I will sustain Spasm. I do not believe I have any actions, or I will have a hard time maintaining the powers.
Rolling for Righteous Fury
I unload my round into the Auldmaws skull. I then quickly take a step back, and turn to see what I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye.
What do I see. My action depends on what I see.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
+++LITTLE TIME REMAINS, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. THE DESIGNS OF OUR MUTUAL FOES INCLUDE THE ANNIHILATION OF THIS WORLD ENTIRE. THEY WILL NOT HESITATE TO VIOLATE THE SANCTITY OF THIS, THE MACHINE CULT'S HOLY DATACORE, WHEN THE REPERCUSSIONS OF THE OMNISSIAH'S WRATH WILL MATTER NAUGHT TO THEM.+++
+++OUR FATE IS SEALED.+++
+++WE HAVE SERVED THE CLAUSTRUM FOR MILLENIA BUT THE END PORTENDED BY THIS LOGIS FOR OURSELVES IS CERTAIN. WE CANNOT FLEE, NOR WOULD WE. THAT IS NOT TO SAY WE CANNOT RENDER LASTING ASSISTANCE TO ONE WHO WOULD AVENGE THE DESTRUCTION OF OUR HOLY WORKS. YOU, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}, ARE A CONFOUNDING VARIABLE AND EXIST OUTSIDE OF THE FLOW OF THE POSSIBILITY CLUSTER. YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN YOUR PECULIARITY, OTHERS EXIST OUTSIDE OF THE CAUSALITY OF THIS SYSTEM. THE TEMPORAL ANOMALY THAT HAS BROUGHT ON THIS STATE IS PERSISTENT AND COUNTLESS OUTCOMES FLOW FROM IT, ONLY A MINUTE PERCENTAGE OF WHICH COULD BE CATEGORIZED AS 'POSITIVE' IN THE END STATE OF THE DATA TO YOUR RECKONING.+++
+++EVEN NOW THEY BREACH OUR OUTER DEFENSES. ASK WHAT YOU WILL OF US IN THE PRECIOUS TIME LEFT.+++
The Pipesource
Rolling for Righteous Fury
I unload my round into the Auldmaws skull. I then quickly take a step back, and turn to see what I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye.
Savalos leaps another tentacle, steps upon and over the body of a dead packmate and then forcibly jams the barrel of his duct sweeper through the thin outer membrane of one of the Auldmaw's vestigial eyes. Gritting his teeth against the awful, echoing wails of the beast, he pulls the trigger, the blast nearly wrenching the shotgun from his ichor-slicked hand. The gun explodes the side of the ancient creature's skull in a shower of yellow gore, chitinous fragments, and neural tissue, the stench of expended cordite mixing with the sickly musk of the corrupted creature. The Auldmaw's death howl does not abruptly end, so much as trail off into silence, petering out like a burnt out vox recording cycling down to nothing. The monster's huge bulk gives a slouching lurch as the last of the gunfire ceases and then all is still.
The sudden quiet is almost as deafening as the cacophony that has filled your ears for the last several minutes, It does not seem real.
You quickly turn to see what the flicker of movement was, a sickening dread filling you as you look past Ariella.
The Pipesource
Uriah senses the movement just as Savalos pulls the trigger, and tears his eyes away from the Auldmaw's death, even as some part of him knows what is about to happen. The confusing subconscious wash of the She-Wolf's psyche, still shared with his own, creates a terrible double-vision to his senses, the scene playing out before him overlayed with Ariella's own prophetic divinations.
An emaciated old man, his withered frame swimming in a tattered black greatcoat and torn noble's finery stumbles toward Ariella from behind. His pallor is gray as ash, and seems spent somehow, almost transparently washed-out, like old parchment. Long, scraggly gray hair recedes from his skull, hanging lank and lifeless down his back. In his hands he holds something, but Uriah cannot make it out at first, as it is half-hidden in his wide sleeves. As he draws nearer both he and Savalos can see the man's archly pointed eyebrows, flecked throughout with grey, drowning out the black that remains. His face is a mask of rapturous madness, somehow sickeningly between ecstasy and anguish. Neither acolyte recognizes him at first, so utterly different he is from the last time either saw him.
The eyes perhaps are the reason for this; although filled with maniacal intensity, they are a drab, ochre-brown in hue, nothing like the lambent indigo orbs they both remember.
As he reaches Ariella, one arm swings up high above his head, and his piteously croaking old man's voice calls out:
"Ariella...Ariella my love, you are finally...finally...MINE!!!"
The Pipesource
Too far away to act, Savalos sees what is clutched in Waldrimm's bony hand before it descends. It is a rusty scalpel.
I will fire on The Eviscerator (though I do not know him, except for Savalos' description.)
The feeling of elation of killing the Auldmaw quickly drains from me as I see the decrepit old man raise the rusty scalpels over his head. Knowing the Eviserator has finally found his mark. Praying that my Mother is quick enough to avoid his blades with the aid of Uriah's well aimed shot.
Then a more unsettling feeling washes over me. The movements are all wrong. He is slow, uncoordinated, his eyes... As much as I love my Mother, I have a deeper fear. The Daemon is gone. Johnnie...
The Pipesource
Uriah is bombarded by the thoughts of those around him, a legacy of the psychic imprint left upon him by the She-Wolf; the scuttling lunacy of Waldrimm's obsessive fixation, lust, and hatred, Savalos' eradicated relief turned to helpless horror, and strangely, Ariella's tranquil acceptance of what is to come.
The She-Wolf's face is placid, almost serenely so, as she lowers her arms to her side, the flickering vestiges of the purplish-black witchfire around her diminishing from a smoldering halo to a weak glow illuminating her pale skin.
Never moving, she centers her eyes upon Savalos just as he turns and mouths a silent goodbye before closing them. Waldrimm's frail arm pulls her close to him from behind, almost with the tenderness of a lover as Uriah brings up the compact las, hesitating a split-second in his aim to find an angle that will not strike the She-Wolf.
As he fires, the man who was once the Eviscerator, now a withered husk of a human being, draws the rust-spotted scalpel across Ariella's throat with the practiced ease of one who has repeated the motion a thousand times. The las-round rips through his ragged pants at almost the same time, punching through his emaciated thigh, but the deed is already done.
Eyes still closed, Ariella, Packmistress of the Duct Wolves, the Old She-Wolf, gasps a pained sigh of breath, as the razor-thin wound begins to gout blood down the front of her robes, staining the white furs around her neck a startling crimson. As she slumps and falls, Waldrimm shrieks in pain and topples to the hard rockcrete behind her.
"Get him away from her!"
I run to her, and kneel down. I will attempt a Healer.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"How nice of them to use such a specific appellation. Your information confirms suspicions I have held for some time. I am sure we have both noticed the...irregularities."
Vincent finds it impossible to avert his eyes from the floating fragment of vestigial flesh and tissue that asserts that Logis Blakswann was once a man, like him.
