POOHEAD189

At The Edge of The World

A day later...

The wet, broken landscape and thick jungle had grown thinner, at least to my eyes. Emmaline and the others still felt as if the ferns and trees were aberrations that concealed wild cats or worse. Mercifully, the rain had stopped, and the men were able to clean their wounds and sleep with some peace of mind. I kept stayed at the fore, clearing a path with a cutlass I had taken from the camp. Swords were not my forte, but I needed to clear vines and what undergrowth I could.

After the rain demon had dismantled their camp and slew their comrades, the survivors of the Basilean fort had scattered to the four winds. A handful had seen Emmaline and I slay the beast and decided to follow us, not for nothing, since we were going to the closest spot of civilization in twenty leagues. Out of the five legionnaires, three were injured, one with a head wound that seemed a miracle he was alive, and the two who had come out relatively unscathed still have vacant eyes, save for the random flashes of fear that passed into their gazes every now and again.

We had found a relatively dry clearing beneath the canopy, past a fallen tree the lot of us had to duck under to enter the area. We spent the evening eating what rations we had left. Titus had pulled out s loaf of bread from his pack and found it swarming with ants, and he had to throw it into the fire and clear out his bag. Cyrian had a few links of sausage and offered to share, and the rest of the troupe had bits to add to the collective pile. Emmaline and I still had a few apples and jerky left, and we made a small dinner out of the lot of it.

As the rain forest grew darker, and the birds began their incessant, endless chanting, we all drifted off to sleep. Emmaline had deigned to take the first watch, insisting she was a bit too on edge to really sleep so soon, and so I trusted her and fell into a fitful slumber. I would be told later, like I always was, that one of my biggest problems was how much I could sleep through. Emmaline told me, when we were alone within Darkwater days later, how she had tried to wake me up to change the watch, and it was the weird angle of her leaning over me that drew her attention to a slight glimmer in the dark, past the ferns that cloaked the endless jungle beyond the embers of the dying fire.

A glimmer that pulled at one's senses, inexorably and involuntarily drawing one closer to the source. A light that tickled the mind's curiosity, and captured the imagination of the one it had chosen to call to.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt, as well as any commoner, had opinions and conceptions of what many called 'the assholes in charge.' He figured there were a few good eggs, but the serfs and the lower class in the city had seen one too many horrible people with the power to abuse dozens, hundreds, if not thousands of people. The fact that a few of the menfolk of the nobility were disrespectful or ignoble when it came to ceremony and manners wasn't too big of a surprise to Galt. He was about to make such a remark when Silke rested her head against him, and his snide remark dissipated as swiftly as it had come.

"I would like to help," He assured her, reinforcing his earlier sentiment. Even if the help he gave was staying out of her way or focusing on his studies, he wanted to make the process as clean and stress-free as possible. Plus he did have a desire to be a bit hands on with the whole thing, but he also realized he had no idea how or even what went into the planning of a wedding. There were the invites and the venue and the food, but other than that, it was really a mystery. He supposed the clothes...

Galt wasn't expecting her questions, but she was right. He really did not know who he wanted to be, yet. He still felt like this whole thing was a masquerade that he somehow lied his way through, even if intellectually he knew that was false. Technically he did use some of his acting skills to make himself look more the part, but he had also never been more open in most of his life as the past few months. And to what he wanted to be? The whole thing seemed overwhelming to him right now, and just when things had started to look more simple. He and Silke, as much as she fretted over it, that was simple. It was warm and nice, and despite her words, she seemed to feel the same.

Almost without knowing it, his cheek rested against the top of her head. Her hair was soft, and she was as warm and welcoming as the fire. Her words somehow elevated the feeling.

"Thanks," He said, honestly touched. Slowly, his arm snake around her waist. It was a familiar touch, but chaste. There was a modicum of feeling there, as if this was how it had always been. Strange, they had yet to share a kiss but already he felt as home right here with her.

