<<Everyone be ready. Whatever happens most likely will happen when the tournament ends.>>
I turn to Tilkeen. "Be ready. The end of the tournament will be when it is most dangerous."
<<Copy that, as long as the Heretic has not given me wrong directions, we should be in place.>>
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Leprade's gaze meets Savalos with a flash of jaded enmity, his lip twitching with a curl of bald contempt, seemingly incredulous that Thul would attempt such gamesmanship at this point in the tournament. His resolve never wavers, and he looks to be a man who knows precisely how much is riding on his commitment to the hand.
"Raise."
He irritably flicks through his chips, counting them out, before sweeping them demonstratively into the middle of the table, his irritation bubbling over into an actual outburst.
"Seventeen."
"All in."
He grits his teeth, glowering at Wardja and Thul and the pair cannot help but sense the turmoil in the man, the growing desperation on his features. As if he knows somehow that far more is at stake than a simple card game.
Looking at Leprades face, and the tinge of desperation that slips from his lips puts me on edge. I've seen this look before is in back alleys and burned out hab blocks. The hair stands on my neck as the danger from this man is tangible. I can taste it. There is a hidden wager going on separate from the one at the table, but this hand will decide both. I am looking at a scared animal, a cornered one.
This time I wait for Wardja's move before I push in my 17. Follow protocol's this time. Otherwise there is good odds I will be eating a bullet. I provoked enough this round. The cards will tell there tale soon enough. Still a lot of game left.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
Vincent does not hesitate, swinging the shining saber in hacking overhand arc that just misses the newly born plague zombie's head, slicing instead diagonally through the clavicle at the neck and deep into the thing's chest, the pulsing power field of the weapon carving through the flak armor with almost no resistance.
The Warp-spawned abomination, only a few desperate seconds ago a living breathing man, is effectively sliced in half. The stocky figure tumbles in two halves off of the side of the tanker truck to the mud below.
Vincent's eyes dart to the sergeant, who still holds his buzzing chainsword raised high overhead, and the one-time senior clerk of Ylesium Claustrum realizes that the officer would not have hesitated a moment in his own swing at his former friend. Vincent merely beat him to it. The haunted hollows of the man's eyes speak to just what he has gone through to bring him to this point, however.
Over the whine of the chainblade, the sergeant turns and looks at Vincent, a perplexed look coming over his face.
"Do you hear that?"
Vincent thinks he can now. A deep, resonant roar, high in the sky, a sound the claustrum's Aerie hangar bays has made him intimately familiar with over his many years on Unduz II. A sound that serves as the harbinger of powerful atmospheric aircraft.
Launce's head pivots to follow the noise, as Ryuk hefts the masked guardsman to his feet.
Looking out over the hundred upon hundreds of slavering undead swarming out of the irrigation canal, surging in their direction, Vincent cannot help but wonder what a tempting target they might make.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl, Central Generatorium Chamber
Kaltos, Ivaanov, and Kotts emerge from the narrow damper corridor into a large, circular chamber, brimming with holy devices blessed by the Omnissiah for the sacred task of energy production. The hot air in the dimly-lit generatorium crackles with static-filled discharges between the massive machine's roaring rotors, making things deafening in the pathways between the various components.
Kaltos examines the large capacitors with a unconscious vocational appreciation, and the trio wends their way through the heart of the Pinnacle of Pearl's power production until they reach an unassuming metal door, that, according to Dunkan's schematics, exits into a short service corridor, limned with sound-nullifying baffles, connecting to the lower stair foyer leading up to the Pearl, above.
As Thul works over the heretic, I note Leprade's set jaw, distant stare, and rigid posture. The bet marker comes to me. Fingering and lifting a stack of my chips, I let them drop a few times and extend the moment a bit longer. Let the false arbite sweat a little more.
"The Concordium states, 'He who serves the Hegemony will be rewarded.' I am firm in my faith regarding my master. Can you say the same? From here, Intelligencer, it seems you are man of doubt. Doubt in your master, doubt in your actions, doubt even in that petty hand you hide. Remember, Officer Leprade, that payment always comes with interest."
I drop my stack of 17 chips into the pot.
Vincent's mouth is dry and sour as he struggles to croak out the words to address the remainders of their party. He raises he free hand and points a shaking finger towards the woods.
"The path is clear, we need to move now."
After giving them a moment to collect their wits, Vincent walks over to the edge of the overturned hauler before cautiously bending down and hopping into the muddy ground below.
