Vael!

"It would," said the Formless One slowly, begrudgingly - coming around to the idea as a distant second preference. "If that is to be accomplished, your target is Archivator MPRX, a member of Magos Kyria's retinue. They are each here on the planet, and the Archivator has all of the pieces to draw the final conclusion and write a definitive history of the Scribes. Killing the Archivator is insufficient; it is her history that must return to the Imperium in a compromised state."

The demon's voice has regained it's original spark by the time it has finished speaking. By the time it is done there is a new item on the desk - a bone-carved dagger, set with sapphires, stabbed directly into the glyph of the Fabricatum Complex in the echo of the Lion's Gate Spaceport. Invaluable information - for the first time in a long time, you have the jump on your nemesis.

Leuric!

That gets under her skin. The Navigator draws away from you, spiderwebs of frost running across her skin. The crew flinches, knowing well what this means - it means victory, or it means throwing themselves on the mercy of the warp.

"As you command, lord," said Mademoiselle Dizzaralariad sharply, no doubt planning your unfortunate accident already. "I will attire myself for campaign."

She draws away from the bridge, not pausing to look at the spectacular starbursts beyond the viewport as mines begin to flash and detonate. Captain r'Ankis is shouting commands, voice balanced on the edge of control. The fates are favouring you - the rot that has claimed the planet has also lobotomized the iron will behind its defensive grid, and the minefield is not augmented with flights of strike craft and planetary batteries - yet.

But disaster could strike at any moment. The crew has their hands full with the mines and their view is narrowing. A blow from an unexpected angle could be devastating, and you are the only one with the space to see big picture. You can feel the threat on the back of your neck, a cold that lingers even in the Navigator's absence.

Hagar!

You are faced with the Jagged Cluster.

Things have names here, even the short lived - the wise of the Maw left behind the Mechanicus' numbers a long time ago, putting their faith in the glyphic structure of the Warp. The Jagged Cluster is a particularly terrible amalgamation of four different macrocannons, each individually the size of a house, together becoming a militarized hab block. It is not like anything you have seen before; being carved entirely of prismatic glass shards bound together in intricate mural glyphs by orichalcum and quicksilver, depicting a flock of jetbikes speeding ahead of a crashing flood.

It feels alien - this is not one of the ship's 'normal' daemons. But it represents a deeply inefficient caliber of firepower, and it looks like it wants to consume yet more of the lesser macrobatteries to reinforce its bulk, so you need to do something about it. How do you approach?

Many would argue that, amongst the stars and the ranks of chaos, one would have to resort to violence or intimidation to assert their point. In a lot of cases, perhaps they would be right. Hagar, however, saw different. One belief he shared with the lord of decay and life, it is that all sorts of life forms are sacred, even daemonic ones.

"Aaaah, yes, I get it... Hold on a moment, I'll have to talk to it."

Even such a beast deserves respect, one as alien as amalgamation of warp and machinery. In a confident yet slow step, The mass of flesh and leaf that was Hagar approached it.

"You're hungry, I can see that in you. You want more, and you want it fast. But, that's not how have to do it, not today."

His empty eyes now gazed forward upon the glyphs that have marked the surface of the monstrosity. He knew these well, familliar with their meanings. One of his fingers, clad in wood and sap in its veins, dares to reach onward and touch the surface.

"You'll have your time later, I promise. For now... You'll have to hear me."

Hagar spoke once again. This time, what he said were merely... words. Words with no apparent meaning behind them, with sounds and tonalities that would be impossible to the common man, a language that only the damned could understand. And with each one of these impossible phrasings, the finger crossed across the surface, gliding upon each and every symbol...

"Ah, there were go. So we can work together after all! I knew you were good company, Formless. Then it shall be up to me to stage the performance."

Which, of course, began with intelligence. Vael sent an order to the auspex masters - a full scan of the Fabricator Complex. Going loud was undesirable here, if the enemy knows that the Archivator has been attacked then they might get suspicious. So ideally they'll need a big and loud distraction to draw the attention away. Hagar would likely be good at something like this.

Geron runs his tongue over his teeth almost hard enough to draw blood. The thrill of being near death is an acquired taste, but the rush of endorphins it provides is almost worth the risk. It's not enough though, he needs more stimulation.

Seeing as how Mademoiselle Dizzaralariad has left her handmaidens behind Geron decides to make use of them. He flicks his wineglass with a finger, creating a harmonic ringing sound, then points at them.

