@Hank@Lord Coake@Bright_Ops@The Whacko@Noxious@Keepvogel@BCTheEntity

Hive World of Ephron Five - ca. 020.M31, The Great Scouring

The very chamber itself shook with the shockwaves of explosive bombardment, rockcrete powder and shards of jagged metal dropping onto the kneeling figure below with little noticeable affect; for days, weeks, months even, the huge individual had interred himself within the darkened chamber beneath the lowest levels of the Ephron Hive without food or drink or contact with the outside world, and there he had remained ever since. In this period, when the galaxy was being torn apart by brutal reprises from Loyalist and Traitor forces alike, one more person was largely ignored; this was one 'man' who should not have been.

He was Ar Khanata, a native of Colchis and an Astartes of the XVII Legion, the so-called 'Word Bearers', a Battle-Brother who had fought to bring worlds and entire systems into the fold of Imperial Compliance, but now sought only to record the dictates of his Primarch Lorgar and the deities of the dark pantheon he followed.

Spread all about him in heaps and scattered here and there, the room empty save for the materials - parchment, dataslates and auto-quills mostly - that he required to finish his abominable task, were the fractured segments of four tomes. Each tome was dedicated to one of the four Ruinous Powers, mere quarters of a scheme toward apotheosis that he would never be able to complete...they were coming for him.

How they had discovered his whereabouts he did not know, all the Dark Apostle did know was that the Loyalist Astartes, his former comrades-in-arms, would show him and the planet on which he had chosen to abide not the slightest hint of quarter or mercy. The sprawling Hive City would be cleansed and most probably re-populated with loyal Imperial citizens, possibly even families of Terran stock, families that would never support Chaos of even the idea of it. Then, ten-thousand years from now, they would no doubt rise to become the ruling overlords of Ephron V and the very name of Horus would be gone forever.

Muttering passes from the Book of Lorgar to himself, one large fist scraping at the skin of his scalp where he had taken to writing heretical verses in imitation of his daemonic Primarch.

"Changing....last of the loyal...tr-true..." he was beginning to lose his concentration, to lose his very mind, only his superhuman physiology having allowed him to contain the raw energies being directed at him from the Immaterium for this long, "mussst finisssh," his eyes began to twitch and blood to flow freely from his ears, blocking out the continuing sound of Imperial bombardment, "I am coming, masters, I am coming!" In one motion he sat bolt-upright, flinging open his arms in time for three figures to enter the chamber.

"Shoot him!" Roared one of the Astartes aggressors, the blue and white of the Ultramarines illuminated by what little light there was in the cell, "we cannot allow him to live." A quick gesture bought the other pair of Marines into the cell, a flamer held in the clutches of one, and without a word he unleashed a raging inferno into a room hardly big enough for the four of them.

"You are too late, you fools!" Spat the once-loyal warrior of darkness, even as the promethium-fuelled flames began to strip away his blackening flesh, "so it is written, so shall it be done, as the Gods are my witnesses."

Before long he was naught but a pile of ash, the room forever scorched black, sealed by the Ultramarines upon their leaving of the planet; yet they were too late, for the texts which the heretic had been writing had been sent out into the ether at the very last moment. Even now, others - psykers, traitors and the insane - would be reproducing his works...yes, Ar Khanata would live on.

---

Hive World of Ephron Five - Present Day

Time had passed as it always did, and the fifth planet of Ephron did become an Imperial asset once more, supplying regiments for the Imperial Guard at regular intervals and generally paying substantial tithes to the Imperium and - as the traitor had first predicted - those descendants of the Terran colonists, the famililies to resettle its population centres after the initial cleansing by the Ultramarines, were now the highest and mightiest on the face of the planet.

What had happened on the planet during the Great Scouring, as with most everything about and immediatly after the Horus Heresy, had been abolished from Imperial records - even the Planetary Governor had no idea that his world had once been infested with the taint of Chaos, or that a powerful servant of their's had written four of the most blasphemous texts formerly known to the Imperium of Man somewhere in this very city.

Over time they had managed to track down and destroy every copy...or so they believed.

A time of change was coming to the Hive World, a time when things would be turned upon there head and the highest would become the lowest, when the pauper would become a king, and when the Corpse-Emperor would know the wrath of a planet in which the seed of heresy had been planted ten-thousand years ago.

When all four are bought as one, when all are bought together, there shall be no force in this realm of mortal man that can stop them from ascending to greatness - blood shall flow, lust shall ensnare, the weak shall grow sick and die, and change will come to all. O' weak and foolish servants of a false God, do you not see? You are as nothing, and to nothing you shall return, to pain, despair and torture for all eternity. The loyal and true shall inherit all.

Harkin snarled as he watched the giant sewer rat roast above the crude fire, the smell of cooking, no-doubt toxic flesh filling the empty socket where his nose had once been. The other four gathered with him were salivating at the prospect of fresh meat, even if it was liable to make their guts burn and their bodies quiver for hours after. Just having something in their stomach would be worth the price paid. The nearly skeletal mutant drew his knife when he was satisfied the meat was seered to his tastes, carving off hunks of flesh and muscle for the gathered wretches. Two more joined them a moment later; a pair of orphan boys driven down into the sewer by desperation. They were tolerated, as they could steal far easier than any of the abominations dwelling in the Underhive. He gave another short growl as he eyed them, the cybernetic left reading off their vitals to him. Malnurished and sickly, to none's surprise. He threw the pair of boys a hunk of meat, which they set apon as greedily as the mutants.

"Will not be here much longer, brothers." He hissed in a decidedly unnatural voice; it brought up images of rusty nails and dry snake skin to the boys as they listened to him. He tore off a chunk of rat, chewing messily before he spoke again, the others' attention focused totally on him now. "He tells us to wait only short time longer. Have guns and knives and pipes and axes ready. When word comes, we go, we kill, slay for the gods."

This was met with growls and grunts of approval, the wretches visibly excited at the promise his words held. All had been oppressed and forced to live as animals by the Overworlders, and all would be more than happy to take their revenge in blood, fire and depravity. Harkin himself had several ideas rolling around in that partially-exposed skull of his, and it would have made him grin if he still had lips enough for the expression. He'd started a collection of skulls recently, from the rare occasions he'd been able to catch one of the Overworlders alone after one of his shifts at the chemworks. He had six now, most of them gangsters, along with another worker and a streetwalker. The streetwalker he'd doubly pleased the gods with; Khorne and Slaanesh smiled on him that night.

That collection would surely grow soon, if the words of the preacher were true. Yes, he would take many skulls in the time to come. The gods would smile on him and his fellows, and they would know freedom and glory. He looked down at the knife in his hand, bits of roasted meat still clinging to the blade.

"For the gods, shall be ready."

There were times when Draco would look around his kitchen and simply take in the atmosphere without saying a word to anyone. How like the universe a kitchen was; When there was no life within it was orderly and calm, but once the cooks arrived it became a chaotic mess of conflicting sights and smells and flavors as different cooks focused on different dishes and tried to get them as perfect as possible before sending them out to be consumed by those beyond the kitchens walls. It wasn't a perfect metaphor and thus the young noble kept his thoughts to himself in order to avoid the possibility of looking like a fool but it worked for him.

Today was Stew Day at the Noble Soup Kitchen.

Walking around the kitchen in order to have a look at the massive pots that the stew was cooking in, an intelligent man that thought about it might have noticed that the pots seemed to be divided into two groups, through what divided them was not easily seen. Draco knew all to well through; While most of the pots were simply containing a normal hearty stew to feed to the starving masses, the meat in the others had come from animals that had been diseased before they had been slaughtered. Nothing world ending but it would cause an outbreak of lesser illness among those that ate from it that would spread to those around them. An offering to Grandfather Nurgle.

Those had were tasked with serving the stew into bowls had been instructed carefully that every seventh bowl was to be filled from one of the Nurgle pots; A task that Draco was happy to see was being taken as seriously as any other holy ritual. In truth he doubted that this offering was going to be enough to earn a blessing from Grandfather Nurgle, but if pleased him enough so that the Lord of Despair would ignore the Hope and Change that Draco was bringing about then it would have been worth it.

Besides, Draco couldn't help but feel something akin to kinship with Grandfather Nurgle; Out of all the gods, Nurgle was the one who spent most of his time slaving away in front of a pot, trying to cook up new and wonderful flavors of illness and plague to offer up to a hard to please galaxy. The God was a chef at heart.

