THE HOME FRONT
THE HOME FRONT
Last edited by Azazeal849; 12-04-2018 at 10:07 PM.
PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.
Epithemeus Class Titan Tender Shepherd of Light
6 hours before Invasion of Perinetus
There was a soft chirp, and a warm, simulated daylight filled the cabin. Hange was already awake, staring at the ceiling. The light filled the room and she cursed, inwardly, that she hadn't been able to steal any sleep during this shortened, impromptu night cycle. She had been playing everything out in her head, and sleep had evaded her. She sighed, rose, and started to dress in her primary uniform.
“Caff, sweetened, lots of milk” she said to the myriad small spirits of the room.
The autodispensary dutifully clunked and chuckled as she fiddled with buttons and brushed brocade into position. She pulled on her heavy, steel soled boots and laced them, almost hypnotically as she played through simulation space, attack patterns, firing grids.
All to keep her thinking about that damn ceremony at the Lathes.
Three weeks approximate before invasion.
Hange made the sign of the cog, and stiffly bowed, as did all her fellow titan drivers, knight commanders and support staff. Hot wind was blasting across the barren ferrocrete of orbital transfer district four, and it tugged at hair, ceremonial robes, and banners in unpredictable gusts. The thousands of Skitarii slammed to attention in a single crash of galvanised bionics, rifles resting on shoulders as metal fists hammered metal chest plates, metal feet stamping on the unforgiving floor.
The salute was returned by the delegation from the Lathes. A triad of Magi laced intricate bionic hands into perfect cogs, and emitted binharic psalms of blessing on the warriors from a distant, sister forge.
“Again, let me thank the generosity of the Lathes in supplying us with this needed bulk munitions supply.” Savik, perfect in his dress uniform, gestured to the dozens of heavy lifters being loaded and launching into orbit. “And commend the swiftness and completeness of the repairs made to our small battlegroup.”
One of the triad scuttled forwards, zhe's robes concealing scuttling arachnid legs of brushed steel. The magi fiddled with a device implanted into the pale flesh of zher neck, before answering in a flat, machine generated voice.
“Blessings of Holy Mars upon you. Go in our stead and bring justice to those who have turned from the dogmatic programming of the Fabricator General and the Omnissiah.”
Hange raised an eyebrow at that. She had heard that the Lathes were being testy about committing resources to the crusade, seeing it as largely an Imperial matter with a few rogue Magos taking advantage of the anarchy to fulfill personal agendas. Now that was confirmed. It seemed there would be no second wave of reinforcements from the Lathes, unless the Warmaster could find some political prybar to pull them loose.
“We” The magos gestured to zher companions. “Would like to observe your ritual of commencement. We have heard it is a cultural relic of the earliest practices of the Collegia.”
Hange stiffened, as did Rosen on her right and Lenz on her left. Savik paused, flatfooted.
“Of course, as you have been so generous, it would be churlish for us to refuse. Please, follow me.”
He gestured off to a portion of the landing apron, and the Princeps and their crews fell in behind him as they walked to a special prepared podium. There was no noospheric complaints, on account of their uninvited guests, and Hange did not doubt that Savik could feel the eyes of every enginewoman boring into his augmented skull.
The stage had been bolted together from pre-fabbed struts of plasteel, and dressed with the green and white heraldry of House Calyx and the green and gold of the Legio Sirena. Banners and kill-pennants snapped in the hot blasts of wind from the landing strip. And standing, towering over the stage, like graven idols awaiting sacrifice, were the titans themselves. Sicut Sanguis Rosa stood in a temporary scaffold, its cockpit staring down at the stage and the small mortals that were gathering to appease its war-spirit. As a group, the enginewomen climbed the stairs to the stage, with Savik at least managing to keep the curious magi back from the altar. He was explaining to them the ritual significance of the princeps garb, which for a landing strip on a forgeworld was bizarre. Very few willingly wandered a forgeworld barefoot in white robes.
Hange cast a quick and practiced eye over the ritual accoutrements. The rockdagger was present, as was the bowl of cleaning oils. Chained to the altar, properly drugged, was the lynx, freshly grown from fleshvats aboard the Epithemeus. Its feline head lolled round, and not for the first time, she met the beasts eyes.
Predator to predator.
Wordlessly, the three women, Hange, Lenz and Rosen, sunk to their knees and prostrated themselves before their engines. Hange always felt at this moment like the Reaver she was bonded with was staring at her, judging her.
“Holy angels of the Deus, grant us your blessing for the coming campaign. Look upon the works of your servants, and find them worthy. Grant us your endless strength for the battles to come, and the wisdom of your MIU. Allow us to harness the technology of peace, and through it, holy power. In blessed communion we serve at the altar of your might. Look upon this sacrifice, whose blood shall anoint your weapon mounts, and find it worthy, and through its death, render unto us the foresight of the Omnissiah”
“Ave Deus” intoned the gathered moderati, steerswomen, techpriestess and sensori adepts. “Your will be done.”
Hange stood again, and was joined by Lenz and Rosen at the altar. Hange picked up the dagger.
“Quickly. I don't like the feel of them gawking”
Rosen grabbed the cats forelimbs and Lenz grabbed its hind, pulling them safely away and flipping the animal onto its back. It squirmed feebly and pitifully, and met her eyes again.
How could something alive for only a few days know how to plead?
Hanges left arm snapped out and grabbed the cat by the throat, and her right arm pistoned in with the knife. The first blow was always a mercy blow, in through the eye. Instant death. The cat weakly thrashed as she reversed the wet blade and opened up the lynxs belly like a zipped kit bag. The knife was dropped and her hands plunged in, under the ribcage, past her wrists.
It was already ominously cold in there.
Her hands closed around the heart and she pulled with a grunt, the organ coming free too easily. There was a bad, offal smell that overwhelmed the engine smoke and grease of the landing strip.
The heart, the primary omen, was shot through with cancerous growths. If she hadn't killed it, this animal would have been dead in days. Lenz gagged while Rosen stared in horror.
One of the watching crew asked what was wrong, and on reflex, like the dozens of times she had done this ritual before, she turned and presented the heart to her waiting crews.
“The omens are dire. Disaster awaits.”
In that moment, what stuck most in her memory was the shadow she saw fall across Saviks face.
Epithemeus Class Titan Tender Shepherd of Light
5 hours before Invasion of Perinetus
She was still clutching the caff when she wandered into the titan bay, deliberately lost in thought to keep one particular thought at bay. She came to a halt at a railing and set her mug down on the floor, before looking up at the titan waiting for her before it could live again.
