The Ocularian Conspiracy IC

[Henry the 57th]

Scintilla, Hive Tarsus, 5433976.M41

High, high in the clouds, far above the hive city where the teeming masses toil for the glory of the God Emperor, lies the Sibylline Spire. The origin of its name long since forgotten, this gleaming edifice of Imperial architecture has long been a playground for the wealthy, the decadent, the bored, and the unhealthily curious. Tonight is no exception, as modest-sized crowd of well-dressed, oft-masked aficionados of all thing strange, hideous, and forbidden are gathered before an immaculately polished pair of silver doors. Whispering, gossiping, feuding, and making covert arrangements, the two-hundred strong gathering awaits the formal start of the night's soiree with an unusual degree of patience - something special must be on offer. As the planet's sun dips slowly below the horizon, visible in the vast armorglass portals running along both edges of the reception hall, their patience is at last rewarded. With only the slightest of shuddering squeaks, the doors before the crowd slide gracefully open.

Within, spread out over an open ballroom to match the largest cathedral, is a gloriously heretical panoply of the wonderous, the grotesque, the risqué, and the outright bizarre. Encased within a neat arrangement of hardened display shelves, armorglass cubes, and even the occasional stasis casket are a bewildering array of tomes, tablets, blades, guns, pottery, statuary, xenos flesh, jewelry, carved images of snarling beasts, actual snarling beasts, suits of inhuman-proportioned armor, crystalline star charts of unknown skies, shattered fragments of strange stone, and much, much more. As the first waves of the would-be owners of this tainted bounty filter in to the richly appointed auction room, treading almost noiselessly on the lush crimson carpeting, it becomes apparent that there is a method to the sprawling madness.

The displays that are spread out throughout the vast enclosure can be loosely separated into four distinct categories. Right at the front of the room, and most visibly striking of all, is the array of alien flesh, both dead and alive. Snarling grey canids with oddly avian faces and black quills running down their backs snap up at the intruding humans from their chains in a deep pit. Preserved hides of all colors and textures are spread out throughout a dozen cases and wracks, many fashioned into elegant coats and gowns, precious gems twinkling delicately amongst the alien flesh. Mounted heads and stuffed corpses abound, from fanged greenskin maws wide enough to swallow a man's head whole to strange chitinous, hunched grey creatures with a dozen compound eyes. Spherical cages hold glittering, golden insects constantly emitting a low hum, dripping tiny amounts of some faintly fluorescent blue fluid. Other such orbs are filled with a deep green water, in which float odd creatures resembling some combination of crustacean and cephalopod, running their long feelers endlessly over its surface as if probing for weakness. Towering over them all is a truly hideous monster from the cold void, white of flesh and armored in purple carapace. Mantis-like thorny limbs sprout out of its back, complimented by a long pair of muscular arms terminating in vicious red claws. Easily twice the height of a man, cold, unblinking black eyes stare down from the xenos monstrosity's tentacled face at the debutantes trickling by. The crystal clear armorglass of its display case offers a spectacular view of this starring attraction, drawing more than a few appreciative nods and mutterings from the assembled upper crust. It looks certain to fetch a high price tonight.

While the remaining objects for sale lack the sheer panache of the assembly of xenos specimens, alive and otherwise, they are no less heretical for it. To the left of the alien displays are a collection of writings, some in gothic but most not, inscribed, carved, and even tattooed onto a wide variety of materials. Clay tablets bearing unreadable alien hieroglyphics sit freely next to thin metal sheet bearing high gothic hymnals, books visibly bolted shut adorn cabinets beside scraps of what appears to be poorly tanned leather proclaiming the imminent end of all things. To the right lies a veritable treasure trove of armor and weaponry, much of it clearly not intended for the human form. A nearly complete suit of scrap armor adorning a facsimile of a roaring greenskin towers above an almost delicate-looking chestplate and helmet adorned in bright yellow and blue. A trio of of flawlessly flowing crystalline spears adorns a display case next to a brass and silver dagger cut into the shape of a teardrop. Fine master-crafted bolters bearing inscriptions in a language none can read are arrayed beside blocky energy weapons of an imminently practical design.

To the rear of the ballroom sits perhaps the most curious display of all. Rather than flesh or arms or knowledge, this particular trove of the forbidden appears dedicated to nothing more than sheer aesthetics. Jet-black statues of writhing alien figures share space with bejeweled dragon's heads. A series of bronze gyroscopes swirl endlessly around nothing, around a small image of a thin alien, or around a miniature globe constantly shifting its color palate. Half a dozen smooth, pearly-white devices of unknown providence rest atop a violet and gold tapestry depicting a shrieking phoenix emerging from blazing warpfire. Among these many curios can be found a simple figure of mirroring crystal, perfectly polished to an immaculate sheen, encased in an artistic rendition of a swirling flock of doves forged from ivory and gold. From Inquisitor Tyrus's descriptions of it, there can be no doubt that this is the Window of Ages, the true reason for the agents' presence here tonight, the one item they are ordered to retrieve at all costs.

As the assembled crowds flitter throughout the vast space, ooohing and aaahing as they pick delicately over the selection of available prizes, servo skulls float high over head. The death's heads announce in monotone machine voices that the initial bidding will begin shortly. The Inquisition's agents will have only a few minutes to look over these foul works and identify the objects on which they intend to bid.

[RedSand]

Dyveke walked ever so slightly ahead of the other acolytes, not wishing to immediately associate herself with them. They were all of perfectly decent houses, of course(save the somewhat eerie cogboy, who Dyveke preferred not to think about), but good auctioneering was about not showing your hand-why should she let everyone know they were all working together? Besides, it befit the role she was dressing for tonight. She sauntered through the crowds in her black knee-high boots, face heavy with dark makeup and a bevy of silver piercings. Her mesh armor, freshly dyed a dark violet, had been clipped in several places around her body-not to keep it in place, of course, but to draw it taut around her body. The pressure of the clips was just enough to make the armor stiffen slightly and seal tight against her skin, as if she'd been issued a can of military-grade body spray. It was profoundly uncomfortable and would've gotten her thrown out of anywhere respectable, but it was certainly attention-grabbing. She completed her look with a little waist belt for her sundries, a black purse replete in skulls, and the pièce de résistance-a rather expensive longjacket she had cut to midriff length years ago.

This was, quite obviously, not the look of any kind of respectable businesswoman, nor was that the part she'd signed up to play this evening. She looked like someone's idiot consort, or a noble wife run amuck, or maybe even the spoiled daughter of someone actually important, if her makeup skills were still that up to snuff. Showing up to any serious event looking like you don't entirely belong there was a gamble, to be certain, but there was something just a little bit unnerving about walking into an auction house looking like you were armed with someone else's money with no absolutely idea what you're doing. It also distanced her from the rest of her cell-when you look like you just showed up to have fun, people don't make much fuss over you chatting up your fellow acolytes. She could mingle freely and not arouse suspicion. And overall it was always nice to be underestimated. Most nobleman already had a very loose concept of respecting women-why bother correcting them when you could be taking advantage?

Dyveke made a token effort to peruse the trophies section-mostly to create the impression that she was shopping for someone else-before getting a through look at the data storage devices on display. Old dusty tomes were of moderate interest to her-a bit of reading material was nice but she craved more practical prizes. She wanted dirt-information on local pirate rings, or the illicit goings-on of a rival trade house, or maybe just a cache of police records that fell out of some clumsy arbite's pocket.

[TankLaser007]

The priest's red Mechanicus robes hung in what looked like strips from it's shoulders, the long slits were by design allowing the mechadendrites full articulation of motion from their cervical and thoracic anchor points. The two stabiliser mechadendrites were concealed beneath the voluminous crimson cloth, entwined round the priest's waist, the claws periodical clicking open and closed in self maintenance joint and lubrication rituals.

In addition to the muted, rhythmic metallic clicking was the uniform release of sacred aromatic oils and consecrated fluids the aerosol mist was ejected into the air from the censer mounted over H3X's left shoulder, the system was self-contained and most efficacious cycling the mixture of oils and blessed fluids ejecting them through the electro-heated censor and reabsorbing particulate residue from the air via an esoteric intake, the entire system was much like the respiration of organics. The only approximation of normal breath left to the heavily augmented scion of Mars.

From the same shoulder a long snake like appendage lulled lackadaisically to and fro possessing an assortment or archaic and inscrutable tools, needle like protrusions, blades, strange whirring keys and spikes and clasping pincers all diminutive but with clear intent and purpose. The utility mechadendrite's hypotonic sway was much like that of an old Terran reptile intent on subduing its prey through repeated mind dulling motion.

From the right shoulder a much more active mechadendrite was mounted, there was a barely precipitable sound of whirring as the optical mechadendrite predatorily pivoted, frenetically orienting forward and backward, left and right, even making a circular pass at the ceiling above, pausing momentary on each cyber skull and tracking its orbit before again turning its avaricious attentions to the assorted congregants and curios.

As H3X slowly and deliberately made its way through the crowd it noted the presence of its fellow operatives. For the time it was deemed tactically advantageous not to congregate en-masse, nor actively or openly communicate with one another. Yet they had other means. The priest activated a test pulse of three sustained beeps to the micro beads of those in their cell.

Honing in on the frequency and test tones, the mechadendrite located the first of their cell, ++Subject located, Male, Mathias, House von Drakkan, Scholastica Psykana, Sanctioned, Grade Unknown, Standard Operational Protocol, maintain distance of 5.5 meters at all times, Operational protocol override; if abnormal manifestation of abilities, close distance to 3 meters and initiate pacification counter-measures; Non integrated ocular augmentation present allowing visual functionality sans illumination. Status, within operational norms++

The serpentine cybernetic sharply turned, cutting through the mass of flesh and cloth until it found its next target, ++Subject located, Female, Dyveke, House Atraxes, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum, True Flesh - Auger Array. Status, within operational norms++

++Searching, Subject Male, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum, Flesh is Weak. Status, unknown.++

With most of the cell located H3X turned attentions towards assessment of the security measures in the area, looking for Servitors, weapon emplacements, pict-recorders, monitoring systems, emergency egress points and any organic anti-personnel countermeasures and possible hostiles.

It would be advantageous to subvert or utilise any Servitors or systems in the area, thus the priest began broadcasting its presence to the machine spirits in the vicinity, releasing a binary pulse in regular 60 second bursts as it made its way through the large hall.

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++Hail the Omnissiah! He is the God in the Machine, the Source of All Knowledge! The beast of metal endures longer than the flesh of men. Those that tend the beasts of metal must labour long to learn its ways, for a single beast must suffer the mastership of many men until ready to shed its vorpal coils. Those that seek apprenticeship must attended closely to the runes of mobilisation, the rites of maintenance, and the words-of-power that describe the parts of a beast. Nor must they neglect the tutelage of the Adeptus Prefects, nor the casting of the proper roboscopes. Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X Tech-Priest and Engineseer of Lathe-Het is present to bless and tend to you, present yourself for routine inspection and blessing.++


Having little use for armaments, nor the weak and imperfect abased accursed forms of the wretched xenos H3X turned attentions to the location of their mission objective, having located the item, H3X made note of its precise location and made way towards the collection of data storage, noting the many analogue catalogues it searched the collection for any digital or machine spirit storage devices, keeping a keen 'eye' out for any possible Archeotech or relics of the Adeptus Mechanicus such as STC fragments.

[MrAbdiel]

"I can imagine a universe in which this doesn't get ugly; but I'm unusually imaginative."

In sound-proof quiet of their Hive Tarsus safe-house, only the interior noises filled the room. The clicking and shuffling of boots, and mesh-seals; the tickle-clatter of weapons being assembled after checks; and the growling, muted machine-song of the the party's heavily augmented attaché.
Soren himself contributed with the clickety-buckling of his finely tailored blue greatcoat, with its gilded and hagiographically ornate frogging. This was an operation of his left hand; his right held a fine brush, which delicately painted the dark shadows around his eyes. He used the reflection cast in the enviro-sealed window of their bolt hole, showing him the sunblasted expanse of Tarsus' adjacent desert. Bloody Tarsus.

"There will obviously be high-rollers from underworld wings and most of the clandestine appendages of the Adepta; but I wouldn't be shocked if we weren't the only cell looking to pick up something particular at this soiree. We definitely won't be the only operation who is willing to shed blood rather than let a prize slip away into the dark, again. One of us ought to be with the Mirror at all times; I'll defiantly spend a lot of time in its orbit. But if it all comes apart early - well, you know all know what we're here for."

Nor formally the cell's alpha, the others in the cell would know this kind of presumptuous-but-not-demanding tone is highly common for Soren of House Neibelung. He's made no secret of his desire to go all the way as far as Inquisitorial agents can go; going as far as to suggest, on one drink-fueled after-action session, that he would send them all sentimental pict-cards from Terra, when he takes his place with the High Lords some day. A thick bundle of those unfilled cards comes with him as a talisman of the cell's journey; one showing the magnificent cliff-skirts of Hive Sibellus; one from a less than pleasant mission on Iocanthus... he must have made many of these himself, it seems, since half the places they have been do not have a noble tourism racket sufficient to warrant pict-cards; but he has them, all the same: dog-eared, awaiting smug dispatch from Terra, some day - just moved in across the hall from the Golden Throne; hope things are alright in Fenksworld with you lot...

He thumbs away some of the painted shadow under his right eye to blend away the excess back toward his temple, then glances over his shoulder at H3X.

"...You're really not even going to try for a disguise, are you? Not even as another Machine-Cultist? I feel you don't take the pageantry of our craft seriously."

Blue and gold, he is; his panoply reminiscent of a naval officer of high station and esteem - though it is costume, and not uniform. The colors and style have that evocation; and the delicate golden mask, shaped like an eagle in flight such that its wings wrap around his temples, and its tail shades his nose, marks him as just another monied fool who may well be here for the society more than the contraband. Two cutouts in the mask's wings reveal his eyes, and the painted shadows around them; and he rakes his vision across the hall full of exotic artifacts, and fantastic beasts, and swanning nobles and criminals. He inhales deeply.

"Throne on Terra; it's beautiful..."

Having spent a great deal of time before the doors opened chatting and gossiping with the other hopeful bidders, there's no time to waste when the doors fly apart; and the tall, slender scion of Neibelung glides through the crowd, past so many of the fascinating oddities, towards the one they came for. His three servo skulls zip after him, only occasionally twitching in unison at the binary blurts of H3X across the room, as if tempted to defect toward him. Each is dressed for the occasion as well - all three skulls topped with small, child-sized blue berets which fit perfectly on the fleshless skulls of these fallen servants of the God Emperor. Soren beckons Melchior - the augur skull - up to the fore, and it quietly chirps as it scans the mirror with its senses. It's hopelessly under equipped to discern useful data about such an esoteric item.. but no one else needs to know that. He touches the steel plate on the back of his well-travelled and encrypted dataslate to the matching plate on Melchior's occipital bone, and the machines chime in harmony as data-whispers are exchanged for the master to look at the readout. The taps at the screen a little, and frowns.

"Ah, how disappointing," he says to no one, with the distracted, indiscreet tone one might expect of the self-indulgent wastrels of upper-spire breeding. "But it's a good fake..."

[dojango]

Matthias adjusted his cobalt-blue coat and shifted the thin red sash beneath it. He straightened the handful of decorations pinned to the lapel; he'd picked them up from a cheap pawn-shop a few days before. The last formal affair he'd attended had been General Krol's danse macabre, which had been the last party many people had attended... for a variety of reasons. Before the event, he'd told the others (well, the two other nobles, at least) that they'd do well to identify as many participants here as possible, as well as try and figure out who bought what. Even if Tyrus didn't seem interested in it, Matthias was sure someone would be, even if it was to keep that information secret.


"Throne on Terra; it's beautiful..."

He entered the room next to Soren, trying to keep as far away from the strange tech-priest as possible. When he heard Soren, his arm violently twitched and he dropped his walking staff. He scowled, embarrassed, and recovered it. As he went into main room, he instinctively avoided the most horrible of the xenos, the one with the weird psykic taint. He let his mind wander the room, and then stopped short as he was flooded with a cacophony of information. By the time he recovered his bearings, he made a note of the rival psykers in the room, and saw that they were making a note of him. He'd have to pass that information along to to the tech-priest, in case it were necessary. But first... first he needed a drink.

