Lauder

Blades of the Blood Coast

Blades of the Blood Coast

I am absolutely beside myself that this future mercenary team will have a manager.

@POOHEAD189

Blades of the Blood Coast

Character Sheet Template

Falfer Silverhand

Burrowfolk | Thirty-Two | Male

Appearance

Falfer stands at approximately three feet and two inches in height, boastfully above average for his kind as he even cuts a slim figure to ‘look down’ upon those who would be jealous of his position and vast wealth. This Burrowfolk cuts a rather dashing figure with his long, exceptionally blond hair meticulously kept parted to the sides and with his sideburns drooping down to the sides of his cheeks. His eyes sport a chestnut brown and are always kept open wide enough to be seen as subtly alert.

His normal choice of clothing flaunts his money and status as a humble merchant with cloth cut from silk and other expensive materials. As such, he is never seen dirtied, so long as he can help it, nor would he be caught dead wearing the rags of the common folk or of the destitute that he would so commonly avoid. It is perhaps this that makes his apparel more overt and noticeable in a crowd, announcing his presence in grand splendor as he heartily laughs and coerces those who may be envious of such regal manners.

Truly, a humble merchant.

Personality

Falfer Silverhand takes after his father in many regards, boasting an arrogance and pride that would rival a dwarf and greed matching three times that. The Burrowfolk is perhaps a very shrewd and patient individual, knowing a deal when he sees one and offering no less than highway robbery to those who desperately need goods that would be peddled. It is the Royals that make the world go around and it is the Silvered Hand that aids in pushing such a thought as he meticulously counts his coins and jewels. However, he is a man who knows no such honour as it is commonly said that the Silverhand is attracted to the gold no matter what it may entail, as such, his view upon upholding good moral and an upstanding character is not within his realm of thought, giving none the courtesy of thought if it couldn’t profit himself.

Of course, no average person would deal with him if they knew of what lay beneath a veneer of charm and deception as Falfer does his best to hide his true greed and passion, going so far as to make ‘generous’ donations to those destitute and on the streets. Though, many of those would have been employed by him to simply give a large portion of the money back to him, such is the cunning of a Burrowfolk with an ego ten times his own height. None may say that Falfer is a fool, nor may they say that he is blind to the world around as he plans and conives each and every moment.

He is a true businessman.

Background

• Accountant
• Rogue - Mastermind
• Merchant-born

History

Barebones history

One may find it hard to believe, but Falfer Silverhand was born in Pumpkinhollow to a rather wealthy family of merchants, his father, Ursire Silverhand, and uncle being known for their peddling of goods to a myriad of different lands and peoples. Though he never got to truly see much of his father, given he was gone for most times on trade expeditions, it did afford him the chance to become properly educated through the wealth that had been accumulated. Falfer remembers that he had been put in front of a book ever since he graduated from being a mere toddler. His mother, Verula Silverhand, was of little help to Falfer’s development as she too would go on extravagant trips elsewhere, flaunting the wealth of Ursire whilst leaving her child in the care of servants and tutors. Perhaps it is here where Falfer had developed the notion that you are only worth as much coin as you have, as it seemed to him that his family only truly cared about flaunting their wealth.

It was when he was but a mere adolescent when Falfer would join his father upon a trade expedition to the lands of dwarves, it being the first time he would leave Pumpkinhollow and among the first where he would spend more than a week with his father. Yet, his father had barred him from official business talk, instead relegating his son to the task of inventory and coin counting. While Falfer did enjoy it, it was far from what he had imagined to what time he would spend on with Ursire. Yet, it opened up opportunities for even greater advancement, connections.

Where his father was truly an honorable merchant, Falfer certainly was not, as upon the expedition with his father, he came back with goods that were not openly allowed in Pumpkinhollow. Smuggling turned into a rather lucrative mission, at least at the time with earning a fair few Royals here and there, and with his new steady connections, he knew that he’d be able to accumulate further wealth in due time. However, the ever vigilant and learned Falfer quickly knew that he would have to funnel this dirty money away from himself and properly make it seem legitimate. So, he would end up paying people to either buy goods from his father’s business or to buy services from Falfer as a would-be accountant. Over the years, this strategy became a wide operation and when he was an adult he had already established himself when he moved away from his family. Falfer, always the thinker, would get him into trouble but he came up with the lofty idea of, “why not just lay them to turn the other way.”

At this point, Falfer was nothing more than the head of a smuggling business that was backed by a fair few guards and watchmen of Pumpkinhollow. The operation grew exponentially, quickly overcoming the logistics that he had set in place and it left him trying to keep pace with the income. It was something he simply could not keep up with and, in the end, his success would lead to his downfall and he tried desperately to rid himself of the ludicrous amount of wealth by loaning it out. All of it came crashing down as the investigations came upon him, even dwarven investigators following the trail to Pumpkinhollow, first to his father and then to himself. There was nothing he could do and he knew that his wealth would soon be forfeit as he rotted in some prison for the rest of his life.

So, he turned himself in to the authorities of Pumpkinhollow and confessed to every single one of his crimes in a bid to perhaps not be left in shackles. The full scope of his operation had been laid bare, pridefully, as he boasted the corruption within and without the city, giving names and figures on what would be one of the biggest financial scandals that Pumpkinhollow had ever seen. Falfer was beside himself seeing how quick some of the officials that he had bribed called for his execution in an attempt to rid themselves of him. However, his compliance was what got him out of the shackle and the axe, instead earning him exile from Pumpkinhollow and from the North in general as his name and figure would be spread so that none may do business with him.

Still, it was better than being left in jail.

Reason for Exile
Wholesale Corruption, Embezzlement, Tax Evasion. Bank Fraud, Money Laundering, Loansharking, twenty-eight separate accounts of bribery, three counts of forgery, and over a hundred counts of organized crime including theft.

Motivation
The simple answer is money. One good take is all Silverhand needs to slink away into the background to live a life of luxurious decadence, or perhaps he is too greedy for even that. But he just needs one last job.

Capabilities

Attributes
You've 9 to choose from. Once you do, put them in the correct area.
Combat

• One-Handed Sword

Intelligence

• Mathematics
• Literacy
• Appraisal
• Linguistics

Charisma

• Charm
• Deception

Health

Faculties

• Intuition

Agility

• Riding

Mysticism [0/1]

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Equipment

Money

Languages

Northern, Dwarven

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Character Relationships

Your characters have only known one another for the week it has taken to move your wagon through the Inner Kingdoms, with only a marginal time to speak. This is where you put your initial thoughts of each character, and you edit these as their opinions change. This also includes the Merc NPC.

Character Name

Character Name

Character Name

Character Name

Character Name

Blades of the Blood Coast

Is it too late to join, Blood Brother? @POOHEAD189

Chronicles of the Grim Crusade - Warhammer 30000 RP Side Thread

Rebellion of Inrade

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Year: 880.M30
Segmentum Ultima
The Imperial System of Faeren
The Forge World of Inrade
Cult Mechanicum, Steel Sentinels, Augor Astren, Unknown Pleasure Cult

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It is the 880th year of the 30th Millenia, a mere seven years after the devastating losses suffered by the 19th Astartes Legion, the Steel Sentinels, during the Battle of Atis. The Legion’s Primarch, Usriel Undredth has decreed that a new Legion Regime shall be adopted, where the main tactical doctrine and order of battle will be centered upon the adoption of a large number of Legion Neophytes in order to offset the Steel Sentinels’ now perilously diminished numbers.

In order to realize this new Regime, Usriel Andredth has issued decrees across a long chain of Mechanicum Forge worlds with the intent of forming a logistical network capable of keeping the Legion and its new Neophytes supplied with armor and the Legion’s specialized Plasma Armaments. Three Solar months ago, the Legion received word from the Forge World of Inrade, one of the industrial planets chosen as part of the new network. The Synod of Inrade revealed that a sinister and brazenly hedonistic cult had taken root in the Underforges of the planet, and was working to actively sabotage and thwart all production efforts.

Usriel Andredth personally made haste to the Faeren system in order to quash the Underforge revolts and to secure the future production efforts his Legion required to flourish once more.

At the outer reaches of the Forge World’s orbit, past the asteroid field that was frequently mined by the Forge World for some of the rare resources that were required in its chain of production, the massive form of the Fortress of Steel exited the warp, alongside a myriad of smaller imperial vessels. The capital ship of the Steel Sentinels immediately adjusted its bearing to make for the Forge World Inrade, though the fleet was noticeably smaller with the lack of many transport vessels that had gone needed for the recovering Astartes force. Yet, the Steel Sentinels would still do combat with the treacherous mortals that would go against the Imperium and the Omnissiah. It was Usriel Andredth who made the first initiation of contact with Holy Synod of the Forge World, sitting upon his command throne as his forces were already made ready for combat.

“This is Usriel Andreadth, Primarch of the Nineteenth Legion, requesting a transmission with the Head of the Holy Synod of Inrade,” the primarch transmitted, his voice matching that of coldness that became all the more commonplace amongst the Steel Sentinels after the events that had transpired upon Atis and the subsequent rebellions wrought about the situation.

’Praise be to the Omnissiah, exalted Primarch. This is Fabricator Intendant Feirriak of the Synod of Inrade.” Came a wheezing reply over the vox-channel nearly three quarters of a minute later. “Your arrival is the answer to our prayers. We require immediate intervention within and about Continental Spire Three, as forsaken cultist and revolting forces launched an offensive four days ago with the aim of halting all production of the surrounding macrofold complexes and razing as many of our sacred works as possible. All local combat Servitors are nonfunctional and the Skitarii Legion securing the spire itself are slowly being eroded by attrition.’

“How long has this rebellion been occurring, Fabricator Intendant?” asked the Primarch, “How much of the production on the planet has been affected thus far?”

’Surface infrastructure and networks are largely intact and undisturbed, vaunted and supreme child. Continental Spire Three is their first major area of ingress into the upper macrofolds. The Underforges across multiple continental plates are largely compromised however. Countless quaternary and additional industries have been wholly destroyed, or subverted for the unclean purposes of this sickening rabble.’ Came the reply.

“What strongpoints exist between the rebels and the remaining forces of the Skitarii Legion?” Usriel asked, relaying a message to his own sons to be ready to receive relay points to be tasked to. The Primarch pondered how powerful the forces of the cult could possibly be and especially focusing upon their equipment. Although such facts would become apparent on future reports and he’d likely see for himself once he was planetside. However, a defensive had to first be established to repulse the offensive of the rabble.

’For that knowledge, I will be directly patching the Skitarrius Praetor coordinating the defense to your Operations Staff - she will be able to inform you better than I can in this matter, holy Primarch.’ Feirriak responded. ’Is there anything else you require imminently, most sacred and hallowed of champions?’

“There is not at this present moment, thank you,” Usriel stated, before adding with a voice wrought with anger and contempt, “I will put an end to this rebellion swiftly, in the name of the Imperium and the Omnissiah.”

Once the message was done, the Primarch switched his channel to his astropathic officers, inquiring in his normal cold tone, “When will the Stargazers be arriving within the system, Mortenson.”

’Unclear, Primarch. The warp roils in this system. Our astropaths are having difficulting divining without, and it will doubtlessly slow incoming messages somewhat. All that we are sure of is that they have confirmed receipt of your original request and had changed heading to rendezvous with us here.’

“Understood, Mortenson. I expect you to keep me updated,” Usriel said grimly, ending his communication with the astropathic officer. The Primarch allowed himself a brief moment of silence before addressing his forces from his command throne, his tone switching to one of heroic command, “My sons, during Atis the traitor tried to break us. During Atis, they dared turn themselves against the Imperium and joined the unedicted xenos. Again, the traitor intends to do us harm. Again, do they turn their back upon Imperium and Omnissiah. And again, they shall be purged from Imperial space! My sons, make ready for battle. We shall show them that the might of the Steel Sentinels has never faded!”

As Usriel’s inspirational words ended, the Fortress of Steel continued its path towards Inrade with haste, warriors ready and prayers to the Machine God rising throughout the hull of the ship. The Astartes of the Steel Sentinels arrayed themselves with their holy weapons and donned their armor. The neophytes did the same, forming squads of ten that formed into line to await inspection from their teacher-sargeant. The war path was started towards Inrade and the neophytes were eager to prove themselves ever more to both the legion and their gene-father. The legion of the Steel Sentinels had a lust to show that they were no longer an irrelevant force, that under the new Neophyte regime they were still an effective fighting force. It was by Usriel’s Will and the stubbornness of the the survivors of Atis that they did not begin taking in supplemental forces from other Legions to bolster their numbers, they would remain the Sons of Usriel.

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Later…
Continental Spire One
The Altar of Technology, Antecedent Temple to the Transmat Throne of Inrade

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Usriel Andredth and his entourage traveled directly down to the planet via teleportarium, arriving directly at the First Continental Spire in order to convene with the Priests of Inrade’s Synod and to investigate the underlying cause of the rebellion.

The receiving teleportarium chamber was seated atop an ornate, brass-colored dome more than six meters in height, with a set of stairs leading down to a large pathway suitable to drive a column of tanks down, abutted by tremendous columns of coiled wire that held aloft a great panoply ceiling of plasteel-reinforced stained glass, segmented into three partitions across the length of the massive hall leading into the depths of the Altar of Technology. Placed immediately above Usriel where he had appeared upon the Teleportarium pad was a depiction of the Emperor in his aspect as the living Avatar of the Machine God, clutching a great golden scepter and directing its head, topped with the cogwheel emblem of the Cult Mechanicum, downwards towards the second partition.The great hall was adjoined by two massive, arched double-doors to either side, both closed and eerily welded shut from inside. Skitarii, weapons-servitors and cybernetica robots stood primed at both entrances, Alphas convening with the readouts of their enhanced data-tether backpacks as they stood guard. With a distracted wave, the Skitarii sent six Kastalan robots to approach the foot of the dome’s staircase, all of them kneeling upon the ground and keening electronic hymns of exultation as Usriel and his guard descended.

A single Tech-Priest with ragged and frayed robes alongside approached the dome from the air, suspended from an abeyant. They descended and fell to their hands and knees in supplication before Usriel as he descended. Upon closer inspection, the Tech-Priest was missing several mechadendrites, openly wore a number of heavily worn weapons that had evidently been used recently, and seemed to be emitting an infrequent shock of sparks that skittered across the floor from somewhere within their chest cavity.

“The highest of wonders to be found in your arrival, oh boundless and infinite Child of the Omnissiah!” The Tech-Priest’s voxcoder barbled. “A sublimity of pardons for our paltry reception of your unequaled splendor. The revolt has been a great strain upon all the Priests of the Synod, and there are none amongst us who have not encountered strife in the preceding weeks.”