He falls ungracefully into the thick mire with a sickening squelch
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
After an acceptable delay that only serves to further heighten the tension at the table, Wardja chides Leprade:
"The Concordium states, 'He who serves the Hegemony will be rewarded.' I am firm in my faith regarding my master. Can you say the same? From here, Intelligencer, it seems you are man of doubt. Doubt in your master, doubt in your actions, doubt even in that petty hand you hide. Remember, Officer Leprade, that payment always comes with interest."
One look at Leprade's clenched jaw, penetrating gaze, and defiant posture leaves little doubt in Wardja's mind that he will not back down. No, it is clear that there is simply far too much at stake for him at this juncture.
Oddly enough, despite his stoic silence throughout this round, he now elects to say something, making certain he pins Wardja with his washed-out, jade colored eyes before speaking.
"Your words, arbitrator, even with your expertly acted bluster, are laden with more truth than even you suspect. So, I insist you remember them, so you can reflect upon their delicious irony on the day you realize just where it is your precious faith in your master has delivered you."
Savalos adds his chips without saying anything, and Leprade stares hatefully at the daemonhost. The Changeling seems to relish the moment, meeting the Intelligencer's eyes with something akin to cold satisfaction, all mirthful gamesmanship absent from Johnnie's dark, craggy features. For a moment, Savalos can almost believe it is his old friend looking back, where it not for the pitiless blue eyes. He remembers how the creature within dominated Waldrimm, yet was subsumed just the same by the mere mortal's twisted obsession with his mother. Perhaps Rico's grudge against his one-time rival, the man who nearly ruined him, is still alive and well.
The daemon's demeanor is almost dignified now, coldly regal and matching or exceeding Leprade's intensity.
He calls, pushing his chips forward.
With Leprade having nothing further with which to raise, the dealer signals for the reveal, Wardja showing a strong hand that is just as quickly trumped by Savalos' Greater Array. When it comes time for the Changeling to show his hand, he smiles ruefully at Leprade.
"Ah, Intelligencer Leprade, of all the players in this great game, I must commend you on your insight, as you are perhaps the first to come to this revelation with any measure of true understanding---it makes it more the shame that your time among us is almost at its end."
He flips his unseen cards, one after the other, revealing a nigh-perfect Greater Array of his own, championed by the Daemon, just enough to best Savalos.
It is immediately clear that Leprade is beaten, he gently folds his hand face-up on the midnight blue felt, showing a third Great Array of the round, a nigh-impossibility given all the possible permutations of Heretic's Wake hands. It ranks better than Thul's showing, but falls just short of matching the daemon's hand. An agonizing defeat that is reflected in the crowd's low, sympathetic murmur.
The look of utter, desolate, resigned defeat on the man's face shakes even the jaded acolytes, who know deep in their hearts that the Intelligencer has lost far more than this stake in the tournament by his elimination.
With quiet dignity, he pushes his chair away from the table, looking at no one, even as Trizo dol Soulard regards him with a glance of irritable consternation.
The dealer sweeps the chips to the Changeling, collects the placards, and begins dealing a fresh hand.
I know I am looking at a doomed man. I would show sympathy except for the fact that he brought about his own ruin. Greed, jealousy, heresy... I have no pity for the man.
Five remain, and the Daemon sits on top. Can't beat it in its house. I am here to learn. The game is just that.
When the fresh hand is dealt I don't even look at my cards. I play the game based on the other players actions. Psyker vetch can't read what I don't see. Even so I can feel a palatable dread building as the 9th turn is just one round away. I concentrate on the people around me and my environment. I plan on walking away from this table by games end.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
As his mind quickly correlates what he is hearing with what it must be, Vincent signals to the others and leaps down, but his momentum does not carry him far enough, and he lands with a thick, wet, squelch of sucking mud, sinking into the mire to nearly the tops of his knees.
As he struggles to free himself, he watches the sergeant easily leap the gap to dry ground, followed by Launce, whose anti-grav coils allow his maglev guided descent to just clear the churned muck at the base of the overturned truck.
The still-addled guardsman with the respirator leaps next, reaching further than Vincent, but still falling prone in the slop when he loses his footing while landing. Ryuk bounds easily across the slough of mud, landing lightly on his feet near the sergeant. He and the tech-priest immediately begin reaching for Vincent, one with the hilt of his blade, the other with a utility mechadendrite, while the sergeant lays out his deactivated chainsword for his comrade to grab.
Vincent sees the first of the staggering undead rounding the truck from either side, moaning and churning through the muck around the perimeter of the flooded ground. It will only be a matter of moments before they are completely encircled.
