"Seargent, the 7th is where one of the agents of one of our enemies is or was being kept. Letus go back and join the rest."
I will walk back where the meeting is taking place, and hand Savalos the dataslate.
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum
The tense parley with the uncharacteristically reserved Redemptionists continues for another hour, and your impressions of Friar Savonar slowly evolve from perceiving him as the wizened mouthpiece of the cult to something more akin to its dictatorial prelate. It is clear he is revered amongst his flock, with the other hooded preachers deferring to him even while they offer their own whispered counsel. Still, there is the unmistakable sense that beneath his measured decorum there is a ruthlessly zealous firebrand, an autocratic authoritarian whose power is maintained by virtue of a holiness that is seemingly beyond reproach.
His pursed lips then part, the cowl falling away just enough for the acolytes to see the thin white traceries of burn scars long since healed over that run down his chin and throat. The Friar then intones a solemn benediction.
"May the God Emperor's divine blessing bestow itself upon our holy endeavor and those faithful souls who would sustain this accord in the face of His Enemies."
In the end, the Red Redemption of Orcut VII hive reach a tentative understanding with the Inquisitorial acolytes and their allies, extending their alliance with the Duct Wolves for as long as it will take to expunge the corruption of the Yellobouros, their traitorous Arbites allies, and the accursed daemonic beings which orchestrate these cabals of Chaos.
His hooded, old-man's eyes regard the acolytes and the Duct Wolves individually, the fervor slowly rising in them until they take on a searing intensity.
"Now the time has come to begin our purgation of this rampant corruption, my friends, where then, will our crusade begin?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Central Express Lift Lobby, Unduz II
The lilting cadence of the tune continues to play idly in his head despite his efforts to shut it out, insidious, like something viral that has afflicted his mind.
The walk from where the terminus of liftbank AR-K2, where one of the claustrum's four outer elevator systems connects to the Aerie proper via the 35th level, proved eerily uneventful. The well-appointed corridors of the lower Aerie were almost completely deserted. Although the senior clerk made his pace a brisk one, and kept to little-used secondary accessways (routes passed on to him by Blakswann's communion), even the near constant vibrating noises of the arriving and departing aircraft could not be heard through the sound-dampened walls surrounding the aerodrome. The only sound was the distant, discordant wail of alarm klaxons. Unable to decide if this was fortuitous or a sign that things have become far more dire than even he anticipated, the senior clerk made his way quickly to the Central Spine liftbank and boarded the spacious car.
Using his ward accessor to proceed directly to the claustrum's pinnacle and Warden-Colonel Kreed's private offices and suites, Vincent cannot help but wonder what he will find when he finally arrives.
Trying and failing to hum the Fulcusian pop song that Bothle had been singing earlier, Vincent clears his head enough to consider his options. Even his newfound architectural knowledge of the claustrum will not allow him to bypass the final two security checkpoints leading to Kreed's chambers. He needs a plan.
As he tries to think over the melody plaguing his head, the lift continues its interminable ascent: 75, 76, 77...
I look at the data slate that Uriah hands me. If it wasn't for that fact it was only one word its meaning would have probably have been lost. Instead I study the name, and know deep in my heart it is the enemy.
"We start with the Auldmaw's Lair, and then flush the Yellobacks, and see where they run to nest. Let the Loyalists Arbites clean there own house. That was it will restore the legitimacy of that institution. Other than that we need eyes everywhere watching, and waiting. These are just the opening moves on both sides. That I am certain."
"Anyone have anything they want to say or add before this meeting breaks?"
Again I study everyone around the room. The old friar giving me the most pause. For his blind zealotry can prove to be the most dangerous. If Ishmael lives I can see him being alot like this man.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, Level 26, Central Express Lift Lobby, Unduz II
As his thoughts filter through the daemon-spawned haze, he realizes the guards are unlikely to let him pass so easily this time. His chances of fighting his way past trained guardsmen are slim, which leaves him with two options: bluff or distraction.
The Vaxus Deeps, the Duct Wolf Sanctum
As the Redemptionists file out of the crumbling banquet hall, the preachers form a protective phalanx around Friar Savonar, the cultists' hands never straying far from the chainswords and hand flamers kept at their sides. They all move with the stately grace of a ceremonial processional, and halt as one when the friar stops in his tracks, turning to face the acolytes who trail behind him.
Luceros and his bodyguard instinctively move forward to surround their new Packmaster and his allies, eliciting a thin grin from the old prelate.
"As you have earned our trust, we will return the guardsman and tech priest to you, as promised. We are eager to begin this holy calling. Who among you will accompany my faithful cleansers to this place of corruption of which we spoke?"
"Savalos, I think that you have the most lost because of this corruption, I suggest you and Luceros and I go and witness the cleansing."
I pause for a second hearing Uriah's words.
"Alright."
I give a grin to the Friar, and I show my hand flamer in its holster.
