DH: Ratcatchers: Renaissance

[Miraqariftsky]

Intrigue amongst the clansters...

With practiced ease and a cruel comfort, Sarah weasels her way into and through the apparently soon-to-be-bickering criminal clan-heads.

The one who bought her wares without question--- and at quite a favourable price, to boot--- was Argoth Gaul, a heavy-set man who, it seems, gave more heed to plain profit than politicking. He and those loyal to him, or at least bought out enough, from what little Sarah could glean, usually back off until somebody clear enough emerges, whoever seems to be the winner in any conflict, be it internecine or otherwise.

Those who seem to have been against the old Don and now clearly drawn against Matthew come in several factions clearly with their own agendas, but they mostly boil down to those led by the purple tunicked one-eyed accountant from earlier, those led by an obese older woman in black leathers and a rather noisy gang led by somebody with an irrepressible twitching and what seems to be an obscura addiction, constantly puffing away at a plastic pipe. Princeling Sneeg seems to have a head for numbers and backstabbing. Lady Oreleanna seems to be old blood among the crime families, and doesn't seem like she might welcome any... radical changes... into how she runs her organization. The one sub-boss known simply as Twitch, though, he seems to be just a little bit of charisma away from slipping into Locos Trese territory. A but further than that, he might be considered Redemptionist... or Chaos cultist outright. In numbers alone, they have the edge, but whether they can be solidified in purpose and if they have the skill and steel to make their opposition matter, it remains to be seen.

The one sub-faction that seems to be clearly supportive of the young and unwitting Church-trained syndicate boss are the small but well-trained and well-supplied cadre of the old don's elite bodyguards led by that Agent Armageddon. Damned feral soldier girl seems like a ready lapdog for Alexei, suffice it to say.

Meanwhile, Marcus plies his subtle bit of psycraft, inobtrusively following Sarah's intrigues.

With the blackshirts and their jag-toothed superior, the young Sanctionite tastes mostly steel beneath various dissemblings. They come from many disparate backgrounds, many of them not-quite-pardoned and barely-leashed-wolfhounds, but have in common a certain level of skill and a loyalty to the one known as Armageddon--- and to the Ordos and the Emperor, by extension. Two--- a young woman with a crazy grin and an almost unhealthy fascination with revolvers and an older gentleman with deep chem-scarring marring what might once have been a handsome face--- out of the not-quite-dirty dozen of them display a small psyk spark, but whether or not that is due to the imbibing of specialized drugs such as Spook or indeed an inborn talent that would soon require a trip to the Black Ships, remains to be seen. Marcus gets the feeling, though, that should Agent Armageddon fall, the unity

Among the other more than three dozen, he perceives the expected slew of slight tinges of sorrow, unease and excitement at a changing situation, ambition and fear, lusts and rages. More than the other sub-bosses whom Sarah was reviewing, it is the smoke-wreathed Twitch who elicits the most concern. Despite the physical and psychic smog of the obscura, Marcus detects the telltale whiff of a psyk-spark. Still nascent, but on the brink of outright awakening--- might well have dodged some otherwise inescapable shots or felt incredible headaches and suffered nosebleeds, or lit off rounds while angry without warning or touching.

LATER ON...

Later on, in NorCont Hive's department of waterworks and sewerage management, countless rusty pipes and valves form the walls and ceilings. A nameless red-robed technician lies in a puddle of his own teeth and blood after having tried to refuse Yarach access. The air is thick with sacred grease and incense. His underlings, now answering to the half-mechanical Hound, stand at their places, ready to override several safeties, induce overloads and cause mayhem. Even now, Yarach's hand rests on the last primary control switch for power generation in a certain sector of this benighted hive...

Later on, in NorCont's streets, all goes according to plan. Despite the initial violent resistance to the surprise recruitment drive, several incidents of the cordon squads opening fire on protesters and mercilessly cutting down those who dare to resist the draft and other die-hards unwilling to go be uprooted in the Emperor's name, the populace seems, on the whole, amenable to Alexei's idea. There were also a few raids by hostile gangers--- or those that can ostensibly be identified as gangers--- as well as mutant resistance guerrillas with some suicide bombers and spray-and-pray runs, but nothing that a combined force of veterans, regulars and not-quite-unblooded newly minted draftees couldn't handle.

Every so often, through the crowd, by the dint of laudhailers, Marcus'exhortations ring through the din but is drowned out. He does manage to instill some manner of calm into their disorderly ranks by his hoarse zeal and his bodyguards, but, being too young and not quite yet having adapted into the role of being a priest who works with crowds on the streets instead of simply dusty tomes, he has yet to achieve any great effect.

Later on, in the dark depths of Ten Spire Complex, Sarah crouches behind a faded yellow ferrocrete pillar. In the basement lot beyond gleam several luxury vehicles and their doubtless well-appointed and well-armed valets. Behind her are a select crew taken from the Silversplitter blackshirts, the revenge-hungry True Blood gang and the survivors of Precinct Zero, a crew of steel-hard hardasses.

Later on, in the dizzying heights of Ten Spire Complex, Marcus swirls through a herd of dilettantes, dabblers, trying-hard-would-be-princelings and foppish nobility, all clad in the best finery they could afford... and masks. Above the usual swirl of human emotions, some things that he cannot help but feel from among them are a certain avarice and a strangely swift boredom that seeks to find all new sensations and experiences. Suddenly, a tinging fork against a wineglass quiets the crowd and draws all eyes to a grey-robed raven-masked figure atop a dais...

...meanwhile, Wulfgar's aura, which had, for a time, disappeared from Marcus' scans, now reappears, but only on the very edge of his consciousness.


Annnnnnd welcome back, folks. Where's Alexei? Blunt's call, wherever he might be most useful.

[bluntpencil]

The handcuffed man with the bag over his head nearly doubles over as Alexei kicks him in the stomach. This, very obviously, hasn't been one of his better days.

Alexei chuckles, stubbing out his cigar on the man's bare shoulder. By this point, he has learned not to scream. Instead, he just whimpers.

"Now, I see that this sh*t-kickin' has basically broke you, ye frickin' traitor," says the Arbitrator, almost grinning.

"So, seein' as I'm a merciful sort, I'm gonna stop, an' offer ye a deal," he continues menacingly, obviously trying not to laugh.

He begins to explain the deal with, "I know that ye've a sad act, impov'rished family, needin' tha bribes ye've been takin'..."

Damn, he'd have to give it 'good cop' for a few seconds. He hated good cops. They were the weak ones that sold out.

"They're innocent o' yer treach'ry. If ye successfully take this chance ta redeem yerself, I'll ensure they receive all tha Thrones they need. Tha Inquisition doesn't leave its own high an' dry, punk. They'll go from scrapin' fer change ta a life o' luxury. Near-luxury. Comfort."

Screw the details. He'd look out for them. It wasn't the wife and kids' fault that daddy was a traitor.

"If you don't cooperate, or if I'm betrayed, they'll all get shot for your high treason, an' you'll have ta watch."

Of course, the man nods as best he can, and Alexei gets to telling him what he needs to know. He sends a team of Arbitrators to his home, led by his friend, Andrea Kollontai, to take the family into custody (of course, they're to be killed if any number of things go wrong), then names the bought-off cop his guide.

Once this has all been done, he gives his other teams some time to cause havoc in the Spire, before he and Rochelle's team of mercs begin their assault in support of the gangers...

[bluntpencil]

As Alexei and his unit prepare their assault, allied operatives overseeing one of the quickest tithes taken for the Guard in decades, the others have their opportunity to see events begin to unfold... or to alter those events drastically.



In Ten-Spire-Complex, Sarah and Marcus can see the grey-robed, raven-masked dilettante in front of them begin her (or very possibly his) speech from the dais.

She lowers her glass, handing it, and her silver fork, to a masked aide.

"Ladies and gentlemen...", she begins - her voice almost musical. It is refined, each word slowly and deliberately uttered, rolling off her tongue with an almost silky quality.

She pauses mid-sentence, allowing suspense to build, and suspense there is, before continuing,

"...of the now-waxing Watusi Clan... and distinguished guests, of course..."

She seems to be hinting that their current fortunes were but fleeting, and that their guests, although welcome, were something lesser than they.

"I welcome you to a celebration in honour of the truly deserved successes that you have won in the face of a most unfortunately uncaring, Im... moral universe."

The pause mid-word appears accidental, as it was only for a split second, but does it really bare looking into? It's hard to tell, but whilst there are folks that look blissfully unaware, the liquor obviously helping here, there are a lot of people nodding, either grinning or frowning. Sometimes it looks like they're grinning and frowning, like lunatics. It's not like madness is in short supply in the Calixis Sector, after all.