“Given the situation, you are forgiven for this,” Usriel responded, looking down upon the kneeling Tech-Priest before looking past it, and commenting, “I require additional information pertaining to this rebellion, priest. Especially, as to why the dissent has become as much of a threat to Inrade as it is now.”

“Indeed, holy Primarch. I have been bid to lead you to the Synod of Inrade, who shall provide you with their personal account on the matter. If it should please you, peerless master of the Sentinels, please follow me.”

The Tech-Priest then arose from the ground and lifted back into the air suspended by his abeyant, which then carried him down and along the length of the path. The atmosphere within the chamber was dense and shrouded beyond thirty meters, and it took nearly a full minute of hurried marching for Usriel and his guard to make their way along the path. Overhead, the view of the first partition of the stained glass panoply depicting the aspect of the Emperor only barely seemed to shift from their perspective. As they made their way, to either side of the path the coiled columns ended, giving way to two massive semi-rotundas occupied by massive, recessed plasteel gears set in the floor, each more than three times Usriel’s height and with an accompanying mess of smaller cogwheels, axles, and traction drives criss-crossing their visible faces. Abruptly, the path also ended in a sheer drop, the entire chamber giving way to a chasm of strewn pipework and catwalks that seemed to extend further out through the chamber than its thick atmosphere could be seen through.

And then, with a gesture from the Tech-Priest as their abeyant carried them over the chasm, the entire end of the pathway shifted beneath Usriel’s feet, and the entire section he and his guard stood upon rose out from the floor of the chamber and began to both rise and advance across the span of the chasm. From the depths below, two massive lengths of bonded chains, each link nearly as tall as Usriel himself, had their segments carried upwards by mag-levs embedded in the chasm walls, bringing them into the light. Their lengths receded into the pitch darkness below, constantly being pulled upwards, and upon passing through the mechanical grip of the mag-lev mounted pulleys they turned inwards where they then crossed the length of the chasm to meet at some unseen point beneath the rising platform itself.

The chain-driven platform picked up speed in its ascent, carrying Usriel and his entourage across what seemed like more than a kilometer in only a few moments, the harsh grinding and booming thunder of the churning chains and gearwheels that must have been toiling beneath the platform filling the air with a howling thunder. As they journeyed upward, the first partition of the stained-glass room above finally gave way to the second. The head of the Emperor’s staff reached down from the first partitioned and presided over a brilliantly embellished depiction of Sol Invicta, with Terra and Mars arraigned before it as the dual-center of two spiraling arms comprised of the other celestial bodies in the Sol system. Each of the masses were connected with a brilliant blue fractured line, and the sun’s penumbra was depicted as a fiery blue cog. At the heart of the sun, the tip of the Emperor’s scepter halted and was joined by the dark, mechanical talon of a massive, outstretched bionic hand extending from further out and along from the unseen vestige of the ceiling’s third partition.

In time, the gear-bound platform finished its ascent, the adjacent mag-leves coming to a shuddering halt and the chains they bound up from the abyss below finally terminating in counterweighted spheres. The platform settled to a shuddering halt before a massive, circular plaza with a series of concentric reliefs set in the floor, depicting events from the Wars of Unification and the prominence of the Emperor in his conquests and joining of the myriad Human elements vying for control over the Solar System. Overhead, perfectly centered over the plaza, was the third and final partition of the stained glass panoply. The gargantuan figure depicted there, rendered as all manner of intertwining, redoubled and self-engulfing mechanisms and metal, was a tremendous draconic figure whose eyes were galaxies, whose breath was lightning and whose golden-horned brow was crowned with a halo of starry nebulas. Far in the distance behind Usriel, the figure’s long and mechanical arm reached out and onwards to meet with the end of the Emperor’s scepter at the heart of Sol Invictus.

The Omnissiah, the Motive Force, and the Machine God.

Around the ridge of the circular relief upon the floor were twelve high Control Thrones, each seating a Tech-Priest, and at the far end of the chamber was a final set of tall double-doors, wrought from a lustrous golden alloy and large enough for a thunderhawk to have breezed through, the surface of each of its halves embellished with the emblem of the Cog Mechanicum and the Aquilla Mechanicum respectively.

“Greetings, blessed children of the Machine God,” Usriel greeted, stepping forwards with his arms held behind his back. His helm turned in a slow motion, looking upon each of the seated Tech-Priests and allowing a moment of silence to fall upon them all as his honor guard spread themselves behind their gene-father. The Primarch spoke once more, asking, “I have come for the history of this rebellion, Holy Priests of Inrade. What speculations can be made about why this rengage force started?”

“The conflict itself began as many others have upon this sacred world.” The Wheezing Voxcoder of Fabricator Intendant Feirriak voiced, the Tech-Priest seated at the foremost and tallest of the thrones set directly before the massive double-doors. “The underforges have always been left to the management of the coarse and ignorant rabble. They have always been left to their own devices and ways, much as on any other forge world, for there are scarcely sufficient Tech-Priests or Servitors to handle the myriad and more primitive base industries that form the foundation upon which the greater macroforges are built. Their numbers and society are not regularly policed, not even by the Arbites. For more than a century we have been able to ensure their compliance for the greater purposes of the Imperium - if their deliveries of materials and mechanisms ever fell short, their rations would be withheld. This is far from the first underforge revolt to have been visited upon our noble world, but all previous instances were put down with minimal difficulty. This time is different - the revolt was centered from the start around a cult. A cult espousing hedonistic ideals about deriving survival and unfettered strength through the revels of the flesh and the consumption of the ‘oppressor.’ Such a materialistic faith, so staunchly and strongly the opposite of the ideology of the Cult Mechanicum, was met with great sympathy and adoration by the underforge workers. They are driven by far more now than a simple desire to survive, but have become radically converted to oppose the precepts of the Machine God. Every device they see, they unmake. Whatever flesh they come across, be it of those who refuse to join them or what little there is left to steal from the frames of our own servitors and Skitarii Legion, they strip away and consume. By casting aside all taboo and measure of self-worth they have managed to wage war with us while offsetting our total control over their food supply.”

“I see,” Usriel said, pondering the information for a moment before allowing the reality of what he would be dealing with to hang over him. He was not used to the idea of such rabble casting aside all morality, such things were not commonplace with those that he would typically fight as they would merely fight for better conditions within the underforge or to merely assert power. “I assume this cult had gone unnoticed until the rebellion had started in full, would that be a correct assessment?”

“Yes, holy Primarch. The affairs of the underforge workers are viewed as not only being beneath our notice, but supremely impractical and unfeasible to monitor in any reliable or consistent fashion. Our knowing of the cult is borne only from our data-harvesting of captured cultists and unknowingly recorded, sycophantic sermons their kind preach.” Feirriak’s breathy voxcoder relayed.

“You failed to observe those most likely to rebel,” the Primarch commented before asking, “How much security had been dedicated to the upper and mid-forges? Was there no preparation of the eventuality of a rebellion of this magnitude?”

“Holy Primarch, the Skitarii Legion and our Cybernetica Cohorts are more than a match for any ramshackle army of these dregs have drawn up. In every open confrontation there has been, the rebels have bled and shattered. When the Sicarians are unleashed into the darkness of the underforge tunnels, tides of traitorous blood overflows through the corridors. It is not enough. There are untold tens of millions of the rebels and their numbers continue to climb, and what victory eludes them in battle they have accrued with hit-and-run suicide strikes with the sole aim of depleting our forces and industrial capacity through attrition. They possess insight and knowing of our own manufactorum complexes that should be impossible for any without the faith. Moreover, the reports we have received from Continental Spire Three indicates that the cultists there fight as though they were no longer even Human. A hypothesis has been forwarded to us by the coordinating Praetor that the cultists have been wilfully imbibing mutagenic agents and surgically altering their morphologies with stolen technology. The forces assailing the spire are a combination of their most unusually resilient and terribly driven mutates employing their typically elusive and volatile strategies.” Feirriak’s heaving tones came across as placatory, clearly nervous even as one who had crossed the Crux Mechanicum to have to explain himself to a Primarch.

“If they possess knowledge of these manufacturing complexes, would that not imply that there may be a heretek within the ranks of the Priests?” Usriel inquired, clearly cocking an eyebrow behind his helmet as he stared at Feirriak.

“It is for that very reason that we have interred most of our junior priesthood in sequestration - for their own safety.” Feirrak went on. “Manufactorum production is halted across the planet for the time being in any case. The only Tech-Priests not in isolation are ourselves, a number of Cybernetica Datasmiths, a skeleton crew of trusted aides who maintain critical system, and the Malagras. Our trust in them in without question - and even were it not, we have all since taken the precaution of integrating neuro-sync protocols amongst our circle. There are no secrets between us now. This has caused no small amount of resentment and hostility amongst us and will likely have long-standing ramifications after the rebellion is over - but we are as certain as we can be that the rebels’ intelligence does not come from any of the faithful.”

“Very well, is there any pertinent information I should have? Any substantial damage or important Manufactorums that have fallen to the rebel’s control?” Usriel inquired, looking between all the Priests upon their command thrones.

“There is the matter of…” one of the other Tech-Priests began, before being hastily cut-off by a silencing gesture from Feirriak - who then nonetheless elaborated, but doubtlessly much more cautiously than the other Priest had been about to be, with considerable pauses of consideration between his words.

“Most of the surface manufactorums remain intact, Holy Primarch. There is a minor and doubtlessly trivial matter concerning the production decree that we received from your Equerry and that we, of course, intend to pursue as quickly and efficiently as possible once the rebellion has been quashed. Do you perchance know of the design specifications for the Ninetheenth Legion’s Plasma Furorems?”

“The Furorem?” Usriel echoed, almost with a hint of worry in the tone of his voice before he would answer in his normal calm, “I know the Furorem well enough, it is one of my Legion’s more temperamental weapons and the machine spirits that inhabit them are blood thirsty.”

“Yes. It is well within our nominal manufacturing capabilities to produce Furorems and replacement parts in numbers suitable for the purposes of your legion.” Feirriak began, his tone swaying precipitously towards ominous. “...If it were permitted.”

“If it were permitted?” Usriel asked, looking directly at Feirriak.

“Well, Holy Primarch, the issue is that the Tech-Priest who originally designed the gyrofrequency stabilizing system used in the Furorem was convicted of Techno-Heresy recently. The Holy Synod of Mars issued an across the board review of all of his artifice and written works, as it was determined his Heretechnical thinking and practices had been prevalent for some time. A great number of devices, systems, sermons, and treatises they had made were all retroactively consigned as unsuitable and unclean. The gyrofrequency stabilizing system was counted amongst them. The Tech-Priest hailed from this very Forge World, and as such we were alerted of this development prior to its official announcement and dissemination of updated doctrine imperata via the sacred Transmat Link. Instructions that we are obligated to pass on to other Forge Worlds - namely, that the production of the Plasma Furorem weapon is now considered Techno-Heresy.”

Feirriak had gradually seemed to shrink and diminish in his seat as Usriel had continued to glare at him throughout his explanation.

Silence befell the room as Usriel looked back to his honor guard then to Feirriak, whether it was out of sheer confusion or shock was something that could not have been immediately said. Yet, what was evident was that Usriel began to stomp towards the Fabricator Indent in silence. The Primarch’s gaze never averted from the Tech-Priest and he only spoke when he stopped his steps, “The Plasma Furorem has proven invaluable to the service of the Steel Sentinels, its design was not deemed Techno-Heresy and this retroactive change has no basis on the weapon’s performance nor history past its designer being labeled a heretek, Fabricator Intendant. You will continue the production of the holy weapon, am I clear?”

“...I am sorry Holy Primarch, but that is simply not possible.” Feirriak wheezed, his mechadendrites flailing while he made placatory gesticulations with his hands. “It is the decree of the Synod of Mars. Their authority on this matter is the providence of the Omnissiah himself. Even by the will of a Primarch, I cannot oppose his will.”

“Do you understand how many Furorems I would have to dispose of? The cost of those wasted materials? I want you to have the motion of the Furorem being heretical to be overturned, send for it to be retried,” Usriel spat, turning away from Feirriak and stomping back to his original position with anger radiating off the Primarch. He turned to look at the Fabricator Indent, “Be fortunate that I am not petty enough to threaten to withdraw my forces for this, Fabricator, but know by the end of this, the Furorem will be continued its production whether you like it or not.”

“It cannot be overturned. The findings of the Synod of Mars on this matter are final.” Feirriak protested. “Even if we were to produce them, we would be branded as Hereteks by the Prefecture Magisterium and they would doubtlessly purge all amongst our ranks.”

“Then I would suggest that you keep its production away from their eyes, Fabricator. Perhaps that is what you can use the underforges for,” Usriel said coldly, turning away from Feirriak once more, his honor guard coming together around the Primarch once more. With a few more words, Usriel stated in a tone that restrained his clear anger, “I expect to see more Furorems so that I may carry out the Emperor’s Will.”

Feirriak appeared to brace himself against his control throne before responding. “...It is the Will of the Omnissiah that we stay our hand, most venerated child of the one who stands above all. I am sorry. We cannot, and will not produce any Furorems.”

“Then you openly disobey a superior, a son of the Omnissiah. Does that not sound like dissent, when you, Fabricator Indent of Inrade, have to means to produce what I have ordered you to produce but willingly go against that very order?” Usriel questioned not turning to look at Feirriak, allowing the question to hang for a moment before asking, “My sons, in what fashion do we obey the Primarchs and the Omnissiah?”

In unison they answered in a small chorus, “Without question.”

“Until the Omnissiah, himself, states that the Furorem is Tech-Heresy then I will follow that decree. But as it stands, you will not disobey my direct decree,” Usriel finished, continuing his barratement against the Tech-Priests.

“That is only proper, oh Holy Primarch, for the sovereign authority and imperishable authority in all matters embodies within you and your sons the privilege to act in furtherance of your own designs and will - but not us. As the word of the Omnissiah in this matter does not bind you, it nonetheless binds us and stays our hands. I beg your clemency, holy Primarch, what you ask of us is impossible, though we would tear the stars from the heavens themselves if you so desired it.” Came Feirriak’s quivering reply.

Silence fell upon the chamber, one so heavy that one's own heart might be able to be heard or the very subtle whirring of internal mechanisms. Usriel’s head turned ever slightly, not looking towards Ferriak or any of the other Tech-Priests that sat upon their command thrones. “We will return to this matter after the rebellion has been silenced, until then, I want you to ponder upon what happens to all those who disobey the Omnissiah and his children. That will be all, Fabricator,” the Primarch eerily stated, before the platform began to descend back into the depths of the Forge World.

