The Da'ah Hinterlands, centre of native resistance on Arishe 42.9.

The wind of Ti'achi blew all about the near-naked body of one of her native sons, his hands lacerated and bleeding from his climb but he was unable to half his climb, or to let go entirely, should he allow the snaking gale that lashed his bared skin to send him tumbling down into the lower valley then it would be the end of all he was or could ever be. This he could not allow.

Inch by torturous inch he ascended higher up the mountains, spreading out behind and below him the steaming jungles of the so-called 'Hinterlands' – one of the only places remaining that had not been defiled by the Imperial occupiers – and ahead and above him the sacred plateau upon which he knew the prophet of his faith would be waiting.

Nujia'tzie had made sure to shed himself of all Imperial iconography, even the Cadian-pattern helmet covering his head had been studiously scoured of the aquila adorning the forehead, his torso bare of any clothing against his copper skin and his bottom half wrapped in a pair of grox-skin leggings that left the feet exposed.

It took nearly an hour more, his muscles burning with lactic acid and fatigue, dark eyes half-closed as he rolled over the edge and lay motionless on the comparatively flat top of the mountain plateau.

“So,” came a voice from afar, Nujia'tzie leaping to his feet and pulling a Militarum-forged combat knife from his hip as he did so, eyes scanning the treeline close at hand and passing from left to right... left to ri-

“You have finally arrived, my son.”

This time the voice, as well as the figure that had appeared from nowhere into his line-of-vision, stood but a few feet away.

They were clearly a native of the planet, their long black hair with bones and other fetishes entwined, the skull of a saurian jungle predator perched atop their head, and a pair of eyes astoundingly blue for one of the native race. In one hand they held a spear-cum-staff topped by an eight-spoked wheel, and in the other a series of meditative beads. A one-size-fits-all robe of dyed red hempen fibre covered them like a sack with arm and legs hole, a single belt of interlinked bones pulling it in at the waist.

“Put away your blade, child, and follow me.”

It was only now that Nujia'tzie noticed the Dreamwalker had not opened their mouth once.

---

For over an hour they walked in complete silence through the more woodland-like environment of the mountain, starkly contrasted against the tropical valleys below, coming eventually to a wide open clearing containing a man-made structure of standing stones; four of the stones, all as tall as five men atop anothers shoulders, had been placed in a circle around the middle of the clearing, between the tree edge and the middle of the place. In the perfect centre stood another stone, this one clearly older and baring more marks than its siblings. Lastly, cut into the waist-height grass that was the floor of this place, were straight paths leading off in eight directions.

“Welcome to my sanctuary,” tittered the androgynous speaker of the Gods, taking deep breaths as they pointed to each stone in turn, “these are the stones of Ch'gorn, god of war and of the blood, this one of Saanch, our lord of wisdom, lore and knowledge, his stoic but morbid relation Un'gurl is the protector of this stone, and lastly Laseanch the mistress of fertility, health and perfection.” A smile could not help but appear on the holy representatives full feminine lips as they spoke in ten different voices.

“This one?” Questioned Nujia'tzie, making his way into the circle of stones and placing a hand tentatively against the most central.

“Ah, a joining of all four, to represent convergence of each of the divine majesties.”

“I see,” acknowledged the PDF scout, turning to face the Dreamwalker, “you summoned me here Eh'haya'tey, but did you Viper Lance alone?"

"You are perceptive, young warrior. No, I have summoned a coterie from this planet and beyond, messaged them in a multitude of ways, individuals that may be of service to us and to the Gods in the coming times of hardship and vengeance ahead. Yes... we shall need warriors... but we shall also need the wise, the foolish, and those who pray to the Gods for many things.”

Now they would have to wait, for others had been summoned and others would come, to help or to hinder, as ally or eventual enemy, only the Gods knew.

While personally Jim enjoyed the roaring power of the heavy chain cleaver as it tore apart flesh, muscle and just about anything else that got in the way of the blades, the boning sword had its own charms and benefits. Sure it required a bit more work on the part of the wielder in order to make proper use of it, but in encouraged a finesse in action instead of the brutal style that the cleaver seemed to demand. Of course, the fact that the boning sword was a great deal easier to maintain without the involvement of third parties to get parts, 'misplace' from the equipment roster in the first place or alert the hub block that someone was being dismembered with an almighty roar when all you want is a quick and easy meal on the way home.

It also preserved more of the body, since a quick clean slice with the boning sword encouraged one to aim for somewhere vital on the opening strike rather then mincing the body as one turns it into a corpse. Sometimes the Patrician of Butchery desired a more bloody, messy kill as an offering in and of itself, but this time wasn't such a case.