The roar of the approaching aircraft grows ever louder.
With only a little help from his compatriots, Vincent wriggles to his feet in the churning muck.
Only a matter of time before the Changeling made its move as it looks like the fix is in. Hope I can make a difference in the Real Game outside of this one.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
Pulling with all of their might, the psyker and Launce finally manage to overcome the sucking mire's pull on Vincent, yanking him free.
Seconds later the sergeant hauls his last surviving charge to the lip of the muddy ground, and the bedraggled companions begin moving at a loping run away from the water truck toward the fallow fungoid-forest, just as the swarming undead surge around either side of the doomed vehicle. Ryuk keeps pace with the winded clerk, eerie blade in hand, while the tech-priest urges on the guardsmen, even as the roaring in the sky grows louder and louder, loud enough now to begin drowning out the relentless moans of their pursuers.
With his head bobbing wildly from the breakneck run to the shelter promised at the edge of the field, Vincent feels the powerful overpressure exerted on his eardrums as whatever manner of atmospheric craft flying in from above exceeds the sound barrier, provoking a series of resounding booms from the bruise colored skies over Unduz II. This is followed by the pitched whines of the aircraft as they begin a steep dive, their target acquired.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
An expectant silence settles over the tournament patrons in the gallery as the placards are dealt again for the eighth and penultimate round of the tournament. The expert cardsharps amongst them following the match with rapt interest, living vicariously with each turn of hand, while the wealthy bettors with a horse still in the race urge on their predicted champions with bated breath.
The table seems sparse now; expansive and barren without the eliminated players and their markers present, a midnight blue gulf separating the surviving contestants, sitting like paranoid kings behind tall, ramshackle fortresses of teetering chips.
Savalos does not even glance at his cards as they are dealt to him, allowing the hand to remain face-down atop the table like a challenge to Trizo, an oblique insult that oddly buoys the acolyte's confidence. Had he any sense at all of how poor his hand was, perhaps his thin-lipped smirk would be less confident, but it somehow feels right, just the same. There is one advantage at the very least: no one could possibly read any tell he might unconsciously let slip if he himself was oblivious to what he now holds.
The Changeling, all traces of diabolical mirth now gone, simply leaves the cards where they fall, like Savalos/ The daemon is clearly playing for keeps now.
Trizo watches this baffling display with irritable incredulity, his clenched jaw sliding back and forth as if chewing on something he clearly doesn't like. He peruses his own cards with the all the revelation one would garner from watching an especially disinterested sphinx.
Blitz, back in the tournament again, chuckles at the gamesmanship, but prefers to examine his cards a trifle more closely than his rivals. He peers at the hand with the impassiveness of a man browsing nothing more exciting than a transcribed vox directory.
Wardja regards his cards solemnly, finding himself with a passable hand, nothing close to spectacular, but perhaps something to build upon.
The dealer gestures to Savalos for an opening bid or call.
I call. I plan on playing conservative this round and save as many of my chips for the grand finale.
Vincent sprints headlong it to the woods, more concerned with what lies ahead than behind.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Without even looking at the cards, Savalos Thul knows his hand is worthless as he runs his palm slowly over them. It is nothing so mystical as psychometry or other latent psychic ability that reveals this to him, as it is a deep, abiding feeling that he has been here before, a deja vu that is so powerful it brooks no rational argument. He cannot help but glance at the Changeling, wondering if its malign influence exudes this bizarre sense in him, or if its source is something else, perhaps some remnant of his time spent with K'lei'eth at the Wellspring of E'auvennade.
With Savalos electing not to raise, the dealer sweeps his hand across the table to mark the end of the First Player's exclusive opportunity to bid in the opening round.
He then turns his attention to Savalos again upon the Draw.
Would probably have folded if Thul raised at all. But since I can see some cards for free, I toss in over half my hand.
I give a slight snort of derision. The cards are probably luring me into trouble again.
Every time I start to get drawn into the game I see the small icon of myself on the table and am reminded what this is all really about.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
The gaunt senior clerk of Ylesium Claustrum feels the aches in his legs, the burning stitch in his side, and the strength-sapping, exhausting effect of pronounced dehydration despite the effects of his environmental bodyglove (which seems like nothing more than a pinching, rubberized second skin at this point in his flight). Ryuk, despite years of imprisonment, is an impeccable physical specimen, and Vincent can tell he is slowing his pace deliberately to keep in stride parallel to him. Launce moves well despite the weight of his Mechanicus implants, and the two guardsman flee for their lives with the practical knowledge of just what terror both a horde of ravenous, cannibal-corpses and a tactical air strike can deliver.
