Albrek Vodak's page

The Vaxus Deeps, the Heretek Safehouse

"Don't think Dunkan's place was compromised. Otherwise we all would be dead by now. Something else is going on. Martial Law has been declared. Not as easy to move around. Have to plan our moves carefully. No worries though, I am sure Nessa will take good care of you once you get there. She will probably sit on ya til you heal. She is kinda sore that the rest of us are being poor patients."

"A trash truck eh... By any chance did you catch the name of the company on it?"

"The Sgt, and the men you saved know the name of the Commissar we keep running into. Its Ekubal..."

"After we leave ya, we are going to send word to the Old Man. He needs to know things are falling apart fast."

Albrek takes a few seconds to answer, betraying some of his grogginess from the pain-dampers in his system.

"I don't plan on being a patient for long, Sav. There's just too much at stake now, so I doubt Dunkan's medicae will be happy with me, either."

He pauses trying to remember the fight at Geltdown.

"Near as I can recall, the truck was one of those Orcut VII municipal waste removal deals, black and orange, but the logo on the side was too faded to identify a signifier or reg number. Growing up we used to call them 'crap-cubes' for their shape."

He glances over at Einhardt and his men, eyes growing heavy-lidded as he fights off the effect of the medication.

"It's funny, Sav. I haven't been claustrum-side in over four years, and I know I don't know any of those troopers personally, even though that doesn't mean much in a place that size, but I can't help thinking I remember Einhardt and his men from somewhere. Probably training or the canteen."

He sighs, obviously fighting the drowsiness.

"Einhardt's as legit as the tech-priest, though. I mean, you can rely on him. He led his men through that feck-storm at Geltdown as well as any of us could. It was a miracle any of his squad survived at all."

Albrek closes his eyes, but just before sleep finally overtakes him, he mumbles to himself.

"Old man better get his ass here soon..."

Albrek shakes his head in concern, moving to scratch at the stubble under his chin, but winces when he yanks at the lines in his arm. He looks up at the ceiling, lost in thought for a moment. You can tell he is heavily medicated, but his mind remains relatively sharp just the same, even with the slight slur to his words.

"Does that mean Danicos' bunker was compromised? Is that why we're here, in this safehouse? I have to admit I'm a little foggy on what happened after Geltdown."

He looks with genuine admiration at Kaltos.

"Tech-priest here kept his head when the chips were down. Availed himself well. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. I didn't think it would help matters on the crane if I told him I was afraid of heights, but I doubt he would have held it against me anyway."

You can see him recollecting things in his mind's eye. He then lapses into a loud, hacking, fit of coughing, grimacing with pain as his body shakes and pulls at his sutures. He spits on the floor, clearing his throat before speaking again, now more quietly.

"It was an ambush, Uriah, no doubt about it. Either we were set up or the sarge's squad, maybe even both. The commissar from the Gear Box was there, too."

He says the last with absolute sincerity, robbing it of any humor:

"I never want to see another fecking garbage truck again as long as I live."

"Don't fret over those vent holes 'Brek. You'll be stitched up in know time. Granted we all will be sporting scars by the time this is all over."

I gesture to the scar on my face.

"Just focus on healing up. We will be needing your gun arm soon enough. Just the three of us now unless things change..."

Even through the haze of his painkillers Albrek picks up on the significance of what you just said.

"Ishmael?"

Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7

Albrek shakes his head resignedly.

"I think I am the medicae in this group, and I concur with your diagnosis, tech-priest. I'm hurting...bad."

Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7

Unggh!

Albrek grunts in pain as the well-placed las-round bursts through the shoulder-plate of his guard-issue armor. With amazing discipline, he shrugs off the painful wound, and rips away another burst of fire down on the guardsmen below.

Albrek, BS = 40, Higher Ground [+10], Semi-Auto Burst [+20], modified BS = 70. Rolling, 1d100 ⇒ 21, hit, four extra degrees of success, yields two extra hits. Rolling damage, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4.