Stepping out of the kitchen and walking into his office in order to have deal with the parts of running the Noble Soup Kitchen that didn't require him to be working in a kitchen, he took a moment to look at his meetings for the day before he started to work on the logistics paperwork to make sure that there would be plenty of supplies for the offering to Khorne tomorrow; Rare, spit roasted meat dripping with blood with a collection of hot and spicy spices in order to give it that flavor kick... combined with a limited amount of water jugs in the serving area which will no doubt result in numerous fights over who got a drink to try and cool their mouths down throughout the day that will no doubt result in several deaths when they escalated. Pausing in his work for a moment, Draco made a memo to ensure that the serving knives would likewise be limited but that they would be nice and sharp.

The Voices had stopped.

This was the first thing Sanath Marko noticed since he had returned home with the stolen book. Having rested it upon his dining table, he paced in front of it, anxiously sucking on a lho-stick as he contemplated the ancient tome, thinking about the risks and rewards of reading such a book. He knew for sure that it had to be part of some mysterious cult, hidden away in the dark corners of Imperial society. If he were to read even a fraction of a page of such a book, it would mark him as a heretic for the rest of his life, branding him a traitor, for which the punishment could only be death. This he knew. What he did not know, and was thus eager to learn, was what the knowledge could be that would make it so damning to learn. This is why he chose to sit down with the book, cautiously opening the front cover, and doing his best to read the inscribed pages.

---

"Many in the Imperium follow a being known as the 'God-Emperor'. This being is more appropriately addressed as the 'Corpse-God', a feeble ruin of a man who pales in comparison to the true Lords of the Warp. There are four such Gods, each with a domain of power exclusive to them, which they watch over with immeasurable might, rewarding those who fulfill their wishes in the mortal realm. The first God to address is known as the Great Corrupter, capable of extending life, and destroying it, cleansing suffering, and renewing it. Not a fickle master by any means, he is quick to reward his followers.

The next God is the Lord of Blood, an honourable warrior of great martial prowess, who rewards the noble fighters, while shunning those who harm the weak and helpless. He is able to grant even the most minute of soldiers great strength and martial skill, allowing them to fell even the most powerful of creatures with one mighty blow.

Thirdly, there is the Architect of Fate. Devoted to obtaining all forms of knowledge and wisdom, his followers seek out lost libraries and crypts, searching for lost artifacts and and tomes, and seeking to spread the newfound knowledge. He honours those who serve him well by providing them with ancient secrets that benefit them greatly.

As the youngest God, the Prince of Pleasure lacks the talent and finesse of the other three, but is still a powerful ruler nonetheless. Gaining power from all forms of desire and love, he blesses his servants by fulfilling their innermost wishes and dreams..."

The Book would go on to describe rituals for pleasing each of the gods and other ways to service their wishes, though many of the pages were tattered, stained, or otherwise damaged. The information that did remain was confusing, and very contradictory to itself, and the benevolent descriptions of the gods. Sanath felt an urge to search for more info, which he suppressed for now. With the newfound knowledge swirling in his head like so many buzzing insects, he stowed the book in an alcove near his bed, then lied down and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

As far as Gormog was concerned, Ephron V was the ugliest planet he had ever seen. The Ogryn placed his enormous hand on the void-proof plexiglass pane he was staring out of and frowned. The Hive World lazily spun along its axis in front of him, mottled grey and black, covered in noxious clouds of greenhouse gases. Many lights dotted its surface and illuminated the clouds from below but they failed to make the planet look any more appealing; if anything, it just looked like Ephron V was slowly burning up from the inside like a smoldering piece of coal.

He was on an orbital docking station, waiting for Salvius to finish contracting the services of one of the many shuttle pilots waiting to ferry passengers planetside. The station hung in geosynchronous orbit over the Hive World, suspended vertically in outer space. No complicated docking maneuvers were necessary as a ship could simply approach the planet directly, line up next to a docking station and have the magnetic clamps attach to the hull. Gormog would surely have appreciated such ingenuity had he been capable of comprehending it. Alas, the Ogryn was reduced to merely staring at the surface and idly wondered why the planet was on fire.

Salvius had tried to explain to Gormog why they had traveled to Ephron V. The explanation that had stuck was that the little black bird-skull of Tzeentch could talk, and it had told Salvius to go here. Gormog, being absolutely essential to keeping Salvius alive, was naturally expected to come along. And yes, Khorne was fine with the whole thing.

After a few minutes -- during which Gormog had developed a sneaking suspicion that the planet in front of him wasn't actually on fire, but merely very shiny -- Salvius called for the Ogryn on his micro-bead. Travel had been arranged.

The shuttle was, like most everything, unreasonably small for Gormog. Salvius sat with the pilot in the front of the shuttle, where Gormog absolutely couldn't fit. Instead, he sat in the back with the rest of the passengers, all of whom were suitably terrified. Gormog cradled his ripper gun in his lap, slowly polishing the barrel with an oiled cloth, returning every wide-eyed stare with a defensive frown. The staring was not long-lived.

"Y'know, I just dun see any future with 'er," explained the shuttlepilot while approaching the re-entry angle. "We're apart all the time, barely see each other." Throwing another piece of gum into his mouth, the pilot sank into silence for a short while. "Then again, givin' it all up, startin' afresh... That's dangerous stuff. It'll get ya killed dead or worse. For what?" Another piece of gum disappeared into the grinding teeth, the owner of which had introduced himself earlier as Jelbus. "What'd you do mate?" asked Jelbus. This was a dangerous question to pose Salvius, and a slightly too large grin formed on his face.

Opening his senses to the warp, Salvius inspected the man's presence within it. Jelbus' soul quivered with questions, uncertainties, doubts. But also a tiny hint of excitement. That was the important part. Recalling some of the books he had read on human psychology and social interaction, Salvius changed his voice into something jovial, suggestive of camaraderie. "Let me tell you something about my life, friend Jelbus," Salvius said. "For the longest time, I've had a great interest in acting. Not being one for book studyin' or listening I learned life's lessons by following my heart instead of my reason. Being an actor allowed me to put my everything into reproducing all matter of great fantastical adventures and dreamlike romances... Until I finally decided to make my plays a reality. First, my time with the circus..." Salvius worked the man like a harp, telling him all about his time with the circus, his time with the guard, that time with the Inquisitor. He painted a grand picture in which every character was a little more rebellious, a little more crazy. Slowly kneading, pushing and pulling at the man’s soul, Salvius silenced his doubts and fears and planted the seeds of excitement and wild things. A new gleam had appeared in the eyes of the pilot. “Even now, me and my companion are looking for a certain… container. It might be a book, or a slate, or a person even… This mission was given to us in the greatest of secrecy by those outside of imperial law, if you take my meaning. And we could always use some help when you’re ready to burn some bridges. Then I’ll be in touch when I need you. Does that sound reasonable to you?” With an almost disbelieving look on his face at the identity of their ‘client’, Jelbus agreed. “Remember Jelbus,” said Salvius while exchanging some contact information, “not a word to anyone about this. If our presence got out, it would be inconvenient with a capital I for the client, but even more inconvenient for you.” The final words coincided with the heavy thunk of the shuttle touching down, after which the hatch started to open.

Glad he was finally able to leave the shuttle, Gormog stepped outside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the artificial light of the space port. Large, heavy-duty illuminators were aimed at the landing pad and more lights showed the way towards the space port’s terminal. Two transport trucks pulled up to the shuttle, dispersing a small crew that helped the anxious passengers board the vehicles. Gormog was gawked at and a short argument ensued, with one of the crewmembers insisting that the Ogryn would have to pay an extra fee to be transported; an argument that was swiftly ended with a deep, reverberating infrasonic growl.

The terminal of the space sport was a dazzling, confusing mixture of smells, sights and sounds. Every available surface was covered with lamps and advertisements and the place was loaded to the gills with people; most were travelers, but there were plenty of panhandlers, street vendors and even the occasional preacher. Annoyed, Gormog kept his eyes low and simply followed the historian, clearing a way through the throng of people with a few menacing looks here and there. Back home, on the Feral World where Gormog was born, this much noise and light would have been a terrible idea. There were far more dangerous creatures than Ogryns that stalked the night. Gormog didn’t remember any of that -- because of the amnesia -- but the instincts never left him.

They had arrived on Ephron V. First order of business; find a place to stay.

