40k RPG; Memoria, Part Secundus

[Cynical Cat]

Shala Nofield leaned back on against the hangar's wall. "I didn't like doing this inquisitor."

"Noted," said Jolan Gix. "If it's any consolation, neither did I. Randor Fisk and his accomplices made it necessary. They wished to stand in the way of Imperial progress, wished it enough to kill for it."

"So we killed them."

"Yes. They were afraid of possible destabilization, of disrupting the balance of power within the Imperium. Afraid enough to kill me over it."

"Why us, inquisitor?"

"Simple. It was not believable that Maladar would kill me and then not have to kill Hethor D'eckor. I could leave behind no witnesses to a battle that did not happen. Now it is quite believable that Maladar would massacre everyone around me. Thus your disappearance is consistent with what we wanted any investigators believed. One way or the other, you all had to be silenced. I prefer to spare the lives of loyal Imperial citizens when possible. So you were drafted by the Inquisition. Permenently. You will never speak of this again."

"Alright," she nodded. "Now what?"

"Maldar, Hethor, and Klisk are stable and should make full recoveries after varying amounts time and additional medical procedures. We make additional sweeps of the ship. Make sure everyone is dead. We make the tragic discovery of Randor Fisk's vessel, dead in space, with two murderous daemonhosts on board. Appropriate works on daemonology will be found in Fisks possession. Obviously the experiment went out of control. We cleanse it, having taken casualties. The ship is taken to Adraxus and refitted."

"And then?"

"All of you are permently on my staff. The last of this business gets settled, hopefully with a just few conversations. We get back to the business of hunting down and killing the Emperor's enemies."

"How often is it like this?" she asked wearily.

"Rarely, but more often that I'd like."


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The PsyKing walked down the hall of the ancient and hallowed Imperial fortress. It was half a kilometer long, a hundred meters high, and carpeted in vibrant red. Gilded cherubs held light globes in their hands and rank upon rank of ceremonial armour stood guard. A smiling man with a shock of vibrant red hair awaited him at the end. The red haired man was tall, lean, and pale skinned with a hook nose. His clothes were black accented with blood red. He had a cruel smile.

The red head gestured at the gilded doors. "He awaits for you inside, oh king of psykers."

The PsyKing halted for a moment. "And who do you presume to be?"

"The Prince of Ruin," he replied.

The PsyKing dipped his head in acknowledgement and stepped inside. The sprawling room was lit at various intervals by hovering cherubs. They formed an intricate pattern with a hidden message. As a student he had struggled to decode their shifting patterns every time he had entered.

Games sat on pedestals throughout the room. Regicide in its various forms. It's ancient ancestor chess, an anarchronism so old that no one except perhaps the Emperor knew its true origins, was displayed on several boards. Go, another game from antiquity, could be found as well. Games from a hundred different worlds were displayed in varying degrees of progress. He didn't recognize them all. New ones were being added all the time.

He advanced to the throne at the center of the room. Holo displays of half a dozen different game boards surrounded it. The contoured chair swivled to face him. The man on the throne was two meters tall if he was an inch, with a neat white beard and hair. He wore a robe of blue silk with shifting pink patterns crawling across it. His eyes were gold and his tongue was forked like a serpent's.

"My master," said the PsyKing as he bowed.

"Rise," said the Gamesman. "Your mission was a failure."

"Yes, my master. Your pawn allowed me to escape, but Jolan Gix thwarted me. Again."

"Ah yes, our pawn. He must never be allowed to know that. You played the proper level of ignorance?"

"Yes, my master. I pretended that I believed I had tricked a smuggler into aiding a greedy and desperate merchant who worked in the grey area of the law. I allowed him to win at regicide and believe that I was ignorant of his true plan." It was their master's first rule. Evaluate your opponent's prowess and play just badly enough to lose. Flatter your opponent with a victory, provide a worthy challenge so he likes to keep you around, and let him underestimate you.

"I have done several divinations regarding this Jolan Gix. Our futures cross. Perhaps catastrophically."

"What must be done?"

"Gix dabbles with the true power of the warp, but does not embrace the path. He is encumbered by human attachments. Compassion, empathy, friendship, love. These prevent him from walking the path."

"You wish to convert him." It was not a question.

"You have twice failed to kill him. And he grows in strength. We do not pit strength against strength. That is the way of the idiot followers of Khorne." He moved a piece on a holo board.

"So what do we do, master?"

"We are servants of the Architect of Fate, are we not? The Changer of the Ways? We shall perform emotional alchemy. Compassion shall become cruelty, empathy will become hate, friendship shall become rage, love shall become wrath."

"And how shall we do this?"

"It shall take time to gather all the relevant information. When we do we shall strike. All of his anchors are people he cares for. We shall burn them out of his life and Gix will fill those emotional voids with darkness. And then great Tzeentch shall have him."

[Cynical Cat]

Steam blasted from vents, forming a wall of water vapor in front of the Mechanicus shrine as hidden mechanisms moved the massive armoured doors. Jolan Gix, who was bundled in a heavy cloak against the cold, strode through the mist and bowed. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

The figure opposite of him bowed back. The red-robed figure observed the world from artificial optics set in a metal mask. A static edged, monotone voice ushered from its speaking grill. "It is I who am grateful inquisitor."

"I merely return what is the rightful property of the Priesthood of Mars."

"But you return it to me."

"I do. Your reputation has reached my ears. Your ideas about delving into the hidden secrets of the Machine God and being more liberal with the secrets that you give to others are ones that I approve of."

"Spreading the lore of Mars brings glory to the Machine-God and brings others into his service. Unfortunately, most of my colleagues see this as weakening the Priesthood. I do not think it is coincidence that I am given this isolated and dismall posting."

"And it is not coincidence that you recieve this." The black garbed inquisitor handed over a data crystal. "Glory to you, magos. May your star rise high."

The magos let the crystal drop into the palm of his gauntlet. "It may inquisitor. It may."

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"What you think?" Jolan asked as he gestured out the window. Fisks former vessel, now rechristend the Eternal Will, glowed in the docklights.

"She looks solid," Selanon replied. He wasn't much taller than Gix, but paler and thinner. The navigator wore a black body glove like Gix, but wore a robe of russet velvet over instead of the inquisitor's leather stormcoat. "Sprint trader. Well armed."

Jolan tapped the table. A holo display schematic came up. The navigator took a close look at the wire frame image. "Heavy duty fusion beamer turrets. Extra void shield generators. These surveyors, this can't be right. And power level on those beamers . . ."

"They are correct. And there is more."

"Concealed guns. These firepower ratings are correct as well, I take it? As is the generator power. Inquisitor, who did you have to kill to get this ship?"

"Do you really want an answer to that?"

"No," Kay responded.

"I didn't get it in this condition. A year being rebuilt by the Adraxian shipwrights have made her thus. But she is incomplete."

"She needs a captain."

"I know a fair amount about ships and what they can and cannot do. Enough to know that there is no substitute for a good captain."