Flagging, Vincent allows himself to consider for a moment letting it all end, here and now, despite the crucible he has been put through to this point. In all likelihood, were he to fall to his knees now, he would be spared being devoured alive by the apocalyptic outcome of the munitions falling, either the shrapnel or blast wave. It is almost a comforting thought. Ryuk seems to read this in his countenance, and Vincent feels a pang of guilt, suspecting---no, knowing---that the cloned psyker would simply stop and stay with him, oblivious to the end that would befall him because of such dogged loyalty to a man he barely knows. Who is to say even that Ryuk's death, this fleshly copy of the Prisoner, the Warp-corrupted Inquisitorial acolyte that precipitated this entire calamity, would necessarily be a bad thing? What if Ryuk is merely a precursor, destined to become as tainted and ineffably evil as his source? So many questions, so many niggling doubts, too many...
Vincent stumbles and nearly falls, and it is this tiny physical misstep that brings him back to his senses, like a splash of cold water upon his sweat-drenched brow. The adrenaline pumps through him, perhaps his last reserves, and he pumps his legs as fast as his exhausted body will allow, hoping against hope it is enough. Ryuk mouths something soundlessly to him, all of his words, all other noise, drowned out by the screaming of the Marauder bombers diving out of the purple-black tropical sky on their final approach to their target.
With a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Imperial Guard tactics, aircraft, munitions, and combat doctrine, simply part and parcel to the accumulation of an eidetic mind's daily exposure to such things through his one-time vocation, Vincent knows that the targeting salient for the ordinance drop will likely be the end of the drainage canal and the ruined truck, where the endless horde of undead are thickest. Even though the fungoid tree-line is within a minute's sprint, he knows the specifications, weights, yield, and burst signature of the Hellstorm Mark IV bombs the craft likely carry, and the fiery death it will bring. The blast wave could very well be enough to kill them if they don't drop to the ground now.
As he watches the others reach the treeline, he yells for Ryuk to fall, and he collapses to the ground, just meters shy of the flimsy cover provided by the bamboo-like fungal stalks. The shrill whine of the falling bombs is followed by the sweeping rush of air as the craft zoom low, overhead, outrunning their tumbling munitions, before flying off with a tooth-shaking rumble, scant meters above the fungoid-forest. So close are they, he can make out the closing bomb-bay doors as the aircraft pirouette back into the bruised sky. The whining grows ever louder, and despite all good sense, he risks a look back as Ryuk falls atop him. He can see the ordinance flashing out of the sky, impacting just behind the turtled water truck in the very midst of the unending legion of plague zombies.
A sound like the Emperor's Hammer falling upon this mortal world deafens him almost immediately, the impact lifting the very earth beneath him as if it was punched by titanic hands beneath. The overpressure from the incoming blast wave makes him scream, jaw tensing tightly in a desperate attempt at relief, before it fully strikes he and Ryuk like a tsunami of force, flinging them into the air like chaffs of fungoid at the mercy of a chit-sickle. As he spins through the air, Vincent can see a blisteringly red mountain of fire erupting from the ground, a holocaust of concentrated promethium and high explosives combining to incinerate the army of tainted once-men that even now turn numbly to face their reckoning. In mid-flight, just before he closes his eyes and is blinded by the light, Vincent can see that most of the undead are reduced instantaneously to ash, or, for those somewhat past the truck, ripped apart like fleshy kindling and hurled into the air as he and Ryuk.
Strangely calm, Vincent closes his eyes, even as he is launched airborne several meters in a ballistic trajectory for the one-time sanctuary that was the treeline. Not one to pray, he takes solace from the fact his fate is no longer in his own hands, and he has done all he can to survive. A restful quietude fills him as his rag-doll body rips through the sheltering growth of the fallow field.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Seemingly without knowing his hand at all, Savalos Thul, returns it all for an Aggressive Draw, eliciting more confused murmurs from the riveted crowd.
When the dealer turns to the Changeling, the daemon follows suit, never examining its hand, and instead delicately sliding two cards across the table for replacements. It lays Rico's broad-fingered hand across these possessively, but does not pick them up.
Trizo dol Soulard grunts in derision, clearly having had enough of this nonsense, although his arrogantly confident visage shows some perturbation and unease now. He idly glances back at his pet witch, before waving off a Draw of any kind. He glances from Thul to the Changeling, endeavoring, like the audience, to unmask the significance of their bizarre mummer's farce.
