Penny

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Delphine stared at the staked skull in a daze. It seemed literally impossible that she could have missed such grizzly trophies and signs of habitation. Was she insane? Had she been struck blind by some enchantment? It didn’t make sense, especially when she had specifically used a spell to enhance her vision. Was anything real? She reached out and prodded the skull with her finger tip, finding it real enough for all that. She wondered if the bonemeal of invisible skulls might have some strange alchemical properties, perhaps related to some kind of invisibility. Tentatively she reached out for it before pulling her hand back, she could always take it on the way out. Or could she? What if it vanished again?

Shaking her head to clear it she unslung her sword and flexed her fingers on the grip, feeling the enchantment wake to life. They badly needed to be recharged but she had no budget for soul gems and she hadn’t found any at the various wayshrines she had visited. Perhaps with part of the reward she might buy a few. For an insane moment she considered taking out the tome she had stolen and looking through it but she thrust the notion away. It wouldn’t exactly be a grand end to her adventuring career if something cut her throat while she was reading. The thought occurred to her that Amal might have been killed by whatever was squatting in the mine. How long should she wait? Should she go in after him or give it up for a bad bargain and head back towards town. She made a quick prayer to Dibella to watch over her and then mouthed another incantation. The world brightened around her and suddenly she could see much better into the gloom of the mineshaft. She was just about to enter it when a creature staggered out of one of the abandoned sheds. It was greenish and horribly gnarled with a hunched back knotted muscles. In one hand it held a deflated wine skin, evidently the source of it’s current confusion. Delphine laid her sword down and strung her bow, carefully knocking an arrow. The beast turned towards the mine and staggered towards her drooling dark wine stained drool. The arrow flashed the thirty feet that separated them in a blur and buried itself into the creature's chest. It stood looking down dumbly at the shaft, then looked up at her. Dropping the wine skin it took a step towards her then toppled over in a lifeless heap.

Delphine felt a surge of triumph and then nearly wet herself as Amal appeared beside her as silently as he had left her. Her heart made a good faith effort to burst out of her chest but she calmed herself and picked up her sword with a scowl.

“I guess this one was up late and passed out before it could get back into the mine,” she said, “More in there?” She skipped down to the dead goblin and ran it through in the unlikely event that the creature was shaming, then carefully worked her arrow out of its chest. Good arrows were expensive, and she didn’t want to lose one if she didn’t have to.

Amal didn’t comment on the goblin she had killed, which was a little annoying but she tried to play it cool. It probably wouldn’t have gone over very well with her prospective partner if she explained it was the first greenskin she had ever killed. She followed him back into the mind marveling at how he seemed to vanish into the shadows. She tried to follow in his footsteps attempting to ape the way he moved though she felt clumsy and noisy beside him. They moved deeper underground, the temperature dropping steadily as they moved. It was incredible that all this earth had been moved with pick and shovel and then carried out with wicker panniers. Here and there there were little alcoves which had been carved into the stone to provide storage or simply a place for miners to rest.

The firelight ahead was very bright in the gloom and was given an odd greenish cast by the spell she had cast. She crumbled it immediately as she realised that there was another spell caster in there, not wanting to give them away. Silently as death the crept to the edge of the chamber and peered in. It appeared to be a natural cave, something the miners had cut into rather than excavated themselves; Delphine could make out tunnels leading off from the far walls. Four goblins and a feather crested shaman were feasting on a corpse. The shaman gripped the rib cage and pulled it apart before shoveling gobbets of flesh into its mouth. The others were feeding on the scraps with evident relish. The fire gave the place a hellish ambiance and the stink was almost enough to make you gag. Delphine felt her stomach churn as she realised the corpse being devoured was probably one of the men she had known: Jaque, her mind informed her out of some impulse to torment her. Amal put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back down the passageway. When they had gone a sufficient distance she put her lip to his ear.

“I’ll take the shaman if you keep the others occupied,” she said, no more than breathing into his ear canal.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

“And then they made me their chief,” Delphine concluded as they trudged northwards from the city in the bright morning sunlit. They had hitched a ride on a peddler’s wagon at dawn, the old man happy for the company of a pretty Breton, happiness which had soured to world weary contemplation when she had belatedly added that Amal would also be coming along. They had made good time eastward until they reached the fork which lead up into the foothills towards the mind. Delphine had stopped briefly to pray at the wayshine of Dibella, offering a handful of her best rose petals in exchange for taking a small bottle that had served as a vase for flowers which had long since withered. The road was quiet with the trouble at the mine and so they climbed the gently rolling hills, forest periodically bordered the road when the landscape flattened but rarely for more than a mile or so. The air was redolent with the scent of pine and with the many wildflowers that grew beside the road, flanking them with gold and crimson. From time to time, and to Amal’s apparent annoyance, Delphine made frequent trips into the flowery verge, occasionally plucking this flower or that and stuffing them into a pouch which hung from her belt.