Selanon Kay was silent for a moment. Navigators rarely commanded ships. They Nobilis were extremely powerful and wealthy, but the Navy only used them to navigate through warpspace. Their own officers always commanded. The opportunities were few; mostly relegated to vessels they themselves owned. But here was an opportunity to command a fighting vessel, and she could fight hard, in the service of the Emperor.

"Inquisitor, I accept."

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The warp is not a placid place. Predators swim through its eddies and currents, hunting for prey. Great storms and whirlpools form and dissipate. In one of these minor storms, a thrashing figure of light struggles. Weak and feeble currents connect the silver man to events elsewhere. Time, like space, is fluid in the warp.

One current, the thinnest and weakest, was full of bile. It warned of death, degeneration, and worse. Possible futures poisoned and stillborn. It shocked him into action. Still trapped, he sent a message through the warp to the only thing he could reach.

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In accordance with ancient rituals the battle-sisters of the Adeptus Sororitas prepared themselves for battle. They assisted each other into their power armour and handed each other their weapons. In battle, their lives would depend upon each other and this was reinforced in their pre-battle rituals.

One of the younger initiates handed the celestian her bolter. The grey haired woman accepted it gravely and secured it to her armour. She walked over to help secure the tanks of blessed promethium used to fuel her heavy flamer to the back of the younger woman's armour. She was a promising young woman who had already distinguished herself in battle.

The young woman's violet eyes went wide and she fell over flat on her back. The celestian bent down and craddled the young woman's head. "Domina!"

Domina's eyes were vacant. Her voice was strange. Monotone, but forceful. "You must warn Inquisitor Jolan Gix."

[Cynical Cat]

The blue-green world hung in the viewport of the Retribution class battleship Lord Wallech. White puffy clouds obscured much of the planet. It seemed peaceful. Serene.

Jolan looked over the latest reports. Genestealer cult forces were beseiging the last bastions of resistance. The defences were crumbling everywhere. Over three million Imperial Guardsmen had been committed to shoring up Tescotta's forces in the early stages of the campaign. If there was a million of them left alive, Jolan Gix would have been surprised. Not that it mattered anymore.

It would be days before the planet fell to them. The psychic beacon that they were producing had probably already been detected by the hive fleet. By the time the situation had been brought to his attention it had been too late to do anything for the people on the planet. There was only one course of action left.

He left the nave and approached the cluster of senior officers gathered on the bridge. "Kill anything that tries to leave the planet, no matter who they are," he ordered. "The infection must not spread. Prepare to launch the virus bombs. The order is given: exterminatus."

As the bombs began to fall, releasing the deadly virus that would break down all organic life into flammable gases and grey sludge, a hooded astropath approached him from the choir. "My lord, an urgent message for you."

Jolan accepted the printed flimsy. Odd. From a sororitas abbey in the Fallgrave system.

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Weapons caches. Money. Safehouses. Alternate identities. Personal information of dignitaries and lowlifes. Covert agents. All the weapons and resources for running of shadow war at her disposal.

Melina Sevall stepped back. Jolan Gix had ordered her to begin assembling this network out of the loose patchwork he had begun and she had done just that. In the process she had obtained ownership of several enterprises, which generated sufficient revenue to make the whole process self sustaining. House Sevall was mighty, but she had at her finger tips the power to go to war with it and tear it down.

"Everything okay?" Hethor asked from the doorway.

"Yeah," she replied. "It's just sinking in. How much power he has entrusted me with."

"He chose well. He always does. He knows his people."

Her lips twisted in a half smile. "He does. What do you think of this nursemaid job?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to be ready to break bones if things go wrong. Besides, I like the high life. Spent enough of my life in the trenches eatin' rats. I'm due."

"And me?"

He shrugged. "The galaxy isn't a fair place and even Jolan Gix can't change that. You ain't bad and you haven't exactly had it all good. We all get through the best we can. And you're the right woman for this job."

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The hidden council of inquisitors met again on the ship that did not exist. Their ranks were noticably reduced. The gathered around the table uneasily. One side was definitely larger than the other.

The leader spoke. He was robed and masked like the rest, although in his case it was only a concession to tradition. Everyone knew who he was. "It is over. You lost," he said bluntly. "You didn't like our ruling, you fought it, and you lost. You demanded the head of one of our own when you thought you were winning, because victory was not enough. Regardless of what is decided here, you will leave this meeting safely, unlcess you choose to break that rule as well."

"That was Fisk," said the leader of the minority. "And his overreaching killed him. The instigators and die hards are dead. Those that survive are those who were swept up in the war. It is over."

"Very well. The guilty are dead. We shall not speak of this again unless it becomes necessary. There are certain actions we wish you to take to prove your sincerity."

"Of course."

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The wizened man maneuvered around the pedestals with their gameboards and knelt before the throne. The white bearded man did not acknowledge his presence for several minutes, concentrating on several of the holoprojected games that surrounded him. He made a move in each one and then he waved for the Keeper of Silence to stand.

"My master, I have done as you asked. It was not easy."

"It took a long time," the Gamesman replied neutrally.

"Indeed. I am pleased that I was able to accomplish it so swiftly. I had to bargain with a Keeper of Secrets to get the last pieces of information. The Inquisition does not yield its secrets easily. Even to us."

"But you have it."

"Yes, my master. Everything you requested."

"Then we shall begin. Slowly and carefully. One does not make rash moves in the midgame."

"We are at midgame master?"

"With this one? Oh yes. Of course, he doesn't even know that he's in the game and he won't know how badly he's been outplayed since the beginning until it is far too late."

[Cynical Cat]

Tenal's World was a backward place. The Imperium of Man had rediscovered it barely a century ago and brought it back into the community of man. Since then a series of ambitious and concientious Imperial Commanders had beaten back ork raiders in the wilderness and brough the benefits of Imperial technology to their people. Most of the world's inhabitents would say that life was good and getting better.

The governor's palace was near to the only space port. The capital was well defended with a plasma reactor fed void shield generator and several defence laser silos sunk deep into the rock. Mere raiders would be wrecked on those defences, although a battle fleet would be able to smash through them.

But there are methods other than brute force. The pirate ship slipped through the system while operating at low power. It entered orbit on the opposite side of the planet and dispatched its deadly cargo. A squadron of five flyers departer from its hangers and dropped towards the planet.

They shuddered through reentry and swooped down low over the ocean. It was night on this side of the planet. Soon a vast archipelago was spread out before them.

Surveyors compared results to maps stored within the flyer's cogitators and the machines changed course. Black armoured raiders laughed, joked, and bragged in the troop compartment. They were looking forward to some sport. The Prince of Ruin licked his lips.

It wasn't too much longer until they reached their destination. The island came into view. A sprawling town of wood buildings and a few newer, concrete structures. Electric lighting glowed from many windows. Fishing boats were clustered around the docks. The flyers slowed as they approached.