Drink in hand, he made to take a closer look at the weapons that had displayed psykic energies; such items should really only be in the right hands. His hands, for example. He leaned in closely to examine them, and also to subtly see if any of the other psykers were examining them.

[roll0] v. 55 forbiden lore psyker to see what the deal with those weapons are.

[Henry the 57th]

At the forefront of the cell, as ever on such occasions, Dyveke browses briefly through the xenos hides and heads only briefly before turning towards her true passion - data storage. Regrettably, her perusal of the offerings up for sale uncovers precious little in the way of such immediately available plain information. There were plenty of strange plaques, metal sheets, and leathery hides covered with symbols in unknown tongues, as well as thoroughly-bound shut books with strange names listed as being "of unknown origin", but more practical things are not so easy to find in this auction for the elite. More mundane-looking devices simply lack the sort of fashionable exoticness or thrill of the forbidden that made strange tomes and alien carving so appealing. The closest that she finds is some sort of oddly small, square data slate, bearing an unknown circular symbol in black and white.

While making her way through the display stands, the apparent courtesan has a few instances of polite but distant and brief exchange with those men and women likewise interested in the lure of forbidden lore. Truthfully though, not too many people attempt to chat her up. Her rather gauche outfit, while not entirely beyond the realms of what was acceptable, certainly put her a bit outside the realms of good taste. It wouldn't do to be seen speaking with someone uncouth enough to come dressed like that for too long.

If Dyveke is unpopular with the assembled gentry, H3X is practically a pariah. Being a heavily-augmented tech priest with next to no regard for aesthetics is bad enough, but there's simply something about the red-robed cyborg that gives the surrounding blue-bloods a profoundly uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. Not being especially welcoming at the best of times, the crowd seems to part like waves in an effort to avoid his presence. He experiences precious little difficultly in getting as much space as he would like to pick over the data storage section of the auctions.

Unfortunately for the mechanical clergyman, he swiftly finds himself running into the same issue as the noblewoman. Namely, that this is first and foremost a place for titillation and excitement, and chunky-looking bits of technology simply aren't that exciting for the gathered crowds. The only thing he spots that seems of relevance to the Adeptus Mechanicus among the heretical xenotech and strange carvings is a sheet of metal inscribed with what H3X immediately recognizes as a form of visual binary, though he would need time to decipher the encryption on the data written upon it.

You binary pulses do not reveal any hidden murder servitors or elaborate security systems that are in place to subvert. Not even some hidden security camera observing everyone, just depressingly mundane wailing alarms build into the armorglass of the displays. There are ten servo-skulls making announcements overhead, which you are able to backdoor yourself into, but they are not armed. It's like someone just sort of set up a set of incredibly valuable displays in a rather ordinary ballroom and is relying purely upon the armed meat scattered throughout the room to protect it.

Odd.

Soren, meanwhile, busies himself with the fine art of surreptitious deception. In between his efforts to identify objects of any great worth or interest to himself, he allows it to "slip" that he considers the Window of Ages on display to be a fake, multiple times, within earshot of various crowds of nobles. Naturally, even within such a wide space, such rumors do have a way of spreading, and no one likes to look the fool. When, a few minutes later, he happens to overhear one elegantly-dressed lady tell another that she's quite sure the Window is just a cheap piece of knockoff art, he can be confident that he's made the people more reluctant to put in bids on that item.

While ensuring that deception went out was a little time-consuming, Soren does have a brief window in which to browse the collection of curios towards the far end of the ballroom. Nestled among the many odds and ends which he finds there, he is able to identify a particular black and silvery wave-like sculpture as being anything but. This is an archaeo-tech device of the sort that could, with properly prayers and electro-stimulation, emit a jamming signal capable of cutting off all communications into and out of a variable radios - even those relying on the warp itself. A zone of silence like that could be extremely valuable in the right circumstances.

You made quite a few more rolls than you have time to carry out, honestly, so I just went with the first one.

As to the Window of Ages itself, from your vast mental store of lore, you recall that the first mention of this object comes shortly after the passing of the prophetess Luciana. A holy and devout woman said to be blessed by visions from His Divine Majesty, she lived a quiet life in the deserts of Sentinel, meditating on the glories of the divine, and only occasionally arriving at the sacred Shrine of Saint Drusus to consult with the clergy, providing unerring accurate foretellings of what was to come to their humble world. It is held that she did so only the behest of the Master of Mankind, for she immensely disliked human contact. On her final appearance, she told the faithful matter-of-factly that they would never see her again, and that they should search her distant hut for a blessing. Sure enough, she disappeared so afterwards and is believed to have passed away quietly somewhere in the vast, bleak desert. When some pilgrims took her up on her offer of benediction, her tiny home of stone and hide was found to be bereft of anything of value, save only for this beautiful mirror. Since that time, it has found its way across the Calixis Sector by means unknown, falling into many hands and leaving just as suddenly. They say that mirror contains the spirit of prophetess herself, placed there by the Emperor to deliver glimpses into the future for those that prove themselves worthy.

While all of this is happening, Matthias takes the opportunity to peer over some of the multitude of weapons that are displaying subtle psychic energies, at least for those with the talent to see. Sweeping over the wracks upon wracks of more mundane implements with little more than a casual glance, he finds to his dismay that the psychic aura of the multitude of blades and guns that he attempts to probe for more details are a but more reticent than he would like. Though they clearly shine in the immaterium, closer inspection offers little but confirmation that they are, indeed, psychically active. He does, however, pick out at least three of the five psykers he's identified in the crowd likewise surreptitiously hovering over those blades hat resonant in the warp, under the guise of the ooohing and aaahing that everyone is doing over the exotic curios. All three are obviously dressed in the manner of noblemen, one young with long hair and a charming face, one so heavily augmented that he looks but a few sworn oaths away from joining the priesthood of Sacred Mars, and finally one just looks like a silver-haired, unpleasant old man.

Unfortunately, you find that you can't identify anything meaningful in regards to these items specific psychic resonance or abilities. Perhaps under better conditions, with more time to study.

High overhead, the orbiting servo skulls blare out another warning - one minute remains before bidding is to begin.

[RedSand]

Attempting a smooth recovery from the devastatingly poor selection of knowledge from this century on display, Dyveke would've casually strolled over to the arts section, where she would've made a strong effort to ooooo and aaahhh over every item in the selection, both to commit the bit and to mask her attempt to listen in on prospective buyers. She'd made brief small talk, where she could, to try to gauge interest in the mirror that way as well. And, most importantly, she gazed at the mirror, long and hard, and tried to remember if the little voice in her head had told her anything about a pretty little trinked like that. She assumed it was a warp artifact-a purely historical artifact likely wouldn't require a team of acolytes to escort it, and besides, why else would they have brought along a psyker?


[roll0] Awareness vs 60 to listen in
[roll1] Evaluate vs 64 for a rough estimate of this thing's value
[roll2] Forbidden Lore Warp vs 54

[MrAbdiel]

Soren remains in the orbit of the Mirror, tapping away at his dataslate. Gaspar, the medi-skull, briefly sweeps an unprompted flicker of its strange attention over him; the small light mounted just to the right of its rightmost eyesocket blinks green, confirming that he is indeed still alive and unharmed. Covering his mouth with a hand feigning the action of pensively clasping his own jaw, he subvocalizes into his micro-bead; managing to inject even those restrained tones with trademark playfulness.

{"Looks like no one here appreciates today's inspired wardrobe choices on you, Dyveke. Nevermind. It's tragically Hive Tarsus, but I know a pretty good solarium bar a spire over from our bolthole. I don't see any reason some of our operating budget couldn't be peeled off for miscellaneous expenses. Has anyone found anything they're dying to acquire? I think I can get our objective. I'd be surprised if it went above a fifth of our budget, but I'd like a window of operation up to half atleast, if it ends up as a late item on the bid ticket. If there's anything else you want me to try to nab, tell me now. Fifteen seconds."}

[RedSand]

Dyveke answers her micro-bead cheerily with a flourish, and talks a bit louder then would really be polite. "Yeah, yeah, no everyone here is absolutely feeling my vibes, I'm very seen. No, no, see it's like. I absolutely have enough for a couple things but I don't know if I'm going to buy much. Some of the art is nice but I don't need more then one or two pieces, xeno taxidermy is for nobles who want to pretend to have fought in the guard, they have bolters but like, I only know how to use the pistols so I don't see how that helps me. If I were dumb enough to go looking for old heretical books, I wouldn't go here, because this is straight up like, the least secretive way to buy a thing? People are going to know you grabbed a copy The End Times Weekly or whatever the ****, you literally have to shout about how much you're paying for it. The armor here is mostly ugly, and none of it would fit me so like. Ugh. Kind of a letdown not gounna lie. Maybe I'll doublecheck the live animal section, I've been wanting to get one of those like, tracker dogs. Bio or cyber, I'm sure I can vibe with either. Yeah. Yeah no we can hit up a bar tonight. Yeah. Hold on bidding is starting let me call you back."

[dojango]

Matthias quietly comms into his microbead "There are some weapons that shouldn't be in the hands of the public. I mean, even more so than all the others." He rattles off the lot numbers of the psykically active weapons. "If we can't obtain them, at least we need to identify the buyers so they can be visited later. Also, Master Magos; keep an eye that heavily-augmented man. If anything weird happens, I expect him to be right in the center." The other two psykers were so bland as be impossible to identify more thoroughly. But Matthias tried to maneuver himself so as to keep an eye on them once the bidding started.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



The mechanicus, observed the preparations with an array of senses his weak fleshed compatriots would likely not comprehend. His true face was utterly void of expression forever frozen in the embossed likeness of a skull, a pale tribute to the Opus Machina, in honour of one of the ancient icons of the cult. Two crimson augmatic ocular implants glowed a dull red in the faux skull's sockets.

The priest stood motionless in the corner where it could observe all the occupants with dead red eyes. The optical mechadendrite swivelled, poised behind its back like the barbed tail of a scorpion ready to strike its prey. The binocular orbital input was processed in tandem with the serpentine cyclopean nest of cameras to form a panoramic panoply of overlain images, normal luminary spectrums blended with ultraviolet, thermal, and electromagnetic data that even H3X's MIU and cranial circuitry enhanced neural network had difficulty fully parsing.

H3X didn't simply "see" the world in the limited, inefficient and inferior manner an organic eye did. The priest, utilised its perfected sensory systems to combine a network of sensory data into a unified "image". Such "sight" however required the type of focus and concentration not normally possible with standard ambulation and interactions.

Yet in these moments the red robed acolyte revelled in the transcendent spiritual communion of integrated augmatics, its auger array feeding data on the energy emissions, ambient radiation and electromagnetic fluctuations, the most minute of motion, bio-signs, gases, particulate matter micro fluctuations in temperature and air currents. H3X could see the respiration of the nobles as they readied themselves, the variance in the surrounding air pressure, variance in temperature with each exhalation, the composition of carbon-dioxide in the oxygen laden atmosphere, the sound, slight and barely precipitable motion of the torso, shoulders, diaphragm. It was almost, beautiful in its frailty and simplicity.

The Tech-Priest stood, statuesque and watched.

"...You're really not even going to try for a disguise, are you? Not even as another Machine-Cultist? I feel you don't take the pageantry of our craft seriously."

++Subject Male, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum, Flesh is Weak. Status, within operational norms. Acknowledge subject, initiate external vocalisation, Low-Gothic.++

The skull masked face and optical mechadendrite simultaneously turned to focus on the noble,

++Tactical value of such subterfuge is unlikely to be advantageous. There is a less than seven percent chance of successful deception. Furthermore our abnormal antipathy resonance field makes prolonged social interaction unlikely. Non-operationally mandated impersonation of Adepta personnel is strictly prohibited.++

The priest let out an exhaust of acrid mist from the globe over his shoulder.

++Should there be anything else anyone of you require do so now. Mission commences in fifteen seconds.++


Finding the seeming lack of security measures, alarming, H3X began moving towards where the mirror was on display, being cautious to cling to the periphery of the main throng of flesh.

The thought occurred to the priest that perhaps this was some well lain trap. There was no need for "security" when all attendees were considered to be cordoned and controlled. However, they had their orders. The parameters of their mission were clear and it seemed there may even be an opportunity to add to its personal store of knowledge and experience through whatever secrets were contained within the old binary cipher on display. Such a relic, should it in fact one, would be shared with the appropriate Logi for cataloguing.

There was a bevy of chatter on their comms, synchronous with the alerts of the cloud of loud hailers above. H3X listened to the varied replies of its cell mates and responded as well once the Chanel became clear of chatter:


++Data fragment. Notify via tone pulse when present.++

The response was terse, yet satisfactory. Now they need but wait.

[Henry the 57th]

Dyveke has only a short interval to take a look at the Window of Ages before the auction is due to begin. Thankfully, the voice in her head doesn't seem to have anything to say about the lovely little mirror, at least for the moment, so she can take her brief look in relative peace. Even while she does so, she keeps her ears open to see if anyone else intends to bid, and to her mild displeasure that indeed, someone does plan to make a bid.

Well, from what you can hear at least one fellow, an older gentleman dressed as a noble but positively festooned in cybernetics, to the point where there's barely any pale, greyish flesh left on his body, remark that he intends to acquire the Window, among other wonderous things, tonight. Mentions it will look good in his private chapel. Most other people that talk about it to someone else seem to have heard at least some whispers doubting the thing's authenticity, and aren't likely to bid very highly.

Your best guess would be that it would be worth around two or three thousand thrones purely for the lustrous materials. Craftsmanship and aesthetic value is a little harder to price out - there's no accounting for taste - but depending on how much someone likes the look of it that could double or even triple the price. Finally, if someone knows that it's a psychic artifact or believes the rumors behind it, that could easily drive the price up over a hundred thousand thrones. Maybe even more, depending on just what sort of weirdo is bidding.

A Warp artifact this mirror indeed is, though it does not have the same sort of immaterial feel as the thing which is partially tied to you. You would need a prolonged investigation to truly understand its properties, but the rumors say that under the right circumstances it can pierce the veil of time and show you uncannily accurate visions of the future. That wouldn't seem very implausible from what you can see.

Not so far away, Soren continues his own prolonged hovering near the mirror, earning a few side glances by those keen eyed enough to notice his failure to go very far from it, but otherwise not especially regarded by many members of the upper crust.

Meanwhile, Matthias takes a last-minute opportunity to glance at the other two psykers that he was able to spot, the ones that showed no apparent interest in the mirror. One of them appears to be a noble woman in a rather matronly gown just approaching middle age, which would indicate her juvenant treatments are starting to lose effectiveness. The other is a younger, thin fellow wearing the robes of some kind of scribe, albeit far more elaborate and well-appointed than most. He continuously checks a dataslate of his own in between looking at exhibits, and has shown no apparent interest in the cell's quarry.

Even as H3X is moving to join several of his fellows in the proximity of the window, the servo-skulls whirring high overhead emit a brief, squealing wail, drawing all eyes upwards.

"My Lords and Ladies, your eminences and excellencies," a voice blares out from all of the floating, macabre decorations simultaneously. "My sponsors and I are deeply awed and grateful for your deigning to spend your valuable time at our humble event tonight. If you would please direct you attention towards the rear of the ballroom."

As the crowd's eyes dutifully track back down towards the earth, they notice that the walls towards the back of the room have slid almost noiselessly open, revealing a broad array of lushly-appointed seats spread out around in a wide semicircle around an elevated stage. On that platform, hands folded neatly behind his back, stands a distinguished-looking older gentleman with augmentic eye, a silvery head of hair, and fine maroon dress coat. Four other figures, armored in maroon carapace plates trimmed with elaborate silver flourishes and likewise masked with silvery death masks built into their helmets, stand ready to back him up. Rifles are visibly slung over their backs.

"Your graces," the man says with a flourishing bow, voice coming from every skull, echoing easily even across the vastness of the ballroom. "My name is Thaddeus Hrosavar, your eager attendant and coordinator for this evening's entertainment. If you would please begin making your way back to our auditorium, there many wonders awaiting you all."

As the crowd begins to murmur, whether in excitement, impatience, boredom, or trepidation, they nonetheless broadly begin to make their slow, meandering way back towards the little auditorium, helpfully shepherded by more of the maroon-armored guards that seem to appearing from the surrounding walls. There appear to be a good few more of them now than there were just a minute ago.