“I take it not for your skill with the sword?” Amal asked, more to keep the conversation going than from any real interest if Delphine was any judge. He was a bit of a mystery to her. The previous night had been spent at the hound and badger, drinking wine and planning their excursion to the mine. That had really not been all that much of a help, as their plan essentially boiled down to ‘go to the mine, see what is happening’ which to Delphine’s mind was more of a strategy or a mission statement. She had made some effort to talk with locals and had been rewarded with such dazzling insights as ‘it is overrun by daedra’ and ‘the spriggans attacked to reclaim the timbers, you mark my words’ which, while colorful, provided limited tactical insight. One of the regulars, an old drunk by the name of Gert, had been a miner before he lost a hand in an accident a few years before. For the cost of a flagon of ale he had been willing to describe the basic outline of the workings ‘back in his day’ which Delphine had dutifully transcribed onto a blank piece of parchment at the rear of the book she had stolen. That tome appeared to be on the conjuration of various kinds of Daedra, a fact that she had kept completely to herself. With luck Marlowe wouldn’t miss it, or at the very least wouldn’t connect it’s disappearance with her.

Delphine snorted at Amal’s remark and drew her sword, swishing it experimentally through the air. It was a Breton design, a longsword with the extended hilt of a hand and half, designed for spellswords so that it could be wielded one handed to leave the left hand free for spell work, or gripped with both to raise a better defense. Family legend held that it had been passed down through the generations, though it seemed just as likely Delphine’s mother had picked it up from some random armorer during her time in Wayrest. The blade was marked with a delicate spiderweb of enchantments, something Delphine had added during her studies of that subject. It was difficult in her current circumstances to keep the thing charged, though it held a faint shimmer yet. Some of her hard earned coin had gone to training with the weapon, though she didn’t kid herself that she was anything beyond an apprentice with the blade, magic had always been her skill but skills didn’t always pay bills.

“I do alright, I’m still alive,” she said a little defensively before sliding the weapon back into her baldric. They crested a rise and suddenly found themselves looking down into a gently sloping valley. The pristine quality of the countryside was marred on the far side by a sprawling complex of sheds and shale roofed bungalows. A brisk stream ran down the center of the valley, crossed by a stone bridge beside which a saw mill stood, it’s blade turning in slow rotation against the gurgling current. The place looked abandoned, no smoke rose from the chimneys and the small forge which must have served to smelt raw ore into ingots stood idle, its tailings of crushed rock and slag already penetrated by weeds and greenery. The centerpiece of the tableau was the shaft itself, a gaping wound in the side of the valley supported by three vast oaken beams.

“Looks deserted,” Delphine observed. She whispered a cantrip and her vision abruptly sharpened as she felt her eyes tingle with magicka. The only thing the closer look revealed was that the symbol of Zenithar had been carved into the cross beam with considerable skill.

“What do you think?”

________________
Marlowe shivered. The crypt was below the water and cold even at midday. The rock was below the waterline of the harbor and a steady trickle of precipitation sweated from the hand carved bas reliefs that covered the walls. Strange photoluminescent fungus grew from cracks in the ancient stone, seeming to stretch towards the wizard. The familiar smell of old death and bonemeal filled his nostrils along with the sporulated funk of the mushrooms. It had been many years since he had been down here. He had never expected to come here again, not until he had awoken sweating from his dream.

“Marelow…” a sepulchral voice hissed in the darkness. The wizard whirled, the torch in his hand sputtering in the damp air. The voice came from no human throat; it seemed to come from the carvings on the far wall behind a curtain of draping roots. Marlow pulled them aside, uncomfortably reminded of the entrails it had been his job to remove when he first began his apprenticeship in the dark arts. Those were the days before the Gates opened, when such things were, if not practiced openly, at least politely ignored by the guild. He hadn’t cringed then, but now…

“Hello?” he called, pleased to hear that his voice was steady as he pulled away handfuls of roots to reveal the carvings beneath. They were utterly unlike the other carvings of the crypt, gone were the restful motifs of the Gods and their worship. This carving had worship, but of an all together darker sorts. Men and Mer were depicted in positions of abject humiliation and debauchery. Daedra were also depicted, seeming somehow unfinished and yet the suggestions in the carving were more horrifying than forensic detail could have rendered them. Marelow felt his mouth go dry. He had seen such scenes before, not on stone but on the night thirty years ago when his Master had inducted him fully into the mysteries. His eyes tracked to the center of the panel, and the figure who sat atop of throne of twisted bodies. Marelow sank to his knees as he met the figure's eyes. They were black pits bored into the stone, but it wasn’t the eyes that made the wizard tremble. It was the smile.

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

Delphine was glad to disentangle herself from the Dunmer as well as intrigued by the falling pie. She had heard of mana from heaven though the muck that was left in the muddy street didn’t exactly fit the bill. Although the Dunmer momentarily thought she was innocent she decided that she had best make herself scarce before he figured that a fine from a guard would spend just as well no matter who paid it. The square was busy in the early evening and the smell of roasting meat was thick on the air. The pie had reminded her that she had violently ejected the contents of her stomach a few hours ago and that she should probably replace that, preferably with something cheap. Tomorrow she could head out into the wilds, try to gather some ingredients and whip up a few potions for sale, while she was out of the city she could hunt for her food and that would save her a few pennies. Delphine paused as a trio of drunken Imperial soldiers passed, half staggering against each other. The woman in the lead wore an armband and seemed to be marginally less inebriated, dissading her companions from the random acts of drunken debauchery they were discussing.

“Daedra lover!” a panchy man snarled as she passed. Even in magically tolerant Breton society the backlash against mages omnipresent.

“I tried it but they were all too busy pleasuring your mother,” Delphine responded pleasantly. The man undulated to his feet but Delphine was already passed him, slipping across the street ahead of a wagon that was loaded down with dry goods. She was considering the Hound and Badger fro ale and stew when she noticed what she would swear was the man who had dropped the pie back in Flour Lane. She crossed to him and was met with an insouciant grin. She grinned back bemused. Briefly she wondered if he was Thieves Guild, petty crime like stealing food wasn’t something they policied, but he looked like he could handle himself. Most Redgards could, though stereotypes werent everything as her encounter with Paunchy Shitforbrains had just demonstrated.