+++THE NOMEN ATTACHED TO THIS PENITENT IS DECEPTIVELY VAGUE, INTENTIONALLY SO, BUT SERVES ITS PURPOSE IN PRESERVING THE ANONYMITY OF THE INQUISITION'S FOLLY. HE WAS ONCE A MAN BORN, ALBEIT ONE POSSESSED OF SUCH OVERWHELMING PSYCHIC ABILITY AND INHERENT EVIL THAT IT WOULD MAKE THE MOST JADED OF THE ORDO HERETICUS SHEPHERDS ABOARD THEIR BLACK SHIPS QUAIL IN MORTAL FEAR. NOW, IN THRALL TO A DAEMONIC ENTITY WHOM HE HOSTED WILLINGLY, THE PRISONER IS PERHAPS THE SINGLE MOST DANGEROUS BEING RESIDING UPON THIS DOOMED WORLD.+++
"They kept him here? They kept him alive?"
Vincent pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, then speaks once more.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
+++LITTLE TIME REMAINS, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. THE DESIGNS OF OUR MUTUAL FOES INCLUDE THE ANNIHILATION OF THIS WORLD ENTIRE. THEY WILL NOT HESITATE TO VIOLATE THE SANCTITY OF THIS, THE MACHINE CULT'S HOLY DATACORE, WHEN THE REPERCUSSIONS OF THE OMNISSIAH'S WRATH WILL MATTER NAUGHT TO THEM.+++
+++OUR FATE IS SEALED.+++
+++WE HAVE SERVED THE CLAUSTRUM FOR MILLENIA BUT THE END PORTENDED BY THIS LOGIS FOR OURSELVES IS CERTAIN. WE CANNOT FLEE, NOR WOULD WE. THAT IS NOT TO SAY WE CANNOT RENDER LASTING ASSISTANCE TO ONE WHO WOULD AVENGE THE DESTRUCTION OF OUR HOLY WORKS. YOU, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}, ARE A CONFOUNDING VARIABLE AND EXIST OUTSIDE OF THE FLOW OF THE POSSIBILITY CLUSTER. YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN YOUR PECULIARITY, OTHERS EXIST OUTSIDE OF THE CAUSALITY OF THIS SYSTEM. THE TEMPORAL ANOMALY THAT HAS BROUGHT ON THIS STATE IS PERSISTENT AND COUNTLESS OUTCOMES FLOW FROM IT, ONLY A MINUTE PERCENTAGE OF WHICH COULD BE CATEGORIZED AS 'POSITIVE' IN THE END STATE OF THE DATA TO YOUR RECKONING.+++
+++EVEN NOW THEY BREACH OUR OUTER DEFENSES. ASK WHAT YOU WILL OF US IN THE PRECIOUS TIME LEFT.+++
"How long?"
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
"They kept him here? They kept him alive?"
Vincent pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, then speaks once more.
+++HOWEVER MANY TIMES WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION WITH YOU, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}, YOUR TONE OF INCREDULITY NEVER CHANGES ON THIS POINT. WERE WE STILL TROUBLED BY SUCH EMOTIONS AS AMUSEMENT OR DISAPPOINTMENT, WE WOULD EXPERIENCE SUCH FEELINGS. BELIEVE THIS: THE FOLLIES OF MAN'S HUBRIS ARE MANIFOLD, PERPETUAL, AND REPETITIVE. IT IS THE REASON THAT WE ACCEPTED THE TEACHINGS OF THE OMNISSIAH AND THE BLESSED SACRAMENT OF THE MACHINE GOD WHEN WE WERE ONCE LIKE YOU, LONG AGO. WHEN DECISIONS WITH THE POTENTIAL FOR SUCH TERRIBLE POSSIBLE OUTCOMES ARE NOT BASED UPON BLIND FAITH, DERIVED FROM MISGUIDED NOTIONS OF THE GREATER GOOD, AND DAMNINGLY EVIDENT EMPIRICAL DATA, SUCH ERRORS ARE NOT AS FREQUENT. WE PRAY THAT THIS IS LAST TIME WE HAVE THIS EXCHANGE. WE PRAY THAT THIS TIME THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT.+++
"How long?"
There is a gurgling from Logis Blakswann's crystal tank, and the walls of the Inner Datacore shudder with a distant vibration. You think you can just make out the sound of las-fire, as if far distant, from somewhere in the complex from behind the doors you entered.
+++THE SERVITORS AND HOLY SECUTORS WHO PROTECT THIS PLACE WILL WITHSTAND THE ASSAULT FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. WE YET HAVE TIME TO ENGAGE IN DIALOGUE, BUT THEY WILL NOT PERSEVERE FOREVER. ASK US WHAT YOU WILL, BUT KNOW THAT TIME IS SHORT. WE CANNOT SAY YOUR SAFETY IS TOTALLY ASSURED; THERE HAVE BEEN PAST OCCURRENCES WHENCE YOU PERISHED IN FLIGHT FROM THE DATACORE, BUT WE HAVE CALCULATED YOUR PROBABILITY TO ESCAPE THROUGH OUR COGITATIONS AS BEING HIGH IF INITIATED NO LONGER THAN 5 MINUTES 33 SECONDS SIDEREAL TIME FROM THE CONCLUSION OF THIS UTTERANCE.+++
The Pipesource
"Get him away from her!"
I run to her, and kneel down. I will attempt a Healer.
Still aiming the las at the old man, who is now screeching incoherently in pain from the wound, Uriah hurries forward to kneel before Ariella.
The wound is awful, a gaping slice across her jugular, just below the chin that continues to issue a torrent of red. He knows she has foreseen this, Throne, he has foreseen this through his communion with her; but it doesn't make it any easier. Glancing at the living skeleton that is Waldrimm, now bereft of the thing that wore him, Uriah quickly dismisses the threat he poses. Despite his insane caterwauling, he appears nothing more than a mortally injured old man.
Channeling the Warp, the sanctioned psyker slides his pale fingers across the unsanctioned witch's equally pale throat, above and below the wound. No medicae, he tries to pinch it in place, working to shape the Immaterium through his efforts and somehow locally reverse the temporal reality to heal her injury.
Even Uriah is surprised by the power that flows through him, as much of the She Wolf's potency still lingers in the charged air of the Pipesource. At first the numbness in his fingers is painful, then excruciating, yet still he holds them in place, watching as the edges of the slice in her flesh slowly knits itself together again.
When it happens, it is as if he sees it simultaneously through Ariella's eyes, and paradoxically in his own memory, of an event that is just now happening. Reality has already been bent in this place too much, and the backlash of the Warp's presence has a final surprise. Throne be praised that no one else sees it, for it would likely drive them all mad. Uriah Trantor's visage becomes corrupted, changing to a hideous masquerade of the Eviscerator's true form, a daemon face that leers and taunts Ariella in her death throes. She tries to scream but only a wet, choking sound emerges, blood bubbling from the wound, and Uriah's desperate work is almost instantly undone. A part of the psyker knows in his forlorn heart that she believed all along that this is how it would end, screaming from a fear she wishes she had the strength to master, albeit defiantly in the true face of her tormentor. The dark spot in Uriah's soul grows as the mask fades, his hand moving to the mercy blade at his belt. The Psykana-imposed buffers and failsafes in his mind win out in the end, and before he can recall the face he has seen, it is locked away in the vaults of his psyche to protect him from himself.
V-Block ~ The Oubliette
Ryuk shivers in his cell as the Wolf-Lady dies. Just then, the buzzing begins again.
Somehow, he feels more alone than ever.