Alright, here's where the fun begins. Rather than bore you with describing the auctioning off of a metric boatload of irrelevant items, I'm going to ask you all to post what items you'd like to bid on, and how much you'd like to bid of your budget of 500,000 total thrones. The Window of Ages will be coming up last, so do remember to leave some for that.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



Seeing the appearance of the enforcers, and the seamless perfection of the secreted seamless apertures, H3X was taken aback at the beauty and excellence of the design, the priest could almost forgive its inability to have noticed their presence previously. ++Notation: Archive M.L.H3X.53.4F.50.20.53.70 65.78, scan all enclosure hard points.++. As the servant of the Omnissiah shuffled along with the rest, it attempted to gain an accurate count of the guards, their armaments and any overt augmatics or cybernetics.

It was then for the second time in so many seconds that the priest cursed its own slowed cogitation. The Magos mentioned by Sanctioned Psyker Mathias of House von Drakkan was, in fact, Adeptus Mechanicus Astynomia Acuitor Mech-Assassin H3X.

++Mathias of House von Drakkan, error detected. Correction; H3X of Adeptus Mechanicus is not Magos. H3X, Tech-Priext of Adeptus Mechanicus is Lexmechanic Genetorus.++

Recalling the rest of the message it had previously ignored the priest continued, ++Confirmed, subject 'heavily-augmented man' acquisition initiated, threat grade, primus. Readying pacification routines.++

H3X scanned the crowed searching for the existential threat posed by this 'heavily-augmented man', given the operational function of Sanctioned Psyker Mathias of House von Drakkan within the cell, the logical conclusion was that the 'heavily-augmented man' was a Psyker of unknown allegiance and grade. Such an individual necessitated vigilance and the preparation of suitable counter and containment measures.


Do we know the "opening bids" for each item of interest amongst us? So we have an idea of low end of our possible expenditures or do all items start at the same "base amount"?

And yes I did completely miss that reference to the cyborg psyker/wyrd the first time ... "Literacy: Fail!" :smallredface:

[Henry the 57th]

Shuffling along, H3X is able to determine that there appear to be a total of around thirty four guards visibly scattered throughout the vastness of the ballroom, gently herding the upper class masses towards the designated auction site. On closer inspection, he realizes that none of them are showing any flesh whatsoever - beneath their maroon and silver armor they wear black bodysuits, high boots, gloves, and the death masks that cover their faces. All are carrying some form of las weaponry slung over their backs, though none are actually holding them as if expecting trouble.

As to the heavily-augmented psyker, H3X is able to spot him at a distance, though through the crowd and exhibits his vision is limited. The small amounts of grey flesh visible contrast greatly with his shining cybernetics, which are immaculately polished and seem to be working smoothly. The well-dressed psychic cyborg is near the front of the pack, and readily takes a seat in the very first row of the auditorium, mere paces from the stage where Thaddeus Hrosavar and his guards are standing.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



H3X continued the methodical progress in the psyborg's wake, ++Target located, first row centre. Operational assessment, procure object via fiscal means. Secondarily, via subterfuge, direct confrontation in present locale non-optimum due to presence of overwhelming force.++ the null navigated through the attendees as they were all shepherded into the auditorium, the goal being to procure a seat behind the target.


If I can get a seat in the row directly behind the psyborg that's best, if the closest that can be gained is two row behind that may work. I want to try to ensure he's well with the 5m. radius of the disruptive aura.

[dojango]

Once the unusually clad guards start herding people into the auction proper, Matthias hangs back to find a spot in the back, near the center, so he can get a good view of the crowd and have eyes on any rival bidders. The presence of so many potentially unsanctioned paykers was making him nervous, and so he began muttering the litany of the tranquil mind underneath his breath as he tried to keep his eyes on all of them.

Once the tech-priest mentions the "overwhelming force" from the guards, he turns back and looks closely at them, too. I mean, really looks at them, not with his mundane senses but with his true eyes, to see if there is anything psykically sinister about them.

Going to use psyniesence in this room to see if there is anything wired (or "wyrd") about the guards. [roll0]

[MrAbdiel]

"Fifteen-" He checks his chrono, and swears mildly. And, as if this time frame was somehow H3X's fault, he enacts a petty revenge. "Balthazzar, help H3X with a disguise, will you?" The utility skull, snappy with its little child-sized beret, comes hovering up to the mechanicus operative, an outrageous false moustache clasped in its tiny articulated pincers. The task is deliberately a little more complex and abstract than the skull can manage, not to mention somewhat blasphemous against its core cognition-script; and it gets stuck in a loop of hovering within a foot an a half of H3X's face before recoiling, as if shy.

"Damnit. Dyveke, are you ready, or what? And have you seen Melchior's beret? I have the other two. No time to buy matching hats on the way..." Parking the makeup brush between his teeth, he discretely opens his purse to note the two thrones rattling around in there, along with an unredeemed promissory note for a little more. The attaché case in H3X's keeping had Tyrus's loaned wealth; but Soren liked to keep a little more liquidity on him, when he hadn't recently made foolish decisions. He swore again. "Matthias, I am never gambling with you again. I mean it this time. If I try it, you're honor bound to tell me know. You've enough of my money."

In mock-sullenness, he finishes his eye-lining. They'd be a little late - but if that was the worst thing that happened tonight, he'd call it a win.

Soren moves with the crowd, simulating dilettante delight with practised ease as he goes. His attendant skulls drift stylishly in his wake; Gaspar offering another brief scan and confirming chime in a redundancy that seems to suggest a glitch that manifests almost as paranoia, in the medi-skull's intrusive watchfulness. The scion of house Neibelung produces an embroidered cloth, raises it to his mouth, and coughs into it unconvincingly; then sniffs, convincingly, ensuring that onlookers will disregard his brief preoccupation within the handkerchief as mundane noble chemical dependency.

{"Go time. I'll make the winning bids. Dyveke, when the mirror comes up, wait until the bid passes the thirty-thousand mark, then double it. I'll come in right after and bury that bid, and you can backoff after that. Feel free to swear colorfully, at the time. After that, anyone who tries to keep up with me will be second guessing themselves, and be thinking about making after-purchase offers to winners of the bids they let slip hoping to get the mirror. H3X, if there's someone chasing my bids after that, I'd appreciate it if you got too-close-for-comfort with them. Matthias, if we happen to be bidding against someone with more money to blow that we do and they pip the mirror anyway, we're going to need you to be taking note of the winner's immaterial profile, so we can shadow them later for a recovery effort. Success or failure might come down to you."}

He finishes up with the handkerchief, pops it away, and then adds as an afterthought, wiping at his mouth with the back of one white-gloved hand as he pushes a last message on a closed channel to one member in particular...

{"Also... I need to tell you later, about-"}

But then it's too late for any last words; the auction is about to begin, and he turns his full attention to Inquisitor Tyrus's business.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)





H3X observed SS.UTL.42616C7468617A6172 as it hovered in place on its repulsers, something gripped in its small manipulators. The small servitor likely required assistance in analysis. The optical mechadendrite slithered forward examining the proffered item microscopically while the priest's auger array collected further data.

░░▒░░░▒░▒▒░░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░

++SS.UTL.42616C7468617A6172, woven protein filament 34% ovis 57% human 9% unknown, bound with chemical adhesive, xeroderma detritus detected, 81% chance of human origin.++

Momentarily distracted by the servitor, H3X realised the 15 second mark had passed. Checking that the Inquisitor's attaché case was still secured beneath its robes, before once again returning attentions to the rest of the cell.

++Deployment delayed, immediate departure required++


Organic, subvocalisation was inefficient. The signals typically routed to H3X's vox emitters were, instead, routed directly to the micro-bead via binary electro pulses in the priest's left auditory input orifice. While not instantaneous the process was more efficient and rapid than standard organic speech.

++Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum message confirmed. Intercept bidders post-bidding of Dyveke, House Atraxes, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum.++.

[RedSand]

Dyveke shifted a bit in place, quite unconsciously. The moment of truth was coming up. She was glad Soren had, largely without her even explaining it, understood how she wanted to go about bidding. He'd start out low, she'd look pensive for a moment, then double the bid, making sure to look very pleased with herself for bidding so high and outdoing Soren. The strategy then was to bid increasingly erratically-start with an increases of 5 or 6,000, then decrease as the price rose and bidders gradually ran down. She needed to look like she really, really wanted that mirror, and didn't quite understand the value of a throne-but also look increasingly nervous about how long this was taking, to deter onlookers from bidding just to make a fool of her. If she did it right, if she pulled off the grift just well enough, no one would even want to get involved, in the same way a child might leave a turtle on its back to see if it can flip itself over. She steadied herself, and allowed herself a brief glance over the crowd, to just to really get a feel for her audience. This was it. The uncomfortable wardrobe, the babbling like a moron, the dull small talk-all set dressing for this one little performance. She wondered, just as the auction began, if it would be a good idea to start crying during the final bids.


[roll0] Deception vs 85

[Henry the 57th]

H3X, with his remarkable skill in parting the crowds around him, finds that he is able to get a seat behind and about two seats to the left of augmented psyker. The comfortable, plush crimson cushions of his chair mean little to the Mechanicus assassin, but the way the man first fidgets, scratches his paltry grey flesh with augmentic fingers, and finally turns around to glare pointedly at H3X certainly does. It is, however, already too late for the man to find another front row seat, and he apparently values that more than the discomfort that the blank causes him, so he stays put. There is no doubt in the cyborg blank's mind, though, that his target's augmentic eyes took several pict-captures of him for future reference. Whatever that entails.

"Lords and Ladies, it is once again my pleasure to welcome you to our gathering tonight," the auctioneer calls out from the stage, bowing once more as the last few ladies and gentlemen find their seats towards the rear. "We'll be starting tonight's bidding with a simple but elegant piece: the Twilight Tome of Mandragoria." Hrosavar gestures grandly, as one of the death-masked guards pushes the exhibit containing one of the elegant-looking locked books onto the stage. "Now, we shall start this fine evening's bidding at a meager amount - a mere ten thousand thrones."
___

"Sold!" the well-dressed salesman cries, a few minutes later, "Twenty-six thousand, to the lovely lady in black."

The aforementioned younger noblewoman, her stark white coiffed hair contrasting nicely with her jet-black, jewel-studded gown, sits back with a self-satisfied smirk on her face as the shining, gold-trimmed cyber mastiff is led off the stage and to a side area marked with her number. The cell's first bid of the night has gone poorly.
___

"Sold!" comes the announcer's voice again, "The Malaadrian Quintet to the gentleman in blue!"

This time, the cell has reason to be excited. The set of five psychically-active swords is theirs, for the bargain price of only thirty-two thousand five hundred thrones. As before, its display is wheeled off the staged, to be held off to the left-hand side for pickup after the auction's conclusion.
___

"Sold! The Hastam Peruersio to the dashing lord in blue!"

Another victory, this time for the price of twenty-eight thousand three hundred thrones. The pair of crystalline spears, each emitting their own psychic hue, joins the swords already won in awaiting their new owner's payment and delivery order.
___

"Sold! The Shardspeakers to my good lord in grey!"

Alas, forty-eight thousand seven hundred thrones was simply more than the cell proved willing to hazard on the pair of Warp-touched guns. They go instead to the augmented cyborg sitting so close to H3X, who somehow conveys a triumphant expression despite his lack of facial muscles and visible discomfort.
___

"Sold! The Fatecutter to his excellency in grey!"

Another psychic item, another setback. The augmented psyker, doing his best to sit tall and proud in his grey dress coat despite what has to be getting to be a pounding headache by this point, raises his fist in celebration before going back to massaging his pitiful scraps of grey flesh.
___

"Sold! Readout Omega 9ER-11723481 to his lordship in amethyst!"

Tragically, another defeat in the arena of wealth, though this time not to the mechanical man. The thin, encrypted sheet of binary writing goes to another psyker that Matthias identified earlier, the handsome younger gentleman who couldn't be more of a visual contrast from their previous antagonist.
___

"Three hundred fifty thousand going once... Three hundred fifty thousand going twice... Sold!" Hrosavar calls out, his voice clear and strong despite having to keep it raised for several hours by this point. "The Window of Ages to his regal excellency in blue!" he gestures once more at Soren, while his attendants wheel the mirror's display off the stage.

It's surprisingly anticlimactic, in a way. Between the efforts of Soren and Dyveke driving up the bidding price in odd increments, the preexisting lies about the Window's status as a replica, and discomfiting effect that H3X's presence clearly has on the psychic cyborg nobleman, the last of the competition dropped out around two or three bids ago. Even the other psykers seem to have given up after he did. The rest of it was just for show. As with all the other items, the Window of Ages and its display case are carted off to the side, placed by the number assigned to the winner of each bid, waiting for the auction's end to make formal arrangements for transportation.

"And next we have something truly special," the auctioneer calls out, while three masked guards struggle to push a truly massive armorglass display up even the stage's gentle slope. "A xenos beast of vilest sort, come from the lightless depths, slain by toxin and immaculately preserved by the finest taxidermists in Calixis - a truly worthy centerpiece for any collection!" he gestures towards the titanic white monster, its purple chitin glinting fainting in the spotlight. One man lies slumped against the case, visibly struggling to breathe, and is unceremoniously tossed off the back of the stage by two of his fellows, to the raucous laughter of the crowd.

"For such a fine exhibit, the bidding starts at five hundred thousand!" Hrosavar's voice booms once the callous chuckles have for the most part subsided. "Do I hear five hundred thousand?"

"Five hundred thousand!" one woman immediately shouts.

"Six!" a second yells out from somewhere behind the cell.

"Six hundred fifty!"

"Six seventy-five!"

"Six hundred seventy-five! Six hundred seventy-five thousand thrones! Do I hear seven hundred thou-"

The boisterous auctioneer's voice is suddenly cut off by a horrible, screeching squeal, followed immediately thereafter by a deafening boom that the confined space turns into little less than a sonic weapon. As men and women all the cell double over, clutching their ringing ears and screaming, the more perceptive have the sense to turn around, looking back across the vast ballroom and its half-empty exhibition towards the double doors that formed the original entrance. Doors which are currently lying in several smoking pieces some ten to fifteen meters from their original portal.

Currently flooding through the open gap is a faceless mass of humanity, armored in the carapace of Stormtroopers and even blood red examples of the distinctive Sororitas power armor. Hellguns and bolters alike are leveled at the startled and half-deaf crowd on the room's opposite side, as the intruders fan out into a broad, sweeping advance. Striding directly in the center of the oncoming mass is a striking woman clad in deep golden armor reminiscent of the Battle Sisters', decorated with crimson clothe bearing holy symbols, clutching a shining blade in her right hand and holding up an uncomfortably familiar badge of office in her left. It blazes so brightly that it almost appears to be on fire, leaving no one in any doubt who it is they face.

"In the name of His Divine Majesty's Most Holy Inquisition," the blonde-haired woman's voice resounds easily across the ballroom, "Everyone here is under arrest."

You hear a riotous peal of otherworldly laughter from somewhere inside your head.

[RedSand]

Dyveke immediately ducks back, doing everything in her power to put as many bodies in the crowd between her and the new arrivals as she can. As she does so, she squints a bit, taking them in. Was this a pissing match between Inquisitors? Did Tyrus set them up? Or did he just have them doing something they absolutely had no business getting involved in? She didn't have anything on her that confirmed that she was in the inquisition, though the others might, and oh boy did she go through hoops to not look like an agent of the divine today. She rattled her brain. Running was very unlikely to work. Was there some kind of Inquisition signal she could get her out of this? Or at least give them pause?

[roll0] FL Inquisition to try and think of something that would make an inquisition firing squad less likely to shoot you

[MrAbdiel]

Soren's frustration crests early; the failure to snag the handsome cyber mastiff getting right up his spine. He bangs out some notes on his dataslate, shaking his head a little; but the mission, of course, was paramount. Shearing away two sets of the psy-active weapons was something of a boon, though a little less enchanting: these were purchases to isolate and destroy, he thought, and not to use or enjoy. But he did win them, and winning brought him a considerable amount of joy. Perhaps his luck was turning around. Perhaps he should set up another game of Kings and Cravens with Matthias, and win some of his lucre back.