She rested her head on a bench, blonde curls suffocating one another in an attempt to bind and knot into dreadlocks and escape the lack of care and constant fluctuating dampness even as they fell from her horizontal angle towards the unsavory floor. She had been grasping at sleep with languid claws, but it continued to dart about with the rest of her thoughts. She shuffled skeletal fingers through the mess, not to control but to relocate, as her head canted to take in the dim seedy establishment her employer had offered up for cheap. Her present lodging did little to abate her elation; rather, it appeared a mere window to a yawning expanse she had yet to explore.

She abandoned sleep with a caustic sigh and sat up, tapping a lho-stick against the arm of the bench and then pressing it between lips devoid of any healthy pallor. A blaze stemmed from an igniter and cast a glow upon her paling eyes that fell shut for a brief moment as she inhaled. Upon exhale her eyes reopened and it became apparent that her right eye had succumbed to an inky blackness that crept from her pupil like a rotted root systems into the sclera. If it bothered her, she didn’t let it show; her lips were resting in a pleased manner about the lho-stick as she began tying up her boots.

She had always been an outworlder, born and raised in a civilized world that’s population barely boasted half a billion and hive cities had been of little interest in her past life. To be fair, nothing had been of any real interest in her past life. There had been mention of hive worlds from visiting friends in the past life; their voices foggy echoes laced in acedia mirroring her own so that she could barely recall what she’d been told, something about pollution and overcrowding. Their distaste had been palpable, but as she rolled it around her mouth she let her own palate savor the promise of such an inimical place. Abhorrent smells, disturbing people, surrounded by sin with the sanctimonious looming just out of reach for the masses; what more could a girl ask for?

She’d even been provided with something to keep her busy. While Nurgle was ever present in her fever muddled mind, his bidding didn’t always pay. The jobs that did pay were never exclusive though; she could always do a little something something for Nurgle. She thought about forming some sort of plan as she pulled her flak jacket off the back off the bench and slipped it on; a plan to locate the young boy with an affinity for narcotics and easy women. He owed a few debts, enough that someone was willing to pay her to find him. She opened the small door and took another drag of the stick. Her soul purred something pleasing as she looked out at the underbelly, coaxing her, and making a plan would have to be plan B. She pulled a hood from beneath her jacket over her messy hair, failing to hide the depraved smile but adding a bit of anonymity to her stroll. A levity of fate swallowed the weight of her stride so that she bounced easily through the door and into wretched depths of the hive.

The Fallen Astartes nears his destination. The Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques: nominally a shop purveying exactly what it describes to exactly whom is described, and with several locations throughout the hive, though this particular store is placed at a surprisingly low point, such that its only proper business comes from fools, and the very well-guarded. Even so, the owner of the location is quite wealthy himself, even after hiring his own guards to protect the building and ensure it is not broken into by the riff-raff around those parts. Lucius has his reasons to believe that this additional wealth is not fully accounted for by the other stores. He believes it comes from a VIP section of... interesting repute. He acquired this belief from reliable sources. Those sources stopped being reliable shortly afterward; he no longer uses them in his pursuits.

As he enters, he sees nothing of immediate interest. Most of the "antiques" sold there are mere trinkets, rarely of any actual value despite their price tags, and beyond the dark wooden counter the somewhat elderly-looking shopkeeper stands behind, the shop itself is rather bland otherwise, painted a dull off-white and quite cubic in form. Looking around, however, brings to eye a doorway covered in brightly-coloured strings of beads. Not too extravagant an eyecatcher, though the alternating colour scheme between strings - green, blue, purple, red - gives away its true purpose, with an additional guard just to its left. Lucius takes a few moments to wander around the store, window shopping as it were, steadily making his way over to the doorway in question, and ultimately finding himself stopped by the guard after a few glances toward the doorway in his presence.

'VIPs only, sir,' the Astartes is told; in response, he mutters 'I think you'll find I am a VIP,' taking out Jeremiah's liberated wallet, and removing from it his business card, handing it to the guard. The guard looks it over, frowns up at Lucius, and says 'You're not Jeremiah Albrecht.'

'The identification says otherwise. Oh, pardon me, I believe it's in two parts?' The Space Marine picks out the small stone from the wallet and places it in the guard's fingers. Stone is waved over paper, flashing the eight-pointed star that associates the card with the forces of Chaos, and the guard shrugs with apparent acceptance. Returning both items, he asks Lucius to follow on, closing a previously-unseen door behind the two of them and locking it multiple times, plunging the corridor beyond into temporary darkness. Lights flicker on, and the two men walk through both straight and twisted sections of metallic plate for several minutes, unlocking and relocking several doors along the way, the sounds of the city retreating behind them until all is silent save their footsteps. At some point, metal gives way to stone, and it is another few minutes after that that a great deal of noise begins to echo up to them, getting louder as they make their way further onward. The noise finally becomes recognisable as a vague mixture of conversation, physical combat, and what is most likely orgiastic revelry of multiple sorts; shortly after this, they reach a final door, which is subsequently unlocked and opened.

What lies beyond can be aptly described as a combination of a bar scene, strip club, and low-budget colosseum, all carved into the rock that inexplicably lies within. The bar itself is stocked with various bottles of fluids which one can only assume comprise alcohol in some sense, with various high-class figures seated and engaging in many types of banter. At least one conversation couple is exchanging money and a small artifact of some sort between themselves; certainly a more intriguing antique than anything a non-VIP could acquire. To his right, various stages are set up, where dancers perform in varied group sizes around poles, across apparently-modified gymnastic equipment, and sans stage props; beyond these, multiple curtained-off doorways presumably lead to more private facilities, though at least one trio is engaging in quite enthusiastic intercourse not far from the dancing stages. There are needles of some foul yellow liquid involved. It seems quite unhygienic. The colosseum aspect of the VIP section is filled in by various pits left of the entranceway, surrounded by small but loudly-baying crowds who are often spattered, and occasionally drenched, in blood and gore of variable freshness; the fight nearest to the Angel is just visible as it reaches a climax, the loser a man with one forearm replaced with a long curved blade, rusty from use and forcibly bent and shattered, the winner an oversized Ogryn with a horrendously bloated and crawling gut, taking its time to pound its victim into mulch against the floor of the pit.

Overall, it's quite an awful scene to consider. Nothing like as horrifying as what a truly Chaotic gathering could achieve, but even so, most would panic. They'd be thrown into the pits if they showed signs of dissent, and subsequently murdered in the name of Khorne; indeed, at least one of the doorways from what Lucius assumes are other storefronts leads over one of the pits, and an absurdly muscular human crawls out as Lucius watches, nails torn from the climb, and flesh lacerated and bruised from battle.

Lucius is not most people. He has been well-aware of the nature of Chaos even before his untimely trip through the fabric of space-time via Empyrean torture, and has been previously trained to resist shock and horror at just about anything which he might have seen in his time as a Dark Angel. He remains unfased, thanking the guard for his company and sending him on his way back to the legitimate front, and stepping forward into the scenes laid before him, heading first toward the bar and taking a seat without ordering anything. He's not exactly sure why he's here; he assumes that his initial hearsay on the matter was orchestrated by one or more Chaos-aligned entities, though subsequent efforts may have been his own, and can only wonder whether there's a reason it took him nearly ten years before he discovered the existence of this place. Perhaps, he thinks, he may finally start getting his memories back from whence they were spirited away. If he's lucky.

The Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques.

It was an unassuming name, a somewhat rustic and musky taste of uninteresting relics lingering about it, and certainly too unassuming for anyone but academics and young scholars. Indeed, it occurs to one that this may be exactly why the Arbites and the uninitiated rarely ever even passed the portal of the worn doorway into the interior and, if they did, left quite shortly afterward. Oh if they had only known! Known what lay beyond a series of doors, winding passages, and into the very bowels of a corruption festering beneath their very feet (or over their heads, in the case of those dwelling in filth in the levels below).

If one were to get that far, somehow gaining access to the rather fantastical world that Lucius had just entered, it would be unlikely to be noticed that the layout of the entire, expansive, domain was something just a little different; to see this, one would need to clamber up a towering staircase, or gain wings to fly. If by some magic or leverage they did gain a birds eye view of the Boutiques most secret of sanctums, then it would all become rather obvious! What would become obvious? Well, the fact that the whole place was assembled in imitation of the eight-pointed star of Chaos, each 'section' dedicated to each of the Gods - or more precisely 'two points' worth of room - the fighting pit placed dead centre and the other areas dotted about it.

There was a simple reason for this, and the reason was that the various followers of the Dark Gods were not known for being on the best of terms with one another, a sad and sorry state of affairs, but one that had existed since the birth of Slaanesh had made them four rather than three. Something the Blood God in his eternal rage and infernal fury had never forgotten nor forgiven.