I will gently close her eyes, and put my hand on her cheek. I will then make the sign of the Aquila.
"May the Emperor grant you peace."
I will look sadly to Savalos and shake my head.
"She foreseen this for years. She just did not know the exact time. May she fianally be at peace."
Iacton turns as the shots ring out and his foe falls. The Auldmaw is dead, but so is the den mother. Tonight is a Pyrrhic victory at best. But he still had work to do.
He runs past Ariella, if Uriah can't save her then nothing he could do would help. But her killer, the man formerly known as the Eviserator, that problem he could solve. After all, this was not the Eviserator. He has seen pictures of the Eviserator, and this is not him. This is just an old man, ruined by revenge. When his blade slices into his throat, you could almost see a glimmer of pity in Iacton's eyes.
I move toward the old man, recognizing the monster he was. I crack the butt of my duct sweeper into the hand that holds the rusted scalpel blades. Hoping I bust every bone within its meaty cage. You will slice no more. A poor homage to all his victims, but it is a measure. May they all finally find some peace.
I make my way over to my mother, and kneel down beside her. I already know the worst. So did she; otherwise she would have kept my fathers scerrido. I brush her hair out of her face, and close her eyes. Sleep Ma, the nightmare for you is over. Dad's been waiting for you. I'll be okay. Aebe will take care of me.
Remembering how close to death I was, and how Waldrimm terrorized Aebena as we ran down the flights of stairs I get up, and I slam him one more time with my shotgun butt. This time in the face. Scar for a scar as they say.
I gaze over toward Luceros, Last of the Alpha's. "So how's things gonna be?"
All the while I can't stop thinking about the fact that the Daemon is still out there. This is just the beginning of our problems. We are all being hunted. I grip the holden Aquila tightly in my hand for any solace it might provide. Praying Aebena is still safe, and Maia/Kalaziel is watching over her.
The Pipesource
The anguish in his cry shattering the silence, Savalos runs to his mother's side, smashing the bloodstained scalpel from Waldrimm's gnarled fingers with a crunch of bone.
Kneeling beside Ariella with Uriah, sweeping her hair from her eyes, and closing them gently with one shaking hand, Savalos tries to fight back the tears, with nothing left to say or do. The psyker makes the sign of the aquila on her cheek with one hand, muttering his blessing in a strained voice. It is as if a part of him has died as well. He then surreptitiously reaches into the pocket of her robes, finding what he knew would be there and wraps it in his hand, pulling it free and placing it in the folds of his own cloak. Now is not the time.
Without any hesitation whatsoever, Iacton strides over to man who would call himself 'Eviscerator' and cleanly slices his throat from ear to ear with the edge of his blade, forever silencing his insane screeching. Whatever secrets the former daemonhost might have possessed, none could be worth his vile life lasting even an instant longer to Iacton or the others.
As if to punctuate this, Savalos rises from his dead mother's side after a time and wordlessly crushes Waldrimm's skull with a brutal blow from the butt of his duct sweeper, silencing even his weak gurgling.
Satisfied he can never harm another, he stands up straight. Clutching the golden aquila in his trembling hand, Savalos turns to see Luceros and the surviving Duct Wolves kneeling around the acolytes in a loose ring. Sigmunt is among them as well, and Stroinigli stands respectfully at a distance, his head bowed.
From deep within the hundreds of sewer-mouths in the Pipesource, the spawn of the Auldmaw wail mournful, grieving howls for their fallen matriarch. The refrain is picked up by their two-legged brethren, who chant a solemn dirge of their own, their shaken voices intermingling with those of the beasts in their sorrow.
I gaze over toward Luceros, Last of the Alpha's. "So how's things gonna be?"
Luceros never rises from his knees, but does lift his gaze to meet yours. The deep sadness in his dark eyes, so much like Johnnies, is a trying thing for you to look upon. The anguish he feels makes his voice crack at first, but the Alpha quickly masters himself again, and all you detect afterward is the undying respect he holds for you and your companions.
"It will be as it should be, Packmaster. As she foresaw. You will lead us to our salvation, or our doom. Whichever it may be, my oath, my scerrido, and my life are now yours, until the end."
I nod to Luceros respectfully, and I am quiet for a minute trying to find the words.
"Lets take care of our fallen. After, we have alot of planning to do, and I need your council Luceros."
I spit in the direction of Waldrimm. "As for him. I want his body burned, and his bones ground to powder and scattered. I don't know if he can come back, but I'm not going to take any chances or make it easy."
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
+++HOWEVER MANY TIMES WE HAVE THIS CONVERSATION WITH YOU, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}, YOUR TONE OF INCREDULITY NEVER CHANGES ON THIS POINT. WERE WE STILL TROUBLED BY SUCH EMOTIONS AS AMUSEMENT OR DISAPPOINTMENT, WE WOULD EXPERIENCE SUCH FEELINGS. BELIEVE THIS: THE FOLLIES OF MAN'S HUBRIS ARE MANIFOLD, PERPETUAL, AND REPETITIVE. IT IS THE REASON THAT WE ACCEPTED THE TEACHINGS OF THE OMNISSIAH AND THE BLESSED SACRAMENT OF THE MACHINE GOD WHEN WE WERE ONCE LIKE YOU, LONG AGO. WHEN DECISIONS WITH THE POTENTIAL FOR SUCH TERRIBLE POSSIBLE OUTCOMES ARE NOT BASED UPON BLIND FAITH, DERIVED FROM MISGUIDED NOTIONS OF THE GREATER GOOD, AND DAMNINGLY EVIDENT EMPIRICAL DATA, SUCH ERRORS ARE NOT AS FREQUENT. WE PRAY THAT THIS IS LAST TIME WE HAVE THIS EXCHANGE. WE PRAY THAT THIS TIME THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT.+++
There is a gurgling from Logis Blakswann's crystal tank, and the walls of the Inner Datacore shudder with a distant vibration. You think you can just make out the sound of las-fire, as if far distant, from somewhere in the complex from behind the doors you entered.
+++THE SERVITORS AND HOLY SECUTORS WHO PROTECT THIS PLACE WILL WITHSTAND THE ASSAULT FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. WE YET HAVE TIME TO ENGAGE IN DIALOGUE, BUT THEY WILL NOT PERSEVERE FOREVER. ASK US WHAT YOU WILL, BUT KNOW THAT TIME IS SHORT. WE CANNOT SAY YOUR SAFETY IS TOTALLY ASSURED; THERE HAVE BEEN PAST OCCURRENCES WHENCE YOU PERISHED IN FLIGHT FROM THE DATACORE, BUT WE HAVE CALCULATED YOUR PROBABILITY TO ESCAPE THROUGH OUR COGITATIONS AS BEING HIGH IF INITIATED NO LONGER THAN 5 MINUTES 33 SECONDS SIDEREAL TIME FROM THE CONCLUSION OF THIS UTTERANCE.+++
Hearing this, Vincent pears over his shoulder at Jerimus Bothle and issues a terse set of instructions.
"You go ahead Bothle, I will catch up with you when I can. If I don't find you, go to the Gearbox in Orcut VII and ask for #33. Tell him everything."
Once Bothle has left, Vincent returns his gaze to the Logician's glassy coffin.