The spray of fire rips through the arms and chest of the closest guardsman, spinning him like a child's toy, and blowing him clean out of one of his boots. He is dead before he hits the hard rockrete tarmac.

Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7

I hold my fire till I can see something larger to attack as I could not take out even a tenth of that mass.

With the foul fog still obscuring just about everything, you hear the rapid-fire, pitter-pattering sounds of the horrid swarming things as they surge along the switchback rampways leading up to the landing platform. The leader of the squad of guardsmen gestures wildly to his men, waving them back toward the shuttle to take up firing positions, oblivious to exactly what doom is even now wildly scuttling toward them. Still worse, Kaltos can make out through the purplish blur of his visor that fully half the squealing horde pouring out of the hauler is headed toward the cargo-8 holding Oktammor, Ivaanov, and Dunkan's men.

Over the microbead:

"Albrek do you know how we can take care of such a large number of those creatures? Are they easy to kill? You have encountered these before, correct?"

Albrek responds stonily:

"We don't, they aren't, and I have."

"There were only about six of them, though, and we stood back while a dreadnought-sized gun-servitor with a heavy flamer dealt with 'em."

Centering his las on the middle of the cloud like you, hoping to find something, anything, worth shooting at, the grim ex-guardsman tries to offer some hope.

"At least we're up here."

He then looks around hopelessly.

"We need fire, and lots of it."

At that moment the vile creatures must hove into view for the guardsmen, even though the cloud still obscures them from your height, because you begin to hear the whipcrack reports of lasguns firing, followed by muffled shouts.

With the pounding toll of a leaden bell, the autocannon mounted on the side of the cargo-8 opens up as well, the booming, percussive rounds exploding with flashes of expended ordinance amid the reaching tendrils of the foul gas at ground level.

You look at the carnage playing out below as the cloud slowly lifts, racking your mind for any solution that presents itself. Turning your head to look at the superstructure of the crane, you see the secondary control cab located about three meters overhead where the lift shaft terminates. Thinking back to Launce and the scrapyard, your eyes wander still further to rest upon the three large, orange-painted cylindrical containers conspicuously hanging from the boom arm over seventy meters above and behind you.

Albrek swears in surprise.

"Oh, feck, I think we have a target."

You look down again, and can just make out the dark silhouette of a hideously obese man standing atop the cab of the shattered sanitation hauler. His arms are raised overhead, and you can hear the hideous, croaking sound of his gluttonous laughter even so high above.

Geltdown Docks, High Above Platform #7

Kaltos is so focused on the cluster of highly disciplined guardsmen surrounding the churraptus-class shuttle on the platform that he does not recognize the approaching threat until Albrek sharply elbows him in the side. The acolyte points with the barrel of his lasgun toward the base of Platform #7 on the side closest to Oktammor and Ivaanov's group in the cargo-8. The distraction comes at the worst possible time, just as the boarding team has placed the first of the charges designed to blow open the void-locked door at the top of the shuttle's loading rampway.

Following the angle of Albrek's rifle, Kaltos watches as boxy, tall-wheeled truck rumbles up toward the two 7th Legion guardsmen left at the base of the platform. The truck is almost cube-shaped, painted in flaking black and orange paint, with a pair of huge, piston-like mechanica attached to each side, angled downward toward the back of the vehicle. Each piston and much of the truck's filthy sides are coated in viscous, pitch-black lubricating grease. A block-lettered logo, faded to illegibility spans the high cab door visible from your perch. The entire rear of the industrial-grade truck appears to be some manner of commpressing door, hinged, mouth-like, and toothy. The opening to this metal maw is studded with levers and valves, with dangling lifter mechadendrites hanging lifelessly around what can only be a compactor. As the truck rolls to a halt just meters in front of the pair of guardsmen left as sentinels at the base of the elevated landing platform, your hear the hiss of pneumatic brakes from far below. You clearly see one guardsman fingering his microbead as the pair assess this new threat.