Such thoughts were what gripped the mind of Atella, lounging like a feline upon one of many soft and luxuriant couches provided for the decadent worshipers of her patron deity, the dynamic between the Dark Prince and the ever-violent Khorne being the very reason she was even on Ephron V in the first place. Perhaps not the exact reason, but assuredly a byproduct of the course which her life had thus far ran.

She remembered her past life with varying degrees of clarity; sometimes she was living among the nomadic tribe that had once been 'her people' - part of a confederation of Khornate tribes on the backwater planet of her first birth - and could remember how, when she was born, there had been those that wished to see her dead at once. Atella had been born without the typical look of her people, where they were broad and firm, she was smaller and more lithe, and as she grew it became clearer that there was something disturbing about her; although carrying the organs of a male she produced no hair upon her - or his - body, not on the face or the arms or the genitals, and neither did she grow tall and strong, but developed into a person that others of the tribe feared and lusted after in equal measure. Eventually, not to her great disappointment it must be said, she was cast out and banished.

So began her journey into a wider universe and a development of faith in Slaanesh and his power.

The Dark Prince may well have had a hand in her birth, and one had simply to look at her to believe it; not short but not tall, slender but with wiry and visible muscles, the lean musculature of an athlete or a martial artist...or a stripper, and a face that was both male and female but not either at all - full lips and high cheekbones that were distinctly feminine, but with a more squared jawline and a dimpled chin applicable to a male, glacial blue eyes looking out from beneath arched eyebrows and set on either side of a pointed nose.

All-in-all there was nothing that really set her (for she had chosen that pronoun over any other) apart from any other personage of comparable looks...and yet anyone who had been in her company was struck by a feeling that they couldn't explain, by thoughts and fantasies of desire, as if ensnared and prompted on by an invisible force.

"Mistress," hissed a cowled man, stooping into a low bow before the stripper who was rather more than a stripper, catching only a glimpse of her form veiled and covered in many layers of whispering silks, "it seems that there is a newcomer here who may be of interest to you."

Atella followed the quivering finger until her eyes caught sight of a...man? No, not a man, at least not some common-place baffoon who had just walked in from the street. Here was something, someone else. Something interesting.

"Very well," she said, her voice barely more than a seductive sigh, "take me to him, Raoul, and introduce me. Just try not to let anyone touch me."

To say that Draco was thrilled to get the paperwork out of the way would have been an understatement, but he wasn't foolish enough to ignore it or leave it in the hands of his underlings; Much like a military campaign, everything in life required the forethought of ensuring you had the best equipment available and had your logistics organized correctly otherwise things tended to go wrong... Well that wasn't true, things tended to go wrong regardless of what preparations were made but at least it would become much quicker and easier to respond to the changing circumstances with a bit of ground work laid out.

Before he could actually take the moment to enjoy the peace and quiet before he went out into the kitchen, one of his followers banged on the door in a pattern that announced that the message they had to deliver was both A) Cult Business and B) Urgent. Feeling the smile drain from his face and replacing it with a neutral frown as he called out "Enter."

The door opened to allow one of the newer necrolytes, a woman who's name currently escaped him but who had proven herself during the rituals for both Slaanesh and Tzeentch to be able to keep her head under chaotic situations. Depending on how she performed under the stress of the Khorne ritual tomorrow he would have to learn her name. The woman knew her master well through and got right to the point after the door was closed behind her "Sir, we have a preacher in the dining room."

Draco's frown deepened. This was bad news... "Imperial or Rival?"

"Rival, Sir." Draco cursed a little under his breath. Having any sort of preacher show up at the soup kitchen was always a problem. Every now and then a priest of the Corpse on the Golden Throne would come down in order to preach his false god's name; Because of the unwanted attention that would come about if the priest found anything out of the ordinary when it came to the filth of the lower hive or if the priest disappeared or died, it was generally easier for all involved to simply keep the priest away from the more... short sighted elements who praised or followed the will of the true gods.

A rival cult sending a preacher however brought attention... unwanted attention. Taking a deep breath, Draco reached over and hit a button for an intercom that he had on his desk. "Sergent Usher, we have a code holy word. Please deal with it in the usual fashion."

"Yes Sir." Was the only reply that came back over the intercom before Draco turned his attention back to the necrolyte. The usual manner of dealing with a code holy word (Rival chaos preacher) was to quietly escort them off the premise, break their hands beyond recovery, remove their tongue(s) and then dump their ass at the nearest church of the Corpse Emperor they could find, denouncing them as a heretic/witch before leaving. If they fight back, kill them.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Was there anything else?" A silent shaking of the head was all the answer he needed before he waved her off. "Begone then. I have much to consider."

It was only once the woman was gone that the whispers started to fill the silence again.

Lucius spies the veiled individual approaching from a fair distance away. He has been glancing around periodically for a short while now, and this is the first instance in which anything of note involving him has occurred. Even so, he gives no indication that he's noticed Atella or the (somewhat ratty-looking, in Lucius' mind) man who appears to be her slave until she is about three meters from him, at which point he abruptly spins round in his chair to face them, staring at them both, looking them over to take stock of them and form an initial opinion from up-close. Several seconds pass before he says anything, first pointing at the man by the mistress' side.

'You're not to touch me. You're not to come within five feet of me. You're not to so much as cough in my direction. Otherwise, I'll snap your neck.'

All of this is said in a harsh monotone of sorts, debunking any misconceptions that the Angel won't do as he says. His initial statement made, he lowers his hand and turns his head to face the silk-covered... human, he guesses. Gender is nigh-impossible to discern underneath the layers they're wearing, yet unbidden and somewhat shockingly for one of his psychology, a thought comes to mind: what if he just bent them over the bar and...?

'Judging by your clothing and the direction you came from,' he addresses the leader of the duo near him in a somewhat less confrontational tone, 'you're either one of the Prince's whores, or a bearer of plague disguised to fool less careful viewers than myself. Given the image that just sprang to mind, I'm going to guess the former. I'd assume, but that would be unwise. Either way, your wares don't interest me. And I'll not take any risks with your... manservant... at this time,' he concludes, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly at the man as he dubs him. 'He'll be fine if he does as I've requested.'

Having made his point, the fallen Astartes twists himself back round to face the bar, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on the makeshift rest. He's quite sure the two will attempt to speak with him regardless of what he wants, and he's not entirely uncertain that their presence hasn't been deliberately machinated in some way or another, so he prepares conversation threads in his mind, covering the most typical topics that Slaaneshi and Nurglite worshippers discuss from what he's heard. Maybe, he ponders, he'll be pleasantly surprised, and these ones will actually say something interesting beyond those.

The Voices.

They whispered to Sanath when he awoke, creeping into his skull with words of praise. They thanked him for finding the book, reading its contents, giving them names. They encouraged him to seek out more knowledge, learn the truth of the universe, find his real self. After inhaling a dose of Kalma to start the day, Sanath donned his usual clothes and armaments, before carefully placing the book he had found within his bag, and rushing out the door.

In his dealings as a messenger for a local Crime Lord, Sanath had learned a fair bit about some of the hidden cults and sects that lay in the grime and dirt of the underhive, though he had never thought to connect them to the voices he heard. Recalling an old ally from the past who might know of such things, he traversed the alleyways and corridors of the city, before arriving at an inconspicuous shop wedged between two large tenement buildings. The grimey, glowing sign stated Ilario's Specialty Goods, which Sanath knew to mean items of questionable legality. He slowly entered the storefront, cautiously glancing around before approaching the shopkeeper at the counter. "uhm...yeah. Is Ilario here? Tell him Sanath Marko needs to speak with him. It's important business." Sanath said to the man, who gave him a curious look before walking up the stairwell to the above offices. Sanath heard a door creak open, and some muffled speaking before the shopkeep returned, gesturing with a thumb up the stairs saying "Boss's upstairs, ready to see ya..." Sanath spoke a quick thanks to the man before rushing up the steps. He entered the office and quietly shut the door behind him, the man in the elaborate chair behind a desk swiveling it around to face him.