"What can you tell me in what time remains? What will I need when the time comes?"
Somewhere along the Trans-Vaxus Interchange, South Quadrant
Rising to his feet again, Kaltos' retinas are burnt with the afterimage of the missile's arrow straight flight into the decoy cargo-8 two lanes over. Looking through the rear gunport he can see the smoldering ruin of its chassis still sliding along the rockcrete roadway, plowing smaller vehicles before it. An Arbites ornithopter buzzes along behind, low, over the roadway, the plume of smoke from the weapon's exhaust contrail still trailing from the wing.
One of Dunkan's men, his composure completely gone now, shouts over and over again at Oktammor, the burly bodyguard's eyes wide with shock at what just occurred.
"The fecking Arbites just fired ordinance at a commercial transport on a civilian roadway! In the hive for Throne's sake! In the hive!"
For the first time since you have met him, the normally composed Oktammor looks overwhelmed and out of his element.
I step forward and slap the man hard in the face and say "Get a hold of your self man. Do you want then to pinpoint our location with your ravings." I turn back to Oktammor " Do we have anything that will take out the ornithopter otherwise it looks like its been given the go ahead to fire on all trucks that fit our description. You will need to have everyone evacuate the vehicle depot where these trucks come from otherwise there will be a lot of dead and possibility someone will let slip how to get into the complex."
Somewhere along the Trans-Vaxus Interchange, South Quadrant
I step forward and slap the man hard in the face and say, "Get a hold of your self man. Do you want then to pinpoint our location with your ravings."
I turn back to Oktammor
"Do we have anything that will take out the ornithopter otherwise it looks like its been given the go ahead to fire on all trucks that fit our description. You will need to have everyone evacuate the vehicle depot where these trucks come from otherwise there will be a lot of dead and possibility someone will let slip how to get into the complex."
After Kaltos strikes Dunkan Danicos' enforcer a blindingly fast, whipcrack blow, he follows it with a stern rebuke. The remainder of the heretek's men quickly rise to their feet as one, seizing their weapons in a manner that suggests that they have been apprised to carefully monitor the behavior of the servants of the Machine Cult, and have been prepared for just such an eventuality.
As the wounded guardsmen look on in confusion, Oktammor regains himself.
"Stand down, you fools! The tech-priest is right, if the Arbites are desperate enough to begin firing on our decoys on a crowded civilian interchange, then it stands to reason that our vehicle has been identified by Leprade's contingent. You! Notify the other drivers by encrypted vox to get off the roadway and split up. I'm not about to single us out by firing on an arbitrator gunship unless I have to, but get the autocannon ready under one of the dorsal 'ports just in case. He turns to address the man who was just slapped, whose face is still stinging and red, and barks an unequivocal command to him. Dispatch Order #EV888 to evacuate the Shaultus Transshipping site of our personnel as well, and have them det-cord the tunnels back to the catacombs!"
As Oktammor says this, another missile slams into the rockcrete center divider, just to the right of one of the other cargo-8's ahead of the one you occupy. It explodes in a shower of debris, and the heavy hauler skids across two lanes to avoid the sizable rubble, sending more groundcars into chaotic tailspins and wrecks. Your driver negotiates it with steely nerves, dodging a careening portion of dislodged barrier and plowing through some poor commuter's sideways vehicle. In the next few seconds, as the droning buzz of the ornithopter grows louder overhead, the remaining four decoys begin to exit the interchange via different offramps. Oktammor directs your truck to exit second to last, and seems grimly relieved when the pursuing gunship chooses to follow the lone remaining truck on the highway.
Oktammor then barks more orders to his subordinates.
"Pop one of the top hatches and watch above us for pursuit. You! Tell the driver to head for Site #7 and take a circuitous route. We need to disappear."
As Dunkan's burly bodyguard issues further commands, the steely-gazed leader of the guardsmen approaches the tech-priests. His face is as cold and expressionless as one of Oremor's triple moons, but the clenched jaw and twitching neck muscles tell Kaltos that he is barely mastering his anger.
"Master Sergeant Einhardt, 7th Oremor Penal Legion, Unduz II Claustrum. I need to deliver a message to whoever is in charge...and I need to know just what the feck is going on."
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
Hearing this, Vincent peers over his shoulder at Jerimus Bothle and issues a terse set of instructions."You go ahead Bothle, I will catch up with you when I can. If I don't find you, go to the Gearbox in Orcut VII and ask for #33. Tell him everything."
As if he had anticipated your words, a narrow, concealed doorway opens in the curving wall of the Inner Datacore, parting an elaborate bas-relief of a raised gear, blossoming open like a brass flower with trailing stems of multicolored cogitator conduit. A blank-faced servitor stands behind the door, waiting patiently.
You cannot tell if Bothle is relieved or terrified by this development, but he nods to you just the same and reluctantly makes his way toward his waiting escort and the unknown.
Once the door reseals, Logis Blakswann's stentorian voice hums to life again over his external vox-speakers.
Once Bothle has left, Vincent returns his gaze to the Logician's glassy coffin."What can you tell me in what time remains? What will I need when the time comes?"
+++WE CAN TELL YOU EVERYTHING VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. YOUR PRESENCE HERE IS NO COINCIDENCE. THE PRESIDING POWER AT WORK IN THIS CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS IS A PRESCIENT ONE WHO HAS CHOSEN TO DELIVER UNTO US AN EIDETIC WHOSE MIND IS QUITE UNLIKE ANYTHING WE HAVE ENCOUNTERED BEFORE. IT IS A SHAME WE COULD NOT STUDY YOU LONGER. HOWEVER, DUE TO THE URGENCY OF OUR PRESENT PLACE IN THE CONTINUUM THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME REMAINING FOR OUR ENGRAMATIC IMPRINTING TO ALLOW YOU TO RECOLLECT EVERYTHING WE TRANSFER TO YOU IMMEDIATELY. AS TIME PASSES YOUR MIND WILL BE ABLE TO RETRIEVE THE KNOWLEDGE WE WILL IMPART. WILL YOU PARTAKE OF THE MACHINE GOD'S COMMUNION VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}?"+++
The Pipesource
I nod to Luceros respectfully, and I am quiet for a minute trying to find the words.
"Lets take care of our fallen. After, we have a lot of planning to do, and I need your council Luceros."
I spit in the direction of Waldrimm. "As for him. I want his body burned, and his bones ground to powder and scattered. I don't know if he can come back, but I'm not going to take any chances or make it easy."
Luceros' features betray a collection of conflicting emotions; sorrow, anger, and a lingering shame most prominent among them. When he speaks he never takes his glassy eyes away from Ariella's unmoving form, all former belligerence gone from his voice, replaced by a somber, respectful tone.
"As you will, Savalos."
Finally tearing his gaze from his fallen leader, he turns to look back at Thul, taking the full measure of his new Packmaster. Satisfied, and somewhat taken aback by the intensity of the man he sees, he quietly says,
"I will atone for my part in this if it means my life, Thul-Twice-Blooded. I will become an extension of your will, and serve as if you speak with the She-Wolf's voice. Our fallen will take their places among the legends of our kin, and receive the honors they are due."
"As for him..."
Luceros punctuates his disgusted contempt by following you in spitting on Waldrimm's wasted corpse.