“Well good to see you again,” she greeted as she got close.

“I’m pleased to see that you are taking care of our street level streets as well,” she quipped. She opened her mouth to continue but her eyes were drawn to the bounty board behind him by the almost glowing figure of four hundred septims. That amount of money would come very close to clearing what she owed the guild, then her eyes went down to the next notice.

“Jaque, Delbrae and Squeak,” she said with a sad sigh. She had known all three of them, local fighters trying to prove they had what it took to join the guild. She had hired on to a caravan with them taking goods to Knightsbridge once and on another occasion tried for a bounty on a rouge bear that had been killing travellers. That had proved to be nothing more than wandering around the woods for a few days with nothing to show at the end. Well not quite nothing, she had managed a good source of duskbells when Delbrae had tumbled down that gully. It was a shame to hear that they had died, though the bastards might have asked her to come along and share the bounty as skint as she was. Realisng she had lapsed into silence she turned her attention back to the Redguard.

“Delphine Delapore,” she said, thrusting out a hand in the fashion of Hammerfell.

“Thanks for not letting me take the fall for the great pastry heist, or letting the great pastry heist fall on me.”

Tyrants of Illiac Bay

And the day had started off so well. Delphine tried to curl her body into a ball, but it didnt save her from another kick to her ribs. She tried to suck in air but her lungs were not responsive save for a burning agony that served as their declaration that they disapproved of being kicked with heavy leather boots. Another kick caught her across the temple and the pain was indescribable. She rolled onto her back only to have the booted foot stomp down on her sternum and she found that she could describe the previous pain as ‘not as bad as the stomp on my sternum’. This now found linguistic clarity did not comfort her.

“You gettin’ off light!” Ragan Three Fingers snarled. Delphine respectfully disagreed as she lay on the floor of the alley, wheezing for breath and trying to draw the first breath in what was now an alarmingly long time. She said something witty like ‘oooowwww’ and promptly vomited, forcing Ragan to step back in disgust.

“You took our money Delapore, and if I don’t get the interest by the end of the week it wont be just us girls right?” Ragan told her in a town that would be reasonable coming from someone who hadn’t just broken two of your ribs.

“You’ll get it, pinky swear,” Delphine replied, and was rewarded for this witisim by another kick to the head and a swirling plunge into blackness. An indeterminate but short, judging by the shadows on the alley wall, time later she came too. Her head and ribs immediately screamed that it had been better when she had been unconscious, but to hell with them. Sobbing and drooling with pain she forced herself up into a sitting position. With some effort she was able to draw shallow breaths. Talking was too much effort, that effort being devoted to the unglamorous but completely necessary task of breathing but she mouthed the words of the incantation. A cool sensation flowed over her as the restorative energies went to work. She vomited again as her ribs reset, helpfully aiming the ejecta away from herself to preserve her dignity. It took a few minutes but eventually she was able to stand and stagger over to a horse trough. She thrust her head into it purging her mouth of the taste of vomit and steadying herself. Withdrawing her dripping head she looked down at her reflection. The wavering form of a pretty brown haired Breton stared back at her, with a ‘don’t look at me you got yourself into this’ type of expression which fairly typified how things were going. Delphine touched her satchel and found she hadn’t been robbed, her sword and bow were still across her back too. You had to give it to the Thieves Guild, they might have you beaten to a pulp, but at least they weren’t going to rob you while they were at it.

“Daedra and Divines,” she muttered, and pulled her clothing into some semblance of order. She was starting to think the Guild really meant it this time.

At least one Guild really meant it. Delphine thought when, an hour later she stood in an office in the Mages Guild. Bristar Marlowe sat behind a desk peering at a scroll through a pair of improbably large oculars. His office, like most rooms in the Guild here in Koegira was ringed with shelves, on which were piled books, scrolls, manuscripts, and other arcane paraphernalia. Private offices like this were particularly treasure troves. Since the Necromantic Schism had erupted, senior mages had taken to hoarding vast swathes of the library to prevent disaffected mages from simply taking their toys and going home. That is if they could escape the jeers and curses of the crowds that seemed to constantly lurk outside the Guild these days. Suspicion and fear of the Guild had not ended with the Oblivion Crisis. Worse still the hemorrhage of members, and more importantly of membership dues, forced the Guild to ever more extortionate measures. To whit…

“You are a talented student Delphine, particularly in alchemy, but your lack of commitment to the guild troubles me. Three years and you are still only an associate member?” he said, or at least his lips said, what he really meant was somewhat more like : where is my bribe, I must have my bribe!

“I’m sorry Master, since my family's lands were destroyed when the gates opened I’m afraid my means are limited…”

Marlow silenced her with a wave of his hand, dropping the scroll onto the desk with disdain.

“Miss Delapore, the associate membership is meant for new students who dabble, you have dabbled sufficiently. I am afraid if you do not move up to full membership in the next month or so I shall have to consider suspending your membership in this body. Do I make myself clear?” his voice asked. ‘Get me my money or else’ his eyes underscored.

“Two months,” Delphine agreed, immediately seizing the best case scenario before he could get more specific. Marlow opened his mouth to correct her but thought the better of it.