"San, ol' friend! It's good to see ya!" laughed the sleazy man by the name of Ilario, his ring-encrusted fingers clutching a lho-stick and a bottle of questionable liquid. "How're ya doin'? Still workin' for ol' Rotgut Dorn?" Sanath nodded as he sat in the chair across the desk, placing his bag upon his lap. "So what did ya need?" Ilario asked, a wild grin with many missing teeth resting upon his face. "Well, I have this 'item' that I needed more information on. You might wanna close those curtains." Sanath said, reaching into his bag to pull out the book, as Ilario stood to cover the windows of the office. Sanath placed the book upon the desk, the embedded eight-point star facing upward. Ilario chuckled a bit before giving Sanath another grin, this one far more sinister. "Well, lookie here. I figured you'd learn about 'em eventually, just didn't know when. This here book, it's tellin' ya about the Gods. The real ones, not that bloody corpse they preach about at the shrines." Sanath nodded, saying "I've read it, and that's exactly what it said. The reason I came to you is that, well I'm pretty sure these gods are talking to me. I hear these voices that match up with their personalities, and they want me to learn more." Ilario's face quickly turned far more serious, reaching into his desk to pull something out as he spoke. "I'll tell ya what, San. I know a place with people who can talk with ya about this. Take these, they'll help you get in. I'll also be sendin' the word out to 'em." With that he handed Sanath a small card with a stone. As the stone passed over the card, Sanath noted the same 8-pointed star from before. "Head to a placed called 'The Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques' and ask for the VIP area. When they ask for identification, show 'em that star and tell 'em I sent ya. That'll get ya where ya need to go." Sanath stood from the chair and thanked Ilario with a firm handshake, leaving the room and setting out for the shop in question...

@Jbcool

At first the devoted of Slaanesh was quite taken aback, not so much by the words which he chose to use - she was no whore..although for Slaanesh? - but more by his overly introverted attitude; so far it was only she and her faithful servant Raoul that had even approached him, shockingly since she believed that at least one of the Khornate band may have chosen to speak with an eight-foot tall and such a rather robust individual! Why the attitude?

As Lucius rightly guessed, Atella decided to speak to him anyway, sashaying her way over with swinging hips and the almost imperceptible sound of veils rubbing against one another as her bare feet slid across the floor. Raoul came in tow, and his master could tell that the hunchbacked man was more than a little annoyed at being threatened, nevertheless he kept the 'correct' distance and took a seat as close as he could to his mistress, but as far away as he had to from this...this...thing.

His mistress on the other hand shimmied as close as she could, still having to look up at the Fallen Angel even though he was sitting, she not being all that short herself - nearly six foot as it was, and even taller in heels when she deigned to wear them - but Lucius being at least two feet taller.

"Mmmmm," she almost purred, taking a risk and placing a careful hand as gently as she could on one of his overly developed biceps, "I do like the feisty ones, that's no secret." She paused for a moment, eyeing him as a cat eyes a mouse, in spite of the obvious threat he posed to her, "I'll tell you what...you seem like an interesting guy, and I'll admit that I'm curious to know why you're even here. It isn't often we get anyone of your-" she thought again, pursing lips as black as coal, retracting both hands to place them in her laps, "of your esteemed lineage in our humble establishment. So, if you'd like to talk to someone..." one slender hand wafted toward the Slaaneshi area of pleasure and delights, "you know where to find me."

With that the conversation was over, Atella lifting herself almost delicately from her seat and leaning in to whisper to her hooded assistant, "remain vigilant, Raoul. There is something happening here, though I do not yet know what...but I think there will be more visitors to our happy place than we might expect."

Raoul bobbed his head enthusiastically, drunk on his mistresses scent alone, scurrying off into the mass of human (and abhuman) dross that frequented the more seedy - and outright heretical - side of the antiques dealership.

@Lord Coake@BCTheEntity

Placing the single chair the room possessed rather precariously between two leaks in the ceiling of the room, Salvius picked up his prized dataslate to read up on the hive of Ephron V. Salvius and Gormog had finally found a dingy hab block where one could rent an apartment no questions asked, money up front. Or barter for that matter. You did not require a noble's purse to afford this place. The neighbourhood was bad to say the least. Vehicles, such as they were, drove fast and dangerous: it was more dangerous to stop. Gunfire was never far off as gangers roamed the streets looking for prey. Other pedestrians looked so dishevelled they did not attract attention of the petty criminals, or so diseased or misformed nobody strayed close at all. For the Underhive was not far below, and who knew what kind of disease, violence and corruption ran rampart down there. The entire area had the smell of age old stagnant poverity seeping from the very bricks and mortar.

This stagnance rankled Salvius. How could these people continue to live like this for so long? Why did they fight to change their fate with so little conviction? To Salvius, the gangers actually were the most worthy of praise: They fought to change their lives, to get rich and powerful or die trying. Their ambitions were dull and insignificant, but better then the dross and scared citizens living under both the thumbs of the gangs as the corpse god.

But something was off. Whispers from the warp tickled the back of Salvius' mind. Why was the flooring of the basement of the building he occupied made of stone which was centuries, maybe even millennia older then the rest of the building? Had the original building been razed? Why? Had great change occurred here? Expertly navigating the archive contained in his dataslate, Salvius explored the historical records of Ephron V. Here too he found discrepancies. Why did this planet rise to prominence only in the last few thousand years if the building he was in now suggested an extensive Hive had existed for far longer? The story of Ephron V seemed constructed, manufactured... Fake. "Grab your gear Gormog. We're going on a little archeology expedition."

Salvius deemed this place the most likely to have escaped the "corrections" made to this hive. The shrine was of a medium size and appeared as neglected as the rest of the neighbourhood, but it was the largest of this level of the hive. It's furnishings were worn down to the point of collapse. It's altar had been shoddily painted a disgusting tone of yellow, possibly to imitate gold. The walls were of same ancient stone as the apartments cellar, and mostly unadorned. In some places, like the huge slab of stone behind the altar, you could see faint traces of worn away reliefs. Salvius had just asked the local preacher what it had originally depicted.

"Nobody really knows. Rumors suggest it was a glorious depiction of the imperial aquila, crusted in gold to honor the glory of the Emperor and His Imperium. Most venerable... Most venerable..." said the preacher, called father Wilbur, with a sleazy grin on his face. They were walking through the nave of the shrine towards the altar. Gormog stood towering next to the doorway a few yards away. "I see," said Salvius, "you must be very proud of your shrine. I imagine your flock steeped in awe when they look upon it during your salmons. Would you mind if I took a closer look?" Without waiting for an answer Salvius stepped onto the altar and took out his auspex scanner and used the device on the relief. And there it was plain as day. Cleverly hidden to avoid the purge that apparently had been brought upon this planet. The relief was coated in slowly decaying radioactive material in a particular pattern. "The eight pointed star again."

"Yes." Said a voice dangerously close to Salvius' ear. "The eight pointed star of the true gods. You seem like a gentleman and a scholar, but you better convince me you are also something else if you'd like to keep drawing breath my friend." Father Wilbur's face had lost its idiotic grin, his voice had lost the air of an easily bribed agent of the ecclesiarchy. A friendly arm seemed to lay across the shoulders of Salvius, but hidden in Wilbur's hand lay a curved knife at Salvius' throat. Using the power of his mind and the warp, Salvius sent his thoughts into Wilbur's conscious: Is this proof enough of my... abilities and character? Turning his head, Salvius looked into eyes of similar colour to his own: Blue and gold.

Wilbur abruptly retrieved his arm and knife from Salvius. "A fated brother is always welcome to practice his faith in my little shrine. Especially one of such eccentric skill." While he talked, Wilbur retrieved a small envelope from a drawer of a desk in the corner. Handing it over, he said: "I feel you might be given a grand fate by our master, but you must learn more. Let my gift guide your way to knowledge." With that he retreated to his private quarters. Walking to the entrance, Salvius opened the small envelope. It contained a small card and stone. The small card showed an eight pointed star and read in small print below: The Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques. "Gormog, do you have an interest for antiques? A man of your stature and impeccable taste, I expect so. Let us discuss the qualities of the furniture from M36..."

@Hank

The discussion that followed about the quality of furniture from M36 wasn't much of a discussion, truth be told, and more like a monologue. Salvius occasionally went on rants like this, something Gormog had always tolerated, but he didn't pretend to understand what the historian would talk about -- or why. Usually, he didn't listen at all.

Their descent through the hive was an interesting experience. Gormog had been instructed by Salvius to keep his ripper gun slung around his preposterously large torso while they were in civilized society, but the Ogryn reached for the weapon and kept it firmly in his grip when they reached the Underhive. The hairs on the back of his neck stood perpetually on end. It was obvious why; all sorts of nefarious people (and other things) infested the dark, damp streets, so low in the hive that the sun didn't reach the cobblestones. The Ogryn's gargantuan stature was a big deterrent, of course, and nobody wanted to mess with a creature that would make the average Space Marine look small, but the sense of impending danger never left Gormog.