Blitz seems outwardly collected, but the pressure of the endgame is beginning to make itself felt even in his roguish gaze. His good-natured banter and pointed barbs have been replaced with silence and focus. He pauses, one finger held in the air, and then smoothly brushes several cards forward in his own Aggressive draw. He collects his placards and mimics Thul and the Changeling's mystical legerdemain by placing one hand flat across the top of them, before grinning and winking at the crowd, and lifting them close to his face. He chuckles wryly at this, and some of the tension is defused, as the crowd laughs nervously with him.
Wardja, more on instinct, tosses in most of his hand, following Blitz down the Aggressive path, and being rewarded quite handsomely for the risk.
The dealer makes his expansive sweeping gesture again, and points to Thul for his bid.
Before the acolyte can answer, Trizo breaks the pensive silence of his deliberation.
"Take a look, Thul. I know you want to."
He gazes derisively at the Changeling, the cold contempt in his voice like a master referring to his chattel.
"It is a capering fool, madness incarnate, enslaved to its own folly. You give it more credit than it deserves. There is no reason you should throw your own hopes away so frivolously by playing the understudy; hell, you might even still win."
Trizo's tone, full of scorn, belie his own words, making it clear what he really thinks the likelihood of this happening is.
I close my eyes and run my fingers across the cards, and try to focus. Drowning out most of the noise of the crowd and visual distractions.
"I bid one."
I look back at Trizo.
Rook
Vincent hits the ground as the bomb's deafening thunder washes over him.
I expect the Changeling to bid 8. Will see if my theory checks out.
I finally turn to Leprade after he has had time to think and sulk.
"Your hand is empty, you played your bottom chip. Your allies quiet says everything. I offer you a fresh card. Now its up to you. Make your choice."
Putting in the final wedge that I can play. And hopefully Leprade will side with us and give us knowledge we seek before he meets his fate.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Raising one chip following the Draw, Savalos first regards Trizo, who maintains his obdurate posture, and then the Changeling, whose transformation from mercurial provocateur to icily silent is as sudden as it is ominous.
The daemonhost slowly closes its brilliantly blue eyes in Rico's face, a seemingly deliberate and pointed reminder of the man whose skin it now wears, intended to subtly incite the emotions of those who once knew him. The Changeling then idly fingers the prodigious stack of markers, thumbs gliding over each of their nine sides.
Its voice is low rasp, "I will call the wager; and raise eighteen more."
When the daemonhost removes its hypnotically moving hands away from the stacked chips it has been playing with, Savalos and Wardja can both see that they are now arrayed in nine tall stacks of exactly thirty-seven chips each.
The creature turns to Trizo expectantly.
The Yellobouros gang-boss sighs, seemingly exasperated by what is happening. He looks at the raise and shrugs, tossing in nineteen chips of his own before pushing across an imposing stack to raise. He counts them as he pushes the seemingly random pile, with an air of nonchalance and irritation that he means to end this bizarre little game the acolyte and the daemon are playing.
"Call, and raise, what is this---twenty seven!"
The Changeling smiles.
The dealer then turns to the rogue trader, who, despite largely being outside of what is perhaps transpiring here, seems to sense that what he does next might carry serious implications, game or no game.
"I---I will--"
He regards first Savalos, then the Changeling, and lastly Trizo, who stares at him with a pronounced impatience and an obvious leer of dislike that borders on the pathological.
"Call."
He pushes forward fourty-five of his own markers, and something about the architecture of the growing stack before him makes him almost immediately regretful as the dealer turns to Wardja.
He lets out a low sigh, as if sensing he might have made a misstep with consequences far beyond the obvious.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
I finally turn to Leprade after he has had time to think and sulk.
"Your hand is empty, you played your bottom chip. Your allies quiet says everything. I offer you a fresh card. Now its up to you. Make your choice."
Putting in the final wedge that I can play. And hopefully Leprade will side with us and give us knowledge we seek before he meets his fate.
Leprade glares back at Savalos, now seated well back from the table, but he speaks loudly and clearly enough for everyone to hear.
"A second chance? You are more naive than I thought, Thul. There are no second chances, there is no choice, everything has been building to this point in time far longer than you or I have drawn breath. You know this. You must know this from what you have experienced. Krade? This abomination here? Perhaps your master himself..."
He shakes his head solemnly, an intelligent man consigning himself to his fate.
"No, there are no second chances, we are but puppets on a string."
I shake my head.
Shame he doesn't understand.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Wardja peruses his cards again, and considers his options.