He almost said he knew she would be a good wife too, but somehow he felt it would ruin the moment. As if speaking the words aloud cheapened the meaning. So he merely sat there with her, and his mind wandered back to the first time he stood with Duke Valdemar and the King, and he first met Silke. He remembered how pretty she had looked to him then, and the intelligence behind her eyes that endeared him. He had no idea how much she would teach him, and then he had a thought.

"Hey, what did you think of me when we first met?" He asked. Galt smiled, always ready for a joke. "Other than being really handsome, of course. I feel like that's a given, ya know?"

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

"Perhaps we would have been wiser to not call upon him at all, then?" I asked.

"He might inform on me, but the palace is a large place. We can't get in and out without a few prying eyes, but I would rather have steel with me as we do it." She reasoned, strapping the items to her waist with a sturdy belt. Kian did not wish to relinquish his staff, but it did stick out like a sore thumb. He had left it outside the gates after saving Camilla, to better grab it later. Despite my abandoning of the troupe, I held no illusions that after finding Camilla, we would have worn out our welcome fairly quickly.

I grabbed a baldric, a brace of pistols, and a well-balanced sidesword. I was not very skilled with a sword, but it was better than using nothing and another staff or polearm would just stick out.

"We're probably only a small problem to whoever is calling the shots now," Camilla said to me.

"Optimism is a useful trait," I replied a bit snarkily. She grinned, and we drifted together and shared a few moments of passionate kissing, one of many tempestuous moments, before we drifted apart and made our way to the palace.

Camilla opted to swing round the walls of the veritable fortress to the left, passing by many of the major businesses and getting within eyesight of the waterfront. It was more populated here and the walls were taller, the patrols more frequent, and that was exactly why we did not go through the gardens to the east, where they might expect us. It was an unexpectedly good idea, even to the clever Tilean woman. Once we reached the wharves, they were a shadow of their previous bustle, and the patrolmen were more than half what I had imagined. I still saw a few bodies of fallen swordsmen, blood staining the wooden tiles of the docks or the stone of the streets.

Camilla and I vaulted over a short wall, cordoning off civilians from entering a warehouse in construction. We slipped in like ghosts, passing through the half open sky of the superstructure and reappearing near an alley past much of the docks, slowly but surely making our way toward the edge of the district.

"We're going to use the rocks to climb the wall, aren't we?" I asked Camilla. Past the docks, jagged seaside rocks scythed against the waves, glistening from the spray and littered with barnacles. Some of them jutted up the walls until they were a scant arm reach from the parapets, and so far we had only seen a handful of armed men keeping watch.

"Very good, you really are a university graduate," she joked.

Death's Edge: A Warhammer Story

I felt as if Sigmar had placed me into a sort of exchange. A life of pleasure and fun at the cost of great danger and ever at the expense of breakfast, it seemed. I had not had breakfast in three days from some calamity, and both yesterday and today my planned morning date with Camilla went awry from some danger. Thinking back to the night before, however, I felt it was worth it. Though I would very much try and have a big lunch.

I grabbed my belongings swiftly and had the chance to put on my travel boots and trousers. However, I only had a small bit of cloth of my robe across my shoulder, but half my side and all of my torso was bare. I scrambled out of the window with Camilla, recalling yet again how we had just met and I'm leaping through a window because of a swift warning from her. Camilla slid out of the window and danced across the shingles of the roof with a grace I couldn't match. Thankfully I was still agile compared to the greybeards of my sect and I followed her well enough, feeling the cool morning air on my chest in concert with the sun's warmth. The streets and curved arches and villas, as well as the towering palace was almost breathtaking in the morning light. Shame I hadn't the time to stop and admire the view.

I saw Camilla's desperate leap and realized immediately the futility of trying to jump like her. True, my legs were a bit longer, but she was an acrobat and I only kept my physique to attract women. Would that be enough to get me across?

Well, no time like the present to find out.