“I have an important paper on the Ethics of Necromancy to complete,” he informed her. Delphine took her cue and ducked out of the room. Neatly slipping one of the leather bound volumes beneath her cloak as she went. She hope it was something she could use, or at the very least something she could sell, between that and the potions she had brewing maybe she could square the Thieves Guild and Marlow. And maybe after that a handsome prince would ride in and make her Queen of Daggerfall and Junior Empress while he was at it, or perhaps a meteor would strike Koegira mysteriously destroying the entire Thieves Guild in a single blow. A girl could hope.

Scum and Villainy - Plentiful Bounty

"Hey! Hi!" Molly called out waving energetically to Arlox. She was almost bouncing with excitement, riding the high of deep space as well as a chance to oggle a sleek and sexy ship like the Wages of Sin. RU-0K clung to her shoulder, showing better judgement than his owner by trying to slide onto her back to keep out of sight.

"All good in the stellar neighbourhood," she continued happily, "package is alive and kicking in our brig."

She took a step towards Arlox, spreading her arms as though to hug. One of the guards stepped into her way and Molly hugged the guard instead, patomiming kisses on either cheek.

Wealth and Warpstorms

Conversation was briefly impossible as the shuttle got underway, falling from the launch bay of the Navarre like a diving falcon. Camilla braced herself with the familiarity of one who had spent years aboard ship, trying to tune out Jocasta’s continuing paean about the wonders of melta technology. Almost immediately the smooth descent became a vibrating rumble as they plunged into the atmosphere. The walls of the shuttle sweated condensate that abruptly blasted off in a minor rainstorm as the shuttle breached the atmosphere with a teeth rattling sonic boom.

Camilla waited several seconds for the turbulence to subside before turning her attention to Alcandar’s question. She supposed she couldn’t expect him to act as her Seneschal if didn’t keep him informed though she suspected he might have a harder time with this than another candidate might have.

“Well… I don’t want you to be mad, but you recall the Porphyrian mutiny?” she asked. Alcandars face darkened as she said it. He had, infact, been responsible for tracking down several of the mutineers who had jumped ship, it was one of his cases that had brought him to her attention.

“Some of the officers were executed of course, but the majority of them, as well as the ratings that survived the decimations, were sent here,” she made an airy gesture to indicate the world that the shuttle was bearing them down to.

Ye went to recruit a peck of merderin' creminals who terned on their oown ceptain?” Alcander asked dangerously. Camilla made another airy gesture. The reality was that she couldn’t wait years to train replacements for the bridge officers who had been killed. It wasn’t just a matter of training either, to put it crudely, she needed people with the right plugs. Proper augmentation was much harder to come by than training.

“I prefer to think of it as conducting job interviews with extreme prejudice,” she replied, having the decency to look a little guilty at the admission.

“I promise to give full weight to the opinions of my Seneschal on the matter,” she added in a mollifying tone.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The storm covered us almost all the way to Idalium, the howling sleet of snow and ice only abating as we ran slowly down into the alpine valley that formed a grove on the back side of the pass. Despite my misgivings, and the Chief Magos’ constant attention to his arcane machinery, there were no interruptions in the line. I had to suppose that the assassins had gambled everything they had on the bombing and landspeeder assault and were not paranoid enough to go for triple redundancy. I wasn’t entirely sure if that was a comfort or not. A bombing and a follow up assault team in an isolated mountain pass probably seemed more than enough to eliminate two individuals, even if one of them was an inquisitor.

By the time we reached the station, the walls of the valley had cut the snow to gentle flakes that might have been quite romantic under the right circumstances. The sputtering bullet riddled train that pulled in didn’t exactly project that image. The shocked reaction of the locals proved that no news had reached them, not a surprising outcome given that our vox units had been thoroughly sabotaged during the attack and that personal units had trouble penetrating the mountain valley. Still it didn’t take long for the local probators and medicare personnel to arrive. They looked completely overwhelmed by the situation, as well the might be. Idalim was a tiny settlement by Imperial standards, less than a hundred thousand people in a city of terraced half timbered homes centered around the volcanic head waters of the Dranabse river. There was some local industry, mostly logging for specialty timber, but the primary employer was tourism. It was a getaway spot for those wealthy Pacitians who enjoyed hot springs, as well as ski getaways and other alpine pursuits. It also boasted a rather prestigious university that was renowned for its courses of rhetoric. That was immediately apparent from the numerous ornately carved porticos under which students whose affiliations were proclaimed by colorful sashes worn atop their black robes. They declaimed at each other in practiced oratorical tones, debating this and that point of logic, history, or law.

If Hadrian had arrived at any plan he had not yet shared it with me when we stepped off the train and into the crowd of milling emergency workers. The wounded had been triaged and those with the most severe injuries were being loaded into heavy ground cars for transportation to the medicae facility. As discussed I left Hadrian to talk matters over with the rather overwhelmed looking Castellian and walked the two blocks to the local Astropathicus Annex. I hired an astropath and dictated several coded messages that would be delivered to Agesilaea, then arranged for banking transfers from several well concealed accounts. The Astropathicus balked at providing me credit on the basis of these transfers until I produced my adept rosette. That triggered an appropriate bowing and scraping reflex and before the hour was out I had several credit bars, all but untraceable behind the byzantine procedures of the Guild Astrotelepathicus. Worryingly I received no reply from Clara and the rest of the staff. Astropathic communications were occasionally unreliable but over such a short distance there should be no difficulty in getting through. I left instructions that I was to be voxed if any reply came through and returned to Hadrian who had by now extracteated himself from the local red tape.