---

Boots hit the metallic floor of the great ships that rode the orbit of Inrade, the countless auxilia packed themselves into their transports, of which many were unarmed, while the higher ups briefed each other of the situation that they were likely to get their forces into. Attending one such briefing was a woman, Captain Belloris Miniro, with short pale skin and short cut blonde hair. She had her lasgun slung over her left shoulder as she listened to the words of her superior officer, a rather rotund man who had not actively seen combat for as long as she herself had been in service to the Auxilia. He, however, was not Vion-born nor did he descend from any of the planets that had a similar structure to that of Vion 5’s many fortresses and so had earned little respect from his command staff, many of whom actively disregarded his orders and went along with those fitting the protocols set by Primarch Usriel.

“Captain Miniro, your company shall be the first to relieve the skitarii forces,” the Colonel began a lengthy and detailed briefing of precisely what her task would be, boiling down to nothing more than relieve the skitarii and begin to assess precisely what they would be dealing with. Once he was done, the captain saluted him silently and began walking off to her designated transport, all the while giving out orders to individual squads over her radio. However, once in the hanger, the woman looked into the vastness of space seeing the massive form of the Fortress of Steel looming closely by. The sight never ceased to fill her with a feeling of awe, a feeling that would be quickly dispatched as a voice loomed over the entirety of the hanger.

All Serfs, report to designated transports. Prepare for launch in one minute.

With the words, the captain turned on her heel and began marching once more to the ship that would be taking her down to the forge world below. Yet, she would stop once more as she saw figures moving at the other side of the hangar, armored figures that were taller than even her largest of troopers. It was them.

She could see the forms of the Emperor’s chosen marching, smaller forms behind them following with a uniformity that she would otherwise be jealous of as not even her own soldiers marched in such unison. Belloris could not stop herself from merely gazing at them, until one of the smaller turned to look at her with an unnerving, mechanically red gaze that forced her to turn and move onto her ship and quickly strap herself in. The woman looked over to the other Auxilia and let out a sigh, seeing many of the new recruits in high spirits that she knew would be broken in the underbelly of a forge world with open rebellion brewing within it. Her fingers played with the ends of her hairs, nervously, as the ramp to the interior of the ship began to close, the iridescent lights coming on the Auxilia.

The flight down from the fleet to the surface of the planet was brief and uneventful. The highly polluted atmosphere over Inrade, though thick, was largely static and unturbulent. The Steel Sentinels and their Auxilas, acting on information provided to them by the Skitarii Praetor charged with commanding the Mechanicum’s soldiers, descended at very points around the base of the collosal spire. Some of the thunderhawks and transports that descended had the advantage of dipping into cavernous chasms of metal that naturally interspersed the industrial macrocomplex, able to pick and choose their points of breach and entry into the mid and underforges - but the less fortunate parties, such as Belloris, were sent instead to land in official docking bays at the bottom of craft-silos, in essence descending directly towards the heart of enemy-controlled territory. It would be down entirely to chance whether the docking bay they landed in was either abandoned or occupied by the enemy.

No attacks came during the thunderhawk’s perilous final few meters of descent as it touched down. Its boarding ramp lowered, giving way to a dimly lit and empty chamber, with several abandoned storage containers and loading equipment scattered about haphazardly. Save for the sounds of the thunderhawk and its occupants, the only ambient noise was that of distant dribbling liquids and the eerie, almost cavernous ambience of a forge world - where the sound of a dropped nut would echo through corridors and chambers for kilometers.

Tentatively, the occupants of the thunderhawks stepped out of their vehicles, some gazing around to be sure of any enemy presence before signalling to the rest to begin unloading from the transport. Their auspex picked up absolutely nothing, the soldiers stepped out and began forming into their squads without complaint - a mistake.

First, the lighting for the landing bay shut off - replacing it came a seizure-inducing strobing of iridescent makeshift lights, strung around the perimeter of the landing bay and which had been entirely innocuous and invisible just moments prior. Vox-casters situated around the room began blaring deafening, cacophonous noise that might have charitably been called music by underhive dregs. One of the squads that had formed up seemed to dissolve in slow-motion as a frag grenade that had been tossed into their midst went off, soldiers unwinding into tattered, frayed threads of viscera and body armor, harshly cast into different hues of relief by the rainbow technicolor lights flashing all around the bay. Barely audible over the resounding din of the keening orchestra playing over the vox system were the war-cries and frenzied screams of cultists as they burst out from their hiding places, pouring out from the previously sealed cargo-containers or else seeming to crawl like ghouls out of grates and niches situated near the base of the walls. Dozens of them were armed with nothing more than improvised cudgels or blades made from jagged metal - but a large number of them had gotten hold of a ramshackle assortment of actual weaponry, discharging stud-carbine fire down on the squads and into the interior of the thunderhawks. Their discipline was thin to nonexistent, with the shooters firing straight through their own oncharging allies in their frenzied zeal to gun down the remaining squads.

Order within what remained in what could be called the Imperial lines was next to none, panic gripped the soldiers who had little to no time to form firing lines to fire into their attacker’s ranks. Distress arose as some soldiers ran back into the thunderhawks only to be met with the bullets that had been coming their way. Yet what shots that did come out were accurate and tore through rebels, severing arms or legs from bodies and even killing those behind the front rank. This, however, did not stop the dreg in their fanatical charge, meeting death with what were clearly smiles on their faces that nearly seemed to crawl to their very ears, and their eyes were wide beyond what any human could willingly achieve. Shouting, screaming, and other such noises were filling the hanger as what Auxilia remained ran away from the Thunderhawks and for cover, shooting those who were still crawling out of their hiding holes.

Belloris herself ran off the ship, holding up her lasgun and loosing shots into the ever approaching mob that dared to attempt to overtake them. “Form ranks! Form ranks and fix bayonets!” she shouted to the men, those that could hear her quickly positioning themselves into two long rows, no longer needing to fire without aiming. That was until the mob crashed with the ranks of the Imperials, Belloris was about to order the men to retreat back into the safety of the Thunderhawks before several whistling noises overcame her, only for her form to be sent launching forwards as the explosions rocked the hanger. She could see, even from her position that one of the remaining Thunderhawks began taking off leaving the Auxilia to their demise as the only message from them to her was that of, “We have to bug out, repeat bugging out.”

Belloris’ eyes widened as she scrambled to her feet and cast away her gun, bringing up the chainsword she had strapped to her side as the attacks began pushing their ways through the lines. It was nothing but a fierce melee, one that they were failing as the dregs clawed and pulled down the Imperials with maniacal laughter and shoving their improvised weapons into them many times over. As they closed in on her, she began swinging her blade, the weapon severing flesh and bone from her attackers and ending them quickly. Yet, there were too many and even when she killed one, five more would come forwards and eventually one grabbed her wrist and wrenched her down with an inhuman strength. Even then, she kicked and punched, prompting others to grab her arms and legs before they began to drag her into the back from once they came. Much like some of the others, they would be dragged deeper into the forge world by the laughing and raving maniacs that had attacked them. Now that they were as close as they were, she could see some of their features, many of them were unkempt yet oddly beautiful, their forms grotesque yet disturbingly appeasing, a shocking beauty that seemed to be corrupt to the very core.

She could do nothing more than watch as to where they were taking her.

---

The adhoc command center of the Steel Sentinels was one buzzing with activity from the Colonel of the Auxilia, the Steel Sentinels, and the Mechanicum personnel. Truly, the command post had been used by the forces of Inrade for some time though at the behest of Primarch Usriel it was made ready for his forces to collaborate with those that were already present and consolidate the assets at their disposal. Where Skitarii had stood guard in the command post, now the duty fell upon the Auxilia which allowed for those same Skitarri to be able to prepare against the cultists. Marines of the Steel Sentinels marched the corridors, followed closely by their Neophytes who readied themselves for the field of battle. Though this sporadic activity was pale in comparison to that command center as the heads of the combined forces gathered to meet, the Colonel standing next to a holographic map alongside Praetor Marqozlo of the Inrade Skiitari Legions and Tech-Priest Foton who represented the Mechanicum for Steel Sentinels, his own robes holding the red of Mars but with the insignia of the Legion he represented on his back.

Foton, haunched over with a singular bright blue optic, stared at the holographic map and studied it before speaking in clearly robotic tone, one that brought static in and out of his speech, “Praetor, you are certain that the rabble have not corrupted any of the Skitarii? Their faith is untested by the allures of this cult?”

“All of our Maniples are neuro-synced with their Alphas, who in turn transmit status reports via data-tether not only to me, but numerous Priests and Orders. Any aberrant or divergent behavior is either curtailed or purged as it arises - and as of yet there have been startlingly few instances of such.” Marqozlo’s hollow-chiming voxcoder issued. “For some time it was speculated that there must be some taint amongst our number, for the enemy’s knowledge and foresight as to the coordinate topography of the macrofolds in the mid and upper forges is too accurate. Likewise, this suspicion was cast even upon the Priesthood - all of whom have submitted to the implantation of Mind Impulse Units. Whatever the source of these mongrels’ intelligence, it comes from without the ranks of the ordained and the Skitarii.”

“As you say, Praetor. His most revered of sons will be pleased to hear such, however,” the Priest paused before looking at the Colonel, his robotic voicecasting scorn onto the round man. “Your report of an entire company being lost will not please him.”

“I am not to be at fault for that, the 3rd Company had been ambushed upon landing and such-“

“You sent an entire company into the mid-forges, Colonel. Praetor, the hangar that the 3rd Company was sent was reported to be near the active zone of conflict that Skitarii had evacuated from, yes?” Foton asked, looking to the Praetor.

“Yes.” The Praetor answered curtly. “However, to the Colonel’s credit, the encounters of the Battalion Companies you sent down closely mirror those of our own. When we set out to engage the enemy they are routed and unmade in droves - and so they do not often fight directly. They lay in wait with traps, ambuscades, sabotage, and otherwise skulk and prowl about like rats.”

“That does not change the issue of an entire company being lost without a fight, not to mention two thunderhawks had been taken down with ordinances they likely looted from Arbites as I know they do not hold the blessed STCs for such weaponry, Preator,” Foton remarked a single mechadendrite moving towards the Colonel before the opening of the main doors of the Command Center opened revealing the towering form Usriel. In a fraction of a second the Priest fell to what constituted for knees, his extraneous appendages splaying out onto the floor. Albeit the Colonel did not move from his position, he did now his head as much as he could. The Praetor bowed his head and clasped his hands together to form the Cog Mechanicum in a more ergonomic display of piety, though the hiss of static from his voxcoder that abruptly ran amongst the ranks of the Skitarii elsewhere in the command post betrayed that he had also launched into an impromptu hymn in Lingua-Technis that he had then synced to all the Skitarii under his command.

Usriel stepped forwards, his metallic boots landing upon the floors and with each step the fear could be seen growing on the face of the colonel. Sweat beaded down his face and his breathing hastened as the Primarch approached the hologram. Usriel’s helmet did not move from his view upon the representation of the spire, his voice asking in a cold tone, “What is the situation at hand, Praetor?”

“With the arrival of your forces, the cultists have withdrawn down into the lower reaches of the spire.” Marqozlo answered. “This aligns with their previously established tactical behavior. When confronted with an entrenched position or security bottleneck, they have always withdrawn, consolidated their forces, and then resorted to one of three strategems. First, they may attempt to deplete our reserves by striking elsewhere, potentially in many different places at once, forcing us to divide our numbers and thus open our position to assault - though if our main position remains unassailable they will instead seek to destroy or otherwise curtail those forces we do send out and repeat as necessary until our numbers are sufficiently thinned. I suspect your armada in orbit will obviate this approach, although I would not dismiss it entirely as cultists are not bound by reason or conventional wisdom.”

“Second, they will seek to undermine or otherwise sabotage our position from an oblique vantage. They will seek to disable automated defenses, cripple combat servitors, destroy any auspex and omnispex, corrupt or destroy energy and munitions stores, and so forth. These efforts will continue until a complication substantial enough for their purposes ensues, at which point they will mount a rapid assault from as many different avenues of approach as possible. Again, I do not think this is likely, as with your armada in orbit capable of ferrying down relief as necessary such an approach would take too long prior to our own campaign to eliminate these subversive elements.”

“Third, and the most likely option - they will send suicidal agents armed with the most powerful implements they have on hand, or else employing the most destructive methods available to them, to deal as much damage to our position as possible. From what has been observed, these could range anywhere between a blind push by infantry or vehicles rigged with improvised prometheum explosives, or they could exploit their uncanny knowledge of the forge grids to enact a demolition, collapsing one section of the forge onto the position they wish to destroy. Not that they can employ such a method here, of course - the spire is far too massive and we are far too high up for them to be capable of such. Other avenues in-line with this principle may occur and be available to them however.”

“With the inclusion of our weaponry, any push by them would meet with disaster,” Usriel said coldly as he looked over the hologram before speaking once more, “Yet, we cannot push as they will likely lay traps and bait us into a needless war of attrition and yet we cannot merely set up a defense for them only to attack us elsewhere.”

The Primarch thought to himself for a moment before he looked to Marqozlo and asked, “What has been put in place to keep them contained?”

“...The failure of those containment measures is what led to our current predicament, hallowed child of the Omnissiah.” Marqozlo answered. “Their perturbing familiarity with the layout and structure of the forge-levels has also made constraining their movement difficult. Prior to the prominence of the cult itself, the underforge dregs could not have outmanuevered us in this manner. Now, given their marked advantage of numbers, there is no effective measure of containment save for expurgation.”

“Then there may be no other option, expurgation will force them to where we need them to be and eliminate their advantage in numbers. That is unless, you believe there may be another way to mitigate their advantages, Praetor,” Usriel stated, his gaze unfaltering the time being.

Before the Praetor could reply, an alarm klaxon began to blare and a number of diagnostic lights on a nearby instrumentation panel began to flicker an alarming shade of red. The soldiers scattered about the command post all began to rush out or hunker down. The Praetor merely raised a hand to the side of his head - perhaps entirely due to habitual reflex - and paused for a moment.

“...Not an attack. The cultists have opted for option two. Sabotage.” Marqozlo finally said. “On a larger scale that they have previously attempted. They are starting a number of large fires near the base of the spire and are using demolition charges on structural braces. It seems they are futilely attempting to collapse the spire itself.”