"Will be nice to start a fight on our own terms for a change. Luceros bring a pack as backup."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent leaves the lift and passes through the adjoining lobby, grateful that no one is there to see him arrive. The lack of security here is not unexpected, as the doors leading out of it are ward-locked, opening only to those who have been granted prior clearance or carry the bound Machine Spirits imprisoned in a ward accessor similar to the one provided to him by the Warden-Colonel.
Turning toward the archway in the wall directly ahead of him, Vincent brandishes the device and is relieved to see that his accessor still functions. The reinforced door, elegantly paneled in a decorative grid of ivory tiles, slowly opens, revealing the main corridor leading to Warden-Colonel Kreed's suite. Continuing into the tall hallway with its startlingly bright, pristinely white walls, Vincent passes by the heirlooms and military relics of the claustrum's long and storied history. He walks briskly, looking around at the various martial objets d'art and marble busts of the claustrum's prior leadership. As he follows the curving outer wall of the Aerie, he keeps a close eye on the vanishing point ahead, wary of anyone that might be coming from the other direction. The first security checkpoint is ahead, and so far the communion of Logis Blakswann has not suggested anything close to a more clandestine approach. This thought is still fresh in his mind when a sound suddenly stops from somewhere nearby, returning the senior clerk to himself.
He realizes it is because he has stopped humming the insidious tune again.
Glancing to his right, his eye is drawn to one of the hardened-plastek display cases and what is contained therein.
The object is breathtakingly beautiful for an implement of war; a gently curving power-saber, ensconced in a deep-green velvet display setting. The hilt is brushed steel chased with ivory scrimshaw filigree taken from the native cetaceans of Oremor prior to their eventual extinction, of course. The blade is argent in hue, the edge a triple-folded diamantine/adamantine composite whose technique for forging has been lost in the intervening ages since its making. Known as The Sliver of Calyx it was once wielded by the first Warden-Colonel of the claustrum, Trumenne Rhyste, and was rumored to have been blessed by the hand of Saint Drusus himself. Now, it sits here, largely forgotten, save for the occasional moment of adulation from a learned visitor touring the artifacts on their first visit to the claustrum.
Looking at it, constrained by his innate skepticism of such things, Vincent can't help but wonder why he can no longer recall the pernicious tune that he could not be rid of just moments ago.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent pauses before The Sliver of Calyx and runs his hand across the plastek casing. The steel ripples in the light like silver waves across an ocean of white. The imagery strikes Vincent as oddly fitting.
He sees now what the sword really is, a ripple of the past, the power of its past masters coursing within. The psychic imprints of those powerful men weaving their way through time, awaking some spark of soul within the blade. He knows of such relics, the library held countless chronicles of items passed through the ages, from inscrutable xenos treasures to blessed charms to trinkets maligned by the touch of the warp, but never expected one one laying right under his nose. Though any historical collection may contain a handful of baubles with a spark of power, one which can drive away warp-spawned thought is another thing altogether. The The Sliver of Calyx has true power, power he can use.
For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Vincent smiles.
As we start leaving the ruin that we used as a conference room.
"Iacton, you know your welcome right?"
I move for us to pick up the guardsmen first. Nothing worse than a bunch of nervous people with trigger fingers.
Looking at the Sgt. "You, and your men are welcome to join us in the cleanzing."
I want to take at least one good luck of the place before it gets consumed by flames. Hoping something the Old Man told me may pay off looking at there statuary, and time faded fresco's. Have a feeling The Prisnor, and the one who wore the Eviserator are old baggage from there time.
"Iacton, you know your welcome right?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Having broken his silence, Iacton once again falls silent as he accompanies the others down to the cleansing.
"If one of your pack has medicae experiance Savalos. I am in need of repair to my forehead mostly."
The Vaxus Deeps, The Duct Wolf Sanctum
Sergeant Einhardt considers Savalos' invitation for a moment, but respectfully declines, opting instead to remain in the Sanctum with his comm officer in an attempt to use the long-gain vox in an attempt to raise the man who sent him to Orcut Hive in the first place, Vincent Sepheris. Kaltos, injured during the confrontation in the Geltdown Docks, elects to stay behind as well and you arrange with Tygault to have one of the Pack's healers attend to him. Ivaanov declines as well, offering instead to use his own medicae training to aid Kaltos and also assist the sergeant and his subordinate by communing with the vox's machine spirit in an effort to amplify its signal.
After making the necessary arrangements, the Duct Wolves escort Friar Savonar and his entourage back to the entrance to the Vaxus Deep's slums, and the old prelate takes his leave, detaching a contingent of his Redemptionists, led by a sober, humorless, and horse-faced preacher named Castigaul to aid the Pack in purging the Auldmaw's Lair. Deciding not to place the Wolves' entire leadership at risk, Savalos convinces Luceros to remain behind, and instead dispatches Tygault to assemble a score of the Pack's best warriors armed to the teeth with heavy weapons and whatever flamers can be found in the depleted armory.