You can smell the foul stink of rotting garbage from even your lofty perch high above the floor of Geltdown docks.

As the two guardsmen slowly approach the cab of the rusting, trash-stained vehicle, weapons raised, Albrek's voice suddenly falls into a much lower register, the worry evident in his disbelieving voice.

"Kaltos, please tell me that isn't a fecking garbage truck that just pulled up!"

The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7

"OK, you and I should head over there. The rest of you should keep an eye on us and what you can see of those vehicles."

Albrek nods, relieved to finally be taking some action, any action. He points toward the autocannon mounted at the hardpoint in the cargo-8's side and calls over to Oktammmor.

"I'm assuming you're familiar with how to fire this thing. I've set up a good enfilade on the rampways ascending up to the platform, and it should give you a good field of fire across the closest lip of the decking, but our angle here makes hitting near the shuttle practically impossible. Once Kaltos and I are at the top of the crane, this won't be an issue. Worst case scenario, if things get sketchy, light it up."

The guardsman adjusts his helmet straps and walks to the tailgate of the truck with Kaltos. Looking back at Oktammor one last time, he tests his microbead. Satisfied with the big man's nod, the pair clamber out and dash through the narrow alleyways created by the stacked cargo containers and the crisscross shadows cast by the crane gantry.

Albrek snatches a glance back at the tech-priest, a look of pleasant surprise creasing his weathered face when he realizes that the Machine Cultist is stealthily keeping pace, maintaining cover, and bounding corners with his own las to cover their approach. His voice crackles over the 'bead as he ducks beneath the crane tower, signaling Kaltos over with one hand.

<<<"Nice movement. I get the impression you're no ordinary gearhead, are you? So who did they send for old Dunkan? What are you, Skitarii, one of their hyspasists?">>>

Kaltos, please attempt an Easy [+30] Silent Move test, the cover is more than adequate to mask your approach.

The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7

"Is there an other angle to view the platform? Or any way we can get to a higher vantage point that's with in range?"

The fat-bellied Agri-Scow passes overhead, deafeningly close, shedding droplets of pattering cloud condensation on to the roof of the cargo-8. As it settles over a nearby platform, much larger than the one occupied by the churraptus, it rotates slowly in midair, its VTOL maneuvering thrusters firing with sequential bursts of white-blue flame. As it descends, twinkling running lights illuminate the transport's bulk. The stylized words, "Fat Lady" are inscribed on the bulbous fuselage.

Looking around through his own viewport, now partially blocked by the wide-bore barrel of the autocannon, Albrek points toward the highest platform on the dormant crane assembly nearby.

"Now that, that right there would provide a commanding view of just about everything."

The Geltdown Docks ~ Platform #7

Albrek holds out his hand, wordlessly asking to borrow Oktammor's magnoculars. Taking them in hand, he puts them to the IR goggles covering his eyes, just below the rim of his flak helmet. Finding the range, he begins to pan across the field of view offered from the narrow port in the side of the cargo-8.

"If you want to find a guardsman, you need to think like a guardsman. Fortunately, I've been doing just that for some time."

The acolyte turns this way and that, squatting to get a better view of what is above, and leaning far to either side to see further along the perimeter of the platform.

Awareness test for Savalos, 1d100 ⇒ 79, failed.

Albrek grunts in irritation.

"Damn...nothing."

"With the protocols in place, someone from that churraptus needs to be checking in hourly via the transponder with control at the claustrum. Oktammor is right, if they've abandoned it, they're as much as admitting that they have gone rogue to the 7th Legion."

Chewing his lip, and letting out a dry cough, the ex-guardsman looks to the others.

"The question now, is, if they're not at the shuttle, just where the hell did they go?"

Albrek swallows nervously, coming to his feet and glancing back through the small peep-hole in the raised tailgate.

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one being sought for kidnapping a High Arbiter of the Judicium."

He looks back to Kaltos and Ivaanov.