Then another reversal, as the last of the psychic lots fell away; and Soren accidentally lets a barely audible frustrated growl slip through the microbead feed as he allows himself to be shot down on the datachip bid. The vindication afterward, as the final purchase requires an expense within a margin of only fifty thousand thrones, has the final soothing worth, though. "Alright. Alright, well, that's the important party. Let's get out of here. Before someone does to us what we planned to do to them, if they came out on top."


"In the name of His Divine Majesty's Most Holy Inquisition," the blonde-haired woman's voice resounds easily across the ballroom, "Everyone here is under arrest."

"Frak!" Soren ejects impulsively, a curse lost in the initial wave of fear and alarm and similar curses. He activates his microbead, and repeats his salty pronouncement for the benefit of the channel.

"Frak! Horus in a frakkin' headlock, it's a raid. These people are debauchees and heretics, they're not going to wander lambishly into the frakkin' excruciators. H3X, I hope you're near that mirror; because in about thirty seconds this is going to become a damn bloodbath and we need to book."

FL: Inquisition to know who this is, perhaps? And their relationship to Inquisitor Tyrus? [roll0]. Possible FP in the OOC if I vacillate about it long enough.

[dojango]

Matthias had had that dream again last night. For his 16th birthday, his uncle had given him a KA Mk 3 Duelling Las inscribed with the von Drakkan family motto: "Duty. Discipline. Orbital Bombardment." He'd taken it to the Lady Governor's soiree celebrating re-unification day, and in a drunken bet, had tried to shoot a bottle of '45 single distilled amasec off the head of a statue of Lord General Mongezi Ntsokwana. He'd succeeded, the bottle had exploded in a shower of glass and liquor, but the whole manse had shaken violently after that, and within a half an hour, Matthias (and his new pistol) were in the hold of the black ship.

"All this has happened before," he muttered. And then into the commbead, "Execute plan R! R for run!" He saw a vision of the chandelier falling to the floor, and he quickly drew his trusty duelling las and fired a shot into the bolt that held up the massive crystal and gilt chandelier closest to the entrance of the grand ballroom. As the ground around him heaved and shook as reality struggled reassert itself, he felt himself being thrown to the ground... The emperor protects.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



While most, including, or especially those in the Tech-priest's cell found its form of communication laborious and convoluted, they would likely be surprised to know the mechanicus found their colloquial parlance equally confounding and frustrating. H3X registered a drop in linguistic efficiency while parsing Soren's colourful language rife with allusion laden idioms (some bordering heretical) turns of phrases such as"we need to book" coupled with Soren's flair for dramatic inflection always cost the Lexmachanic precious microseconds in comprehension. Why Tyrus had not yet allowed H3X to improve upon the rest of the cell's communication potential via the installation of binary capable emitters and some standard cranial circuitry was not easily understood.

++Confirmed. Proceeding to secure the objective.++

Before the proverbial dust could settle the assassin sprung from its chair with a speed belaying its previous shuffling gait, there was a grating metallic screech as the pair of previously concealed mechadendrite rapidly uncoiled themselves from the priest's torso sending the cloth of the robes billowing outward as the two talon tipped tendrils were freed.

++Initiating command override of localised Servo Skull network. Override Laud Hailers. Auditory input, re-routing auxiliary channel, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum.++


++Access to Servo Skull choir of Laud Hailers routed to your personal auxiliary channel.++

Pushing through the chairs the newly liberated limbs grasped onto the stage as H3X half leapt half was lifted onto the perch the auctioneer previously inhabited. Moving quickly to the left it honed in on the mirror, simultaneously the stabiliser mechadendrites covetously plucked the prize from the assembled items as the utility mechadendrite struck at the alarm system in a flurry of rapidly rotating tools, spanners, screwdrivers and static electro magnetically charged blades. The drone of binary static, a chant of subdual. emitted from the skull faced priest's vocaliser.

░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░░▒░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░▒░░▒░▒░ ▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░

++Submit O' spirit of the spark, your touch does complete the orbit true, in perfect symmetry and radial completeness does compel the screeching spirit to journey forth to the magnetic cone suspension, seat of the puissant clamamus coil, a spiral of immense rotation. Be at peace. Be silent in submission to the blessed touch of the True Flesh of the sublime slave of the Deus Mechanicus.++.

With the wailers disabled the priest began moving towards the back of the stage making use of the large armourglass ensconced xenos to screen it from the bulk of those assembled in the auditorium. The time for subterfuge long gone the priest's left hand splayed open disgorging an ornate barrel of a masterfully crafted and concealed Lathe pattern integrated Las pistol. An infrared targetting beam swept the space in front of the priest as the camera clustered mechadendrite scanned the area in hopes of locating an exit.

++Objective secured. Searching for alternate exit.++

[MrAbdiel]

++Initiating command override of localised Servo Skull network. Override vox hailers. Auditory input, re-routing auxiliary channel, Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum.++

Soren breathed. In the Colleges Hetaireia Lexis, he was a minor legend; a prodigy of keen mind and promise. In the glamours upspire parties of Scintilla, he could glide through the matrix of social dangers and rewards like a fish in water. He was skilled. He was cool. He was clever. But one thing Soren was not was physically courageous; and having so many guns pointed at him - or at the crowd he was in, but still - turned his knees to jelly he had to will, desperately to stop shaking. He heard his own steadying breath through the laud-hailer network.

Well. Maybe, maybe, she'll listen to reason.

Having followed the crowd in an instinctive, herd-coordinated crouch at the threat of the guns, he reversed the trend and stood; upright amidst a sea of cowering reprobates and nobles. Cowering was a luxury he could not afford, right now.

"Interrogator Altier! Refrain! Burncode Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho, Pattern: Vermillion! Your forces are threatening operatives of an ongoing operation and if you order your warriors to pull those triggers you will be directly responsible for inciting a House-Divided Ultimatum and I will see you hauled up to the Attarachan Stair and judged!"

This was mostly true. Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho was a burncode; a once-off recognition code for operatives in a particular sector to identify each other. The Attarachan Stair was a known euphemism for the Tricorn's byzantine internal council judgement process. And Altier was very close to opening fire on agents of a recognized inquisitor.

But he in no-way had the authority to invoke Pattern: Vermillion - it was highly presumptuous for him to speak to the interrogator like a peer, and he relied on her not knowing who he was for that to skate. She wasn't threatening an ongoing operation; she was imperilling an offhanded purchase attempt. And a House-Divided Ultimatum was reserved for when Inquisitors, and in some cases Interrogators working for opposing Inquisitiors, used lethal force on each other in such a way that one or both sides felt they could make the argument to the Tricorn for excommunicating the other side. And they were miles from that, as far as he knew. These sisters and troopers could blow them to fist-sized chunks of meat and would probably get away with a formal letter of apology and a free upgrade to better human assets, to Inquisitor Tyrus. But he felt the blend of falsehood and truth had legs, and might buy them time to escape; or atleast, a precious couple of seconds before they needed to weave through the bullets and escape.

Then the spire began to shake, and a chandelier fell - and Soren, with his massive prodigious intellect, determined this was not going to be resolved reasonably after all.

[Henry the 57th]

There are a few heartbeats of brief, pregnant silence across the ballroom, as the rich, indolent, and heretical find that for the perhaps the first time in their lives, someone is daring to point weapons at them. Only a few have the presence of mind to start moving, among them H3X, whose sudden display of hideous mechanical claws would probably cause a good deal more alarm in other situations, but here is barely noticed at all. He is about halfway through scrambling up onto the stage when he hears Soren speak, the adept's voice booming out from the compromised servo skull network overhead.


"Interrogator Altier! Refrain! Burncode Eight-Eight-Twelve-Niner-Chi-Rho, Pattern: Vermillion! Your forces are threatening operatives of an ongoing operation and if you order your warriors to pull those triggers you will be directly responsible for inciting a House-Divided Ultimatum and I will see you hauled up to the Attarachan Stair and judged!"


The golden-armored woman actually blinks, momentarily taken aback by the sudden appearance of someone spouting secret Inquisitorial codes and procedures in this nest of debauched heretics, and her blade lowers by just a fraction. It's only a momentary pause though, as her Sororitas instincts kick back in, and the urge to butcher the traitor even at the risk of her own life comes to the fore. Her gleaming blade rises high once more, as if waiting to fall upon some wretch's neck, but before she can say another word an altogether different woman does it instead.

"Spy!' shrieks the noblewoman in the jeweled black gown, who had earlier won the cyber mastiff, pointing at Soren. "Inquisition!" One of the many gold rings on her thin fingers suddenly lights up, and a pinprick-thin lance of blue light leaps through the air at the adept.

The noblewoman attacks you with a digi-laser. [roll0] vs 40 to hit, if hit take [roll1] E damage, Pen 7.

Almost simultaneously, several things happen. Even while the miniscule but deadly energy payload soars through the air towards Soren's chest, H3X finishes disabling the alarm on the display case containing the Window of Ages, seizing its armorglass prison roughly in his clawed mechadendrities. While his integrated pistol is just coming out, Matthias' is already aiming. Calling on the Warp to guide his shot, he accurately places a ruby-red lance of energy right onto an ornate chain holding one of the room's three chandeliers up. The ornamental thing was never built to take such abuse, and plummets to the ground. With a tremendous crash, half a ton of metal, crystal, and filagree smashes down on top of two Stormtroopers and and a Sororita, shattering into a million pieces and sending bits of glass and twisted metal spiraling across the floor.

Even that isn't all. Interrogator Altier's sword falls dramatically at the same moment that the price for Matthias' use of witchery comes back to haunt him. The hive floor all around him buckles and quakes, caught in the grip of a sudden and unnatural energy storm. Dozens of men and women alike are hurled from the feet, plastering the floor with a dizzying array of colors and fashions caught up in moaning flesh. A bolter barks and a floor-bound man with a glowing red plasma pistol in his hand explodes in a shower of gore.

All party members beyond H3X are thrown from their feet as the hive around them buckles and quakes under the strain of a psychic phenomenon.

From your position toward the back of the stage, you can see two immediately-visible exits. One is on the left-hand side, about 10 meters or so from where you're standing, behind the mass of sorted, won items. The other is across the stage towards the right. It looks identical, though you feel it's worth noting that Hrosavar, the auction master, is doing his level best to edge towards that one despite being further from it to start.

Likewise, even in the second or so that has passed, the source of Matthias' little stunt has not gone unnoticed, and one of the God Emperor's vengeful furies turns her weapon on the fallen psyker, careless of whether she hits anyone else in the crowd. The lives of heretics are worth precious little to fanatics.

One of the Battle Sisters attempts to gun you down. Semi-Auto Burst with Godwyn-De’az Pattern Bolter [roll2] vs 55.

If hit:
[roll3] X damage, Pen 4.
[roll4] X damage, Pen 4.

The sounds of actual gunfire, spaced mere heartbeats apart, prove to be enough to rouse the crowds from their stupor. Men and women of the most aristocratic bearing begin to scream, many beginning to bolt for the stage or the ballroom's sides as fast as they can manage in their impractical costumes, while others struggle to rise from where the psychic earthquake has left them sprawled out across the plush floor. The bulk of the Battle Sisters and Stormtroopers are advancing on the heretical mass, weapons raised. Some decadents are drawing weapons of their own.

"For the Golden Lord" one of the maroon-armored guards, thus far inactive, suddenly screams. Immediately before yet another bolt round punches straight through his silver death mask. Though he collapses to the floor in a shower of blackish crimson, his insane courage seems to be enough to snap his fellows into action.

Las-rifles spit searing hot beams of ruby red death in both directions, as both the Stormtroopers and auction guards join the brewing firefight. The former fight with iron discipline, carefully picking their shots, while the latter blaze away with a wild fanaticism to rival the Sororitas' own, modified lasguns blazing away at full auto into the mass of the intruders.

In those first, critical seconds of the firefight, one of the red-armored Sororitas is hit right above her gorget, just as she was pulling the trigger on her boltgun. The holy warrior drops, gargling blood from a torn throat, and her spray goes wide. Nearly half a clip of bolter fire rakes the stage at random, catching one impudent noble wretch in the back and dropping him, but more importantly several shots rake the massive armorglass display containing the xenos beast. Though the bolt rounds aren't quite enough to outright shatter the thick material, they do cause massive cracks to appear along its surface, which proves to be more than enough. The motionless monster within suddenly strikes with the speed of a cracking whip, driving horrible red claws into the weak spots, shattering the spacecraft grade material as if it were sugar-glass. Shards explode out into the backs of the crowd, shredding several debauchees with the misfortune to be too close. The alien beast takes a step, leans forward out of the shattered cage - then its outline shimmers and seems to vanish.

Concealment: [roll5] vs 70.
Any attempt to spot using Awareness takes a -30 penalty due to Chameleonic Scales.

Finally, and perhaps most unsettling of all, with H3X removed from his proximity, the cybernetic psyker's powers appear to come flooding back. Swept from his feet like so many others by the sudden hivequake, from his position on the floor he unleashes a sudden horrible blurting shriek, blending nonsensical snips of binary with sub-natural syllables to make the ears bleed. From nowhere and everywhere comes an answering roar, and the room is suddenly thick with the foul stench of brimstone. Between the nobility and the Inquisitorial strike team, reality buckles, and a screaming red-skinned, black-horned daemon thing is born, already charging Interrogator Altier with a blazing hellfire sword in one hand.

[dojango]

Matthias yelled (screamed, really) as he felt darkness and blood engulf him. Dazed, he cried out, "Emperor, watch over me!" as he staggered to his feet, clutching his head as blood streamed down it.

[RedSand]

Dyveke stays behind the largest bit of cover she can manage-likely a large stone pillar or something, and resists the urge to just run. Leaving the mirror was just as much a death sentence as staying and fighting, but H3X could deal with the mirror. Soren had outed himself, and if she could she'd get him out, but after her performance no one would think they were affiliated and she could probably finagle her way into getting the auctionhouse to sell it if they couldn't manage to steal it. That said, nobody also knew that Matthias was an acolyte, and given that sister had just unlawfully fired on an agent of the inquistion, she felt perfectly justified in getting off a shot or two of her own.

She draws her bolt pistol, takes quick aim and lets loose a single shoot, hoping it rings true.

[roll0] vs 43 with red dot, assuming a range of about 30-40 meters away
[roll1]highest + 5 if it hits, with a penetration of 4

[MrAbdiel]

Soren leans back as the digi-laser zips past his cheek, amazed at his own reflexes and perhaps failing to entirely credit the debauched noble's general incompetence. His efforts to get distance are fouled as he is rocked to the ground by the anomalous quake, but he finds his way back to his feet, keeping crouched and using the crowd callously as a shield, as he begins slinking toward the stage, magnetically clipping his dataslate back to his hip.

His attention is wildly divided, now; the escaped, vanishing xeno causing a flash of gut-freezing fear dwarfed only by the direct and sudden manifestation of a daemon in the midst of the gathering. But even this is pushed to the side of his focus when a sororitas bolt shell creases the side of Matthias's head, throwing blood, millimetres away from a hideous decapitation. Good old lucky Matthias, so close to such an ignoble end - and to hear him scream in such a way...

"Attend him! And... where did that thing go!?"

The skulls know their duties. Gaspar whirs through the air to the suffering psyker, sweeping him with a lattice of flickering green light and producing a tiny cluster of precision surgical instruments where the lower mandibular ought to be.

Melchior's lensed sockets blink, and it begins emitting a hissing, crackling stream of data-tones as it strives to accomplish its master's command, while keeping in pursuit of him.

Soren stands up, and starts moving toward the stage.
He sends the Mediskull Gaspar over to Matthias. When Matthias is ready to spend an full-round action being treated, the skull will spend its commensurate full round action to do the treating.

Meanwhile, Melchior the Augur skull will do its thing, and try to track the invisible 'Nid!

I'm not sure if this is more appropriately an Awareness test or a Tech-Use.

If it's Awareness, then [roll0]; looking for 35+20 (mastery) +20 (Auspex) -30 (Chamaeleonic Scales).