I fold.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Deep in the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
For a long while, the world is a deafening roar; a black curtain with a sensation of scalding heat all around him. Vincent is not entirely certain how long his lapse into unconsciousness lasted, but when he finally finds the will to open his heavy eyelids, he sees a strange sight.
His face rests awkwardly in the rich, loamy earth at the base of a towering fungoid 'tree', his nostrils filled with the distinct, spoiled fruit smell of mushrooms. Tilting his cheek away from the stalk, he peers straight up, marveling at the curving length of rusting blade protruding from the trunk of the stalk several meters above him. He realizes it is the corroded chit-sickle that once rested in the field he was propelled from.
When he pushes himself upright against the bore of the tall fungoid, his head swims, nausea of a different kind than what he has endured since fleeing the claustrum causing him to slump vertiginously. Looking around his immediate surroundings with partially blurred vision, he sees more of the densely clustered fungal trees all around him, their caps overlapping to creat a thick canopy high overhead. The wash of heat blows toward him on a foul-smelling breeze, and it is clear by the tall wall of flames consuming some of the fallow field, engulfing caps and stalks alike, that this is likely the direction he came from.
Feeling his aching legs and sore arms, he is remarkably relieved to find that despite some painful bruising, nothing appears to be broken or dislocated.
As his eyes slowly come back into focus, he first spies the rifle, liberated from the Inquisitorial Solitarium in the bowels of the claustrum, wedged, barrel-first, deep into the rich black earth. Girding himself in expectation of the pain to come, he pulls himself slowly to his feet, wincing with the effort. Staggering over to retrieve the rifle, he blindly feels at his waist for the Sliver of Calyx, relieved to find it still secured at his belt.
His steps are halting, but he finally reaches the rifle, only to jump back in surprise and disgust when the pale root, or mycelia, he believed he was stepping over suddenly writhes into motion. With a look of profound disgust he sees that it is actually the balefully animated severed limb of one of the plague zombies, scratching and dragging itself across the earth with a ruined, three-fingered hand. Vincent easily maneuvers around it, plucking the rifle from the ground, before slinging it again over his shoulder.
It is at that moment that a tall figure pushes through the still smoldering fungoids, striding forward ominously through the flame-dancing shadows. He reaches for the saber at his belt, only to watch as the figure shrugs off a tattered cloak, smoldering at the shoulders, its hem still alight. Seeing the bodyglove beneath, Vincent sighs with relief as Ryuk walks purposefully forward, witching blade in hand, seemingly unfazed by their brush with death.
The strange cloned psyker from Dusk pauses a few paces from Vincent, his largely guileless face creased in concern.
"Vincent, are you harmed?"
He pauses a beat before saying, rather matter-of-factly, "Eh. Your eyebrows are gone."
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Uriah watches anxiously from the gallery above as the final five players take their turns bidding below, Tikeen sitting quietly beside him, both of the psykers sensing the burgeoning feeling of dread as the tournament moves inexorably toward its conclusion.
He feels a brush of cloth against the sleeve of his robe, and when he turns his head slightly to see what caused it, he senses a figure standing just behind him in the aisle.
Looking behind him, he sees Iacton standing solemnly at his back, as quiet and still as death itself, the hood of his cloak pulled over his brooding features, casting them in shadow.
"Uriah Trantor, I have returned."
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl, Central Generatorium Chamber
After overriding the door controls to the Generatorium, Kaltos uses one of his auxiliary electro-graft probes to cycle a scintilla of power to the machine spirit controlling them.
The door whispers, sliding open less than four centimeters. Moving his helmet to one side, he positions his ocular sensoria to look into the room beyond.
It is a profoundly large chamber, a wide, extended ellipse, with high walls of polished marble rising to a ceiling that curves strangely downward, comprised of a rainbow-hued, pearlescent material, as if the portion of a great sphere has been rested atop the inwardly curving walls. Several other doors stand in the circumference of the chamber, similar to the one he stands behind. A wide carpeted promenade, lit by glittering chandeliers extends from one 'tip' of the elliptical chamber, vast in scale, extending so far in the distance its terminus cannot be seen.