Most people here are armed, although the weapons aren't. Duelling pistols are common, as are elegant fencing blades. Some of the older individuals, or those less inclined to get involved in such (such as several of the ladies present), have personal guards with them.

If this Awareness check is passed...

The guards are very busy watching each other. There isn't a lot of trust here.

For every two degrees of success you get, you can work out a particular mistrust between two groups.



The people are very obviously nobility, and their servants, or at least the very wealthy, and their closest confidantes. You can tell from the bright colours, the fine fabrics worn by everyone, and even the odd weapon that you spot.

Now that the masked individual has everyone's attention, she gestures elegantly to the centre of the room. Lights of various, subdued hues illuminate the centre, revealing a multitude of aperitifs, h'ors d'oeuvres, spirits and narcotics, laid out, mostly tastefully, on several tables.

"Entertainments shall begin shortly, but, now, please accept our most meagre hospitality..."

She giggles lowly, making the sarcastic, false humility in 'meagre' very apparent.

The crowd mills around the food and drink, lighting up glass, water-filled Obscura pipes, as the sound of violins plays from servo-skulls bearing speaker-systems.

You seem to have time to move any plans you may have into action.

[Strawberries]

Behind the mask, Marcus is grateful that his expression can't be easily read by everyone, as his reaction to the music and the impressions he's picking up from it would have surely made his cover hard to maintain.

"We have to be careful of the musician, ma'am" he whispers to Sarah "He's a psyker, ma'am, and very p-powerful"

[ellna]

Sarah smiles, it's not a pleasant smile either. She leans in close to Marcus, his mask brushing against her face. Her words were whispered in his ear, the mocking spite practically dripping from her tongue.

"Good, and we know what to do with witches don't we. We kill them. Or at least He's going to..."

As Sarah turns to indicate the man she had selected her hand, seemingly innocent in it's proximity to Marcus struck. A needle tip angled to punch through the child's soft flesh. Sarah hadn't the grace of a pickpocket, but she had the speed honed by year's of drawing first. The needle itself contained a dose of the potent Spook. A vile drug, that cursed it's addict's with witches powers. Sarah had heard tales about it and the dregs of humanity that cast off their last ties to the emperor to dance with demons by taking it. She wondered briefly what effect it would have on Marcus, would it condemn his soul to be wracked in torment for eternity. She almost snorted when the thought had crossed her mind, his soul was already lost, damned from birth. Her remit was to cause chaos, it'd just be too bad if Marcus was collateral...

When the moment for her plan sparked, fear caused through her. Alexei's retribution. Sarah pushed the thought from her mind, filling it only with hatred and anger. Her face smiling, a mocking innocence so false it jarred, Sarah nodded towards the man she selected. His hip sported the most dangerous looking piece of duelling technology that she had ever had the intense pleasure to clap eyes on. It was a shame, it was about to lose it's owner. Sarah strolled away from Marcus, not entirely sure if he had grasped her plan, but truthfully it didn't matter. If he could twist the man's mind as she suspected the witch could then this should be child's play...

Sarah dropped the exhausted syringe of spook, crushing it underfoot, as she approached the victim of her ploy. Another dose replaced the one now broken on the ground, Slaught quickly began to coarse through her veins. She had known what to expect, but it still hit like a wave of triple distilled gin. She had to avoid whooping and jumping around in elation, soon when the blood ran she could enjoy herself, but now she had a insult to deliver...

"Don't think you can hide behind that mask, you putrid upstart. I recognise a spineless, lump of jelly when I clap eyes on one. When I saw you I just knew that beneath that mask a weeping sore, a odorous hole lay. The foul stench of brainless drivel gushes from your lips like a sewer's breath. Now I would ask you to lick my feet, but I fear that is too much of an honour for one as low as you..."

Sarah casually rested her hand on the Valentine Duelling Las at her hip, a carefree smile on her lips. Her pupils widening as the Slaught heightened each sense...

"Your next step should be to slap me... Unless of course you've a spreading damp patch."

WP test, Failure indicates one insanity point gained, Success results in +2 to power rolls, +25 to psychic phenomenon.

PS sorry about this Strawberries, but it was too tempting.

[Strawberries]

Marcus barely has time to register the sharp pain in his neck: the moment after that, everything in the room suddenly snaps into clear focus. He can clearly see the single threads of the speaker's robe, fine, soft fabric that seems to proclaim nobility. He feels, or thinks he can feel, the waves of excitement and expectation coming from the guests And, on top of everything, the music keeps playing, resonating in his mind with notes that are everything but mundane, echoing strangely within the tapestry of half thoughts and emotions that usually make up the background noise in Marcus' mind.

He is aware he is breathing too quickly, and that, behind the mask, he is sweating, but he doesn't seem to be able to control his body's reaction. He tries to focus, to remember what he is supposed to do - Sarah had been giving him orders, he is sure of it. He tries to slow down his breath, to think rationally about it, but in that moment Sarah's opponent's hand twitches towards his gun, in response to Sarah's challenge, and Marcus reacts pretty much by instinct. Shoot her. Marcus pushes the command into the man's mind. It's not words, as such, rather an image of the lady with the raven mask, and a compulsion to harm her.

Oh, sod it, I'll go all out. Whatever happens, it'll create chaos anyway.
No invocation, as I don't think Marcus is clear headed enough

Compel: use ALL of the dice! [roll0]+5 EDIT: Lucky. :smallamused: Also, one degree of success, I think.
If threshold 13 is reached, then Willpower [roll1]
Ordering him to shoot the guy or gal that gave the speech.

Now, let's see how many nines I get.

[bluntpencil]

"I should have known it was you, Lynette, you cretinous bitch! That's the last frakking straw, this ends with blood!" yells the man in response to Sarah. He's very obviously under the influence of some sort of narcotic or alcohol. His purple cape is stained with liquor.

Before either Sarah or Marcus can make sense of what's going on, a higher-pitched, obviously upper class female voice responds.

"You're a useless drunk, Darcy, but I can't say I've not been waiting for this... "

A woman, wearing the height of noble fashion, including far-too-high-heeled boots, a powdered wig and a mask covering only her eyes, steps forward, pistol drawn.

The androgynous host merely claps ever so slightly, apparently pleased at the prospect of a duel. The others seem confused, nervous, and agitated. They, as one, either stop drinking and smoking, or down whatever is left in their glasses.

The music doesn't stop at all, or even pause, and neither does the light show.

"Well, well, well," says the host, in the most intriguing of tones,

"A duel it is, to the music of the Menagerie..."

And with that, the curtain to the balcony opens.

You can see out across the whole hive, but, of course, the lower levels are hidden by a thick layer of smog, a sea of acrid cloud below you. The night sky above, however, is clear, the stars visible above the rolling waves of pollution which, funnily enough, probably hide the ugliness of the city below, the silver spires of the hive, jutting out from below, being the only visible sign of human structures.

On the marble balcony, stand seven freakish individuals - either mutants or servitors, it's hard to tell - with wicked blades and similar on their extra limbs. It's not that that's the problem, though, it's the sound.

Each one sounds like a musical instrument. When the first opens its mouth, you can see strings in its throat, and, somehow it sounds like a violin. The others are the same, although operating at different octaves. One has two hands replaced with cymbals. It's disgusting in every sense of the word, in spite of the fact that the seven of them sound like, near enough, a full string section.

Next to them, a step up, at a most elegant grand piano, cut from the ivory of Throne-knows what sort of beast, sits a young girl. She can't be older than seven or eight years old. A spotlight rests on her, as the angelic child plays the most haunting of themes. Her wrists are bound, delicately, yet still tellingly bound, with golden chains, to her instrument.

The two duellists take their place, Sarah gnashing her teeth to the side, pawing at her own weapons.

And, with that, Marcus focuses the aether, his mind solidifying the potential of the Warp into a command for the drunken fool getting ready to take aim at his rival.

He raises his weapon, a Watusi las-pistol, and fires, before the signal is given, at the host. It, somehow, hits her right in the face, causing her to scream in agony, falling to the floor, covering her (and it does appear to be her) now unmasked face.

Darcy looks confused as the ostentatiously-dressed Lynette fires three rounds of corrupt warp-blasts at his chest, killing him before he even hits the ground. You can tell because he doesn't even try to break his fall.

"Feed him and his entourage to the beast!"

No longer is the hostess so refined. The guests circle around the fallen fool, apparently waiting for something.

The guards accompanying Lord Darcy now look around warily, near-panicking, shotguns gripped tightly...


Sorry for speeding things up, trying to get things moving onto the next chapter.

Sarah is up, and buzzing on drugs.

Marcus can tell that the child is the psyker. She's super-powerful. More powerful than anything he's ever seen.