As Camilla began raining tiles down onto hapless soldiers and screaming for me to hurry, I placed my foot on the furthest point of the inn's roof and shoved off. Time seemed to slow for me, and even years down the line, I remember the still image of Camilla dropping the tiles and spinning to take my hand. It's amazing how you can fight every creature and abomination imaginable, from vampires to chaos sorcerers to brutish greenskins, and yet simple heights with the threat of gravity can stick with you.

I hurtled through the air, but with the desperation of survival and Camilla's quick reflexes, she caught my hand. My left leg hit the edge, pain shooting up my body, stealing the energy from the limb. Luckily, I found out later there wasn't a fracture or break, but it hurt like hell, as did my hand. I had thrown out my bandaged hand for her to catch, clever as ever.

"We must goo hansome, joost a bitte moore!" She implored me in Reikspeil. I gave her a tired smile to reassure her I was alright, and with her help and my other leg I pulled myself up on the roof. Behind us we heard a shout. I turned and saw a condottieri with his morion helm poke his head out of our window, turning his head the wrong way then swinging back in our direction. I could not see his expression well, but he shook his fist.

"You will not get away so easily!" He cried, and as if on cue, crossbow quarrels bounced against shingles and scythed past us, one getting close enough to fly right between Camilla and I.

Camilla dashed away, while I limped after her, but as we moved, blood flowed back into my leg and I could put weight on it again. Mercifully the other buildings were packed closer, and together we made it down three city streets, swiftly losing the soldiers who's shouts faded into the distance.

Eventually we stopped atop a sandstone roof with an awning and an area to relax and take stock. A small table under a swift, outdoor cupola was sequestered there for shade. Camilla sat down and I caught my breath, smoothing my mane of black hair back, though some fringes stubbornly set back before my face. My torso glistened with a light sweat, and I had to admit the lack of food did wonders for my early morn physique, but even if Camilla was interested we were a bit preoccupied.

"I say we've overstayed our welcome. Apologies if I'm the cause of that," I said, taking a cloth from my pack and wiping it across my forehead. "I suggest we find what money we can and get the hell out of here. I hear Pavona is lovely this time of year, or perhaps Luccini."

Fucking hell, I thought as my stomach growled.

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Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

"Nah, they're just not supposed to be lethal." He said, crouching down and resting his arms across his knees as he admired the underbelly of the Dragonfly. "Though they can be. Hell, it's what the crowd would rather have."

"If we're going to do this, don't go dying on me, cowboy." Jocasta said, cocking her hip and crossing her arms. Neil looked up at her.

"Too handsome to die?"

"Too expensive."

"Ah."

---

The ring was simply a colloquial term. The true arena was a hexagonal wall of reinforced steel and cryocrete and electromagnetic pillars that created a negative charge that cushioned the steel behemoths from hitting the walls with full force if they charged or were tossed out of bounds. Beyond the walls was a hyperfyber glass, bulletproof and impenetrable against shrapnel or small-yield explosives. The stadium around the ring could house ten thousand occupants, but the real crowd would be watching on the holovids. There were thirty million inhabitants of the Golden Girdle at any one time, however the numbers could fly as high as twice that during rush cycles. And these fights would be shown on every public holovid and on many private ones across one hundred thousand kilometers.

First thing was first. Neil and Jocasta needed two things. Firstly, they needed a Rekker, which meant a APC between 3 and 4 meters tall, and secondly, they needed a patron to back their bid, else Neil wouldn't go anywhere near the ring. Just as with everything, the rich and powerful had their toes in anything that could potentially make them more rich or powerful, and it also curbed their boredom. So every fighter was backed by a patron, and had a team that could acts as a spokesperson, a coach, and a medic in times of need. Neil felt Jocasta could serve each of those roles well enough. Hell, he probably only needed a spokesperson.