“Any word?” he asked, though he must have known there wasn’t, I would certainly have voxed him if there had been any update.

“None,” I replied, “I tried the vox net as well but my calls are all being marked as undeliverable.” Hadrian frowned at this news, for one or the other system to be glitchy might have been understandable but for both to be out was troubling.

“We will have to assume we are on our own for now,” he decided as we headed through the streets towards the local hotel.

“Should we send word off world, contact the Ordos?” I suggested. Hadrian shook his head.

“What would I report, that someone tried to kill me?” he asked, his tone wry.

“Why Inquisitor, if only there were some crack investigator we could get to look into that,” he wheezed in a sepulchral voice that was meant to be an imitation of the Grand Master. I had met the old monster once and he wasn’t exactly the sort I was comfortable making jokes about, but it did make me grin in a grim kind of way.

“I suppose there is that,” I agreed. My vox beeped and I drew the little ivory unit from my purse and answered.
“Mademoiselle, this is Kyrgan from the Astropathicus…”

“Yes, has there been any reply to my messages?” I asked impatiently. Kyrgan had been the secretary I had arranged credit with, an officious but effective man with a sallow unhealthy complexion. He had a Gudranite accent that was clearly put on to make him sound sophisticated, a piece of conwork that I found professionally endearing if a little inept.

“No… I’m afraid… the banks you contacted have all sent me inquiries. They stated that your accounts have been frozen due to internal audits,” he continued.

“This is new since I made the withdrawals?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am, i'm not a moneylender but I suspect they were flagged and frozen because you accessed them,” he added a trifle apologetically.

“I see. You will tell them nothing other than I asked for credit and you denied it,” I instructed him. “You do not know where I am or what my plans were after I left the annex.”

“Yes Mademoiselle, is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked hopefully. I wondered if he was naturally helpful or if he were still in awe of the rosette I had flashed.

“No, nothing. May the Emperor keep you,” I replied and terminated the call.

“Trouble?” Hadrian asked.

“Someone is burning my accounts as fast as I can access them, whatever is happening, I think it is just getting started.”

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The engine noise increased markedly as Hadrian’s mission to the engine room bore fruit. The landspeeders had backed off as the storm began to spill over the pass, bringing an opaque white cloud of ice and snow down the far side of the mountain. The Zephyr limped into its protective shadow like an ancient ship taking refuge in the fog. The retreat of the aircraft was interesting, bespeaking an instinct for self preservation that one didn’t expect of cultists. With the complete white out beyond the armorcrys windows I was able to relax enough to wash and change into a new outfit, thankfully saved by the passenger cabins being forward of the doomed Montello Car. I was dressed now in a dark buff bodyglove built for skiing, over which I wore a jacket and a pencil skirt along with knee high boots of supple gray leather, the most pragmatic of the footwear I had packed. The surviving passengers were in a predictable panic, some screaming at the staff, others almost catatonic with fear. Under the circumstances the staff were doing a commendable job of restoring order, circulating with kaf, amasec and hot food. They seemed to have some perverse attachment to the notion that ‘the Amalethea Zephyr always ran on time’ into which they were displacing all the fear and terror of the last few hours. The bodies, nearly a score of passengers and staff along with a half dozen of the attackers, were being stored in the Alroblom Car, a ball room which had been the site of the original bombing, its sides blown open to the freezing air by the bombing. This made it an ideal temporary morgue for the preservation of the bodies. It didn’t escape me that Hadrian and I would have been there when it went off, if we hadn’t been otherwise occupied. It said something about our enemies that they would not only attempt such a bombing but that they would follow it up with an assault to make sure the job was done.

“And there is nothing to be done about the vox?” I asked the ancient tech priest before me. He was a hunched thing, with several pipes extending from his back. Periodically they belched little puffs of smoke into the air. I was seated at a table in the dining car into which most of the passengers had been gathered. Train staff with autoguns from their weapons lockers stood at the doors, looking very nervous. I wondered what the chances were of one of them accidentally letting off a burst that would take out half the great and the good of the planet. Hadrian had apparently made enough of an impression on the crowd that my table remained an island free of protesting passengers, though anyone who had seen me before I changed, covered in blood and gore, might reasonably have wanted to avoid me. Or perhaps the las carbine and tactical harness on the table dissuaded them.

“Zzzzz… nothing,” the techpriest burbled from beneath his hood. “Zzzzz tech sacrilege was extensives, zzzpares and back ups… zzzz also dezzztroyed.” The metallic burr in his voice set my teeth on edge and not for the first time I wished Lazarus was here to take care of this sort of thing. The enemy infiltrators, probably more of Vidar’s entourage, had cut our communications before the rest of the attack began. That seemed reckless, a lot of moving parts for an assassination attempt, any one of which might have tipped us off in advance. One of the junior engineers was missing, and I had no doubt that his body had been thrown from the train to allow a saboteur to take his place. The thought that there were infiltrators still aboard couldn’t be ruled out, but the crew were on alert for unfamiliar faces and the offending Ident had been blocked from access to any of the internal doors.

“Zzzze will have to take on… zzzzpares at zzz nextz zzzztop,” the Magos continued. I wondered at the fact that the old tech priest thought that the Zephyr would continue beyond the town of Trierea on the far side of the pass. Such was the mentality of train people I supposed. There was a slight shift in my stomach as we crested the pass. The internal speakers played a bar of the crescendo of The March of the Primarchs and a cultured voice informed us that we had crested the mountain. Ordinarily that would be the high point of the Ascension Ball but today it was met only with a slight muting in the buzz of conversation.