[ellna]

Sarah's grin was so wide it actually hurt, that just made her smile more. Her brief confusion slipped in and out between the frantic beats of her heart. It's incessant drumming filling her ears. Choas was easy to achieve in such a loaded powder keg. Who was the next peg in the tumbling house of cards, her mind was on fire. Her palms sweaty, her finger's itching. Sarah forced herself to loosen her grip on the fine example of Kayher Addin's craftsmanship that hung at her side, when the draw came it would be smooth. Lightning fast. The slaught continued to pulse through her, amplifying each breath, each pulse, each sound. The music drove her elation even higher. Everything was brighter, but it all passed too quickly.

Sarah's lips moved, words tumbling free before her racing mind could catch up.

"Fire Marcus, they need to fire."

Sarah indicates the bodyguards, their shotguns the perfect spark. Her eyes flick across the assembled crowd, but who was the best target. Sod it all, they all needed to fire.

"Everybody needs to fire, make it so Marcus."

Sarah's own hand's twitching stilled, they knew what was coming.

Well should be easy to compel one of the guards to fire, however mass spasm on all individuals with loaded guns would suit everything even better.

Sarah herself is just waiting for the shooting to start, then it's a shot from the Valentine at the freaky child psyker piano player.

[Strawberries]

Marcus is still gaping at the spectacle the 'band' makes, horrified, when Sarah's order registers with him. "Yes, ma'am. Of course." He sounds resigned. Automatically, his hand goes to the blessed icon he keeps in his pocket, as he takes a deep breath and focuses his mind on the Warp, twisting its currents around the armed guards, holding them for a moment, and then yanking, forcefully. Too forcefully, he realises after a second, as the heightened hum of the Warp all around him briefly drowns all the other sounds he can perceive with his ears. Whatever Sarah's done to him, it's making controlling his abilities very difficult.

Invocation, this time [roll0] vs 60

Spasm, on the guards standing between him and the child. Going all out, again (hey, he's still under the effect of a psychic drug :smalltongue:) [roll1] +5, plus another 5 if invocation is successful. Threshold 7, any degree of success affects an additional target.

I'll see if I trigger anything nasty, but if I don't as move action in the same turn, trying to take advantage of the chaos to get as close as the stage as he can.

[bluntpencil]

In an instant, the temperatures drop dramatically, ice now floating in wine bottles, a rime of frost appearing on everyone's clothing.

And then, a number of blasts from the encircled guards, as well as from some of those surrounding them. The four guards, their shotguns go off, shredding a woman wearing a peacock mask in front of Sarah, covering her in blood.

A number of people lie in pools of blood, the four guards spasmodically falling to the ground as chaos erupts around them.

Shots are fired from all angles, killing the four near instantly, but the violence doesn't stop there. There are screams and accusations of others having been shot at by others in the crowd.

"You took a chance to blast Michael du Pont, you bastard!" yells a woman in what appears to be a really bad flamingo costume.

"That jumped-up peasant shot Mikaela Amelia!" screams a scrawny man, wearing a sad clown mask, wielding a pistol far too big for him.

And as this all goes on, 'the beast' is wheeled out. Or hovered out, as the case is here. A large cage, sparking with electricity, suspended by an anti-grav unit, a metre above the ground, comes through a large, ornate doorway. A power cable is dragged beneath it, as it apparently can't float and power the cage with its own fuel.

Inside the cage is a very large mutant. A brutish, pale-skinned man, if he could even be called that, with a monstrous face, all fangs and very little else, he is. He is immense in size. If he was on normal legs, he'd be one-and-a-half-times the size of a large, muscular person. His lower half, though, is a Throne-damned tarantula of ridiculous proportions...

It, as it should be called, thrashes against the bars which hold it, but, thankfully, it's zapped for its troubles as stray las-bolts and bullets do little more than annoy it, as, yes, according to Sarah's plan...

...all hell has broken loose in the ballroom. Glass shatters and gunshots fire everywhere. The mutants' music has taken on a horrific distorted tone, squealing and vibrating with terrible feedback from the servo-skulls.

The child has stopped playing piano and is crying as she tries to find shelter underneath it, although her chains make this awkward for her, leaving Sarah the possibility of a shot.

[ellna]

Smooth, like Lightning.

Sarah draws her valentine duelling las, snapping it to her hand. Each sound, each scream was music. The violent spurts of blood and angry searing heat of the las were vibrant brush strokes. Sarah concentrated on her target, the witch child. She didn't push the choas from her mind, but let it flow through her and between the staccato beats she squeezed...

Half round aim and fire.
[/roll]1d100[/roll] Vs 46+10(acc)+10(aim); +10 if less than 15m; -damn witch
[/roll]1d10+4[/roll]
[/roll]1d10+4[/roll]
[/roll]1d10[/roll]
[/roll]1d10[/roll]

[bluntpencil]

Lieutenant Yarach pulls the lever, and with that...

An overload, sparks, explosions at the electrical fittings, plunges the room into darkness, only the few old-fashioned candles maintaining any light in the room.

The hovering cage, powered by the cable from below, no longer has its anti-grav powered up, and it crashes to the ground, the door bursting open, the bars no longer electrified.

Sarah's shot fires true, but the room is dark, and the child small. The blast strikes the piano, a loud twang heard from snapped strings.

The nobles panic in the darkness, as the monstrous spider-mutant leaps out from its cage, and the mutated musicians hop down from the stage, predatory looks all-too-obvious in spite of the lack of light.

A shot ringing out nearby causes a brawny individual in a dress naval uniform and a metallic mask, to stamp towards Marcus and Sarah, a two-handed, brass-hilted sword in his fists.


-20 for darkness, -10 for size. Just a miss.

Awareness checks please, no penalty for darkness.

And initiative!

[bluntpencil]

The brawny naval officer starts forward, faster than he should be able to, sword above his head, ready to strike at Sarah. He pauses for a second, tilting his head, a confused look upon his face, and lashes out at Marcus instead, keen to strike down the psyker, as he bellows incoherently, not looking to his own defence in the slightest.


Attack roll [roll0] (All-Out Attack)

Damage roll (Tearing) [roll1] or [roll2]

Awareness checks, please!

[ellna]

Sarah is already laying hands on another pistol as the naval officer suddenly changes tact. For a moment Sarah considers leaving Marcus to fend for himself, one less problem. Sarah's ecstatic smile curls and twists into the feral snarl as she draws Wrath. Her other hand flicking on the light emitter at her wrist. The unslung shotgun barks once, at the range the naval officer was about to become a fine paste and Sarah had a front row seat.

[roll0]+10(HalfRoundAim)+30(PointBlank)-20(Shooting into melee) (vs66) Hit Chest 13 Damage.
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]
[roll5]
[roll6]
[roll7]
[roll8]
[roll9]

[bluntpencil]

I'd prefer that we use the Only War rules for Scatter, which actually increases your damage on this occasion.


The brutish Lieutenant has his medals blown off his chest, blood soaking his uniform. However, he continues on at Marcus, momentum and fury driving him on, as he roars in pain and anger.


Awareness again, please. +10 bonus.


Meanwhile...

Lieutenant Yarach, second in command of the mission, has successfully shut down the spire's power, and flooded much of the Underhive beneath, with purification chemicals from the waste-processing plant.

Now, he has been assigned 'some serious fraggin' cleanup duty' by his commander, Captain Britanov.

Alexei had taken his own men, some Arbitrators and soldiers, up to back their infiltrators up, it seemed, and were currently en-route to whatever was going down up there.

Yarach had been assigned a dozen mercenaries, led by Rochelle, from the ship they were on, to make sure the flooding had successfully destroyed whatever they were doing down below...


Plan of action from Yarach and Rochelle, please?

[Urist]

"This unit:Command: Clean Slate received, Captain. Purge Program initiated. Unit:Rochelle, in position: point, alongside this unit. Wedge formation, advance at slow pace, call out potential hostiles over vox. Radio silence otherwise."

Having issued the orders, Yarach dons his modified D'Laku hellgun, handing another backpack mag to one of Rochelle's compatriots to hold. Advancing into the lower spire, they keep their guard up, ready to engage whatever scum had been flushed from their holes by the flood of cleansing chemicals.


I imagine Awareness will need to be tested: [roll0] vs. ? (Base 10).

As for the Hellgun stats, this was something Sky and I, along with Ellna, worked out for modifying the Hellgun using the special crystals Yarach received during our first mission.

