Penny

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The sense of wrongness was jarring. We had come here hunting a heretic only to find one of our own. Hadrian had told me of the divisions within the Ordos, but this was the first practical experience of it. I expected an inquisitor who had crossed the line to look... I don't know, tainted? daemonic? but he looked everybit as upright as Hadrian.

"We need to get closer," Hadrian whispered. I watched the tableau before us for a moment.

"I have an idea," I said, and reached out with my powers. It felt like I was skating in a thunderstorm, the sense of impending doom almost overwhelming. Nearby fungus and vines began to strain towards me, flowers opening like hungry mouths. All three of my companions tensed. I reached out and touched one of the transcription servitors. I didn't do anything specific, merely charged it with my mind. There was a flash of billious yellow in my mind and I slammed my shields in place in the nick of time. Fungus exploded from the servitor closest to the blashpemous column. Not the slowly creeping growth we had observed before, but foot long protuberances emerging in a flash. The servitor juddered and sparked then tore free of its data jacks in a spray of lubricant. The nearest guard tried to swing his weapon to bear but the fungus infested servitor drove a fist into his breastplate. Tendrils stabbed into his chest, and he screamed, his face blackening as greenish bile errupted from his lips. The remaining guards turned their weapons on the thing, las bolts blasting into it. The fungus was almost animate now, seeming to wear the remains of the servitor that still feebly reached out with its data jacks. The air filled with stink of burning fungus as the thing staggered towards the power armored inquisitor.

"Did you do that?" Clara asked me in an awed voice.

"We had better move," I whispered though Hadrian was already moving off towards the barracks structure.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

Court was a chaotic affair. The great hall was an impressive room in the Palace of the People on the hill of Palas. It's focal point was a large dias which held three identical thrones. Despite being identical in every way, the thrones were always a source of contention between the Triumvirs, who wrangled constantly over who would sit in the central throne on any given day. I was still snickering about the handsome Imperial's misfortune when I arrived. I had dressed quickly in one of the gowns Fabrio had provided me with, cream and red slashed silk with a handsome bustier of rich brown leather.

"Camilla you said you would sit for me!" Fabio complained as I hurried out.

"Later, later!" I called back, eager to be there when the delegation arrived. Access to the throne room was easy enough, the guards unwilling to turn away a well dressed woman. Afterall, there was no way for them to keep track of who was who in the various Trimvuir's retinues. I was bustling across the pillared hall when a handsome woman with dark eyes emerged from one of the side doors.

"You! Come here!" she called. I had not met Imelda Mondo before, but of course I knew her from various broadsheets posted around the city. She bore less resemblance to the dirty grafitti that depicted her in a variety of unlikely sexual positions. Several senior member of her faction stood around her, looking grim faced and determined.

"You came with Lucio yes?" she asked, surprising me with the fact she knew who I was. I dipped into a slight curtsey. Reman society imagined itself as more egalitarian than the rest of Tilea, and thus didn't require much in the way of obesiance.

"You will stand with me today," she declared and then hurried across the room, reaching the thrones a moment before Marco and his entourage entered the hall. No one actually swore, but there was a tense moment as Imelda took her seat ahead of her rival, favoring him with a patronizing smile.

"Do you know anything of the delegation we are to recieve?" Imelda asked. It took me a moment to realize the comment was directed at me. Judging from the look I was getting from Marco, this whole performance had been orchastrated to make him think I was an agent of Imelda's who had been spying on his cousin. That was fine, the more intrigue I had swiriling around me, the harder it would be for people to ignore me.

"I know they have a priest with them, a handsome one," I told her.

"Of what God?" Imelda asked. I wracked my brain trying to remember what I could of Imperial iconography.

"Sigmoor?" I suggested tentatively.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

Dearest Ariadne,

That is an irritating way to begin a letter, as you are neither dear to me or actually named Ariadne. Still I acknowledge that I am in debt to you and that these letters form part of the payment that is owed. I shall attempt therefore to address you in the tone of a dutiful pupil, which, in my own way, I suppose I am.

