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Offline Koval, Master Verispex

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House of Cards -- game thread
« on: May 28, 2013, 03:58:26 PM »
Aboard the Dreygur
Outer edges of the Nova Sagittar system, Segmentum Pacificus


As you enter the briefing chamber, the first thing you notice is the massive hololith in the centre of the room, projecting the image of a planet in varying shades of cyan. Around the projector, a gaggle of Tech-Priests carry out routine last-minute checks and tests, praying for the machine's continued reliability and good function. Judging by the cloying stench of incense surrounding them, you gather that this is hardly guaranteed.

Dotted around the briefing chamber, a score of many-limbed servitors sit at their workstations, connected to their cogitators via neural uplinks. Their multiple spidery arms seem to be juggling various input devices, each one being used to tackle a different segment of data as it streams down their vid-screens in little green lines. At a glance, you can tell that it is sensorium data, but you cannot interpret anything meaningful without looking at it more deeply.

"Lights," Ianthe Skarkon calls out, barely breaking stride as she directs her order at the nearest Tech-Priest. He (or perhaps she; thanks to the heavy robes and abundance of cybernetics, you can't easily tell) complies instantly, pointing a small blocky device at the ceiling and pressing a button. On cue, the electro-flambeaux around the chamber dim, not going out fully but allowing the image on the hololith to display more clearly.

Skarkon turns to face you as the image of the planet begins to resolve itself more clearly.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is 2A-41597 Eta, unofficially designated Hamara. Imperial astrographers denote it as a rogue, or interstellar, planet -- which is to say, a world wandering the cosmos, independent from stars and other planets. And on the surface of this wandering world, there is an Inquisition fortress."

A bright red tag illuminates a point on the hololith. The image zooms in and realigns itself, so that you are looking at an Imperial fortress. It sprawls outwards in the shape of a cross quadrate, but going by the large conical mass plunging into the ground, much of the fortress appears to be subterranean. Tunnels and elevator shafts criss-cross the underground complex like an ant farm, or a map of veins and arteries. Curiously, the above-ground part of the fortress looks to be largely devoid of spires and towers.

"Two weeks ago," Skarkon continues, "the fortress went silent. This isn't just a power failure; we think the station was discovered, and worse, attacked. Four Inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus -- my Ordo -- together with over a hundred Storm Troopers and countless support staff, are all presumed missing, killed in action, or worse. The last thing we heard..."

A small panel springs into existence on the hololith. Skarkon touches it.

"...was this."

The image of the fortress is replaced by a large oblong panel suspended above the projector, displaying the image of a soldier, a woman in her early thirties with short, choppy blonde hair, two silver rings through her right eyebrow, and a pair of horizontal bars tattooed across her cheek. She is wearing the black and maroon carapace armour of a Storm Trooper, and you can see the stock for some sort of rifle visible over her shoulder.

Skarkon initiates the vid-feed and the woman comes to life.

"Inquisitor Skarkon," the transmission begins. "This ... Calne reporting. The sensors ... anomaly recently. First ... was something coming from ... of us, but ... Magos Ellingsen recalibrated the ... broad-spectrum sweep. The readings ... are getting ... Hamara's surface. We have detected ... electrical disturbance ... itself as a storm on the surface of ... nature and ... uncertain ... ascertain how it can ... with no atmosphere, but ... be impenetrable to ... and detection. The ... interfering with our ... Ellingsen has suggested ... in void-suits to ... ourselves. I am wary, but the ... and growing; we cannot just ... Enginseer Krantz ... gun-cutter now, and ... section of Storm Troopers. I must also ... been receiving a ... of dead-letter astropathic transmissions ... distress signals ... the Gothic War or even ... the volume of ... considerable, Cyber-Seer Axen ... a sheer coincidence ... shake the feeling ... to the storm overhead. I will ... report as soon as ... answers. Calne out."

The transmission ends, and Skarkon returns to the image of the fortress.

"Staff Sergeant Avrue Calne is my direct liaison with the Storm Trooper company on Hamara," she explains. "She's a battle-hardened veteran, and acts with my authority -- whatever's happening on Hamara, I trust her to be alive and, more importantly, taking charge if the fortress has indeed been attacked."

Skarkon turns off the hololith, drawing an angry glare from one of the Tech-Priests who, you are sure, is incensed at Skarkon's apparent disregard for its machine-spirit.

"Your objectives, then, are simple. When we arrive at Hamara, we need to locate Staff Sergeant Calne, and find out what has happened to the fortress; and if need be, return it to Imperial control, or at least make sure it can resume contact with the Imperium. As I've already mentioned, there were also four Inquisitors at the fortress: their names are Ceolfrid, Murach, Nyarko and Roche. We need to find out what happened to them, and whether they are still alive."

Skarkon motions to the Tech-Priest with the light controls, and the electro-flambeaux return to normal.

"There is one more thing," she continues. "Owing to Hamara's importance, and my own personal interest in the fates of my peers and operatives, I will accompany you on this mission. However, if you have any questions, now would be the best time to ask them."



[OOC]
Meta note: Some of you may recognise a familiar name. In truth, I just wanted to explore Avrue's character a bit more -- so I decided to recycle her. (But is that actually what I did? Watch this space...)

Ianthe Skarkon looks like this. Yes, that is supposed to be light burn scarring.
[/OOC]
« Last Edit: May 30, 2013, 03:53:17 PM by Autarch Koval'andril »

Offline faitherun (Fay-ith-er-run)

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #1 on: May 28, 2013, 09:55:12 PM »
"Da - de - da dum ... dum da - de - da - da - da" Kim hummed out loud as she followed the inquisitor into the room.

She listened intently as the inquisitor talked and was still staring at her after she had stopped talking.

"Yes Kemimi?" Skarkon asks

"I don't think he likes you" She replies, motioning to the upset tech priest.

Before Skarkon can respond Kim gets up and twirls around quickly and looks at her fellow members and says, "Do you think its the buggly wugglies?"

She walked up to Twiscian and said "Hello Twiscian, it is so nice to know there is another crazy person here too"

And with that she spun around the room humming.
So, what your saying is it's not your fault you look stupid by using words you don't get?
Flawless logic.