Shipping, in the cold holds of an ark or a tender, wasn't life for a titan. They resented it, in their MIU's, in their cold, predatory souls.
She jumped at the touch on her shoulder. It was Rosen.
“Lenz just walked right past you, and you didn't even notice.”
She made a non-committal noise and bent down to pick up her mug, swigging the cold caff.
“Its still bugging you, isn't it?”
She nodded. “I don't get it. I don't think of myself as superstitious. Godfearing, and worshipful of the spirits around us as all good servants of the Deus should be, but not. . .”
“So easily flustered.” Rosen finished for her and leaned on the railing next to her commander.
Hange nodded. “Its spooked me Historia. I'm actually rattled.”
“As an omen, its been recorded no less than forty seven times in the Legio's archives.”
Hange smiled. Rosen had a knack for interesting trivia.
“And only in about a third of all instances, has disaster followed on its heels.”
“Really. Maybe. . .don't think of it as a threat from the future.” Historia looked up at her own engine. “Maybe think of it as a warning from the now.”
Epithemeus Class Titan Tender Shepherd of Light
>1 hour before Invasion of Perinetus
+Final checks, all stations!+ Hange canted, settling into her seat and checking its positioning before strapping in tight. She was already connected to the MIU, its throaty animal growl pacing in the back of her mind like an ursid in a cave.
She was the chief head of the hydra, the prime motivating will. The emotions of the crew, from pride, to hope, to a twinge of doubt, mixed in her soul and formed the gestalt will of the titan.
They were all Sicut Sanguis Rosa. Human and Titan, Titan and Human, one sublime, holy creature.
+All elements!+ She canted over the open channel. +This campaign is ill starred, 'tis true. But when has that ever stopped an engine? When has that stayed our hand? Never! We are the avenging angels of the Omnissiah, his wrath made manifest in steel and fire! We will make our own destiny, over the smoking bones of our enemies if need be! In the name of the Deus, we will liberate Adrantis!+
The titan hall thundered with the roar of titan warhorns. In the adjoining bays, Knights raised their weapons in salute, and Skitarii sung binharic hymns.
+All elements, prepare for planetary assault!+
Troop transport HDMS Lord Derfflinger
>One hour until Baraspine invasion
“Go with the Emperor, gentlemen. Tephaine delenda est.”
Danton nodded and turned to the window, data-slate in hand. He quickly transmitted the tactical inloads from the Munitorum to his dedicated Astropathic clade, who would transmit it to Hange operating around Perinetus. It would be Hange and Chao who would propagate the needed data across the Mechanicus tactical net, when they received it. His Skitarii bodyguard, a brutally augmented killer by the name of Skaugos, fell into step behind him as Danton prowled the tactica pits, watching the munitorum staffers issue last minute adjustments for landers and updating the frankly over optimistic second, third, and fourth day objectives. It would all come down to one mans decision. A man not even here in the system, if intelligence was to be believed.
Will you stand, Tierce, or will you fall back? To fight satisfies your foolish honour and pride, but to fall back, consolidate, and let the crusade wrestle with Baraspine alone. . .that is the more logical move.
He muttered a quick binharic prayer for the Legio under his breath as the timer ticked down to zero hour. Soon, they would see the quality of Tierce.
Last edited by dakkagor; 12-09-2018 at 01:00 PM.
I have seen the future. The future is dead.
We killed it
Ṅ̡̮̦̟͕̰͕̦͊͆̎̄͐Ơ̡̰̩̲̠̺͖͆̐͑͑͗͘Ẁ͓̫̗̮̥͙́̅̐̈́̌̾͐̎͢H͛̋ ̵̧̡̼͉̱͂̈́͗ͅE͎̜͈͔̩͒̋̆́́͡Ȓ͍̭̟͔̠͕̜̙͖̇̋̐͆͘͜͠Ȇ̩͋́͒͆̋͆͘ ̶͈̭̼̼
͎͍̞͍̙̻̜̔̎̏͐̃͗͢͞͡T̨̜̟̟̱̜̩͆̅̑̌̀͑̕͟ͅͅI̢͈̜̭̹̬͉̞̅̽̽̍̔͑̀ ̸M̵̧̛̭͉̟̼̱̰̬͛͐̆̀̍̿̾Ȇ̸̡̧̝̬̹͍̖͆̾́̽̍̐̇̿̀S̨͇͇͋́̐̓͐͛͊͊ ̙̲̪̺̫T̴̢̥̮̟̯̻̑̅͒̎̐̚͜͜ͅȦ̺̹͍̥̪͍̖̿́̂͋̍̾ͅM̺̰̙͕̄͆̽̀̄̚͘ ̸̧͈͎͜P̷̖̥̯̲̬͎̼̝͊̇̅̏̆̅̕͠͞ E̺̘͖̮̣̥̥͎̔̾͛̈̎̊͒͢͢͡R̷̗̞̳̭̬̙̯̎́̓͗̊̉̎͐͜͡R̛̟̂̔͊͐́͂͂̚͡ ̢̱̙͜ͅO̷̡̡̺̖͙̤̜̙͔͋̿̽͂̀̈ͅR̸̢͍̰͙̤̼͈̔̏̓̐͂̐̓ͅ
She could smell death. She could hear grinding.
Her feet carried her across a broken land comprised of shattered, hot glass. The blades cut her bare feet, and she left a trail of blood as she walked up the slope.
There was a squealing, like a nail being dragged down a blackboard. The air tasted of ozone. And death.
She reached the lip of the crater, stumbled. Mushroom clouds dotted a horizon made of skeletal buildings. The sky wept black liquid that burned her skin. Heat radiated from the crater like a furnace. Nothing could live here, yet she lived. There was a bright flash in the middle distance, and she turned her eyes from it. Thunder roared. Her gaze fell on the crater.
In the crater was a Space marine.
He was lying on his back, shattered. His sable armour rent and torn, his limbs twisted and broken. She could hear the hitching in his lungs, the frantic hammering of his damaged hearts. His right arm twitched spasmodically, reaching for a bolter lying nearby it would never reach. She could see a single, frantic, bloodshot eye staring from the shattered helm, staring across the crater. She followed the mans gaze.
And wished she hadn't.
It refused to allow itself to be comprehended in one glance. There was. . .an impression. Burning wings. A brow crowned with curved horns. Legs like some draconic creature, scaled and taloned.