I arrived at Remas a month ago, coming from Trantio with Lucio Telli, one of the younger cousins of the Triumvir. He is more vapid and empty headed than most men, interested only in hawking, hunting, and women. We are, I am afraid, a distant third in the equation, Lucio being much more interested in chasing stags than chasing does. The journey south was an unpleasant one, though we managed to avoid becoming entangled in the border disputes by hugging the coast, a region in which smuggling is so prevalent and control so uncertain that no one much bothers with it.

According to Lucio most of Remas' troops are in the south fighting against Verezzo, but I think it just as likely that he was embarrassed by his city's demonstrable lack of control and was making that up. By the time we reached the city we were all throughrouly sick of each other.

Lucio set out for his hunting lodge within less than a day in the city, having no doubt had the pleasure of telling his cousin that the mission to Trantio had been a failure and that peace had not broken out. Doubtless Marco, who is much less of an idiot than Lucio, never really intended it to and was simply looking to save face and get his dim witted cousin out of the city long enough that the economy might shudder with relief at his decreased dissipation of the public funds.

In Lucio's absence I was required to find my own quarters. Fortunately this was easily achieved as I was approached by one of the court artists on my first day in town who immediately declared that if I ever had need of him I need but call. Fabrio is his name, and he extolled at some length the virtues of my fine skin, my wavy chestnut hair, my flashing brown eyes. Probably he also appreciated my generous bosom and shapely bottom, but he was too refined to come right out and say it. Fabrio was more than willing to offer me lodging with him as one of his models, much to the irritation of his current model, a cattish thing who claimed to be from Sartosa but whose accent screams of a local village in a nasal and unpleasant way. And so I ensured a room for the cost of a few hours of posing for oils each week.

The court here is very corrupt in absolute terms but funnily enough this is somewhat less of the case in relative terms. There are, in effect, three courts, one for each Triumvir and as a matter of policy they agree on nothing, save the machinations of the other two must be stopped at any cost. Such mutual antipathy prevents the level of graft from growing too high, as at least two people are always willing to blow the whistle on anyone too obvious about sating his or her needs.

I had been busily making friends at court for several weeks, waiting for the Lucinni emissaries to arrive when the strangest thing happened. An Embassy from the unwashed potato eaters arrived ahead of the expected peace delegation. Quite the grim faced, bewhiskered bunch they looked too, all scowls and marching boots. I was on the walls to see them arrive and remarked on it. One of the hired swords beside me grunted. He mentioned having been to a place called Bonhoften where he had seen Imperials fight, and should not like to see that happen again. Given the normal swagger of a condotiarii around a pretty woman, I was inclined to believe him.

Speaking of pretty. There was on particularly striking man with them. Some kind of official I think, though of what sort or function I do not yet know. I will be sure to write further once I know more.

Your Dutiful Friend Daughter Ward Minion,
Camilla

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Clara was clearly working hard to keep a façade of calm. On the basis of her demonstrable skill I had forgotten the fact that she hadn't really been in the field before. Even my pitiful experience gave me an edge on her, and my psychic abilities gave me weapons and insights that she couldn't imagine. For a moment I felt both lonely and terrified, filled with an urge to squeeze Hadrian's hand, but he was already moving ahead. Selenica still seemed to be tracking, but her glassy eyes made me think that she was simply moving on autopilot. How much good would either of them be if things really went wrong? I had to bite back a laugh at the presumption that I would be much better.

We moved through another series of strange arches and once again I felt the taste of stale saltwater cloy at the back of my throat. We weren't in the Warp, we were still alive afterall, but we had entered into some kind of interstitial space. Had the ancient Xenos who built this place been chaos tainted? Was this a city of the dead that had slowly fallen into the shadow of the Warp? Was it a deliberate portal? I had too many questions and no data to work with. Not that I imagined that data would comfort me in any case.