Offline Spectral Arbor

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #2 on: May 28, 2013, 10:22:34 PM »
Victor Casteau quietly drummed the fingers of his right hand on his copy of the Litanies of Faith in his left chest pocket, while he listened to the briefing. He couldn't help but think of Skarkon as a Colonel. Competent and in command. He was grateful that he seldom saw actual combat anymore, all the years of blood soaked battlefields had taken their toll. Even now, he could hardly keep himself from searching the room for threats.

At the close of the briefing, the girl took to her usual foolishness.

"Tyranids? Unlikely." Victor said gruffly. "They're not much for creating unusual weather patterns. Much more for eating anything that moves. No... I once saw some of the 'Bots change day to night, and start calling lightning from the skies. Word of the Emperor. If I was going to take a guess, I'd say it's them..." Victor trailed off, gaze drifting.

Gauss blast looks like it's sandblasting the flesh from Kate's face. Blood doesn't spray. It's just pushed away with the rest of her.

He shook his head. "Yeah, if there's weather being messed around with, I'd say it's the 'Bots. You say a Storm Trooper company was there? Doesn't give us much hope if the 'Bots are still there."
« Last Edit: May 28, 2013, 10:28:58 PM by GreatBigTree »

Offline Rasmus

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #3 on: May 29, 2013, 03:05:36 AM »
The adept stands at the back, listening quietly and watching the assembled. Pushing hard not to let his mind wander, to touch and brush over the thoughts of those in the room, he clenches his hands in his pockets, gritting his teeth slightly.
Upon hearing the names of the Inquisitors stationed on this rogue a few faces flash before his eyes. Yes, some of those men were bad bad bad, hurting and terrorizing individuals and populations alike. Efficient, cold. Good inquisitors, bad men.

Listening to the Inquisitor and hearing her plans to accompany them gives him some ease. There would be less of a risk of getting shot in the back of the head if she was around. Some didn't value resources as highly as others, and some were just scared. Skarkon was clearly not scared.

Looking up at the wispy girl approaching he didn't open up, but could feel the cloud of disorganized thoughts emanating from that mind. It was as if she was in at least three places at once, some not in this time, either forwards or back. He pulled further into himself, not wanting to get lost or look too deeply into that... thing.

Looking at the guardsman he nodded.


"It would be less the method of any purely biological incursion. It would rather be mutant, or abomination of metal. We should know more if we can look at the damage it inflicted before contact was cut.
Inquisitor - is there an external feed or orbital platform with any imagery of the disturbance?"

As the wispy girl spoke he looked into her eyes, pulling deep into his mind, hiding behind the walls of the psychic hood's crystal lattice, years of training, drugs and agony, and managed a brief pale tortured smile.

"I would not presume to say that you are crazy, Adept Kemimi. I would leave that judgement to others."

He turned slowly to the Deathwatch battlebrother.

"Brother Aret - which do you think most likely the culprit, given what we know so far? I believe we can rule out accidental or natural means, and as Sergeant... Casteau was it? pointed out, the biological abominations are not overly likely. What would you stake to be the likely energies behind this?"




[ooc]So Calne looks like the Inquisitor? Or is there a mixup in the link of the image?

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Offline Killing Time

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #4 on: May 29, 2013, 05:57:24 AM »
Verdon stood awkwardly towards the rear of the chamber and resisted the urge to scratch. His new uniform was stiff, and it chaffed at his neck and wrists. He studied the way the new material caught the light in the chamber and wondered how long it would take to fade. Perhaps Skarkon would allow him to keep his old, drab combat fatigues. They certainly fit better, and didn't glare, alarmingly, out of the corner of his eye.

He turned his attention back to the briefing. Two fellow guardsmen, two very odd looking civilians, and the massive, hulking presence of an Astartes. Not exactly a subtle bunch, but at least the Marine was in black...

Offline Underhand

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #5 on: May 29, 2013, 07:45:19 AM »
Troy sat with one leg folded over the other.  He doubted that Bugs were the cause of Hamara's silence.  To the best of his knowledge, Tyrannids had never been sighted in this sector, and the odds of them picking some frozen rock in the middle of deep space as the landing point for their attack seemed pretty small.

Regardless of that fact, the Inquisitor had invited questions, and Troy wasn't about to let the chance slip.    Questioning of superiors had been discouraged in the First Morghastian regiment, and a lot of battles that should have been won had ended in defeat as a result.  Troy wasn't was keen to see that happen again.

"Inquisitor, you say this is a planet without a star.  What can we expect the environment to be like on the ground.  I assume it will be very cold.  Are we talking the deep void of space cold?  I think I heard your contact mention void suits.  Is that what we will be wearing?  Is there any atmosphere?   Will there be any natural light?"

Offline Heretek

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #6 on: May 29, 2013, 08:45:48 AM »
Hidden behind the expressionless visor of his MkIV helmet, Aret watched the two pyskers warily. Not out of some tribal superstition or zealous hatred, but because he was a man with secrets, and no man with secrets could ever be at ease in a room with a pair of mind-readers. His accord with Skarkon ensured the Inquisitor’s silence; the same could not be said of the psykers.

Aret listened with half an ear as the mortals around him began proposing their own theories about the fortress’ demise. Privately, he doubted the Tyranids or Necrons were responsible for the loss of communication. That an astropathic communication had been sent at all was reason enough to doubt the presence of the Hive Mind, and there was insufficient evidence to suspect the Necrontyr were active on Hamara.

The male adept, Twiscian, turned to him. Aret’s lip curled in distaste at the witch’s pallid, blotchy features and milky eyes. He sighed audibly at the man’s question, irritated at being drawn into the conjecturing.


“If were to speculate, and I dislike doing so, I would suspect the Archenemy’s hand in this.”

He absently thumbed the worn-down coin hanging from his left gauntlet. Whatever face it had once born was long since eroded by the brush of power-armoured fingertips.

“Storms conjured from the airless void, garbed vox-transmissions from wars long-past; both reek of warp magic.”