So it is, led by the three acolytes of the Inquisition, that a score of Redemptionists and as many Duct Wolves set out for the ancient cavern where the Auldmaw once made her lair. It is a testament to the faith of Savonar's followers that not a single one shows any fear or doubt on arriving in the Pipesource at the feet of the titanic carcass of the fallen matriarch. Their hushed exhortations for the Emperor's protection are mingled with the Pack's low dirge of lamentation as the unlikely bedfellows come to a halt at the feet of the huge beast.
Preacher Castogaul, showing all the emotion of stone pillar, nods toward the great corpse of the Auldmaw and speaks, his voice a dull monotone completely devoid of any outward emotion.
"The beast, it bears the taint, it must burn."
Seeing that the pure white furs were already removed from the Auldmaw I see no problem with the fanatics request.
"Go ahead."
"If one of your pack has medicae experiance Savalos. I am in need of repair to my forehead mostly."
Kaltos cannot help but be skeptical when the Duct Wolf healer arrives in the old banquet hall where he, Ivaanov, and the guardsmen wait. The man looks more like a shaman of some kind than a medicae, accoutered in furs, bone-beads, and an old Munitorum public work's coverall. While Ivaanov carefully probes the damage to his fellow tech-priest's damaged cortex components, the superstitious healer applies a milky white salve to the head wound, fingers darting nervously back with every spark that arcs from the edge of Ivaanov's combo-tool as it works on the connecting leads to Kalto's cranial circuitry. When the suturing work is done, the thickly bearded healer seems to be immensely grateful to leave the company of the strange, half-metal men.
Ivaanov, seeing Kaltos' doubtful looks, shakes his head deliberately from side to side.
"Do not doubt his primitive bearing and antiquated techniques, the ganger displayed an impressive autodidactic proficiency in his profession. I believe his salve was a distillate of the henjebonte fungoid, a natural anti-inflammatory and analgesic. His suturing was exceptional as well, despite his use of cured felid-gut."
The Pipesource
Seeing that the pure white furs were already removed from the Auldmaw I see no problem with the fanatics request.
"Go ahead."
At Savalos' word, the gangers with flamers spread out around their fallen demigoddess, mingling with the Redemptionists as their red robes fan out to encircle the nigh-mythic beast. There comes the staggered clicking of ignitors engaging from all around, and Savalos stands shoulder to shoulder with Castogaul before the Auldmaw's massive, slack jaws. With a downward sweep of his left hand, the fusillade of flamers erupt with combustive whoomps of scorching air, and the Auldmaw's bulk is engulfed, the licking flames rapidly spreading up her flanks and neck. The ring of somber men back away from the great beast's funeral pyre, their eyes tearing up as the acrid smoke begins to settle around her body.
Savalos watches for a time, trying not to be overcome by the conflicting emotions roiling through him like the curling flames that consume what may well be the last of an ancient bloodline.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent pauses before The Sliver of Calyx and runs his hand across the plastek casing. The steel ripples in the light like silver waves across an ocean of white. The imagery strikes Vincent as oddly fitting.
He sees now what the sword really is, a ripple of the past, the power of its past masters coursing within. The psychic imprints of those powerful men weaving their way through time, awaking some spark of soul within the blade. He knows of such relics, the library held countless chronicles of items passed through the ages, from inscrutable xenos treasures to blessed charms to trinkets maligned by the touch of the warp, but never expected one one laying right under his nose. Though any historical collection may contain a handful of baubles with a spark of power, one which can drive away warp-spawned thought is another thing altogether. The The Sliver of Calyx has true power, power he can use.
For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Vincent smiles.
Examining the reinforced plasteel case, Vincent cannot help but grin. For a change something finally seems to be working out to his advantage. The seal on the display is a recessed input that accepts a ward accessor, likely only keyed to the highest of security clearances.
Like the one he already possesses.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Examining the reinforced plasteel case, Vincent cannot help but grin. For a change something finally seems to be working out to his advantage. The seal on the display is a recessed input that accepts a ward accessor, likely only keyed to the highest of security clearances.
Like the one he already possesses.
Vincent squints at the locking mechanism but, odd it seems, cannot pinpoint a flaw in the system.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent squints at the locking mechanism but, odd it seems, cannot pinpoint a flaw in the system.
Vincent's uncertainty about the case's security does not mean he is so foolish as to believe there are no countermeasures or tell-tales in place. He has little doubt that the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor will open the display, but is fairly positive that someone, somewhere will be made aware of the action.
The Auldmaw's Lair
Uriah and Iacton find their return journey to the Auldmaw's lair to be far better illuminated than the prior sojourn a few hours ago. The pilot-lights from dozens of flamers shed warm light throughout the gigantic pipe works, some of them even kept continuously lit to better brighten the way. There is no sign of the Auldmaw's progeny, likely because of the scepter that Uriah bears, but Iacton speculates that such a large, heavily armed band surrounded by a fiery orange glow and the stink of promethium like theirs would be more than enough to put off the top-tier predators of the Underhive's labyrinthine tunnels.