“I would imagine we do not have any forces nearby to thwart such an attempt?” Usriel asked, his voice not inciting worry or concern for the attempt to bring down the very spire they stood in.

“No, but thankfully there is no need. Most of the spire’s lower control and management systems are still operational.” The Praetor indicated. “They have deliberately sabotaged the fire suppression and security systems, but the middle sections of the spire contain large hydration and runoff tanks. We can selectively flood areas of the lower spire to extinguish the blazes and scatter the cultist elements.” Marqozlo lowered his hand and turned to the Primarch. “...With your leave of course, holy Primarch.”

“Have it done, Praetor,” Usriel commanded as he looked over the hologram of the spire once more before his form stepped over to loom over the projection. “With their forces scattered there it shall give us the opening for a counter attack to any sections not flooded,” the Primarch remarked in cold contemplation of the plans that had been laid out before them all. He knew where they’d have to run to, being forced up into the spire rather than lower, and right into the Imperium’s firing lines.

“With all do respect, my Lord, there are soldiers in the mid-spire and it is likely that there are soldiers of ours being taken prisoner down there,” came the voice of the colonel, an eerie silence following as all eyes went over to the unaugmentmented human. The colonel began sweating again as the gaze of the Primarch bore into him.

“And why would they have prisoners?” the Tech-Priest inquired in a sinister tone.

“T-that fact holds no relevance now! Those companies were ambushed, Priest, and they were under orders of the Primarch to be sent there to die!” The Colonel cried, before his spine straightened and his eyes widened at the mistake of words that he had made. His gaze shakily went to the unmoving Primarch, red eyes still boring into the man whose fear became known to all in the room.

“...Colonel, the flooding shall be targeted and controlled. Even few of the cultists are to die from it - and if we do not act, the fires will spread and threaten the structural integrity of the spire. Although this crude tactic of theirs cannot conceivably collapse it, the inner partitions would still degrade and collapse.” The Praetor’s voxcoder chirruped, the towering Skitarius seemingly oblivious of the man’s precarious position. “If our counter-initiative is swift enough, many of the prisoners may even be recovered in the ensuing skirmishes.”

“Prepare for an offensive, Praetor, we will make use of this time,” Usriel said, looking to the Skitarius for a moment. “Excute the flooding,” the Primarch commanded.

“By your will, holy Primarch.” The Praetor uttered, moving a hand over one of the control runes on the nearby panel.

Almost a split instant later, distant rumbling seemed to cause the floor beneath them all to tremble. A choir of additional ear-splitting alarms began to shriek through the air. A dull, shuddering series of thundering if muffled explosions seemed to start cascading somewhere unseen beneath the floor,

And then with an Earth-rending crack of metal, a much closer series of detonations roared in the distance - possibly less than thirty meters underneath where they were standing. The floors, walls, and the ceiling began to rumble and shudder, dust and fulcrete starting to flake away eddies of dust. Loose bolts and scattered equipment began to slide across the floor or shudder violently in place as waves of force rippled through the entire superstructure of the Spire. Soldiers and Skitarii alike began to lose their footing as the undulating structural tremors continued to intensify.

’Primarch, we are registering a series of massive detonations that just cascaded up from the base of the spire to near your location.’ The voice of an Astartes vox-operator still aboard the Fortress of Steel sent down to Usriel. ’Augur readings detect severe internal and external structural failure and notable deviation in the structure’s vertical drift…’ The voice paused.

’...Holy primarch, several dozen Arvus Lighters and Aquila Landers have just been detected departing the surface macrofolds and are ascending on an approach trajectory to your current location within the Spire. They are not relaying verified IF signals and are not replying to our hails; they are presumed hostiles.’

“Scramble Interceptors and begin evacuation protocols!” Usriel commanded immediately, his eyes going to the Praetor an anger unseen due to his helmet. The Primarch questioned, “You said they’d not be able to bring down the spire!”

“Not with simple groundfires, holy Primarch!” Marqozlo’s voxcoder buzzed fretfully, the Praetor stabilizing his form by leaning a hand on the nearby control console as the entire chamber continued to tremble and the floor began to noticeably warp in spots. “Those were prometheum detonations. They happened the exact instant the valves for the hydration and runoff tanks were opened! It cannot be a coincidence! The cultists must have spiked the tanks with volatiles-”

’Legion-Master, interceptors are inbound but will not arrive in time. Two thunderhawk transports that were already en-route have moved to intercept as well, but the craft they are targeting have adopted suicide trajectories. ETI is twelve seconds.’ The vox-operator sent down to Usriel once more.

In an instant, Usriel turned away from the flickering visage of the spire and spoke in a commanding tone, “They intend to stall us while they bring down the entire spire. We must make haste to the transports!” His hand went to bring up his plasma pistol as he looked to the Praetor and Colonel, the Tech-Priest moving to Usriel’s side as he brought up a ballistic mechadendrite and began loosing prayers to the Omnissiah and to the Primarch. Usriel ordered to the two commanders, “All soldiers need to prepare for defensives, and we must be sure they do not take the landing areas.”

Usriel barely had time to finish issuing his instructions before a deafening roar split through the air and the entire chamber violently began to deform and upheave. Everybody standing within its confines was violently thrown from their feet - including many of the Astartes, though most of them managed to retain their footing. The cacophonous uproar of additional detonations sounded, this time seemingly from all around the chamber’s exterior. The walls supporting the ceiling buckled in on themselves and the entire roof slanted and began to sag dangerously towards one corner. One interior wall was ripped wholly into three segments by three uneven jags of cloven metal, exposing disheveled and ruined pipework. Bolts, nuts, plating, and metal grids had popped loose and free from the floor and been flung haphazardly about the room and through the air, smaller bits of metal rebounding off the walls and other surfaces multiple times in the process. The entire interior, once the thundering quakes and tremors began to die down, seemed ever so subtly crooked.

’Master Usriel, three of the craft have collided with the boundaries of the spire near your level and detonated. External damage is catastrophic and the entire spire is visibly swaying near the top. Structural collapse is doubtlessly imminent. The thunderhawks do not have clearance, external landing pads have been severed and fallen away. Remaining hostile aircraft appear to be searching for embarkation points, enemy combatants are inbound. Primarch, relay and verify your status.’

“Unharmed,” Usriel answered, his footsteps staggered as he regained his balance from the impact of the ships that threw themselves into the key points of the spire. The Primarch did not skip a beat, “We have Neophytes and key personnel in this level, evacuation is a top priority. Begin evacuation of the lower levels as well, I will not have your brothers die from this wretched tower collapsing upon them!”

Whatever answer was relayed to him was interrupted by the howling cries and animal chants of cultists and abrupt bolter and las-rifle fire ripping through the air. The sounds of plasma echoed through the halls, autogun rounds ricocheted off the walls before Usriel spoke into his vox once more, “Get Thunderhawks to the nearest open edge, evacuation is a top priority!”

His head turned, “All of you begin moving towards the nearest balcony, I shall hold off the assault.”

With those words Usriel sprinted into the hallway with a speed unseen by any of the humans or even the Mechanicum who had such things to match the Astartes. His legs carried him through the halls as he followed the sound of fighting, echoing of metal scraping against metal as his feet left dents in the unstable floor. He passed man and Astartes alike, all breaking their formations and retreating to where he had ordered, but his mind raced on saving what sons he could do that he may not have to endure the pain of Atis once more. Flashes of those wretched farms filled his mind, scores of dead laying across fields as they had fought for every inch of ground they stood upon. It was a sight Usriel’s mind could not bear to see again, fearing the worst possible outcome.

As a wall came forwards, the Primarch lowered his left shoulder and then the sound of metal bending and shattering against the force of the impact as Usriel went through the thick wall. In an instant time seemed to slow as he noticed them, to his left were Imperial forces standing against those directly in front of him, the cultists who dared to threaten his sons with death. One cultist was already being eviscerated by the shrapnel of Usriel’s entrance but it was their armor that drew his attention, the armor worn by elite forces of the Arbites scavenged and repurposed by these traitors. A fist raised itself and reduced another to nothing but red paste and a shot from his pistol made one into nothing but slag.

His voice bellowed through the halls as his form scraped to a halt against the metallic floors, “Traitors!”

In that moment, Usriel set upon them like a man possessed with a fury to match even the likes of other Primarchs as he began to take them apart one by one, man by man. Yet, it was not those elite soldiers that posed any threat to Usriel, far from the notion, it was the robed ones standing in the back. Even as Usriel slaughtered ten men in a span of seconds, he suddenly stopped mid thrust with his power fist, his form jerking to move as he noticed them. Their purpled cloaks clung to the outline of their bodies as twenty of them outstretched their hands, their powers making the Primarch stop. Though he could not move yet, he put his mind to work to restrain their will with his own as what was left of their guard continued to pelt him with bullets.

One of them began screaming before they dropped dead to the floor from battling the Primarch, Usriel managed to shoot one of the cultists. When another psyker died, another man holding a gun did, and it was a slow and steady loss for the cultist forces as Usriel began to retake his movement. Truthfully, Usriel could have swatted away any of the psykers with ease, but he was focusing on all of them at once as well as maintaining his psychics barrier as he knew that some of the Imperium’s forces were still moving away behind him. Then, the Nineteenth Primarch noticed two more had dropped from their efforts to restrain him, his movement was now sluggish but workable as he began to march for them. Another psyker reached a hand forwards and purple lighting flew from his fingertips, impacting the psychic barrier around Usriel. A plasma round came through the lightning and smoke to vaporize three men where they stood.

Even as the robed figures slumped in place or otherwise began to advance to unleash their own torrents of violet-streaked lightning from their hands, the entire room began to slowly but noticeably slant. The entire chamber groaned and resounded with the sound of shearing metal as finally and assuredly, the upper bounds of the Spire lost the battle with gravity and began to not only slope to the side, but also fall as the last few structural braces in the levels beneath gave out. Even before the warning of the Vox Operator reached Usriel, he could feel the sensation of weightlessness beginning to affect him as the entire room’s spin abruptly hastened and spun to turn the floor into a slanted wall. Loose scraps of metal, discarded weapons and lifeless bodies, equipment come loose from its fastening, and railings and sheets of metal torn from the surrounding walls began to violently careen about the interior of the chamber. Massive, jagged spines of flaming, superheated metal erupted through the floor as the upper section of the spire fell upon the lower. Explosions from innumerable volatile devices embedded in the walls and other sections of the regions below began to redouble the reverberating shockwaves and tremors that now defined the rapidly disintegrating and imploding chamber.

The Primarch let out a curse as he did his best focus before his footing gave up entirely, the wall of metal came upon him a torrent of sound, effectively sealing Usriel’s form in a flaming tomb. Had his body not been pressed against the wall he would have been able to move the wreckage, but in the fall he could do little but wait. Worse yet, he could foresee the damage he was going to take; impalement, laceration, burns, crushing. It made the fall all that much longer for him.

---

From high orbit over Inrade, the Astartes aboard the Fortress of Steel monitoring the situation could only watch with dismay as the colossal Forgeworld Spire swayed, cracked, broke along several points, and then collapsed in and upon itself. From their lofty position the scene as it unfolded seemed curiously unremarkable, despite the evident scale of the macrostructure such that it was clearly visible to the naked eye even from their position. It was almost akin to watching a mound of ants crack and fall in a desert, leaving little evidence of its existence save for a scattered caldera of jagged debris and a lingering storm of dust that rose to cover and bury the area and sweep through the immediate surroundings. Sections of the macrofolds that had surrounded the base of the Spire were aglow with the light of raging firestorms the size of hive blocks, only visible as glimmering illumination through the murk of the heavy particulate haze scattering across the area. All communication with those who had remained within the Spire was lost, unable to punch through the murk - which given the presence of several Skitarii with enhanced data-tether packs, boded ill for their fate as well as that of the Primarch.

As such, with the disappearance of their Primarch and the losses of those who could not evacuate from the collapsing spire in time, rage grew throughout the ranks of the Steel Sentinels. It was a rage that unleashed a torrent of zeal to find their lost father, with search parties being organized and blame being cast upon the leadership of Inrade itself. Yet, it was the Legionary Standard Bearer that would reach out to the Fabricator Intendant from the Fortress of Steel, hailing from orbit as the rest of the Legion prepared to descend after their Primarch. The exchange that followed was brief, and escalated far beyond the realms of calm and reasoned temperaments. The first sentence began with veiled threats, and by the time the vox-line had closed precision bombardments had already started raining down on the Temple of the Altar of Technology.

But the fire and fury that began to burn on the surface of Inrade was the least insidious of what transpired then.

---

[7 hours later]

Belloris eyes flew open, a feeling a fire went through her left arm as her mind came about her and the pain began to register once again. She could see it around her, the destruction of the entire area with bodies crushed and other survivors, Imperial and Cultist alike letting loose howls of pain. Finally, she took a breath and what hit her lungs, the dust and debris, caused her to violently cough as she brought up her arms to cover her mouth. A gasp escaped her mouth as she felt the pain in her arm resurface, forcing her to cradle it as she sat up quickly. A piece of metal had forced its way through her forearm, barely missing the bone but still causing an immense pain that nearly caused tears to stream from her eyes, but she grit her teeth and looked around, seeing no other walking around.

The spire had come down upon them to their transport into the underforges, freeing her of her captors but leaving her trapped under the enemies lines, despite knowing that those enemies were likely now disorganized given what had happened. She knew that she had been made unconscious as a result but for how long was a matter that Belloris could not figure, but she was pleased knowing that she had not been outright killed or worse.

The captain huffed as she got to her feet, her muscles ached but she knew that she could push on for the time being. Her hand went to activate her vox, “This is Captain Belloris of the Third Company does anybody read.”

Static.

Letting out a curse, Belloris began to stumble through the rubble, her legs shifting as she looked for signs of any familiarity, not that she expected much given the wanton destruction that seemed to have been wrought. It was not long until she found one of the cultists, barely clinging to life yet mostly crushed under the debris of the fallen macrostructure. She stopped just an arm length away from him, noting his crude melee instrument being cast away from his form on the other side of the pathway she had walked along. Belloris could see he was a horrid creature, skin so pale that she could see purple veins beneath it. A snarl came to her face as she crouched down to examine the man, only stating, “You imbeciles destroyed a spire you wanted to take over.”

The voice of the man spoke, horrid and weakly, “No. The Priestess never wanted the spire.” A weak laugh followed by a coughing of blood took the man as he spoke again, “This pain, it feels wonderful.”

“I care not to hear your masochism, scum. You will tell me everything I want to know,” Belloris spat, her face contorting to one of anger.