Offline faitherun (Fay-ith-er-run)

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #7 on: May 29, 2013, 11:15:35 AM »
"Oh good!" Kim cried out. She clasped her hands together and began jumping up and down. "Now you all are guessing." She giggled and then proclaimed, "My turn!"

With that she sat down and went still, gazing off into the distance.

[ooc]Kim is using the Psychometry power to try and figure out what she can - in the future would you like me to pm you when I do this?[/ooc]
So, what your saying is it's not your fault you look stupid by using words you don't get?
Flawless logic.

Offline Koval, Master Verispex

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #8 on: May 29, 2013, 03:09:57 PM »
"Inquisitor," Twiscian ventures, "is there an external feed or orbital platform with any imagery of the disturbance?

"The closest Hamara ever gets to orbital platforms are the ships of whichever Inquisitors happen to be there," Skarkon answers. "The more we ever need to maintain, the more attention Hamara draws, and the fortress itself is hidden from most augur arrays by a scattershroud projector -- it relies largely on being undetectable to avoid unwanted attention. We do, however, have a pict-recording of the disturbance, courtesy of the fortress' own augurs."

As if anticipating the instruction, the Tech-Priest with the luminator control begins to dim the chamber again, but only slightly as Skarkon interrupts him with a gesture.

"That won't be necessary, honoured Tech-Priest," she tells him, twiddling a few dials and tapping on a keyboard with her other hand before turning back to you. The Tech-Priest looks at her, confused, and leaves the lights alone.

"The astropath that sent us Staff Sergeant Calne's message also attached this," Skarkon continues. "I should warn you, though -- the picture quality..."

Skarkon pulls up a pict-capture.

"...leaves rather a lot to be desired."

A flat image of a thunderstorm, marred almost beyond recognition by blurring, distortion and strange pictographic artefacts, pops up on the hololith, obscuring the projection of Hamara. At first, it looks no different to a mundane storm (albeit a very violent one), but for a general lack of storm clouds. What would ordinarily be cloud-to-cloud lightning seems to be a self-sustaining web of electricity hanging in the sky.

"We're still conducting analysis on the image," Skarkon admits, dismissing it from the hololith, "but I'll make copies available for review before and during deployment. By the time we arrive at Hamara, we may know more."

"Inquisitor, you say this is a planet without a star," Sapper Troy chips in. "What can we expect the environment to be like on the ground? I assume it will be very cold. Are we talking the deep void of space cold? I think I heard your contact mention void suits. Is that what we will be wearing? Is there any atmosphere?  Will there be any natural light?"

Skarkon pauses momentarily, as if processing the barrage of questions from Troy.

"The fortress is, or should be, a sealed environment," Skarkon explains. "Ambient temperature and gravity are as you're experiencing right now, and the fortress itself is artificially lit. Outside the fortress, yes, Hamara is a frozen orb adrift in the cosmos, with no atmosphere, gravity at about three-fifths of Terran standard, and very little -- if any -- natural light."

She turns to fiddle with the hololith, but continues talking.

"That said, I do anticipate that you'll need your own void-suits, either for venturing outside or in case the fortress' air supply has been compromised; with the exception of Brother Aret, I'll make sure that each of you has one."

Aret shifts silently but massively as Skarkon says his name.

"Though it'll be interesting to see whether Miss Kemimi will be able to keep hers on once we turn our backs," she snipes, only too aware that Kemimi is in fact staring into space.



[OOC]
Faitherun -- If you're using a psychic power, just indicate as much in an OOC-section as you've just done, as that way, all the info is in one place. The same goes for any combat actions that aren't immediately apparent. As far as Psychometry goes, however, I will PM you with the result. As Twiscian has a similar reveal-information power in Mind Scan, I'll do the same for Rasmus.

Ras -- The blue-haired lady is Inquisitor Skarkon. This is SSgt Calne.
[/OOC]
« Last Edit: May 29, 2013, 03:16:17 PM by Autarch Koval'andril »

Offline Rasmus

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #9 on: May 30, 2013, 04:12:19 AM »
Peering at the projection, but the image is far too blurred to pick out most of anything, the Adept just cocks his head.

"Is it centered on the fortress? It certainly looks that way, even from this vantage-point. That rules out coincidence.

I have no further questions. I would rather get there to look, and see, for myself, if that is your wish, Inquisitor."


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Offline faitherun (Fay-ith-er-run)

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #10 on: May 30, 2013, 09:28:42 AM »
Kim sat staring into space for a long time.







"CRACKLE!" She yelled suddenly, then went still again. The rest of the group jumped, and many of the tech priests started murmuring and eyeing her uncomfortably.

Kim simply sat still.


She stood abruptly and announced "That would suck. To go crackle. Poof, we go in and crackle and poof, all gone, ding dong, hello, yes, death here, oh but we don't need you yet, too late - you went CRACKLE!" She shouted the last word.

She walked over slowly to the Lady Skarkon, "Do you think I'm pretty?" She asks
So, what your saying is it's not your fault you look stupid by using words you don't get?
Flawless logic.

Offline Killing Time

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #11 on: May 30, 2013, 10:10:29 AM »
Interesting...
Thought Jax.
She's a couple of cards short of a deck, and no mistake.

"Your pardon, Lady Skarkon" he murmured, after the girl seemed to have calmed a little from her outburst.
"I'm sure all this is very interesting, but I think we're missing the point."

He waited a little while to check if he had the Inquisitor's attention, before continuing,

"These holos tell us next to nothing, the girl tells us even less. The only way to be sure of what's going on down there is to go see it for ourselves. I'm sure you've already figured this out for yourself or we wouldn't be here.
"So what I want to know is this; how do we get in, what do we actually know is down there, and how do we get out? Do we have blueprints, maps, floorplans, anything that can help us plan the insertion and extraction? Will there be auto defenses or are we only worried about whatever breed of gribbly happens to be waiting at the dinner table?"

"I beg your pardon, Ma'am."

He stepped back again, unconsciously seeking the shadows.

Offline Koval, Master Verispex

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #12 on: May 30, 2013, 04:05:39 PM »
"Is it centred on the fortress?" Twiscian continues. "It certainly looks that way, even from this vantage-point. That rules out coincidence."