Its sword carved down again, and cracked open a different Space Marines torso. There where a score of them, lying around the crater, breathing, or. . .
Their torsos had been ripped open. Armour split like a chestnut. Organs trailed from the rents, steaming.
She didn't want to see this anymore.
The Space marine being opened up grunted, and sighed, and she swore she felt his soul flit past her. Hands, caked in blood, tore into flesh, and pulled two pulsing hearts from his chest cavity. Blood washed over black armour.
It turned, and smiled. One heart it held above its upturned face and mashed it in its taloned fist like an overripe fruit, and she swore she could taste the coppery, rich blood on her tongue.
The other hand extended towards her.
“Drink.” Murmured the daemon Sarna Astros. “Drink and be free.”
Eudaimonia, near orbit of Tephaine
72 Hours until invasion of Baraspine
“I had the dream again.”
Alyss looked up from the book she had been reading and regarded the young Moritat levelly.
“I'm sorry.” Alyss sighed, and closed the book. “I had hoped that last ward would work.”
Sarna flopped into the overstuffed chair across from Alyss reading desk. This was the library of the old stuffed shirt Rogue trader who was once the master of the Eudaimonia. It was crammed with navigational charts, almanacs and many more esoteric tomes. Since Alyss had come into ownership of the vessel, its shelves had started to groan with stolen, pilfered and copied lore of all kinds.
“I don't need a ward!” Sarna shouted. “I need this daemons hold on my soul severed. You said you could do it.”
“I said I might be able to do it.” Alyss responded, her tone even. “I haven't stopped working on it. Did you fill out the diary this time?”
“Yes.” Sarna huffed. “Fat lot of good it will do.” She flicked the chapbook onto the desk, and Alyss picked it up immediately.
“Black armoured Space Marines. Blue trim, white skull heraldry, silver eagle embossed on their torso plate.” Alyss made an 'interesting' noise. “That's interestingly specific. Have you ever seen a Chapter like that?”
“No.” Sarna shook her head. “Outside of propaganda reels, I've never seen one in the flesh. And the ones in the reels were. . . Storm Wardens? I think?”
There was another non-committal 'hummm' from across the writing desk.
“Anyway, you called me up here for a reason?”
“Oh, yes. Well, there has been a request, for your services. Your special skills are being farmed out to Colonel Tarquinius. We'll be joining up with their fancy space hulk shortly. I'll keep looking into this for you.” Alyss tapped the chapbook, and then returned to the tome she had been reading before Sarna had entered the library.
“Fine.” Sarna stood, and stretched. “Maybe a mission will be enough to take my mind off the eternity of damnation staring me in the face.”
Last edited by dakkagor; 12-09-2018 at 07:18 PM.
I have seen the future. The future is dead.
We killed it
Eudaimonia, Fast burn towards the Glom
>3 Hours until invasion of Baraspine
Jarn tapped one of his holstered bolt pistols, a sure sign of his agitation. For the commander of a stealth regiment of hardened mercenary killers, he was notorious for his complete lack of patience. Around him, the prep deck was ordered chaos, men and women checking armour, weapon loads, and most importantly, rebreathers. Finally, the three people he was waiting on arrived. Herkja, commander of his special weapon units. Droplaug, his 2IC and commander of his motorized elements. And finally, Starolf, his chief scout. Each could not be more different from the other. Herkja was short and swarthy for a member of the Damned, with swirling flame tattoos covering her thick muscled arms. She looked almost permanently singed and reeked so bad of promethium jelly regiment rumour was she bathed in. She was also recklessly brave, to the point of foolhardiness. As the mistress of fire, she claimed, only fire could ever claim her life. Droplaug was a skinny, blonde rake of a woman, all corded muscle and brooding malevolence. She had lost both her sons to the Imperium, and that made the older woman bitter and hateful, as driven as Jarn himself. She drove her mechanised elements with a relentless fury and ruthless capability. Finally, Starolf, with his fair skin and startling blue eyes and well combed out shock of red hair, was the regiments designated lady killer. Jarn only put up with his swaggering arrogance because he was also a damn fine scout and soldier in the field, with a knack for small unit tactics and ambush work. Also present at this impromptu meeting around a stack of ammo crates was Ulf Gannarson, Jarns subaltern and vox man. A muscle corded brute given to grunting communication, he was renowned for beating a commissar to death with his bulky vox pack. He only came alive working the vox, and his eye for detail and steel trap memory made him an excellent assistant to Jarn, while his brooding bulk made him a good bodyguard.
"We'll be deploying out soon." Jarn began without preamble. Ulf spread plastek map sheets of the Agglomeration out on the crates, and handed copies to each officer, as well as a lho stick that each man and woman dutifully lit and started to smoke. "Our goal is to extract some fuck-ass militia idiots from his pile of junk and shit, and then get out before the Imperials swat us." He gestured to several large, vaulted chambers. "If the local dickgrabbers have any sense, which I fucking doubt, they will have pulled back to this area, where the Eudamonia can dock and extract them through our bulk gangway. Our job, is to buy time for that to happen, and not die in the process."
"Do we need to preserve this orbital ring?" Herkja asked, with a little too much enthusiasm.
"Our orders were interestingly non-specific about the preservation of the 'glom. I think that lump of flesh in a sash assumes we value it as much as he does." He took the lho out of his mouth and stamped the hot end into several key junctions on the map. "Herkja, work with Droplaug. Take your specialists and any tech-heads we have, and identify key points of weakness, then destroy them or trap them. Trapping is better, because if the imps stumble into some traps, they will slow their advance and that buys us time."
"I can rig some of the ship shells for this central chamber." Herkja jabbed at the ostensible barracks they where evacuating. "Tag them to a timed delay. That should cause a mess." Jarn could detect the beginning of the mania in Herkja. Back home, she had been expert at slagging the cog-men mining rigs. Her hysterical laughter and mad capering amongst the flames chilled the heart of every man who had seen them.
"Fine, but be quick." He turned to Starolf. "Your job is resource acquisition. Anything left behind by the militia, and any personnel we can impress aboard the Eudamonia. Priority falls on low ranked toaster fondlers. Anyone who resists, shoot."
"My pleasure sir." Starolf chuckled. "I'll hit these reactor sectors. They are close to our insertion point, and without a techpriest working them, any damage Herkja does should be. . .amplified."