He was somewhat surprised when Salvius motioned for them to stop and pointed at the sign that hung over a small shop's door: The Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques. The fact that Gormog couldn't read was momentarily lost on Salvius, and the Ogryn dallied for a few seconds while his infinitely more intelligent companion entered the shop. Was this really the place? The conversation between the preacher and the historian in the shrine had seemed important to Gormog -- perhaps because of an ancient association between places of Imperial worship and... well, importance -- and he found it difficult to rhyme that with this seemingly insignificant, small storefront. At least the techno-library had been imposing.

When he finally entered, squeezing his large frame through the door, Salvius had already presented the paper and the stone to the guard and had been waved through. Gormog followed, growing increasingly unsure about the whole thing as they made their way through the subterranean tunnel, but his spirits lifted a little when the perverse heresy of the VIP section was revealed to him. The allure of the sensual dancers failed to make an impression on the Ogryn, but the fighting pits immediately grabbed his attention. Losing sight of Salvius, Gormog approached one, easily peering over the heads of the baying crowd, and narrowed his eyes at the combatants currently engaged in mortal combat, signifying that old human hubris: I could take them.

"Looks fun," he muttered to himself. One spectator turned around at this and looked up at Gormog's face, smiling. "Then perhaps you should join in, friend!"

@Jbcool @Keepvogel

Collab @Bright_Ops & @Noxious

---

How odd it was that the affluent cage of her upbringing had left certain skills much more conducive to this life than her last. Obtaining information for example. Information is a commodity, and the retrieval of such depends entirely on the individual in possession. There were those that could be persuaded with a bit of money or a well placed “Attaboy”. Some, well, some just needed a strong hand to show them the way. It was looking like a draw as to which pleased the jockey of those swaying hips better. She was weighing this behind heavily tinted glasses as she strolled through the hive.

Her day had already been a busy one and it seemed apt that her last tip, still red and crusted beneath her claws, had led her to a soup kitchen; nothing like a little bribery and homicide to get that appetite pumping. It wasn’t long before she stood facing the building, eyes darting to take in the structure and its clientele as her hand rested idly on the holstered bolter at her hip. Again, the idea of forming a plan nibbled at her consciousness and then was kicked away by a rumble from her neglected stomach. She didn’t know enough about this Draco to form a working plan, even if it had been her strong suit.

No bother, blanched lips curled into an honest smile born of intrigue as she walked through the door. She took only a moment to glance about the place before walking up to a man hovering over some soup. Would she like some? Why yes, yes she would. He handed her the bowl, ready to move his attention to the next hungry hands, before she leaned in to occupy his consideration. He hadn’t really looked at her until this moment and was mildly surprised at the girl that stood before him. Her sunglasses had yet to be removed and she looked a little anemic, but the button nose, high cheekbones and posture of genteel breeding shone through, chased by honey soaked words that jingled with the same enthusiasm that radiated from the odd specimen.

“I need to speak with Draco. When he has a moment you can send him my way.” She extended a finger in the direction of an empty seat, and then crossed with the soup to fill it. She sat and placed a napkin in her lap as her mother’s voice buzzed in the back of her mind about manners; an ever present reminder of how good life was now that her mother no longer existed beyond the walls of her own memories. Lips, forever tainted with that innocent grin, wrapped around the spoon. It was her turn to be pleasantly surprised because the soup was really quite delicious.

Chop Chop Chop Chop

Draco felt the stress of the day slide off his shoulders as the knife in his hand sliced through carrot after carrot, chopping each one that was placed on the chopping block in front of him into slices so that they could be thrown into a stew pot; It was a simple fact that the Noble was almost always busy with fresh faces that needed something to eat and thus food needed to be prepared and made almost around the clock. The only time that food wasn't being produced was when the stocks ran out and they had to wait for more supplies to arrive.

Chop Chop Chop Chop

Sadly Draco didn't get to cook as much as he would have liked to these days; His other duties and side projects required his attention and time after all. When he did get the chance to do so through, he was more then happy to do it.

"Sir, forgive me for bothering you but it seems that there is someone in the kitchen who wants to meet with you."

Chop Chop Ch-

The knife stopped mid cut as Draco turned his attention towards the acolyte that had interrupted his cooking. "Who is it?"

The acolyte sighed a little as he answered "We don't know. She isn't local at any rate despite the fact that she would fit in here. Acolyte Mormca spoke to her while he was handing out stew; He claims that she had the baring and speech of a noble woman, but looked and smelt like someone who had been slumming it in the lower hive for months without bathing."

This caught Draco's attention somewhat. The woman being described had all the signs of someone who had dedicated themselves to the service of Papa Nurgle, suggesting that she was a cultist. This was something of an bad sign; Whenever any of the cults had sent 'ambassadors' to talk with him, they tended to send a follower of the Princess to talk to him due to their more... persuasive nature. Nurgle worshipers tended to make good assassins through...

Draco had been opening his mouth with full intention of ordering that the woman be taken out the back and shot quietly when a familiar whisper entered his mind, easing his nerves and calming him down somewhat. He rather liked this voice, since it had always been friendly to him ever since he had first started to hear the voices, acting as a balm on his very soul whenever he started to get stressed out and near his breaking point.

Hear this one out. This daughter of decay may be of some use to you, I promise.

Closing his mouth as he considered the wise words given to him, he placed the knife down on the chopping block as he finally opened his mouth once more. "Have her escorted to my office. I do believe I wish to have a word with her."

...................................................

From out of the back, two men dressed in what appeared to be body armor and armed with lasguns that would have made any ganger of the lower hive drool with desire stepped out into the dinning hall, following one of the staff past numberous patrons of the soup kitchen until they arrived at the woman that had requested a meeting with their boss. While the guards themselves didn't seem actively hostile towards the woman, their body language suggested that they were only following orders and that they would follow the order to protect someone with the same zeal and willingness as they would follow the order to drag that person out the back and shoot them. "The master will see you now."

Provided that the woman came willingly, she would be escorted out the back and through a number of rooms before finally arriving at an office. Draco himself was seated at his desk, looking at the woman as she entered with a laspistol on his desk while two more of his guards stood either side of him, lasguns in hand but at ease for the moment. There was an empty seat opposite Draco and in clear view of the various armed people in the room.

Draco tapped the desk next to the laspistol out of habit before he stopped in order to speak "Take a seat Ms. I will admit that I am only speaking to you because a friend of your Grandfather's decided to vouch for you. So what do you wish to speak with me about?"

The bowl of soup was empty, save for the small amount unattainable within the dictates of social graces and with nothing else to occupy the girl had taken to fantasizing elaborate stories about her fellow patrons. She was just deciding the sexual kinks of a rather husky male when the armored guards consumed the entirety of the room’s attention. She pressed her palms to the table and stood to meet their approach, measured and as unthreatening in her own movements as she could muster. It wasn’t a difficult task seeing as her subtle frame was ever accompanied by that bemused grin.

There was no shame in her blatant once over of the meat bags, lips faltering only marginally at their use of the word “Master”. She’d always found the term to be misplaced; to have a man as a master seemed a slight to those we truly serve. This philosophy took hold in a sort of pity on her expression that, if noticed by the men, was sure to be misunderstood. She was a guest here though and so said nothing on the subject, instead a simple “Thank you,” was provided to the puppets and then a gesture for them to lead the way.

Her rhythmic pace took time with their own while her attention fluttered about the hallways and doors they passed through. Undoubtedly one in possession of viable sanity would question this lengthy course and what kind of finality lay at its resolution; but the girl’s sanity had long been pushed to the wayside in favor of more captivating endeavors. This lack of worry was not born of naivety though, she was well aware and coherent in regards to her situation. No reward without any risk they say.

Her eyes found the infamous Draco as she was escorted into the room and she slipped into the offered chair across from him. They seemed rather pleased with their weaponry and she made sure to take note, if only for their benefit. In turn, she was sure that the man across was well aware of her own weaponry, reiteration came when she removed the glasses and pushed them into the mess of hair on top of her head. She now met his gaze with one pale green eye and one that seemed in the midst of being devoured by inky blackness from the pupil out. One leg crossed the other and claw like digits were placed in clear view on her lap; no need to excite his flesh bags. They received a final once over before Draco was gifted the entirety of her attention. She allowed herself to feel honored, people rarely deemed her worthy of security measures until she had an object knuckle deep into their limited existence.