"I suspected the same, but we can't be certain," Skarkon admits. "Until we get there, we'll have to assume that it is, and that it's lingering for whatever reason."

Twiscian nods. "I have no further questions. I would rather get there to look, and see, for myself, if that is your wish, Inquisitor."

"Agreed," Skarkon states. "All we have to go on at the moment is the image and Staff Sergeant Calne's message; once we arrive, we can observe it directly, but all we can do now is speculate and--"

"CRACKLE!"

Skarkon pauses, staring blankly at Kemimi as she lapses into a moment of madness. Judging by the bored, yet surprisingly patient look as her eyes glaze over, you ascertain that Skarkon is hardly a stranger to Kemimi's apparent outbursts.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" Kemimi asks, almost waltzing over to Skarkon.

Skarkon continues to stare blankly at her. You sense she's been through this routine before.

"Moving on," she sighs at length.

"Your pardon, Lady Skarkon," Corporal Verdon mutters, almost inaudibly. "I'm sure all this is very interesting, but I think we're missing the point. These holos tell us next to nothing, the girl tells us even less. The only way to be sure of what's going on down there is to go see it for ourselves. I'm sure you've already figured this out for yourself or we wouldn't be here."

You're unsure as to whether Skarkon is bristling slightly at such a dismissive appraisal, but you are aware that she's still listening patiently. Skarkon did, after all, invite questions.

"So what I want to know is this; how do we get in, what do we actually know is down there, and how do we get out? Do we have blueprints, maps, floorplans, anything that can help us plan the insertion and extraction? Will there be auto defenses?" Verdon continues. "Or are we only worried about whatever breed of gribbly happens to be waiting at the dinner table?"

"Rest assured, Corporal, I will distribute schematics and full technical details for the fortress presently," Skarkon answers. You get the impression that she feels that Corporal Verdon has jumped the gun somewhat. "We are, however, assuming that the fortress itself hasn't been compromised. I've planned out more insertion scenarios than we're likely to need, including teleportation, breaching the outer walls with boarding torpedoes or assault boats, tunnelling into the underground levels via Termite, launching a drop-pod assault, or simply landing outside and walking the rest of the way in void-suits. If one or more of the fortress' hangar bays or other access points is for some reason unusable, we can reassess as appropriate."

From experience you're aware that Skarkon is likely to have thought of even more approaches than this, but is unwilling to take up too much time enumerating her many strategies.

"As for defences, the fortress does have missile launchers and a defence laser network, but again, the fortress relies on being undetectable," Skarkon reminds you. "It is of course void-shielded, but the scattershroud projector makes it more or less invisible to everything but the naked eye. That said, the possibility of the fortress' defensive weapons having been... shall we say, misappropriated had occurred to me; I intend to send down a shuttle with a servitor pilot as a test."

Before Skarkon can continue, you hear the loud, deep tolling of a particularly large bell filtering over the vox. It tolls once, twice, three times, and Skarkon huffs somewhat impatiently.

"That, ladies and gentlemen, would be the advance warning that we are about to enter the Warp," Skarkon sighs as the bell keeps tolling, albeit considerably less noisily. "I'll distribute data-slates with schematics and the like once we're in transit. Navigator Hannemann informs me that the journey time is estimated to be between ten days and four weeks; I suggest you prepare yourselves for transition."



[OOC]
Skarkon's ship now has a name! I've amended the first post accordingly. You guys have until Sunday to do whatever you need to do on board, as that's when I hope to move the storyline along. :)

Rasmus and Faitherun -- do keep in mind that as you're in the Warp, behind a Geller Field, psychic powers probably won't work very well (if at all).
[/OOC]
« Last Edit: June 9, 2013, 05:12:42 AM by Autarch Koval'andril »

Offline Spectral Arbor

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #13 on: May 30, 2013, 09:56:48 PM »
Casteau waited until the conversation died down, before nodding to everyone and slipping away to wander the darker corridors. Something about the twisting, turning hallways appealed to him, like he could get lost in them for awhile and no one would notice.

As he wandered, he began assessing his squad. Not a squad. A task force, and not even mine at that. Old habits died hard, though, and his mind forced the assessment anyway.

The Inquisitor hadn't taken a direct hand in the missions he'd previously been assigned to that he could recall, or at least had been aware of. That said something of the dire situation they were apt to find themselves in. He suspected that she could more than take care of herself in a fight, so he wouldn't have to worry about keeping her out of trouble. He would also need to remember that she wasn't a CO at the other end of a Vox, she'd be the leader of this excursion. A grim half-smile twisted his features to the right, "Not that anyone would listen to me anyway. Well, maybe The Sniper and The Sapper, but even then..." he trailed off.

To which, The Sniper was unlike any he'd met before. Probably part of the reason he was there. Unlike all of the other snipers he'd met before, The Sniper didn't seem to exhibit any sense of invulnerability, or of endless power. Quite the opposite, he seemed almost meek. That wasn't a bad thing, per se. Not every soldier needed to be a front line Russ. But in the tight confines of an enclosed structure, his ranged skill may not be of use, and if his nerve failed in a close ranged firefight, he'd likely have to drag him down before he got himself shot in the back. He hoped his skill was as formidable as he'd heard.

The Sapper seemed like he might have trouble with authority. Not bad in an operative, but a loose cannon was something he didn't care for in his squad. Task force! The Inquisitor's task force! Casteau blew out a breath in frustration. He ducked beneath a bulkhead as he continued his wanderings. The Inquisitor knew what she was doing, of course. If the base had been attacked, there was no guarantee that the way would be clear, and a demolition specialist would be useful in clearing the way... or bringing the base down to prevent its capture. Also, Casteau had never mastered any ranged weapon more complex than a lasgun. Having someone on the team with experience with specialized weaponry would be an asset. Unfortunately, The Sapper would need to be up close and personal to use his slagger, or to plant charges. Casteau would have to keep an extra vigilant eye out during those times.