The Rekker was another thing entirely. Neil had taken all the gear and weapons off the deceased bounty hunters and with a few questions to the right people, located a place he could potentially sell them for some extra cash. Even the most optimistic outcome, however, would mean they were pretty short of a real Rekker. They might have to settle for a piece of junk and Neil's expertise until they won a few matches and could patch it up to win the big prize. Fifty thousand credits a pop for four rounds, with twenty five percent of the earnings going to the patron, and the fifth round was five hundred thousand credits, and an added two hundred thousand for the patron. However, the big bucks were in the betting pools. That was why the rumors of fixed fights came about. A few champions had thrown matches at the finale to win big in the betting. The fighters were now banned from betting after this incident occurred a few times, but that did not stop them from using proxies.

Neil explained all this to Jocasta as they made their way down the Presidium's stairs to the lower quarters, below the casinos, vaults, hanger, and the great mall that dominated the center of this particular station, dubbed 'Alexandria IV.'

"This is all fascinating, cowlick, but where are we going exactly?" Jocasta asked, causing Neil to glance up and smooth his hair on instinct. She smirked and he gave her a look when he realized she had been messing with him.

"We're going to find someone who'll buy these rifles and gear for a good price. Maybe then we can grab a junker or I can game our money up enough to find us a real Rekker to use."

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"Hereticus." I said, my tone neutral. Emmaline could see my eyes moving as thoughts whirred in my head. She had done some fine detective work, but something did not feel right. It felt as if the answer were right in front of me, but I needed to parse the facts. I glared at Lazarus for a brief moment, until Emmaline drew my eyes.

"Problem?" Emmaline asked, raising her brow. She wore a shimmering dress that suited her. I merely wore my usual fatigues and newly stitched jacket, now finally able to move about without half my torso bandaged up and crushing my ribs. I snapped my fingers for Lazarus to approach with his data slate, my hand out-held to retrieve it. Once in my hands I thumbed through the data.

"On Havenos, he wore Malleus Power Armor. You not only need to be in my ordo, but one of the more esteemed members to even have the access to don such a blessed suit. Being of the Ordo Hereticus makes little sense," I explained.

"Then he just found a Malleus Inquisitor and killed them?" Clara suggested. She seemed more able to think back to that day. Earlier the mere mention brought shudders to her, the inhuman dimensions of the eternal city having done its damage on her sense of self for some weeks.

"That's highly unlikely for many reasons, and for an unordained, veritably impossible. Such a suit could devour the man within if they were found unworthy. No, no this makes me believe that he was not wearing what I believe he was wearing, or the information is wrong. Perhaps both." I remarked, a galactic map surging onto my screen, fingers sliding the expanse of space down as I veered the tablet's screen northward. "And you are wrong, Lazarus."

"Pardon?" Lazarus asked, binary spewing forth a scant second after the statement. It was rare to see the Tech Priest rocked back on his heels. Selencia perked up.

"You are wrong." I said simply, glancing at him. "I haven't known you to be wrong about an empirical fact since I've met you. The Orphidian subsector is quite close to Avignor. It's all within the Scarsus Sector of Segmentum Obscurus. And Emmaline's information of his origins is quite odd. Both Angevin and Ophidian are the names of relatively recent crusades in Imperial history."

"The Ophidian sub was named after the crusade," Lazarus noted, though whether to try and regain a bit of dignity or to see if he was capable of answering correctly, I did not know. He was impossible to read to most humans, but I could see he was disturbed at his own failure at making a single incorrect statement. Lucius Raj watched the exchange with interest from the back, his super human eyes more accustomed to seeing small micro-twitches that betrayed emotion.

"Correct. In fact it was one of the most successful crusades in the history of the Imperium. It was as if the forces of Chaos had fled after the fighting had barely started, hailed as a miracle and a sign of the Emperor's favor. The Angevin Crusade had a similar record, and is known in my Ordos as being one of the few crusades Ordo Malleus has openly aided in. I do not know the specifics of Ordo Hereticus and their conclaves, but I find it difficult to believe they would have one named after the Angevin crusade."

"What exactly are you suggesting, Hadrian?" Emmaline asked, placing a hand on her hip. She seemed slightly put off at my interruption, and while I did not take any pleasure from it, she looked fetching when she was frustrated. "That my information is wrong?"