Several people came out on their decks to watch as the flyers arrive. Two of them landed in clear spots on the outskirts. The other three hovered over the town and black lines descended from their hatches. Moments latter, raiders followed them.

The people were not fools. They had seen flyers, but those were PDF and these raiders were not PDF. They began to flee in panic and run towards weapons. The raiders opened up with their autoguns. Thunder split the night as they flyers joined in with their gunpods.

Men, women, and children were gunned down. Houses were shattered by autocannons and set on fire by flamers. The Prince of Ruin walked through the dying town, shielded by a sickly green glow. Wherever he gazed, flesh sloughed off bone and wood crumbled into dust.

The one sided slaughter took minutes, but the raiders did not kill everyone. They took a few women and children as prisoners. The townsfolk were a dark haired, brownskinned people in generally good health who lived active lives.

They took turns with the rapes. Shrieks rang out across the water and none were spared. The buildings that were still standing were set ablaze. The nearby woods provided timber for the next part of the plan.

Chainswords made cutting crude beams easy. Those prisoners that had survived the gang rape, thirteen in all, were hauled up and crucified. Another party went to work on the town graveyard. Several bodies were targeted to be exhumed. The mouldering bodies were piled together and then urinated on.

Throughout it all, electronic eyes watched the proceedings, recording everything. The raiders departed for their ship where techno-adepts would edit the footage together before they sent it off. It wouldn't be quite the same if Jolan Gix didn't catch all the highlights of what was done to the place of his birth.

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan turned up the heating control of his bodyglove. Perena was not a particularily warm planet and the mountain top abbey was even colder. The honour guard of Sororitas soldiers wore ceremonial cowled helmets with the face plate open and were seemingly untouched by it.

The abbey itself was a huge fortress of ceramite and stone. The sisters had reshaped the top of the mountain, burrowing into the stone, sculpting it, and reinforcing the structure. Towers containing surveyors, communications gear, shield projectors and space defence weapons protruded from the main house. Icicles hung from the edges of the grim fortress. Jolan hated every inch of it. Just looking at it made him cold.

He followed the battle-sisters through the adamantine reinforced door. Danell and Batista trailed in his wake. They lead him down dark and dreary corridors decorated with battle honours and trophies. They stopped at a door and announced him. "Inquisitor Jolan Gix and his retainers."

"Enter," came the voice from within. Jolan opened the door and stepped inside. The room was spartan. A golden aquila, set with rubies, a plain desk and chrome bodied cogitator, a weapon stand, and the Canoness herself. She was a white haired woman with lines around her eyes and mouth and an expression that could crack granite. "Inquisitor."

"Canoness Verona. I came as quickly as I could after I recieved your message. Why don't you explain your situation to me."

"A promising young woman by the name of Domina suddenly collapsed during pre-battle preperations. She spoke briefly and then fell into a stupor. After words she was more coherent. She said she had a warning from Nathan Talstrem for Inquisitor Jolan Gix. We confined her and subjected her to rites of exorcism and purification. She seems to be untainted."

"You are skeptical."

"Evil takes many forms."

"I shall see for myself."

"Of course, Inquisitor." The canoness stood and lead him out the door. She lead him to a stairwell and down deep into the depths of the fortress. She finally stopped at a lonely corridor lit with a few glow globes. Two battle-sisters in full armour stood guard. They were armed with bolt pistols and flamers. They parted for their commander. Verona lead them to the last cell and unlocked the door.

A young woman was shackled to the wall. She wore a short shift and was draped in purity seals. Her blonde hair was cropped short and her exposed limbs were corded with muscle. Jolan appraised her. Broad shoulders, violet eyes, strong cheekbones, and something very familair about her that he couldn't place. She blinked. He met her gaze.

"Inquisitor Gix. Nathan Talstrem says you are in great danger. The forces of darkness wish to consume your soul."

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The tech gave a thumbs up signal to the shuttle pilot. The pilot turned and smiled. "Good to go commodore."

Severa Valin nodded in acknowledgement. "Well lets get strapped in and this bird in the air. I've got a ship waiting for me."

"With pleasure ma'am." He nodded to this copilot and headed towards the cockpit as the servitors disengaged the fuel hoses. It wouldn't be long before they would be off the dirt, out of the glue, and hitting the void.

As Severa strapted herself in, the tech walked out of the hanger and into a closet. He closed the door behind him and sagged. Operating this body long distance had been draining, but worth it. The tech's mind was full of rote learned information, but it had been more than sufficient for the PsyKing's purposes. More than enough to sabotage the shuttle.

The psyker induced a stroke as he shed the borrowed flesh. He had had to be much closer to take this body as his meat puppet, but he once taken he could operate easily from affar. His soul flittered through the warp back to his body.

He blinked his eyes. Callidan was watching over him. "Lord?"

"It is done. Stay and take care of any loose ends. I've got a ship to catch." It was too bad he would'nt be able to see Jolan Gix's face when he learned his bitch's fate. Well, there were other women to kill. And in worse ways.

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan looked at Domina. His warp senses were alive probing. He saw the ebb and flow of the warp, the currents and tides that touched lives. There was nothing impure that he could sense about her.

"Nathan said," she said, "to remind you about that first ride in the Valkyrie. When he told you how he got his rosette."

Jolan rocked back on his heels. No one but Nathan knew that was when Nathan had told him that he had been chosen by the Emperor, that the Inquisitor had been from the time of the Great Crusade and lost for ten thousand years in the warp. He turned to Verona. "She is to be released into my custody."

"As you wish inquisitor." She gestured and a guard stepped forward and undid the chains.

"See to it that her weapons and armour are brought to the front of the abbey."

Verona had a puzzled look on her face, but nodded in acknowledgement. She left to issue orders. "Can you walk?"

Domina nodded. "Yes inquisitor."

"Good." He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. "It's too damned cold down here."

"I don't mind," she replied. Jolan noted she did not refuse the coat. "Lets get out of here." She followed the inquisitor up the stairs back and down the long halls of abbey. They neared the entrance. A suit of armour and a neat pile of weapons awaited them. Jolan motioned everyone around the armour.

He touched a control on a circuitry lined bracelet. The teleport homer beaped. "Take us up, along with the Sororitas and the armour." The air around them crackled and hummed and then flashed with a thousand colours as a force bubble carried them through the warp.

The bubble dissolved and they found themselves standing in the armoured teleport chamber of the Eternal Will. A light flashed on and the door slid open. "I hate that," muttered Batista.

"You think you hate it," Jolan replied, "Shala looses her lunch every time she teleports. Domina, follow me." He lead the battle-sister to his quarters, which were decently heated and took a seat in one of his chairs. "Take a seat," he offered.

She looked around. The room was well appointed, but not luxurious. There were several stuffed chairs, a couch, a thick carpet, and bookshelves lining the walls. Glow globes near the ceiling bathed the room in warm yellow light. A holopic of a beach at sunset hung on the wall.

She carefully chose a chair and set down. "Domina, I believe that you are really speaking with Nathan Talstrem. He is a hero of the Imperium and I am not the first person that he would try to reach, so I must be in great peril."