What to make of The Black Knight?  Casteau knew that all Marines were like gods of war in battle, but this one was clearly hiding something. Most Marines couldn't stop talking about their Chapter colours. "The blue on my guantlet is a reminder of the time my Prime-Ark took a poop in the woods, and had to kill a Daemon that jammed a fiery stick up his arse while he was doing his business, and the  Emperor's divine will caused a spring to appear so he could put the fire out..." But not this one. The Black Knight was covering his colours, which meant he'd dirtied his precious honour. Men that thought they'd lost their honour were always looking to die for whatever cause they were now into. A normal Marine? They'd happily charge straight at an enemy, trusting to the Emperor... and a couple inches of ceramite... to see them through. They never seemed to get over the idea of taking a head-on approach, when a bit of thought and stealth could keep you out of a firefight, and thus alive. Casteau had a feeling this particular Marine wasn't looking to fight another day. He had a feeling this Marine was looking for a way out of his duty. He'd have to make sure The Black Knight knew how cowardly it would be to throw his life away. Casteau's grim half-smile returned. "At least if he gets killed, I'll already be dead. It won't be on me. Hah!" His bark of a laugh echoed back and forth down another empty hallway, becoming eerie and distorted. Coming to a junction, Casteau turned right, noting that a couple of the lights were out in that direction.

The hallways were getting more narrow, and he hadn't seen another sentient being for several minutes. Sure, there were servitors, but he knew they cared a little less about him then he did about they. Nothing at all, instead of next to nothing.

As for the Psykers... he wasn't sure what to make of The Prybar. Casteau was aware that mind readers made most men nervous, but that's because most men had secrets to hide. Casteau didn't. He'd been a soldier for his entire adult life. Enlisted at 16, and he was now 42. Standard years, of course. Space-born had no real use for terms describing the length of time required to orbit a star. Never married, no long term attachments of any kind, really. He'd been a professional soldier for more of his life than he wasn't. Sure, he'd done awful things in that time...

Executing The Prisoner.
Torching the home.
Gunning down civilians.
Knifing the... putting a grenade in his mouth... shooting the... cutting off his finger... dripping the xeno's acid blood onto... Oh, sweet Emperor! Larson, no!

 
Casteau shook his head. Nope, no secrets. All reported, all accounted for. He was a Guardsman, and he followed his orders. People died. Some worse than others. Nothing he could do about it.

So, no. The Prybar didn't bother him too much. There were bound to be more interesting minds to look into than his own. For a psyker, he seemed like he knew which end of a pistol did what. He wouldn't likely be that much use in a fight, but he would be able to find out what happened from whomever they found alive. Friend or foe. So that was good. Taking prisoners wasn't hard if you put your mind to it. The only problem may be in keeping him alive so he could perform the interrogation afterwards. Casteau made a mental note to pray to the Emperor to give The Prybar the good sense to keep his head down when the lasbolts started flying.

The Girl. She was clearly not meant to be put into a warzone. She was most likely meant to be put in a quiet room and left to ramble into a vox, with a servitor on the other end recording everything and a terminal dedicated to discerning her ramblings. Casteau shook his head in pure bewilderment. A child shouldn't be dropped into battle, much less a child that was apt to scream at any given moment and give away their position. If her dress were red, he'd actually go to the trouble of mentally changing the term Red Shirt to Red Dress, just for her. She was apt to get them all killed. And he'd look out for her the same way he'd look out for any member of his squad. He'd do his best to keep her alive, just so she could get them all killed. "People die, it's the way of war." Casteau paused, then surprised himself with a genuine laugh. That's the whole damned point!

Casteau's laughter pealed out, but no longer echoed. That was good. He'd drifted where the light was so dim he had to use his hands to make sure he wouldn't walk into anything, and the ceiling was low enough he was able to walk, but nearly bent in half. There was a dull thrum, but you couldn't escape that anywhere on a ship. He'd learned that young. Being space-born had a couple of benefits, and instinctually knowing where to go so you wouldn't be bothered was one you developed.

Tomorrow, he'd catch up with his squad. See how they were holding up, see if they needed anything from him. Tonight, he'd sleep in the quiet, and the dark, and likely have nightmares of things he'd rather forget. At least he'd only be screaming to himself. He was pretty sure no one would hear him here. Deciding that he'd found the right spot, he sat down, and pulled his well worn copy of the Litanies of Faith from his pocket. Immediately, he remembered that in the darkness... well... he'd just have to say a prayer by memory. Placing the Litanies beneath his head, Casteau curled up on the floor, said his prayer, and hoped that his sleep would be as dreamless as the void.

Hey, they're not your squad. They're The Inquisitor's task force.

Bah, what's in a name? Go to sleep.
« Last Edit: May 30, 2013, 10:09:08 PM by GreatBigTree »

Offline faitherun (Fay-ith-er-run)

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #14 on: May 30, 2013, 10:47:03 PM »
The warp was bad. It was a bad place to be. Scary things happened there.

But then, scary things happened everywhere.

But it was best not to be where the scary was. Time to go then.

A strange look came over her, a red eyed, glazed look. One that you might get when waking up after a hard night at the computer, blinking around at a world far to bright and cheerful.

She stood. Shoulder's  back, head held high. Her step was quickened, short small steps; precise and nary a movement wasted.

"Very well my dears," She said, "Tis time to retire for the night" She straightened her dress, and somehow it seemed to be more complete, better fitting and less tattered. The grim was no longer apparent, and indeed it looked as if it had been freshly washed.

"My dear Victor, if you would be so kind as to escort me to my room, that would would be dear"

She strode over and wrapped her arm under and around his.

"Ta!" Called out, as she tried to walk with him out.
So, what your saying is it's not your fault you look stupid by using words you don't get?
Flawless logic.

Offline Spectral Arbor

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #15 on: May 31, 2013, 12:05:30 AM »
Err... I guess Victor takes a detour to see Kim to her room before going off and being Grimdark. :)

Offline Heretek

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #16 on: May 31, 2013, 02:13:53 AM »
“Confirm: maximum lethality.”

“Maximum lethality confirmed.”

“Override verbal safety protocols.”

“Verbal safety protocols overridden. Caution: this action may result in bodily harm and/or death.”

“Good. Begin.”