Centrally located in this room is a massive stairwell, wide steps of the same nacreous material spiraling almost nautilus-like upward to the ceiling. An unoccupied lectern of opulently polished black Unduz shellwood stands at its base. Standing around it are five armed men, two of them clean-cut, wearing form-fitting, anonymous black suits favored by the bodyguards of the wealthy, seemingly attentive to the microbeads lodged in their ears. The other three could not be more different, clad in mismatched black and gold leathers, stitched and decorated with so many gleaming gelt-coins that they almost seem to be wearing primitive chain armor. Their faces are more surly, pursed and pierced with the same coins, tattoos and brands marring their pale flesh. The two groups stand slightly apart, but it is obvious they are guarding the approach to the Pinnacle of Pearl above under the same directive.
Said softly, "We will talk later about what you have been doing, but for now, are you ready to do what it is necessary? I do not know if we can do anything about the daemonhost, but Trizo's witch must be taken out. She is the most dangerous to us. Next, are the armed guards. We expect the time everything is going to happen will be the end of the ninth round, which is the next round. We have people in place to deal with the ones on the stairway. Will you be able to be in position to perform terminus on the witch?"
<<Savalos, Iacton has returned. He is with me for now.>>
"Correction, Iacton, you can not be anywhere near the daemonhost, only go after the witch, if she is nowhere near the creature. The item you have cannot fall in the daemon's hands."
Vincent looks about for their missing companions for a moment then turns to Ryuk.
"Have you seen Launce?"
Don't think I have the winning hand but the money is almost irrelevant at this point.
"Call."
I push 45 chips across the table.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl, Central Generatorium Chamber
Scanning the room while paying particular attention to their possible adversaries, Kaltos can see that all five of the men are armed. The suits with sleek-looking laspistols, the Yelloback thugs with handcannons of various patterns of manufacture.
The metallic stock of a long weapon, perhaps an autogun, is just barely visible jutting out from behind the lectern on the side the Yellobouros favor.
Perhaps because of the late stages of the Tournament of Cassilda in the Pinnacle of Pearl, there are no other occupants within the spacious chamber, the patrons likely riveted to the final rounds unfolding above.
Strangely, there is no sign of the Gran Pallazzar's casino security anywhere.
A series of four, ornate pillars of polished black marble buttress the the spherical curvature of the Pearl close enough to the door you stand behind to potentially serve as cover if the need arose, but other than their mirror-image at the far side of the chamber, there is no other protection to be had.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Wardja calls the considerable bet, sliding the markers into the ante, his eyes straying uneasily to the tiny statuette doppleganger by his elbow.
When the call comes to Thul, he elects to fold, pushing his face-down cards forward, having never looked at them in the first place.
The Changeling watches this, slides over its own unseen hand, and Juan Rico's raspy voice echoes that of his former friend.
"Fold."
Trizo dol Soulard grunts in wordless amusement, shaking his head in disbelief at the seemingly illogical gamesmanship of Thul and the Changeling ending like this. He tries to mask his puzzlement, but it is clear he cannot fathom the point of it all.
He stares across at Wardja, nodding. But refrains from raising further.
"Call."
The dealer turns his attention to Jeremiah Blitz, who looks back and forth between Trizo and Wardja, as if trying to measure their respective resolve like a miser assaying two commodities on his scale.
He inclines his head slight to one side.
"I will call as well."
As Wardja is the last in order this round of betting, the dealer looks to him to end the bidding by calling as well, or raise further and continue it.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Deep in the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
"Have you seen Launce?"
Ryuk shakes his head in the negative, and then sweeps his hooded eyes across their surroundings. He looks upon Vincent with some concern as the senior clerk begins to move gingerly about the small, smoldering clearing, but says nothing, merely following him as he begins to pick his way through the tall fungoid growth.
Vincent moves forward cautiously, Ryuk at his side, continuing in the direction of where the Inquisitorial guncutter is supposedly hidden. His sharp eyes look for signs of Launce or the guardsmen's passage, but finds no sign whatsoever.
The broad caps above block out what little light remains over Unduz II, and only the barest shafts of bruise-colored light penetrate to the loamy ground beneath them. Soon it will be full dark, and they will require lamp-packs to proceed. For now, they pick their way slowly through the tightly spaced stalks, their visibility limited save for when they cross one of the spacing rows in the fungoid forest. Here, where there are no plantings, it is as if someone has cut a perfectly straight path latitudinally through the growth, and they can see the bare patch continuing for some kilometers to either side as they pass through the meter wide gap.
Sound is strangely muffled under the organic baffles of the broad mushroom caps, and their footfalls sound deadened as they trudge ever forward. Fortunately, there is no sign of the walking dead, and it appears they have gained some respite in that respect at least. That is not to say that the oddly wooden creaking and settling of the stalks doesn't keep them alert and on guard, though. Vincent begins to lose track of how many times they freeze in place when one of the finger-sized spores drifts down across their peripheral vision from above. It is for this reason that he jumps when Ryuk speaks after an hours-long silence, his low, perfunctory voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.