"...he will be rendered unto cinders and scattered into the hive's waste reclamation silos in the bowels of the Pipesource, where his foul soul may forever rot in excrescence."
Looking back in awe at the towering hillock of chitin and blasted flesh that is the Auldmaw's carcass, Luceros sighs and shakes his head sadly.
"What manner of evil could corrupt such a noble creature?"
Even though his musing question is rhetorical, you know that you must find the answer, or this will only be the beginning.
The Pipesource
Uriah and Iacton watch as Tygault approaches through the milling throng of overwhelmed survivors, the duct wolf skull perched atop his head bobbing like grinning ghost through the press of bodies. He stops in front of you, the black ink under his wrinkle-wreathed eyes giving him an eerie countenance, not so different in appearance from his macabre headgear.
Reaching into his black leather kit-pouch he retrieves a long, curving, serrated knife that can only be a stiletto-like scerrido, the shining blade of adamantine spotlessly reflecting the blood-red light of the guttering torches. Spinning it adroitly in one hand, he offers it to Iacton, bone-carved hilt first.
"Chuuno, one of the many fallen this day, was without heir or blood-kin. His spirit would be honored if you would carry his scerrido, as is your right now that you have become Blooded, ghost-skin."
Pivoting to face Uriah, the superstitious duct wolf seems less sure of himself when speaking to the psyker, having been witness to his power in the battle against the Auldmaw, he seems even more tentative when he extends the object in his other hand. Iacton notices he makes a surreptitious warding gesture with the one that held the scerrido moments ago.
"The She-Wolf entrusted that I deliver this unto you if Silus were to fall, void-dweller. I beg of you, take it from my hand, as there are no warlocks left among my Pack to quiet the magick inside. The spirits within it are asleep, but I can feel that they are uneasy in their slumber, their lullaby speaks of dark dreams."
Tygault holds aloft the crystal-domed xenos scepter that Silus used to tame the duct wolves and restrain the Auldmaw. The large sphere on its end is now the color of swirling smoke, and the smooth haft is stained in burnt blood and scorched flesh.
The Pipesource
"I will atone for my part in this if it means my life, Thul-Twice-Blooded. I will become an extension of your will, and serve as if you speak with the She-Wolf's voice. Our fallen will take their places among the legends of our kin, and receive the honors they are due."
Looking back in awe at the towering hillock of chitin and blasted flesh that is the Auldmaw's carcass, Luceros sighs and shakes his head sadly.
"What manner of evil could corrupt such a noble creature?"
Even though his musing question is rhetorical, you know that you must find the answer, or this will only be the beginning.
I nod to Luceros quietly.
I think of the tattoo on the corrupted Comissars arm, and the number falling from Aebena's door clanking heavily onto the floor...
I don't know its name, but I know its number...
"We will need to go to the Auldmaws Den, and find what laid her low. We need to find the corruption, and burn it out."
Like the Gearbox
"Or else her pups, and us will all be in danger."
We need to send warning to the Old Man...
And we need to talk to Leprades smile girl...
And we need to find out if Johnnie got taken by the Daemon...
And we need to track down the bloated Comissar...
And we need to capture and interrogate Leprade...
And we need to investigate the Withdrawn Viel...
And we need to find Krade...
Thats just the tip of the iceberg as they say.
That Daemon had a plan when it joined with the Eviserator. It had a plan when my family was killed in the upper spires, and my mother fled in exile to the Underhive. I'm going to have to climb my way back to the top to get the answers before its to late.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
+++WE CAN TELL YOU EVERYTHING VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. YOUR PRESENCE HERE IS NO COINCIDENCE. THE PRESIDING POWER AT WORK IN THIS CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS IS A PRESCIENT ONE WHO HAS CHOSEN TO DELIVER UNTO US AN EIDETIC WHOSE MIND IS QUITE UNLIKE ANYTHING WE HAVE ENCOUNTERED BEFORE. IT IS A SHAME WE COULD NOT STUDY YOU LONGER. HOWEVER, DUE TO THE URGENCY OF OUR PRESENT PLACE IN THE CONTINUUM THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME REMAINING FOR OUR ENGRAMATIC IMPRINTING TO ALLOW YOU TO RECOLLECT EVERYTHING WE TRANSFER TO YOU IMMEDIATELY. AS TIME PASSES YOUR MIND WILL BE ABLE TO RETRIEVE THE KNOWLEDGE WE WILL IMPART. WILL YOU PARTAKE OF THE MACHINE GOD'S COMMUNION VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}?"+++
It takes but a moment for Vincent to consider the Logis' offer and reach a decision, he relies in a grave tone.
"Yes."
The Pipesource
Uriah and Iacton watch as Tygault approaches through the milling throng of overwhelmed survivors, the duct wolf skull perched atop his head bobbing like grinning ghost through the press of bodies. He stops in front of you, the black ink under his wrinkle-wreathed eyes giving him an eerie countenance, not so different in appearance from his macabre headgear. Pivoting to face Uriah, the superstitious duct wolf seems less sure of himself when speaking to the psyker, having been witness to his power in the battle against the Auldmaw, he seems even more tentative when he extends the object in his other hand. Iacton notices he makes a surreptitious warding gesture with the one that held the scerrido moments ago.
"The She-Wolf entrusted that I deliver this unto you if Silus were to fall, void-dweller. I beg of you, take it from my hand, as there are no warlocks left among my Pack to quiet the magick inside. The spirits within it are asleep, but I can feel that they are uneasy in their slumber, their lullaby speaks of dark dreams."
Tygault holds aloft the crystal-domed xenos scepter that Silus used to tame the duct wolves and restrain the Auldmaw. The large sphere on its end is now the color of swirling smoke, and the smooth haft is stained in burnt blood and scorched flesh.
I silently take it from his hands with a nod.
Iacton runs his finger down the blade, makes a few quick slashes in the air. "It is a fine blade. Thank you."
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
It takes but a moment for Vincent to consider the Logis' offer and reach a decision, he relies in a grave tone.
"Yes."
+++SO BE IT. STEP FORWARD.+++
With a whirring of clockwork mechanisms, a spindly mechadendrite extends from the voluminous bell-shape of Logis Blakswann's 'body'. The telescoping arm extends through the flickering gloom of the Datacore, bending on articulated brass joints and slowly moving toward Vincent. Blossoming open with an intricate oscillation of golden plates and clanking gears, the bulbous, globe-like end of the Logis' arm separates, becoming a contraption that looks vaguely like a metallic skullcap festooned with a halo of unsheathed wires coupled with twin ocular ports like a stereoscope. A wicked looking, vice-like extrusion extends below the eyepieces centered around a chin rest of sorts.
You step forward and rest your head within it. The skullcap immediately tightens painfully around your head, the clamping armatures locking into place behind your ears and along the bones of your neck and skull with a force that keeps you rigidly still. With a squeal of retracting metal, twin, eye-sized screens open in the ocular ports, each shining with a brilliant, blindingly white light.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
+++SO BE IT. STEP FORWARD.+++
With a whirring of clockwork mechanisms, a spindly mechadendrite extends from the voluminous bell-shape of Logis Blakswann's 'body'. The telescoping arm extends through the flickering gloom of the Datacore, bending on articulated brass joints and slowly moving toward Vincent. Blossoming open with an intricate oscillation of golden plates and clanking gears, the bulbous, globe-like end of the Logis' arm separates, becoming a contraption that looks vaguely like a metallic skullcap festooned with a halo of unsheathed wires coupled with twin ocular ports like a stereoscope. A wicked looking, vice-like extrusion extends below the eyepieces centered around a chin rest of sorts.
