superstructure.
The canisters seem to fall in slow motion, the binding chains suddenly falling away on all sides to flail penduously, like the twisting mechadendrites of an enraged magos. With hollow clangs of metal on metal they collide together in mid-air from their loosely stacked position, and then fall end over end toward the hard rockcrete tarmac below.
Kaltos sees none of this, already moving with his lasgun readied to the top of the ladder, hoping that his foe fell from the unexpected tremor that just rocked the crane as it released its weighty payload. For some inexplicable reason his partially augmetic mind flashes back to Launce and the scrapyard, a whisper of dubious deja vu, normally an occurrence that elicits a quaint feeling of surprise in his logic driven mind; a vestigial bug from the organic base his body is built upon. Oddly, this time he is not amused, the feeling instead fills him with unease. Just as the tech-priest looks over the ladder terminus, a grime encrusted black hand, the yellowed nails caked in filth, grabs hold of his right ankle. Taken completely by surprise, his distracted burst just misses reducing the corrupted guardsman's head to an afterthought. While Kaltos staggers backward, struggling to regain his balance and not tumble to his death below, the burly trooper in the hideous respirator quickly gains his own footing, simultaneously charging toward the tech-priest with a foot-long, serrated trench knife held high overhead.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Vincent looks around for the door's controls, eager to sequester himself from his pursuers, and whatever else is happening.
As the door seals behind he and Bothle, Vincent examines the terminal panel on the Datacore side with a mixture of uncertainty and frustration. It appears the inner controls are designed specifically with the Adeptus Mechanicus in mind, as the sole interface he can see is the staring black socket of a dataport, surrounded by the shiny metallic crescent-moon shapes of its locking rings. Bothle looks to you skeptically, shrugging his shoulders as if to apologize for not having an electro-graft conveniently protruding from his ample belly. He shakes his head from side to side nervously. You realize now that you have stopped your frenetic escape for a moment, he is starting to comprehend the enormity of what your actions portend for him.
Lair of the Auldmaw
As Iacton finishes cleaving a perfectly placed gouge through the huge duct wolf's flank, he pirouettes adroitly in the slick muck, bringing his monoblade up to a guarded position, and setting his feet as best he can against the raging predators inevitable counterattack.
The creature does not disappoint, squealing a series of barking shrieks to echolocate Iacton's precise position in a veritable heartbeat, before coiling its lone rear leg and lunging toward him after disorienting zig-zag charge.
The brute's huge jaws snap shut just inches from the assassin's elbow, and he spins away from the shaggy black creature's vicious bite, the girth of the thing driving him back toward the curving wall of the huge pipe.
Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7
Mercifully to your ears, the repugnant commissar abruptly ceases his chortling, croaking laughter, slowly lowering his plasma pistol.
Had Kaltos been close enough to see, he would have noticed with satisfaction the look of sadistic overconfidence once etched upon Ekubal's porcine countenance suddenly disappearing. With surprising, almost preternatural grace for one so fat, the bloated freak drops to the ground, shielding his body from the coming conflagration with the weighty bulk of the interposing sanitation hauler.
The gunpods go silent atop the cargo-8, and the few nurglings remaining continue to pull and pry at the hatches, wriggling and scratching without effect on the thick armored plating. A burst of microbead chatter follows soon after, although Kaltos cannot be certain of the source through the overwhelming static:
<<<SKRSSHHHHH...OVE, MOVE MOVE!!!>>>
As one, your guardsmen allies begin a tactical withdrawal to the edge of the platform, firing sustained bursts between crow-hopping lateral movements, the cloud of ignited promethium from the flamer arcs outward to keep their foes at bay. Many more of the foul daemons are now moving amongst the men, snapping and biting at their heels from all sides.
Somehow the guardsman manage to keep the ever-increasing tide of creatures from overrunning their last, desperate stand. But, even so, one more of their number is dragged down by the cunning beasts, at least a half-dozen of their number leaping upon his back from behind to propel him through the very wall of fire serving to protect him. They chew and gnaw at his flesh the entire time, even as they all ignite upon his flailing, flame-consumed form.
The other swarm has collected itself somewhat, and even now surges to the back of the idling cargo-8 as the rooftop hatches are raised.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
As the door seals behind he and Bothle, Vincent examines the terminal panel on the Datacore side with a mixture of uncertainty and frustration. It appears the inner controls are designed specifically with the Adeptus Mechanicus in mind, as the sole interface he can see is the staring black socket of a dataport, surrounded by the shiny metallic crescent-moon shapes of its locking rings. Bothle looks to you skeptically, shrugging his shoulders as if to apologize for not having an electro-graft conveniently protruding from his ample belly. He shakes his head from side to side nervously. You realize now that you have stopped your frenetic escape for a moment, he is starting to comprehend the enormity of what your actions portend for him.
Iacton adjusts his stance and swings both his blades upwards into the Auldmaw's flank.