Jarn nodded. "Droplaug, you'll be leading the rest of your fast movers. Hit the Imperials and buy us time. Short, sharp engagements, then fall back. If you can snag a couple of prisoners, go for it, but otherwise, move fast, hit hard, and don't get bogged down." She nodded. "I'll be limited. At least some of my assets will be with the scouts and Herkja's pet maniacs"
"And that's why I don't want you getting into a fucking brawl." Jarn growled, knowing that Droplaug was disappointed at being held back. "Strike, fade, leave traps if you can. Most of these corridors are easily big enough for your quads and bikes. Use that. We have a lot of smokes spare, by the end of this, I don't want any spare." He rolled his shoulders, pointed back to the central chamber. "I'll be here coordinating our primary strengths. We'll form a perimeter, and collapse it by the numbers as we empty out the training station. Then we leave the imps to the glom, and whatever surprises Herkja has set."
He dropped his lho on the deck and ground it underfoot, as did the rest of his officers.
"Study those maps, and make copies. The station is a maze, make sure no-one gets lost."
"What about civilians or Adrantis forces?" This from Droplaug. " Are they going to be ok with us fighting a running battle in their homes and blowing half of the station to hell?"
"Fuck 'em." Jarn looked around. "To be honest, these Adrantians are still emperor worshipping fleshwastes, just Imperials under a different banner and in different colours. Kill anyone who gets in your way, and let their impotent god sort them out."
Last edited by dakkagor; 12-09-2018 at 03:42 PM.
I have seen the future. The future is dead.
We killed it
Planetside Starport, Perinetus, Adrantian Patriot controlled zone.
1 day until Baraspine D-Day.
“No one is saying this is your fault, Captain, so relax.”
The Captain in question, Chartist Trader Mamzel Florentin, nodded her head, and did not look convinced. Prime Ordinex Mu-112 could still detect the faint traces of fear pheromones and stress indicators. He turned to meet the Captains eyes, and hitched up his best smile.
“Your ship passed all checks at the outer marker and on entering orbit. This. . .is oversight on the part of the Skitarii provosts. Not your responsibility.”
His broad gesture encompassed forward tankage 2, on the Chartist Trader 'Melpomene', and the tanks of bacteria medium the ship was hauling to feed the hungry forges of the Adrantis aligned Mechanicum on Perinetus. This might be one of the last such shipments of vital, recycled nutrients before a blockade slammed down and cut the system off from the rest of the sub.
It was also a crime scene. Five Skitarii provosts, conducting a final security sweep, had disappeared in this hold with nary a ripple across the noosphere. Their missing nature had only been noticed when they had failed to rendezvous with the rest of their cohort. Forward tankage 2 was the last place they could be placed with any certainty.
Mu-112 turned and ascended the iron stairs to the gantry encircling the tank. The smell was appalling, geneforged bacteria hungrily turning dead meat into starches, sugars, and constituent protein chains. This was mass hauled, first stage corpse-starch. He gazed into the lurid orange slurry and grimaced as he listened to his provosts report no sign of any bodies. But this tank was now connected to the tankage systems of the starport of Perinetus. The Captain joined him at the rail, a delicate hankerchief dosed with perfume held over her nose and mouth.
“Its not often I get to smell my product.” She complained. “It smells like death down here.”
Mu-112 nodded. It did smell like death. And it was hot. The bacteria produced a fearsome amount of waste heat.
“Drain the tanks. Its the last logical place to look.”
Mamzel Florentin nodded, and spoke quickly into an ornate broach-vox pinned to her overstuffed uniform surcoat. Almost immediately, the deck rumbled beneath them, and the tank began to drain.
It was as Mu-112 feared. As the vast tank finally emptied, it revealed the battered and torn remnants of the Skitarii provosts. And something else.
“What.” He hissed. “Are those?”
“I have no idea” the Mamzel responded.
Once the tank was drained, all that remained was a shin-deep layer of brittle human bone, the degraded flesh and metal of the Skitarii, and two black oblong bags. They put Mu-112 in mind of bodybags used by the Imperial Guard.
He was now overseeing the forensic analysis, Mamzel Florentin being escorted to the bridge to overview sensori data schema with a datasmith called in from the forges nearby. Mu-112 was now relying on the specialist forensic skills of Biocogatus Adept Xephon, whose forensic servitors and analysis servo-skulls sifted through the debris. Xephon was indecently excited, as he rarely got to examine anything outside the confines of an industrial accident in the forges. Mu-112 merely hoped such fervour would translate to heightened speed and accuracy. He was increasingly burdened with a sense of ominous foreboding about this investigation.
At last, Xephon bowed his head before the Prime Ordinex.
+I have completed my analysis, praise the Deus and his manifold spirits+
+Begin.+ He canted back sharply, his patience beginning to wear thin. Xephon was a strangely mishaped Adept beneath his robes, all lumps and protrusions under a traditional white robe. His excitement had not leant his investigation any speed as far as Mu-112 was concerned.
+The two bodybags are modified Mark 19 emergency life support modules, often used for pre or post battlefield surgery. Staying in them for longer than 48 hours would have been difficult for anyone not heavily augmented. But possible.+
+48 hours is easily enough time to avoid our scans.+
+The bacterium medium is warmer than baseline human body temperature. That would explain how the two interlopers avoided scans. Both of the bags are securely tethered to the side of the tank, and both are linked by data-feed cables. Communication and passive scanning from inside them would be easy. Admirably devious.+
That was not a sentence Mu-112 would normally use. He ignored it.
+Our lost units?+ He laced the query with a sense of urgency. Worry was rising within him.
+Blunt force trauma for one, then the rest where killed with shockpoles+
+They are armed with shockpoles. So the assailants disarmed one, then overtook the rest with their own weapons. All five were recovered, broken, from the tank bottom?+
+Yes. Also, I recovered a data screed from the unit leader. They had found weapons and gear, tack welded out of sight on the gantries and around the tanks, the recording ends abruptly as you'd expect. None of that equipment remains.+
+So+ He canted with finality, holding up a hand to forestall any further augmiting from Xephon.
+Our culprits most likely snuck aboard at Baraspine, and spent the week in transit secreting weapons and equipment in this forward hold, which is only sparsely patrolled by the crew. On approach to Perinetus, they clambered into bodybags and willingly submerged themselves in caustic bacteria and dissolving corpses, knowing their own biological traces would be obscured by the corpse-starch manufacturing process. Once clear of our checkpoints and docked, they climbed free, and were discovered by our Provosts, who they jammed, efficiently killed, and disposed of. They recovered their equipment, and fled the scene of the crime.+
+An apt summary, Prime Ordinex Mu-112+ Xephon canted and bowed. +I will turn my investigation to tracking them down. They are likely still aboard the ship.+
+Do so, and with haste.+ He turned from the Biocogatus Adept and cast to the datasmith on the bridge.