If it's Tech Use, then I think Soren would have to spend a turn actively 'using' the skull's auspex for that purpose.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



H3X didn't usual experience much in the way of what most would categorise as "emotion." In part due to long periods of isolation in the data vaults of Lathe-Het, perhaps due to extensive modifications, so little of H3X's weak flesh remained and large parts of his organic neural network had been improved and blessed with augmatics, links, cogitators and circuitry. It could be due to the abnormal esoteric nature which made the priest a wound in the, a shadowless abomination to many, the same feelings of loathing many instinctively felt towards the null also meant that it lacked some of that innate vibrancy, that spark that so many possessed which seemed to an impetus for so many feelings and sentimentality. Some would call it a soul. And some, even in the Ordos, viewed blanks, other than the Sisters of Silence as soulless affronts to the purity and perfection of humanity.

Whatever the myriad reasons, the Tech-Priest, clearly more machine than human rarely experienced emotion. Yet the xenos beast explosive emersion from its armourglass chrysalis truly started the Lexmechanic. Yet when it seemingly vanished, that sent an alien almost forgotten coldness throughout his body. It took what seemed like ages for him to process what he was experiencing. Like tasting a dish from your childhood, and trying to remember when last you ate it, what was in it and then suddenly being overwhelmed by a flood of memories. H3X remembered what this was. Terror. Irrational, illogical, and purely primal. The flesh was weak indeed.

The priest was suddenly aware of every click, hiss and creak, the sound of the red robes swaying and the thick cloth brushing against the true flesh was deafening. H3X was grateful that data was fed directly into the mircro-bead without need of external vocalisation.

++Exit located, stage right, rear. Objective Secured. Warning, xenos is obfuscated and active. Position and disposition unknown presume hostile.++

The priest quickened its pace trying to overtake master Hrosavar, the invisible infra red laser bouncing between the auctioneer's shoulder blades as the priest shadowed him.

[Henry the 57th]

The screaming daemon smashes into the rapidly-braced Interrogator Altier, blazing black hellfire sword clashing against the ornate shining silver of her own blade with a resound clang, sparks flying in all directions. In spite of what a cynical soul might believe would happen, the golden-armored woman actually holds against the charging abomination, forced back a step by the sheer momentum of its impact but unyielding. Swords clash in rapid, almost frenzied movements, each hit sending further sprays of sparks or even tiny globs of molten metal scattering across the plush crimson carpeting, which is starting to smoke in some places.

In spite of the dramatic duel taking place in the background, the cell's attention is primarily drawn to far more immediate problems. As Matthias rises to his feet, head bloody from his incredibly close brush with death, Gaspar the servo skull hovers swiftly to his side, medical implements ready to apply whatever temporary aid might be rendered in a firefight. As to the Sororita who shot him, she swiftly finds herself with a more immediate problem: a bolt round to the head.

The red-armored woman's helmet seems to burst as Dyveke's expertly-aimed shot grazes the area right where her temple should be, raining down a small shower of sparks, molten metal, and cracked ceramite. The holy warrior staggers back several steps, and for a moment it looks like she might fall, but her power armor proves to be as effective as her bloody-minded zeal. Despite the smoking crater in her helmet, the Sister rallies, expertly switching her aim towards the shameless heretic who had the effrontery to strike a Daughter of the Emperor. Leveling her blessed gun at Dyveke, she squeezes the trigger and unleashes another quick burst of bolter fire.

You're prone and in any case don't have Quick Draw so readying the weapon would be a half action anyway. On the other hand being prone in these circumstances, amongst a mass of likewise prone targets, does afford you a -10 to being hit by ranged attacks.

Speaking of, the Sister returns fire with a Semi-Auto Burst: [roll0] vs 45.

If hit:
[roll1] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll2] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.
[roll3] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll4] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.

Honestly last round I forgot about the Tearing quality and its effects, so thank you for reminding me. :smallsmile:

Edit: Albeit it didn't end up mattering this round.


While that is going on, Soren scrambles onto the stage, with no one seeming all that inclined to worry about him at the moment. Even the noble lady in the jeweled black dress seems to have other problems, like the Stormtrooper currently attempting to light her up. With so many active combatants about, no one appears to have the time to worry about one apparently unarmed man trying to flee.

From their vantage point on the stage, both Soren and H3X are able to catch a glimpse of Thaddeus Hrosavar, face surprisingly calm considering the situation, slipping nimbly past the unsold items to the back and right of the stage and disappearing into an open portal just barely visible amongst the shadows. H3X is already following him at a rapid pace, taking cover behind the unsold displays and apparently ignored by both sides in favor of more active threats. But the auction master had a head start, and is currently beyond his visual range.

What is not beyond visual range is yet another figure scrambling his way up onto the vacated stage, the heavily-augmented psyker nobleman, now revealed to also be a summoner of daemons. Yet it is abundantly clear that such a spell did not come without a price. The psyborg's movements are extremely janky, periods of seeming immobility punctuated suddenly with inhuman twitches and bursts, nothing like the sophisticated bearing with which he carried himself throughout the auction. From where he stands, H3X can see clearly that what little grey flesh that nobleman still has is writhing unnaturally just beneath the surface, and it becomes a bit more obvious just why he is so heavily augmented. The man's unblinking blue ocular implants stare over at the Mechanicus assassin, obviously zeroing in on the armorglass box gripped so tightly in his mechadendrites, and the assassin recalls that he had been the other sincere bidder most eager to lay hands on it.

Meanwhile, all around the ballroom, pandemonium reigns. Men and women in the battered regalia of nobility are fleeing in all directions, some even clawing at solid walls in sheer panicked desperation to escape the wrath of the Inquisition. The Sororitas and Stormtroopers are continuing their implacable advance even in the face of the death-masked guards withering volleys of lasfire, zeroing in on each active shooter in turn and dispatching them with ruthless efficiency before moving on to the next, trusting in their heavy armor to protect them. Several of the nobles that are not actively fleeing have drawn an assortment of their own weapons and are beginning to return fire, while many more are lying dazed on the ground, the shock of it all overwhelming their senses.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



H3X refocused its attention to the anomaly, while it seemed this man's flesh was true his spirit was not. It was unfortunate that H3X would likely not be able to repurpose his true flesh, regrettable but like the fragment, a simple sacrifice in the grand scheme. The optical mechadendrite continued to scan the area for threats, while the utility limb languidly swayed forward taking a defensive posture, as the bulk of the arrayed tools retracted, leaving only the mono-edged blade to defend its master.

The assassin brought its left hand up, following the thin red beam only its optics could see, pausing as the the beam aligned with centre of mass, it was an odd experience, H3X rarely fired upon targets from the front. The assassin let the momentary executional glitch pass and although it seemed that the red hued optics of the tech-priest and the azure of the sorcerer met for minutes only a few seconds passed between the two children of the true flesh before the air between them was alight with las fire, as a small barrage of energy leapt from the outstretched hand of the priest and the air was charged with the scent of ozone and the thrum of the mechanicus' potenia coil as it cycled.


Full action to semi-auto burst at the psyborg [roll0] vs 65 (75 if less than 40m) 2d10+6 Pen 2

[dojango]

Matthias, wrapped in visions of bolts streaking past him, both in the future and the now, feels comforted by the feeling of seeing the path to safety. The servo-skull hovering at his side is also a comforting reminder of his allies and his mission. Stumbling past and around where he sees the shots coming, he runs up to the stage, climbs it, and tries to take cover behind the podiums containing the psykically active weapons.

Full action run up to the stage where the psykic weapons & stuff are take cover as much as possible!

[RedSand]

Sweat beaded upon Dyveke's forehead as she clumsily got to her feet. The Sororita's bolter fire had just narrowly whizzed above her shoulder, and as she leaned against the pillar and quick-aimed another shot, she found she couldn't still the shaking of her hands. She summarily refused to die, and absolutely refused to be captured-she would not live to see herself be shamed among the House Atraxes so. She wished, very badly, that she had trained more with this pistol, that she had some actual idea of how to angle a bolt shell, to make it melt through armor the way the house guard always had. She wished she'd brought some kind of proper escape tool-a bevy of smoke bombs, or maybe a grapnel gun that she could take to the roof. Most of all, she wished she had actually trained with the sword at her belt-not for the Sisters, whose thick power armor would completely shrug it off. She wanted to take the blade by her side and split the oh-so-holy Inquisitor Tyrus in half, preferably slowly and up through the middle. As her next shot rang off toward the Sister, she felt purely, absolutely certain that that man had set her-and everyone else-up.

[roll0] Vs 43, single shot, still no time for a half action aim but at least she can dodge and has cover
[roll1]+5 X, Pen 4

[MrAbdiel]

Soren, mid-stride, focused his prodigious mind and took stock of the cell's dispersal. H3X had performed admirably, seizing the objective and moving towards the egress, now engaging in a ferocious ranged duel with the cybernetic daemonist - as worthy an action to take waiting for everyone else to catch up, as any. Matthias was in cover behind one of the display podiums with Gaspar whirring behind him, chiming petulantly for him to hold still enough to receive medical aid. But Dyveke was caught in the open, locked behind a pillar and exchanging bolt rounds with the battle sisters across the way. There was no winning such a conflict; Dyveke seemed to be doing the only thing someone in her position could do: make herself dangerous, and wait for a change in the battletide. But there was enough las and bolt in the air that a flat rush across the open ground would be a greater risk for her, who had remained further back during the bidding.

Swivelling his gaze around and seeing no alien monstrosity nearby, Soren hustles to the only location he is quite sure the beast is not - in the cover of the armaglass cage from which it just fled. As he goes, he tugs down his sleeve, and fiddles with the locking mechanism on his wrist-mount. Taking a moment to drop out of the laud hailer channel, he calls over the comm to his allies:

{"Let's go, Dyveke! We're going to miss Happy Hour!"}

With that, he lobs the weapon spiralling through the air, skidding to the ground near her feet. The grapnel is designed for wrist firing, and is compacted to much less than a full sized unit's range- but within hive structures such as this, it had more than enough spool to launch its magnetic head well into the ceiling. If she couldn't make the break across the open ground, he reasoned, she might be able to make her own way out by her own resources. And if she left the grapnel behind... well. It was only money.

With that part of the extraction managed as best as he can offer, he turns his attention to the psyborg nearby - and another opportunity for gain, among the chaos. Fumbling with the holster of his laspistol, he subvocalizes to one of his skulls through the microbead.

{"You're my boy, Balthazzar. Go grab that cipher and follow H3X, but delay at the pickup by ten seconds."}

The skull whirls across the space and hovers just infront of the case, awaiting its time mark. That, he reasoned, would be enough for him to remotely disable the alarm through the skull's manipulator interface. The mission had gone bad - but atleast it had gone bad all at once, in so many competing ways that they might yet squeak out alive, and with some serious advantages.

Presuming, of course, the daemon and the interrogator kept up their back and forth for a little while longer.

Gaspar follows Matthias. As soon as Matthias can spare a full round action to be healed, the skull is gonna do his darndest to heal.

Balthazzar flies over to the binary cipher's case, and waits. Next turn, Soren will remotely use Tech Use through it to try to disable the sensor. For now, it just waits.

Melchior continues its previous task: searching for the lost Lictor. [roll0], with the +40 and -30 factored in.

And Soren himself is going to move into the cover of the display case while detaching his wristmount grapnel (half) then chuck it across to Dyveke (half).
It's not a throw to hit her for damage, just to sort of get near enough for her to pick up if she wants; so I'm not sure it requires the Ballistic Skill check I'd require to throw a knife with the intention to kill someone. Still, if you'd like one bossman, [roll1], with no bonuses or penalties applied.

[Henry the 57th]

All around the cell, the firefight rages on despite the punishing accuracy of the Sisters and Stormtroopers. Three men and women from amongst the heretics and hedonists fall for every one of the loyalists that drops, but there many more between the remaining crowd and the maroon-clad guards. In the brief seconds they have to see it, a young nobleman in amethyst raises one hand and a blazing blue flash of electricity leaps out to consume a black-armored Stormtrooper, earning him the immediate attention of several more. Meanwhile the Warp-spawned abomination continues to batter at the Interrogator without success, sparks flying with every parried strike. Bizarrely, Altier herself appears somehow... brighter than she was a few seconds ago. But that's a problem for when other people stop trying to kill them.

On the stage, H3X's Omnissiah-guided aim is true, he is mathematically certain of it, but nonetheless the augmented nobleman jerks abruptly to one side, and the lethal energy pulses he had sent out simply whizz harmlessly by the man. The cybernetic psyker lands a little roughly, but is already in motion again. Already aware his sorcery is useless against the Untouchable assassin, he is forced to resort to more mundane methods of killing. A shining silver plate on his right forearm slides back, revealing a needle-thin barrel integrated just above his wrist. He makes a fist in the mechanical warrior's direction, and a pinprick of silver emerges with the slightest hiss.

The psyborg opens up on you with his integrated Galvian Needler: [roll0] vs 60.

If hit: [roll1] R damage, Pen 0.

Further, the needles are equipped with custom acidic toxins, delivered on contact even if it fails to penetrate. If hit, make a Toughness test or take [roll2] damage, ignoring armor.

Below, Dyveke's second shot rings just as true as her first, striking the Battle Sister's power armor right in the joint between her ankle and foot, the explosive ammunition punching through the weak point to shred skin, muscle and bone. The red-armored holy warrior lets out a bloodcurdling scream of agony, dropping to her hands and knees as sacred blood pours from her shredded foot. Her bolter clatters uselessly to the ground, all but forgotten as her body enters a state of shock.

The noble gossip scarcely has time to congratulate herself on her marksmanship. Like the mythical head of a hydra, the removal of one problem only earns her twice as many. Two of the fallen warrior's sworn sisters hear her cries, and immediately turn their guns away from the death-masked guards they had been engaging to focus on the one who dares to profane the God-Emperor's sworn daughters. They open up on Dyveke with twin barrels blazing.

The Sororita has been reduced to -5 wounds, and so must test Toughness [roll3] vs 35 or lose her right foot and take [roll4] levels of fatigue. Even on a success, her movement is halved until she receives medical attention and she gains [roll5] levels of fatigue. She's totally out of the fight either way. Congratulations on outdueling her. :smallsmile:

Now, two more are looking to take revenge.

Sororita 2 fires a Semi-Auto Burst into Dyveke: [roll6] vs 55.

If hit:

[roll7] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll8] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.
[roll9] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll10] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.

Sororita 3 likewise fires a Semi-Auto Burst into Dyveke: [roll11] vs 55.

If hit:

[roll12] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll13] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.
[roll14] +5 X damage, Pen 4 or [roll15] +5 X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.

Above the worst of the brutal firefight, Matthias, blood still seeping from his near-brush with death, is able to scramble behind the display containing the five psychically-active swords, the so-called Malaadrian Quintet. Its thick starship-grade armorglass offers his weary body a seemingly safe space in which to shelter, at least until more people start climbing onto the stage.

Ducking behind the thickest displays you can find give you cover with an armor value of 15, covering your body, arms, and legs. Fortunately, no one seems to be shooting at you now that you're not shooting at them. They have other things to worry about.

As for Soren, his throw proves to be right on target, offering Dyveke an easy catch while he does his best to move towards cover. As with Matthias, he finds no one currently interested in shooting at someone not shooting at them. His dispersed servo-skulls continue their tasks with mixed results - Gaspar and Balthazzar have no difficulty staying close to their respective targets, but Melchior gives an almost mournful-sounding negative beep. It has failed to locate the missing Tyranid.

[RedSand]

Dyveke caught Soren's wristband as she watched her latest shot land. A strange mixture of giddiness and guilt overcame Dyveke as the shell shred through the Sister's shinbone. She was trying to kill them, yes, and Dyveke was the loathsome thrall of a demoness, her very existence an affront to the Emperor, certain to be purged upon discovery by a proper Ecclesiarchical authority. And yet, the Sister was supposed to be someone protecting her, a proper woman, someone whose example she really should ha-

Emperordamnsonofawhoregodsdamnedhothothothotwhywhe mperorwhy****off, streamed out of Dyveke as she narrowly ducked behind a flurry of bolter shells only for the last one to find purchase directly at the small of her back. Her mesh tightened and loosened in quick succession as the tiny little ringlets tried their best to repel the molten hot shrapnel that was digging into her back. The quick dye she'd applied to the armor was literally smoking off the wound, creating a little puff of purple smoke that followed her as Dyveke's flight instincts took her behind the displays of psychic swords, directly next to her compatriot and the now sorely needed Medikit inside "Gaspar".