Power Setting | Damage | Penetration | Range | Rate of Fire | Ammo Consumption | Special Rules
Standard | 1d10+3 | 4 | 100m | S/3/5 | 1 |
High | 1d10+5 | 4 | 90m | S/3/- | 5 | Unreliable
Maximum | 1d10+6 | 4 | 80m | S/-/- | 10 | Unreliable, Overheat, Tearing


Power Setting | Damage | Penetration | Range | Rate of Fire | Ammo Consumption | Special Rules
Focused | 1d10+3 | 4 | 150m | S/-/- | 5 | Accurate, Unrealiable
Focused High | 1d10+5 | 4 | 150m | S/-/- | 10 | Accurate, Unrealiable, Overheat, Tearing
Focused Maximum | 1d10+6 | 6 | 150m | S/-/- | 20 | Accurate, Unrealiable, Overheat, Tearing, Unstable, Recharge

Currently on High, ready to murder some muties. :P

[Strawberries]

Marcus and Sarah

The sensation that everything is just a little too sharp, too much in focus, hasn't abated. Each shot from Sarah had resonated starkly, despite all the noise in the background, as does the man's roar now that he's launching himself against Marcus for a second time. He can clearly see the single droplets of blood on the man's coat. The psyker's reaction is instinctual, a build up of power that terrifies him, because it goes against years of conditioning. For a moment, he almost lets go, almost hits the man the way he had done on Dhran... he draws back at the last moment, horrified, but he can't rein in the power, he can only redirect it.

Frantically, Marcus looks for a spot where the concentration of armed people is denser, closes his eyes and focuses just in the middle of the group. He doesn't bother to look again: he can tell he was successuful by the familiar sensation of shifting and the hum of the Warp in his ears (only this time is louder, a roar more than a whisper, and he wonders if that is an effect of whatever Sarah injected him with, too). Marcus turns quickly and runs towards the stage, trying to cover as much ground as he can during the time the illusion holds.

Sooo, that would have been an instinctual Inflict Pain, but Marcus has issues with using that particular power. Even more issues than usual. :smalltongue: That brings me to use Distort Vision, conjuring an image, say, 5 meters behind me, which has the added bonus of being a free action, which means I can then double move running towards the kid afterwards without anybody being able to see me. Sorry Ellna to leave you on your own, but hey, consider it retribution for the drug thing. :smalltongue:

Two dice. Still being under a mind altering drug and all [roll0]+5. If it works and there are no nines I'll edit the post a bit. EDIT: yay, it worked! With a bit of luck, those people I appeared in the middle of will shoot each other in the attempt of shooting Marcus' image. :smallsmile:

Also awareness [roll1] vs49

[bluntpencil]

The swordsman pauses for an instant, looking at his sword with, what you both now notice, his blood-red eyes.

The sword itself has a strange symbol embossed in brass on the blade...

http://www.chaos-dwarfs.com/wiki/images/2/2a/Khorne.jpg


He, at first, thinks that Marcus has disappeared, but when his blood drips onto the edge of his blade, the unholy symbol glows, and he blinks, spotting the young psyker just as a group of other individuals start shooting thin air.


He loses his action looking for Marcus.


The panicked, and now gunslinging, nobles, have bigger problems, though.

With a resounding crash, the Beast bursts forth from its cage, its massive, chitinous legs impaling several individuals unfortunate enough to be nearby.

The mutants in the band don't seem as aggressive, and appear to be attempting to defend the little girl, blocking your view of her... They've already killed a pair of fools that got too close, and look ready to continue, should they need to.

The girl, of course, just wails. She can be heard above the gunshots; Throne knows how, it's probably because she's a psyker, right?


Sarah is up!

The Beast!
http://th03.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/f/2013/253/7/5/drider_by_mateslaurentiu-d6lswok.jpg


Meanwhile, Yarach, Rochelle, and her so-called 'Roughnecks', advance into the tunnels beneath the spire.

At first, they seem reluctant to take orders from some Techy, but Yarach is likeable enough, and they do remember him from Imperial Starways 739, so it's not all bad.

When one Captain Britanov informed them that they were being temporarily drafted by the Holy Ordos, to fight under his personal Lieutenant, they become more than willing to help. They had kind of passed the subtle stage of things, it seemed. Black armbands with crude '=I=' symbols drawn on were the order of the day, now.

On seeing the Lieutenant leading from the front, morale seems pretty damned high.

Several obscura-wasted pen-pushers are gunned down with raking las-fire as they either resist detention, or start gibbering nonsense about their dark gods. There is a madness about them, as three are taken prisoner for later interrogation. They mumble about the 'vid-angel' and how it was nearing time to release it. Whatever that means.

The rooms which are accessible, and not flooded with cleaning chemicals, seem to be badly organised offices and storage rooms, for the most part. They're stacked with paperwork, notes, and, interestingly, vid-discs and reels and reels of film.

There are occasional cogitator screens, and vid-displays on the walls, too. The vid displays are showing, for some reason, some sort of soap opera about a cleric on Maccabeus Quintus. He seems to like singing, although he's actually very bad at it. Maybe it was intentional, for comic effect?


Logic roll at -10, please! Peer (the Insane) grants +20 bonus.

[ellna]

Sarah blinks as Marcus reappears amid the mass of people. Dangerous people. Frak, she hadn't known he could do that. Her heightened senses, overstimulated and throbbing, take in the vivid array of threats. A gory symphony of bloodshed. The officer's sword reeked of the warp, glowing with malevolent energy. The child psyker cowered behind it's orchestra, twisting reality in ways Sarah didn't want to comprehend. Their objective to cause chaos had succeeded and Sarah had to marvel as the Beast tore spoiled dilettantes apart. However as much as she wanted to revel in the wanton violence, her well honed survival instinct kicked in, hammering it's way into her seething mind. She struggled to don her helmet, the solid carapace certain to save her from errant bullets more than electric blue hair.

"Marcus, time to fall back. Jump your ass to the door, we've got to live till cavalry arrives. And see if you can get the ponce' what was makin' the speech to hug the beastie."

With orders yelled through the vox, Sarah could only hope Marcus heard them as she begins falling back towards the door. Drawing Fat Vera in her other hand, preparing to clear a path for, the imagined, Marcus...

Sarah dons her helmet, Draws Fat Vera and moves towards the nearest(to her) exit from this charnel theatre.

[Urist]

Yarach smiles as the drug addicts and scum are flushed from their hidey-holes, calling for their surrender but giving no mercy if they attempt to run. Upon capturing the three, he attempts to interrogate them briefly, threatening the use of violence and hoping to pull some information out of them as to what their "vid-angel" was. Yarach was not incredibly knowledgeable about the Warp, but such a thing had the mark of tech-heresy upon it.

Upon finding the cogitator screens, he pauses briefly, instructing his attendants to form a perimeter around him. His intuition tells him there is some sort of secret message hidden; perhaps he can ascertain what it is with some contemplation? He calls Rochelle and one of the other mercenaries over, in case there were hidden cultural references he, as a disciple of the Omnissiah, might not readily understand.

No longer relevant... look in OOC. :P
Logic to aid in his attempts to access the system: [roll0] vs. 55
Common Lore(Tech) to see if these type of systems usually have a failure point or some sort of shut-off mechanism: [roll1] vs. ? (Base 55)
Tech-Use to disable the system, if he can: [roll2] vs. ? (Base 65, 75 if the Logic test succeeds.

[bluntpencil]

Yarach thinks, and thinks fast, siphoning off data from the vids at an impressive speed.

The vids themselves, their content, isn't heretical, not at first glance. It's dull, it's insipid, and certainly full of damned awful acting, but it's not heretical or dangerous. At least, not in its current form. He tries to change the playback speed, but now it's just even worse, what with the odd pitch.

But... when rewinding the tapes to play them back again, he does pick up the odd word or two...

And, wisely, he turns it off, having the will and foresight not to listen to more than a few sentences.

It seems that the Watusi Clan were going to use this vid to spread dangerous instructions or corrupting messages to the people of the Calixis Sector, with cunningly hidden backmasking!


Willpower successful.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mMJvzZq4hA

[Urist]

Yarach scowls at the necessity to destroy blessed cogitators, but with the content they hold, it must be done. He quickly voxes Alexei to inform him of the situation, and recieve further orders in proceeding, although not before warning Rochelle and her mercenaries not to listen to the tapes, and to begin the process of destruction:


"Material: Sitcom drivel is classification: Heresy. Execute program: destroy, with extreme prejudice. Instruction: Sweep and locate any extant copies in cluster: 4, priority: Real Time; destroy playback devices at highest priority. This unit absolves thee of the sin of destroying the Omnissiah's sacred work, for the Machine Spirits have been debased. Ave Deus Mechanicum."

As they move out, he begins the process of destruction himself, focusing on monitors and anything relaying sound first, and only then moving on to the data medium. He instructs Rochelle to guard the prisoners, and kill them if they attempt to escape; ideally, the could be remanded for interrogation so as to ascertain from where they obtained the knowledge to create such a backtrack. One would be acceptable, but it was always prudent to keep extras around in case the first data repository was too badly damaged by the data extraction. As he does this, he sends off his message to Alexei.