You step forward and rest your head within it. The skullcap immediately tightens painfully around your head, the clamping armatures locking into place behind your ears and along the bones of your neck and skull with a force that keeps you rigidly still. With a squeal of retracting metal, twin, eye-sized screens open in the ocular ports, each shining with a brilliant, blindingly white light.
...
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
As Vincent resists the urge to struggle, the white screens in front of his eyes gradually begin to flick through the visible color spectrum, building up speed slowly, then flashing faster and faster until the cycling shades begin to blur into one another. A dizzying sense of dislocation fills him, until finally, the screen returns to its bright white default. Human eyes open suddenly from the white expanse, the curved edges of the orbs barely visible with so little contrast. They regard your curiously, the irises a washed-out blue in color. They are disconcertingly close.
A dry, cultured voice, one you unconsciously associate with instructors in the schola, or studious archivists, enters your mind. As it speaks you are vaguely aware of the booming voice in the Datacore echoing its every word, but the sound of the bell-shaped thing's voice is strangely distant. You focus on the voice of the eyes, so much closer, so intimate.
"Are you ready, Vincent Sepheris {{17}}? Ahh, I see that you are. I must apologize, there will be some pain..."
Just as you remember where you are, you realize the voice you are hearing is that of Logis Blakswann, the voice of the man he was, the sounds that were once uttered by the lump of wrinkled flesh floating in the crystal tank. As the eyes regard you coldly, almost clinically detached, every fiber of your being suddenly wants to be free of whatever holds you in place. The claustrophobic sensation is only furthered by your inability to sense or feel your own body. It is as if you are a bound spectator, or prisoner in the Logis' expansive mind.
A gentle puff of air issues from the eyes (screen) and you are suddenly gripped with a visceral terror when you recognize that you cannot close your own eyes. Some manner of anesthetizing mist. Long seconds pass and you begin to feel them drying out, tearing up, and still the unblinking eyes of the Logis gaze into yours.
Logis Blakswann speaks again, his detached voice like that of a medicae calmly announcing the beginning of an examination to a nervous patient.
"Hold very still."
Something tightens forcibly around your skull, and two, tiny black pinpricks appear, one in the center of each of the Logis' pupils. The glimmer of light at the tip of each sparkles strangely, the glint becoming brighter in the black pit of his unwavering gaze. As the twin needles extend toward you they grow larger, their blade-thin shadows cast back upon the scrutinizing eyes and the white screen. No matter how hard you struggle you cannot pull away, nor can you close or avert your eyes. The gleaming stainless steel points close inexorably, and you realize you can hear someone screaming over the dullness in your mind. It is not until the tips of the needles pierce your retinas that you realize the screams are your own.
The pain of the slender needles entering your eyes is as nothing compared to the feeling of them passing through your optical nerve and into your frontal lobe. This agony is positively pleasant in contrast to the excruciating feeling when the energetic jolt of the current kicks in.
Blakswann's human eyes and the white screen disappear, and your own mind plunges into a limitless black void. In your mind you can hear the Logis' human voice speaking slowly, with the gentle cadence of a patient tutor.
"We will begin, at the beginning."
Images begin to flash through the darkness, beginning with Logis Blakswann's earliest memories; a vibrant green crescent in the black of the void that can only be his first glimpse of the maiden world, Oremor, from the viewports of some Mechanicus Highliner in the vanguard fleet of the Angevin Crusade. As you wonder at the details, they begin to fill themselves in, words flashing across your field of view, voices and vox-cordings speaking in your mind, the impossibly fast flash of entire pict-cording reels playing in your head. It starts off slowly, so that the details are clear at first, the name of the Highliner is Bastion of Magi, tech-priest Blakswann's first role in the pacification is tabulating accurate casualty data from the initial invasion, there are ruins on this world unlike anything the xeno-arcanists have encountered thus far in Calyx space. As the sensory influx picks up speed, the sights, sounds, and sensations begin to blur together; the clearing of Plateau #7 on designate subcontinent Unduz II, the incredibly intricate blueprints of the proposed claustrum flickering by with a flutter of parchment pages that coalesce into an awe-inspiring vista of the massive structure when it was newly built, hundreds of years passing in an eye-blink, vast stores of recorded data absorbed by your mind: troop musters, crop yields, air handling fault reports, penitent feeding schedules, it goes on and on, until hundreds of years become a thousand, and more.
Your own expansive mind feels fit to burst. As the sped-up pict-cording you associate with the continuously flowing data finally begins to abate again. You try to focus on the things you see, but your conscious will is already nearly overwhelmed. Flashes of movement, an aquila lander settling into the Aerie. A severe, bearded man with a leg and eyes of iron accompanied by a teenager in a voidsman's cloak, both striding before a line of lobotomized servitors pulling a jet-black stasis cube hovering above the ground on multiple suspensors, a septet of Adeptus Biologis vat-grown beings, dopplegangers of the one they seek to bind, created solely to act as buffers for his power, the schematics of V-Block, as seen from above, the central containment cell encircled by seven ancillary cells, the auspex readings of the identical beings in each, winking out, one by one, until only a solitary glow remains to ward the evil the festers in the inner ring.
Vincent staggers, no longer insensate, the painful grasp of the device's clamps abruptly releasing him. Wet tears trickle down is cheeks, and every time he blinks, he sees different things: the entirety of the claustrum's floorplans, the name of every penitent housed within and without its walls, the technical schematics of every lumen fixture installed within its walls...
A hollow boom, the resounding echo of an explosion from somewhere beyond the Datacore's walls, bring him back to himself. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he finds himself in the Datacore again, staring at the crystal tank holding Logis Blakswann, an afterimage of his piercing blue eyes still hanging ghost-like in the senior clerk's blurry vision. Smelling something burning, Vincent is unnerved to find that it is the tips of his hair, and he quickly pats down the embers on the top of his head, wrenching himself violently free from the ocular harness.
With a grinding sound that sets his teeth on edge, he watches as the hidden door, its mechanisms clearly damaged, irises open again. The whole chamber shudders with another violent explosion, and Vincent can see fires burning in the upper reaches of the room, ruptured coolant hoses flailing about and metal debris raining down in places. When the Logis' voice comes again, it is slower, as of a vox-cording running down.
+++IN... TIME... YOU... WILL... REMEMBER, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. THE PAWNS OF OUR ENEMY DRAW EVER CLOSER. WE ARE NO LONGER ABLE TO CONTAIN THEM WITH EITHER OUR COUNTERMEASURES OR THE OMNISSIAH'S OTHER LOYAL SERVANTS. YOU... MUST... ESCAPE.+++
V-Block ~ Oubliette #7
The buzzing grows ever louder.
Ryuk attempts to utter an entreaty to the powers that be, to set him free, but his voice, long unused, only comes out as a dry scratching sound.
He begins to hum the folk song again, but it brings him no comfort now.