They take the lead as the cleansers take their first steps into the unreal vastness of the matriarch's den, and you can sense the others hushed awe upon entering the staggering dimensions of the chamber. The confusing echoes of your footfalls and the ethereal acoustics of the lair magnify even the smallest sounds tenfold, all while someone speaking right next to you conversationally may not even be heard. The greater wash of light from the many flamers borne by the party cannot pierce the inky darkness enough to reveal where the elegantly curving, bone-white stone colonnades reach the ceiling lost somewhere above.
Bypassing pools of murky sewer-water and the desiccated remnants of the Auldmaw's past kills, Savalos winces when he sees the bloody fur intermixed with the diaphanous scales and mouldering molts of the Auldmaw's shed skin; scraped off around some of the otherworldly pillars. Her blood-stained fur lies in knee-deep drifts in places, as if chewed off by a canid suffering from mange.
The dross of the sewers is piled in places, the rear axle of a groundcar here, a shattered pile of burnt-out lumen globes there, even a burnt-out autocaf maker. The flotsam and jetsam of the Vaxus Deeps.
Seeing the tuffs of fur and blood laying there tears at my heart. Knowing that the Auldmaw must have suffered for a long time. A majestic animal consumed by pain without any idea of what was inflicting her. Such a horrible, and lonely way to go.
Taking advantage of the lighting offered up by the flamers. I try and look at the fresco's, and art. Like gang signs, they all tell a story. As long as you know what your looking for, and where to start for a point of reference.
Won't have long before the flames burn everything to hell.
The Auldmaw's Lair
Made it by 3 degrees.
The further Uriah proceeds into the ancient vault, the louder the plaintively murmuring voices from the xenos scepter become to him. Although he knows it is only in his head, the same choral dirge of loss and lamentation as before assails his senses. It is as if the beings whose ghostly echoes remain here are pleading with him for some manner of deliverance.
The sphere atop the scepter again begins to glow with a lambent blue hue that seems disconcertingly 'off' somehow from the normal color spectrum.
The Auldmaw's Lair
The horrid smell hits the cautious band like a gagging, miasmal wall of corruption. An awful, awful stench, almost overpowering in its unwholesome intensity, like rotting flesh immersed in a warm, stagnant, cesspool, causes many among the Wolves and Redemptionists to heave their last meals upon the bone-pale stone flooring or raise their arms over their faces in a fruitless effort to cut off the stink. The acolytes, although as nauseated as the rest, are made of sterner stuff, having experienced it before, or something akin to it, already.
The increasingly intense blue glow from Silus' scepter eventually grows brighter than the light of the flamers borne by the cleansers, casting ghostly azure light all across the nearby walls, illuminating strange inscriptions that seem to glow with their own sympathetic light. The increased luminosity in the vault then begins to pick out the feature which dominates the chamber; a massive structure circumscribed by a gigantic bowl-like base of the same porcelain-colored stone that appears at once as fountain, tree, and pillar.
For the psyker, the vile, true name of the Ruinous Power responsible for this defilement buzzes around his already troubled mind along with the overlapping echoes of the singing voices... 'Nurgle'...'Nurgle' ...until it is all he can do to remain upright on his feet.
As the blue light of the scepter becomes its brightest, now wavering and dipping vertiginously in Uriah's shaking hands, it illuminates the jet-black stream of filth cascading downward from the unseen roof of the titanic vault, the endless waterfall of tarry sludge splashing and slopping along the elegantly terraced bowls and basins that cling randomly, almost barnacle-like, to the towering expanse of the enormous xenos fountain. The hue of the foul substance is blacker than black, almost a Void-like absence of color, a nullity that absorbs the light cast upon it. It spatters and smacks against the stained humanoid statues ringing the base of the font before seeping into the huge bowl. The deliberate defilement of the enormous, alien font, once clearly possessed of an elegiac beauty, as obvious a symbolic wellspring of purity as anything you have ever encountered in your lifetime, is utterly heartbreaking.
The only analogy that presents itself, is of an insane heretic deliberately defecating upon one of the Emperor's holy altars, and reveling in the act.
The evil here is palpable.
The scene before me is gut wretching. If the Eldar saw what became of this place now in the care of its human stewards.
"Anyone know what lies above this chamber?"
The filth of the rich spires, and corruption washing down into the Deeps, and the poor man suffers. Watching the bilgeborn waterfall I know we have to destroy the corruption at its source. Not sure we can cleanse it here.
I am tempted on using what I have left of the Golden Aquila in the waters in hopes of purifying it. But I fear there just isn't enough. One vial barely saved Sigmunt. What chance would nine vials do? I must safe them, and wait.
Just wish we could pull the statues away from the filth, and clean them up. Shame to see something that was so pretty be defiled like that. Strange my heart goes out to a people I have never met, and who are so alien I couldn't even begin to understand.