"Not necessarily." I clarified, handing the dataslate back to Lazarus. "He may very well be Teritus Vorn of the Ordo Hereticus. However, he is not the true enemy. The Ordo Malleus does not go after men, but the very daemons of the warp, and when they are concerned, you trust nothing. This cabal has infiltrated every level of not only a Hive World, but now the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition? And he has developed away to strip millions of imperial citizens of their free will all on his own? This man, Teritus Vorn, is just a cog in a greater wheel. There are only two explanations. Either not every piece of information we received is truthful, or there is a much more sinister and devious aspect to their methods. One that might explain your information and Lazarus' misstep."

"Mors Logicae?" Lazarus responded, looking up from the dataslate I have granted him. On the screen, he had been granted access to the entire history of the phenomena. He could absorb the information quicker than I could explain, but I deigned to do so for the congregation listening. Urien watched in fascination and both Selencia and Emmaline glanced at one another before looking back at my position.

"Discovered by Inquisitor Jaq Draco in the late 38th millennium, it is a taint of psychic origins, a ward. Some classify it as a 'disease of truth.' The Mors Logicae activates when one approaches a certain subject intellectually, granting false leads and giving the researcher an inherently wrong mental synapse of the topic in question. Fortunately, Jaq Draco was able to dismantle it by learning two simple weaknesses. Firstly, the Mors Logicae can only work when one does not consider its existence as the cause. Secondly, while it can alter ones perception of facts, it cannot alter facts themselves. It is a taste of the warp, but not chaos made manifest. Therefore, what we have seen is indeed fact, and now that we have acknowledged it is a very real possibility this alleged Teritus Vorn is utilizing it, then we cannot be fooled again unless it is by others who have been fooled."

"That means all information we gather will be false, though," Clara surmised.

"Not exactly. It only works on someone who is looking into a specific subject, as I said. For instance, this Teritus Vorn can land on Avignor, tell everyone he is Teritus Vorn, and he is an inquisitor, and he will have to convince them on his own. If someone there was to ask him his business on the planet specifically, he could tell them any lie he wished. However, if one were suspicious of his motives and deigned to pick them apart, everything they would hear or surmise regarding him would be scrambled by the neurons in their mind or the mind of others. Unless, of course, they suspected the use of Mors Logicae. As we now do. His whereabouts or mundane activities would not be unknowable."

Lazarus snapped the dataslate shut, and with a string of binary that sounded like a long sigh, he approached me and, to my surprise, patted me on the shoulder. I had been about to explain how the Ordo Angevin and Ophidian claim was likely based upon the Mors Logicae choosing the two most illustrious words in the Scarsis sector to garner trust by local inhabitants, but Lazarus spoke first.

"Kronus would be proud," He whispered. I gave a smile.

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The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Our blades rang, the sound of steel striking steel echoing off the walls as I pressed my advantage. My opponent was older, perhaps a bit slower, but had centuries of experience beyond my own. His defenses were refined, orderly, but growing weaker as I advanced. My pallasch drove into his abdomen, or I thought it had until he gave a parry so late I almost could not believe it, but that was his last trick. I grimaced in annoyance, our blades crossing like an X as I began to hammer down on him, attempting to make a pull cut. He redirected the sword, but only to put me in line with a downward cut that banged against his hilt. I sensed victory, tasted it. With a cry I hacked again at his exposed collarbone, knowing he had no way of defending. I laughed at my victory.

Inquisitor Kronus stepped into my cut and nearly sundered my chest cavity with a pommel strike. My blade had no strength left in it as spittle flew from my lips, vision blurring. I felt more than saw him disarm me, and with a shove I hit the padded ground. The sameter training vest broke the brunt of my fall, but I felt my pride plummeting as I saw Kronus standing over me, watching with his dual gaze. His left eye was stern, but very human, and even a bit of sympathy was laden in its depths. His augmented right eye, placed in by Lazarus himself, watched me with a cold, bleak judgement that only the emptiness of the void of space could match.