"Vox Missive: Master of the Hounds: Huntsman 4 has discovered heretical material in form: Sitcom with hidden messages. Sophisticated, not yet broadcast. Purge engaged. Query: should an example be kept extant? Secondary Query: continue onwards, or is backup required in other sectors? This one has three prisoners to transport; is there a drop-off node nearby?"

[bluntpencil]

Yarach can hear gunfire as Alexei responds, rather promptly,

"Die, you inbred sonofabitch!"

More gunfire.

"No, n-yaaaargh! It burns!"

Screams, a dull thud, followed by an aggressive chuckle.

Then, Alexei's rough voice changes, a little, to short, clipped radio-speak.

"Affirmative. Retain a copy so we can take this further. Continue onwards, keep your prisoners, hand them over to designated Adeptus Arbites operatives post-op. Britanov out."

[Urist]

"Affirmative, Captain. May the Emperor and Omnissiah's will be done. Yarach signing off."

With that, Yarach saves one copy of the recording from the flames and begins to round up Rochelle's mercenaries, helping them finish their duty. As they prepare to move out, Yarach instructs the prisoners to march ahead of the formation, with the understanding that running will be punished with the breaking of arms, hands, faces, and any other extremities not required to walk. They are to stay 5-6 meters ahead of the wedge, with 2 of the mercenary's barrels on them at all times. If they do run, they are instructed to attempt disabling shots, or to chase them down if necessary.


"Exhortation: continue on, comrades! One heretical filth-cell has been annihilated, and these units must continue their work, in the Omnissiah and Emperor's name!"

With that, they move out at a combat spread, warily searching the darkness for any threats.

[Strawberries]

Marcus and Sarah

Marcus jumps slightly at hearing Sarah's vox. "Negative, ma'am." he answers, after a brief struggle with himself. He shakes his head in a futile attempt to clear it. He is shaking a little, partly because of the tension, partly for the drug."I... w-we must secure the child, ma'am. It's too dangerous to leave her here. I'm in proximity of the stage, ma'am."

Marcus cuts the communication, takes a deep breath and concentrates on the mutant that is closer to the girl, once again honing his will to a short, sharp command Break her chains..

At the same time, he extends his conscience towards the other psyker Can you hear me? It's not really a question that he is expressing with words. He has used words before, when communicating with normal humans, but with another psyker the exchange happens on a much more deep and instinctual level, projecting a feeling of who Marcus is, where he is and that his intentions aren't hostile, all togheter. Try to come towards me, I can keep you safe.

I'm going to screw this up so badly, I can tell... :smalleek: But hey, at least I had fun.

Free action: Telepathy: [roll0]+5 Treshold 11
Half action: Compel: [roll1]+5 (Treshold 17) and relative WP [roll2]
Half action: Er... Is there somewhere I could maybe possibly take cover behind?

Also, Sarah should be able to see me again, I would imagine. I'd appreciate a bit of cover in the right place, if it's not too much of an inconvenience. :smalltongue:

That is, of course, if I don't kill myself with those power rolls...:smalleek:

[bluntpencil]

When Marcus communicates with the young girl, she stops crying, if only for an instant, and he can feel her voice in his head. It's musical, without actual words. It's like an orchestra, communicating ideas without the blunt, unsophisticated use of something as mundane as mere language...


Opposed Willpower, with your bonus from earlier, to prevent her reading your mind. You can choose to allow her to, if you wish.


Marcus, on being held in awe by the power of the girl, and being very concerned with her safety, hasn't fully escaped the madman that was trying to attack him earlier. Having spotted the young Imperial Psyker, the insane swordsman charges, hoping to spill his blood across the dancefloor.


Charge Attack
[roll0]
Damage(Tearing)
[roll1] or [roll2]


Marcus doesn't spot what Sarah does, either. The Beast, having done tearing into the few nobles left standing in the open, turns its fell gaze on the ganger making a swift exit.


Fear check at -10 please!


As it charges at her on its horrific, arachnoid legs, its path is blocked when something drops from a balcony above. No, not something. Someone. A darkened form, previously hidden, lands in front of it in a crouch, sword gripped in two hands. Wulfgar, First Blade of the Brethren of the Emperor's Light stands before it, and hacks into its unnatural limbs with righteous fury, severing two in his first frenzied assault!

[ellna]

Sarah's lips curled, snarling behind her shaded visor, Marcus' refusal burnt in her ears. Disbelief was compounded as the wyrd leapt through reality again. The growing itch that ran up her spine was becoming hard to ignore, she could already imagine the bolt shell from Alexei's barrel. Exploding, tearing, shredding. Failure. Terror began to claw through her veins fouling the heady elation. Where was Marcus, her eyes flicked towards the stage following his words. His words. He should be following her words. It had been a mistake to dose him with that warped concoction, the kid needed a shove, but like a chained dog it had to be kept on leash.

Sarah finally noticed the beast, it's sudden approach dragging her to focus on it as it exploded into her vision. It filled her sight with it's chittering charge, so many claws. Each glistening in her mind, each edge dripping with fresh blood. She stopped. Fascinated with the instrument of death, the instrument of her death. This was the end of her song, the terrible certainty rooted her feet to the ground. Terror bloomed in her mind, as in vivid flashes she saw her body rent apart.

Then the emperor's angel leapt from the heavens, vivid slashes followed. Wulfgar's assault weaving a new symphony. Sarah yet lived, saved once again by the grace of the Emperor. A smile grew once again on her lips. She couldn't die, she wouldn't die... the dance wasn't over. A giggle broke past her lips and then like a flood laughter poured free. She flung her head back as the hysterics began. Then a hop and a skip back into the ballroom. An imagined waltz formed in her shattered mind and she moved as the laughter urged her. She didn't have a partner to this dance, instead she had her slug throwers. Her fingers twitched spurting bullets free, in time to the chaotic music.

Sarah is Willem Dafoe (http://www.yourepeat.com/watch/?v=AeCgjHnGn3I&start_at=300&end_at=330)

[Miraqariftsky]

slag. slag. SLAG! Slagslagslagslagslag...! Jam the whole damned lot of yeh! Ye slag-assed punk! Came Sgt Rochelle's stream of internal invective as she sagged against a bedroom wall. They'd been instructed by Lord Asin to pick up his son for a function...

...and it seemed he and his friends began their party a little too early. Coulda been Slaught by the colour of their blood, but definitely Spook by the miasma in the air. The miasma that had left three and a half princeling fops in a mad, mangled goop on the once-opulent bedspread, their juices dripping into the rich carpets, seeping into the floor, soon to seep into the ceiling, into the floor in the floor in the floor below.

The blue-haired Guard vet wiped at her mouth and started. Didn't know when she'd stopped vomiting. Or gnawing on her carbine's stock, for that matter. Breath rasping, didn't know she'd been sucking on the brass aquila about her gun's handle. Spat. Dry-heaved. Took a healthy swig of cold, cold Gorsk. Heaved again.

How the WARP could this be stranger, worse, than old, damned FENK? Good bloody Tholl!

Dully she's aware of the charging handle locked back, and... the light, empty magazine of her Hacker Creeder 5.7 carbine. Cordite in the air. Smoke from her muzzle. Her muzzle.

Damned muties. Damned heretics. Damned nobs! WARP, the gorram GREENSKINS were more honest than these buggers! The hell was I taken off-guard! Slag mah sorreh ass! CUSHY CONTRACT mah gorram arse!

Knuckles on wood panelling. Rapping, rapping harder. A ringing in her ears. A ringing in her pocket. Hand-vox... how her hand fumbled...

...the message was received. She allowed herself a chuckle, coughed into a choke. Reloaded. Opened the door. Enough of a crack to let her mates see the heresy behind her.

"Roughnecks. Old contract, terminated. New contract... remember THOSE guys from the ship? Yeah. Look sharp. We're now in enemy territory. Even moreso'n usual. Hah. Frak. Move out."

~~~~

House Asin took notice, soon enough. Jim stayed behind... His comrades knew he'd bought the farm when they heard the telltale boom of an intentionally overloaded hellgun drowning out the zealous soldier's scream.

By various ways, jacking cars, stowing on trains, hopping on trucks, the remaining members of Rochelle's Roughnecks slowly made their way away from their former employer.

Downhive to the rendezvous coordinates given by Lieutenant Yarach...

~~~~

...he may be our new commander, but definitely no slouching VIP. came Rochelle's thoughts as she watched him mow down another wave of deranged heretics with his trusty Vanaheim as their joint assault group advanced on the downstairs of their target area.