"Alright then, we're here to conduct some surveillance, what's the plan? I can say without any hesitation that I'm no recon scout, so I'll be more than happy to be the fail-safe plan and provide fire support with Dunkan's troops over there, Throne forbid it comes to that and we need it."

"What are you two doing?"

Beneath the Gear Box ~ The Armory

Albrek grips the sleek black lasgun, pulling the wire stock to his shoulder and sighting down the barrel.

"Well, well. I must say, tell Stroinigli he's outdone himself, and more than earned that tip of gelt I gave him. This will do nicely."

Beneath the Gear Box ~ The Medicae

The state of rest that Uriah finds himself in could scarcely be called sleep, and he opens his eyes and rises, even as he hears footfalls outside of his the room. The pounding fist that follows, thudding upon his door so intently, is straightforward and unselfconscious, and can only mean that Albrek has come to rouse him. Gathering his robes to himself, he crosses to the door.

When he opens the door he sees that it is not only the acolyte, but also the two tech-priests, and Krade's aide, Iacton who have come to wake him. Unease settles upon him even before Albrek speaks, the conspicuous absence of one other already troubling him although he cannot say that he is completely surprised.

The concern evident in his breathless voice, Albrek runs one hand agitatedly through his sleep-wild hair.

"Uriah, Johnnie's gone missing."

Beneath the Gear Box ~ The Medicae

His question unanswered by Iacton, Albrek looks down at the unconscious ganger slumped against the wall again, then briefly up to Iacton, before fixating his gaze on the floor for good. The question about what has happened in the asylum ward secure room remains unspoken, and it seems by the ex-guardsman's troubled expression that Albrek is perfectly comfortable with never knowing.

His next words are completely unexpected, delivered in a matter of fact voice that does nothing to lessen their impact.

"Rico's gone."

Beneath the Gear Box ~ The Medicae

Iacton stands in silence for a moment trying to comprehend what he just experienced, contemplating his master's words. His reverie is ended when there comes a muffled knock from the other side of the padded door, and he turns to watch it slowly swings open.

"Hey, Iacton, everything alright in here? I thought I heard voices."

Albrek, the normally noncommittal agnostic, mimics Uriah's sign of the aquila, folding both hands over his chest in the process. His mouth gapes open in amazement as he fastens his holster again.

"Merciful Throne! I don't believe it."

The Princep's Pub

"There are things we must do here and in the south. We must talk to Leprade and find out what he knows, and stop his hunt of us. If possible, without interfering with our main mission, find Quincus. But the priority is finding Krade and stopping the infestation of the Warp. My guess is that he is in the south, unless someone else has a better guess. Anyone else have anything to add?"

Albrek finishes his second drink with relish, wiping the foam from his lips.

"My former affiliation with the 7th Legion should help us somewhat when it comes to the claustrum. One thing is troubling me though, and I'll admit I hadn't thought of it until now: if there are two mirrors, and the Prisoner possesses one, why did the Eviscerator take the risk of creeping into Krade's office after the kidnapping just to take the other one?"

"Albrek Vodak. Welcome to Oremor."

Albrek grasping Johnnie's arm, begins to pull him slowly back to his stool.

"Easy, easy there, Johnnie. Give him a chance."

The Princep's Pub

Albrek's hands move up and away from underneath the bar, open and held non-threateningly before him, a look of incredulity on his face.

"No worries, Uriah. This guardsman has no intentions but to enjoy his beer, rest easy, no need to shout."

He gives Rico a pointed, but subtle glance, tilting his head marginally to the side in a gesture of negation to indicate his disapproval of the ex-arbitrator's trigger-happiness. While he does this he also gives Johnnie a not so subtle, but comradely elbow to the ribs, pointing to the his unfinished drink.

"Let's stay gracious to our host, I believe he's earned it."

Albrek conspirationally whispers to Johnnie after taking another swig off the top of his mug.

"Can someone please fill me in on just what the hell everyone is going on about?"