"Watch yourselves," Hadrian murmured as we passed through another arch. This one seemed hung with long tendrils of something like seaweed, each ending in a small bilious yellow flower. They looked uncomfortably like mouths. There was evidence that similar vines had been removed, probably with flamers judging by the ash and the smell of prometheum. If this was new growth, it was hellish fast. Our pace slowed as we heard noises up ahead, a dull staccato chattering like the kind you hear from certain types of Administratum Cogitators. We entered the square through the ruins of what might have been a gate or blockhouse. In the center stood a massive stella, carved with a dizzying profusion of runes. It must have been a hundred feet tall, though such a thing was completely impossible owing to the fact we would have seen it from the levy wall. A half dozen servo skulls buzzed around it, scanning and recording. A semicircle of cogitators stood before it, each slaved to a servitor who wrote constantly with an auto quill. All of the servitors were covered with fungus. It grew from their eyes, from their mouths, from the pores of their skin, seeming to pulse with sickly energy as they transcribed the feed from the skulls. Guards in flak armor stood watching the servitors. As we watched we saw one begin to thrash against its connections, whipping cables free and keening like a lost soul. One of the guards stepped close and fired a stub pistol into its cranium, waited a moment, and then gave the twitching corpse a second shot. Two more guards used pincers to disconnect the corpse and drag it to a fire pit made of stacked cinder blocks. They levered it in, then drenched it in promethum and torched it, adding the smell of burning flesh and lubricant to the mycological miasma of the place. Another servitor was led forward. It was crude, probably one of the locals refitted by some low grade flesh butcher. He was plugged in and began to write. I wished Lazarus were here, though his afront at the tech heresy might outweigh his insights.

"They are transcribing it," I breathed, eyes flicking to crates in which parchments were being lain down. They crackled with void shields, the kind I had seen in Hadrian's library that shielded prohibited texts. I wondered what it might say and of what use it might be. Before I could speculate a man walked out of a tent in a suit of body armor that would have made a Stormtrooper jealous. He was handsome and earnest looking and he pointed and gesticulated at the pillar, making violent gestures to his guards. A tech adept in a crimson robe emerged behind him, buzzing away from a vox caster too low for us to register. The first man turned to snarl something at the tech priest and I gasped despite my best efforts. Pinned to the collar of the new comers armor was a familiar badge of red and silver. An Inquisitorial rosette.

Putting myself out there.

Give yourself permission for your post to just be OK. Not every post needs to be a masterpiece.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

My sense of disquiet increased with every step we took. I almost wished for the guards to notice us, las guns and stubbers at least being familiar and definable dangers. The city was oddly configured, towers reached up a few dozen feet or so, some beginning in rough naves, others naked. The streets were paved, though it looked as though the stones fitted together with an impossible smoothness, something that none the less did not render them slippery. I glanced into some of the towers, accessible through roughly circular doors. Inside they were largely unadorned, though occasional niches showed cracked plinths where small items had obviously been removed. Heavy duty power cabling ran along the streets, tacked to walls with cargo tape or stapled into the ground with iron spikes. The cords went to flood lumens that were positioned to light various walls, or to small portable cogitator units, of the type archeors used at remote dig sights.

"You are the closest thing we have to an archeor Emma, can you tell us anything?" Hadrian whispered as we moved down a narrow boulevard over which the towers seemed to slightly crowd.

"I'm not very close to an archeor," I countered, but I knew that evading the question served no one.

"It's old, at least ten thousand years, not human," I supplied.

"How do you know?" Clara asked, I suspected more nervous than curious. She might be even less used to this kind of thing than I was, for all she had vastly more experience of combat. I had afterall been a part of the suppression of a powerful cult. Also I had been abducted by that cult previous to that, which I think counts.

"No stairs. Not one single staircase in the whole place," I explained nodding towards one of the towers in which a ramp coiled around the inside. It was a very inefficient design, one that didn't make sense unless the inhabitants were physiologically unable to climb steps. We entered into a square where one of the stella we had seen from the levy reared skyward, surrounded by packed crates that seemed to contain statuary smashed from niches. The stella seemed to rear out of the ground, and was made of a darker different stone. I got the queasy feeling that the stella had existed long before whatever alien creatures had raised the city began using tools. Strange markings had been chiseled into them some kind of script which tugged at the edge of my awareness, like something I had seen in a forgotten dream.