"Sing, we will not arrive in silence."

With Dizzaralariad gone and Squarehammer there to provide encouragement that should be enough to convince them to do as Geron tells them. And if their voices aren't raised in song their screams of agony will be a more than acceptable substitute for guiding them on their path and help motivate the rest of the crew.

Vael!

The Master of Auspex comes to report in person.

She marches at the head of a procession - five hundred statuesque men, naked but for the twitching trio of eyes that each one holds cupped in their hands. They are bound together with golden collars and velvet ropes, run through with crackling electrical wires that find their termination in the shadows beneath the Master's filthy crimson robe. She snaps her fingers; her escort stops, shudders, and kneels.

"Lord, as you have commanded, I have consulted the augurs and auspexes," said the Master of Auspex. "Yet in much I stand thwarted. The slaves of the Ring have come in hypocritical blasphemy - they wear hexagrammatic wards against warpsight, their noospheric defenses are hardened against scrapcode and they wield xenos jamming technology without even the pretension of concealment." She takes a deep breath in through her nose, suppressing a rant about hypocrisy. "Yet there are lines they are still unwilling or unable to cross, and I have extracted some information nonetheless. There are multiple small teams of Pteraxii and Sicarians rapidly moving around the complex, maintaining stealth to avoid drawing counterattack. In close air support they have a squadron of Astartes Thunderhawks of the Ringbearers Chapter - Draupnir's bonded slave legion. These are not landing - I believe they are a reserve force to be summoned in emergency or to cover an extraction."

Leuric!

The twist of your voice catches on the immanent warp. It bypasses the conscious levels of the handmaiden's minds, creating a fear that cuts right through any hesitancy. The words that come are found, instructed; inspiration from a muse in the dark.

"It's M43, I'm out here sailing again
Through the wicked, winding streets of my world
I make a wrong turn, break it
Now I'm too far gone
I've got a siren on my tail and that ain't the fine I'm lookin' for"

The bridge crew has fallen into a transcendent focus. The captain does not even need to issue orders; when the glittering lance strike of a ground battery cuts through the clouds in the surface around Tiger's Gate, slicing towards your voidship, you have already turned away from it.

"I got a mind full of wicked designs
I got a non-stop hole in my head, imagination
I'm in a building that has 2000 floors
And when they all fall down
I think you know it's you they're fallin for"

You can see the shadows of it now, a new void in the center of the handmaidens. It arises from the flickering gaps in their lace dresses, beak and hooked talons, a black shadow puppet amidst the void of their brilliance. So many feathers, falling, falling, falling -

Beneath its ten feet the metal has corroded. Water seeps in. Reeds grow.

I can't forget I am my sole architect
I built the shadows here
I built the growlin' voice I fear
You add it up, but to do better than that
You got to follow me
Boy, I'm trying to show you where I'm at

It offers you its claws; the liminal space between five extended pale hands. It is dark and it is light and it is rot and it is everywhere here. It has come to welcome you to its world.

Hey pretty.

Hagar!

feels like flying
The thoughts are gentle and jagged, like a monomolecular needle to the brainstem. Everything of this creature balances on a single point, white hot and impossible. It shifts as it acknowledges you, a frictionless whirl of glass, sharp and clear.
no redundancy. no vigor. no health. strike. enough. sufficient. time is a renewable resource.
It pauses, the internal narration finding synchronicity with words you have said. It draws itself up, spreading its wings - a glittering archangel of stained glass and cannon masonry.
you are correct. this is a flawed approach. abandoned i greet you, and welcome you to my sister's world: i am the Glass Knight. once i ruled here in harmony, but the Ancient Raven has cast us out. fear her. please.

Her back ignites, a glittering rainbow arc of laser fire, the pinion of each wing the focus of a crystal laser. The void behind her burns with the detonations of shattered mines. She pivots, a dancer's step, and slashes another swathe through the dark.

For a man of lesser mettle, or less gifted perhaps, such a swathe would have been defeaning to even catch a glimpse of. Yet, Hagar was a child of Nurgle. He could take it, take whatever would it be that daemonic forms could inflict him with, even communion. Together, he and the Glass Knight, should she call herself that, shared this intimacy, and together, came to the demonstrating consensus. She listened, and through the myriad of her colors, more than Hagar of the Materium could even imagine, her work began. Although... One thing weights him. The daemon's words, strange as they were. The Ancient Raven, what was it ? Babbling, a true warning, a metaphor ? Of that, he could make little sense, atleast in this very moment, for even if he could see through the Warp and its inhabitants, their process of thought remains a mystery, one he's not sure he will ever truly pierce.