Albrek walks over to the bar with the slow uncertainty of felid treading along the rim of a bathtub, as if any minute he will awake from a particularly vivid dream.

"Ummm...do you have any Choshwaller beer?"

"One is never lost as long as they know where they came from."

As Albrek steps through the open doorway, the tone of his voice perfectly conveys the sense of disbelief at what he sees beyond as he answers Savalos.

"I am from this world, and lately I'm wondering just where the feck I we are. So, just count me as lost, I guess."

Somewhat concerned, and still somewhat shell-shocked himself from the events of the past day, Albrek speaks softly.

"Coming, Ivaanov?"

Beneath the Gear Box

Albrek thumbs his finger over his shoulder toward the secure room containing the Yellobouros ganger, his expression somewhat skeptical of Oktammor.

"What about him, then?"

Beneath the Gearbox

Albrek remarks with deadpan irony,

"All things considered, I think she took that pretty well."

Beneath the Gear Box

As Savalos returns from giving the still living prisoner his food, he notes the others have gathered around the table again. Uriah, finished with his prayer, sits at the head of the padded oval, staring off into the middle distance, blood still beading on the sleeves of his robe. Rico pushes his empty caffeine cup around the surface, meditating upon the streaks that the wet rings of brown fluid make. Iacton, his sheathed blade resting atop his legs, chews slowly through a tasteless protein bar, working his jaw mechanically, looking directly at no one. Ivaanov, head down, seems like an idled cogitator, no outward signs of life showing on his pale and waxen face. Only Albrek watches you approach, his lively eyes bouncing meaningfully from you to the cell holding the dead indigen.

"What are we going to do with him? I imagine the doc out there isn't going to be too happy with the mess."

Swallowing down a mouthful of the steaming brew himself, Albrek looks toward Uriah as the voidborn walks in, stifling a cough and thumbing his finger over his shoulder to the pair of restraint rooms holding your captives.

"No sign of Danicos yet. I'm thinking we should probably decide just what we're going to do with our two friends before he arrives. I don't think our grouchy Yelloback is going to keep very well."

Finally shaking the wariness from me I walk into the room. "Morning Gents. Got any coffee ready?"

Albrek harrumphs, pushing his chair back in before sitting down and moving toward the small commissary.

"That's the best idea I've heard since my homecoming, its a pity that Johnnie doesn't have a few pours of that flask left to make it in the traditional style of the Oremor legions."

Beneath the Gear Box

Savalos stirs, his waking mind slowly surfacing again as if from a deep vault of troubled dreams, his consciousness slowly swimming to a murky surface populated by too many aches and pains to count.

"Sav. Sav, get up. We're all gathering again in the madhouse suite. The doc is going to wake Uriah now. Near as I can tell in this chrono-less bunker we've slept most of the day away."

Albrek stares at Iacton for a long time, taking the measure of the man and if the words he speaks are truth. It is not the first time the assassin has been on the receiving end of such a look today. The acolyte does not avert his gaze for a long time, but when he does, he seems satisfied. Looking to Savalos, he chuckles to himself.

"I believe him. I don't know why I should, after today, but I believe him."

"Wait, there is something I haven't told you yet about Krade. Krade had some role in the recruitment of the three of you, but he had influenced your lives before that. In what way, only he can say."

Albrek listens attentively to Savalos' analogy, nodding in agreement, his tactically trained mind appreciating the metaphor. The ex-guardsman is about to offer something further when he suddenly stops, his eyes rolling slowly in his head back toward Krade's aide, as if what Iacton said a few moments ago has suddenly registered through his fatigue.

"Wait...what? Before what? Influenced how?"

His words are sharp, suspicious.

"What if Krade wasn't playing the game of Regicide, but was the spectator between both factions?"

Albrek scratches his chin contemplatively as Savalos and Rico speak.

"Possible that he just wanted to play one side off the other, makes his job easier."

"This is an interesting theory, but whether as spectator or puppet-master, to what purpose? Why would an Ordo Malleus inquisitor's most trusted servant, an interrogator himself, risk everything, his life and sanity, to pit rival factions of the Ruinous Powers against each other?"