“How long do you expect this storm will last Magos?” I asked as I watched the sleet of ice whip past outside.

“Zzzzt one zero day zzz at least,” the Magos buzzed. I arched an eyebrow.

“Ten days? That is quite a storm isn’t it,” I asked.

“Zzzzapologies, one zero is to say zzzz two days,” the Magos clacked, somehow conveying exasperation with those uninitiated into his world of mechanical mystery. That would take them almost to Trierea at their current rate of travel. I paused as an unpleasant thought occurred to me.

“Are there any safeguards in place against the track being cut, bridges taken out?” I asked, suddenly assailed by the idea of the train plunging into some canyon and taking us all with it.

“Zzzimpossible,” the Magos assured me, “conductivity tezzzzts would indicate if zzzzhe line zzinterity wazzz compromised.”

That made me feel somewhat better, although I had a pervading sense that our unknown adversary had far from given up. An attack like this bespoke considerable resources and intelligence. My fingers played with the plex portraits of Hadrian and myself that I had taken from the dead. Now that I had the leisure to go back over my hairstyles in detail, I concluded that they had been taken during the Midsummer Festival, in which many of the local gentry and peasants had been invited to Hadrian’s estate for a fair, as was the custom of large landowners on Pacitus. That did nothing to narrow down who was after us, as anyone could have taken the picts, maybe even without knowing what they were for.

Not for the first time I wished I had controlled myself and taken my attacker alive. It was possible I could have taken information from his mind. For a guilty moment I considered interrogating a shade but Hadrian would not approve and it was vanishingly unlikely I could find anyone else on the train to help with the ritual. As if summoned by the idea of using warpcraft Hadrian appeared, looking somewhat disheveled by battle but alive and uninjured. There was a murmur from the crowd as he did so. Evidently ‘the Admiral’s’ reputation had spread among the passengers and staff. Several men looked disgruntled and several women looked alarmingly speculative. The staff seemed to have an attitude of grateful subservience, pleased to have a military man and a voice of leadership in this crisis. I let out a sigh of relief to see him alive and unharmed.

“Anyone who is injured should report to the medicae,” he called out, though I highly doubted any of these rich passengers was concealing a wound out of sheer stiff upper lip.

“Otherwise the Conducter wishes you to return to your cabins, dinner will be served at the usual time and the staff has much to do,” he concluded. The staff began to usher the passengers back into their cars and within a few minutes we had the dining car to ourselves. Hadrian strode over to me and I stood to meet his embrace, wrapping my arms around him for long seconds. At last we separated and he sat, pouring himself a cup of recaf from the carafe on the table.

“Any idea who they are?” he asked. I flexed my fingers then lifted a dataslate with a series of shots of the mercenary who had broken his own neck. He had been stripped naked and looked grotesquely like a nudist at a beach.

“No cult marks,” I noted, not that it proved much, many cultists were smart enough not to mark themselves for destruction no matter how much the act might please their patron deity.

“Some tattoos, surgically removed,” I indicated spots of slightly scarified skin. I really wished that Selenica was here to give her opinion on that. It was strange how easy it was to become used to working with Hadrian’s team after spending years looking out for myself.

“Obviously military trained, all identically equipped,” I didn’t have any psi active plates but I communicated a mental image of the landspeeders I had seen.

“Millitarum models,” Hadrian responded to my unspoken question, “maybe surplus or stolen.”

“Vox is cut but we should be safe enough for the next little while,” I told him, crossing my arms against a chill that was as much in my mind as in the air.

“What in the name of the Throne is this?” I asked plaintively.

Scum and Villainy - Plentiful Bounty

While sel centered and hedonistic I don't view Molly as evil.probably a light gray.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I hung up the phone much relieved to know Hadrian was alright. I was badly out of my element without access to my psykanna and with no tech adept my options were limited. General Aranson was stroking his chin and giving me a jaundiced look. His eyes kept flicking back to the Motelo Car where Vidar and his squad of pseudo servants lurked.

"Interesting conversation," he remarked, "rather a cogent tactical analysis for an Admiral's wife."

"Just trying to salvage my honeymoon," I replied, prodding fruitlessly at the tech in front of me. There were diagnostic panels and what I assumed were controls but most of these were dull and unpowered with the engines shut down. It was getting colder fast with the air reprocessor down. My breath already steamed in front of me as alpine night closed in. I thought about Aranson's comment that there was a storm projected on the other side of the past. This definitely felt like a deep breath before the plunge. The general clearly wasn't convinced but was disinclined to pursue it.

"Any idea why our friends back there didn't pursue us?" Aranson asked, gesturing to the door I had locked. "With that hardware the door wouldn't hold them long."

"Probably they are waiting for their friends with the las guns to sweep the train, if they stay where they are we cant double back," I speculated.

"They haven't done so yet," he pointed out. I thought of Hadrian up in the front of the train where the majority of cars had landed. I really wished I had some way to talk to him. If I had my psy... well might as well wish for Lucius Raj in full armor while I was at it. The thought made me smile, an expression which, under the circumstances, made Aranson mutter a curse. The image of Raj smashing the train apart was good for my morale, but the more I thought about it the more an idea crystallized in my mind. I didn't dare call Hadrian to tell him about it. I had gotten away with the phone once, but I had no doubt that the enemy was busily tapping it at this very moment.