"I believe that is well. He thinks the enemy will attempt to destroy your soul, not your flesh."

He nodded. "To change me. To reshape me in whatever image they desire. To ultimately break me or remake me in their image. I'm going to need all the help I can get. Can I count on your help?"

"I am a loyal daughter of the Imperium."

"Thank you."

There was a ring at the door. "Enter," said Gix. Iriza walked in. "Inquisitor, there was a message sent to you at the Inquisition headquarters on Adraxis. It was forwarded to me. It was marked urgent."

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Jolan's jaw trembled as he watched the recording. It had been sent encoded and encrypted to Iriza's brain. She hadn't possessed the means to decifer the data stream. That was a mercy.

"Inquisitor," Nofield said, "what is this?" The rest of the staff watched the atrocity in silence.

"This is the place where I was born. If my parents still live, they are among the dead. As are any bloodkin I might have." The camera panned over the crucified children. "I called you in here so you can see what we are up against. An enemy with resources that revells in atrocity. And who wants to break me."

"Inquisitor," said Camron, "we are with you. As always. But against this foe, where do we begin?"

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Inquisitor Saratta Tarnell sensed the attack seconds before it happened. Her ground car was passing under the shadows of the decaying towers when a chill ran up her spine. She lunged forward to speak to her driver when the telekinetic impluse struck the car, tearing the the engine apart.

The driver used the remaing speed to twist the car around before it came to a halt. She felt waves of force wash over her as the security cars in front of and behind her vehicle were lifted in the air and tossed away like toys. Her security personel poured out of the car. "Go!" screamed Edrian, her security chief, a bolt pistol gripped in his hand.

She slid out the opposite side and fired off a telepathic blast at her attackers. It was effortlessly scattered. One of her people fell, the victim of a sniper. Blood spurted from the hole in his neck.

The fight was lost. The enemy psykers, she could taste both their minds, were too strong and the attackers had too many advantages. With reluctance she ran.

Edrian's body hit the pavement in front of her, his bones crushed by the telekinetic strike. A spike of mental energy stabbed into her brain. She shrieked and staggered. The pain intensified. She fell to her knees.

The pain began to fade. She struggled to her feet. Two men were approaching. One tall and blonde, the other red haired and lean. Their was no mercy in their eyes and only cruelty in their smiles. Then a telepathic blast hammered her into unconsciousness.

[Cynical Cat]

Jolan laid the cards down. Doing readings on forces that directly influenced one's life was difficult, but not beyond him. He stroked the back of the card's touching each one with his power, connecting them to each other and the tides of the warp where space and time were not bound by the rules of the material universe.

The cards slid across the table, forming an intricate pattern. The liquid crystal images shifted and changed. Jolan felt his blood run cold.

The High Priest inverted, flanked by an inverted Space Marine stood above all. Beneath him was the Rogue Trader inverted and the Noble Scion, also inverted. Death was ascendent, in the form of a maggot ridden corpse.

Beneath that terrible arrangement was the Magister. His personal card. To the side was the Angel.

"Emperor have mercy," he whispered. He couldn't even find his enemy. How was he suppossed to defeat him?

He leaned back and took a deep breath. He had faced a daemon prince with only Hethor at his side and cast him into the warp. He could prevail here as well. He wasn't merely an inquisitor, but Jolan Gix. A formidable mind mated witha formidable will and a staff second to none behind him.

There were other eyes and brains that would aid him as well. He began composing the messages that he would send to Kyra and Maladar.

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Saratta groaned and opened her eyes. She was nude and strapped spread eagle to padded table. There was a mirror on the ceiling above her. Her eyes would quite focus and her extremities were full of pain. A hook nosed man loomed over her. "Recovering conciousness I see. Excellent. We've kept you unconcious for a while until we got you where we wanted you. As for any soreness, well some of us couldn't wait to try you out. You understand. Don't try to answer. We cut out your tongue when we amputated your hands and feet. Didn't want you committing suicide that way. Too easy."

He ran his fingers through her hair. She twisted her head and lunged, trying to tear at him with her teeth. "Ahh. Spirit. You're hooked up to a psi inhibitor, for obvious reasons. We don't want you to die on us too soon. In fact, we don't intend for you to die at all.

"But I haven't introduced myself. You may call me the Prince of Ruin. The reason you are here is that your former lover Jolan Gix has made a pain of himself. So you are going to suffer so that he suffers.

"As you can see we have surrounded you with a variety of life support equipment. We're going to start removing your organs and hooking you up. The machines will keep you alive, but it won't be pleasant. In fact, unpleasantness was an important part of their design. We'll carve you up piece by piece until every major bodily function is run by these machines. And lets not forget the bedsores."

He laughed as he saw the pain in her eyes. "But we haven't gotten to the best parts yet, my dear. You'll be entertaining our brethren, some of whom are extensively . . . ah altered. Daily.

"This will continue until your mind breaks and shatters. Until everything that makes you you is dead. And then we'll consider letting the meat die. You see the recorders. There. And there. And there. We'll send Jolan this, so he'll no exactly what happened to the first woman he ever loved. Everything that ever mattered to him is going to suffer horribly before it dies."

He opened up the front of his bodyglove. "So now that you know what's in store for you, why don't we get started?"

[SirNitram]

Settlement this way the nearly-hidden signs of activity told Malkamar. Paranoid. Large beasts of burden. No wheeled vehicles. Which meant a disturbing possibility: Eldar Exodites. He knew this world had them, he just assumed there would be humans too. He had heard of such co-existance, punctuated by sporadic wars.

With a gaze flickering to the side, where the Ork Waaaaagh was now smashing through the countryside, ignorant of his presense, he reminded himself he was supposed to come here to trade. Instead, the Speed Freekz were going to flatten this place.

So.. what to do. Sadly, his ship was toast. He wouldn't trust Ork vehicles in space. This left him to consider what the Eldar used, whatever that was. And they weren't going to let him use it on a whim. So. Take chances with the Orkz, or with the Eldar. The Eldar could be negotiated with. The Orkz just wanted to kill you. Brief, perhaps even honourable in a fucked up way. But not good for extended lifespans.

Clambering onto the Wartrak, Malkamar gunned the engine and roared off, more hanging onto it than standing on it, as he roared after the Ork horde. It was unlikely to be a difficult tracking job: The billowing smoke was a hint.

[Pcm979]

The Daemonhost was angry. Very angry. When a Daemonhost was angry, the area around it tended to quickly become devoid of life.

First to go had been the foolish Cultists who, in their hubris, had believed they could control the creature's awesome power for their own. They had been proven fatally and irrevocably wrong.

Fuelled by their tortured souls, the abyssal entity had proceeded to tear an entire Guard regiment apart, one thousand of the Emperor's finest barely whetting its appetite. A day ago it had started moving.

The Thunderhawk roared over the horizon, and Pater took the devastation in.