"Launce---he does not belong here."
He pauses, overlong, as is his manner, and then continues, trying to express what he is thinking, carefully considering his words.
"He exists---he is as real as you or I, but he is without place. The Sight, it blurs around him, like ripples in a stream for a stone that is not there. He is outside of time. This troubles me."
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
As Wardja is the last in order this round of betting, the dealer looks to him to end the bidding by calling as well, or raise further and continue it.
The Changeling folding is unexpected. Tempted to try and run the others off the table. Looking at both Trizo and the rogue trader, I doubt I can do it. Will save what gelt I have for the last round.
"Flip 'em."
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Deep in the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
Vincent puzzles over the psyker's words for a moment, at first assuming Ryuk's tenuous grasp of language has caused him to misspeak. However, the clone speaks the truth.
In a way, Vincent had known all along. The young tech-priest was just too convenient, in the right place at the right time when he had no rightful business to be. But Vincent had ignored this, pushed these thoughts so far into his subconscious that it took the words of one more infant than man for him to realize it.
It is not this intellectual failure that troubles Vincent though, but the simple truth Launce's very existence reveals.
Fate
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Electing to be certain he remains in the Tournament for the ninth and final round, Wardja stands, forcing the reveal.
The sonorous drone from the audience hushes in anticipation as the three remaining players reveal their hands.
Trizo reveals his cards first, and the hand is a good one, containing a strong Lesser Array anchored by The Conspirator. His tight-lipped grin is confident, and it takes Wardja a moment before he realizes his own hand is a shade better.
The acolyte must drop some tell, because Trizo's smile vanishes very quickly.
Blitz mutters a tired curse under his breath, flipping his own cards, and it is clear he was hoping to bully someone with his bluff. The hand is a weak one. He looks over to Wardja and shrugs, curious what his competitor holds.
Wardja's hand, comprised of two Lesser Arrays, firmed up with both The Cherubim and The Conspirator, is just enough to beat dol Soulard's formidable hand. The acolyte gamely tries to suppress his surprise and relief, while collecting his winnings into a pile that now rivals the stack in front of the Changeling.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Deep in the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
The clerk and the clone say little more about this as they trudge through the fungus forest.
The detonation of the powerful bombs so near has caused spores to fly free; both those large as Vincent's fist from the caps above, and the much smaller variety from the fungal overgrowth that blankets the loamy ground. Dislodged, they float about in profusion, creating a dreamy, surreal feeling to their travels in the dim glow of the companion's lamp-packs. Although much of the agricultural mycoids are harmless, even in their unrefined state, Vincent makes certain both he and Ryuk keep their respirators firmly in place just the same.
There is still no sign of Launce or the two guardsmen, but Vincent is fairly certain that they are approaching the edge of the forest and the clearing where the guncutter is supposedly hidden. As the bizarre woodland begin to thin out, the smaller of the stalks swaying gently, he is reminded once again of the pines blanketing the hillsides outside of the forbidden schola on Sepheris Secundus. As he and Ryuk pass through another one of the long, ungrown spacing rows, he stops, the sounds of his breath rasping in his ears from the respirator. Ryuk senses it, too, and freezes, perfectly still, to listen.
Won by a whisker. Looking at the cards as the dealer collects them. The Conspirator and The Changeling. What is the deeper meaning behind them? Seems like Thul has a bit of seer in him. Might ask him later about that. Then there's still that Throne-cursed figurine in front of me. I look around the table to try and size up the mood.
After this last hand the real end-game begins.
I figure no matter how the final round plays out. I may as well have my part of it end with a tough of class.
I raise my drink.
"May your last hand be well played."
And over to the Daemon who I expect to win this game within the game.
"To Johnny."
And as I did for the previous round. I leave my cards face down on the table without looking at them.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl, Central Generatorium Chamber
I pull back and let the door close and then take a couple steps back the other.
In a low voice, "Ok we have 2 suits and 3 Yellobouros next to the stair case. The gangers have handcannons the suits laspistols. There is an auto gun close to the Yellobouros as well in the lectern. Next to our door is 4 pillars and their match on the other side of the room. What I propose is that we come out and from behind the pillars demand that they put down their weapons. If they do so fine it not we gun down the ganger thats closest to the autogun then the rest. I dont know if the suits are with the gangers but they are not against them so treat them with caution. Any questions? "