The Datacore, Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Unduz II
With a grinding sound that sets his teeth on edge, he watches as the hidden door, its mechanisms clearly damaged, irises open again. The whole chamber shudders with another violent explosion, and Vincent can see fires burning in the upper reaches of the room, ruptured coolant hoses flailing about and metal debris raining down in places. When the Logis' voice comes again, it is slower, as of a vox-cording running down.
+++IN... TIME... YOU... WILL... REMEMBER, VINCENT SEPHERIS {{17}}. THE PAWNS OF OUR ENEMY DRAW EVER CLOSER. WE ARE NO LONGER ABLE TO CONTAIN THEM WITH EITHER OUR COUNTERMEASURES OR THE OMNISSIAH'S OTHER LOYAL SERVANTS. YOU... MUST... ESCAPE.+++
Vincent gives the Logis a curt not and strides through the open door.
The Pipesource
Sigmunt approaches the acolytes after setting some of the duct wolves to removing the bodies. Inscrutable as the hitman's features are known to be, something about his manner shows a profound sense of unease. Waiting for Luceros to take his leave of Savalos, he finally draws near.
Speaking in a low voice, one hand holding the strap of the scattergun slung over his shoulder, he reaches into the inner pocket of his no-longer-pristine Shaultus Transshipping coverall to pull out a thin, rigid, rectangular card, worn threadbare around the midnight blue edges.
"I found this on the old man, nothing else."
He holds it out to whomever would take it.
Datacore Coolant Service Conduit 115D
Staggering through the doorway, Vincent is followed by the trailing echos of Logis Blakswann's diminished voice ringing in his ears. The musty, tube-like conduit is barely tall enough for a man to stand upright in, and his outstretched arms could easily touch the serpentine stacks of insulated coolant pipes that run on either side if he had a mind to.
His eyes and head aching, he is not sure how long he runs, the muffled crump of explosions and the snapping crackle of las-fire always audible from somewhere around him. He slows when he begins to hear the techna-lingua sounds of Adeptus Mechanicus proclaimers issuing disjointed orders to the tech-guard defending the Datacore. Turning the corner he spies Bothle and the young tech-priest with the reddish topknot who met them outside of Blakswann's sanctum. They huddle near a circular aperture through whose narrow grillwork passes the blood-red glow of emergency lighting. Upon seeing Vincent approach, Bothle ambles back down the conduit, ducking under hanging hoses.
"Vince...Throne! Everything's going crazy out there! The Guard are attacking the Tech Cult compound...secutors are shooting on sight. What the hell is going on? Has everyone gone insane? What are they doing?"
Somewhere in Geltdown
After passing through a compound of closely packed industrial buildings the cargo-8 slows to a halt before a large, rusting garage door. Near the vehicle's cab Kaltos can hear Oktammor conferring quietly with the driver, his bulky power-armored form hunched over through the access hatchway. He speaks with some of Dunkan's enforcers briefly and then begins to make his way back to you and the others. It appears you have eluded the Arbites pursuit for now.
Sgt. Einhardt, the leader of the detachment of guardsmen, sits across from you in the cargo area with his shaken men awaiting an answer to his last question. He has repeatedly tried to contact someone named Sepheris via his personal microbead and the high-gain vox transmitter carried by one of his men, but apparently is having little success. He seems content to stare daggers at you and Ivaanov for now.
The Pipesource
Sigmunt approaches the acolytes after setting some of the duct wolves to removing the bodies. Inscrutable as the hitman's features are known to be, something about his manner shows a profound sense of unease. Waiting for Luceros to take his leave of Savalos, he finally draws near.
Speaking in a low voice, one hand holding the strap of the scattergun slung over his shoulder, he reaches into the inner pocket of his no-longer-pristine Shaultus Transshipping coverall to pull out a thin, rigid, rectangular card, worn threadbare around the midnight blue edges.
"I found this on the old man, nothing else."
He holds it out to whomever would take it.
"I will take a look at it." I reach out to take what is in Sigmunt's hand.
"Lucero's, we need a group to head to the Auldmaws lair to find out what twisted her, and destroy it. We have to protect her pups."
I pause a long minute, as I study the Auldmaw. Is there enough fur to take as a proper coat that isn't corrupted?
"I also need to talk to you in private."
Datacore Coolant Service Conduit 115D
Staggering through the doorway, Vincent is followed by the trailing echos of Logis Blakswann's diminished voice ringing in his ears. The musty, tube-like conduit is barely tall enough for a man to stand upright in, and his outstretched arms could easily touch the serpentine stacks of insulated coolant pipes that run on either side if he had a mind to.
His eyes and head aching, he is not sure how long he runs, the muffled crump of explosions and the snapping crackle of las-fire always audible from somewhere around him. He slows when he begins to hear the techna-lingua sounds of Adeptus Mechanicus proclaimers issuing disjointed orders to the tech-guard defending the Datacore. Turning the corner he spies Bothle and the young tech-priest with the reddish topknot who met them outside of Blakswann's sanctum. They huddle near a circular aperture through whose narrow grillwork passes the blood-red glow of emergency lighting. Upon seeing Vincent approach, Bothle ambles back down the conduit, ducking under hanging hoses.
"Vince...Throne! Everything's going crazy out there! The Guard are attacking the Tech Cult compound...secutors are shooting on sight. What the hell is going on? Has everyone gone insane? What are they doing?"
"The explanation is somewhat complex Bothle, right now I haven't the time."
Vincent turns to the redheaded tech-priest accompanying them.
"Are there any exits still open?"
"I will take a look at it." I reach out to take what is in Sigmunt's hand.
Turning over the worn and faded Heretic's Wake placard, Savalos is not surprised by what he sees: The Arbitrator. Illustrated with the classical image of a stern Arbites enforcer standing over the nameless bodies of those who would flout the Emperor's Law.
After examining the card in silence, Savalos moves to follow Luceros, calling after the final Alpha.
"Lucero's, we need a group to head to the Auldmaw's lair to find out what twisted her, and destroy it. We have to protect her pups."
Turning, his expression showing he is exceedingly grateful to be given a concrete task to occupy his troubled thoughts, Luceros bows his head slightly to the side to show his neck in the traditional gesture of deference, before nodding solemnly.
"It will be done. I will lead them myself."
I pause a long minute, as I study the Auldmaw. Is there enough fur to take as a proper coat that isn't corrupted?
Luceros watches you regard the fallen creature with a wistful eyes. Before you can say anything, he breaks the silence, his tone both reverent and sad.
"A legend has died."
You reflect upon the ambiguity of his words, so laden with sorrow. He could be speaking of both your mother and the Auldmaw.
"By right, her furs are yours to wear. It was by your hand that She was felled. Look upon them, they are all that still remains pure about Her."
You examine the snow-white furs that grow on either side of the behemoth beast's neck, the mane limning the area just behind her massive head and jaws. You see that Luceros is correct. They are as pure and unsullied as those claimed by your mother so long ago after her own Blooding, culled from a lesser She-Wolf with the same rare coloration. This serendipitous duality, like so much you have seen since returning to your homeworld, no longer seems like coincidence, but fate.
"I also need to talk to you in private."
Luceros acknowledges your request with another respectful nod.