"Do we have a location?" He roared over the the din.

"Nothing!" Gyllia yelled back. "It's interfering with our targeters somehow. But we know it's heading for the Hive."

"Just follow the screams." Pater said grimly. He loaded his Psycannon.

"Pilot!" He barked into his Vox. "Set us down here." Niner looked at him oddly.

"It's close." Pater said to the unanswered question. "I can feel it." He swung his staff off his shoulder.

"I'd still prefer it if we had some Astartes with us." Niner commented, checking his assassain's gear one last time. "Preferably a whole Chapter."

Pater laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. "We passed what's left of the Second Company of the Iron Gauntlet Chapter half an hour ago. No, all the firepower on this miserable rock won't stop it." His staff hummed with energy. "It's a good thing I've been working on my Banishment spells." He concluded, then stepped off the transport, floating to the ground like a leaf.

Niner shook his head. "Then what am I doing here?" He asked, looking to Gyllia.

"Oh, you know what we're doing." She said grimly. "We're the bait." She flipped a switch, and a cargo bay's worth of Combat Servitors twitched into life.

[Pcm979]

Pater hit the ground softly, the extraneous use of his Telekinetic powers entirely intentional; He wanted the Daemon worried. Stretching itself. It had been going for days straight now, puppeting a series of half-dead enemies for use when its current bodie wore out, which it was doing on an hourly basis. Add to that the tremendous power going into shielding it from Imperial spaceships, and what you got was a beast that was very close to it's breaking point.

Lillith soared above the battlefield on a Seraphim jumppack, her Pariah powers cloaking her from the Daemon's sight and allowing her to see through it's attempts at hiding itself. The Thunderhawk noisily landed, disgorging the small army of Servitors with Gyllia bringing up the rear. Niner, as was his wont, was nowhere to be found.

Then the Thunderhawk exploded. Pater whipped around, momentarily sighting a Space Marine Scout lowering a rocket launcher, the poor man's eyes burning with witchfire. Pater grinned as the Servitors rallied and opened fire. The Daemon had made its' first mistake.

The puppeted Scout fell back quickly, disappearing into the undergrowth. But Lillith was watching.

"Two hundred yards." She barked into her vox, fingering her Spear. Patience, her chance would come. Her current role was indispensible.

"Confirmed." Niner replied calmy, sighting the Scout through his rifle's scope. "No sign of the Daemonhost."

"It's a diversion." Pater assessed. "Gyllia, prepare for attack."

"Prepared." Gyllia said nervously, the Servitors' slave controls clutched in her grasp. It'd been a years' work on their more eclectic enhancements, and this was the cyborgs' first real engagement against their intended foe.

"Let it draw first blood." Pater ordered, his staff humming with energy as he extended his mind.

It did. Three Servitors burst into flame, another four falling to a hail of Bolter fire. The Host was visible now, the Guardsman it had comandeered long since twisted horribly. Warpfire belched from every orifice and horns sprung from its head as it floated across the battlefield. Three puppeted Scouts covered it, firing at the Servitors randomly.

"Now!" Pater barked. Niner tensed, exhaled, and fired. With a resounding boom, the lone Thrall's head exploded. Perfect. As the Daemon twitched in surprise, Lillith swooped from the sky and impaled one of the thralls on her spear, his sould finally finding peace at the end of her weapon.

Gyllia toggled a switch and winced as four Servitors shorted out and toppled over; But the last ten lit up brightly, humming. The Psy-suppressor fields worked.

The Daemon howled in anger and fear at this unexpected turn of events, its stolen body twitching as the Servitors riddled it with Bolts. An arm blew off, a leg. It's jaw shattered. It summoned a fireball and flung it, incinerating another of Pater's cyborgs. The plan was still on course, however.

Lillith twisted in midair and plucked her bolt pistol from its holster, riddling another Thrall with psychically-charged bullets. One to go.

Pater leapt through the air, white fire trailing him in a nimbus as he pulled the Warp around him, extending his jump far beyond what any normal man could achieve. He swept over the Daemon's head, twisting in midair and swinging his Force Staff at it's back. Funneling his rage and hate down the weapon's shaft, he released a blast of energy that literally blew the Daemon apart in a hail of cooked flesh.

The last Thrall spasmed as the Daemon possessed it, jaw unhinging as a long, low moan burst from its ravaged lips. But Pater was ready. With a thought, his Psycannon swiveled and blew off one of the thing's arms. Then a leg. Then the torso.

The mangled beast was blown to the ground even as the possession was complete, miniscule horns sprouting from the former Marine's head. Pater placed a boot on what remained of it's chest, his staff pointed right between it's eyes.

"Submit." He ordered in a voice ringing with the power of the Warp, his remaining eye sparkling with motes of power.

"Well played, my liege." The horrible being cackled, the sounds oddly coming out of sync with the movement of its stolen lips. "I am yours to command." It said mockingly, flinging a swiftly shrivelling arm wide.

"I'm going to do far worse than command you." Pater intoned with a malicious grin as Lillith swooped to the ground some distance away. "I can bind you in one of them." He said, gesturing to the psy-dampened Servitors. "For the rest of time, you'll be cut off from the Warp. It would be far, far worse than any death I could inflict on you."

The beast's composure dropped. "No!" It moaned. "Anything but that!" Spittle flew from its lips and it reached up to Pater pitiously. "Not that, my liege, I-"

The cannon swivelled again, and its hand ceased to exist. "Don't call me that." Pater sneered as it wailed in pain. He knelt on it's still-smoking chest, bringing his ruined face down to it's.

"I'll send you back to the Warp." He whispered. "On one single condition."

It glanced at him fearfully. "C-condition?" It whimpered.

"You know what I'm looking for." He said reasonably. "I'm equally sure you know who has it. Tell me."

It blinked. "My l- Erm, your Lordship, how would I-" Lighthing bloomed from Pater's staff and it screamed again.

"Don't play dumb with me." Pater hissed dangerously. "That Servitor I'm binding you to just became blind. I'm looking for a Daemon Prince's relics. Everywhere I go, I'm just. Too. Late. So, who has them? And where will he be next?"

"Damn you." The thing spat. "May Slannesh torture your soul for an eternity, you want the Sorceror, the Daemon-soul. The commander of the dead, the speaker of the Gods' names. You want Iebakh Kasekhem Dorontor Ramessenakhte. And when you find him, he will break you."

Pater grinned a predator's grin. "Your Servitor just lost its tongue. Now. Where can I find this Sorceror?"

[Pcm979]

"I hope you didn't trust it, Pater." Gyllia said neutrally, once they'd returned to HQ safely.

Pater looked up. "As far as where to find this Sorceror and who he is, I do. But I'm not a fool; It omitted something, or skewed the truth somehow, to ruin me. Which is why I'm requisitioning a detatchment of Justicars." He grinned ferally.