"They have landed upwards of a platoon of men already," General Aranson supplied, though he knew that I had no idea. I hadn't heard any landspeeders go past but I was far from certain I would be this deep in the belly of the metal beast. I thought of Hadrian alone against thirty men, with his will every bit as blunt as mine was. I tapped the screen and found the panel I was looking for. My heart fell. I gestured Aranson over to look at it, knowing that every instant that passed brought the enemy closer. As if to underscore that thought the train rocked powerfully under some impact. Dust rained around us and prayer scrolls fluttered nervously, a great billow of smoke shot down the central corridor. Aranson grabbed me and hauled me down behind the console and I heard booted feet on the steel walkway, moving at a fast trot. Stablight beams played through the dust, sweeping in quick nervous arcs which betrayed them as underslung units attached to carbines. I held myself very still. After a few heart stopping seconds they started to move up the train towards the engine. Dust tickled my sinus and I sneezed. The booted feet stilled. In my mind's eye I could very easily see the enemy making hand gestures and circling back.

I lifted my carbine by the balance and extended it to Aranson, gesturing for him to give me his power sword. He looked troubled but passed it to me, taking my weapon and lifting it to his shoulder. I reversed the blade in my hands, marveling at the feeling of the ancient ivory grip. It had some kind of writing embossed in it but this was no time to get curious. I mouthed 'cover me' to Aranson and to the old dog's credit he popped up and opened fire, cracking out quick three round bursts, making the air tangy with ozone. I ignited the power sword and plunged it into the deck. It went through the steel like a knife through cake. Las blasts ricocheted off the bulkhead behind us painfully loud, like giant angry mosquitos. Prayer slips and lubricant ignited in a dozen places, creating smouldering spot fires. I hauled the power sword around in an arc, my leg muscles spasmed from the sparking electrical discharge but I grimly forced my hands to continue. It was the first time tonight I regretted not having had time to put on my shoes. Aranson dropped back into cover and hammer blows slammed into the console, blasting us with sparks, smoke and burning electrical equipment. He saw what I was doing and opened his mouth to call me 'damned foolish' or 'bloody daft' but before he could do either of those things a grenade bounced into the alcove and I saw the light in his eyes dim. The floor on which we were standing plunged downwards as the two meter section of the deck dropped onto the rails below with a sound like anvils colliding. We were both thrown sprawling by the impact. The grenade above us went off with a deafening blast that shook free lubricant from the running gear above in a pattering rain of grease and oil. My skin burned and for a moment I thought I had been caught in the blast. I grabbed for my wounds but found nothing, realising only then that this was the frigid mountain air. Evil looking tendrils of fioslene vapor escaped the hatch to be blown away by the gusting wind. The sound returning to my ringing ears was chopped by the roaring turbofans of landspeeders. The train was above us, shielding us from direct view but it wouldn't do so for long. I grabbed Aranson and tried to help him up but the old battle axe was already leaping to his feet, white hair streaming in the wind. If I lived I was definitely going to find the name of his Rejuvaneticist. Meter high steel rails bounded us on both sides, rusted and brown looking save for where the tops had been scraped clear by the massive wheels. Great ferocrete rail ties kept them spread the four meters that a beast like the Zephyr needed to maintain its stability. Great bursts of snow gouted through the openings as the wind gusted, reminding me uneasily of the decontamination corridors starships used to scour their shuttles clean.

"I guess that removes kidnapping as a motive," Aranson yelled, partially to be heard over the wind, and partially because the grenade had half deafened us both. There was no time to talk about it. I picked up the powerword, trying to quell the sudden queasy knowledge that it was a miracle it hadn't cut me in half during the fall.

"This way!" I called. Running down towards the rear of the train, trying to ignore the way cold stabbed my feet through the stockings as I ran through the thirty centimeters of snow between the rails. Aranson cursed again, and followed, running in an odd sideways gait that let him keep an eye on the hole. After a few feet he stopped and fired a short burst into it at high deflection. The light would mark us out as targets for the land speeders, but it was better than getting caught in a literal shooting gallery if our pursuers dropped down. After a heart stopping thirty seconds, every one of which promised a las bolt between the shoulder blades or a horizontal sleet of bolter shells, I reached the connection between the Motelo Car and the Palladium, one of the dining cars. I lit the power sword again and thrust it up into the steel ribbed rubber concertina that joined the two cars allowing people to walk between them. I squawked and leaped back, colliding with Aranson as the walkway above fell into the tracks, narrowly avoiding crushing me. I knocked him off his feet and we landed in a pile. I hit the ground in such a way that I saw the first enemy soldier drop into the trackway. Aranson rolled to his side, hit the metal rail and opened fire. His first shot hit the man in the chest, the second and third punching into his opaque face mask. I scrambled to my feet and leaped up onto the walkway above, thanking the God Emperor I didn't believe in for the chance construction that gave me hand holds. Aranson followed, throwing the gun up to me and scrambling up as best he could. A bright light flashed below us and Aranson grunted. He pulled up his leg to reveal that his left boot had been blown off, leaving his obviously hand made wollen sock completely unscathed. His left arm was not so lucky, blood was oozing down the length of it in an unsightly red mass. I realized that he had contacted the rail with his bare arm when he rolled, and that it had snap frozen in the few seconds in which he fired. He had freed himself by tearing his own skin off.