The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font
Spitting bile from his mouth, while holding one gloved hand partly over his nose, Tygault answers Savalos as best he can.
"No clue, Thul. But it takes me aback some that we can't even ken where the ceiling is in this place. Long ago, I had heard tell in my aunty's nursery stories that the Auldmaw and her mate owed their size and long-life from drinking deeply from the trough of the Old Ones, but I never would have thought it was so big...or that I would ever see it. Feck, the thing must stretch nearly all the way up through the 'Source and into upper Vaxus somewhere."
Hearing this, Castogaul, now with a makeshift respirator built from tarnished binding wire and an old carpenter's mask, mumbles his monotone almost unintelligibly through the protective barrier over his mouth.
"Do not be deceived by this monument's "beauty", it was anathema before it was polluted by this vile effluence. This ghostly stone, these unnverving carvings and sigils, they are the remnants of the accursed xenos who dwelt on this world before the Emperor's light cast them out into the Void. The corruption here must be burnt away, and every stone of this mockery be cast down, so no two are left standing upon each other."
As vehement as the preacher is about exhorting his men to do so, you wonder if he is really seeing the enormity of the task before you. Not to mention that the entire font---impossibly so---seems to be one, single, smoothly contoured piece of stone.
"Don't get distacted from our task, and burn the filth. The stone work isn't going anywhere. You can worry about it once our greater mission is done."
Not unless I move it, and hide it first.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent's uncertainty about the case's security does not mean he is so foolish as to believe there are no countermeasures or tell-tales in place. He has little doubt that the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor will open the display, but is fairly positive that someone, somewhere will be made aware of the action.
Vincent considers the problem for a moment, then draws a pair of objects from within his coat, his ward accessor and his pistol. He carefully checks the chamber of his Armsman-10, then slides home the ward accessor.
Vincent knows some risks are worth taking, there is too much at stake not to take the gamble.
The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font.
"Don't get distracted from our task, and burn the filth. The stonework isn't going anywhere. You can worry about it once our greater mission is done."
Not unless I move it, and hide it first.
Castogaul and a handful of his brethren who are close enough to hear Thul's words eye the spire-like fountain with loathing, and move to ignite their flamers. Savalos catches the preacher weighing the sincerity of his final words before he casts his suspicious zealot's gaze upon Uriah and the brilliantly shining scepter he strains to hold upright and aloft.
Uriah Trantor feels as though he is lost in a coruscating nimbus of cerulean blue light. The sibilant choir of long-dead Eldar voices filling his head has become a din of overlapping whispers filled with muttered imprecations, cries of inconsolable dismay, and sorrowful, plaintive wailing. It is as if they can somehow perceive the loathsome defilement of their ancient monument. He also feels the eyes of the others upon him, but cannot help the growing sense of otherworldly detachment consuming his psyche.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent considers the problem for a moment, then draws a pair of objects from within his coat, his ward accessor and his pistol. He carefully checks the chamber of his Armsman-10, then slides home the ward accessor.
Vincent knows some risks are worth taking, there is too much at stake not to take the gamble.
Rechecking that there is a round chambered in the autopistol, Vincent sweeps the Warden-Colonel's ward accessor over the hemispherical sensor bridging the near invisible seam in the display case. With the vacuum-pop of a powerful stasis field being disengaged, the top of the case rises slowly with a faint whir.
Without preamble, or pretext about the proper, Ecclesiarchically-sanctioned manner of lifting a priceless artifact from its centuries-long cradle, the civilian senior clerk of the 7th Legion's penal claustrum barely considers the moral implications resultant in his deliberate theft of a priceless Ministorum artifact.
The sabre feels good in his hand, and he has stopped humming the song. For now, that is all that matters.
With no sign of any alarm, Vincent turns away from the empty case and continues down the corridor toward the Warden-Colonel's suite. None of Logis Blakswann's numerous schematics of the facility flitting through his mind can help him in his approach now, it is simply a straight shot to the first of the two remaining security checkpoints.
After a few more minutes of walking, Vincent stops before the partially open bulkhead doors leading into the first security foyer. The doors, tastefully appointed with the same mosaic of porcelain-white shells as the rest of the portals in the Warden-Colonel's portion of the Aerie should be closed. A bad smell comes through the half-meter wide gap in the power-less doors. The curve of the corridor prevents you from seeing what is inside.
The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font
Scrutiny Test (1d100=8)
It is clear to Savalos with a glance that the preacher, Castogaul, is unsuccessfully hiding his reaction, and has passed judgment of some kind upon Uriah. He turns away and raises his flamer to chest height, before speaking.
"Burn it all."
The Redemptionists encircle the polluted font, followed by the similarly armed Duct Wolves when Savalos nods his assent. Their new Packmaster joins them, adding his own flamer to those leveled at the Eldar monument.
With staggered blasts of hot, incinerated air, the many flamers erupt with cleansing fire and the chemical smell of promethium. Savalos wrinkles his nose in disgust, not from the stink of the accellerant, but from the foul stench of the corruption pouring forth from above, which is in no way masked by the flamer's combustive assault. If anything, the reek grows worse for a time.