----------

Power armoured hands laced behind his back, Sorceror-Captain Ramessenakhte gazed out from the bridge of his Barque, the Shifting Sands of Tzeentch. Their trawl was going entirely on schedule, vast temples to Chaos raised on top of the gigantic dig sites left by their searches for the artifacts Ramessenakhte's Daemon Prince master sought so avidly. Items of some power, the Thousand Sons Captain supposed. It was not his business. Following Tzeentch's Grand Design was.

A human acolyte scurried up, prostrating himself behind the Sorceror. "My Lord." The little blue-cloaked man said respectfully. "The scrying has revealed; Novum has located you."

"Good." Iebakh Kasekhem Dorontor Ramessenakhte said thoughtfully. "Exactly as I forsaw." He turned slowly and fixed the would-be Mage with eyes that glowed like the pits of Hell. "Prepare a proper reception for him." The acolyte nodded and started to scurry off.

"Oh." The Chaos Space Marine said, raising a taloned finger. "Inform that disgusting Nurglite I require an audience with him. He may be useful after all."

[Cynical Cat]

"What?" Callidan barked at his informant over the vox. "Repeat that!"

"She's alive my lord. In critical condition at the base hospital. Apparently the pilot had enough skill to turn the crash into a crash landing."

Callidan ran his fingers through his lank, greasy hair. Personal hygene was something he got around to, sometime, and slowly ran down as he was distracted by other matters. "Get me her location," he snarled.

The PsyKing was already off world. He would not be pleased to be dragged back here to finish the job. If, on the other hand, Callidan stepped up and took the initiative necessary to finish the job he would be quite pleased. And, incidently, Callidan would have shown his worthiness for promotion to the next level in the Invisible Crown.

"The base hospital. Don't have her room number."

"Alright," said Callidan. "Make yourself scarce," he said as he cut the link. Getting into the base hospital would be easy enough. All sorts of people had legitimate reasons for being there. The high security around one part of the critical care section would reveal the commodore's location. After that, the job would be easy. He was an Fifth Order Agent of the Invisible Crown. Security troops would fall like wheat before his scythe in combat and that was only necessary if trickery would not serve.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Getting onto the base was easy enough. There were several firms that made regular deliveries. The PsyKing had already compromised one of the managers. Mind reading had revealed his use of prostitutes and provided suitable black mail material while mind control had ensured obediance. Getting hired and assigned to the appropriate route was easy. It wasn't like the fool knew what really was going to happen. Just to be sure, Callidan killed him and stole his wallet. Just another mugging in the bad part of town.

The gate guards examined his authorization and searched his vehicle for terrorist commandos and bombs. They didn't make much of the unpreposing, brown haired man who was driving. Callidan drove through the base and parked at the hospital loading dock. He abandoned his truck, slipped inside into janitor's closet, and changed into green worker coveralls. He clipped a badge that would withstand only the most basic scruitiney onto his coverals and wandered through the hospital.

Finding the commodore was easy. Black armoured naval security troops had one section completely sealed off. The short-frame autoguns they had slung meant business and their crapace breastplates and helmets the wore over flak armour gave them considerable protection.

He had, to be truthful, been expecting this. Fortunately for him, Tzeentch provides. Inhumanely fast reflexes whipped his autopistol out of before they could react. The first slugs went into the first guard's neck. He began to fall, clutching at the geyser of blood errupting from his throat. The second burst went into the second guard's chestplate. The gun fired very expensive and hard to get armour piercing ammunition at a high velocity.

The guard's breastplate stopped it. The second burst went into the same area as the first. The armour failed and blood poured out. The trooper staggered, but didn't fall. Callidan closed with him lightning quick and pushed his gun barrel out of the way. The weapon fired off a long burst, the barrel heating up and burning his hand. The pair of guards beyond were already bringing their guns to bear.

Bullets smacked into Callidan's living shield, causing him to jerk. One bullet creased his leg and another lodged into his arm. Pink gel oozed from the wounds and began to harden. The assassin fired back, striking one of the guards in the visor. He dropped like a puppet with his strings cut. He fired a burst across the legs of the other and he fell, blood pumping over the floor. Callidan burned the rest of the clip into his chest. He guard jerked under the impact and blood splattered on his armour. Several of the bullets penetrated.

Callidan smashed his bullet shield in the throat with his gun but and pushed him down. He them stomped on the guard's throat and reloaded. Easy. Time mattered now, but he had been blessed with the Withering Stare. Combined with his own cunning, the ability to crush the resistance of the weak willed would make his escape simplicity itself. He opened the room.

A blackened shell of woman lay attached to a host of machines. A sheet covered most of her body. For a second he hesitated. Leaving her to suffer like this might be better than killing her. But no, they might ship her to Adraxis which had the finest medical facilities in the subsector. They might be able to work the necessary miracle. She was looking right at him, her green eyes boring into him.

"Commodore I am here to give you the rewards of knowing Jolan-"

Shots rang out. Pain racked his body and he staggered. More shots. They were coming from Severa. He tried to raise his gun hand but his shoulder was shattered. The gun dropped to the floor. The burned woman stood. None of the machines was truly attached to her. She was reloading the heavy naval pistol in her hands.

The eyes were wrong, he realized. This wasn't Valin. A decoy. He had been duped. Another bullet smashed through his left shoulder and then she blew out his legs. He fell, his body half coated in hardening pink slime. He could hear the sounds of many men running towards the room.

The woman kicked the gun away from him. His body wasn't working. He was as slow as mud and in so much pain. "Commodore Valin has other engagements," she sneared. "But I'm sure she will be interested in what you have to say." He tried to focus the Withering Gaze upon her, but he couldn't muster the concentration. The gloved hands seized him and everything slipped away.

[Cynical Cat]

Severa opened her augmentic eye. Her other eye wouldn't open and it hurt. Everything hurt with a dull intensity. The world was fuzzy. She could here the whine and pumping of machines. She was in a hospital of some kind. Hooked up to a lot of machines. It must be bad.

Lieutenant Kelson came and stood over her. "Commodore?" the young man enquired.

Severa tried to speak. Couldn't. Kelson moved a tube to her mouth. She leaned forward and took the tube between blistered lips. She greedily sucked down water. "How bad?" she rasped. Everything must be fuzzy because of painkillers. She still hurt. She didn't want to think of how bad the pain would be without them.

"Commodore your injuries are severe. There was a fire after the crash. You were badly burned. We can keep you alive for a while, but the prognoses, Commodore I'm sorry."

"It was sabotage," she said. She remembered being strapped in as every crucial system and its back up decided to fail. Lights and alarms blazed as the pilot and copilot struggled to keep the ship from burying itself into the ground. Then darkness. Now this. She looked down her arms. The flesh of her arms was blackened and flaking.

"Yes. We found the tech in a closet. Multiple strokes. Possession."

"Send a message to Inquisitor Jolan Gix," she rasped.

Kelson's head shot up. "Ma'am, we may have something on that. Someone tried to finish the job. Our decoy took him out. He mentioned something about a 'Jolan'."

"Still alive?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am, although not for a lack of trying. Not saying anything either."