"How did I beat you?" He asked simply, speaking to me as if he were asking a dog why they wet the carpet or why a child lied to their parent when they knew full well the consequences of choosing the incorrectly. I collected myself as best I could, getting up quickly, doing my best not to sway.

"You pretended to tire," I surmised, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Drew me in and let me defeat myself."

"You are not a blunt instrument," Kronus said, turning and walking to the sword rack. Wiping the blunted blade with a cloth, he placed it on the rack and flexed his neck with a small twist of his head. I was thirsty, but Kronus had never brought water to our bouts. He rarely ate in front of anyone, and only recently had he allowed me the privilege of knowing just how he took his tea. His right hand flexed, the artificial neurons pumping hydrocarbon through his system instantaneously to grant his augmented limb function that could even surpass his flesh and blood arm. I should have known that arm would not have weakened. Why had I not seen that?

"No, sir." I said, standing erect now and at attention. I could show my disappointment or disdain openly, but I still arrayed myself well in his presence. I was merely seventeen, but I was treated as an adult as soon as I was granted the privilege of the mantle of interrogator. I was glad to be given the responsibilities, or at least the expectations, of a senior operative.

"Why do we do what we do, Drakos?" He asked me, turning to the mat again, though he did not deign to look at me.

"We, sir?"

"The Inquisition," he clarified.

"To protect the Imperium." I said at once.

"Vague answers do not give you partial credit." He reminded me, something of which I had been told often the last four years. He continued, stalking back and forth, a terrible gleam appearing in his remaining organic eye. "The Imperial Guard protects the Imperium. The Adeptus Astartes protects the Imperium. The Artbites, the Adeptus Sororitas, the Custodes themselves. The Imperium is not in need of another shield or warfront. We are not here to protect the Imperium. We are here to hunt."

"Hunt." I said, absorbing the word.

"The Daemon, the Xenos, the Heretic. Ours is not the battlefield. Ours is the shadows. The library. The Underhive. The corruption within the Governor's household. The Daemon summoning within the forests of the feral worlds. We are not blunt instruments. We are Inquisitors, Hadrian. And you cannot succeed as an Inquisitor unless you use your head."

---

"She was merely suffering under psychotomimetic-induced hallucinations from involuntary consumption of drugs," I said, reclining back in my chair in the offices sequestered within the crux between the lower and upper hives. Ortega looked at my without betraying any emotion, expression unreadable.

"And if they say that is insufficient?" Ortega asked. "Or if they wish for me to elaborate on that point?"

"Then you can tell them that is a tergiversation and the Inquisition is not in the position to allow such questioning in our endeavors."

"Somehow, I don't think the Grand Provost Marshall will appreciate that. But I suppose you would say he should get used to it."

"You must be psychic, you read my mind." I said. My eyes met Emmaline's. She wore her bodyglove, albeit after having it cleaned, her hair still in a bun. The following hours after the death of the Priest, a man who's prints we matched with a Cardinal Simon Philovong of the Ecclesiarchy. A rogue bishop who had taken his evangalism into the Segmentum Obscurus, evidently in a bid to seek out dissidents on Hydra Cordatus. That was all I could surmise from the autoseance and the prints Ortega was allowed to collect. Emmaline smiled, but kept quiet as Ortega sighed.

In the other room, Elektra was under armed guard, her hands shackled. After the death of her supposed master, she had been unresponsive save our directives to lead her out of the room and into custody. Emmaline insisted on Elektra being granted a second chance, and knowing she had seen the woman's experiences that led her down that path, I had acquiesced and told Ortega we were taking her, which was a difficult sell as the Grand Provost Marshall likely needed to pin the blame on someone living so there could be an execution and a trial, in that order of importance. Ortega wished for a strip of the scrolls as well, but I had denied that without prejudice and burned them all with promethium, utilizing an incinerator and Lazarus' keen eye to make certain every last scrap of it was decimated.

"Is there anything else, Arbites Ortega?" I asked patiently.