Still, while washing the blanketing curtains of flame back and forth around the font, it is clear that the oily black sludge is being burnt away, at least where it fills the circular pool at the base and the lower basins. Minutes pass, and as a fine sheen of sweat begins to bead across his brow, Savalos gradually begins to raise the angle of his blast, with the others following suit and scouring away the blasphemy, all the while blackening the once-pristine fountain, meter by meter. When the seeping cascade of filth pouring forth from the unseen ceiling finally catches alight, it begins to change color and consistency, from a watery, pitch-black to a more muddy, brownish hue, the fluid becoming more syrupy and gelid, before the flames truly engulf it, finally rendering it down into a dessicated, fibrous-looking, ropy mass, reminiscent of a thick stalactite comprised of dried-out snot. As the flamers wink out one by one, finally running dry of propellant, the acolytes and their retinue back away from the still smoldering carnage, settling their watery eyes upon the utter ruination of the font, which now looks like nothing more than an enormous, blackened bone stained with brownish blood.
failed by 1 degree
When the sudden, molten wash of heat from the flamers simultaneously igniting proves to be too much, Uriah is wracked by a paralyzing seizure, falling forward into unconsciousness before he even hits the floor. Still clutching the shining scepter in both hands, he listens as the ethereal choir of voices filling his mind fades and distorts before leaving altogether, finally falling silent as the psyker is enfolded into the blessed blanket of oblivion.
I gesture for a couple of my guys to pick up Uriah. Have a feeling he wants to sleep this one off on that walk back, and get him someplace safe. Definately want him in the Wolves hands, and no where near the Redemptionists. Exspecially Castigaul...
One thing about fanatics. They always have this habit on knowing whats better for you than you do. Some are moral authorities thinking they were born better, and have a better idea of whats right and wrong. Some hear the words of Saints, or the Emperor himself. Some claim to have visions. Whatever the case, good people die because of there opinions. And I am pretty sure Uriah's been marked.
Before we leave I want to take a look around being extremely careful. Seen enough daemons exploding out of pipes to last me a lifetime...
"Do not doubt his primitive bearing and antiquated techniques, the ganger displayed an impressive autodidactic proficiency in his profession. I believe his salve was a distillate of the henjebonte fungoid, a natural anti-inflammatory and analgesic. His suturing was exceptional as well, despite his use of cured felid-gut."
"That is good at least." I keep looking at the hole in the flack helmet. A little closer and more straight on and I would probably not be here any more. Not since I was a little boy have I had to face my own mortality or any kind of real fear. Its a bit daunting.
With that reflection I run some subroutines to calm my self and to keep the memory clear. Making the memory unclouded with the emotions that would make it something that it was not.
Once the subroutines are done I square my shoulders and say,"So do you have any parts to fix this hole I am not sure I do?"
The Vaxus Deeps, the Duct Wolf Sanctum
"That is good at least." I keep looking at the hole in the flack helmet. A little closer and more straight on and I would probably not be here any more. Not since I was a little boy have I had to face my own mortality or any kind of real fear. Its a bit daunting.
With that reflection I run some subroutines to calm my self and to keep the memory clear. Making the memory unclouded with the emotions that would make it something that it was not.
Once the subroutines are done I square my shoulders and say, "So do you have any parts to fix this hole? I am not sure I do."
Ivaanov takes the helmet from Kaltos and runs his slender finger through the las-blasted gap that had his fellow tech-priest ruminating about his own mortality a few moments ago. Checking the tool bag at his side, he rummages through it, producing a thin sleeve of metallic material that folds like cloth. Rolled up inside is a small plastek bottle containing powerful bonding agent. As he deftly maneuvers the tip of his index finger, now glowing brightly with the flare of a small fusion torch, a small patch of the material is cut out of the whole. He begins to secure it to the helmet with the aid of the adhesive, reciting a quiet litany to the Omnissiah as he works.
The repair done, he hands the helmet back to Kaltos, and considers him with the round gaze of his insectile goggles again before speaking in a hushed burst of binary Techna-lingua.
"I have been cogitating the probability of success for the servants of the Inquisition and the hereteks as the circumstances and the natures of their adversaries presently stand, Brother Havelock, and I must concede, success in their current endeavor is extremely unlikely with their present resources. The time will soon come when we must reconsider our present allegiances, if only so that the trust placed in us by Magos Triskaedestes does not turn into misplaced faith. My indentureship to High Arbiter Krade is the only tie that still binds us to their objectives. The likelihood that such foes would keep him alive for such an extended period of time is altogether minute. It is entirely possible that this is a technicality that will allow me to discharge my duty, as it were."
The Wellspring of E'auvennade
Uriah opens his eyes, the searing pain of the gran mal seizure suddenly absent, and wonders if he is, in fact, dead.