"Enuncia," I breathed, the word swimming up into my mind from somewhere else. My head throbbed painfully. I was suddenly skipping along the street of Quentain on Bonaventure, my hair done up in pigtails. Then I was in a cold cell, staring at something I couldn't make out. Both images flashed crazily across my vision, accompanied by blasts of psychosomatic sound, like heavily amped static.

"Are you okay Emma?" Clara asked.

"Yes," I replied by rote, "Why?" Before she could answer I raised my hand to my nose and stared at my fingers as they came away bloody.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

Emmaline squeezed up through the hole, momentarily panicking as her hips stuck. Neil put his hands against her bottom and shoved and she emerged from the darkness with nothing worse than a lost boot. She was in dry gravel riverbed in a forest. Spring rain had piled up old sticks and brush at various points, and apparently scooped away enough soil to expose the ancient roots of the sewers. When the snows melted this spot would be a little whirlpool, sucking water down into the sewers. She wondered if that was by design or it had simply come to serve that function by accident of nature.

Emmaline's boot came flying up out of the hole, followed a moment later by Neil's pack and then Neil himself. He looked a mess, dirty covered and bloodied from a number of cuts and scratches. Well, she supposed she probably wouldn't win Maid of the Riek herself just now. Neil glanced down, clearly concerned that more rat things might emerge. For the moment all was quiet but Emmaline was keen to put some distance between herself and the sewers.

"Which way to this manor of yours?" she asked quickly, glancing around the forest. They seemed alone, nothing but birds singing as the last of the summer sun painted the tops of the trees brilliant gold and green.

"Up stream," Neil said, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Emmaline was so keen to get away from the stinking rat beasts that she even forgot to complain about how sore her legs were. About an hour later, just as full dusk was setting in they left the forest and reached a low stone wall. On the other side were neatly planted apple trees, heavy with fruit. Beyond the orchard sat a manor house, two great wings connected by a lower central area in handsome stone. A fine tile roof covered it and there were several outbuildings. No lights burned in its windows and no sounds came from within. Likely the family had bolted when the news of the beastmen reached them. They had certainly ordered their servants to remain, but servants weren't stupid. They probably waited all of thirty seconds once their lords and masters were out of sight before bolting themselves. Family loyalty didn't usually stretch to being gutted by marauding chaos spawn, not for a few shillings a day anyway.

"Looks like a nice place to spend the night," Emmaline breathed, feeling a measure of relief to be out of the woods, hopefully in more ways than one.

_________

"Tell me again how you were bested by a breeder and a single manling?" Grey Seer Scarpel hissed. The assembled clan rats tittered at Scritcrit's humiliation. The rat was beaten and bloodied, covered with sewage and some kind of clinging grease that smelled like burning tar.

"Yes-yes most magnificent one!" Scritcrit groveled. He prostrated himself on the floor before the grey seer's throne. A massive thing carved from the skull of some long dead lizard and hung with devotional icons to please the horned rat. The throne chamber was one of several burrows which extended of the manlings filth tunnels, carved out of the dirt by slaves. Presently it was packed with skaven, all enjoying Scritcrit's obeisance.

"The man thing was a mighty warrior, perhaps one of their priests, and the breeder was a powerful sorcerer, she incinerated a dozen of my rats with a gesture, though we fought on bravely yes yes!" Scritcrit squeaked, squirting the musk of fear as Scarpel lifted his paw to scratch the base of his gnarled horns.

"And you fought them to gain this warpstone they carry for me?" Scarpel squeaked, his voice dangerous.

"Yes-yes, of course great one! My only thought was your glory!" Scritcrit cried, lying though his chisel like teeth in hopes of avoiding being blasted to atoms. Scarpel barred his teeth in a snarl that suggested that he didn't believe the obvious lie.

"Then you wont object to leading our scouts to find their trail. If they truly have warpstone, it will be mine!" he cackled.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

The skaven across from them chittered and cursed. Emmaline stood up and was suddenly smashed to the ground. Neil let out a shout of dismay as she stood up, a short spear sticking from her back.