Albrek takes in everything that is said in his usual laconic silence, punctuated here and there with his raspy cough. When he speaks, his voice is measured and philosophical in tone, and the interjection is enough to bring all eyes to him for a moment and lessen the tension.

"It seems in one way or another, we all have our personal daemons."

The allusion here can't be missed by everyone at the table.

"Perhaps that is why we were chosen. I have to echo Sav's feelings, though. Even though I never thought I would see her again, this is my world, too. The people, places, foods, flora, and fauna are all dear to me. They are the sum total of my memories and dreams. They are me. Why choose three of our number from this very world unless he wanted to protect it in some way?"

He muses for a moment on what he just said, as if critiquing what just came out of his own mouth so unexpectedly, turning it over in his mind.

"Uriah is correct, though. We do not have all the pieces to this puzzle yet."

Coughing loudly, his hoarse hacking racking his body, Albrek begins to laugh in spite of himself. He looks from Uriah to Ivaanov and finally rests Druuther's enormous autocannon on the floor. He had been cradling it in his arms without even being aware of it. When he sets it down, he brushes one hand gently across the bloody drum feed, the laughter dying on his lips, patting it once in solemn remembrance of its former owner.

He looks pointedly toward Uriah, who has finished his prayer.

"What now, boss?"

Listening to the exchange between Uriah and Ivaanov, Albrek slumps back into a chair he has pushed against the wall near the restraint rooms holding your prisoners.

When the psyker finishes his prayer, the guardsman reflexively makes the sign of the Aquila himself.

"Does anyone else find it appropriately ironic that we end this day in a place for housing madmen?"

Leaning over Sigmunt, Albrek begins dry heaving uncontrollably. He steps back in spite of his desire to render aid, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Whatever this infection is, Sav, it isn't anything normal. I can feel the heat baking off of him, and I haven't ever seen anything like that kind of wound-rot. He needs as much help as Ishmael. We need to get the two of them to a medicae facility of some kind, or Johnnies right, both of them are goners."

Looking somewhat reluctantly at the sealed door, Albrek chews his lip.

"Let's just hope that Danicos has something like that... down there."

Albrek looks at the suddenly well-spoken twist, his slack jaw working without saying anything for a few moments. Clearing his throat, he steps out of the rickshaw.

"Alright, just when I think I am starting to understand things, it all gets turns upside down again. I know when I'm over my head. C'mon Johnnie, let's make sure the way is clear."

Albrek shoulders the heavy autocannon on one arm, while taking his lasgun from the other before stalking off toward the crumbling pile of bricks that leads up to the shattered gap in the processing plant's wall.

He shakes his head back and forth the whole way.

You turn to Albrek and see that he, too, is watching the cherubim fluttering away in the sky ahead of you to the east.

"Yes, I think so."

He seems to ponder something, chewing at his blistered lip thoughtfully.

"But if that is so, where is she going?"

Albrek approaches Stroinigli, adjusting Ishmael's weight upon his shoulder carefully. The guardsman's eyes still appear slightly unfocused from the events of the past hour, but the relief he exhibits upon seeing the friendly twist is evident.

"Alla my gelt ye got, fren, from a'fore. Be needin' a lift agin, we are, somethin' bad, since yer owin', ye're drivin, arrighty?"

Stroinigli chuckles and doesn't even seem unnerved by Albrek's semi-crazed expression or the fact that he is carrying someone who appears mortally wounded or that Rico pushes along a weeping, battered indigen. Apparently he has seen worse, or he doesn't consider it good form to offend a group of passengers who he recently saw execute a Yellobouros ganger without so much as blinking.

"Fren, frens! All aboard, yer gelt still clanky-clinks in 'ol Stroinigli's pockets."

He peers up with barely concealed superstition and more than little fear at the angelic cherubim, before quickly averting his eyes.