“No. But bear witness to the Voice of the Thirsting One,” the man spoke, before suddenly raising his head with his mouth wrenching open to a point where the lower raw ripped itself from its hinges. Belloris, having no time to do anything lurched forwards as the man let out a terrible shriek only to be silenced as the woman shoved the sharp metal in her arm into the side of the man’s head. Yet, the damage had already been done, as the pain in her arm morphed into a pleasure beyond what her mind could comprehend. As she withdrew her arm, the metal shard lacerated her more as it stayed embedded in the man leaving her with an open wound, a wound that now bled greatly. Were she not focused on her survival, she would have given in to the temptation of causing herself more harm, but whatever the man had done was not strong enough to break her resolve.

Belloris ripped some cloth off the man, the pleasure subsiding as the cultist faded, and proceeded to wrap her arm in the cloth in an attempt to at least stop as much bleeding as possible. The Captain let out a sigh as she returned to her feet and retrieved the blade that the cultist had been using, seeing that it was nothing more than crudely warped metal that would hardly be called a sword, but she knew it was better than nothing. Then, she proceeded further, following the pathways that was a maze of debris and destruction in an effort to find someone or something that could aid her.

The destruction in the passageways was intermittent and irregular - evidently the cultists had moved Belloris a substantial distance away from the base of the spire. She was likely near the periphery of one of the neighboring macrofolds, as the destruction of the collapsed spire had doubtlessly left nothing intact beneath its foundations, and had likely carved a substantial distance through Inrade’s crust. The Cultists had almost certainly anticipated this - hence why she had been brought outside of the Spire’s nominal impact radius.

Well. Almost.

The twisting, cavernous tunnels and passageways within this section of the underforges had already been defiled by the Cultists - nothing except the emergency lighting had been spared. Vox-relays, cogitator terminals, and holocaster devices that were otherwise plentiful had all been defaced or destroyed. Even those few that might have been coaxed back to life would doubtlessly now be inhabited by either tainted or else enraged Machine Spirits. Belloris was forced to follow the lights where they remained intact - there were far too many abrupt breaks in the passageways that gave way to drops leading down to other floors and assembles at best, and waste processing storage or else seemingly bottomless mag-lev shafts at worst. There were dozens of passages Belloris was tempted to explore but forced to go around simply due to the absence of adequate lighting.

She walked for what must have been hours, always watchful for ramps, stairs, or any signs that might point to a way out. Too many times, she came across passages leading upwards only for them to have been barred shut with reinforced security grilles, likely lowered by the Skitarii when the uprising had first begun and never circumvented. Without a weapon or functioning tools, trying to open them would have been futile. The dim tunnels of metal settled and groaned with an eerie, barren resonance - it was almost akin to walking through the arterial passageways of a massive corpse, its vessels hardened with atrophy and every liquid she could find some form of putrescent humour.

The woman let out a curse as she came to yet another blocked exit, her uninjured arm slamming into the metallic wall, her armor scraping against it for a brief moment. Belloris was almost ready to accept her fate as being a corpse to line the halls, but such thoughts were not befitting an individual of her post. She had heard tales of soldiers being lost in the underhives of the monolith cities and yet still returned to their ranks if they practiced patience or found a vox-relay that could be repaired. There was never truly lost hope until some resigned themselves to a horrid fate of being forever lost to the environments that they were in. With a sigh, the woman turned and began to retrace her steps again, legs aching from her lack of rest and the constant walking, though such things she could deal with.

Then, a distant echo came to her, a rhythmic sound of prayer and chanting that could have signified one of two possibilities within the halls of the Underforges. She knew of the canticles that the priests of the Mechanicum would perform, yet she knew that the cultists that dwelled down here likely had their own. Belloris, however, knew that to run away from the revelry would be to run from a chance of escape, a faint chance that some of the tech-priests had been left behind and perhaps had some means of communication. Her steps hurried as she followed the echoes, her hope of salvation driving her desires of life, past where a normal soldier would have likely given up hope.

As she followed the chants, more of the dimly lit corridors opened up to her, darkened passageways that otherwise would have been too treacherous to investigate now suddenly alit by strategically placed candles. Stopping to examine a heap of some of the running, molten light sources, Belloris realized both that the area had to be frequently traversed if candles were kept lit and burning along it, and also that the candles in question were hand-made. Not from tallow, at least not animal tallow. The coloration of the sticks was sickly, and the stench they gave off was almost unbearable - although as she progressed down the passageways she slowly acclimated to the smell.

...In fact, after a while, the scent started to become somewhat pleasant. It was almost disturbing, considering how the cultists had doubtlessly sourced the materials.

Turning her mind away from the matter of the candles, Belloris focused and thought - either she could explore the reaches of the corridors that were lit, or perhaps even take several of the candles with her to try and explore previous avenues. Escape would still be far from certain and she had no desire to wind up in the heart of the Cultists’ depraved bastion of influence...No matter how strangely enticing the sound of their revelry was.

In the end, Belloris opted for keeping to the lit paths that had been laid out for her, having no desire to retread old ground that may well make her more lost. However, almost subconsciously, she had grabbed one of those candles that burned almost unknowingly taking it with her as its scents filled her mind with pleasantries. It was in the moment that she turned the corner, her mind was no longer her own as the walls held a now held a purple inflection, the very lights barely illuminating her path as they shifted from a yellow to a sickening pink. The hallway, while she could see ahead delved into blackness. An aching pleasure wrapped itself around her body. Her mind told her how long it had been since she had even felt the touch of another. The air around her became heavier and heavier until she fell to her knees, not knowing how long she walked.

A cacophony of whispers came to her whispers, whispers that indulged into her every thought and feeling, every vice and desire, every emotion and sensation went to a point that she had not known. Her sobered subconscious knew that she should reject the whispers, keep her mind and her wits about her, but temptation was a drug that forced itself upon her form. The world around her became black, yet she could see with perfect clarity. Whispers turned into torrents and she continued to resist, Belloris knew what was happening would pass, but then silence.

Her gaze slowly went up and there she saw herself standing, no longer clad in her armor or bodysuit, a serpent coiled around her form yet never touching her skin. The other her had eyes filled with a sick purple and her skin was pale, much like the cultist she had encountered earlier, and her blonde hair had been bleached white.The mouth did not move nor the eyes.

”Why do you deny yourself?”

Belloris’ eyes widened as the form spoke, the question echoing around her form deafening her mind from logical thought. Her focus could only remain on herself and the serpent.

The form gave way, bringing back the surroundings that she had been treading, no longer in the same spot she had been when she had collapsed. Belloris did not know where she was nor how much time had truly passed and in front her now was the sight of such marvelous things, the forms of people who seemed more beautiful than any she had seen indulging in their every desire. A plethora of sensations came to her again. It all felt too good.

Everything was dark still.

In the darkness the people surrounded her, chanting to her and soon an individual came from the crowd. His form was shrouded in the darkness, only a piercing blue gaze looking upon her other form, still not having moved from her position in front of Belloris. A hand, a massive one at that, touched her other form and Belloris herself could feel it. The touch caused her to shutter, she knew what she wanted but what was little left in her screamed at her to stop to come to her senses. Yet, the sensations were all too much, it was all that she wanted and it was too good to cast aside. Her other gave a cruel smile, one filled with the lust and desire she harbored.

The others bowed to her.

”You desires… embrace them, Belloris. Let the sensations be your only thoughts.”

The form’s words were seductive, sweat beaded down the side of her own actual head as she continued to try and retake what little control she had left. It was unbearable.

Her hand slowly reached out to her other form, the other form reciprocating. The serpent turned and began to slither towards Belloris and it almost reached her before her other form pulled Belloris up and drew her into a kiss. Belloris’ resistance shattered and she could do nothing as the sensations rose, all before the snake sunk its fangs into her back. A high unlike the others she had felt came over her, coursing through her very veins, and she let out a cry of ecstasy before it began to subside, her eyes slowly registering reality.

Sounds of violence came to her ears as the darkness subsided, confusion wracked her brain as Belloris looked around the kneeling figures dissipating into forms that were being slaughtered at the hands of the massive figure she had seen. Cries and screams that were nothing of the pleasure she had been promised and when she looked up, she saw the details of the form. He was clad in broken and twisted armor, the armor of Astartes. She could recognize him, it was the Primarch of the very legion she served, and as his blue eyes looked down upon her another feeling overcame her.

It was a feeling of pure desire.

“M-my lord,” Belloris sputtered out in awe at the sight of him.

“Captain,” Usriel said in brief acknowledgement, proceeding to step past the human and otherwise disregarding her. Heading deeper into the Forge World, Belloris scrambling to her feet and over the corpses of the cultists as she went to catch up with the Primarch.

“Lord, I believe the the exit is a different way, I came across several barred -”

“I am not looking for an exit. I am going to kill the leader of these traitors for behind bringing a spire down upon me.” Usriel interrupted, not looking at the mortal all the while he marched, leaving Belloris to her thoughts for a moment.

“They attempted to kill you by bringing the spire down?” Belloris inquired.

“Correct, mortal. Yet, it did little more than anger me and break my pistol,” he said simply.

“Then I shall aid you in this task, Lord. They murdered my entire company so I want nothing more than to see them dead,” Belloris murmured in agreement, looking up at the form of the Primarch.

“As you wish, however, be sure to find yourself a more subtable weapon. I suspect we will be killing far more than just their cult leader,” Usriel said with a snarl, his fists closing as his anger rose at the prospect of seeing their leader.

The passage that Usriel then led Belloris down seemed to waver and shift as they moved through it, the metal walls melting and reforming abruptly as they passed. Nothing was quite as it seemed, and the dim emergency lighting seem to shatter and refract around Usriel’s form, surrounding him - from her perspective at least - with a radiant halo of effervescent light. It was so distracting Belloris scarcely even noticed the growing signs of the cult’s activities. Trenches and pits in the gutters of the catwalks filled with heaped and twisted bodies, their faces still twisted in ecstasy and they lay blood and broken amongst and within each other. Etched into the walls at irregular intervals and daubed with gaudy hues of paint were a number of curious emblems of some kind - a sphere and a rod betwixt two crescent moons, set in the center of an eight-pointed starburst. Distant, gilded laughter seemed to ring through Belloris’ ears as she beheld this imagery.

Cultists lined the path leading to the center of their bastion. They moved, prostrated on the floor, bowing in reverence while facing a great altar in the vast chamber that opened up ahead. The Primarch unmade them as he and Belloris passed, each of the traitors dying with perturbing smiles on their faces. The room they lined the causeway to had, at one point, been a logistics hub for servo-skulls. The entire chamber was bordered by neatly ordered pipes, diverging in bundled groups as they approached the floor. As they rose towards the ceiling they all converged, until they terminated their approach and sharply turned upwards to trace onwards through a dark shaft that likely ran through the whole of the underforge. The pipework here had been deliberately damaged, bent, and torn in place so as to create an optical pattern amongst the branching pipework - again, an eight-pointed starburst, and deep vivid ingidos, blues, and purples hues had been cast across the dull metal in semicircular patterns depicting the esoteric sign as etched upon the walls cast now across the ceiling.

Belloris looked back, seeing the corpses line their path in a beautifully disturbing fashion - blood pooling into a brilliant pond that fit the ways of the cult. Her mind wondered, the high priestess herself was espousing some dialogue to which the Primarch ended her in the middle of, and now all she could focus on was the Primarch himself. The woman turned as Usriel dropped the corpse of the priestess unceremoniously to the altar floor, no grandiose battle to be had. The face of the Primarch turned to Belloris and she bowed deeply to him.

“Captain, what is your name?” The son of the Emperor finally inquired.

“Belloris Miniro, Lord,” she stated.

“It is most impressive you survived behind enemy lines for so long, Miss Miniro. I believe you will be most useful elsewhere within the Legion,” Usriel commented moving towards the bowing mortal.

“I only wish to serve at your side, Lord,” Belloris requested, keeping her desires out of her voice as she spoke to the Primarch.

“Very well, you may live out the rest of your short mortal life as a direct serf in the Steel Sentinels. That shall be your reward for showing me the way out of this accursed hole,” Usriel said with a tone that could be holding annoyance, but such things were above Belloris. Currently, she was merely allowed the pleasure to flow through her to being under her desire’s own care. The captain turned on her heel and began the arduous trip back to the surface, her eyes holding a sinister purple subtly behind them.

Somehow, the expanses and depths of the Underforge now seemed curiously familiar to her. The bends, curves, and shifting coils of its body now seemed familiar - and intimate. Almost as if every sense within her had been wound into a tense coil that was now blooming with release. She scarcely even had to think about how to lead the Primarch out.

She knew precisely where she was leading him.

Scarcely two hours of steady and remarkable progress later, with Belloris leading Usriel through darkened passageways she would never have dared attempted to venture down previously and never once coming across any kind of obstruction, the two of them reached a functional Mag-Lev leading up. The Machine Spirits seemed perturbed at Belloris’ commands, but shortly the Primarch lost patience with them and, after emitting a punitive electromagnetic blast upon the Mag-Lev terminal that left Belloris’ knees trembling as a fluttering sensation danced through her belly, he engaged the manual override mechanisms. When the Mag-Lev actually began to move upwards, she actually fell to the floor, legs splayed to either side as she stared up breathlessly at the Primarch.

He had not even noticed. Either that or he had not cared. Somehow, this brought a sensation of flame to Belloris’ head - just in time to meet with the rising sun over Inrade as the Mag-Lev rapidly pulled up to the uppermost reaches of its range, in the upper forges. Usriel immediately swept out from the conveyor, framed in Belloris’ vision by the rising sun as he stared out across the top of the macrofold and towards the ruinous, crater-like expanse of jagged metal that lay beyond where the Third Continental Spire had once been.

Belloris could have lain there staring at him where he stood forever, but then her vox bead blared to life, Sentinel vox-chatter suddenly garbling through her ear and knocking her from her revery. The woman took a moment, wanting to admire the view she had a little while more before she let loose an annoyed sigh. She returned herself to her feet as she went to speak into her vox, her feet taking her to join the Primarch at his side, “This is Serf Belloris Miniro of the Steel Sentinel Legions, Primarch Usriel and I have reached the surface. Repeat, we have reached the surface of Inrade.”