Aret slipped into a defensive stance as the four murder-servitors unfolded. Normally used in boarding actions to overwhelm enemy defenders, the combat-servitors were nightmare creations of blade-limbs, shock mauls, grind-maces, and ever more bewilderingly deadly and esoteric weapons. Hulking figures made lumpen by sub-dermal armour plating and sensor units, they were ideal sparring partners compared to the Dreygur’s dedicated training servitors; designed for mortal combatants, those were little match for an Astartes.

The Black Shield was stripped to the waist, clad in simple fatigue trousers and combat boots. His bared flesh was pale below the neck, testament to a life spent day and night in warplate. Burnished steel sockets studded his body, interface ports between his power armour and the black carapace beneath his skin that allowed him to bear it.

The first of the servitors to reach him were a pair of Aggressor-pattern models, each armed with a wicked set of power shears and a whirling meteor hammer. Aret slapped away a lunging pair of shear-blades with a quick parry, his riposte left the servitor’s arm twitching on the deck. Ducking a swinging meteor hammer that would have crushed his skull like an egg, he disembowelled the second servitor with an almost dismissive flick of his arm.

The first Aggressor’s meteor hammer lashed out, wrapping around his sword arm and trapping it. Out of the corner of his eye, Aret could see another servitor circling in for his exposed flank. Tensing his muscles, he grabbed the cable binding his wrist and heaved the one-armed servitor toward him. The Aggressor was dragged off its feet and into a savage headbutt from the Astartes that cracked an eye socket and sent the enhanced killer staggering.

The circling murder-servitor darted in to strike. A Subjugator-pattern, it carried a shock-maul and a whining grind-mace in its limbs. Aret attempted to twist away, but the Aggressor hanging from his arm slowed him and the cracking maul caught him across the ribs, drawing a grunt of pain as the weapon discharged its crippling energy. His body tensed as muscles spasmed randomly, the gladius in his hand clattering to the floor as his fingers jerked open of their own accord.   

Disarmed and dazed, Aret used the only weapon available to him; the one-armed Aggressor. Planting his feet, he threw all his gene-forged strength into a mighty twisting motion that carried the servitor from its feet and swung it directly into the retreating Subjugator. The two servitors crashed together in an impact that rent flesh and buckled metal.

The final servitor was a heavyset Dominator-pattern, an eight-foot tall brute with four killing limbs. Its upper arms ended in scything blades reminiscent of a Tyranid bioform, while the lower pair bore segmented steel cestus gloves wreathed in the ominous coruscating energies of a power field. Slow and hulking, it reached the fight as Aret struggled to free himself from the wreckage of the Aggressor still bound to his arm.

He took a step back as the Dominator swung a blade at his face, the tip inches from taking an eye as it swept past. The backstep wasn’t wasted; Aret crushed his boot down into the Subjugator’s face as it tried to rise, shattering its reinforced skull and leaving it a slumped heap underfoot. The second scythe chopped down and Aret raised his arm into its path.

The blade sliced clean through the chain binding him to the ruined Aggressor. Freed, Aret rolled under a swinging fist and ducked around the servitor, eyes scanning the deck. He heard rather than saw the next strike coming and threw himself forward to evade. Rising back to his feet with gladius in hand, he spun to face the Dominator, sword ready.

The servitor turned heavily to face him and, for a moment, the two fighters watched one another. Aret looked into the Dominator’s dead eyes, glittering behind the perforated faceplate of its helmet-cowling. The moment passed, and Aret lunged forward, a war-cry on his lips. The Dominator stepped forward to meet him.

Aret batted a scythe away, then took it off at the elbow, twisting away from a crackling cestus as the limb was still falling. Not even noticing the pain, the servitor threw a vicious uppercut that forced Aret back into the path of the second blade arm. The scythe tore a flap of flesh from his pectoral, washing his chest in blood before his enhanced biology clotted the flow.

Aret danced left, stepping over the servitor’s fallen arm. It tried to follow and bring him back into reach of its remaining blade, but its heavy feet couldn’t match him. Outside the reach of the power-glove, he simply had to pick his moment. The fight was already over. A quick lunge settled the matter; he punched his blade through the Dominator’s neck, into the gap between helmet and collar.

Stepping back, he slid the gladius free and watched the last servitor fall. A glance at the wall-chrono told him the fight had taken a little more than a minute. He grimaced; he was in poorer form than he had thought. A minute to kill four servitors, and two wounds sustained in the process. Unacceptable. Despite the florid bruises from the shock maul spreading up his ribs and the dull ache of the blade wound, he hefted his sword again.

“Six servitors,” he addressed the training room’s servitor intelligence. “Random pattern mix.”

The cage doors at the far end of the room rattled open, towering figures emerged, harsh backlighting rendering them spiked silhouettes.

“Begin.”     
« Last Edit: May 31, 2013, 02:48:26 AM by Khemri. »

Offline Rasmus

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #17 on: May 31, 2013, 02:47:50 AM »
At the klaxon the Adept visibly twinged.

"Inquisitor"

He made his excuse, bowing slightly to the others before retreating to his sparse room. Once there, at the tolling of the second klaxon moments before transition, his mind lashed at the confines of the room, briefly, before pulling down, back, deep, behind the lattice of the psychic hood, behind the walls of defense, behind everything. The warp was a terrible thing, and a terrible strain. If he didn't pull back, way back, stray thoughts that were clearly not his began to form, he could hear whispers from the bulkheads, and when he looked at other people he could hear the tortured screams from within their minds. It might be an artifact of the void itself, or a lingering ping of the transit itself within his mind, or indeed something entirely different.
He had discussed it with others of his ilk and they had confessed to similar feelings, to a lesser or greater degree. To be fair, those who had talked about hearing the voices more than him had now all gone to, what was the term? "retirement".
He corrected the psychic hood and sat slowly rocking on his bunk, clutching at the focal rod in his hands.

Hours pass, before he dare open his eyes, seeing fleeting shadows move away into the corners, laughing and dancing as they do, and for a brief moment he
knows, with absolute unshakable certainty, that he is not alone in the room. Oh the room is sealed, and there is noone here physically but him, but there is so much more in the world that that which people can see, or touch, or shoot.