A glint in a balcony beyond. Thankful for being short, and in a better urban camo suit than the radiant-robed Lieutenant, she swung her command laspistol up and took the heretic sniper out.

~~~~

Thirteen-strong, their reinforced merc outfit had been, at the rendezvous, just before beginning the assault on Ten Spire's guts. Now they were down to eight.

Beanie, well, he had moxie, but, the flyin' frak ya don't charge a warp-gunner with just knives. Damned daft Landrian. Nameless, frakker had ta be put down, didn't have Tholl's steel in his soul, turned coat, shot Myx an' Johnny Gale an' her li'l bro Jordan.

Slagger'd spun on his heel and the dependable old lard-bucket slammed a tri-barrel of Volgite justice down the bastard traitor's craw. Rochelle had then rushed over to those he'd tagged. Jordy's armour took the brunt, thank Tholl. Myx got her right arm blown off at the elbow, seen to swift enough, with prayer, booze, thank Tholl for lasfire's flash-burns, and a quick tending to with her battered old medkit. Good thing she's a southpaw. Gale got right proper ventilated through the gut. Refused the synthskin, just took duct-tape an' volunteered to go rearguard.

Was too far, too slow. Dammit, Rox! ShiiiiiiiYEHT. Gettin' old, West! Gettin' old! BASTARD! Rochelle grit her teeth and issued rally and redeployment orders via both hand-signs and commbeads, "Tholl rack ye, ya slackers! Keep sharp! Blooders, outer diamond, blunt 'em. Silvers, inner diamond, cover 'em. Roughnecks, core, cap 'em. COME ON, ya slackers!"

~~~~

She was down one ratty, much-holed coat, now. Thank Tholl the carapace cuirass, now much-scored and much-scorched, had held firm.

They were down now to her three Roughnecks, one Silver--- a machinegunner like Jordy--- and four True Blooders. Those were some damned sharp blade bitches, an' no mistake. They moved like quicksilver, flowing from shadow to shadow, always grinning, joking with those quiet, quiet voices of theirs. They were all jacked in crisp silver and sable, greatcoat-tails like cog-crows' wings, their hair done all tucked away beneath their well-fitted helms. Shots were always a crisp Maccabbean Drill, two in the chest, one in the head. Even their stabs and smashes were quick and clean.

"Sir!" Rochelle barks, in acknowledgment of Yarach's order, grinning as she blew at her pistol's muzzle, having summarily executed several power strips on a hunch, glad that her paranoid intuition had paid off, despite not fully understanding--- and gladly so--- one whit of the shyet of the machinery that their commander had proclaimed heretical.

She nods at Jordan and says, "Hose 'em down."

Making her way to the currently most vocal of their captives, the Guard vet with a medkit slung among her gear sneers and, dialling its power down just right, presses her laspistol to the heretic's bound hands and pulls the trigger.

Rochelle marches back to Yarach's side, putting a lho to her lips. The igniter's little flame sets bluish smoke swirling through some stray strands of her blue fringe just as her brother's heavy stubber executes the heretical machines Yarach had commanded be destroyed.

[bluntpencil]

What's left of the resistance to the Lieutenant and his new subordinate is easily crushed.

Rochelle's gangers and mercs are quick to shoot, but slower in taking captives. Too risky, right?

No?

To hell with it, just shoot them, we aren't paid to ask questions.

Are we even getting paid?

Dammit, purge first, worry about salaries later - we're doing the Throne's work!

The theme of conversation is somewhat worried regarding such, but they are loyalist servants of the Throne, or gangers with something to prove. The Inquisition are coming down hard, and it won't do to look like frakking cowards right about now. Not when their head honchos were right in the thick of it, keeping an eye on things.

Sure, yeah, they could pop the Captain and his Lieutenant in the back, but nobody even has the guts to think that, never mind say it.

Things are already in motion, a friendly-fire incident like that wouldn't save anyone's ass, and those two would probably just take any bullet you shot 'em with and force you to eat it, if rumours were to be believed.

So, yeah, they push on, confidence building as they gun down stoned-as-all-hell noble layabouts, their fine clothes covered in obscura stains, reeking of booze. These are obviously the ones that the families cared little for. Third sons, the slow, the overweight, the ugly, the ones whose family trees' lack of diversity served up too many genetic problems. The losers.

Eventually, they reach what looks like, well, a really crappy command centre. There are vid-screens everywhere, old and poorly maintained, playing various episodes of the soap opera discovered earlier. Some of the screens are burst, smoking ruins, as, very obviously, water pipes have burst and sprayed them, thanks to Yarach's sabotage. Most, however, remain active, playing backwards...

A young man, sits on a revolving chair, spinning slowly. His hair appears to be one of those big, powdered wigs that stereotypical nobles wear in those vid-dramas about the upper class. He has that whole look about him, with the buckled shoes, the brocade coat, the silk scarf. That chubby, upper class twit look.

Of course, this all doesn't quite match the fact that he's almost hidden by a haze of purple smoke, being puffed from one of those unnecessarily large pipes that are popular for both lho and obscura. He lounges back, and it's hard to tell if he even registers your presence...


Unless rebreathers are put on, I'd like two Toughness tests, please, for the cocktail of drugs he's smoking.

Toughness tests are at +20, since you're passively smoking. Also, an extra +10 if you have Carouse trained.

[Urist]

Yarach marches forward at a slow, steady pace, his footfalls echoing the staccatto bursts of lasfire and occasionally solid rounds flying in a stream from the wedge of mercenaries he commands. The death has, at this point, become somewhat monotonous; these empty, corrupted nobles had little in the way of competent combat routine and challenge about them, and with well-trained back-up, Yarach barely had to worry about being injured. The red light of the D'laku's shots lends a hellish cast to the faces of the heretics falling before him, and for a moment, Yarach imagines what it must be like for them. Drugged up beyond all recognition because its the only way to cope with being the useless second son, fat, ugly, and facing what must to them look like avenging angels? To know that you were about to die, far from the grace of the Emperor, damned for eternity? He quickly tasks his cortical processor to squash these subroutines, however.

When he reaches the slovenly commander, the urges to both laugh and shout angrily are near overwhelming. This... fat, useless, meatbag thought that it could defile the sacred silicon, perpetuated vile heresy, and couldn't even be bothered to act competently? Drawing his Valentine, he takes aim at the back of the nobleman's head, gesturing to his compatriots to do the same, although they are not to shoot until Yarach speaks the command. As he does, he speaks, his vox-caster carrying over the muted back-play of that horrid program.


"Statement: these ones are members of His Most Holy Emperor's Inquisition. In the name of the Omnissiah, the Emperor, and this unit's immortal soul, execute action: surrender. Objects: hands should be on object: head. Any failure to comply will be met with force. Does this unit understand?

He motions again, with his other hand, to the other squad members to don respirators, if they have them. Yarach's respirators, being built into his face, are already active, trying to scrub the toxins present out of the air.

Toughness:[roll0] vs. 65 (45 base+20 from implants)
Toughness 2:[roll1] vs. 65 (45 base+20 from implants)

Readying an action to, if he makes a hostile movement, shoot him in the back of the head with the Valentine. Full action aiming(20) +10(Accurate)+Red Dot sight(10)+Close Range(10)=40, -10 Called Shot for head=30, so 75 to hit, 1d10+4, Pen 4, Accurate, which, unless you rule differently, Blunt, we have been playing as adding extra damage dice even for pistols.

[roll2] TN: 75

[roll3]

Accurate Dice(Potential)-

[roll4]
[roll5]

Emperor's Fury:

[roll6] TN: 75
[roll7]
[roll8]
etc.

[Strawberries]

Marcus' first reaction is, instinctively, to slam his shields down, to avoid the intrusion in his mind. However, he forces himself to relax and grant her access - if he wants her to follow him, he has to show her he can be trusted, and Marcus knows from personal experience that the worst mistake he could make with another telepath, especially one as powerful as that, is trying to hide his thoughts.

He is so focused on trying to communicate with the other psyker that he doesn't notice the man from before charging at him until it's too late. He tries to look for an escape, but he is too close, and advancing too fast. Fear shoots through his mind, amplified from the psychotropic drug, and with it the thought, only partially rational, that he has to do something, stop him, now, before it's too late. Awkwardly, Marcus reaches for his sword, dimly aware that it's too late already.

Right. Worth a try.
It's completely unconscious on his part, of course, but I'm hoping that the little girl will pick on his mental urgency and putting some of that nice otherwordly powers to use.

Marcus himself is drawing his sword (move action) and attempting to hit, but I'm perfectly aware that I'm slightly too late for that, so I won't bother to roll unless you tell me to.

[bluntpencil]

You only used a Half-Action last turn...