The mention of Nurgle pleased her, but she suppressed the deviation of conversation that acknowledgment would bring. “Whatever the reason for your attention, be sure that I am grateful. I understand a man such as yourself has little free time, therefore I will try to be brief. An associate of mine is rather keen on locating a man by the name of Traxel Yidara and I was told you may be able to assist me.” She had decided the man did not appear the charitable type, which was slightly humorous considering he ran a soup kitchen, the thought infected her smile but was not allowed to reach vocal cords. “Of course, I am aware that nothing is free. Such a petty man as Traxel should be of no consequence to you, and I will happily tell the Sisters and my associate of your aid. Good favor and favors are assured.”

Draco did not like this woman much in the same way that a cat disliked having a strange, new cat on the block trying to take a nap in its warm, sunny place; A lifetime of being raised in a noble house in the upper hive and the activities that he had been up to as of late had ensured that the only expression that the woman would get to see was thoughtful amusement. The fact that he knew bugger all about who Traxel Yidara was did not change the fact that he was planning to twist her arm to get the best possible deal out of her for his assistance.

"And why might your associate be interested in the whereabouts of Mr Yidara? Due to my unfamiliarity with both your associate and the so called Sisters you speak of, you can understand why I find your offer of a favor... questionable. You're going to have to give me a much more detailed picture of the situation before I deem it worth investing in it."

The dirty blonde hair belonging to Rosalux bobbed along with a nod. She was far from the conceit that would cause her to balk at his lack of acknowledgment; in fact any disappointment she had was directed towards herself for not providing enough information in her introduction. Pale lips pursed as she weighed the relevance and secrecy in relation to the noble man before her, but there was only a timid beat before she began expounding on her previous request.

“As you know I have a plethora of kin scattered about. Some prefer the order provided by proximity to leaders,” she waved a palm at the men surrounding him, labeling them as this group, “But the Sisters, occasionally claiming the title of Weeping Widows, prefer a less constrained and loosely knit connection. A job is first deemed worthy of our attention, of our Grandfather’s attention, by a council and then dispatched out to a cell within proximity. Such is how I find myself here, sitting across from you.”

“We take allegiances quite seriously, as well as chosen tasks; therefore, while regrettable, I am not at liberty to discuss our associate. Even if I was I would not have many words to provide. I can tell you that personally I found him blindingly nouveau riche and dull. I can also tell you that I am here because he is trusted to pay his debts. The information I was initially provided about Yidara was that the boy had a penchant for loose women and narcotics. I have learned, unsurprisingly, that he is a follower of Slaanesh. Though his allegiance is loose and likely out of convenience.” She stifled an eye roll at the predictability of it all. She wasn’t sure where this Draco stood yet so she didn’t want to be insulting. “His previous residence has been vacated and it is looking like the boy went into hiding.”

“I was under the impression Yidara was known to you already.” She frowned momentarily and then brushed it away. “No bother, you seem to have quite the sway in these parts. It took three shattered fingers and one hell of a face lift to acquire your name, you know.” Her smile flexed. “Quite impressive. Now, if we come to an agreement; how would you plan on helping me locate this man?"

Draco's eyebrow was lifted at the woman's statement that he didn't know who Yidara was, his expression showing that he was almost insulted by it. A bluff, but a masterfully done one. "Your first assumption was correct. I am aware of the location of Mr Yidara... or at least were he should be. I will be the first to admit that I've had little reason to keep an eye on the little groupie through; You know as well as I do that the little bastard is just another toady of the Princess, sucking up to her just to get access to the best drugs and 'wildest' parties." The smirk that appeared on Draco's face suggested that the little bugger she was looking for couldn't even begin to dream what a wild party hosted by the Princess of Passion would look like. Few could.

Before he had the chance to continue, one of the whispers in his mind started to speak it. It was the kind of voice that you could imagine being spoken by someone rallying a crowd around them to raise up against a stagnate, oppressive regime and fight for change and the hope of a better tomorrow, through every ninth word was spoken by several different voices and a new voice would start speaking afterwards.

Change is coming. Help this woman and you'll and you'll be close enough to control where the pieces fall.

Thinking for a moment, Draco smiled a little as he stood up, picking up his pistol and sliding it into its holster before beckoning the two guards behind him. "We'll go out the back. If Mr Yidara isn't where I believe him to be, we will find someone who knows what dark hole you'll need to chase him down."

The list of things that broke through the fog of fever to reside in the ill favor of Rosalux were exceedingly limited, but ‘groupies’, as Draco so eloquently put it, held a special place there. Her distaste was such that his comment elevated his stature in her mind. While neither was really the friend type, Rosalux noticeably relaxed her shoulders and decided not to look into the odd willingness to help her. If it was a trick to dispose of her, she had no doubt he had easier ways. Without reservation she stood up, looking about at the rallying guards and then back to their Master.

“Please, lead the way Mr. Draco.”

Walking carefully through the wretched streets of the lower hive, Sanath Marko kept one hand on his bag, and the other on his pistol. He carefully sucked at a lho-stick, exhaling the smoke with a shudder, and stifling a cough. As he walked, he scanned the signs of the various shops, looking for one in particular. Eventually, he would find the store he sought after, The Gentleman's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques. Cautiously walking into the store, he examined the shop before coming across the door he had been informed of. Drawing the card for Ilario's business, and the revealing stone, he approached the VIP entrance, the guard halting him with the gruff "VIPs only." he had uttered so many times before. Sanath flashed the card with the 8-pointed star, saying "Ilario sent me." The guard stepped over and led him down the hall, opening the door and nodding him in. Sanath grew a bit wide-eyed as he entered.

As he looked over their collective areas, each voice of the four gods spoke in greeting, welcoming him to their lair.

Welcome to our humble home...
Here you will be graced with our strength...
Our innermost secrets will become yours for the taking...
Your deepest desires will be revealed...

As he slowly walked in, he noted a bar in one area, and figured that would be as good a place as any to start. Taking a vast detour around the gore-stained fighting pits, gagging slightly at the smell of decaying viscera. Approaching the bar, he couldn't help but notice the massive figure seated there, nearly eight feet in height. That man is a giant! he thought to himself, taking a seat some distance away, and ordering a drink, thumbing through his book, occasionally glancing at the massive figure seated by a few feet away.

Lucius remains quite silent throughout Atella's speech, and the only motions he makes are to tense up quite harshly at her touch, as a cat might recoil from a strange new cat in its house, and then to narrow his eyes at her offer. He only relaxes slightly once she finally returns to her section of the club, by which point he's restarted the process of glancing round the bar area. For the most part, it seems that the only interesting arrivals in that time were a man of no obvious notability save for the massive Ogryn that entered the room with him, one muscular enough to perhaps give Lucius himself a run for his money in a contest of brute strength, and an apparent rarity given that Ogryns tended to be quite loyal to the Emperor's cause. Either a pet or a subordinate, the Angel decides, and it seems that either way, the man was smart enough to manipulate the brute into Chaos worship, given how it hadn't yet balked at the sight of so much Chaotic activity, and indeed almost immediately lurches toward the fighting pits. Presumably, then, one of Tzeentch's acolytes and a Khornate warrior respectively. Either way, they'd probably not represent much more interest to him than they already had.

By contrast, the man the damned Astartes had noticed spying on him was somebody he'd want to deal with sooner rather than later. He isn't convinced that this person hadn't eavesdropped upon his conversation with the veiled individual who'd offered their time to him, and he frankly isn't comfortable with the idea of somebody having the upper hand on him in the first place. That wasn't how it worked. Lucius was the superhuman. They were subordinate to him.

And he reminds himself to reign back on that train of thought once again. He is well aware of how disastrously insane many worshippers of Chaos could become, in the form of gibbering madness, psychotic may-or-may-not-be-hallucinations, or egotistic, over-arrogant belief that they were above the mere rabble, when the truth was that all were subordinate to their dark masters. Even so, the Fallen Angel had had to remind himself not to fall down the latter path more frequently as time went on; the promise he'd made to himself when he'd first been ejected on to Ephron V had been a false hope from the start, and seemed ever more impossible with each passing interaction, each bribe, extortion and murder, but Lucius wants to at least keep himself in-tune enough to keep hold of the lever on the grenade that is his own sanity.