The transit is a daze. Studying schematics, purposefully not talking to anyone, medication, meditation, writing down scribbles of thoughts half-finished or half-begun, more medication, uneasy sleep. 

As tortured as his waking hours in the "real" world are, walking in the shadows of other men's minds, at the beck and call of those who see him as a talent with feet, it is much preferable to the torture of the warp, and the shadows that flee before him, mocking him from the corners as he passes, watches, tittering, prying at him. Medication, meditation, sleep, as best he can manage, trying not to count the days until transit ends.

Lost Roads - finally released!


YouTube-clip of my Squat army.

Offline Underhand

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #18 on: June 2, 2013, 05:24:20 AM »
 After the briefing, Sapper Troy had been minded to spend some time brushing up on his hand to hand combat training.  Troy's unarmed combat skill had been rated by his regiments drill instructor as "just barely acceptable" which was about average among the Morghastian First, a regiment which Troy was coming to realise had been nothing more than a glorified PDF, just with better equipment. 

The enhancements he had received since joining Lady Skarkon's service had the potential to change that though.  The subdermal palting and skeletal reinforcements, while hardly making him invulnerable, allowed him to shrug off blows that would have flattened him before.  The blackbone implants which reinforced his frame also granted power to his strikes.  If before, the force of his blows had been like hitting with a rubber hose, now they were like striking with a wooden baton.  Now it was just a matter of adapting his fighting style to take full advantage of the enhancements, which meant fewer punches, and more elbows and knees.

One glance inside the training room put a halt to those plans however.  Nearly every inch of the combat cage, and much of the outside floor was littered with what appeared to be the remains of about half the training servitors.  No.  In fact, it was the remains of actual combat servitors.  In the centre of the rubble, a hulking brute of a man who Troy judged to be Brother Aret was bludgeoning one poor servitor into a state of decommission with what appeared to be its own severed arm.  Another half dozen combat servitors stood waiting just outside the cage.

When a circular saw blade broke off the mangled servitor, whistled through the air and lodged itself in the doorway next to Troy's head, he formed the opinion that Brother Aret was doing enough hand to hand training for the entire ship on his own, and he left. 

If Troy wasn't going to fight, then he was going to eat.  He went to the kitchens, stopping by his quarters to drop off his kitbag and pick up his dataslate. Her Ladyship had forwarded on the schematics for the fortress for him to study. 

The kitchens were dark and almost empty when Troy entered.  The only occupant was a single servitor, its modified tongue and saliva glands allowing it to lick clean every inch of every pot, pan, bench top and oven of the kitchens.  Troy went inside and opened the door of the larder. Cold air and sterile white light spilled out from its door as Troy stepped inside among the floor to ceiling metal shelves .  The first step in preparing a good dish was good ingredients, and Lady Skarkon's kitchens had those in abundance.  Knowing what he wanted and where to find them from his previous visits, he gathered the ingredients he needed and went back outside.

The second step to making a good dish was good preparation, and once again the Dreygur's kitchens were well equipped to allow for that, with every kind of tool, utensil, pot, pan oven, stove, cooker, broiler, boiler, or other kind of food preparation device that Troy could think of, and many he did not recognise .

Outside the larder, under a single light on a heavy stone benchtop, he laid out the ingredients into different bowls and set to work with 5 different knives.  Taking up the filleting knife, he set about jointing the Termanian ground fowl, separating out the different parts, taking care not to traumatise the flesh or break the notoriously weak and splintery bones.  With that done, he took up a short bladed vegetable knife and quickly sliced the Gassian onions, wiping the blade clean before doing the same with a trio of celruth ribs.  He used the side of a broad carving knife to smash  two cloves of garlic and then tore apart a couple of handfuls of fungus caps with his fingers, taking care not to bruise or crush them.  With a chef's knife he chopped up half a handful of chives to fine confetti.  Wiping the carving knife clean, he sheared off two thin slices of smoked porcus loin and chopped it into short thin strips.

The third component of a good dish was the recipe.  Troy well knew that a recipe is not just about ingredients.  A good recipe also included instructions on how to prepare food and how to cook it.  Good cooking was not just about dumping everything in the one pot, bringing it to boil and hoping for the best.  Different ingredients cook faster or slower and at different temperatures.  The type of pot or pan something was cooked in would affect the texture and the taste.  How an ingredient was prepared could affect the final flavour.  Some ingredients needed to interact with each other before a third was added.  Ingredients merely represent potential, the preparation and the recipe determine whether that potential is reached.

He placed a cast iron pan on the oven and poured in a generous amount of oil.  Letting the pan warm up, he returned to the stone bench, placed the legs and thighs of the fowl in a cloth, poured in some flour, added a sprinkling of salt and spice, doubled over the cloth and tossed the contents to coat the fowl in the flour.  The legs and thighs had to go into the pan quickly. Too long in the flour and they would dry out and turn mealy.  Taking the fowl thighs from the cloth he placed them skin side down in the oil, which was now hot and let them brown before turning them and repeating the same.  Once both sides were lightly browned, he removed the legs and thighs and placed them in a steel dish next to the heated pan to keep them warm. 

Next into the pan were the torn fungas caps, which he kept separated from each other to allow them to brown individually, quickly turning them with tongs before they were overdone.  Scooping them out all at once with a spatula, he dropped them into the steel dish with the legs and thighs.

The smoked porcus strips went in next, and once they went crispy were followed by the onions and celruth.   Turning the heat down, Troy waited for the onions to give off an aroma, then added the smashed garlic cloves and a minute later the browned fungus caps.  He let the vegetables to cook for several minutes, allowing the fungus caps to release their juices. He added half a cup of amasec and allowed the pan to ignite with a pink flame.

Troy poured a quarter cup of lycopersicum paste into the pan and let the mixture cook for another few minutes while he boiled three small schallop pearl onions, leaving the skin on.  While they came to the boil, he ventured back to the other end of the kitchen and opened the cellar door, it's musty smell greating him as always.  He stepped down the half flight of stairs just inside the door and selected a decent bottle from the pinot noir section.  He thought about trying something of true quality, but decided that he wasn't suicidal.