+Nothing so far, honoured Prime Ordinex. Mamzel Florentin keeps admirably clean and detailed records. However, they have been badly damaged by a data worm. Large portions of data is missing or non-recoverable. The Mamzel does state she took on some extra crew, deck hands mainly, at Baraspine.+
+Those records are missing or damaged.+
+Just so, Prime Ordinex.+
+Does the Mamzel remember anything specific about her new hires? Any small detail might prove crucial.+
The link died, leaving the Prime Ordinex alone. He turned his gaze to the two deflated bags, covered in reeking orange slime. Someone had risked much to get this far. After an interminable few minutes, the datasmith reconnected.
+13 males, 10 females. She is confident she could identify most of them by sight. Only two struck her as odd. A couple, both female, who asked to be assigned to the same hold space. One of them seemed 'odd'+
+'Odd'? Define 'odd' datasmith!+
+Her terminology, not mine, Prime Ordinex. Just 'odd'.+
+Get a physical description of that couple, and put out a noospheric alert. I want them found immediately, even if you have to pull this ship apart bolt by bolt! Alert all security forces in the starport, and update the bioscanners with genetic samples from the catheters we recovered from the bodybags in the forward hold.+
+Your will be done, Prime Ordinex.+
As the link died, Mu-112 slammed a metallic fist into the side of the tank with uncharacteristic anger. The modus operandi, the risks involved, the level of dedication required. All the data points led in one direction.
This was an Inquisitorial infiltration team, a two woman cell. Who knew what their mission was on Perinetus? He turned and stalked out of the forward hold. Whatever it was, he was determined to find and stop them.
Kally watched wigs, makeup and prosthesis flash cook in an incinerator. She scratched at her itchy, shaved scalp, and turned to Raech.
“They will have found the provosts by now.”
“A few hours ago, most likely.” Raechal didn't look up from her portable terminal, hooked into a data trunk that ran under this cavernous warehouse attached to the starport. “There. We both have low level bio-ident clearance on the local transit network now. Combined with the fake genetic material we left in the life support modules, that should buy us both enough time to get where we need to go.”
Raechel shrugged. “Don't mention it.”
There wasn't a lot more to say. Neither woman wanted to burden the other with details of their separate missions, in case they were captured and tortured. Kally hefted her kit bag onto her shoulder, and turned to leave, though Kally imagined that Raechel could guess most of what her objectives were.
She turned, and looked back at Raechel. She was standing as well, a heavy kit bag in her hand.
“Good luck. May the Emperor go with you.”
“Same to you. May the Omnissiah watch your steps, Adept.”
They shared a small, respectful nod, then both women turned, and went their separate ways, disappearing into the population of Perinetus.
I have seen the future. The future is dead.
We killed it
Undisclosed Location, 2 days before the Invasion
Enki was massive, even as most magos went. Standing a little over two meters tall and almost as broad as one of the near-mythic Astartes, his robes making him look even more like a covered piece of industrial machinery as he observed the artisan work of the Mechanicus temple. His auto-sensors pinged softly at the approach of familiar steps. He knew the stride length and weight of each footfall perfectly as belonging to his faithful, loyal aid Zahir. He turned his hooded head to look at the solidly built Fulgerite and gave him an approving nod, inviting the smaller man to join him at his side.
“Taking in the sights, my lord?” Zahir’s voice was soft and deep and Enki always found it a pleasing juxtaposition to how grand and booming he was in the heights of his fury.
“They have talented artisans here,” Enki answered. His voice was only barely modulated by his mechanical form, a testament to the skill of the one who designed it. “It is surprisingly rare to see frescos made with such care, certainly in one of our temples. It reminded me of home. Have I spoken to you of that? Of where I came from, Zahir?”
“No, my lord. And it did not seem needed to ask of it.”
“A fair assessment. But seeing as we have some time, let me tell you of it.”
Enki turned and walked along the length of the temple, his footfalls heavy and echoing through the empty halls. Enki never needed to hide his presence, wanting his foes to hear his approach and tremble knowing their final moments were upon them. Destruction was his game and Enki played it very well. Zahir followed behind him, hands folded behind his back as he watched his superior closely. The Fulgerite felt it his duty to observe his lord at every moment, silently fearful of the Lord Reductor’s zeal turning into mania. And the looming conflict was just such an even to trigger such a fall from grace.
“My first true posting was the floor boss of a debt-repayment camp on my homeworld of Anatolia.”
“You are from Anatolia, my lord?” Surprise held fast to Zahir’s whole being. The planet had burned away in the course of a sanctioned mission of the Mechanicum. Those who knew the full details had declared it a necessary sacrifice which meant those of stations like Zahir’s did not question it.
“Correct,” Enki replied. “Many would praise Anatolia as a cradle of the Omnissiah’s grace. A world of artisans and weapon makers that produced some of the finest instruments of war and tools of science that sector ever saw. Her burning was a tragedy, but an understandable one. For all the grace and light of that Forge was elevated to hide the blemishes and the rot. The camps, for instance. Places where the laborers would be sent to work off debts taken on by getting augments or other such help. In a way I was surrounded by labor machines at all times. Many of the men and women sent to those camps never left. Accidents would happen and they would need augments to keep working and their debt would increase. But none of them ever lost hope that the grace of the Omnissiah would see them through.”
“Is that why your form is so…bulky, my lord?”
“Just so!” Enki said with something approximating a loud laugh. “I thought to mimic my blessed form in some way after those large labor machine I spent so many years around. This body of mine comprises some of the last masterfully crafted cybernetics to ever be produced and shipped from Anatolia before the world burned. But I have managed to track down another who once called that place home who apprenticed to the man who made these. One might say that she, I, and others who were meant to leave Anatolia were drawn away.”
“My lord…are you saying Anatolia was punished by having the atmosphere burn away? Forgive me if I sound dense but I simply do not follow.”
“It is all right, Zahir.” Enki stopped before the great edifice at the front of the temple behind the grand pulpit where the senior techpriest would give sermons to the adepts. “Anatolia was perhaps being punished. Punished for pushing too many boundaries and treading places we are not meant to step. At least not yet. I’ve shown you the operation notes of the mission that led to such destruction. The only reason such radical experimentation could even be thought of in the first place is Anatolia’s fixation on progress for profit. That’s why everything produced from her forges was so exceptional. The Omnissiah doesn’t expressly frown on selling what we make hence why the planet became known as a hub of artisans when it came to weapons and replacements. And such wants can easily be the foundation grounds for apostasy and heresy.”