"Is it bad?" she asked, as Neil bounded to her side and pulled the spear free. It wasn't even bloody, having spent its energy on the case slung across her shoulders, a soft green glow now appearing from the narrow cut in the leather. The sight of these drove the rat things crazy, as a group they charged, jumping for the statue as Neil had done. Emmaline wove her fingers and bleated a spell, snapping it into place as the first rat grabbed the statue. Its fingers failed to grip the stone, now coated with a thin layer of magical grease, it let out a despairing yowl and plunged into the tank below. A half dozen more, already in flight, suffered similar fates, cartwheeling comically into the tank below, some hitting the water, others breaking themselves against the wall. The two scimitar wielding rats shook their shields and hissed something in their own language. They both ducked back into the shadows as Neil unslung his rifle. For a moment it was quiet save for the splashing of drowned rats below. Emmaline did her best to brush the grime off her traveling cloak.

"I hope this is the way out," she said, sounding somewhat nauseated by the nearness of her demise.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

We circled east. There was enough gaps in the mangroves this close to the deeper water of the lake that, even without Garm, it wasn't a challenge. I pulled my hood up. My hunting clothes weren't a particularly close match to the fatigues the enemy were wearing, but they were sufficiently different from the furs and leather of the locals to make it clear I was an off worlder. My hair was in a severe braid, which I concealed beneath the foul weather hood. Clara and Selenica took similar precautions. It wasn't certain that the presence of so many women would arouse suspicion, but it was a risk we were all keen to avoid. I brought the Helix-2 though there was no chance I would be able to get the massive thing unlimbered in time to bring it into action, so I gripped my thousander under my weather cloak and hoped for the best.

The dock was a metal platform on pontoons bolted to the side of the ferocrete levy. The lake wasn't big enough to have appreciable tides but this was off the shelf tech meant for somewhere that did. A small crane had been attached to the central section to facilitate the transfer of heavy loads from the water side to the mud side, its yellow and black lifting arm surprisingly bright and cheerful amidst the drab natural colors. Two men in flak armor stood smoking low sticks, both in the small patch of shade provided by the crane. The moment they saw us they tossed the lho sticks they had been smoking into the water and unshipped las rifles. These weren't the gilded show pieces we had seen in the hands of the natives. They were dark compact weapons, with underslung lumens and other personalized upgrades. Professional mercenaries almost certainly. I wondered how Nagrip had accomplished this impressive, if crude, piece of engineering. Clearly he was more than the minor warp dabbler Hadrian had imagined when we set out. He had funding and support, maybe even Mechanicus support to get all this done. Hadrian clambered to his feet and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Get us an enginseer, barge crapped out about two clicks out!" he bellowed, sounding extremely irritated. The guards were gripping their rifles but not pointing them. I wondered if I dared give them a nudge with my mind, but decided against it. Something was wrong with this place. I had no knowledge of the planets hydrography but it seemed impossible that a city could by laying under the mud like this without being many thousands of years old, probably pre-imperial and xenos to boot. They were a sour an unpleasant taste in the back of my mind and I wasn't eager to swim in such murky waters.

"Who the frak are you!?" one of the guards called, lifting his las gun to point at us. The skiff continued towards them no faster than a swift walk.

"Who the frak do you think I am?!" Hadrian thundered, "Now get us a damn enginseer before the locals decided to come back and sink our damn barge while we can't move it! Do you know what the boss will do to us if we lose that shipment?"

It was a masterful performance, edged with enough irritation and interest to hold their attention as we approached. We were perhaps ten feet away when Clara reached down and took out a length of locally made rope. As she drew her arm back one of the guards must have realised something was amiss, he began to swing his weapon down and open his mouth to shout. Clara threw the rope, casting it wide so both men ducked involuntarily to avoid it, her other hand came around and hurled something small and metallic. The frag grenade struck the closest thug in to top of the head with an audible crack, having ducked into its trajectory, he dropped his gun and staggered backwards, bright blood leaking from his crown. The grenade bounced back, striking the concrete and plopping into the filthy water, the pin having never been pulled. The second guard reared back but Hadrian whipped out his sword and threw it overhand with a spin like a trala spike. It hit the second mercenary in the throat punching through his neck and glancing off his spine, dropping him to the ground with blood gouting from his severed blood vessels. Clara leaped the remaining four feet and scrambled up onto the dock, but the man she had brained with the grenade was recovering, staggering drunkenly towards Clara and clawing for his pistol. Even stunned he was good, catching her wrist before she could jab the short knife into him. She twisted him around, towards the edge of the dock but it could only be a moment before he screamed or managed to engage his vox. I brought the paddle down on the back of his head as hard as I could. I felt vertebrae and skull crack under the force of the blow, and he dropped like a polaxed grox. Clara's grip was all that kept him from tumbling into the water, guiding him down so we didn't soak a uniform we would momentarily need.