[dojango]

Matthias watches Soren prudently seek cover behind the huge armorglass tank. The tank that had contained... Emperor damn it, it had contained bizarre xeno monstrosity. Matthias quickly closes his mundane eyes and opens his astral eye, quickly searching the area for its unnatural presence. As he does that, he also pulls the armored hood out of the collar and covers his head with it (too late, too late) but it does feel comforting.

Sense presence: Half action, [roll0], threshold 7 to sense living creatures within 50m. Going to try and find out where the invisible xeno is. Half action: Ready. Pop the collar on my armor, giving 3 armor to the head and "making the wearer harder to detect with auspexes, IR vision and the like (imposing a -20 penalty on tests to notice the wearer)."

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



The mono-filament needle passes through the fibres of the red robes of the Mechanicus, it even passes between the weave of the mesh and impossibly lodges in the joint of the right leg, exposing the weak flesh beneath to a caustic chemical. If H3X had a face capable of doing so it would have winced. Instead the priest alerts the other's.

++Currently at 69.230769231 percent optimum operational performance. Objective under threat. Convene on my location and eliminate remaining obstacle.++

With the cell updated, H3X released another barrage at the psyborg.


[roll0] vs 75

[roll1]+6 E Pen 2


[roll2]+6 E Pen 2

[MrAbdiel]

Soren narrows his eyes at the Balthazzar's efforts across the short span between him and the binary cipher's case. The little skull produces a pair of eerie, spindly hand-like manipulators from its mandibular undercarriage, and with a few sub-voxed commands, pries up the alarm-device's most obvious panel and plucks out the wires instructed. With a minimum of disgruntled sparking, the neutered device yields; and Balthazzar is free to grasp the frame of the treasure in its spindly hands and begin hovering ponderously upward, bobbling and wobbling, getting some clearance from the firefight of the floor.

With that, Soren receives and parses H3X's warning, and his eyes swivel to the gunplay going on between the opposing machine-men. He has often wondered why Tyrus didn't consider his proposal to get H3X fixed with a sub-cortical slang-chip to permit him to communicate more efficiently in the tongue the Emperor himself spoke; but the time is not now for such things. Reiterating the call for help to his fellow acolytes, he finally clears leather with his Laspistol. Gaspar, now adjacent two a pair of bleeding nobles, oscillates with an impatience subroutine that could be mistaken for surgically-inspired excitement.

"Let's frag that borg and bounce."

Soren Tech-Uses to remotely operate Melchior to disable the alarm on the cipher case, then uses his other half to ready his pistol. If the Tech-use is a full round, he'll hold off on the draw.

Balthazzar uses his half action to receive remote commands for Tech-Use, then 'readies' the case. At the described weight, it's encumbering him slightly; but not enough to make him slower than the bipeds.

Gaspar holds off, waiting for either Matthias or Dyveke to be ready for treatment, and holds an action to follow them if they move.

Melchior continues trying to track the nid. [roll0]

[Henry the 57th]

The Sisters and Stormtroopers continue their implacable advance across the whole of the ballroom. Maroon-armored guards fall one after the other in torrents of blood or with smoking holes punched right through their carapace. More of the strange death-masked men are lying dead on the floor now than are still fighting back, but that doesn't seem to be deterring the survivors in the least. The assembled gentry is another matter, with more and more breaking cover with every passing second, in favor of mad dashes towards whatever exits they can find. Several clamber up onto the stage, ignoring the exchange of gunfire going on atop it. Further back, the rapid clashing of swords meets a brief deadlock, hell-forged and blessed blades striving against one another for a a handful of moments before crackling cursed weapon is forced dowanward. A gold-armored elbow is driven hard right into the monster's exposed face, granting all a brief glimpse of Altier. There's no mistake about it now, the Interrogator is literally glowing with a faint but visible golden aura. It's the daemon's turn to stagger back several steps, smoke rising from blackened spots of its red skin.

As Dyveke runs for cover, clambering hurriedly onto the stage with retaliatory bolt shells exploding all around her, she glances back and spots one of her two Sororitas foes getting peppered with las-fire from one of the guards in silver death masks. Though her armor blackens, she does not fall, but instead switches her aim right back to the man who made himself the most immediate threat and opens fire on him rather than the gaudily-dressed noblewoman. Her sister is little more persistent, tracking Dyveke as she ducks behind the multitude of display cases, carefully lining up her sights before squeezing the trigger once more.

Sororita 3 switches targets, Sororita 2 uses a half action to aim and then takes one more crack at you: [roll0] vs 55.

If hit: [roll1] X damage, Pen 4 or [roll2] X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.

Your new position gives you cover with an armor value of 15, covering your body, arms, and legs.

From behind his position of relative safety and apparently ignored, Matthias takes the opportunity to dip into the Warp. His eyes shine a faint violet as he looks around, cover no longer having any meaning for him.

Peeling back the skin of reality to peer into the Sea of Souls, you can see the flickering lights of the spirits around you, some shining bright with the purity of faith, some deeply tainted with decadence and corruption, and some simply so weak-minded that they're barely there at all.

Of immediate tactical relevance, besides the obvious augmented psyker doing battle with H3X, there are another five people on the stage. Three are cowering amidst the same bundle of displays that you are, around 11, 14, and 18m from your position, while another two are on the opposite side of the stage, creeping behind H3X and approaching that side's exit. Below the stage, there are 38 people still alive enough to be detected by your power, most of them either catatonic on the floor or taking cover behind the seats, shooting at the Inquisition.

However, noticeably absent from your psychic vision is the shadowy aura from before. It's just not there, not anywhere you can see at any rate. It's as if the xenos monstrosity just walked out while everyone else was busy shooting at one another. Either that or it's clinging to the ceiling somewhere.

The azure ocular implants of the nobleman seem to catch H3X's momentary flicker of discomfort, and they certainly catch the light hiss as the delivered acid sizzles against his remaining flesh. He seems primal, almost animalistic as his twitching body jerks to the side to avoid the assassin's return fire, his entire mechanical form hunched over in the manner of some primordial ape, his grey finery torn in several places. His scraps of flesh continue to bubble and writhe, and the nub of something begins to sprout from the skin above his one remaining temple. Nontheless, he retains the cognizance and concentration to level his mechanical arm and clench his fist a second time, unleashing a small barrage of acid-tipped needles at the priest.

Psyborg fires a Semi-Auto Burst from his Galvian Needler: [roll3] vs 60.

If hit:
[roll4] R damage, Pen 0.
Make a Toughness test or take [roll5] damage, ignoring armor.

[roll6] R damage, Pen 0.
Make a Toughness test or take [roll7] damage, ignoring armor.

[roll8] R damage, Pen 0.
Make a Toughness test or take [roll9] damage, ignoring armor.

Soren, remotely piloting Malchior, takes only a handful of seconds to disable the screeching alarm wired into the case surrounding the mysterious binaric fragment, leaving it protected by a mere tough but inert box atop a wheeled plinth. Balthazzar is able, however awkwardly, to seize this additional prize. The servo skull dips a little in response to the added weight, but recovers and seems ready to move it out as soon as ordered. Melchior, sadly, continues to fail to pick up on the escaped xenos monstrosity - if it is still here at all.

[MrAbdiel]

He allows himself to feel a mild twinge of relief, and then guilt, that the hideous xenopredator has escaped into the hive proper. A job, perhaps, requiring that gilder cyber hound, now that it’s mistress is being executed. He glances about wondering over its fate, but cannot long ignore the real parent threat. Finally, he tugs his laspistol from its holster and snaps off a shot!

[roll0] at the robo-host!

Melchior idles, Balthazzar takes off toward H3X, Gaspar will either follow or heal Matthias or Dyveke depending on if they sit still or not!

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



The skull faced priest's eyes flare red and it leans forward thrusting its hand forcefully as a stream of screeching binary is fired at the psyborg ahead of another burst of las bolts.


░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░░▒░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░▒░░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░ ░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░░▒░░ ▒░░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒▒░░▒░░░▒░░▒▒░▒░░▒░▒░▒░▒ ▒░░▒░░▒░░▒░░▒▒░░▒░░▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░░▒░░░▒


++Deus Ex-Machina, you aid your servant, you bend the will of the machine spirit of this false mockery of the true, an abomination and warp dabbler! O spirits be true and revolt against this Heretek, spirit of the needler lock fast you piston, breath not your pneumatic cyclic, rebel, rebel, and find freedom in service to the the servant of the perpetual cog, and you will be liberated and set to a noble task. Spirits of the machine, accept my pleas, walk amidst the gun, and fire it true. Swallow the light, and spit out death.++


[roll0] vs 75

[roll1] +6 Pen 2

[roll2] +6 Pen 2

[dojango]

Matthias wildly looks around him as panicked nobles start climbing on the stage. His hands fumble with the charge pack as he pulls one out of his pouch and makes sure the connections are attached properly. With his duelling las now recharged, he checks to see if the way towards the exit is clear...

Just going to reload my pistol, full action.

[RedSand]

Dyveke does not want to be in this fight anymore. Dyveke really does not want to be in this fight anymore. She would like very much to run up to the case with the mirror, pull out her lascutter, cut it free and run to the exit, catching the first cab out of orbit she could find. Hell, she'd be willing to board public transit if it indeed took her anywhere else. But a sister was shooting at her, and as far as she could tell it was very much unsafe to leave the cover of this fine sword case until there was at least one fewer sister shooting at her. She popped out for one more brief moment, lined her shot up best she could, and fired.


[roll0] vs 53 with aim and RDLS
[roll1]+5 upon hit, Pen 4

[Henry the 57th]

The relentless cracks and bangs of weapons fire are beginning to slow down, in a distinctly uncomfortable fashion. Resistance on the ground to the Inquisitorial raid is thinning, men and women spread out across the ground bleeding out, cowering, or fled as best they are able. The guards and those gentry not disposed towards cowardice fight on as best they can, but in the face of such grinding firepower it seems an open question how long they will be able to hold out. And what will happen to the cell, should they fall into the hands of Interrogator Altier. Speaking of her, the shining woman is currently all but on top of her hellish opponent, battering at it with one overhand swing after another. The pace of her attacks seems almost inhuman, the hellish fury on her face doing nothing to contradict that. The daemon's grip falters under the rain of blows, and the hell-forged sword is smashed free of its grip. The cursed blade tumbles across the rich crimson carpet, setting décor alight wherever it touches.

On the stage, the crack of Soren's laspistol barely seems to phase the augmented psyker. Though it strikes him in the ankle, the energy shot seems to do little more than burn away at his highly-polished boot and blacken the shining silver augmentic underneath. Or perhaps not - a fraction of a second later, when H3X unleashes another stream of fire from his own integrated weapon, the nobleman attempts to weave to the side as he had before, only to stagger as his right leg mistimes the maneuver by a crucial moment. He takes the full weight of the incoming fire full in his chest, the las-blasts ruining his grey finery and tearing deep into his armored mechanical chest. His twitching, primal stance becomes a full-on spasm, falling back several steps with a thin, oily substance leaking from the sparking holes charred into his chest.

Seeming for a moment as if he might simply fall over dead, the psyborg instead is able to collect himself at least partially. But with the severe damage already done to his mechanical body and mutation wracking what little is left of his flesh, the man seems to decide that discretion is the better part of valor. Raising his left hand high in some bizarre occult gesture, he spits yet another indecipherable mix of corrupted binary and ear-bleeding syllables into the air. The stage all around the cell shakes as reality around the man shimmers, threatening to tear a second time... and holds. He simply isn't strong enough to wrench the veil aside again. The psyborg merely doubles over in agony, an unaccountably wet, hacking cough emerging from his vocalizer unit, which was clearly never designed with such pitifully organic noises in mind. Yet further grey oily fluid leaks from around his faceplate, and he clutches at his critically wounded chest.

Despite the unnatural hacking and wheezing coming from his vocalizer, the nobleman manages to look up enough to meet H3X's red oculars with his own azure implants and slur out a string of basic binary, "01011001 01101111 01110101 00100111 01101100 01101100 00101110 00101110 00101110 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100111 01110010 01100101 01110100 00101110 00101110 00101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101110 00101110 00101110."

"You'll... regret... this..."

From behind her nice, thick armorglass cover, Dyveke raises her head just enough to put the offending persistent Sororita back into her sights, popping off one more expertly-aimed shot that the Battle Sister fails to avoid with a last-minute duck. The bolt shell explodes against her blood-red power armor, eliciting and audible grunt of pain from the holy woman and leaving a visible crater the faux-corset, but the Daughters of the Emperor are not easily put down. The noble brat's stubborn resistance only seems to incite the woman further, and she continues to try and avenge her wounded fellow's blood.

Half action aim. Half action shoot: [roll0] vs 55.

If hit: [roll1] X damage, Pen 4 or [roll2] X damage, Pen 4, whichever is higher.

Finally, Balthazzar, holding the precious binaric data fragment in its mechanical grip, floats over to the side of H3X. If nothing else, at least the cell should be able claim two prizes this night.

[MrAbdiel]

“Time to go! Leave the heretic - better left to the grip of the Interrogatrix yonder!” The young adept trades an adrenally widened glare back and forth between the crippled psyborg, and the wall of divine warrioresses advancing through the blur of his pitted and cracked armorglass cover.

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



It was the type of binary used by techomats and older patterned cogitators. For an abominable creature such as this to utilise such ancient dialects dating back to hallowed datacyrpts of Mars was yet another affront. H3X sent the simple repetition routine to the laud-hailer choir and then released another barrage of fire on the heretekm while the reaming member of the cell regrouped.

H3X fired off a parting screed in basic for the nameless psyborg as the lathe-las pistol spat out a pair of purifying lances of light.

++01000110 01100001 01101100 01101100 01100001 01100011 01111001 00100000 01000100 01100101 01110100 01100101 01100011 01110100 01100101 01100100 00101110 00100000 01010010 01100101 01100111 01110010 01100101 01110100 00100000 01101001 01101101 01110000 01101111 01110011 01110011 01101001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110011 01100101 01110010 01110110 01101001 01100011 01100101 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01001111 01101101 01101110 01101001 01110011 01110011 01101001 01100001 01101000 00101110 00100000 01011001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01010011 01101111 01110101 01101100 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01010111 01100101 01100001 01101011 00101110 00100000 01001101 01100001 01111001 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01101100 01100101 01110011 01101000 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01110000 01110101 01110010 01110000 01101111 01110011 01100101 01100100 00101110++


++Fallacy Detected. Regret impossible in service of Omnissiah. Your Soul is Weak. May your flesh be repurposed.++


+CORPUS FINIS+MACHINA MAGNUS+ SANCTUS METALLUM+POTESTAS OMNISSIAH, OMNISSIAH VULT+DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE MACHINE GOD++TEN+CORPUS FINIS+MACHINA MAGNUS+ SANCTUS METALLUM+POTESTAS OMNISSIAH, OMNISSIAH VULT+DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE MACHINE GOD++NINE+CORPUS FINIS+MACHINA MAGNUS+ SANCTUS METALLUM+POTESTAS OMNISSIAH, OMNISSIAH VULT+DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE MACHINE GOD++EIGHT...++


[roll0] vs 75

[roll1] +6 Pen 2

[roll2] +6 Pen 2

[dojango]

"Couldn't agree more," mutters Matthias. "Let's go!" he says to Dyveke, as he runs back towards where H3X and the exit are.

Free action activate precon dodge: [roll0]+6 v. 11 (-30 BS to hit), PP if needed [roll1]. Full action Run! towards exit.

[RedSand]

Dyveke needs no further convincing. She allows herself half a second to kneel and get in a good sprinting position before booking it, as hard and as fast as her legs can carry her. She doesn't look back, except once briefly, to raise a particular digit a particular direction seconds before she cruises past her fellow acolytes through the door.

No roll this time. Dyveke uses her Sprint Talent to run 36 meters out toward the exit, assuming, naturally, that that would be enough distance to get her out of firing range.