"..."

"...Aaaaaaaah. Much as I'd like to see through you, I'm afraid I can't. We're not afraid of anything in these here parts, but don't worry. What comes our way, we'll endure through. And if we can't... Maybe there won't be reason to worry anymore."

Hagar's hand lifts off the glass construct, followed by a few, loud backwards steps.

"We've survived much. Whatever comes our way, we will again."

And with those final words, Hagar fully turned the heel, and found his way back to the "insides" of the damaged vessel, tracing his march to the master of Ordinance. The mind is perhaps more worried than what it should be, but... The duty is done, a fact he wastes no time announcing.

"It took a few words, but I settled it properly. For now, I don't think we'll need another intervention."

Lord Geron Leruc (complete list of titles excluded for brevity) deigns to grant his gaze to the interloper. And the mess it's made on the floor. This creature has arrived uninvited, dirtied the floor it stands upon, and failed to introduce itself. Honestly he thinks, is it so much to ask for basic etiquette?

Still, at least the creature had the good sense to comment on his good looks, although there were better words than 'pretty.' Was there anything to the sensation of being underappreciated? No, Geron decided, it was neither pleasurable nor painful enough to find desirable. Irritation would normally be reason enough to order a prolonged and exquisitely unpleasant execution, but this creature at least was an object of interest to break up the monotony of the minutes he's gone without entertainment. He might order the creature plucked and cooked and turn those feathers into an outfit later though, time would tell.

Until then he might as well see what it wants. He gestures idly around the room.

"This is The Everthirsting Maw, my ship."

Geron reflects that he needs to get a Seneschal of his own. He's too important to be expected to the work of listing off all his titles and it would give him someone to have an intelligent conversation with. Or at least someone he might find worth remembering the name of.

"I am Lord Geron Leruc. And you are?"

"She's using xenos technology now? Well well, maybe I've been an influence of her after all." There's satisfaction in Vael's voice. Some wars were fought in hearts and minds. "How far we've come from dogmaticism. Eventually I'll make my point clear - the priests of the Master of Fates and the Master of Machines have more in common than we have differences."

But, later, eventually.

"Air forces do not stay in the air forever. They need refueling, and people need rest. That is a point of weakness. I'll lead an infiltration team in a stealth strike. And the other forces will need to provide a distraction, like this..."

Opening his mind to warp, Vael begins to draft a battle plan, informed in equal measure by precognition and knowledge of war and Tactica Imperialis.

Vael!

The thunderhawk... simply doesn't land. In your vision it stays up there indefinitely, engines dark. Hours, weeks - some secret of the Forgeworld keeps it aloft like the Sword of Damocles. And -

because of that it is the sword. Glyphic in the sky, it accumulates meaning, accumulates the force of immanent doom, drawing all of the loss of violence of this world to itself -

Warfare here will be as much about glyphs and symbols as force of arms. The Warp is ever-present and it speaks in a language of symbols, and the Mechanicus of Draupnir have blindly accumulated several powerful ones to themselves. Without comprehension, they have wrapped themselves in the Wards of the Hunter. Small bands moving stealthily through a terrible wilderness, baskets overflowing with treasures, long spears in hands, no fear of great beasts. Their weapons are endurance, concealment, patience and precision; violence unheralded and absolute. Their field is where the open plain meets the concrete jungle; watch always for snipers. Should an army or injustice approach, their flaming sword will fall from the sky like an apocalypse. It is a fearsome combination.

You need a countermatching symbol to ward yourselves in; an aspect to your approach vulnerable neither to hunters nor the judgement of the lord. This, as much as any tactical array, will ward you from danger.

Leruc!

The handmaidens have not merged together or suffered any rent to their bodies - if anything they have become individually more beautiful and perfect - but they are layered on top of each other like an optical illusion. They are illuminated from within by a pale light and are increasingly the only light source in the room. All the others are guttering, damp, encrusted with mildew and moss blooms.

"And I am/and I am/and I am/and I am/and I am..." it rolls the response around its mouths playfully. "And I am there. And I am here. And I am enough. And I am welcoming. And I am the End and the Death and the Crippling and the Tearing and the Entombing and the Galaxy Within The World. I am two steps removed and the center of everything. I am the Ancient Raven, and it was I who ripped the Allfather's eye from its broken socket and ate it whole. It was a lovely moment. We should do it all again. Who would you like to be?"