I dropped the paddle as Clara tied up the skiff, climbing out awkwardly, nearly falling into the drink as my weight pushed the gunnel down towards the water. Selenica looked pale but followed behind, the pair of us keeping watch while Clara and Hadrian pulled on the uniforms of the dead enforcers. I crept to the edge and looked down towards the unsettling city. A broad moat had been dug for the purpose of drainage and I saw big promethum powered pumps off to the west, spraying water out over the levees in three giant muddy geysers. Beyond the moat the ground rose slightly to the city. The buildings on this side had been cleared. The undertaking seemed immense until I saw how it was being done, through my hunters magnocular I could see filthy looking men, off world laborers judging by their garb, spraying muddy water from a great hose, effectively sluicing the mud which encrusted the buildings down into the moat. Only after they had done all they could did the slaves move in with brooms and buckets. On the western side of the city I could see barracks made out of plastec sheeting. The space between the wall and the moat was grooved by what looked like a giant sledge, hooked to the wall at one end and pilings at the other by cables that allowed it to be drawn back and forth across the mud. Presumably equipment and supplies were craned down onto it and then it was slid across the intervening space to the mostly cleared streets. I could see slaves acting as stevedores, hauling crates of supplies out of sight and into the city. The more I saw, the less I liked.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I felt bile rising in my throat at Garm's words. The Ordos of the Holy Inquisition had nebulous but vast responsibilites, but at its core the Ordo Malleus, with which I had become associated, was concerned with the Daemon. I had almost died at the hands of Bahometus and his abominations, and the wrongness of what he had summoned lingered in my mind. All psykers lived with the knowledge of what lived just beyond the prosaic veil of reality. It was a private fear that lurked at the back of the mind. To see it made manifest, to see the doom of all life, was difficult to bear.

"The Emperor Protects," I intoned without any real conviction. Hadrian reached back and squeezed my hand and we slicked on across the dark water.

We began to pass villages, identical in every respect to Garm's home, save they were all abandoned. Some had red dye smeared on the walls of their rude huts, others were smouldering ruins, torched by their neighbours, or by their own hands in a vain attempt to stamp out the contagion. We saw only one living soul. An old man sitting against a clump of trees. His eyes were rolled back and his breathing laboured, great red sores covered his body, weeping clear sera which had attracted thousands of tiny black insects. If they bothered the old man he was too far gone to do anything about it.

"The Sickness," was all Garm would say, stroking harder to steer us further away from the dying man.

We continued on for another hour before, abruptly the mangrove ended. Just ended. Prefabricated ferrocrete blocks had been set up in a vast wall. It curved away to both sides too irregular for me to estimate the area beyond. My breath caught as the boat grounded against the concrete. The area beyond wasn't cleared. It was drained. Millions of gallons of water had been pumped, revealing a landscape of dried mud beyond. Patches of it were blackened where organic matter had been piled and burned. Great trenches had been dug and they still flowed with brackish sea water. The skeletons of marine life encursted the recovered earth like mould, imparting their iodine stink to the vista.

"What in the name of the Throne," Selenica breathed. It wasn't just mud and ash. In the center stood a city. It rose in a series of structures carved of some greenish basalt. Obelisks rose at oddly irregular intervals like quills on a porcupine. At the edge of the ruins I could see men with las guns, standing watch over other men, passing buckets of mud out and tossing them into the trenches. Slaves put to excavating the city, captured tribesmen or subjugated members of Nagrip's allies.

"What the fuck is this..." I breathed.