But for now, he has a pressing issue to deal with. Having discreetly kept an eye on Sanath as he pretended to read his book, and confirming that the man was, in fact, glancing up at him every so often, the Angel quite abruptly stands up, moves across the bar, and sits back down at a different stool, now separated from the spy by a single empty stool left between them. Just in case. The Angel clasps his hands together, resting them upon the surface of the bar as though nothing is wrong at first, then ever so slowly tilts his head in Sanath's direction, until he is looking at him directly, almost but not quite a glare at his apparently-dazed features. Heavy chem use is evident in the man from this close up, judging by his complexion. Kalma, most likely, and probably lho sticks too, semi-affordable as they were. The effects of substance abuse are prevalent in the hives, and Lucius has established how long-term users look, smell, and act a while back. Nearly quarter of a minute of examination elapses before Lucius speaks, an uncomfortable length of time for the situation, but ultimately, with a voice like ice, the Fallen asks the drug-user 'Can I help you, sir?'

The mutants had slunk up into the club silently in the midst of Atella's little speech, their twisted flesh cast in shadows as they passed through the dimly-lit rooms, seeming unconcerned about the taboo of their presence on the surface. In any other establishment, their audacity would have been met with an order of execution. Luckily, shared loyalties with the den's mistress was enough to buy their safe passage up from the Underhive. Harkin stood at the right flank of the small mob of degenerate creatures, jaw clenched slightly as he scanned the room for any threat to his master. He did not like what he saw.

Strangers. Many strangers that smelled to be from off-world. Worst of all was a man bigger than any he'd ever seen. He dwarfed even Coyne, and he stood head and shoulders all others of the Underhive's Faithful. Unconciously his hand went toward the carving knife at his belt, though he quickly realized that it would be of little use against such a foe. He settled for a warning snarl toward the giant as the mob strode toward the mistress, the orphan boys hiding from the stranger's gaze behind Harkin.

Slowly, the mob of bodies parted as their master stepped forward, toward the odd woman they had come to regard as a priestess of the Gods. He was a tall, wirey man that reminded all that saw him of a scarecrow, with his weathered gray suit and wide-brimmed hat. The hawk-like face was thin and boney, with lips too small and dark, beady eyes that seemed to bore into the soul. He tilted his head up the androgynous woman, his rough voice low so that none but his chosen and the mistress could hear

"Atella...how...lovely to see....you in fair health. It has been far too...long since our...last talk." The master's manner of speech was still odd to Harkin at times, with random pauses in his sentences and pronounciations placed on the wrong words. But it was not his place to question the blessings of the Gods, nor the strange effects they could have on the Faithful. He stood to his full height as the master continued, trying to look as intimidating as possible to any ambitious fools that might have tried their luck. "The...Faithful wait for their time here. You have names of...those who.....must die, I trust?"

How long had he been here? Had it been hours, days...weeks?!

Traxel Yidara was so high on cocktails of drugs, alcohol and pent-up sexual energy that he could have been in the 'VIP section' of the Gentleman's Antiques for years for all he knew! For months before he had spent his father's hard, cold, currency as if he could not give it away, and then the haggard old Grox had come down on him with his usual complaints - "why don't you get a job like I did?" Or "when are you going to start taking responsibility for your actions, boy?" It wasn't like he did nothing, after all, he was a hedonist and a purveyor of fine women (and sometimes men) who at least believed that he knew more of the world than his father ever would.

Yidara, five feet and ten inches tall with sandy-blonde hair, boyish good looks and eyes of a sky blue, was the eldest son of a Axam Yidara - a man who had been born at the bottom of the Hive, but became a successful merchant through hard work and business knowhow alone. Axam had given his son everything, everything presented to him on a silver platter, but his ungrateful offspring had never appreciated just what he had been given; such things disgruntled the older man, who by now knew that Traxel could never inherit his fortune and his mercantile empire, but could still never refuse the boy anything.

Often Traxel would disappear for weeks as a time, going God-Emperor knew where, but would always turn up sooner or later...yet perhaps not this time; the Old Man had made enemies throughout the years, and whether it was to be he, his son, or his entire family, vengeance would come on swift wings to them.

As for the moment, Traxel could have been floating for all he knew; for hours he had been doing nothing but standing with the more bloodthirsty Khornate worshipers - in spite of being more indebted to the Dark Prince himself - around the central fighting pit of the VIP chamber (and what a chamber), watching multitudes die or come out victorious.

Further coin had disappeared from his funds as he placed bets upon losers time and time again, that was until a quiet-yet-bass voice muttered something nearby...

"Looks fun."

Lo and behold, the young fop turned on his heel and nearly straight into the lower half of a towering Abhuman, craning his neck upward and allowing his jaw to go slightly slack as he spoke, even a little bit of dribble coming out, "then perhaps you should join in, friend!" He had to shout to be heard over the roars of the crowd, but noticed enough to realise that the latest bout between a half-bull man and a midget was coming to an abrupt end even as he spoke, "all you need to do is climb down into the pit and wait for an opponent, it's as simple as that." Indeed it was, the walls of the pit not being too high - after all, what true devotee of the Blood God would attempt to clamber out rather than die honourably in the pit?

If that stupid brute took the bait then he would immediately bet all his remaining coin on the dim, but certainly fearsome, Ogryn in their midst. Maybe even regain enough to repay his father and those that he had become sadly indebted to.

With a swift look around to make sure the Ogryn was not with anyone, and seeing no-one in sight, he gestured toward the pit again with wild thrusts of his arms, "go on big guy, you can take 'em."

@Hank@Keepvogel@Noxious@Bright_Ops

---

"Atella...how...lovely to see....you in fair health. It has been far too...long since our...last talk."

Mutants, Gods how the Slaaneshi devotee hated them - although she did a rather good job of keeping it from her voice or expressions, not that those could be seen beneath her veil - these twisted and ugly things that seemed to have placed their very lives into her hands; she had no idea why this might be, but she had taken every opportunity to twist these already twisted and warped scum of the hive to her will and word.

"The...Faithful wait for their time here. You have names of...those who.....must die, I trust?"

"Your time is soon," she answered, doing her best to make it sound like a proclamation from on high, her husky breathes tinging the very air with promises of pleasure and fulfilled desires, "I have been given names, many names, but for the task I need but one and one alone of your flock; you have been a fine shepherd, and now I must ask for a singular lamb, a chosen one from within your ranks.

Twisting her lips into a cruel smile, a shimmer appeared briefly in her eyes, she placed one slender arm on a hip and waited.

"Who shall it be?"

@The Whacko

---

Arnaud Trant, as he had been known in a former life, surveyed the patrons of his establishment through blinded eyes of pure white - a gift from the Ruinous Powers that allowed him to see things that others did not... - certain figures leaping out at him from the crowd, their shadowy forms surrounded by flame and smoke to his vision, from the bestial Ogryn to the slender scholar, the seductress to...the Astartes?!

"Raoul!" He screeched, his voice many octaves higher than it should be for one of his sturdy form, his thinning grey hair quivering as the hunchback informant entered his prescence, "so, they are here?"

"It seems so, my master," hissed the crippled creature from beneath his filth-encrusted hood, "they have come seeking-"

"I know what they seek, thing."

From his vantage point above the crowd, a staircase and gangway leading to his private quarters and offices (yes, even a traitor and heretic needs somewhere to store their paperwork), he allowed one tentacle that had replaced an arm to slither up and scratch his chin; an action that would have looked comical, if it had not been for the fact he had a damned tentacle for an arm.

"Those two at the bar," he mused, half in thought with himself, "go and bring them to me, the giant and the addict," by which he meant Sanath and Lucius of course, "there is something about both of them that I wish to explore further."

Raoul was gone before the last syllable left the lips of his true master, Atella but a pawn in a much larger game, and soon the Fallen and the one-who-hears would find out that they were part of it too.

@Lord Coake@BCTheEntity

Sanath was somewhat startled when the massive man had actually spoke to him, for he had thought he had been far more subtle. Don't be afraid, he's a mighty warrior, but no harm will come to you...yet. The voice of the warrior god spoke into Sanath's ear, with a sound like bone scraping on metal. Downing the last of his drink with a gulp, and carefully closing the cover of his book, Sanath turned to face the hulking man. "Well...I was just so impressed that anyone of your form could even exist. Why, the only type of person I've ever heard of being that big without being an ogryn i-is a..." Sanath would turn pale and grow wide-eyed from both awe and fear as he came to the realization. "A...Space Marine..."

Just as he did so, however, the hunchback heretic known as Raoul approached. As he did, the voices spoke in their unusual unity. Go with him, he is our envoy. Sanath swallowed a forming lump in his throat, and went to follow the hunchback, both scared and interested to see if the Astartes will follow.

@Jbcool@BCTheEntity