---

Despite having the ordeal dealt with and the cultist forces now being leaderless, Usriel took no time to begin preparations to push into the Underforges to eradicate what was left before they could reform into a coherent threat. However, while Belloris had her wounds tended to and her mind psych-evaluated after the events that transpired, Usriel took a thunderhawk to the Temple of Knowledge, mind abuzz with anger yet satisfied considering the amount of losses his legion had suffered after the spire had come down. He knew that those that survived would be able to hold out until such time that they could be found, but it did not soothe him as the thunderhawk lowered itself through the shattered stained-glass ceiling of the Temple of Knowledge, which had been sundered by the orbital strikes from the Fortress of Steel prior to the Steel Sentinels storming the Temple and apprehending the Synod of Inrade. The ramp lowered and he stepped out of the transport, his armor still nearly shattered and very much missing his helmet still as he strode out.

The sight he was greeted with were numerous Astartes, including those of his honor guard, having their weapons pointed at the Fabricator Intendant and the other Tech-priests that made up his retinue. They had been detained following the loss of the Primarch, cited for having gross negligence of duty as one of the many charges against them. Nonetheless, Usriel walked to the dethroned Fabricator, moving past his men who bowed deeply to their returned father.

“Father Usriel, I am glad to see you returned alive and well,” Maren stated, his form easily picked out by the Legionary standard that was upon his back.

“And I am glad to see you as well Maren,” Usriel said, nodding his head to the standard bearer before turning his piercing blue gaze to the Fabricator. His tone came out annoyed and condescending, “You allowed them to destroy a spire, blatant sabotage of critical areas of a continental spire under your care is a travesty. This will undoubtedly set you behind your quotas much further than this rebellion already has, Fabricator.”

The Fabricator Intendant did not answer, his innumerable Mechadendrites simply seeming to wring and writhe in the air about him, evidently too anxious to reply - all he offered was to simply kneel and bow the head, both in awe and shame.

“Do you know how many of my sons are either dead or missing, Fabricator? Have you seen the casualty report?” Usriel questioned, his voice unchanging.

“...I have not.” The Tech-Priest’s voxcoder buzzed.

“Do you understand this situation all falls upon you?” The Primarch scowled, his face showing clear anger.

“Holy Primarch, we were clearly betrayed from within, somehow!” Feirriak cried. “Never before has an underforge revolt ever met with such success within twelve sectors of here! The cultists, their knowledge of our infrastructure and their capability to navigate it at all in spite of our security measures speaks of...some...some treachery!” The buzzing staccato inflection of his voxcoder managed to inject an air of desperation into his voice. “Without such aid this revolt would have died mere days after its inception!”

Usriel’s eyes narrowed, growling, “Such matters are ones that must be investigated at its very inception. Have you even found the traitors that are within your ranks?”

“No, holy Primarch!” Feirriak cried out once more. “As I am certain the Praetor must have told you, every remaining Tech-Priest upon the planet was subjected to the mandatory installation of mind impulse units in order to facilitate neuro-syncing in an effort to expose the sympathizers! Whoever the traitor was, they may have died or run to the Underforges to join with the dreck when they learned of our plan.”

“I am aware, Fabricator, but you have so far shown to me that you are incompetent and unreliable at being able to control your own as well as your ability to end rebellion,” Usriel snarled, his form looming over the cowering tech-priest as he continued, “Not only that, but I am certain you would still no longer produce the weaponry I need, despite it being a direct order from myself, a Primarch, a son of the Omnissiah!”

“It would be Techno-Heresy, holy of holies! Oh brilliant and infinite Primarch, I cannot obey you in this matter without betraying the Omnissiah! It would be to forsake the Sacred Warnings, it would be to turn away from the Machine God!” Feirriak’s voxcoder practically howled with fervor and terror as he pleaded.

“Over some ruling of those Priests on Mars, who have as so far been disconnected from the STCs my legion have rediscovered, had retroactively called it techno-heresy! The logic is as if they took a mere bolter and called it heresy!” Usriel barked, ignoring the terror of Feirriak, “Be glad you are dealing with myself who understands the working of the Mechanicum and not the likes of Primarch Sarghaul who would have likely quartered you during our first conversation!” The Fabricator Intendant instantly cowered away from the Primarch, fully prostrating themselves upon the floor.

“You WILL produce the Furorem! I shall not repeat myself again,” Usriel growled, bringing his anger back as he looked down upon the Fabricator.

The Fabricator Intendant did not answer, continuing to cower on the floor. A wailing, disturbed cry began to rise from the other Tech-Priests and their voxcoders, doubtlessly all neuro-linked with Feirriak and starting to become overwhelmed by his own terror.

“Now, I shall await for Primarch Augor and I will see to it that this world is returned to the grace of the Machine God,” Usriel stated coldly before turning away from the cowering priests, “Until this world is reconsecrated, you shall remain under my watch so that no further deviations occur.”

“...This world shall never be reconsecrated if we do as you say.” Came the cold and hard, reverberating keen of a voxcoder. Behind Usriel, one of the Tech-Priests of the Synod had suddenly risen from where they had been huddled with the others and was now standing tall - unafraid and unapologetic - directing their bionic gaze to Usriel’s back.

“You call us incompetent, you call us unfaithful. These are the things that we would be if we obeyed you in this matter, Holy Primarch. Do you not all see?” The Tech-Priest turned to the others and gestured emphatically. “The Primarch defies the Will of the Omnissiah! They have asserted that their will is predominant to the will of the avatar of the Machine God! Recall the Universal Truths! The Warnings of the Machine God! The soul is the conscience of sentience, and a soul can only be bestowed BY THE OMNISSIAH!”

The Tech-Priest was practically sermonizing as they roared at the others, their hands and servo-arm flailing energetically as they spoke - completely oblivious to Usriel turning and starting to thunder back.

“Recall the final Mystery of the Truths! The Omnissiah Knows All, Comprehends all! Recall the final warning of the Truths! To Break with Ritual is to Break with Faith! If we are ordered to commit Techno-Heresy, be it by cultists or common Adepts or even the Primarchs themselves, there can be no doubt! If we are forced to choose between even so unfathomably venerated a being as a Primarch and the Omnissiah!” The Tech-Priest’s voxcoder had reached a thunderous volume as he swiftly spun around on his heels to face Usriel. “THE ONLY CHOICE CAN BE -”

The priest instantly fell to the ground, convulsing as Usriel made the devices implanted in his body began to fear the Will of the Primarch. The Son of the Omnissiah stood over the form of the Tech-Priest before speaking in a cold and uncaring tone, “You are not related to the Omnissiah, a mere pretender to his grace, Priest. The Primarchs are more infallible than you and your Synod on Mars, such things have been recognized by many others. Yet, for your words I thank you…” The Primarch trailed off as he placed a foot upon the back of the Priest, “For giving an example to your peers for what it means to disobey the Will of the Primarchs, the Omnissiah, and the Machine God.”

There was a slow sound of metal cracking, bones slowly shattering, pressure increasing as Usriel slowly crushed the Tech-Priest. Quickly enough, however, the body of he who dared speak against Usriel gave way, the body popping as if a mere insect were crushed beneath a book. Blood leaked from beneath the boot, sinew clinging to it as the Primarch brought his foot up, only to scrape it off on a different part of the floor. One of the Steel Sentinels then approached and discharged their plasma gun, twice, into the oily remnants of the Tech-Priest’s body, blowing two fulminous glowing holes of super-heated metal in the floor.

“Does anyone else dare to speak against the Will of the Primarchs?” He asked.

A single tense moment of silence passed while the Tech-Priests looked between each other.

Then, abruptly, two of them leapt up and started to run for the massive chasm adjoining the Synod chamber where Usriel and his contingent had arrived from the first time. Not a single heartbeat had passed before the Sentinels fired their weapons, but shimmering walls of force generated by the fleeing Priests’ Refractor Field devices sparked into being before the bolts of plasma and caused them to diminish and bloom into energetic wisps of ionized gas that began to drift in every direction. Before any of the Sentinels could even act upon the realization of the Priests’ defenses, the entire throng of Synod Members between them had suddenly burst into an uproar of shouted canticles and hymnal cries - and then all the lighting in the chamber shut off, casting the entire area into darkness. Plasma bolts rapidly began to fire off in every direction, most of them meeting resistance from additional Refractor Fields and causing a static haze of luminous energized wisps to begin dancing through the chamber.

Despite the darkened atmosphere there was a quick movement before the bodies of those who ran flew back across the chamber, the massive form of Usriel now where they were heading. “I see nothing but traitors against the Omnissiah and his Primarchs! Repent now, Fabricator, and I may not end this blatant rebellion!” his voice rang across the chamber, sending waves of dread and despair across the room.

Unfortunately, the psychic impulse proved ineffectual - and Usriel recalled, all the Tech-Priests had been Neuro-Linked to each other. While unusual for them, it was a common practice on the battlefield amongst the Skitarii, which rendered them exceedingly obedient to a fault and next to fearless on top of lacking most of the glandular and circulatory functions that would have amplified the grip of terror upon their bodies. The Primarch’s dread-laden voice fell upon deaf ears.

Shortly, Usriel’s marines activated the flood-lights for the thunderhawk he had arrived in and bathed every corner of the vast interior with focused light - but other than them, the room was empty. Tech Tech-Priests of the Synod of Inrade, as a whole, had fled.

Usriel let out a roar of anger, looking to his forces and ordering, “Come, sons. This planet is clearly filled with nothing but traitors!” The Primarch stomped back to the Thunderhawk, his mind set upon ending those he viewed as traitors to the Imperium. “Prepare cyclonic torpedoes,” he ordered into the vox, transmitting his will to the Fortress of Steel.

The flight back to the Gloriana-class was a tense one of silence as Usriel contemplated whether it was rise to destroy an entire forge world, the untold amount of progress lost at the mere push of a button. Yet, he could only focus on how he had been betrayed not only by the cultists, but by the weak-wills of those who commanded the planet who stuck to the dogma of Mars who viewed their words more highly than his own. The Primarch’s fist clenched as he walked through the halls to the bridge of his ship, his thoughts fighting amongst each other as his eyes looked upon the planet.

“My lord, the torpedoes have been loaded, we are ready to fire at your command,” one of the mortals reported, all eyes turning to their Primarch as he stood in grim silence. Usriel’s sat upon the command throne and prepared himself to fire upon Inrade.

Just before he could touch the activation rune, the vox-operator hailed him.

”Primarch, a massive armada just translated out of Warp. IF signatures and configuration indicates it is the Stargazers Astartes Legion. They have assumed a combat posture and multiple of their flagships are requesting telemetry data on the hostiles we are targeting. They are aware of our intent to fire but not that we are targeting the planet it seems. How shall we respond?”

Usriel then recalled the report from the Fortress of Steel’s astropath officers. He had invited Augor Astren and the Stargazers to convene with the Steel Sentinels in order to compare and formulate recovery stratagems. Much like the Steel Sentinels, the Stargazers themselves had likewise been reduced to but a shadow of their former numbers - and as such they too had consolidated the whole of their Legion into a single armada. Comparing the auspex readings between the two groups of voidcraft, Usriel could not help but feel stricken by the perilous similarities between them.

“Begin hailing the Stargazers’ Gloriana-class, I will update their Primarch of the situation personally,” Usriel spoke, letting loose a sigh as he withdrew his hand from the activation rune for the moment. Augor had inadvertently bought Inrade a few more precious moments of life, one that would come to grace the planet and its inhabitants.

After a few crackling moments, the vox-system shrilled with the tone of a new connection and a new voice spoke.

”This is Magos Explorator Mephitor. Hail, holy Primarch. I regret that your kindred brother cannot commune with you presently.” Came the double-static tone of a voxcoded voice transmitted over a vox communique. ”He stands in meditative contemplation and our translation out of Warp was more abrupt than anticipated - he has not been informed yet. We are prepared to render immediate assistance regardless.”

“Assistance is not needed, Magos. Inrade has had a major cult rebellion, one that saw an entire spire brought down upon me. Next, the Synod of Inrade refused to follow direct orders and made their escape from punishment. As such, the planet is under full control of traitors and Hereteks,” Usriel reported, his eyes flicking the to the activation rune once more as he continued, “Given the circumstances, Exterminatus shall be placed upon Inrade.”

”Dire and troublesome news indeed, holy Primarch.” Mephitor replied. ”Shocking to even contemplate, truthfully. Though I hesitate to even raise the suggestion venerable one, might I beseech you to consider tasking the Prefecture Magisterium with purging the planet of all Heretechnical elements rather than commencing Exterminatus? The loss of the Forge World itself would have repercussions spanning thousands of years.”

Usriel was silent for a moment, considering the idea that Mephitor had provided in a singular thought as his mind wracked the potential consequences of destroying the planet. “Very well, Mephitor. The situation shall be handed to the Prefecture Magisterium so that Inrade may yet continue to grace the Machine God,” the Primarch responded.

There was a sudden shrill chime from over the vox. ”A thousand pardons, holy Primarch. I have just received a communique from the planet’s surface from the Fabricator Intendant, I am conversing with him in tandem with...this…” Mephitor audibly and noticeably hung silently over the connection for several moments, doubtlessly holding an entire conversation with Feirriak in the span of a heartbeat in Lingua-Technis.

“.....call…” Mephitor finally finished emphatically. A leaden tension seemed to seep across the vox-line.

”...On reflection, holy Primarch, it is likely not my place nor station to be conversing with so exalted a figure such as yourself in this circumstance. I will see that your connection is rerouted so you may speak with your kindred brother immediately, please stand by.” The connection audibly buzzed.

Usriel’s face turned to a scowl, his mind thinking of what the Fabricator Intendant may have said to Mephitor and why the other had so quickly decided to reroute his call after making it clear that Augor was in meditation. The Nineteenth Primarch let out a sigh as he awaited, not yet calling off the Exterminatus as his eyes continued to glare at the activation rune to turn the planet into nothing more than a lifeless husk.

Shortly, the connection buzzed once more and the voice of Augor Astren, primarch of the Twelfth Legion filtered over the line.

“Brother Usriel. What is this I hear about you wanting to commence Exterminatus on the planet for them refusing to fabricate Plasma Furorems?” Came what sounded, oddly, like a tired voice - like the sound of a man who had just awoken from deep slumber, although as far as Usriel knew as Primarchs neither of them required nor were even truly capable of sleep.

“The Tech-Priests have shown clear incompetence, Augor, allowing a major rebellion to destroy a continental spire, undoubtedly countless millions of menials died. Then, they abandon their post after I have given them direct orders that the Furorems are to be produced. They disobeyed the Will of the Primarchs, Augor,” Usriel said, his own voice holding contempt as he spoke against the Synod of Inrade.

”I see.” Augor replied warily. ”And the fact that the Furorem’s gyrofrequency emitter is considered Heretech?”

“Irrelevant,” Usriel replied back, “Treason is treason, Augor. They would not obey our will.”