"Heh, heh...yer little fren, she sure has the smell for 'ol Stroinigli, den doanshee, that we keep a'meetin like dis? Where to, den?"

"How far are we from the rendezvous point?"

Laboring under Ishmael's weight, Albrek looks around with uncertainty.

"Not far, I think. What do you say Johnnie?"

After raising his head to answer, Albrek squints down the roadway, his eyes focusing on the distinctive rickshaw and the servitor alighted upon its roof.

"Nah. That can't be. Can it?"

"Albrek shoot at the barrier, not the arbites!

"I'll do what I can, but I can't make any promises. This isn't exactly a finesse weapon, let's just hope they have the sense to move!"

Even over the roaring engine, Uriah can hear Albrek's sardonic laugh.

The drumming explosions that issue from the autocannon in answer to the Arbites firearms sounds like artillery answering a child's fireworks. The bulky weapon judders and thuds against the door of your cruiser, denting and cracking the side view mirror in the process.

Albrek fires the autocannon on Fully Automatic, raking his fire along the length of the barricade and the front end of the Arbites cruiser. BS = 40, Short Range (+10), Fully Automatic (+20), modified BS = 70, rolling, 1d100 ⇒ 22, a hit with four extra degrees of success yields two more hits, resulting in two hits on the barricade and one on the cruiser. Rolling damage for barricade, 4d10 + 5 ⇒ (2, 2, 8, 4) + 5 = 21, 4d10 + 5 ⇒ (5, 5, 5, 7) + 5 = 27, and for the cruiser 4d10 + 5 ⇒ (10, 1, 9, 4) + 5 = 29, rolling an additional 1d10 for each hit, a result of 9 will result in an Arbitrator getting hit as a result of penetration of their cover or collateral damage, 1d10 ⇒ 6, 1d10 ⇒ 8, 1d10 ⇒ 1, the arbitrators all are unscathed.

The sustained burst from the autocannon echoes with a hollow WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP, drowning out all other sound. The first two rounds go wide, exploding the right-hand corner of the alley, sending sizable chunks of shattered rockcrete flying through the air like lethal projectiles. Half of the arbitrators duck away from the barricade just as two more rounds connect with the front of it, rending the metal as if it were foil and blasting the stanchions that hold it upright into pieces. The final round impacts the front of the Arbites cruiser just above the wheel-well, blowing off the entire armaplas housing above it, and actually pushing the vehicle back a meter with the force. As a consequence, the two arbitrators behind the car are thrown back to the ground, the combat shotgun of one even spinning out of his hands from the impact.

Druuther would be proud.

Although the space between the Arbites cruiser and the alley wall has widened appreciably through Albrek's efforts, it is still not wide enough to negotiate without a collision. Having little choice, Rico floors the accelerator, turning slightly into the small gap.

"Albrek, it is not that, it is gaining enough information to make a decision."

"Understood, boss. Be that as it may, you may want to strap yourself and Ishmael in, I have a feeling the ride is about to get a little bumpy."

"Rico, they are your former comrades. If we stop with no weapons drawn, will they fire anyway? Will they listen to inquisition authority?

Albrek plants his booted feet on the dashboard, leveraging himself up to get a better grip on the massive autocannon. He doesn't turn around when Uriah asks his question, instead speaking over his shoulder, his voice gravely and low from his frequent coughing fits.

"I'd say we have about seven seconds to decide this in committee if that's your preference Uriah. My guess is that we're not going to get a a very good chance to tell our side of the story if they're following Leprade's orders. Hell, if this is a show of hands, count mine as one for, 'let's go through them and worry about telling our side of the story later.' Let's just hope that this little exercise in democracy doesn't come to a stalemate, I don't think Ish is going to be able to cast deciding vote right now."

The ex-guardsman then sticks his head out the window, ash flying free from his close-cropped hair as he sights down the weapon.

"Brek knows where we are meeting up."