Hagar!

"Lord," said the Master of Ordinance, making a half-bow. "As the Bridge has commanded, we are readying the landing shuttles. One is to carry the command staff and their assistants, one is to carry the Lady Navigator and her combat walker, one is to carry security assets - what do you bid we load the remaining shuttle with? We have capacity for soldiers, vehicles, supplies, ritual components..."

No more than four, that goes unspoken. The Ordinator is familiar enough with the aspects of the Warp to know that an inauspicious number in a place like this represents wasted resources rather than tactical advantage.

Were it up to Hagar, he would have invoked up to seven, the number of the grandfather. But, superstition is often justified, in such a wild and unstable... Place wouldn't be the word, even if it may seem as one.

"The men've earned Nurgle's bliss, who am I to take it away from them for so little ? No, bring only who is absolutely necessary for the mission, no more, no less. For the shuttle..."

Hagar bent a little forward to the Ordinance master as he spoke, out of a habit he previously had, so as to make his requests clearer and more pronounced. They of then die hard.

"I'll need the ritual components. And hear me well on this one, because getting it right is very important : Seven seeds - Not bags of seeds, individual seeds - A patch of dirt that hasn't been planted upon for seven terran years - Months, if we only have that alternative - And finally, I'll need six of our gardners, the most talented ones on board. Get them onboard, we'll be descending soon."

Ah. Of course. He shouldn't have worked from Tacitca Imperialis.

"Softer than velvet, harder than steel,
The warp-spawned illusion will become real."

He reworks the battle plan. No, that's not the right name anymore. It's a ritual sacrifice, a spell wrought in blood and fire, not a battle plan.

"The left hand path is now my right,
The sensor’s shadow is the light.
The poison is the welcome meal,
The open gate lies in the seal.
Do I deceive you?
No!
I greet you..."

Forces arranged in sacred geometry, meant to die, and in death grant the blessing of deception to his team. Each sacrifice a pick tapping on the ward's lock.

The answer that wasn't an answer was annoying, but at least Geron wasn't bored anymore. For now.

This creature called itself "enough?" And here Geron didn't think such a thing existed! There was always more to be had and why wouldn't you want it?

But he might as well try this new game.

"I am greater than I was before, lesser than I will be, and a full accounting of my desired state of being would reach from here to Terra at the very least."

Metaphorically and literally. If the Golden Throne was real and not figurative then Geron wanted it.

Geron snaps his fingers to get a servant's attention.

"Bring refreshments and entertainment."

There would be plenty of fresh captives to be taken once they reached their destination and he might as well be a gracious host. Besides, watching this creature tear someone to shreds would be fun.

Lurec!

"Certainly not!" gasped the Raven, five hands touching against a beak-shaped void. "You have travelled all this way. You are my guests. I cannot accept your hospitality when I have so much of my own to offer."

It stepped back, the dance coming apart. As it does the light and dark that it had separated begin to blend together again, and water stains the ankles of the maidens. Tall swamp reeds brush the sides of your command throne, silt and dirt and mosquitoes lap around the bases of the cogitators, and the smell of stagnant water corrupts the air.

The five give final bows, one after another, and then their light dims as possession leaves them.

"Welcome again to my home. Come in peace, go in friendship, and leave behind some of the happiness you bring."

*

All!

The ship has made anchor. The shuttles are loaded, the battle plans are drawn up, and a world awaits below. You have gone your separate ways during the long months of travel but now you are to be committed to each others' presence for perhaps just as many months. Side by side, you see the vast swamp of the Jade Bastion come into view; the spectacular riverbursts where dams collapsed into cities, the lines and lines of fortification, the dark grey shapes of the spaceports and their vast, empty bulk carriers.

You take with you only a few attendants each; the second shuttle carries a unit of thirty Legionnaires; the third some sort of terrible walker device. Trivialities against the might of an entire fortress world - your only real assets are each other.

Hagar had some familiarity to the Jade Bastion, as a respite place for his fellow followers of the lord of life. Even so however, few were his chances to see it in person. It was... Magnificent, really. If only the rest of the Dwellers were here to witness its majesty... But he wouldn't want to bother them for such, the curse of action is one he must keep to only himself and whomever would be absolutely necessary in the act and the moment.