”That would seem a singularly cruel and precarious state to place them in given that they would also be found guilty of treason if they obeyed you, brother.” Came Augor’s weary voice over the line. ”Thankfully, it would seem the cause for your concern has been obviated. Please meet with me down at the Temple of Knowledge, there is something I need to show you. I will be moving down to the planet via teleportarium, do not commence the Exterminatus.” The line then cut out.

Usriel’s anger rose as his brother cut the vox, his fist balling as he rose from the command throne. “Keep the torpedoes loaded, but await further orders. Prepare the Teleportarium to bring me to the Temple of Knowledge,” he ordered, annoyance clear in his voice as he stomped out of the bridge.

---

When Usriel returned to the chambers of the Synod, the vast room was empty - but, tellingly, the vast pair of double-doors that spanned from the floor to the ceiling at the back of the room were now ajar - and baleful, radiant starlight spilled forth from its interior. It was blinding and empyrean in its quality, a light Usriel had scarcely ever witnessed before except as wielded by his father, the Emperor of All Mankind. He took a moment to clear his thoughts, allowing himself to meet with his brother without the animosity he felt of the planet to spill over. He could feel Augor in the room, his psychic presence registering in his mind as he cleared it. Usriel gazed into the blinding light, allowing his mind to still itself before he took the steps to walk through it.

Beyond was a vast control room and shrine - one and both simultaneously. The far wall was a reinforced glass facade, a shimmering haze betraying the presence of a void shield surmounting it and protecting what lay beyond. More than a hundred cogitator panels, holo-screens, and control podiums were arrayed before the ceremonial procession stairs leading up to the gilded edifice, arranged almost in the manner of pews as set before an altar. No fewer than six steeples hung from the side of two enormous columns abutting either side of the frame were present, ornamented with elaborate sigils of the Cog Mechanicum. The whole of the room was completely saturated with brilliant, beaming and irradiant light from the source that lay beyond the shielded window.

A massive dais and throne, and seated upon it, entrenched betwixt tens of thousands of data-cords and neural links, was a servitor - a wretched and shriveled thing, more bone than flesh, its entire cranium a skull encased in blessed Auramite and radiating celestial light. Its very form seemed to waver and shimmer uncertainly, as though it were not actually present - merely a high-fidelity image cast upon the immense seat by some unseen source. Though he was not even attuned in the mysteries, Usriel could sense this being - it was a Psyker. On a Forge World. At the head and crux of a Mechanicum Shrine. Intellectually, Usriel knew precisely what this had to be - though seeing it realized before him was another matter entirely.

“The throne of but one of hundreds of thousands of links in the chain,” Came the voice of Twelfth Primarch, who stood at the foot of the gilded stairs. “Of the Great Transmat.” He turned to gaze sightlessly at Usriel. “Have you ever seen its likeness before?” Augor Astren was adorned in simple, even somewhat dirtied Martian robes - unadorned by any emblems or trimming of any kind. He looked more like a wayward wasteland vagabound than a Primarch.

“There is one like it upon Vion V, Augor. I have seen this and I know what it is,” Usriel replied.

“Then I am curious,” Augor began as he approached a nearby data-lectern, “as to why you did not think to make use of it. It was the very first thing I thought of when the Fabricator Intendant mentioned the matter of the Plasma Furorem’s gyrofrequency emitter. I have a Transmat Throne aboard the Light of the Omnissiah, which afforded me the opportunity to confirm what I suspected might be true.” He then tapped on a sequence of activation runes, and the reinforced glass surrounding the Transmat Throne suddenly turned fully opaque, cutting off the irradiant light spilling from within. The room, now cleared of the blinding light’s saturation, then gave way to the projection of a holopict displaying the schematics of the Plasma Furorem. A list of components and parts trailed through the air beside it, with the gyrofrequency emitter highlghted in evident red -

And an empty, yellow-colored entry directly next to it that read ‘Pending.’

“The Mechanicum is well aware of the Nineteenth Legion’s regular usage of the Plasma Furorem.” Augor went on curtly, not looking at Usriel as he spoke. “The moment the gyrofrequency emitter was decreed Heretech, they began looking for a suitable alternative. They have not yet uncovered one, but from the reports of the Artisans I am optimistic they will devise a workaround inside of a few solar months. The Great Transmat repository, of course, would have been immediately referred to by the Fabricator Intendant - had he and the Synod not been terrified of the possibility of a Heretek Savant amongst their ranks who was conveying information and conspired with the cultists. This chamber was sealed out of concern the Transmat Throne might be targeted, and all that Feirriak and the Synod knew was that the Furorem was Heretech. Though they would have hastened to unseal this place had you demanded it.”

“I care not about their excuses, I only wish for them to continue the production of the weapon as I ordered,” Usriel stated without much other word.

“Which they will do now as soon as the new gyrofrequency emitter is found. Which they cannot do if you commence Exterminatus upon the planet, completely obliterating it and everything on it.” Augor quipped blithely as he finally turned to face Usriel. “Which you were just about to do and would have done had I not arrived when I did.”

“Such is the price for treachery,” Usriel stated.

“Treachery? For doing the best they could given their circumstances? If that is the price that must be paid then perhaps you should return to orbit and commence Exterminatus immediately.” Augor retorted flatly. “Except, of course, you evidently do not care as long as they produce your weapons for you when demanded.”

“They need to understand who is in control, Augor,” Usriel responded in kind, “If they will not follow orders when given they will be discarded.”

“You were ordering them to commit treason.” Augor added matter-of-factly. “Such a vicious circle you have erected around those who venerate you, brother. Where does it end?” He held up a hand abruptly. “Here. Now. They will make your Plasma Furorems for you and will be pleased to do so, just as soon as it is no longer Techno-Heresy to do so. Are you satisfied?”

“As long as I receive the weaponry, I do not care,” Usriel answered flatly.

Augor sighed and raised a hand to his face. For a moment his was quiet, but then he spoke. “Nobody need hear of what transpired here today, brother. Let us call it an experience in close calls and let it be.” He lowered his hand. “Though of course, there is one other person who knows. Who knew and shall always know.”

“I would rather keep it between the two of us, Augor,” Usriel commented.

“You cannot keep it from the Omnissiah, brother.” Augor intoned. “He knows. What do you think he would have to say, were he here?”

“That I am right, we are his direct creations and as such the Mechanicum should bow to our word,” Usriel answered.

“And he would, of course, have nothing to say that you demanded they defy him.” Augor said with an air of finality. He shook his head. “Perhaps you are not so faithful as we all thought of you, Usriel. Not to the Mechanicum - and not to our father.”

“You dare question my loyalty?” Usriel growled taking a step towards Augor, his eyes narrowing as his hands balled into fists once more. “I follow his will and the Synod of Mars does not speak on his behalf.”

“Of course they do not.” Augor nodded, his words light. “They are merely bound by his Exigencies to discern and decree what is and is not Techno-Heresy. As a Primarch, you are above all such matters. There is no act you cannot commit, that they will not continue to love you after. But they shall always love, and fear, our father above you. Have mercy upon them, Usriel. You placed them between yourself and him and demanded they bow only to one.” He held up his hand again and waved off Usriel before he could respond. “But again - nobody else shall hear of this matter. Let us hope that there shall nevermore be further cause for such drastic words between us, and let us once more turn to the furtherance of the Omnissiah and his Imperium...insomuch as we can, now.”

“That much we can both hope for, Augor,” Usriel said, stepping back from the other Primarch, “Now, how fares your legion’s recovery?”

“...Later.” Augor said after a brief moment. “We should attend to whatever remnants of the uprising there might be and survey the full extent of their damage and how it might impact Inrade’s production capabilities. Here and now is not the place and time.” He paced around Usriel and began walking back towards the door. “It is good to be with you once more, brother, though it saddens me that what distances us is the very faith we hold in common. But what saddens me more is to bear witness to what has been done to you and your legion by the vile Eldar. I will not let this moment come between us, brother. There shall come a day when the both of us once more stand astride the stars without either fear or apology - and whatever aid and counsel we might offer each other in doing so shall lift my spirits and my hearts.” He turned and beckoned to Usriel, sweeping his arm back towards the grand doors leading back into the Synod chambers. “Shall we?”

“As you wish, Augor,” Usriel said, moving with his brother.

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

“Salamander gene-seed of Primarch Vulkan, a quite strange gene-seed,” Ventarian remarked to himself as he read through the texts about the Salamanders and their gene-seed. The apothecary continued reading for a little bit before he looked up to look upon another data-slate that gave a far more brief explanation to the gene-seed of Vulkan, outlining its oddities and such so that Ventarian could gradually take in the facts and now how to treat one the members of his kill team. He scrolled through it, taking note of how the gene-seed altered the pigmentation of the Salamanders, making them near dark or jet-black skin, even affecting their eyes to make them red. Even stranger was their affinity to focus upon heat signatures without the aid of thermal optics, a fact that puzzled the son of the Lion all too easily as he attempted to familiarize himself with the gene-seed.

Luckily, there was nothing else to puzzle Ventarius as the gene-implants were all too similar to him and he would find it easy to operate on such similarities to his own Chapter’s though the risk of mixing them would, of course, be detrimental. Ventarius loosed a sigh as he moved away from the gene-seed, for a moment to instead move to pray to the Emperor wishing to receive his guidance and wisdom so that he may get through the watch without incident. The apothecary was still all too nervous about uncovering any Fallen within the ranks of the Deathwatch and he did not want to have his brothers come to interrogate anyone, not while he was still serving. The Sons of the Lion would be all too eager to catch anything that might lead them to Cipher, all too eager to bring redemption to the entire line of the Lion. That said, nothing yet implied that such were amongst the ranks of the Watch, but he knew that he’d have to remain ever vigilant for such threats as there was still a chance one may be binding amongst them.

“My Emperor and My Primarch, guide my mind through this watch and guide my hands in battle to bring about the destruction of the foes of man. May you keep my soul ever vigilant against the threats imposed by the fallen and may you keep them at bay,” Ventarian prayed, keeping his head low as he attempted to placate his own thoughts. The Apothecary remained silent for a few moments as he hoped that his words would be heard by the Emperor before he would return to his seat and continue his studies of the other gene-seeds. His mind slowly replaced the paranoia with that of a resolute focus that would allow him to study in some semblance of peace for the time being.

---

“A friendly bout?” The apothecary echoed before looking at his teacher letting a small smile come to his lips as he spoke once more, “I do not believe it would be fair to them to go against someone with so much knowledge upon the weaknesses of an Astartes.”

The eyes of the apothecary moved to his would be opponents in a tung and cheek fashion before looking to the Salamander who seemed to answer in a simplicity that Ventarian could appreciate. Ventarian allowed himself to gauge his opponents, wondering which one would be most advantageous for him to go after first in the case of such a brawl, though such thoughts were moot until they were actually in the ring of battle. His head motioned to a small and polite bow, before stating a more polite tone befitting his status of an apothecary, “I do accept the idea of a bout, though I do maintain we should allow caution to remain as I do not desire to be operating upon broken bones quite yet.”

Deadlands: Tales o' the Weird West

If y’all are still takin’ I’d be mighty happen to join!

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

“Damage to the second heart, not destroyed though near such a degree,” came the voice of an astartes, looking through a hole ripped into the chest of one of his battle-brothers. Ventarius was tending to a wound that had been sealed in the heat of an intense battle, not one that he been in, not that he goes into such forays with the cursed armor. The apothecary let loose a sigh before looking at his overseer, commenting in a soft tone, “I doubt I will be able to salvage the heart, it may be best to replace it.”

There was silence as Ventarius looked over the body more, seeing that whatever fight that the astartes in front of him had been in left the heart in a bad condition. It was barely able to hold a steady beat and what movement it did provide was exceptionally weak, though still functioning. If Ventarius allowed this heart to stay, there was a chance that it may heal properly, but the odds were greater that it would never recover fully and be more of detriment to the health of his battle-brother. It was not an easy choice, as rejection of the gene-implant could still very well kill the astartes, but it was better than forcing him to live on a single heart that would not be able to keep up with the demands of a space marine.

“As you wish, Ventarius. Have you thought more upon what the Company Master had said to you?” The Lead Apothecary asked, watching Ventarius work.

“That of the Deathwatch?” Ventaruis inquired as he began to open the chest of the Astartes, in front of him to get easier access to the secondary heart.

“Correct.”

“You know my answer,” came the quick reply.

“You cannot refuse this, Ventarius. To deny Deathwatch is to go without additional experience that you will need,” the Chief Apothecary stated.

Ventarius allowed silence to pass for a moment before he looked to the wounded secondary heart, watching it beat weakly. He could see that heart’s movement getting slower and slower, nearly unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but he knew it was there. The view brought death into his mind, a death that he was forced into once he had been forced into the scarred armor that killed all of its previous bearers. The Astartes stopped for a moment, he was not afraid of death, but he knew he would not be able to serve if he did, and Ventarius intended to serve the Emperor for as long as possible.

“I will die, they shall send me into battle,” Ventarius finally said in a grim manner.

“Indeed, however, you have a chance to serve the Chapter well. Make sure that no Fallen have infiltrated its ranks and, should you survive that vigil, you will be free of the armor,” the Chief Apothecarian said, matching the grim tone of the younger apothecary.

“Very well, then. I shall give my oath to Emissary once this procedure is done,” Ventarius stated, almost instantly following the words of the other. The heart had all but stopped now, its beat was irregular happening every few seconds as it weakly tried to do its share of work in the body of the Astartes. Ventarius allowed his mind to go to the vigil, to his future death in a Chapter that was unlike his own, no longer hunting the fallen in a manner that he was used to. Cipher would be nowhere near the fields that he would operate upon, only Xenos and their weaponry that would kill him in a matter of seconds should he let his guard down.

However, it was his duty.

It was upon this realization that Ventarius noticed that the heart had stopped, becoming nothing more than a useless piece of muscle in a body that needed two to operate.

---

It had not been long since Ventarius had given his oath to serve Deathwatch, but already was he thinking of the gene-seeds that he would need to memorize in order to best serve those that he would fight besides. He knew that these gene-seeds were a closely guarded secret, knowing that it was a matter of corruption and becoming one of the Fallen that worried many of the other Astartes Chapters. Yet, he knew that he would be able to know his charges quickly enough, figuring that the manner of was similar if not an identical process between the chapters. Ventarius looked upon a screen to see the fortress that he would likely be housed in.