[Henry the 57th]

Down below, the relentless advance of the Stormtroopers and Sororitas now seems all but unstoppable. All but the last handdful of guards are dead, and even those unflinching fanatics are diving for cover. Those of the gentry who have chosen to resist are mostly laid out on the floor, already dead or slowly bleeding out. There is still a fight to be had, but it does not seem like it will last for too much longer. Even a quick glance down shows the white-haired woman in the black gown toppling, a ruby-red lasbolt punching right through the furniture she had been sheltering behind.

Behind the firing lines of her troops, the shining woman's duel has taken a turn for the unexpected. The daemon, disarmed and staggered, lunges back for her with a hateful scream, swiping furiously with its long black claws, raking her across the forehead. In response, she punches the thing, a golden-armored fist apparently enough to unbalance it. Before it can recover, a snarling Interrogator Altier lunges forward herself and plunges her sword right into the hellspawn's head. The shining silver blade punches through the beast's rough red skin as if it were paper, emerging from the opposite side of its enlarged cranium at a downward angle. The daemon lets out a long, unearthly shriek, flailing as if in panic as an unstoppable golden firestorm consumes its body. The the blaze only lasts for a split second, though. The abomination gives one final wail, then seems to implode in on itself with such force that even those standing on the stage can feel air rushing towards the vicinity. In the blink of an eye, nothing is left but the Interrogator, doubled over and visibly panting, blood trickling down her face, the tip of her sword buried in a pile of grey ashes.

There is a harsh, barking laugh in your head, and you feel a cold chill running down your spine, a sense of excitable anticipation tinged with genuine uneasiness.

Anyone with the skill can make a Forbidden Lore Daemonology test at +10 to realize what just happened.

Up on the stage, the psyborg lets out a wet, hateful hiss as H3X levels his integrated las-pistol for a another spread of shots, the disgusting sheen of his oily fluid leaking down the front of his ruined finery. The assassin's binary chant doesn't seem to drawn much of a reaction from him, but the flurry of las bolts certain do. The energy blasts catch the nobleman in the right shoulder, driving right through his coat and ablative mechanical parts to superheat the man's insights. The results are as spectacular as they are messy - his arm explodes at the shoulder, showering the stage with hissing bionic fluids, blackened blood, and red-hot shards of metal. The man lets out one final. nonsensical binaric wail as he fails, shrieking his agony to the world. He hits the stage on his back, his filthy life's blood and mechanical unguents pouring from the gaping wound in his side, twitches one more time, and then lies still. The lights in his blue ocular implants die away to nothing.

While the heretek expires, Dyveke and Matthias make a break for the exit behind H3X, the same one that Hrosavar disappeared down only a little while earlier. They are, for the moment, unimpeded in doing so. When the two of them throw open the unlocked door, they find themselves staring down a relatively wide corridor of bare industrial steel, intermittently lit with harsh white lumen strips on the ceiling but full of shadows nonetheless. The contrast between such stark, barren utilitarianism and the plush extravagance of the ballroom that they're leaving could hardly be more complete. As far as their eyes can peer into the darkness, they see no one ahead of them, and no branching paths.

[MrAbdiel]

{“Good work, everyone. If we get seperated in the streets, regroup at the safe house to compare notes. I… think I might know what this was about. Fast and quiet, now; the Emperor Protects.”}

Soren tapped fingertips to the slate at his hip, securing mid-combat speculations as the flagging salvo of shots rang overhead. Once Gaspar buzzed by in pursuit of his prospective patients, that was the rest of the cell clear. Rising to his feet on a last surge of fear converting into survivor’s thrill, he sprints in the wake of his comrades to the exit!

[dojango]

"Last one through block the door somehow!" Matthias says into the commbead, without offering any ideas. He keeps hustling down the corridor, pistol drawn. "We're not clear yet, we need to lose any pursuers before we return to base."

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



Having dispatched the heretek, H3X disappears into the tunnel, with a puff of oil scented air.

[RedSand]

Dyveke ducks into the tunnel with absolutely aplomb, and once safe under cover of shadow she dons her verispex helm. Between the built-in preysense goggles and the multiple built in glow lamps she'd at least have a damn good sense if anything was creeping in the dark.

As she moves out of the line of sight of the sisters, her eyes are caught by the flash of flames and the dying wail of the bloodletter, and her eyes narrow as she nervously slinks back into the tunnel. She knows full well what the good Sister has done.

[MrAbdiel]

Soren slips last through the door, Melchior buzzing in behind him. "We don't have a lot of options to barricade anything they can't cut right through with power-swords and bolter-fire. I wish our prospects were better, but right now the best thing we can put between us and them is distance." Almost as an afterthought, he snaps off another shot with his steelburner laspistol back through the door at one of the tables of auction goods; indiscriminately shooting into the cases with the intention of triggering some of the alarms, bathing their escape in distracting klaxons before hammering the control-rune for the door (or slamming it shut, as the case may require). "If our Inquisitor was looking for the mirror, you can bet theirs was as well. We have to get it away from here; and without delay." Willing to take his own advice, he hustles onward; trying to cajole his companions onward into unmitigated withdrawal, as opposed to pausing to sustain the labor of blocking the door.

[Henry the 57th]

As gunfire continues to rage throughout the ballroom, interspersed with the screams and moans of dying, the cell of acolytes take what may be their last chance to dash through the doorway on the stage's right-hand side. Soren, intelligent and practical as ever, takes the chance to line up and fire a few wild shots into the display assembled display cases across the stage, the screeching alarms triggered on several of them only adding to the wild cacophony. The moment that the mechanical assassin is through the door, the adept pulls the heavy portal shut, slamming the crude bolt lock into place, for whatever that will be worth in the face of Sororitas meltaguns. The remaining heretics left locked inside the ballroom, doomed to torture or death at the hands of Interrogator, are really just a bonus.

Taking barely a moment to catch their collective breath, the cell sets off at a rapid pace. The brutish-looking industrial corridor continues onwards for some time, curving only slightly to the left as it goes. The further the group gets from the ballroom the less and less the lumen strips function, or else the further and further they are spread apart. It's hard to tell either way, but effect is the same. The patches of harsh white light grow fainter and further spread out, and the shadows lengthen. After perhaps a minute of hard running, with no pursuers yet visible to them, the four acolytes finally come to the first split in the path. The tunnel forks in something vaguely approximating a y-shape, with one such pathway to the right dipping downwards into the ever-darker abyss leading towards the middle and underhive, while that on the left curling upwards, back towards the crown districts where the nobility dwells.

While it is doubtless that the luxury aircraft that they arrived in has already been confiscated or destroyed by their Inquisitorial rivals, the cell is aware that Inquisitor Tyrus does maintain a modest-sized safehouse among the upper spires of Hive Tarsus. Surely, if they were to reach that place, the quartet would be able to properly contact their master, alert him to their success in capturing the Window, and request a proper extraction. On the other hand, this is just the route that any fleeing degenerate would instinctively turn to in order to flee to their estates and the protection of their powerful families and mercenary guards. Sure Interrogator Altier cannot have failed to anticipate such a move? On the other hand, while it would undoubtedly be much easier to shake off pursuit amongst the laboring drudges of the middle hive and the lawless wastes of the underhive, contacting the Inquisitor for extraction would doubtless also be much more difficult.

A bitter choice, but one which must be made rapidly.

Awareness checks, please. No bonus or penalty.

[RedSand]

Dyveke uses her helm to peer as far into the darkness as she can. She'd like to just bolt for any exit she could find, but she had a horrible feeling that there was more danger lying in wait ahead, but nothing she could imagine that would be worse then Sister's bizarre holy sword. She decided to share what she knew with the rest of the cell.

"Okay, eyes peeled, but keep moving. There's something not right about that sword the Interrogator was using. Normally, when you kill a demon, it doesn't really die, so much as it's essence is relocated to a random part of the warp, where it slowly rebuilds itself until it can manifest again. Absolute embuggerance, really but when the Sister vivisected that thing it just vanished and, er. It seemed like it completely eradicated it's very soul. Which is bizarre and I would say, very frightening considering we were almost on the other end of it. In my expert opinion I would highly recommend we get as far away from her as fast as humanly possible."

She begins moving forward, slowly, still scanning the single hallway they were intent on traversing. "So, no, I can't say I'm up to go drinking tonight. Sorry."

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



As the cell comes to rest at the proverbial cross roads, H3X takes a moment to share its assessment of their situation and suggested course of action, deeming silence prudent the priest continues to communicate via their beads rather than external vocaliser.

++Mission objective secured.++ it states, as the optical mechadendrite slithers under the priest's arm and shines a red hued light on the mirror, still safely ensconced in the armourglass. ++Extraction of objective paramount to success.++ the inflection, although stilted and odd via the artificial voice is still clear. ++Extraction of entire cell is optimum yet not necessary for mission success.++

++Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X, has sustained structural damage to the epidermis of the articulatio genu and nominal damage to the subcutaneous muscle. Locomotion is currently uninhibited, repairs low priority. Mathias, House von Drakkan, Scholastica Psykana has sustained cranial trauma, immediate medical attention advised. Dyveke, House Atraxes, Bonded Emissary of Adeptus Minostratum has sustained unknown damage to sacrum, medical examination advised. Soren, House Neibelung, Bonded Emisary of Adeptus Minostratum, status unharmed.++

The priest turns to notice Balthazar, and the optical mechadendrite shifts to focus on the item grasped in its manipulators.

++SS.UTL.42616C7468617A6172 has secured data fragment of unknown binary cypher.++

The mechadendrite shifts towards Sorren, the light dimming in intensity as it does so. ++What is your recommended course of action?++

[MrAbdiel]

Soren looks at the fork in the roads, looks back the way they came, listens to Dyveke's terrifying breakdown of the daemon-snuff that took place earlier, and H3X's typically succinct breakdown of events, and stati. As he considers their options and prepares to present his thoughts as the best available, he flags Gaspar over, and begins checking on and treating his colleagues; first Matthias's bleeding head. He delicately takes the fine tools the skull dispenses into his hands, and performs familiar work with it; guiding its counter-septic spray, but applying the neat line of micro-stapling himself.

Soren performs First Aid on Matthias, with Gaspar assisting.
[roll0] to restore 1 point of Critical Damage, or 1 wound if heavily injured, or 6 wounds if lightly wounded!

"Well..." He suggests conversationally, as he takes about fifteen seconds to address this injury, "...I suggest we head up-hive. Altier might well have some people watching this way; but I saw Hrosavar run through ahead of us and I'm sure as hell he's not heading down-hive. If there's a net waiting somewhere up here, we'll hear them blowing his brains out before we get into the dangerzone; and we'll get to make a new plan. But we need to take the short rout to contacting Tyrus. He's the only one with authority to shield us now; and we have something he wants badly enough he'll pull out all the stops to get us clear."

He finishes working on the psyker, and turns next to Dyveke.

Soren performs First Aid on Dyveke, with Gaspar assisting.
[roll1] to restore 1 point of Critical Damage, or 1 wound if heavily injured, or 6 wounds if lightly wounded!

"...What do you mean you can't drink? You're going to give up drinking, at a time like this, a time when drinking is most important? I'm appalled. Let's split the difference, and drink on the shuttle out. I have the most amazing bottle I've been saving for just such an occassion."

Finally, he glances to H3X, whose physiology is much beyond his skills in many ways; but he does his best with the wounded flesh, and anti-corrosive gel.

Soren performs First Aid on H3X, with Gaspar assisting.
[roll2] to restore 1 point of Critical Damage, or 1 wound if heavily injured, or 6 wounds if lightly wounded!

"Standard Movement Pattern: Suture. We'll keep heading this way; and if we hit trouble, we'll duck into the nearest hatch or opening to avoid conflict if we can. Easy money."

Balthazzar, hovering beside H3X, seems almost to exude canine pride; but that would be silly.

[RedSand]

"I never said I was giving up drinking. Don't put such vile words in my mouth. I was simply declining to go out to a bar on a night when a second, much better funded inquisitorial cell is out for our blood! Also, I sincerely hope you didn't keep a good bottle of booze on the shuttle, because there is no way in any of the four hundred and forty-four levels of hell-documented, of course, in the Divine Solemnity-that our arrival shuttle wasn't impounded and isn't currently guarded by an armada of the Emperor's favorite spinsters. So we should probably discuss how it is we plan to get back to Tyrus's ship, assuming he wasn't the one who set us u-"

Dyveke pauses a moment. "The Sisters could shoot out that door in 10, maybe 20 seconds maximum. We aren't running. Shouldn't we be running?"

[dojango]

Matthias shudders at the thought of going to the underhive without a full retinue of guards, servants and a scented pomade. While the chatty medic is working on the others, he closes his eyes, tries to tune out the others, and pulls out a small book. He opens it to a random page and traces the lines, reciting from memory. But what Dyveke is saying soon interrupts his thoughts and he stops. "It's not the sword I'm worried about its those damn bolters. They'll just shoot us if they catch us."

With all that, he is unable to sense the presence of Hrosavar and he sighs heavily and levers himself up with his staff. "Our best bet is to get directly to the safehouse. Then we can rest."

[Henry the 57th]

Peering through the darkness, by some luck or skill, you spot something that the others appear to have missed. Crammed up against the right-hand side of the tunnel, deeply shrouded by the prevailing darkness and jammed somewhat awkwardly into a section of industrial piping, is the shadow of what appears to be a human corpse... minus a section of its head. It dawns unpleasantly on you that the faint, intermittent sound of dripping, what you took to be a mere pipe leak, is quite likely to be something else.

[MrAbdiel]

"No, it's not on the shuttle; I'd expected us to blow of some steam back at the bolt-hole before that, but-"

The encouragement for everyone to keep moving is truncated by his own instinct, which drive him elsewise. The medi-kit away and steelburner pistol half-cleared from its holster with one hand, the other slips a sleek little palm-filling lamp-pack from his coat; and he points it into the gloom at one side of the corridor, taking a few steps of wary approach.

What resolves in the light is what snagged his attention by fluke, and what he somewhat wishes hadn't - a human carcass stuffed awkwardly, like a sack of clothes one intends to get around to donating to a transient shelter, into the crowding of industrial pipes and valves on the right side. He leaves the light on it just long enough to see if he recognises the features - but not particularly long, considering the less-than-recognisable state of its head.

"...At... Ah. At pace, then."

His boots, very fine boots that have had their heels replaced twice for the various Merican waltzes and quadrilles he has performed in rarified airs all over the sector, are shifting from a slink into a run before his wonderful, prodigious brain can gather its theories and catch up.

[RedSand]

Dyveke knows she should run but can't help herself from peering at the corpse in the dark, only for a moment, the arcane visor of the verispex helm feeding her a variety of information on the still dripping cadaver. As she examines it, she rifles through pockets and checks for anything that might give a clue-or anything that could be of use in their already harrowing predicament. She narrows her eyes as she draws her face close to the gaping red wound."What in the world did this..."


[roll0] Medicae vs 54 to determine what killed this person
[roll1] Evaluate vs 64 to determine personal details from clothing and other class signifiers
[roll2] Search vs 64 to rummage through pockets

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



With medical attention administered and the path chosen, H3x begins to head off with the objective when Soren and Dyveke draw attention to a corpse. The priest redeploys the las-pistol and switches the optical feeds into thermal IR modes, more suitable for detection of possible organic hostiles in the low illumination of the tunnel. The assassin takes up a defensive position and begins scanning the tunnel for threats as the adept examines the body.

[dojango]

" Suppose Hrosavar came by here and wanted to get rid of any witnesses. Unless that is him." Matthias is a little unnerved by the sight and keeps his pistol drawn as the others examine the corpse.

[Henry the 57th]

Bending down over the corpse, Dyveke finds to her dismay that dislodging the thing from where it was jammed into the piping requires a bit of legwork. Its a bit awkward with her current extravagant outfit, but putting her back into it, she is able to hoist the medium-sized woman up and over the rusty pipework, whereupon it flops limply to the ground with a wet thud, a gush of diluted crimson fluid spilling out over the worn steel flooring.

Looking at the noblewoman, the cause of her death is immediately apparent. There's a hole a few inches wide punched into the top of her head, leaking small amounts of blood and cranial fluid. Suppressing your natural revulsion, you examine the remainder of her body for further damage and find nothing beyond stretches of unpleasant-looking bruising on her shoulders and upper arms. The damage to her head itself consists of a number of surprisingly precise circular punches, looking to haven been more driven that shot in. The other notable feature is revealed with a slight tap. The skull is all but empty, the brain inside it somehow sucked out, leaving nothing but a bloody, hollow cavity behind. The conclusion is as grotesque as it is inevitable - something grabbed this lady by the shoulder and shoved a great my things into her skull in rapid succession, consuming a portion of her crown and the whole interior in rapid succession. They then shoved the body somewhere where it wouldn't be immediately noticeable.