I'd say that Marcus has time to draw his sword, as he was aware of the swordsman.

However, he has no time to attack, but can go for a Parry.


Marcus draws his sword as the man charges, half of his brain trying to talk to the child, the other half trying to remember what to do with this, now surprisingly heavy, piece of steel in his hand...

[Strawberries]

Okay then, thanks.:smallsmile:

My rulebook is in my other pants literally in another country tight now, so I can't look up the rules, but I'll go out a limb and say it's a d100 roll, right?

[roll0]. Weapon skill is 31, if it helps

[bluntpencil]

Marcus raises his blade, eyes shut as he near-panics. Time slows...

He can still hear music. Why can he still hear music?

Boom, a gong, cymbal, or drum?

No, impact of steel on steel, driving him onto one knee. Then, before he even opens his eyes, he feels something wet spatter upon his face. Something warm.

His eyes open, to see that one of the mutants, with a half-mechanical, half-flesh claw, has bisected the naval swordsman at the waist, his blade clattering to the ground. Blood, of course, sprays everywhere, soaking him through.


Fear test at +20 bonus, due to the shock of the violence. The bonus is due to the psyker's calming effects, and also because you just avoided death.

[ellna]

Sarah continues to twirl, whipping her feet around as the dances deeper into the carnage. Blood laps at her armour clad feet and the aroma of burning flesh, from twisted las weapons, snakes beneath her helmet. The symphony continues, but with purpose. Wulfgar had the beast, Marcus had the psyker and from a quickly snatched glance; she could see the primitive mutants had been bent to task. The dilettante who had spoken earlier still had judgement waiting to be served. So as Sarah skipped across the theatre of blood she searched for the star role...

Half Action: Sarah Moves back into the fun house. She's keeping her eye out for the one who made the initial speech at the beginning of the party. Examples have to be made after all. Can't be letting people slip-away...

[Strawberries]

Marcus draws back from the blood, startled, on the verge of panic for a second, until he realises what must have happened. The girl, it had surely been the girl. He doesn't thank her, but his gratitude is nonetheless clearly perceivable in his mind. She has saved his life after all.

He gets on his feet, unsteadly, and tries to assess the distance that separate him from the psyker. If she controls the mutants, somehow (and Marcus doesn't want to think of the sheer amount of power that it takes, when he has tried and failed to do the same on one not five minutes ago), then it might be safe for him to approach. Those chains seem easy enough to break.

Can you move? I'm trying to get near you, would you be able to help me? I want to take you out of here he projects towards her.

In his attempt to complete the task, he hasn't noticed either Sarah or Wulfgar "Ma'am" he voxes now"Can you hear me? I will be getting the girl and clearing the room, ma'am."

Wrapping things up: the plan is getting near the girl, breaking her chains, grabbing her and getting the hell out of there. If she doesn't do him a favour and frees herself, of course, which would be immensely appreciated :smalltongue:.

[bluntpencil]

Sarah finds the hostess of the party, lying on the ground, clawing at her face, burnt by las-shot. She whimpers as Inquisitor Jackal stands over her, but something else draws her attention...

Wulfgar continues to battle the beast, slicing off a third leg, and a fourth, causing it to collapse, off-balance, onto the ground. He lifts his sword to finish it, but, he's just not strong enough to parry the blow that it makes to defend itself.

Its upper body strikes at him with a claw, slamming into his chest, sending his Saint-blessed sword flying toward the entrance. He, himself, is launched into the air, cartwheeling over smashed tables, and smashing into a low hanging chandelier above Marcus.

It falls, shattering on the mutant which saved him, Wulfgar landing in the horrible pool of blood on the marble floor... atop the sword wielded by the maniacal naval lieutenant...

And with that, the Captain arrives, his voice projected by the loudspeakers on six or seven Lockshields.

"Everyone on tha - sh*t! Shoot that thing!"

The Beast is unable to advance on the Arbitrators, who advance quickly, but not quickly enough to cause them to slip in the blood near-flooding the place, and blast it with multiple shotgun rounds, putting it out of its misery. A man, seemingly dragged along with them, wears the uniform of the Bronzecoat Enforcers, and flinches as their guns go off right next to him.

Alexei stamps forward, advancing on Marcus, the girl, and the mutants - who have all parted way, and allowed the young psyker to come to the girl's assistance. The mutants would be helping her escape, if they didn't have to deal with Wulfgar, who is once again on his feet, Throne knows how.

One is decapitated in an instant, another impaled on the backhand, leaving two standing, one of which bursts into flames when struck by an Inferno bolt fired from Captain Britanov's pistol. It falls off the balcony, screaming with what one would imagine a cello would sound like if it could cry out in agony.

When Alexei arrives at the piano, to back up Wulfgar, his pistol returns to his magnetic holster, replaced by his crackling, experimental shock maul. He looks at it, a sceptical look on his face, and gestures at the last mutant with his chin. Wulfgar has the honour, and he disembowels the monstrosity, which sounds like a violin being played until the strings snap.

...but he doesn't stop.

Marcus can see that the pupils of his eyes are now crimson. The sword in his fists is not his sword. It's the one wielded by the man who lay in two halves upon the dancefloor.

He marches forward, eyes on the girl, sword raised, hungry for blood...

...until Alexei slams his maul into the piano, releasing her.

"Aight. Let's go!" his voice thunders from the loudspeakers.

"The witch must die. The Emperor requires her blood," growls the First Blade.

Alexei responds, in his typical manner, this time with the speakers deactivated, "Piss off. Tha Emperor wants her soul - she'll be goin' on tha Black Ships wi' tha rest."

And with that, the First Blade attacks. The child screams in terror as the daemon sword slams into Alexei's shield, its powers having little use on one such as he. She screams more, at having never seen anything as terrifying as these two men battling in front of her. But she screams the most, and Marcus knows this as she is still in his mind, albeit quieter, because, right now, there is nothing her powers can do to stop them.

The Captain could block the first attack, but the second slams into his helmet, staggering him. He swings his maul, lightning arcing behind it, but can't strike a blow.

Again, Wulfgar attacks, somehow energised by his weapon. He attacks, again and again, and blood can be seen dripping from the Captain's helmet, and the joints in his armour.

Alexei is obviously not faring too well - Wulfgar is a much better swordsman, it's obvious. That being said, even the First Blade can't seem to slow the Captain. He just seems to make him angry.

Of course, bad luck screws over Captain Britanov. He swings with the maul, which Wulfgar ducks, causing it to slam into a column with a deafening crack. Sarah's overcharging had, admittedly, made it more powerful... but had also caused it to explode, leaving Alexei on the floor at the balcony's edge.

Wulfgar stalks forward, sword pointed at Alexei, stunned on the deck, trying to right himself and get to his feet. His shield is falling, bouncing down the side of the Hive Spire. He shakes his head, not seeing the sword coming down on him...

...which doesn't land.

From the sidelines, as Marcus scoops up the child and tries to move her away, he can see the Bronzecoat prisoner, hands manacled to his front, staring at the young musician, lifting Wulfgar's blessed sword, and charging forward, to the aid of the Captain, his own jailer.

Wulfgar spins, and blocks the blow, but loses his footing in the blood as a horrific scream wails out when the holy sword connects with the cursed one. He staggers back, and pauses for just a moment, his eyes returning to normal.

"Please, sto-" he begins to plead, before he's cut off by a bolt shell slamming into his chest, throwing him, sword and all, off the balcony into the darkness below.

Captain Alexei Britanov, Terror of Volg Hive, obviously didn't need some traitor's permission to shoot him.

[ellna]

Sarah finishes her macabre dance with a pirouette, ejecting empty clips as she stands over the hostess. The land with a metallic ring, dulled slightly by the layer of blood coating the floor. Smoke rising from her barrels swims about her as she regards her latest catch. Sarah delivers a swift kick to her wounded prey, heavy carapace boots delivering blessed unconsciousness. The pitiful wretch wasn't likely to enjoy the process of waking up, however.

Her prize secured, Sarah pulled out Amadeus. The butcher's work had been done, now the requiem mass began. She stepped towards Wulfgar, her legs crossing over as she moved to music only she could hear. The beast legs were decimated, she stepped back her feet carrying her in a dance. Then the beast struck, she watched Wulfgar's last flight with a certain curiosity. The emperor's angel had flown too high it seemed.

Then the cavalry arrived, the booming voice of Alexei rang out and she tore free of her helmet. Allowing the full force of the massed shotgun booming retort to roll through her ears. As beast was mulched into a loose tangle of meat, Sarah grinned. She bowed, sweeping low her arm as Alexei marched past. Her dance for now was over...