“I understand.” Zahir nodded and stood behind Enki to admire the metalwork of the temple interior. “But turning to more recent matters, my lord, do you have any thoughts on what is to come?”
“Nothing these people want will come easy.” Enki’s tone changed to something almost somber. He certainly sounded more focused than he had moments ago. “I often consider the possibility they have not thought the course of action through but then that might be for the best.”
“But you don’t believe in Tierce’s cause?”
“No, not at all. The state of the Imperium matters little to me or what I am called to do. A bringer of blessed destruction is only political by necessity. Personally, I can’t stand politics. But I learned to move with it as my own influence grew. But…well perhaps not well enough. No, I am willing to throw my lot in with Delzharian. Everything else is secondary.”
“I believe we’re doing the right thing,” Zahir said in a tone thick with the conviction only a religious manic could muster. “Mechanicus…Imperium…everything is straying from the path. Losing the light and energy that lights the path left by the Omnissiah.”
“They will say the same about us,” Enki intoned evenly. “They will brand us heretek’s and traitors and every other terrible name and curse they can muster with their simple minds. Fire, destruction, floods, all such things have at one time or another set Mankind back on its proper course. Perhaps the Adrantean cause will take on such a cataclysmic form as cannot be ignored.”
Undisclosed location, 3 days before the invasion
The scent of incense was heavy in the training room. Artificial Tatami mats lined the floor, reminder of his ancient home. The light was dim, barely candlelight, but not that it mattered to the occupants. One was used to it, the others had not the mental capacity for care. A gentle breeze blew on chimes from the exhaust.
A man sat in the middle of the room, naked save for a synth-silk fundoshi and blindfold. Sweat beaded on his pale skin as his body had held the uncomfortable lotus position for nearly four hours, and he was deep in meditation. Many lives would be taken soon, each offered as a sacrifice upon the most Holy Altar of the Resplendent and August Majesty and Master of all Mankind The God-Emperor. It would honor Kojiro and his clan many times over for him to sink his blade into their hearts and bring their heads as trophies.
As Kojiro ruminated on this, that was when the other occupants sprang to life with swift movements and a rustle of cloth. Training Servitors, programmed to awaken randomly, for one never knows when the enemy might attack. Sensing their movement, Kojiro took up the wooden sword in front of him and rolled out of the way of the first attacker's strike, getting to his feet and raising his guard.
The other two joined in the fray with their whirling shock prods. Kojiro was a leaf on the wind, every movement swift and graceful, contorting his body at unexpected angles to dodges their vicious blows. Even one, in his unarmored state, would put him out of commission for a few weeks, and such a thing could not be borne. With the focused fury of cold fire, one by one, he struck their hidden weak points, causing them to once more become docile.
When finally the last had been 'slain'm he returned to his position in the center of the room to continue meditating.
Inquisition fortress, Scintilla
Zero hour +12
Marc pressed his finger into the recaff dispenser, and watched the sludgy brown liquid splash into his mug. His eyes roamed up to the greasy silver front of the machine, where he saw his distorted reflection staring back at him.
It told him nothing he did not already know. His cheeks were hollow, his expression was tired, and his close-cropped hair was tousled and prematurely flecked with grey. His right eye was green and shadowed; his left was matte and milky white. The medicae had offered him a coloured bionic, to match his remaining eye, but Marc did not see the point of hiding his injury. Nor did he particularly care that some found it off-putting, or even intimidating.
Vince would’ve laughed. Marc thought morbidly, picturing the old ex-Guardsman with his own milk-white eye, blinded by an Umbra in some long-ago fight. But Vince was dead, and knowing that his killer was now particles of frozen meat drifting through the Lehyde system didn’t help. It made Marc wonder how he would feel when their last enemy was brought to justice. If there ever is a last enemy. Arcolin, Tarquinius, Tierce, Delzharian, Yannick...Ella and Alley.
The way he had found of coping with it was that his feelings didn’t matter - only that it was done, by whatever means were necessary. And so he had been throwing himself into the work, because it was the easiest way to forget his friends on the frontline, and everything else that had happened.
He carried his tray through the maze of tables until he found an empty one. The fortress was full of inquisitors’ retinues working inumerable shift patterns, and the refectory was never quiet. Cutlery rattled and a dozen different tongues of gothic blended together as the disparate agents ate quickly - there was time for little else these days.
Erdene picked him out of the crowd and changed direction to join him. She walked with a limp since Vaxanide, but still cut an authoritative enough figure that the crowd parted for her, even before they saw the interrogator’s rosette pinned to her jacket.
“Everything alright, Black?” she queried as she set down a plate of steamed meat dumplings and some milky tanna.
“Fine.” Marc replied neutrally. “I’ve finished compiling DeShilo’s assets; I’ll get the data-pack over to you in an hour so Machairi and Lucullis can start making plans.”
It hadn’t been an easy job; DeShilo was a notoriously cagey inquisitor, compartmentalising his agent cells in case one was ever compromised. But having worked under the man once before, Marc knew what to look for. Knowing what their antagonists could call upon was one step towards countering the threat. One step closer to eliminating another enemy.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” A smile flickered at one corner of the interrogator’s mouth as she sprinkled salt into her tanna. “I’m going to need you to take over the Vaxanide case. The boss wants me to put together a task force to open a dialogue with the ad mech on Skorgulian, and he’s given me just three months to do it.”
Marc wrapped his hands around his cup and took a sip of the grainy recaff. “Trying to get them onside?”
Erdene picked up one of her buuz and took a bite, chewing and swallowing before she answered. “Hopefully.”
The three forge worlds of the Adrantis sub had yet to declare for either side, but their industrial capacity could make things a lot easier for the crusaders. Or the Patriots.
Erdene finished her food within a couple of minutes and stood back up. “Keep up the good work; and hold the fort until we get back.”
Marc nodded a farewell and went back to stabbing his fork into the food on his plate. Hold the fort. It was, objectively, the fastest and most useful way to start bringing Arcolin and the others to justice. Work smarter, not harder, as Tomas had once pithily reminded him. And yet, it still felt like a betrayal when Kally and Solvan were already out in the field, shouldering a much greater burden of danger for equally vital work.