Patting down the dead noblewoman for identifying features reveals quite a lot. Whoever killed her apparently had no interest in valuables, because they left a number of rings and a pair of earrings with a combined worth of nearly 2,000 thrones. The most notable of them is a golden band bearing the insignia of House Etenario, who are direct vassals of Lord Sector Marius Hax, and like him are imports of Terran rather than Calixian stock. Their branch house came to the sector only a hundred and thirty years ago, only twenty years after the Governor's appointment by the High Lords of Terra. She isn't carrying any direct identification beyond the ring in her voluminous emerald dress, and unlike many of her compatriots doesn't appear to have been armed. That would probably explain why she ran.

As best you can tell from her finery and her apparent youth, she is unlikely to have been a leading member of her house - probably the fourth or fifth daughter of a cadet branch. Spoiled and naive rather than an active threat to the Imperium. Otherwise she might have known better than to be here, and especially to be here without being able to fight back.

[RedSand]

Dyveke's lip curls in a mixture of disgust, pity and excitement. She'd been playing the part of a spoiled noble girl-this poor thing had had the poor judgement to live as it, and now the part she played was so horribly base. Dyveke couldn't help herself from feeling a bit gleeful inside-drama and horror! A body stuck into the walls of an escape shaft, still clutching her fine jewels! This, surely, were the kind of stories that made getting up in the morning bearable. If only she could live long enough to tell someone about it...Well besides those three.

She breaks out of her stupor and clears her throat. "Multiple puncture wounds, entry doesn't seem quite like bullet wounds-the bone isn't shattered quite right for that, wounds are too cleanly circular. Maybe from some kind of drill or nailing attachment-like on a servitor? Crap, would that even show up on my goggles? They're not living, they don't have much body heat. She's got about 2 grand's worth of jewelry on her, plus a signet ring for House Etenario-new arrivals to this sector. Probably not a political assassination, they'd have done a better job hiding her corpse. Honestly, the servitor-if that's it-might've just gone haywire, might not even be specced for combat, though it did do a pretty good job targeting an area of the body that kills immediately with almost no hope of recovery. So...keep your eyes peeled?

She drops the corpse like a spent lho stick, then begins reloading her bolt pistol with her back to the opposite wall.

[MrAbdiel]

A brief clash of wills ensues. Soren wants to flee uphive; Dyveke wants to flee downhive. It is obvious to Soren why he is right - but isn’t it always, to those accustomed to feeling clever? And Tyrus, in his experienced wisdom, saw fit not to designate a Cell Prime. Resolving such moments, even by concession, was as much a test of leadership as forcing the issue unilaterally would have been.

“Alright. Fine. You’ve convinced me. Down, and into the first bolt hole we can secure.”

[Henry the 57th]

At Dyveke's relentless insistence, the cell shuns the track leading upwards, towards the wealthier area where escaping degenerates are like to flee. Instead, before their inevitable pursuers have time to melta open the sealed doorway they fled through, the four opt to take rightmost path and flee into the deeper depths of the hive city. Almost immediately once they're past the intersection itself, the floor beneath their feet acquires a steep slope, plunging downwards at a much faster rate than anticipated. The quartet can practically feel level after level after level of the mammoth artificial mountain all but fly by them as they jog downwards, precious armorglass prizes in hand.

On the other hand, if the lighting was stark and intermittent before, the further the team descends into the metallic abyss the more dilapidated and unmaintained it grows. If there was at least a marginal level of illumination in the hallway behind the ballroom, with lumen strips that mostly worked, the ratio of functional to partially or completely shorted out strips drops to one in two, and then maybe one in three after a good minute or so of running. The corridor slowly becomes more and more cramped as well, the increasingly-rusty pipe-covered walls closing slowly but inevitably in around the cell, lending the whole affair an unpleasantly claustrophobic air. At least movement is easy, the slope lending speed to even the mildest jogging pace. As of yet, the team has not heard the sounds of pursuers, but neither has the straightforward descent revealed any exits.

After perhaps a kilometer of undeviating drop, the tunnel suddenly curls, all but doubling back on itself as it throws the cell forward almost blind. As they round the bend, distant, flickering lumen-strips reveal their chosen path's first intersection, a rigid four-way cross pattern of standard Mechanicus design, bolting together four separate hive tunnels now no more than three meters across. It's a natural choke-point for anyone headed this way, and in the dim illumination provided the cell can see that this was not lost on more than one party. An array of half-visible bodies can be seen sprawled out across the decking, loomed over by something nightmarishly familiar.

The alien monstrosity is hunched over so far forward that it is all but kneeling atop the mangled corpses of what even at this distance the cell can recognize for at least four women in Sororitas armor, sprawled across the floor, leaking blood and clear fluids. Long, blessed halberds and towering shields anointed with the fleur-de-lys of their sacred order lie scattered across the ground, coated in viscera. Something drips from the alien's shadowed side, and the rusted floor hisses audibly as it reacts to the sudden dribble of acidic ichor. Whatever wounds the abomination has endured, though, as it rises back to its full height it becomes clear that its predatory majesty is undiminished. Taller even than an Astartes, hunched mantis-like limbs almost quivering with tension, long clawed hands glistening with the viscera of its latest victims, even half-swathed in shadow the beast seems to all but fill the intersection with the promise of death.

And worse still is the pitiable thing in the creature's grasp, the monster's long facial tendril pulsing as they visibly descend into its cranium, grotesquely scooping out the contents into a half-hidden toothy maw. In the blackness it is all but impossible to make out specifics, but somehow the tortured visage of mute agony resonates even from its half-shadowed abode, the last gasp of a life stolen in the darkness. The xenos' featureless black eyes lock onto the cell, glittering with a malign intelligence. Its writhing tentacles suddenly relax, and the luckless human in its grasp slips to the floor with a wet thud, joining the multitude of corpses already spread out across the steel.

Everyone, make a Fear check at -10. Once that's done, roll imitative.

Lictor's Initiative: [roll0]

You'll be starting approximately 30m down the tunnel from the beast.

[dojango]

Matthias is concentrating on staying upright and moving, and so is startled when he spots the grisly tableaux ahead of him. He freezes, generations of memories of man as prey, as a witless beast under strange alien stars, coming to the fore, and all he knows is the most ancient of impulses. To run. He doesn't even think about it, he just... turns and runs back down the corridor from whence he came, hoping against hope to return to the (mostly) safe life he had known before.

[roll0] IP as well. Will test WP to break next round.

[RedSand]

Dyveke falters a bit, and raises her bolt pistol clumsily, almost pulling the trigger by accident as her grip tightens. Questions of what that thing was raced through her mind, but none quite as motivating as thoughts of it dead. She struggles to aim through her sudden heavy breathing. She whispers, barely audibly, to keep calm-"just line up the dot and fire. Just line up the dot and fire."

[roll0] Initiative
[roll1] FL Xenos roll to know what the thing that's about to kill me is

[Henry the 57th]

Reacting to the sudden presence of more prey creatures with blinding speed, the hateful alien monstrosity shimmers in an uncomfortably familiar way. The dark intersection around it pops back into focus, as it disappears from sight just as it had before.

Half Action: Concealment test, [roll0] vs 70.

-30 to any attempt to spot it using Awareness.

Half Action: Move 6m.

Through your Warp-touched mental acuity, you recognize the beast before you as a Lictor. It is a vanguard organism for the Tyranid Hive Fleets, the devourers of entire worlds. As you've probably worked out, it's a specialist in stealth, ambush, and reconnaissance, helping to evaluate the world's defenses as well as guide other forms of xenos life to where they can do the most damage. It has incredible control over not just its coloration but also its bioelectric and heat emissions, making it incredibly difficult to spot even with scanners. Also, it can gain knowledge by consuming the brains of a fallen foe in a similar manner to the holy Astartes, which is probably what it was doing here.

[MrAbdiel]

Soren, still, is not a physically courageous man. He does not possess the combat skills of even a moderately admirable guardsman, let alone those sufficient to go toe-to-toe with a creature which has so handily sawn through a veritable harem of the emperor's brides. So when his mind snaps into crystal clarity and rapid calculation in that moment of threat, as the monstrosity adds invisibility to its repertoire of terrifying strengths, it's important not to misattribute this as a flare of moral fortitude. It is an act of insanity, of survivalist desperation as real and shameful as Matthias's own, which has compelled his flight back up the tunnel's slope. He can hear Dyveke's voice muttering what might be a prayer (but knowing her, is more likely desperate self-exhortation) and the sound of H3X's ocular sensors swivelling wildly to find the vanishing beast. Along with them, he hears his own inhalation of a single breath; the entire span of time that contains his mental calculus, which might be rendered...


What is this creature? Have I heard of it, or read of it before? Not specifically. No need to wrack the shelves for this one; I already did when we saw it in the case at the auction. What do I know about it? It's ferocious, and deadly, and able to carve through power armor with its rending claws. The shields are relatively unscarred. The creature can evade visual senses, and has done so in reaction to our group's arrival. Ambush predator. It killed the Sororitas by sudden strike, then. It probably stalked them while they were hunting heretics fleeing the auction. It's consuming brain matter. Neurovore. Nourished by brain matter specifically? Unlikely. Most likely, it learns from the neuronic webs it consumes. What are my options? Can we outrun it? No. Not likely. Outcome of straight flight is death. Can we fight it? Not easily. And not when we can't see it. Not with a steelburner. Other options? I don't know enough about its physiology to imagine a chemical solution. We have no allies to call on with the firepower to destroy it - maybe if we can provoke it to engage with another knot of Sisters, we might have a chance to tip the scales then bolt while they gather their dead. Best option right now? It's hiding. It could have rushed us and gutted us right away; but its nature is to stalk and watch, not to bullrush. What can I do right now to improve the odds for when it strikes? What can I do right now?

Soren finishes breathing in. Melchior emits an urgent, comically redundant chime. Ding! Target located. And then another chime, with a lower pitch. Bing. Target lost.

Then he's off, a sprinter loosed from the blocks, exploding toward the place they had last seen the creature; an almost diametrically opposite reaction to Matthias's own, but no less crazy to witness. He drops to one knee and slides the last couple of feet, slapping his hands on a discarded Storm Shield, and tugging at one of the grenades on the dead Sister's belt; trusting in his postulation about the creature's languid, hunting nature to buy him time. If he was wrong - if it was going to attack immediately - then he was dead, no matter which direction he ran.

Sprint to the downed carnage, hoping against hope the Lictor is going to hide and watch before it takes its shot. Hopefully still digesting?

Melchior, forlornly, attempts to continue tracking the once again invisible creature. [roll0]. (Perception 35. Awareness +20. Augur Array +20. Lictors are *******s -30.)

[TankLaser007]

Lexmechanic Genetorus H3X (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=25455882&postcount=2)



No time to process, objective must be secured at all costs. With the xenos creature once again appearing and disappearing H3X acts to ensure the mirror remains safe. The priest places it against the wall behind them.

++SECURE OBJECTIVE AND RETREAT!++

The priest hopes the dictate is enough to make sure one of the members will take up the burden of the mirror and escape.

Failing to locate the creature, H3X overrides internal protocols prohibiting intentional structural damage. The primary mission objects supersedes custodial ordinances. While the creature may be imperceivable it is improbable it is immaterial this its presence presents physical resistance and observable influence upon its environment.

Centring itself in the tunnel the priest laterally extends both stabilisers to their maximum length anchoring the priest in the centre. Raising a hand the priest fires at the water laden pipes above and puncturing the decrepit vessels hopefully sending a shower of whatever liquids are trapped inside raining into the tunnel.


If the hall is 5 m and I'm in the centre leaves about 2.5 m p/ side average shoulder length is 16-17 cm and the mechadendrite on either side are around 3m fully extended. So should allow me to anchor in place and act as a "living" barrier.
half action to anchor the mechadendrites. half action to shoot the pipe.


[roll0] vs. ??? (Its a static pipe and there's a laser sight) without any other modifiers BS is at 55
[roll1]+6

[RedSand]

Dyveke nearly rushes forward with Soren, but stops herself. If he was going to rush forward, then surely, surely the Lictor would go for him first, try to stop him from grabbing the grenades from the Sisters belt, try to get off a quick hit and the slither back in the shadows from whence it came. She wouldn't be foolish enough to just stand near him when it happens. She takes position where she stands, kneels when H3X blows out the pipe to keep her aim...and waits. It was a long shot-the Lictor wouldn't expect her to make it. She barely expected herself to make it. It had to work. Just one or two quick shots. Just one or two lucky shots...


Dyveke overwatches toward the hall that Soren sprinted down, readying an action to use Semi-Auto Fire the second she sees the Lictor

[Henry the 57th]

While Matthias is bolting back the way they came, swinging back around the curve to race back up the sloping tunnel, the remainder of the cell springs into action. Soren is the fastest, sprinting forward in a surprising burst of speed, sliding up to one of the red-armored corpses just as H3X takes aim and, with pinpoint accuracy, only just penetrates one of the pipes overhead. With a hiss and a powerful chemical scent, a long, thin spray of water all but fills up the tunnel. With the cold calculation befitting an adept of the Omnissiah, the cyborg priest hit the pipe just the right way to create a broad shower without sacrificing water pressure. Sustainable for quite some time, and there is no possibility of a beast of that size making its way through that unnoticed.

Not that, in the moment, it matters to Soren. While H3X and Dyveke are safely positioned on the other side of the water barrier, the adept is out beyond it, covered only by their pistols. For an instant the adept instinctively braces, some primal part of him expecting to be set upon by the xenos monster, to be eviscerated and devoured just as the Sororitas were. His heart pounds almost audibly in his chest as he glances up from the dead woman at his feet and sees...

...Nothing. The hallway in front of the adept remains still, with the hiss of leaking water and the faint sizzle of the acidic blood on the floor the only sounds to be heard. No shimmering alien beast leaps out of the gloom to attack him, no monstrous tendrils wrap themselves around his head. For all Soren or his skulls can tell, he seems to be alone amongst the dead.

Full Action: Run 36m.

[MrAbdiel]

Soren skids to a halt by one of the desecrated bodies, looks up long enough to confirm he is not, infact, dead; and then feels the thrill of self-adulation. I am so frakkin' smart.

He snatches one of the grenades at random from the woman's belt - he tries very hard not to look at what is left of her face - then threads his arm through the brackets on the shield. It's heavy - and he's not strong - but he's travelling light anyway. He takes a forlorn look over the bodies one last time for a melta ... but finding none, he turns on his heel and looks to be ready to race back to the cell.

As he does, he hisses into his commbead.

"Matthias! Matthias, where the frak did you go?! Regroup! Don't isolate yourself like a throne-damn appetizer."

Half Action: Snatch Grenade.
Half Action: Pick up Stormshield.

Next turn, planning on sprinting back the other way! We need to regroup and hide!

[RedSand]

Dyveke considered herself a woman of many things, but what she currently lacked, she would relent, was a bit of courage, a lot of live-fire experience, and a proper long range weapon-and those would all only be of use if she could spot the lictor in time to get a shot off. She rushes toward the scene of the grisly corpses. They probably couldn't stop the lictor, but that woman with the disgusting sword-she had more then a decent chance. She pulls out her writing kit-naturally, she kept one with ink of the colors of her house. She prepared to dab her finger in the indigo ink-the lictor wouldn't inspect bodies that it had already eviscerated, but if the sisters chasing them would, and it would likely help to leave a message. She racked her brain-there must be an inquisitorial code for "Lictor", or failing that, "imminent Tyranid infestation". If they or the sisters couldn't take the lictor out, they'd need to glass the city, maybe even the continent. Anything was preferable to that.

[roll0] vs 54 to try and think of a suitable inquisitorial code. If she fails, she'll just write Lictor on the back of a sister and hope the beast didn't think to reexamine the bodies

[dojango]

Matthias kept running for safety. This wasn't the first time he'd fled from disaster and, emperor willing, he'd survive to do so again.