He lies upon his back, the cold, marble-like stone of the floor strangely cushioned now in places by something soft to the touch of his slender fingers, splayed at his sides. Opening his eyes, and glancing to his left, he sees that the substance is a patchwork blanket of blue-green moss, the filamentous, beak-like shape of tiny spore-capsules swaying to-and-fro in a light breeze that smells vaguely of the ocean. Voidborn that he is, these accents of the natural world would be alien enough to Uriah in the most normal of circumstances. Finding them here, ostensibly in the Auldmaw's lair, is confusing, to say the least.
Resting his still-sore head against the ground, he opens his eyes again, and finds them looking up into the vibrant, midnight blue of the early evening sky. A tapestry of stars, and the curving crescents of all three of Oremor's moons hang like a series of incrementally larger hooks in the vista before him, their hues reminding him of their names; Yphanus, Sefulus, and Cacius. The last of their number hangs just over the horizon, and is partially blocked by the towering monolith rising above him. The enormous, spire-like fountain is no longer the color of old bone, but a pristine white, so pure that it is almost blinding to look at even with what little light remains from the setting sun. The sunset gives one half of the titanic font a rosy hue, that bespeaks a warmth and sanctity that seems to soften the pounding in the psyker's skull. Water flows down in gentle rivulets along the length of the titanic fountain, drizzling from the pinnacle before splashing along the tiered basins and cascading down into the lower pool. The powerful spray of the flow as it strikes the bottom basin has already caused a pleasant, flowery-smelling mist to bead upon Uriah's face and clothing. There is no sign of the arching walls or unseen dome above that formerly contained the fountain. In fact, beyond the mossy white stone of the circular court, tall grasses wave back and forth, and to the south Uriah Trantor can hear powerful waves crashing against rock.
He is clearly outside.
Just when he thinks he has truly gone mad, a mellifluous voice, cordial and commanding, calls to him from somewhere nearby.
"Wake traveler, and know that you are welcome, here in the twilight betwixt the future and the past. I have been waiting a long time for you."
Before Uriah can react, a canid-like face, covered in green-brown fur with mandibles strangely more chitinous than flesh and bone, hovers over his own. A long, pink, tendril-like tongue snakes out to wash over his face affectionately, leaving a sticky, sap-like fluid behind where it touches. Triple convex eyes, compound like that of fly regard him curiously before the animal's strangely-shaped head disappears, heeling to curious words in a musical tongue you cannot comprehend, spoken by the same soft voice you just heard. You listen as the animal pads away obediently to its master.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent pads cautiously up to the door, but his feet still fall uncomfortably loud against the unyielding marble. He leans his head against the door's mosaic paneling to peer into the murk beyond. Ever so slowly, he begins to push the door open with his foot.
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Peering through the widening gap in the unpowered door, Vincent surveys the lobby checkpoint beyond, his eyes narrowing in the dimness of the amber emergency lighting shed from the flickering lumen strips above. As before, a single, undulating curve of white desk, without edges or obvious angles rises from the floor in the middle of the room to just over waist height, the surveillance pict-feeds, recessed cogitators, and other accoutrements of the guard post hidden beyond the curving edge from this side. Partially open doors, similar to the one you stand in, are in the middle of the wall just behind the desk.
A slumped figure, head clenched in both hands, leans forward upon the curving white console, sobbing uncontrollably, his breath leaving his lungs in great, wheezing heaves.
Things smell even worse in here. Like a toilet that has not been sanitized in some time, or an overflowing latrine.
You notice a long, angular arc of bright red blood spatter splashed across the front of the pristine white color of the decorative desk.
I will make the attempt to sit up and look where that voice is coming from.
The Auldmaw's Lair, the Tainted Font
As two of the Duct Wolves lift Uriah, Savalos stops short in front of his fellow acolyte, watching as his eyes move rapidly behind closed lids, and his body spasms slightly. One of the gangers has a history of medicae training and advises the Packmaster that although unconscious, the Voidborn's respirations and pulse are within normal ranges, albeit excited by the seizure, it seems.
You notice the cerulean blue glow of the scepter has diminished significantly in the time it has taken you to reach your friend from the firestorm at the tainted font.
I look at Uriah, and the sceptre, and sigh. Damn I am the last one standing, or not AWOL out of the all the acolytes. I seriously need to contact the Old Man.
I take one last look at the tainted font, and gaze upward from where the corruption streamed down.
"Alright lets all get out of here. Need to find some tech layouts of this place to find where this waterfall of filth is coming from. We need to purge it from the source. We got alot more to do before this day is over."