Albrek nods, somewhat listlessly, his eyes have a distant look to them, but he is standing on his own now. Circles of soot stain the heavy bags under his eyes and bloody, weeping gashes on his cheeks show where the glass from the chapel-ceiling have cut his flesh. He barks a hacking cough loudly into his hand before speaking, violently clearing his throat of phlegm and the ghosts of the horrid smells from inside the chapel before finding his voice again.

"I know where. If we make it there alive I'll do what I can for our red-headed stepchild, too, provided Dunkan Danicos has the facilities. Ishmael is likely a dead man if there isn't a clean and sterile medicae surgery in that hideout of his. Burns like that mean infection."

He turns to Savalos as if he has remembered some salient detail despite his shellshocked haze.

"Without his ring, though, we'll be waiting on you, Sav."

Savalos slings the heavy autocannon over his shoulder, straining with the weight, and lurches toward the stairs with the shellshocked Albrek leaning heavily upon him for support. The ex-guardsman begins coughing spasmodically, the blood still dribbling from his ears. His voice is a hoarse croak as he finishes the hacking fit, tinged with a paranoid stammer that is somehow all the more distressing coming from the normally tough-as-nails Albrek.

"Sav...just promise me. You don't let them get me. Please, don't let them get me. They came on Mara, they came for the others, but I was spared...I don't understand why, but the buzzing, that awful buzzing, it...it's been following me ever since...I heard it again today...in the Gear Box...and again, here...just promise you won't let em get me."

His hand brushes against the dust-covered aquila.

"Ahh... s'better..."

OK, some mental health bookkeeping for Albrek. Rolling an Ordinary (+10) WP test to determine if he is effected by the Flamer's 'Flames of Change' ability, 1d100 ⇒ 83, failed. Albrek gains 1d5 ⇒ 5 Corruption points as a result. As he now has 12 Insanity Points, Albrek must roll an Ordinary (+10) WP test to determine if Albrek suffers from Mental Trauma, rolling 1d100 ⇒ 37, failed. Rolling on Mental Trauma table 1d100 ⇒ 83, result will be applied at the end of combat. Albrek is also -20 to all tests for the duration of this encounter for his original roll on the Shock table.

Burnt and bloody, Albrek staggers to his knees, leaning heavily on the pew, the same nearly indecipherable, muttered words endlessly repeating from his blistered lips. He stares upward at the horror that is the flame shrouded daemon, continuing his chanting intonation as he grasps the autocannon, leveling the barrel upward so that it rests against the pew, pointing almost vertically up at the warp-spawn...

Screaming disconsolately on the floor, Albrek continues to thrash and flail about, shrieking over and over again a litany of names.

"FLENTER, KRESSMAN, TORVALT! I can't save them...NOTHING! NOTHING CAN SAVE THEM!.

The FECKING BUZZING, Throne, THRONE! Please, please, please, please, make it stop!!!

As the massive autocannon clatters to the ground, Albrek begins shouting, bellowing at the top of his lungs:

"MARA, it's like MARA. Again and again and again. The buzzing...Aiighhhh....make it stop! The FECKING BUZZING!"

He collapses to the floor, ripping at his armor madly, rolling about atop the boneless corpses between the two pews, weeping uncontrollably.

Rolling a Fear Test (WP = 25 -20 = WP: 05, ouch) for Albrek, 1d100 ⇒ 100, failure by nine degrees. Rolling on the Shock Table for Albrek, +90, 1d100 + 90 ⇒ (67) + 90 = 157, Albrek crumples to the ground for 1d5 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2 rounds, is penalized -20 to all tests for the remainder of the encounter, and gains 1d5 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3 Insanity Points.

Initiative, 1d10 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11

Taking a stumbling step backward, Albrek bumps into a worn pew occupied by macabre, rubbery corpses, jolting the bodies such that they slouch down into one another, falling from their seats to the floor with wet slaps of boneless flesh. Even so, his eyes never leave the monstrous, incendiary thing birthing itself from Kirsch's remains.

"Aww....Feck..."