No-one else in the firing line. he had promised himself, what felt like a long time ago. Constantly breaking that promise was what galled him the most. Few members of an inquisitor’s retinue had just one skill. Erdene was a diplomat and a pilot. Marrick was a data-cracker who could also perform up to level 4 interrogation. Marc was a detective and a...well, that was all he was permitted to be, for now.
Your feelings don’t matter, only that it’s done.
Marc rubbed his remaining eye with the heel of his hand, and got up to begin an afternoon of parsing shipping logs and arbites reports from a grim little hive world named Vaxanide. As Marc understood it, Lucullis had unfinished business there involving a handful of rogue agents, and was keeping a dedicated eye on the place even though current matters had forced him to relocate to Adrantis. Some might think them long gone by now. To Marc’s mind, six months for the heat to die down - and possibly after having gotten word of the inquisitor’s departure - would be exactly the time the heretics might attempt to jump system, if they were able.
He slapped the first sheaf of yellowing printouts down on his work desk, next to his cogitator, PDA and notebook. Next to them was a small locket carved with the haloed skull of the ministorum, lying where Solvan had left it three days previously.
Think on it.
Marc rubbed his eye again. It felt like all he had been doing for the last six months was thinking.
“We are more alike than you know, you and I.” Solvan had confided, in his latest well-intentioned attempts to bridge the divide between Marc and his estranged sister. This time though, he had sounded sombre rather than urging. “I lost a sister too.”
It was a fact of the priest’s life that Marc had not been privy to, and he hadn’t been quite sure how to respond. “I’m...sorry to hear that, father.”
“To possession.” Solvan elaborated stonily, to which Marc had had no answer but silence. “And unlike Kelly, she...did not survive the ordeal.”
Marc had sensed a lie, or at least not the whole truth, but the conviction in Solvan’s eyes had been all too real.
“If you never listen to another word I say, Marcus, then listen to this. I have had the misfortune to perform several exorcisms in my time. Let me tell you, your sister is the exception rather than the rule. Her survival is a gift from the Emperor that He would weep to see you squandering.”
Marc had chewed the inside of his cheek, and looked away. “She made the call. Not me.”
“You’re as stubborn as each other, I know. But I don’t want you or Kelly to have to go through the same tragedy that I did.”
Solvan drew a fragile gold chain from his pocket, and flicked open the locket at the end of it to show a smiling young woman who could only have been the priest’s sister.
“Think on it.” the priest urged as he placed it down on Marc’s desk.
Think on it.
Marc wavered, tapping the point of his digital stylus against the desk. He would. With a sigh, he picked up the locket and slid it away in a desk drawer. After this report.
Last edited by Azazeal849; 02-03-2019 at 11:34 PM.
PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.
Stilat cosmodrome, Perinetus
Two hours after Patriot raid
The ghost of the invader had left its mark on the data bank. Raechel could feel it at the back of her mind, a sinister presence with a feral smile. She persisted - the escape of the two hereteks was less important than exactly what they had stolen.
She was still trying to soothe the scrambled machine-spirit to the point that she could coax a traceback report out of it when Kally padded into the room. Her footsteps were very soft, Raechel noted, despite her extensive augmetics. She found herself wondering if she would still be able to detect her friend if she was truly trying to be silent.
“Hello.” Raechel hailed, raising one arm to wave. She smiled ruefully as she cast her gaze left and right at the ruin of the control room. “Sorry about the mess. Did you get what you came for?”
Without a word, Kally dumped the bag she was holding down onto the table with a heavy thump. Rolling down the fluid-sticky plastek revealed a robotic head, smeared with leaked coolant and artificial blood. It bore the synthskin face of one of the Adrantis nebula’s most infamous hereteks.
“Oh.” Raechel said, a muscle in her cheek twitching. The mysterious enemy strike team could wait a moment.
Without further word she took up an awl and worked it into the fine line encircling the head’s scalp, until both the top section and the synthetic hair implanted into it popped off. She laid the shallow dome aside, and spread her bionic hand over the ugly pink mess that now lay exposed inside the skull.
Raechel scrunched her eyes shut as raw data ticked up her arm and pulsed through her temples, catching synaesthetic flickers of it against her closed lids. As she tested it against noospheric inloads, she felt the bio-probe in her ring finger flicker once or twice, before spiking positive.
“This is Delzharian.” she pronounced neutrally. “The gene-print match is conclusive. It looks like you got him.”
She exhaled, testing the wire-laced brain with a more standard data probe.
“And what a lot of sensitive Knowledge our friend was hiding.”
Raechel could sense it. Terabytes of sensor logs and flitting noospheric messages, and that was just the start. Swathes of the head’s grafted data-stacks were blank, wiped by damage or last-minute security routines - but equally vast sections hung behind a tantalising veil, dissembled under intricate encryption that would likely take her weeks to crack. No doubt there would be traps too: attack codes disguised as secret data, and seizure-inducing neurofeedback of the kind Delzharian had made so infamous on the first day of the rebellion. Raechel enjoyed a challenge.
She focused, narrowing her view to the data she could currently access, and with a mental nudge parsed out the information that would be of interest to her ally.
“I am seeing a number of references to Marioch.” the priestess confided, opening her eyes. “The Patriot leadership seem to be massing resources for a major defensive operation there. There are mentions of the Nebula Corps forming a contingency reaction force. Once the fighting spreads out from the initial landing on Baraspine, I expect you will find them there.”
She looked at Kally.
“So I take it that is where you are going next, hmm?”
+ + + + + +
Lexmada Two, Patriot-occupied forge city
One hundred and five kilometres south of Ragnarov forge
The communications node had been extensively modified in the months since its capture. Now it was full of colourful hololiths and cogitator banks whose lines formed organic arcs. Its occupier had never treated the balance between form and function as a zero-sum game. Machine spirits deserved beautiful hosts, and men of great Knowledge and vision deserved the best.
A bionic eye’s pict-recording wound slowly back and forth, placing the assassin’s movements at the centre of a tapestry of hololithic data. Magos Delzharian hummed low in his augmetic throat, an unnecessary but pleasing sound, as he reconstructed the events of the last few hours.
Some claimed that Delzharian hid his spark within one of his bodyguard servitors, and that that was why he indulged in the vanity of giving them all the same face. It pleased him to misdirect them so. When all that remained of one’s flesh was the brain and a few branches of connecting nerves, it was simple to manufacture a lie out of cloned cells. And a receiver for remote noospheric control was indistinguishable from the inlet / outlet connection of any other electrograft.