"Send a message to Gix. Let him know what you found. And arrange transportation."

"Commodore, in your state it is unlikely that you will survive any journey."

"It's unlikely that I'll survive at all," she rasped. "Take me to Adraxis."

"Yes commodore."

"And bring the prisoner as well."

"Yes commodore."

Severa closed her eye. "Let me rest," she said. Oblivion was soon upon her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The PsyKing smiled as the spring courier took him out of the system. Gix's lover had been a difficult target and would have known fear before she died. Yes, very satisfying.

The memory would help him pass the long journey. He walked through the luxury suite he had been given and bowed before the silver aquila and kissed it in mockery of true faith. None of the crew knew the truth, although they knew who he served. They just knew him as their pious and true liege-lord, an Imperial Commander, rather than as the Gamesman.

[Pcm979]

Noma Tertius had been a relatively advanced agri-world, population one million, all on the southern continent. Governance was slight, Imperial presence pretty much confined to a single citadel and occasional visits from the Black Ships and other tithe collectors. Now it had a population of zero, the inhabitants' shattered bodies used to complete the blasphemous temples they had been forced to erect before their deaths.

Pater's lip curled back in a sneer of disgust and hate. Part of him itched to bomb the temples into oblivion, erase every trace of their blasphemous existance immediately. But no, this was their first true lead in several years. They'd have to investigate.

"There are no life signs showing up on our scanners, Lord." The Inquisitorial transport's captain informed him tonelessly.

"We can't be sure." Pater replied in his usual clipped tones. "Prepare a detatchment of Stormtroopers and rouse the Grey Knights; I'm going down." He turned and left the bridge, his cloak swirling behind him.

----------

The Scourge of Worlds doubled over and wheezed, gripping his scythe with both hands. After a minute of wet, hacking coughs, his ornately armoured shoulders heaving spasmically, he stood up and wiped his leering grille with the back of his long, thin hand. He tapped his claws impatiently.

"You requested my prescence, Sorcerer?" He asked, his voice heavy with phlegm and bile.

"Indeed I did." Ramessenakhte said impassively, the only sign of his disgust the agitated twitchings of his bonded Familiar. "It's time you saw the face of our master, Alchemist." He turned and set off at a brisk pace, forcing the wheezing Raptor to keep up in the midst of his coughing fits.

"Ah yes." Scourge said inbetween racking coughs and sickly snorts. "The mysterious Prince whose power is such he can command The Speaker of the Gods' Names." The Nurglite used one of Ramessenakhte's many gifted titles with barely hidden contempt. "The Eye is aflood with questions as to who he could be." The last words trailed off as his breath shortened, long, white fingers clawing uselessly at his throat. He fell to his knees, dropping his scythe with a clang, and retched. Ramessenakhte turned away in disgust.

A moment later Scourge looked up from a pile of green muck that had forced itself through his breather. A single eye opened in the mess, and an invisible mouth cooed and giggled insanely.

"Ahhhh." Scourge said like a proud parent, carefully scooping up the infant Nurgling and depositing it in one of his many pockets. "Life is a beautiful thing, is it not, Sorcerer?"

Ramessenakhte didn't contain his distaste this time, shaking his head and walking on as the lanky Champion of Decay struggled to his feet and pushed on, leaning heavily on his staff.

[Cynical Cat]

Lord Admiral Ravensburg is believed to have said: "a ship's a fool to fight a space station." Home to wings of strike craft, torpedo silos, and long range banks a navy space station makes a very poor target indeed. Inquisitor Jolan Gix's ship, the Eternal Will, coasted towards a monstrous edifice that was far more terrible than a mere space station. The Ramilies space fortress was the anchor point of Imperial power in Adraxis. It was a space station writ large, dwarfing even the fleet yards. Four long transcepts extended from the central basillica in a cruciform pattern, each one mounting ship killing guns and launch bays capable of disgorging shuttles or bomber wings.

The Eternal Will coasted to the midpoint of one nave and a docking bridge extending, linking the two together. It would be a long time before Naval Security forgot Jolan Gix here. He had fought on those decks alongside their best, lead them into battles and victory. They had remained true while others had betrayed their oaths. They had fought under his leadership and that of the Commodore and the Saint. The battles had already become legend and larger than life.

The honour guard waiting for Jolan Gix was lead by a senior lieutenant. She lead six men black armoured men with their faces hidden behind mirrored visors and hellguns clenched in their hands. She was a tough looking grey-haired woman with a flattened nose, jagged marring the pale skin of her left cheek, and the heavy build of a mastiff. "Inquisitor. I am senior lieutenant Wiyana Glass. Welcome back to Adraxis."

"Thank you lieutenant. Please arrange to have Gard Vikal and Hethor D'eckor escorted to see Commodore Valin."

"As you wish Inquisitor."

"Good. Now you will take me and Batista to the prisoner."

"Immediately," she replied. Glass lead them to transport tube and they boarded the travel capsul. They entered the vehicle and sat down on the bench seats. Glass touched a rune on panel and then another. They began to accelerate rapidly. The capsul hurtled down the length of the transcept and into the basillica.

The capsul reached its destination and they disembarcked. Black armoured naval security troopers stood ready with shotcannons and metal truncheons. They saluted as Wiyana lead them past. She took them past sensors and autoturrets and checkpoint after security checkpoint into dimly lit corridors lined with cells. "Most of these are empty," she said. "Only the most dangerous are to be held here and in most cases that means we shoot them out of hand."

She stopped. "This one was . . . most unusual inquisitor." She produced a data slat from the last checkpoint. "This is what we have been able to determine."

Jolan took the slate and examined it. "Cult tattoos on the ankle, The Rising Phoenix. Hyped reflexes. Coagulating gel for blood. Rapid healing. And the Withering Gaze."

"Sir?" she asked.

"The correct term for his gaze power. Yes this one has been touched by the warp. He's secured?"

"Yes sir. Shackled to the wall, fed through IVs. We removed his teeth with pliers. Didn't want him to suicide by biting off his tongue."

"Good," Gix replied. "Open the door. Remain outside. The security monitors will fail. Don't interfere."

"Yes lord."

A lever was thrown and the thick metal slab slid aside with a grinding noise. Jolan stepped inside, followed by the pale Sanctioned Psyker. The cell was roomy, but not for the prisoner's comfort, but rather to allow several interrogators and their equipment to operate on the prisoner. Callidan was secured by metal cuffs to the far wall. A lumina panel cast stark white light on him from above.

The heretic's body had degenerated in captivity. Muscles had atrophied and several lesions and weals marks his pale flesh. His hair had been hacked off and grown back as corse black stubble. He had a short, ragged beard. A visor obscured his eyes. Jolan reached forward and removed it.

"Gix," he hissed through lips.

"Yes," said Jolan. "When I leave this cell, you will have told me everything there is to know about you and your master."

"No, you will beg for the mercy of death," he lisped. "You should kill yourself now."