"Oh, here already... I didn't expect you all to arrive this early. Or maybe it's me who's late... I wouldn't know now. But, we're here, in the moment."

The towering figure of Hagar stood, towering even above some of their crew's largest. Less due to an actual muscle mass, and moreso because of the mass of wood, plant matter and fungi that has given him both strength and size.

"You'll love the Bastion, I know it. It's... something truly special."

Vael, for the moment, stood out the least among his peers. His white robes shimmered with color when the light hit them, and his face was covered by the Tarnor mimic-mask, welded back to shape but never repaired to its full glory. The silver weld marks criss-crossed the golden face like scars, rigid when the rest of the metal moved to display emotions.

"I'll take you at your word, Hagar. I've been told that it's a replica of the imperial palace on Terra. I've never been in person, of course, but I'm excited to see how the reality of their architecture matches what I know of it."

Vael's shadow detaches from him, flitting amongst the people and the surrounding flora, exploring the new environment with its warp-born senses.

"How was your journey, Geron? Cooked up anything exciting lately in that kitchenette of yours?"

Squarehammer looms behind Geron, his bulk easily allowing him to interpose himself between his master and anyone approaching if necessary.

Geron meanwhile is looking around in disgust. His robes, gloves, and mask might stand out less on a world like this, but he's still got a unique outfit. Equal parts mad preacher and Rogue Trader.

"What a filthy place, one wonders how anyone here can stand to live like this. I should hope there's some beauty to be found, even a replica of the Imperial Palace might make it look worse by ruining the aesthetics. Oh if only there were something worth gazing upon."

He motions and an attendant rushes up with a mirror. Geron admires his reflection for a moment before replying to Vael.

"I didn't feel properly inspired. Some swampy thing appeared, bewitched a few crew members, befouled the deck, and then refused my generous hospitality and left. I was so upset, you would not believe it."

He lightly sinks the sharp parts of his glove into his shoulder, savoring the pain as he remembers his newest grudge.

"And we might need a new Navigator soon. Our current one is planning a mutiny."

Well at the very least she insulted him, and those are synonymous in Geron's book.

The deck shakes. The Legion is here.

Rashad Aedir, the Haematic, is the fourth of your company and representative of the Blood God. He was once a sorcerer of the Fifteenth but scorn for his legion's failure set him upon a different path. The thirty Ruberic Marines that stride behind him are painted scarab black and sunset red, and their armour jerks and struggles as the people trapped inside struggle to escape. About his head orbits an eerie halo of kine-knives.

He is not your friend, and has no history with you. You do not know where the Warmaster found him or to what he owes allegiance - the only thing you know for sure is his affinity for his thick, black choking cigars, and his generosity when offering them to you. He offers them now.

"Vael," he says, igniting the flame of his cigar with a snap of his fingers. A blood vessel in his temple breaks and a line of blood runs down his face. "I cannot get a straight answer from anyone about what you think we are supposed to be doing to the Mechanicus down there. Are we fighting them or not?"

Vael smiles.

"Sort of. You are fighting the Mechanicus, yes. We have another role to play. Here's the arrangement."

Vael's holo projector displays the map and parts of the battle plan the soldiers need to know.

"Everyone's got their own role in things. For us, it's to deal with the bastion's spearheads. And for you, it's to make sure we can get there."

Hagar was quite decently versed in the ways of strategy, yet ill-desired to be cause of death, even for those who followed he who sat upon the brass throne. Ironic, given who they were.

"Just don't push yourself, and come back alive. Everything after all that will be just fine..."

Geron takes the offered cigar and considers it for a moment. Then he bites the end off, chews appreciatively, and then spits it out once it loses its flavor. Setting the main part between his teeth he lights it and takes a drag, savoring mix of deadly chemicals he's inhaling. The cigars could probably asphyxiate a child or sick adult, but the slight risk of death by oxygen deprivation was worth the high.

As for the man offering the cigar...Rashad was a useful tool, but while all the Chaos Gods were mighty Khorne was among the least of them. "Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Thrones" did have a simple charm to it though and Geron could appreciate their enthusiasm for slaughter.

Geron ponders where or not to make a sarcastic comment about the high likelihood of the Khornites only fighting enemies who'd bleed oil on this planet, but a more important thought springs up.

"If you come across any Navigators keep them alive. It's always good to have at least one spare and the extras will make excellent sacrifices at the victory party we'll be having once we've conquered this planet. Dark Prince willing this place will at least have alcohol worth drinking."