As Wulfgar and Alexei slew the mutants orchestra, their sweet music continued in Sarah's mind. Each death adding the instrument to the ghostly choir at her back. It all seemed very normal to her. She turned to Wulfgar's spectre, the bloody gash apparent in his chest from where he had fell on the khornate blade. She smiled warmly at the apparition, and watched the scene unfolding before her as though it were a holo-vid. The heretical blade and it's flesh puppet dancing the last tango with Alexei.

"Aw looks like Cap'n's sweet on the kid."

"Parry, Parry. Thrust!"

"Come on' Gut him."

"Ah' you've got him on the ropes now."

"Well I didn't see that one coming."


Sarah laughs as Alexei's bolt round punches through Wulfgar, and she turns to share a smile with the man himself standing beside her. Only to see what everyone else did. No-one stood beside her. She had been watching Wulfgar and Alexei battle with almost child-like glee. Amadeus cradled in her arms, not at the ready. She turns bewildered for a second looking for the mutant band behind her, but found only empty spaces where the delusions of her mind no longer stood. Her smile slowly faded, as the real world encroached.

Hallucinations are fun. Am'I'Right

[Strawberries]

Marcus watches the captain fightin with Alexei in a horrified fascination, keeping the little child behind himself in an attempt, perhaps vain, to shield her from the effect of the blank.

He snaps out of it after everything's over and Alexei is left standing, bleeding. Bleeding too much, and while there's nothing that Marcus can do for him psychically (he doesn't even want to imagine what would be like to try and use his power on him), he's still his commanding officer and Marcus is still trained in first aid.

"Sir" he starts hesitantely, approaching, bracing himself for the painful sensation that always accompains being in close contact with Alexei "Let me have a l-look at those wounds, sir."

Well, I knew I had medicae for a reason.

If Alexei doesn't tell him to sod off, Medicae on him [roll0] vs a base of 36.

[bluntpencil]

Alexei staggers to his feet, to find the psyker offering him medical assistance.

"Piss off downstairs, help some idiot that needs it, then get washed. An' gimme the kid. She's goin' ta Holy Terra ta see the big man hisself."

He sways a little, shakes his head, cracks his back, and walks over to Sarah, patting her on the back all too roughly.

"Not bad."

He lights up a smoke, and then pauses, realising he's forgotten something. He points the lho-stick at the man who saved him,

"I was gonna have you shot, y'know? Yer execution is deferred. Tha promise o' payment ta yer family will be kept in full, wi' a ten percent increase, and will continue along those lines, so long as I say so, fer so long as yer execution remains deferred, an' you report in as ordered.

Failure ta me, or ta tha Imperium, results in some damned horrific sh*t.

Am I understood, Acolyte?"

The man nods as Alexei snatches the sword from him, and tosses it to Marcus. He manages to whimper, just a little.

"I just wanted to help save the child."

He promptly shuts up when the Captain cuffs him about the ear.


---

Meanwhile, Rochelle and Yarach, for the most part, get their rebreathers on in time. Yarach feels something strange in the back of his mind, but he retains control - just. He can feel strange sensations on his fingertips. He gets the impression that his combat webbing and gun holsters hold so much more...

But this impression is, of course, ignored, when the fat noble begins to chant in an unearthly tone...

Yarach, not being a complete dunce, recognises this as a threat, and blasts a hole in the back of his skull, the las-shot setting the perfumed wig alight in the process.

Rochelle and company join in, blasting full auto, wiping out the vid screens in under a second.

Smoke, and darkness, fill the room, as the Captain crackles down the comm...

"You idiots done yet?!"

[ellna]

Sarah accepts the whack on the back with her inane grin. Her face like a puppy in a freshly ploughed graveyard. The smile was only on the surface though, beneath the skin the slaught still pumped through her. Heightening the unpleasantness that was the Captain's very presence, it felt as though fire itself crawled within her skin. Her pupils dilated beyond natural reason struggled to narrow, looking beyond Alexei. Watching Marcus, with intense mistrust. Sarah forced herself to meet Alexei's gaze, barely long enough to give a hasty report.

"Party crashed. The one with the burnt face over there was the one hosting. I reckon she's still breathing, I didn't kick her too hard. Thought you might want to ask her stuff, maybe make an example. Marcus... performed."

Sarah can't quite bring herself to say 'well' so her words just suddenly end. She clicks her heels, in a mocking of military order, swings a salute and scurries away from Alexei. She stays close enough to Marcus, that the witch knows her eyes see him and proceeds to set to work rummaging through the pockets of the dead. Credit wafers, jewels, illicit substances and fine duelling weapons all disappearing into Sarah's possession. Like a jackal she picks through the carrion, the irony of her namesake not lost on her.

Sarah performs the dance of looting. Staying as close to Marcus as possible while staying as far from Alexei as possible. Always between the two if possible.

[Urist]

Shaking, Yarach shuts down any portions of cortex which feel tainted by the spread of the drug, focusing all of his substantial mental acuity on maintaining a lock on the nobleman's head. The fat slob's chanting prompts an immediate response, and Yarach pulls the trigger with no hesitation. As the mercenaries open fire, he opens a comm-line to Alexei, eager to report success and receive his marching orders.


"Vox transmission: Lieutenant Yarach:begin. Mission status: complete, successful, threat neutralized. Casualties: 5. Prisoners: 3. Vid-tapes: all but one destroyed. Ringleader capture: not possible. Was outcome status: successful for the second team? Is assistance needed, over?"

He adds, as a quiet aside:
"Unit Rochelle Assessment:Favorable. Combat response excellent, orders followed. What is the status of Unit Rochelle and company? Can this one add this unit to List:Friendlies?"

[Strawberries]

Marcus stops immediately when Alexei orders him to, without advancing any further. He tries not to show that he is relieved that he doesn't have to touch him "Of course, sir" he answers, and if there has been a second of hesitation, it has been all but imperceptible. "Sir... p-please don't stand too close to her." It's doubtful Alexei would care enough to actually listen to him, but it's something he has to say "It hurts us when you do."

That said, he walks back to the little girl, trying to act reassuring, both with his expression and, most importantly, with his thoughts. "You have to go with the Captain" he says. He has no idea of how to talk to a child. "He'll take you where you are supposed to go." He gives the girl a gentle little push towards Alexei, then steps back, trying to stay as far away from Sarah as possible.

In theory, this could get messy. Marcus is afraid of Alexei, and she'll probably pick that up quite easily. HOWEVER, he's also got the ironclad certainty that what he's doing is the only option and the absolutely right thing to do, so she'll probably pick THAT up as well. :smallwink:

[bluntpencil]

"I know what I'm doin'," grunts the Captain, grabbing the child by the shoulder, in a very poor attempt at being gentle.

She promptly faints, and he catches her, picking her up.

"Her safe transportation ta Terra is now this mission's number one priority. She'll be off-planet within twelve hours, or heads will r-..."

He stops, and looks around.

"...more heads will roll."

[Miraqariftsky]

No time to scratch the itch at the back of her neck. Time enough for that, later. Cradled in her hands once more are her bullpup Creed carbine as she covers Yarach's back, the tac-light sweeping down corridors and tunnels, expanding rounds ripping apart those trying to swarm the lieutenant from behind.

Aix, her command laspistol, rests at her right thing's holster, reserving its precision power for when it's truly needed. It seems this sector of their sweep has run its course of its heavyweight warriors, but still, one never can truly tell. A child's fingers, or a lard-ass inbred living slag-dump's fingers could as easily pull a trigger. Skilled or lucky, bleeding is still bleeding and death is still death. Rochelle absently pats the reassuring weight of her medkit, one thumb running along the battered old Aquila on the cracked leather bag's side.

Her nose tingling to the cocktail of chemicals in the room beyond, Rochelle was already securing her respirator's straps, inwardly cursing herself for having been careless enough to have not gotten it on sooner. With a veteran soldier's efficiency, she'd checks the apparatus' efficiency in the same breath that she checks the load of her current gun.

Command center? Cul de sac? ******* in the center? Still can't be too certain. Two apiece of her--- their ---crew to each of their paltry captives, then she jabs a finger at Slagger and Kyra Rez, one of their True Blood colleagues, then points towards the opposite ends of the corridor that had led to what passes for the heretics' command center.

Always good to watch one's b---

---Creed in hand. The lieutenant already readin' the heretic boss his charges, a Valentine covering his dome, but... chanting? WARP, no.

Rochelle dives for the nearest cover behind a cogitator stack, finger already squeezing the trigger even as Yarach--- and their whole group, apparently--- carry out the boss' sentence, delivered at full auto.

Her ears ringing with the gunfire, Rochelle reloads her rifle, knocks on her helmet to call her troopers' attention and hand-signs an interrogative Sitrep? All okay?