[After examining the card in silence, Savalos moves to follow Luceros, calling after the final Alpha.
"Lucero's, we need a group to head to the Auldmaw's lair to find out what twisted her, and destroy it. We have to protect her pups."Turning, his expression showing he is exceedingly grateful to be given a concrete task to occupy his troubled thoughts, Luceros bows his head slightly to the side to show his neck in the traditional gesture of deference, before nodding solemnly.
"It will be done. I will lead them myself."
"Iacton, you and I will go with them. Luceros, I accept you lead the hunt. You know their ways, and I do not, But I do know the way of the enemy we are fighting, and we will help you there."
Seeing the snow white fur I know what I have to do. I pull out my fathers scerrido. The fang of the Auldmaws lover embracing her neck one last time in death. I remove the furs carefully cutting away the flesh. It will be expected that Aebena sews my new furs. The right of ones mate.
I stand up with the furs in my hand. I look once again at the fall forms of my mother and Silus, and I let out a sigh.
"Okay lets have a meet. Assemble the pack leaders. ...And someone get me a damn magnifying glass."
I will follow whoever leads the way back to the Alpha chamber. I just hope the Duct Wolves there will regard us as there pack mates and not turn on us without Silus's control.
Somewhere in Geltdown
"Well Master Sergeant it looks like you were dumped into the middle of an infestation with out the knowledge of what you were getting into. As to who's in charge that would depend on who you are talking to." I point to Oktammor. "That one is the leader of this grouping under the orders of an other." Pointing to my self and Ivaanov. "We are on loan to a group of Acolytes under Inquisitorial authority but not know by the leaders of this planet. As to who you can give a message to you can give it to us and we will forward it to our peoples and Oktammor can give it to his boss. We are not likely to see either any time soon unless we happen to get into some tunnels that connect to them." I give a shrug. "My name is Kaltos and this is Ivaanov."
Deep Within the Auldmaw's Lair
Uriah cannot even begin to fathom how Luceros' elite warriors backtracked the massive Auldmaw within the Pipesource sewer tunnels, as it seems unimaginable that even a creature of her size could leave any discernible trail within the network of massive pipes; some barren and empty, others half-filled with stinking, stagnant courses of sludgy effluvia.
Yet, somehow they do. Perhaps it is their keen eye for the way that certain portions of the omnipresent pallid fungi have broken away from the pipe wall, or an uncanny sense for how the thicker pools of waste have been disturbed. Even Iacton, with his extensive knowledge of tracking techniques seems impressed, the assassin noting only a single huge print mashed into a matted bed of offal (likely the Auldmaw's own) during the cautious journey to her true lair.
Oddly, there are no signs of her progeny. Perhaps they somehow sensed her echoing death knell and are in hiding, or maybe the smaller beasts are still fearful of entering these huge conduits that were her demesne. Whatever the case may be, Uriah is grateful, as he still has no inkling as to how the xenos scepter functions. Still, he clutches it tightly in one hand as they move through sewer passages so rank smelling, that even respirators have difficulty filtering the stench. He can still feel the raised, encrusted portions on the otherwise smooth shaft of the device that signify Silus' burnt-on flesh. The spherical crystal atop the scepter also occasionally flickers with a diffuse blue glow, the strangely melodic voices lilting softly in the psyker's mind.
Their small band, Luceros at the head, finally come upon a segment of the titanic pipe that is severed, its jagged, rusted edges penetrating into the shattered stone wall of a massive vaulted space that plunges them into darkness as they leave the relatively (by comparison) confines of the cylindrical pipe. The weak light of their stab-lights and guttering torches are but pinpoints in the vast black expanse of the cathedral-sized space.
Iacton stalks through the fungus, his shotgun at the ready.
Datacore Coolant Service Conduit 115D
The young tech-priest, altogether more unnerving to Vincent in some way because of his obvious humanity and relative lack of augmetics, flips his thin reddish topknot to one side again. He regards the senior clerk with an expression that could be considered coy, were such a thing possible from the features of one of the Mechanicus.
"You tell me."
The scathing retort on the tip of Vincent's tongue is cut short by his own wandering thoughts. Overlaying schematic images whip through his perfect memory like leaves of transparent parchment gently settling upon each other. The mental floor-plans are so clear to him, he can almost feel their texture, smell the drying ink of the blueprints.
Now, he almost feels foolish for asking the young tech-priest in the first place. The nameless protege of Logis Blakswann is clearly looking to him for some answer and Vincent laughs in spite of himself because he has it. When it comes to the layout of the claustrum, it appears he now has all of the answers.
Somewhere in Geltdown
Sgt. Einhardt shakes his head ruefully and settles back down on to the bench seating in the cargo-8.
He mutters to himself,
"Inquisition. Tech-Priests. Monsters. I should have just stayed on base for the Syratis delegation. Dammit Sepheris, what the hell have you gotten us into?"
Looking up at the pair of tech-priests again, the beleaguered-looking guardsman, dark circles under his eyes looking like wells of exhaustion, steeples his fingers together.
"I've always prided myself on never disobeying a direct order. Plus, I owe it to the men that I lost back there to follow through. If you're not on the top of this fecked-up little chain of command, I need you or someone else to take me to who is, tech-priest.
Deep Within the Auldmaw's Lair
Iacton stalks through the fungus, his shotgun at the ready.
1d100
Stepping off the edge of the enormous ruptured pipe with the others, Iacton finds himself in a vast, stone-walled chamber the size of ship's hold. The ceiling, if there is one, is lost in perpetual darkness above, but his acute senses hint of an overarching dome, suggested by the distinct acoustics. Every footfall echoes back to you, seemingly from above and behind, as you tread upon the dirty, bone-white stone comprising the floor of this great space. As Luceros passes one of the dim stab-lights over the closest wall, several meters to your right, you can see that it has the look of marble, but the sheen of yellowed porcelain, diffusely reflective and smooth. Perhaps the strangest feature are the elegant colonnade that runs the length of this side of the huge space, extraordinarily tall, spiraling pillars of such slender design that they hardly seem capable of supporting the imagined vault overhead. Something about them is almost ethereal, as if their sturdiness stands apart from this reality.
Their beauty is marred by the dross and rubble littering the floor all around you, shattered pieces of the alien masonry that seem more like slender fragments of shaved bone, intermixed with the more conventional detritus of the sewers; standing pools of murky water, the ever-present pale fungoid blooms, and the rougher piles of more conventional crumbled stonework. As you probe deeper into the Auldmaw's lair, you find the occasional out of place object, cast about like flotsam and jetsam washed up by the tides of the sewers. Here, an old wire-mesh cart, there, the mouldering tire of a groundcar. They are interspersed with the cracked bones of the Auldmaw's prey; animal, human and mutant, even the semi-intact skeletons of other duct wolves. Vast diaphanous scales and partial molts of the matriarchal beasts skin wend around some of the pillars. Her bloody fur lies in small drifts in places, as if bitten away like a dog with mange.
All is silent in this empty tomb, save for the faint trickle of water dripping from above. The two-legged duct wolves that have accompanied you can only gape about with the kind of reverential awe that a primitive people would show upon walking into the house of their god uninvited. Uriah stands close, the strange scepter's blue glow seeming to brighten the further you advance into the place.