Ventarius knew that he would not belong, but he had to serve the Emperor as was commanded upon him by his superiors in his parent chapter. That had been the only reason he ”wanted” to join Deathwatch, as well as the added benefit of, perhaps, getting rid of the cursed armor and returning to one that he would not feel the dread of death weighing upon him. It was a constant feeling that had nearly killed him in his last engagement, fighting those who would seek to undo the work of the mighty Emperor of Mankind. The Tau had almost gotten him, one of their abominable rounds grazed his armor as he was making his way to a fallen brother. He knew that it was the armor’s doing that he succeeded in getting to his brother and retrieving his glands, after determining that he could not be saved.

Crack. Crack.

More rounds had bounced off his armor, a miracle that he should live to see another day in the galaxy that was always at war.

The door behind him slid open and the voice of an emissary brought him out of his memory, “We have arrived, dear apothecary. We can never have enough to fill our ranks and I am sure your expertise will be put to the test soon enough. I welcome thee to the Watch-Fortress.”

Ventarius turned from the screen and began marching, asking, “I trust that I will be briefed upon the gene-seed of my charges soon enough?”

“Of course, apothecary. As a Deathwatch Apothecary, it will be your-”

“Duty to memorize my charges’ gene-seed and tend to them in an appropriate manner, I know, Emissary,” Ventarius stated, stopping in front of the emissary for a moment before looking past him in silence.

“It is good you understand, now come, I shall escort you to your chambers,” the emissary said, turning on his heel and leading the apothecary to the fortress proper. The sounds of the metallic boots hitting the ground filled Ventarius’ ears, but it was not the sound of walking that had the attention of the apothecary. It was the sounds of his two hearts, their beating and rhythm filled his mind to an incessant point of making sure he knew of his own mortality with each movement.

And he swore with each step into the fortress he could feel his hearts slowing, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

Ventarius

Name: Baruchiel Ventarian

Chapter: Disciples of Caliban

Chapter Demeanour:
Noble and virtuous is what characterizes the Disciples of Caliban, faithful to the Emperor, and zealous in their pursuit of the Fallen. Ventarian holds true to this, often not engaging in combat until his enemy has a weapon in hand and never leaving a battle-brother to suffer on the field of combat. This Apothecary holds himself to morales that seem generous until it is known that he only does so to stay within the good graces of the Emperor. Granted, the Disciples of Caliban do still retain a bit of the zeal to hunt the Fallen, especially the Fallen one known as Cipher and this zeal does extend to Ventarian.

Personal Demeanour:

While honourable, kind, and otherwise an upstanding individual it is clear that Ventarian does not act out of the good graces of his own hearts as he does not go out of his way to do things that he does not seem as important. He acts to stay within the good graces of the Emperor himself taking on the tasks of shielding humanity, even going as far as to heal the mortal human when he feels the need. Of course, he does so out of a begrudging need to appease the Emperor rather than the kindness of his own hearts. Ventarian is a pragmatist, knowing who should be worthy of saving and whose gene-seed he must deliver. It is because of this that when he speaks with his battle brothers, it may sound as if he is cold and calloused even if he has a genuine care for those that he serves alongside in the heat of battle.

Yet, when asked what he thinks of the future, all he speaks of is his own death, a death that he could envision to be a glorious end to his life. Ventarius looks up to his predecessors, wanting to match their efforts as an apothecary, to even surpass them before his eventual death. It is this drive, along with his faithfulness to the Emperor, that drives him forwards and into the arms of victory. It was one of the reasons he was chosen to become a part of Deathwatch, not only seeing it as his duty, but also the way to surpass his predecessors in their legends.

Of course, he does also have a firm hate for the Fallen that his Parent Chapter has instilled into him since even before he was inducted as a full space marine.

Speciality: Apothecary

Rank: 2nd Company Apothecary

Power Armour History:

Ventarius is not the first to wear the MK. VII, nor will he be the last, and while there is nothing outwardly special about the armor itself what was special was the line of apothecaries that wore it into battle. All Apothecaries of the 2nd Company in the Disciples of Caliban have heard of this armor, the legend of how the armor is both blessed and cursed. For the apothecaries who use this armor all die in the end, but their ends are all glorious as the successor before Ventarius had carried ten marines from danger, under threat of enemy fire before he fought to defend his incapacitated brothers. That apothecary was found dead when reinforcements had gotten to them, the ten Astartes all stable and scores of dead enemies around the apothecary. Such is the mantle that the 2nd Company bears, the mantle that Ventarius now brings with him. The scarred armor expects Ventarius to die, a fact that he has come to terms with.

Description:

Ventarius is a very plain Astartes bearing a shaved head and pale skin, his visage being no different than some of the more standard of his battle-brothers. His form is surely scarred from battle, granted that form looks over an Astartes outside of his power armor, being taller than many other space marines and even rivaling those closer to relation to Primarch Vulkan. That said, it does not stop him from being any more plain than a small box as, outside of his armor, he simply wears a white tabard which still holds the symbol of the Disciples of Caliban, allowing all to know who his parent Chapter is.

His armor, however, is far more complex as it holds the scars of many battles before it, showing wear the armor had been pierced and subsequently reforged. These portions have not been painted over, being badged of pride and remembrance to the apothecaries of the past, showing how all of the past have given their lives for the Emperor and their brothers. That said, the armor is predominantly a dark green along the chest and pauldrons with the knee pads and lower legs sharing the same color, the rest sharing black coloration.

Skills:

As an apothecary, Ventarius is a medic and he is certainly a very knowledgeable and talented one as he has saved the lives of a great many battle-brothers. He has been trained since he was a Neophyte, showing an aptitude for biology and medical application. Ventarius has shown a great knowledge of the gene-seed of his chapter and, since his induction into the Deathwatch, extends to the other gene-seeds present within the chapter.

Of course, he is also a great combatant through the use of his weaponry, being a crack shot with his plasma pistol and bolter. Oftentimes he is able to hip fire these weapons and meet his mark without too great an effort, able to hold his own against those that would seek to charge into melee with him. Ventarius does not use his combat knife, instead preferring to fire his bolter at close range as to be able to defend those too injured to fight.

History:

Ventarius' story actually starts back when he was but a mere Neophyte, when he was little more than a scout marine serving in his parent chapter. He served loyally and faithfully the entire time, proving to be an accurate shot and one able to do so quickly and often without question given the order. Yet, this is not the story, it was a time where he and his squad were caught out in the open and under heavy fire from a renegade force that sought to be free from the Emperor’s light. Ventarius commanding officer had been wounded protecting his squadmates, having sustained grevious wounds that would have seen him dead had Ventarius not acted to quickly attempt to stabilize the Astartes. Once the scouts had been able to evacuate, his sergeant had survided due to the quick thinking of Ventarius and so it had been decided that his deeds had been sufficient to have him pushed to become an Astartes and train to be an apothecary.

The Apothecary took this training in stride, quickly learning the procedures needed to extract the gene seed out of fallen brothers and administer their version of euthenasia. Ventarius was proven to have an affinity for it, but he had grown cocky and full hearty, a personality that had made him lose one too many patients. It was for this recklessness that earned him a humbling reward, the Armor of the Fallen Apothecaries, a cursed piece of armor that sealed his doom, his death. It was for this that Ventarius had immediately changed his ways to seek to gain the favor of the Emperor once more. Knowing that his death would come, he hoped it would mean that he would have been by the Emperor’s side in death. That was all he could hope and want, and the results showed as he grew more careful and more attentive to never have another brother fall under his watch.

Through his many years of duty and his skills, it was for this reason that he was chosen by Deathwatch, an offer he readily accepted to prove himself to the Emperor. Ventarius felt that with the vigil he would be able to better serve the Emperor, but it was his Company Master that informed him that he would be serving to make sure there were no Fallen amongst the ranks of Deathwatch. Knowing that his loyalty was to his Chapter, he took upon the task, wanting to make sure that he could destroy any of such corruption. The Apothecary steeled himself, ready to die in the name of the Emperor and to end the xenos threat all while ready to execute the Fallen the first chance he got in the name of the Lion and Caliban.

Equipment and Armament:

• Bolter
• Plasma Pistol
• Frag and Krak Grenades
• Diagnostor Helmet
• Narthecium
• Reductor

Miscellaneous:N/A

WH40K: An End to the Alien - A Deathwatch Narrative Roleplay

Ventarius

Name: Baruchiel Ventarian

Chapter: Disciples of Caliban

Chapter Demeanour:
Noble and virtuous is what characterizes the Disciples of Caliban, faithful to the Emperor, and zealous in their pursuit of the Fallen. Ventarian holds true to this, often not engaging in combat until his enemy has a weapon in hand and never leaving a battle-brother to suffer on the field of combat. This Apothecary holds himself to morales that seem generous until it is known that he only does so to stay within the good graces of the Emperor. Granted, the Disciples of Caliban do still retain a bit of the zeal to hunt the Fallen, especially the Fallen one known as Cipher and this zeal does extend to Ventarian.

Personal Demeanour:

While honourable, kind, and otherwise an upstanding individual it is clear that Ventarian does not act out of the good graces of his own hearts as he does not go out of his way to do things that he does not seem as important. He acts to stay within the good graces of the Emperor himself taking on the tasks of shielding humanity, even going as far as to heal the mortal human when he feels the need. Of course, he does so out of a begrudging need to appease the Emperor rather than the kindness of his own hearts. Ventarian is a pragmatist, knowing who should be worthy of saving and whose gene-seed he must deliver. It is because of this that when he speaks with his battle brothers, it may sound as if he is cold and calloused even if he has a genuine care for those that he serves alongside in the heat of battle.

Yet, when asked what he thinks of the future, all he speaks of is his own death, a death that he could envision to be a glorious end to his life. Ventarius looks up to his predecessors, wanting to match their efforts as an apothecary, to even surpass them before his eventual death. It is this drive, along with his faithfulness to the Emperor, that drives him forwards and into the arms of victory. It was one of the reasons he was chosen to become a part of Deathwatch, not only seeing it as his duty, but also the way to surpass his predecessors in their legends.

Of course, he does also have a firm hate for the Fallen that his Parent Chapter has instilled into him since even before he was inducted as a full space marine.

Speciality: Apothecary

Rank: 2nd Company Apothecary

Power Armour History:

Ventarius is not the first to wear the MK. VII, nor will he be the last, and while there is nothing outwardly special about the armor itself what was special was the line of apothecaries that wore it into battle. All Apothecaries of the 2nd Company in the Disciples of Caliban have heard of this armor, the legend of how the armor is both blessed and cursed. For the apothecaries who use this armor all die in the end, but their ends are all glorious as the successor before Ventarius had carried ten marines from danger, under threat of enemy fire before he fought to defend his incapacitated brothers. That apothecary was found dead when reinforcements had gotten to them, the ten Astartes all stable and scores of dead enemies around the apothecary. Such is the mantle that the 2nd Company bears, the mantle that Ventarius now brings with him. The scarred armor expects Ventarius to die, a fact that he has come to terms with.

Description:

Ventarius is a very plain Astartes bearing a shaved head and pale skin, his visage being no different than some of the more standard of his battle-brothers. His form is surely scarred from battle, granted that form looks over an Astartes outside of his power armor, being taller than many other space marines and even rivaling those closer to relation to Primarch Vulkan. That said, it does not stop him from being any more plain than a small box as, outside of his armor, he simply wears a white tabard which still holds the symbol of the Disciples of Caliban, allowing all to know who his parent Chapter is.

His armor, however, is far more complex as it holds the scars of many battles before it, showing wear the armor had been pierced and subsequently reforged. These portions have not been painted over, being badged of pride and remembrance to the apothecaries of the past, showing how all of the past have given their lives for the Emperor and their brothers. That said, the armor is predominantly a dark green along the chest and pauldrons with the knee pads and lower legs sharing the same color, the rest sharing black coloration.

Skills:

As an apothecary, Ventarius is a medic and he is certainly a very knowledgeable and talented one as he has saved the lives of a great many battle-brothers. He has been trained since he was a Neophyte, showing an aptitude for biology and medical application. Ventarius has shown a great knowledge of the gene-seed of his chapter and, since his induction into the Deathwatch, extends to the other gene-seeds present within the chapter.

Of course, he is also a great combatant through the use of his weaponry, being a crack shot with his plasma pistol and bolter. Oftentimes he is able to hip fire these weapons and meet his mark without too great an effort, able to hold his own against those that would seek to charge into melee with him. Ventarius does not use his combat knife, instead preferring to fire his bolter at close range as to be able to defend those too injured to fight.

History:

Ventarius' story actually starts back when he was but a mere Neophyte, when he was little more than a scout marine serving in his parent chapter. He served loyally and faithfully the entire time, proving to be an accurate shot and one able to do so quickly and often without question given the order. Yet, this is not the story, it was a time where he and his squad were caught out in the open and under heavy fire from a renegade force that sought to be free from the Emperor’s light. Ventarius commanding officer had been wounded protecting his squadmates, having sustained grevious wounds that would have seen him dead had Ventarius not acted to quickly attempt to stabilize the Astartes. Once the scouts had been able to evacuate, his sergeant had survided due to the quick thinking of Ventarius and so it had been decided that his deeds had been sufficient to have him pushed to become an Astartes and train to be an apothecary.

The Apothecary took this training in stride, quickly learning the procedures needed to extract the gene seed out of fallen brothers and administer their version of euthenasia. Ventarius was proven to have an affinity for it, but he had grown cocky and full hearty, a personality that had made him lose one too many patients. It was for this recklessness that earned him a humbling reward, the Armor of the Fallen Apothecaries, a cursed piece of armor that sealed his doom, his death. It was for this that Ventarius had immediately changed his ways to seek to gain the favor of the Emperor once more. Knowing that his death would come, he hoped it would mean that he would have been by the Emperor’s side in death. That was all he could hope and want, and the results showed as he grew more careful and more attentive to never have another brother fall under his watch.

Through his many years of duty and his skills, it was for this reason that he was chosen by Deathwatch, an offer he readily accepted to prove himself to the Emperor. Ventarius felt that with the vigil he would be able to better serve the Emperor, but it was his Company Master that informed him that he would be serving to make sure there were no Fallen amongst the ranks of Deathwatch. Knowing that his loyalty was to his Chapter, he took upon the task, wanting to make sure that he could destroy any of such corruption. The Apothecary steeled himself, ready to die in the name of the Emperor and to end the xenos threat all while ready to execute the Fallen the first chance he got in the name of the Lion and Caliban.

Equipment and Armament:

• Bolter
• Plasma Pistol
• Frag and Krak Grenades
• Diagnostor Helmet
• Narthecium
• Reductor

Miscellaneous:N/A