"Where are you going, then?" He asked, giving up with the whole situation. He turned on his vox and told his men to prepare the prisoner for extraction and release.

"Savaven," I said. "In the Quinrox Sound Sub-sector."

Ortega blinked. "I am surprised you would tell me, Inquisitor." He said.

I smiled. "I have no fear of the adeptus arbites, and even if there were traitors in your ranks, the planet is home to fourteen billion people. Good luck finding us."

Ortega grinned, and gave a salute. "Thank you, Inquisitor. And even you, Mamzel. Good luck and good hunting," He said, and turned to step out of the office. Once he was out, Emmaline closed the door. Lazarus whirred in binary, and his eyes shined red as he paced to a small desk and pulled out a small piece of cloth, from the robes of the deceased Simon Philovong.

"I retain my conclusion. There is a 98.7% this cloth was granted by the Ecclesiarchy on Avignor. But perhaps you should have remained silent rather than having lied to the arbites. He could be accused of lying for us, if the word gets out."

"I trust him to remain silent, and if he's not, or is made to speak, then our enemies will look for us elsewhere. Misdirection is the first step to any victory." I said. "Now, get your affairs in order. The Caledonia will depart in two days."

"Maybe then you can keep from falling apart," Emmaline quipped, and I shot her a look. She stuck her tongue out at me, but she winked and I softened. Somehow, despite the corruption of this Nagripp and Simon going into the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, I felt it would turn out alright.

I was not correct, I would later find out.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I leaped over an emaciated flagellant, hitting the floor and putting three rounds from my autopistol into a screaming tribesman. Blood spurted and holes blossomed in his chest cavity and neck just before he collapsed. I was moving even before his face hit the floor, following in Emmaline's wake. I could feel her distress like ice shards plunging into the periphery of my mind. The electric wiring roiling out of the archway in the parody of a maw, I entered, stepping as carefully as I could. I needed to hurry, but in my state it would be almost impossible to pick myself up again without damaging myself internally, and as heroic as it would be, my agonizing death would help my team little.

I managed to enter the room just as Emmaline was knocked off her heels. Fortunately I was already running, and so I merely needed to redirect my feet to catch her before she fell into the skeletal remains of the bodies, catching her within my sword arm and aiming my pistol at the next brute, my next bullet punching through the augmetic eye and crumpling the near-human mongrel. My next rounds tore into two psykers, ending their servitude and sending their souls to the emperor's side. Emmaline looked up at me with her wide blue eyes, and I gave a tight smile.

"Hence the importance of firearm accuracy without tricks," I teased with a raised eyebrow, referring to our bet in my first attempt at teaching her the value of target practice. She gave a dazzling smile, and I could have kissed her if we did not have another acro-flagellant bearing down on us. I aimed and fired, but my autogun was empty. Cursing, I pushed Emmaline to the wall and ignited my powersword, the blade roaring to life as I brought it in line to skewer the murderous zealot. It tore through the former-man like ripping through wet paper, but its weight still hit me. I cried out more pitifully than I would have liked when I felt the pressure of his entire upper half hitting my torso.

"Hadrian!" Emmaline cried as I grimaced, gripping my abdomen and stubbornly keeping to my feet. She ran to my aid, but I shrugged off her hands and gave her a look. One of trust and command in equal measure. I hastily reloaded by autogun, squaring my jaw.

"Kill the psykers and that bastard in the center." I told her, having surmised the plot swiftly enough, stumbling off to the left and using the energy weapon to scythe a path through the bodies, bones melting at every swing. The autogun's muzzle flashed and more rounds ripped into trapped psykers as the priest at the center began to yell, his voice rising in volume, the words spilling out of him as if drawn by some eldritch power.

Lazarus had picked his way through the bodies with his extra limbs, spidering over tables and chairs and thick wiring as he approached the center of the room. He braced himself against a pillar and fired his weapon again, the trans-uranic arquebus detonating his immediate surroundings and punching through two caged psykers, rending steel and leaving a blue flame in its wake.