Shutting the cellar door, he returned to the pan.  He splashed in about three cups worth of wine and placed the bottle back on the bench to breathe.

He sniffed the cork and poured in some stock, then  reduced the heat under the mixture to a simmer, slowly turning it into a sauce.   While that happened, he removed the schallop onions from the boiling pot and removed their outer skins.  He then  added the legs and thighs, ladling the sauce over them and left it to simmer.  He added herbs.  Returning to the stone benchtop, he activated the dataslate.

The Fortress was as Skarkon had described it.  Situated in the middle of a large crater, there was no line of approach that could offer concealment or cover for attackers. 

In the shape of a cross quadrate, the fortress seemed to have been designed with function in mind over form.  The walls were made out of very thick plascrete and have no immediately obvious weak points.  It wasn't huge, being only 150 metres across at its widest points.

Each of the arms had a small docking bay for aircraft and at the centre, there was a cluster of communications towers with a central command bunker.  Tunnels and corridors connected it all together.

There were four subteranean levels, the lowest of which contained the power generators.  There were three plasma generators, which seemed like overkill to Troy, but he supposed that this was the Inquisition here, and they weren't known for doing things by halves.  Although he hadn't encountered one before, that scattershroud projector probably ate up a lot of power on its own, and may very well have been kept on a separate system to the rest of the base.  It would also make reasonable sense for there to be a backup generator in case of emergency.  It was a fortress after all.

Inside, the corridors were separated by a series of blast doors and heavy duty maintenance hatches.  The hatches wouldn't be much trouble and would be easy to open with well placed krak grenades.  The blast doors would be much tougher.  Troy would have to see about aquiring some melta bombs.

The underground tunnels were designed to last.  Krak grenades wouldn't cut it.  A krak missile, hitting flush might put a hole in it.  Demo charges would be the way to go.

The base was well covered with cameras, both within and without.  Some of the cameras were obvious, some were concealed.  The base defence did not rely on the weak flesh of tired soldiers to be alerted to danger.

The defence systems were formidable.  Multilasers were dotted throughout the base and covered every line of approach to the base.  Each landing bay had a pair of surface to air missile launchers.  Troy decided to recommend that Lady Skarkon select a method of entry other than from the air.

From reading the details of the base materiel, Troy figured that if fully manned, the fortress could hold out for a year, with only a moderate reduction of defensive capability.  Normally, stormtroopers could be expected to last at least twice as long as regular soldiers, and would be able to maintain superior combat effectiveness even with reduced food, water, ammunition and other supplies, but on a planet like Hamara, a siege would only last as long as the power generators.  Once the power dropped out, so would the air supply, and even stormtroopers can't fight if they can't breathe.

With his initial view formed, Troy rose from the benchtop to check the fowl.  The sauce had reduced nicely.  He turned the fowl parts over.  Inhaling the aroma, he added another pinch of herbs and the schallop onions.  Dipping the tip of his finger into the pan, his neurological dampener numbing the pain signals, he took a quick taste and added more salt before leaving it to simmer under cover for another 20 minutes.

Troy hadn't been able to select a pan with a cover when he entered because the kitchen servitor hadn't got around to cleaning any of them yet.  Improvising, he took another, larger fry pan and placed it over the first, partly sealing in the heat.

Quality ingredients, proper preparation and a good recipe.  It tasted good already.

Returning to the benchtop, he poured himself a glass of wine and stared intently at the layout of the fortress, spinning the image around to regard it from all angles.  It wasn't the most formidable structure he'd seen, and he'd cracked open tougher nuts before.  But on each of those occasions, he'd had an army with him.

Offline Heretek

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Re: House of Cards -- game thread
« Reply #19 on: June 2, 2013, 07:19:33 AM »
Aret noted the Sapper’s presence in the doorway, momentarily diverting his attention as he used the maul arm of a Subjugator to reduce a battered Vanquisher to its constituent parts. For a moment in between the rise and fall of his arm, he wondered if the soldier meant to join him in the combat cages. But, just as quickly as he’d arrived, the Guardsman left.

Aret dropped the severed arm and rolled his shoulders. The servitors waiting outside the cage cycled their weapons, seemingly anticipating the next bout, though Aret knew their minds were incapable of such things.

He walked to the wall of the cage and slammed the door release with the flat of his hand. The cage unlocked, the servitors waiting outside slumping down and slouching toward their berths as the training room’s rudimentary intelligence fed them binaric instructions to rest. Smaller cleaning units flooded into the cage and began gathering up the ruined flesh and bionics, ready to be attached to new servitors, or rendered down into foodstuffs for the labourers on the menial decks.

Sheathing his gladius, Aret stepped out into the hallway, following the trail left by the smell of the Sapper’s skin, his boot polish, and the ingrained stink of fyceline, promethium and cordite that no amount of scrubbing would wash away from a demolitions man.

***

“I couldn’t eat that, you know.”

Aret stood leaning against the door of the kitchen. His body was latticed with scars, bruises, and several deep cuts that still bled freely, but he seemed to pay them no mind. He was watching Troy intently, uncannily like an auto-targetter locking onto its prey.

“It would provide me almost no sustenance whatsoever. Not even enough for a minute of combat.”

He stepped into the kitchen and lifted the lid of the pot gently, taking care not to crush it in his oversized hand. The Space Marine inhaled gently, savouring the scent. The neuroglottis implanted in the back of his throat immediately set to work breaking it down into its most basic chemical components, flooding his brain with information on an almost unconscious level.

Aret smiled ruefully, replacing the lid.

“We used to feast like this though; wine and roast meat. It meant less than nothing, biologically, but it was never about the eating.”

The smile vanished.

“I talk too much of the past.”

Gingerly, he took the wine bottle from the bench and poured himself a glass. With his free hand, he indicated the gently rotating image of the fortress. It would have presented little obstacle to a Company of Astartes, but he imagined their small task force would have a less easy time of it if the defences were manned and hostile.

“Not the mightiest fortress in the Imperium, too reliant on secrecy for its defence. But difficult to break conventionally, for obvious reasons.”

 


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