All things considered it hadn't been as satisfying a kill as either Jim or the Patrician had desired. The hive scum in question had tried to mug him as he had traveled through the darkened hallway leading to his small living space and discovered far to late who was actually in danger. It was clear from the manner she talked, the way that she twitched and the state of her teeth that she was a hopeless addict of one or more dangerous substances who had still been riding her latest fix before she had tried her ill fated life of crime. This was... problematic. While it was possible to cleanse the meat of such impurities, between the location of the kill and the resources he had access to, properly preparing the dying chemhead's meat for consumption (either for pleasure or ritual purposes) wasn't possible. Better she end up becoming corpse starch.

Just as he had been about to continue along his way, the Patrician spoke up. Call it a request, commandment or order but what it wanted was clear; For the dying woman's guts to be spilled as she tried to breath through a windpipe that had been gashed open. Kicking aside the poorly kept, blood soaked pistol that she had dared to try and use against him, all it took was a twitch of a wrist and the cloth and flesh that was holding in her insides gave way. Blood, gore, organs and other substances spilled out onto the dirty metal floor... and both Jim and the Patrician were captivated by the sight of them.

At first Jim didn't really understand why the sight was so enchanting... but soon the Patrician started to show him the meaning of what he was seeing. The message in the offal for the both of them. An invitation of sorts for the Patrician and his Butcher. This meeting would require some traveling to get too... as well as having to cash in whatever goodwill he had built up so that he could disappear from work for a time and still expect a job when he returned; Thankfully he had actually gotten ahead of the quota which would make that process a bit easier.

With an annoyed sigh, Jim turned away from the waste of flesh and continued his journey to his small, cramped box in order to lay down and get some rest before he answered the call from persons unknown, but the Patrician was interested and thus it was worth investigating.

Marden Alvarark - Ex-Militarum

Another passing day goes by in the hive, down in the depths Marden has accepted a contract to assist in some territory clearance. Some small fry gang trying to carve a piece out of this particular underground level. Claims of an archeotech buried within the labyrinth of tunnels and passageway through a water reclaim system. Such rumours always increase the bloodshed to an already stained underground.
With such close quarters Mardens primary was his combat shotgun with a mixture of solid slug and a small liberation of executioner rounds from a fallen enforcer, the metal blackened and the wooden stock worn but thanks to training in good working order. The gang a collection of iron worshippers clad in chains and rusted slag sheets shaped for armour. These ‘Underground Earthshakers’ as they called themselves offer a pretty bounty for help. No prisoners requested just take heads and get a cut of the loot. The enemy part of the water guild trying to conserve, recycle and reclaim moisture from the system and the unfortunates that die down here.

A plan was set up to converge to the central atrium and go from there, no tactics down here, take a tunnel and follow it. Marden with 2 of the earthshakers made their way through. The tunnel itself is wide enough for a transporter to travel with equipment through, pipes acting like arteries across the ceiling, some bleeding out a form of liquid or waste product onto the floor. As the group made their way through footsteps could be heard on the metal floor ahead causing them to take cover where possible. The steps got louder and multiple voices could be heard. The adrenaline began to kick in, senses began to heighten and his vision sharp. One of the youths sprung out on first sight screaming whilst firing their stub gun, Marden peaked out 2 men and 1 large figure encased in metal and tubes. It was ogryn sized carrying a large container on its back fists clenched. The two men had exoskeletons formed of servo arms and needles for extraction. They began to open fire, the first guildsmen dropping from a hail of fire from all 3 sluming onto the ground. Marden stood his ground whilst the two shakers advanced with their pistols. The second guildsmen sweeped the floor close to the first shaker taking a blow to the shoulder but stabbing with multiple needles causing the shaker to go limp dropping to the floor. The glass vials dotted all over began to fill with fluid not before Marden raised his shotgun loading an executioner round. As the shell left the barrel is curved slightly heading for the chest blowing through the servo arms and splitting the guildsmen in half. The hulking mass was slow to react but began moving forward towards the second shaker. The shaker stopped realising the stupidity of running forwards began backtracking still firing, along with Marden large ricochets off the mass, tubes perforating gases leaking causing the brut to let off a large growl of pain through its helmet. Marden needed time to load another executioner round, his eyes almost glazed over as he fired at the shaker blowing his lower left leg off, a small smirk cracking on his face. The shaker on his back shrieking with pain as the armoured hulk stood over him shadowing him with its mass. He was picked up like a ragdoll before being crushed, the cracking of the ribcage echoing in the tunnel. In this time the round loaded and aimed straight for the helmet. The bruts head blew off in a shower of metal blood and bone crashing to the ground.

At this point Marden slowly moved towards the corpses shrouded by the gases from the large exo suit. Marden forgot his training to cover his face as the gases almost gravitated to him. The narcotics took hold as Marden took to the wall for support and slumped down beside it. His mouth was dry, almost gasping as his eyes rolled back and the visions began. The sight of a mountain range surrounded by a forest. The flashes monochrome and stark continued. Tall obelisks with shadows surrounding them along with what seems like a caretaker or hermit. “Come to me”. It was hours till he came round, waking up in the same spot, the corpses cold and still. His gear stripped along with the rest of the bodies, it mattered not this ‘vision’ meant something. He had to find out.