"No," said Gix, "I will not be broken by your master's tactics. And you will know it before I am done with you. You have sold yourself to dark powers and have reaped only damnation. The magnitude of your error will be made clear to you before you perish."

The lumina panel flickered for a moment as Jolan exerted his warp talents to shut down the security monitors. While his gifts with what was known as Machine Empathy were weak, especially when compared to such luminaries as Pater Novum, for some things they would suffice. The monitors went dead. What came next would never leave this cell.

[SirNitram]

Malkamar was coming to hate Wartraks. Oh, he had disliked them before; they carried Orkz and weapons. Now he hated them, as he rode one in the direction of the Horde. It wasn't the loud noise, or the belching smoke, or the disturbing clanking noise inside it's workings. It was the fact he was grimly hanging on to what was less a vehicle and more a sort of guided missile on treads at top speed. As it hit a rock and precariously rode on one side for a moment, Malkamar gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it. Time to trade in.

Unfortunately, the only possible choice thus far was a Gunwagon lagging behind the main pack. Not the ideal choice; it was essentially an engine, a gun, and a few seats for Orkz. There were, however, handholds. As he closed in, the arm on his harness ending in a plasma welder made some last minute 'adjustments', locking the accelerator in place. With a grunt and a heave, the Techmarine hurled himself off the rickety thing and onto the side of the Wagon, clinging to it like his life depended on it. As the ground flashed by below, it probably did.

Four arms and two legs all working together to haul himself onto the top of the Orky vehicle made noise; specifically, enough to alert the two pilots to his presense. Slugga rounds dinged off his armour, searching for a weakpoint as his two heavy servo-arms drilled into the armoured hull itself for leverage. So held in place, Malkamar grabbed his bolters by their pistol-grips, hoisted, and tapped the triggers. A trio of self-propelled rounds embedded themselves in each Ork's skull before detonating, spraying the marine's armour with green ichor.

This was along the general tone set by this outing. He had killed the Orkz attacking him, but he had also killed the drivers. The Wagon was still going flat out, and without guidance, this could be terminal. Because there was the rest of the convoy, and he was aboard something accelerating into it.

Just before a Gunwagon and a Wartrukk had a coming together of explosive proportions, Malkamar hurled himself again, grabbing onto a boarding plank extended by what might've once been a Leman Russ chassis before it got Orkified. Dangling precariously, the ground flashing uncomfortable inches from his feet, he became aware that he had attracted far too much attention. Most of the Mob now knew he was around.

As Shoota and Slugga rounds began to spray around him, Malkamar swung himself onto the vehicle, smashing aside an Ork come to get him personally. He could have engaged in melee combat; Emperor knew he had enough appendages. Instead, he grabbed both Bolters again, holding by the pistol grips. A marine's mind could be partitioned up, though this was intended to keep them active, swapping out which part guarded, and which slept. Now, three Exile-Captain Malkamar's worked their tasks; one for the bolters, now spraying suppressing fire into the nearest Trukks. Another for the flamer attachment of his harness, torching the rigging and Grots which he was almost entangled in. And the third kept his legs in order, as he ran the length of the rickety vehicle.

Another flying leap, but this one was too short; the downside of a segmented mind. The Signum's sensors picked up on the lack, and both of the Servo-Arms fired a tiny rocket in their 'hands', the tips latching into the rigging above a Battlewagon. Inches before he hit the ground, Malkamar was snatched back upwards, the lines going taunt and pulling him upwards. As he ascended, more bolter fire was exchanged with the slugga-wielding Boyz aboard the vehicle. Right now, Malkamar was hating the fact that, it seemed, all Ork vehicles were personnel carriers.

Promethium preceeded him, twin bolters and a plasma welder accompanied him, and death was fast on his heels as he landed amongst the mob, the burning death and 'popping' noises of Ork skulls bursting the main noise over the roar of engines and the 'ding' of the occasional hit from an enthusiastic gunner outside of his killzone. So far, while he bled in a few places, nothing was serious.

As the flames spread, another vehicle abandoned, this by grabbing the spikey ball extended from it and swinging onto a Trukk, preceeded by a handful of frag grenades. The few Orkz remaining quickly died to a hail of Bolter fire. "Gotta find the Boss." He muttered. "Or there'll just be more." Thankfully, Ork Warbosses had the subtly of.. Well, Orkz. The Battlefortress ahead was obviously it: Bright red, going the fastest, and with the most armour and guns. It was just going to be a matter of getting aboard.

A deep breath, and Malkamar ran. He leapt off another of the flaming wrecks he had made, stopping on a refitted Leman Russ only long enough to catch his balance and slap a krak grenade against it's hull, leaping again. The Warbuggy's driver screamed and shot at him, but with another bundle of explosive joy, the Marine was leaping for the rear of the Fortress, grabbing hold by his fingertips.

His segmented mind now one again, he crawled upwards, even as the heaviest guns yet fired on him. One arm was numbing up; his bleeding was undoutably clotted and the carapace had taken it, but he was going to be in bad shape after this died down. Swinging onto a tower, he landed boot-first on a Nob's face, soaking him in burning Promethium to be sure. Leaping from the tower as weapons fire began to converge on it, he dropped onto the central Howdah, finding himself surrounded by the Boss' personal bodyguard.

"Fuck." Spake Malkamar.

Though slow to react, the two clamps and drills of his Servo-Arms were deadly weapons. As they smashed into the large Orkz.. Grown nearly Boss-sized from their infighting.. he opened fire with both Bolters again, trying to get a clear shot of the Boss. His shouted invocations called for the endurance of Sanguinus and the strength of Russ, and somehow, his muscles found enough to keep responding. Both bolters jammed, and he slapped them into holsters, grabbing his axe-hilt.

With a lethal sound, it telescopped outwards to full size in moments. The powerfield crackling to life, he hurled himself into the fray redoubled, swatting aside the last Nobz. The Boss was a huge bastard, and clearly the victim of Ork Serjery. Metal bits stuck out, and a huge iron gob made his jaw all the more intimidating. But Malkamar was sick of it. He had seen enough for one day.

The huge Ork lunged, and Malk lightly sidestepped, grabbing the iron gob and yanking down. A Meltabomb was then stuffed into the actual jaw, and a punishing uppercut smashed the Warboss' jaw shut, priming the contact fuse. "See you around." He said flatly, leaping clear a fraction of a second before the detonation consumed half the Battlefortress.

Hitting the ground hard and rolling, bouncing off a few rocks, Malkamar came to a halt. Behind him, burned a Kult Of Speed Waaaaaagh, or what survived of it. Ahead of him, Eldar Exodites in their armour and wielding their odd weaponry stood on guard, all aimed at him. The Orkz seemed to be taking care of each other.

"Hi." Coughed the Space Marine through the pain of broken ribs. "I've.. Got a message. Orkz are coming."

As the darkness claimed him, one of the Exodites stepped forward, raising a brow. "Indeed." She said simply. "Mon-Keigh. Always trying to impress."