He had taken joy in crafting that body: a perfect copy down to the microscopic level, every bit as magnificent as the one he truly inhabited. But there was never the same joy in creating the second iteration of a marvel as in creating the first. He would not mourn its loss. The Knowledge of who the imperium had sent to kill him - and of the modifications he needed to make to survive a second attempt - was an acceptable trade.
“Well.” Delzharian mused aloud, indulging once again in the sound of his own exquisitely-designed vocabulator. “That could have gone worse, I suppose.”
“Worse?” the red-robed adept behind him canted, an inelegant blurt of flesh-voice.
Delzharian turned languidly in his chair, vaguely irritated by the interruption. He encouraged his acolytes to question, but not to break his cognitive process with redundant repetition. Perhaps, though, this aside would lead to greater Comprehension. Delzharian was not as arrogant as the loyalists, believing that he could only look above and not below him for sources of new Knowledge.
“Elucidate, adept.” he allowed. Either side of him, two lean bodyguard servitors fixed his underling with the same glow-eyed stare.
The younger priest folded his hands inside his robes - possibly to hide his fidgeting fingers, a quaintly baseline tic that Delzharian knew he had been trying to phase out. “Magos, our war effort has suffered a severe setback, and false reports of your death will add to the confusion. You must kill the lie before the hereteks use it for a propaganda coup.”
Delzharian did not move, save for the lights dancing along the trenches above his ears and jaw. “Bold of you to presume what I must and must not do, adept.”
“Forgive me, magos.” The junior priest bowed in apology, but pressed on with his line of logic. “But the units here need your direction, and even skitarii aren’t immune to attacks of baseline inefficiency when they hear that their leader is dead. The war will be lost…”
“The battle for Perinetus was most likely to be lost from the moment the Imperial crusade arrived.” Delzharian cut his associate off, sharply. The line of conversation had had the potential to illuminate, but he detested such hidebound, non-lateral modes of thought. “Destroying Ankari at Ragnarov and retaking the orbital batteries there was our best chance to redress the balance. But our commanders on the ground were…”
The delicate motors beneath Delzharian’s face whirred as he frowned.
“Ineffectual - even after I neutralised the enemy’s orbital support for the duration of their attack. Do you think that the Shepherd of Light is the only crusader warship that will take bombardment station above the planet in the next few weeks? Do you think we can hold the shipyards?”
The magos folded his mechanical arms and tapped his chin, while his subordinate listened in chastened silence.
“The Imperials know they have friends on Perinetus and will concentrate on that first. We must seize the initiative with the other forge worlds, while our allies here still fight on. That may be one purpose they can still serve, at least.”
“I see.” the adept conceded after a moment of processing, forming the cog sign with his hands in deference to Delzharian’s superior Knowledge.
Delzharian allowed the frown to fall from his synthskin face. “The battle might be lost, adept. But the war still concludes in victory. It is time for us to leave this planet.”
The game went on. The new blood of the Adrantean military might flatter themselves with thoughts of this all being their grand design, but the truth was a twisting weave of intersecting interests, and Delzharian was one of the more prominent threads. Delzharian had been the first Adrantean to cross paths with the scarred fugitive from the Markyn Marches - and his relic spyrer rig had even served some inspiration for the Nebula project. But the loom would continue to weave without any single thread; even Delzharian.
That being said, Delzharian had no intention of removing himself from the equation just yet. And he had learned a long time ago to distance himself from proximity of the biggest threats.
This Kally Sonder was definitely a threat.
PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.
Mechanicus-Held World of Reikei, Girza Sector, 2 years before the Adrantean Secession
“It doesn’t have to end this way, Yoritomo,” Vizkop said as the tall grass parted before his steps. The scarlet kimono he wore bore the tears and holes of the battle that brought him to the cliffside. In the grip of his bionic hand he held one of three blades that had been gifted to him, this one named Higekiri, the powerfield gleaming in the sunlight.
“You know as well as I that it ends no other way.” Yoritomo was a tall and rather lean techpriest whose mechadendrites stirred a bit at the approach of the Secutor. “I won’t be taken prisoner to suffer through some farce of a trial nor will I repent my actions! What I did was for the good of us all!”
Despite the impassive nature of Yoritomo’s metal face, Vizkop could hear the conviction in his tone and had prepared for such an outcome. Those who strayed from the Omnissiah’s light into the realms of tech-heresy rarely acknowledged they were doing so. Each and every Heretek Vizkop had faced always had a deeply seeded reason for their transgressions and tended to believe truly they were doing the right thing. Yorimoto was no different but dabbling in the fusion of warp energy and technology was strictly forbade no matter how pure the intent.
Blades flicked out from the dendrites and prompted Vizkop to draw the second blade that matched Higekiri: Tomokiri. With the powerfields lighting up the darkening sky as the sun set, Vizkop took a ready stance as his quarry charged forth with his hidden weaponry springing out…
En-Route to the Adratean Sub-sector
“This woman and her agents must have left quite the impression indeed,” Arcade commented to her bodyguard as she lazily flicked her way through a hardbound copy of some philosophical tome. “And it seems to be quite the trend with you and women.”
Vzikop rolled his eyes at the princess’s small laugh from her own jest. But he knew she was right, all the same. He had quite the unusual track record with being drawn to rather singular women. At least with the Inquisitor it was only out of a sense of professional and friendly obligation. For the most part, at least. He had grown rather fond of that whole team in his time serving with them.
“And you are just coming with me, I see,” Vizkop commented dryly.
“I’m just here for moral support,” Arcade returned. “The reach of the Mikera is long, my dear friend, but not so long as to grasp out here. I’m here to support YOU and not any of the sides in whatever is setting the sub-sector ablaze.”
She was being rather sensible, Vizkop thought as he lay back upon the sofa within her expansive quarters on the Mechanicus vessel. Arcade, though young by Mechanicus standards, was an Archmagos and thus had to consider every move she made carefully. Vizkop knew she would want to take the approach of an official arrival to make contact with friendly elements in the sub-sector (or at least as friendly as they could get) before Vizkop reached out to the Inquisitor. At the very least it would give a better grounding than his initial idea of inserting himself into their ranks.
“Well I appreciate the support, Princess,” Vizkop said with a lopsided grin coming to his recently reconstructed, yet still dangerously handsome, features.
“And I will appreciate it when you stop calling me that.” She shot him one of her glares and her hand tensed like she might throw her book at him.
Hit me up on discord: Mags#3126
I'm just easier to get a hold of there. Just lemme know who you are