The Wellspring of E'auvennade
Uriah braces his hands to either side, and pushes himself to his feet while breathing deeply of the pure air, the redolent stench of the Auldmaw's lair suddenly absent from his clothing and nostrils. He stands upon a wide, grassy plateau, dominated in its center by the towering fountain, concentric rings of moss-festooned white stone radiating outward from the pool at its base. The reason for the sound of the crashing ocean waves is immediately evident as he looks to his right, where the plateau falls off to the blue-green sea surging against the base of the promontory hundreds of meters below. Were it not for the familiarity of the stars in the twilit sky, he would still be wondering where he is, but they mark the world as Oremor, the astrography of his position almost instinctive to the voidborn. Some kilometers in the distance he sees a massive spire, pale-white and tapering to a point at a nearly impossible height that is clearly the Eldar monument from his vision in the Astropathic Choir.
Sitting across from him, in a wicker throne threaded with fungoid-blooms and ivy, is a tall, slender humanoid with alabaster skin and narrow, piercing eyes of deepest green, resplendent in an emerald robe woven from carefully cultivated plant-life. A tapering head-dress surmounts the narrow skull of the being, intricate and convoluted, with whorls and swirls of viridian shades gleaming from the coral-like substance it is crafted from. The figure's slender fingers rest idly in its lap, curled around a distinctive scepter, identical to the one you hold in your own hands. Resting at ease near the stranger's slippered feet is the animal that just licked your face. There is something strangely familiar about it. The creature is covered in thick, green-brown fur, but also possesses hardened, chitinous skin beneath, skin that blends seamlessly into the form of bone-like fangs at edges of the predator's jaws. The triple-eyes arranged in a semicircle across the front of its skull are also vaguely insect-like. It becomes clear when the beast scratches an orifice where an ear might be, that it is actually tripedal, and uses the third, hind leg to rub at the irritation. It can only be a duct wolf, albeit one of their kind long before they left the verdant fields of Oremor-that-was for the lightless tunnels of humanity's Underhives.
Patting his pampered pet as he rises to his feet, the Eldar (for to Uriah, that is all this being can possibly be, although he has never seen an actual xenos in the flesh) stands upright and moves forward a few paces with a perfect, otherworldly grace that makes the psyker feel ungainly and painfully awkward, even more so than his present disorientation would suggest. He circles around Uriah Trantor slowly, appraising him with his warmly engaging, yet ancient eyes, moving with the same predatory elegance of his pet.
"Your disorientation will pass shortly, mon-keigh. Being of the kilithikadya, or the future-that-is-to-come, your manifestation here is tenuous at best, and it is only through the part of myself that is invested in the shryyr that you hold that we are able to converse in this manner."
The tall Eldar stops in front of you, almost within arm's length, imperious even with elegant rusticity of his garb.
"You may call me K'lei-eth, the appointed guardian of this Lilaethan. To my people, I am Exodite and Farseer. I regret to say that I have not already made or will yet make your acquaintance, as you are yet to be in my span of years. Who is it, that I am addressing then?"
"I am Uriah Trantor."
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Vincent takes a tentative step into the lobby, pistol raised.
The Wellspring of E'auvennade
Completing his circuit around you, the lithe Eldar dips his head slightly in a minimal gesture of acknowledgment. Faint lines, they could not be called wrinkles they are so slight, form around the Farseer's eyes, and you get the distinct impression that he is channelling untold reserves of his inner will despite outwardly showing only the barest impression of concentration across his vulpine features.
"You must forgive my hesitance; it is sometimes difficult to formulate questions about matters that for myself have not yet come to pass. It is likewise difficult to explain this uncertainty to those such as yourself when I have ironically already augured the answers to queries that I do not know I will pose."
He raises one pencil-line thin, tapering eyebrow, a brief look of amusement crossing his face.
"I do not mean to confuse you, Uriah Trantor, but conversing with your kind about such matters is altogether difficult. It is not your race's fault, merely the brevity of your vantage point in the scheme of the continuum."
"Do you know why you are here?"
Oremor 7th Penal Legion Claustrum, The Aerie, 99th level, Unduz II
Raising the gun to chest height, Vincent cautiously walks into the security lobby, keeping the autopistol trained on the seated figure. His footfalls echo on the marble tiles, and the man in the chair shireks in terror, flinching hands coming up quickly away from his face, springing to his feet as if he means to flee for his life.
His features are puffy and flushed, his cheeks and nostrils coated in tears and snot. His eyes, perhaps most disturbingly, are red-rimmed and hollow, the eyes of a man who has seen too much, too soon. Sepheris is reminded of pict-stills he has seen in the past of guardsmen and PDF whose minds have collapsed under the horrors of war. Forgetting for a moment in the man's vulnerable state that he wears the flak armor of an Imperial Guardsman of the 7th Legion, and is thus martially trained and dangerous, the senior clerk is too surprised to act when the man brings up a laspistol from his holster and points it at him.
It is only then that he recognizes the bedraggled man is Corporal Murjoff.
"Stay!!! Stay there! Another step and---and---I'll kill you! Whatever you are! Please!"
The whining, plaintive voice is that of a broken child, not the somewhat dim-witted, bravado-fueled loyal guardsman that Vincent once blackmailed over a few cases of lho sticks. Something has unsettled the bedrock of the young corporal's world.