"What... is the plan..." he gasped, finally showing some signs that he was the old man I had played Cardinals with. I panted, shivering violently from the cold, my gauzy dress, thoroughly ruined now and to the tune of ten thousand Gelt to boot, was no protection against the icy wind, even protected by the rails. I was trembling, which I knew from Clara's endless carping about hypothermia was a good sign, but it was a terrible time for it.

"We have to..." the door behind me slid open and a pair of soldiers froze for a heartbeat. The fact I was sitting on the deck saved me as in the moment it took them to lower their gun muzzles, I swept the power sword out in a graceless horizontal arc. Blood exploded, steaming into the chill air as I took them both off at the knees, dropping them screaming to the ground. Their lasguns went off as fingers tightened on triggers and I tried a clumsy thrust to finish them off. Aranson shoved me aside and fired a short burst one handed into each man. They both went slack and I pulled myself up off the deck. I knelt beside one of the bodies, gaging at the smell of burnt blood and plasteel and the way my knees sank into the tacky pool of blood that their hearts had pumped from their severed femoral arteries. This one hadn't been decapitated by the las fire and I wrenched his head to the side. It had to be there. I reached into his ear and plucked out a small pinkish crystal that glowed faintly in the chill air.

"What is that, Aranson asked, pulling a grenade from the webbing of a dead man. He bounced it on his palm, pulled the pin, and then tossed it underhanded into the hole we had just exited. There was a muffled thump as the deck seemed to jump beneath me and I heard a scream. It seemed to emanate from the crystal so I thrust it into my ear.

".... Target Two heading down train, possibly with Target One, possibly armed civilian."

"Hawk Beta, Hawk Delta, reroute and provide cover fire, teams one, three and five, sweep downtrain and kill or capture."

I pulled the crystal from my ear. It resisted coming free and I had the unpleasant sense that it had been anchoring itself in me somehow. Clearly Target Two was me and Target One was Hadrian. The crystal was some kind of vox unit that was impervious to whatever jamming they were using.

"Xenotech," Aranson said with a sound of disgust so pure that the old bastard's scholam tutor probably smiled in his grave. For some people rising high in Imperial service promoted a more open minded view, for others, the opposite was true. I wondered what campaigns this old warhorse had fought in, and against what foe. That didn't make what I was about to ask him any more pleasant.

"Put this in," I told him, thrusting the crystal at him. He recoiled slightly, a somewhat comical reaction from a man busily stripping a body of weapons and gear. To his credit the hesitation was momentary wrinkling his nose in disgust he took it and placed it in his ear.

"Can you transmit?" I asked, handing him back his powersword and tearing the gloves from the dead troopers. He nodded his head in affirmation.

"Tell them that Target One is in the rear of the train, heading for the caboose." I couldn’t risk transmitting myself. I didn’t know if they had any women among them, and there was an outside chance they might recognise my voice over their suspiciously clear xenos vox link.

"Target One confirmed, heading rearward with captured weapons, already two cars south of Motello Car," he said, nodding his head in acknowledgement of words I couldn't hear.

"They are sending men that way, which means they will be running right past us at any second," he cautioned. Two landspeeders, presumably Hawk Beta and Hawk Delta, swept passed outside, close enough that their downdraft rocked the train. Snow blasted up from beneath us like a geyser as they roared onwards. I opened a storage locker in which emergency equipment was kept. Flare guns, environmental suits, first aid and other equipment I couldn't identify lay on shelves in neat magnetized cases. All very useful but none of which we had time for.

"In here," I urged and stepped inside. Aranson followed and I closed the door. Outside I could hear booted feet crash as men moved down train. Aranson pulled the crystal from his ear, shuddering at the same sensation I had felt. Mouthing the words of A Benediction Against Xenos he held it out to me, his finger to his lips in a shhhh gesture then held it in a vox signal, pinky and thumb extended. After a moment I realized that he meant he couldn't be sure it wasn't still transmitting. I nodded and set it down on the deck. I pantomimed grinding my heel on it and he nodded and crushed the thing to powder beneath his remaining boot, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face.

"Was it wise to trap us in here?" he asked in a voice so neutral that there could be no doubt as to his opinion.

"You have played Cardinals with me," I reminded him. He brightened at that.

"Good point," he conceded, then took a las pistol from the pocket of his smoking jacket and passed it to me. I wasn't much better with a pistol than I was with a rifle but it was something. My dress had no pockets so I shoved the gun between my corseted breasts, provoking a snort of amusement from the general. I tossed him the second set of gloves and began to pull on my own. He followed my example, not wasting time with questions.

"I assume you have a cunning plan?" he asked as he used his teeth to tug the cuff of the glove tight.

"I don't know how cunning it is, but we need to wait for the Admiral to..." the train jolted and I heard steel wheels scream on rails as the big locomotive began to shift, gravity fighting the thrust of the electro-prometheum power plants. I felt another surge of relief, Hadrian was still alive and he had managed to get the engine started. There was no time to explain.

"Come on," I told him and flung the door open, a running trooper slammed into it with a crack of breaking bone and a scream of pain. The door rebonded back into me and knocked me sprawling to the floor. Aranson caught the jam, pulled the pin on another grenade and tossed it into the hallway, then slammed the door shut a second before another detonation rocked the now shuddering train. I pulled myself to my feet and struggled to the door, pulling it open and stepping through, two dead soldiers lay in the connecting chamber, the rubber concertina was in tatters which suited my purposes just fine. I stepped over their bloodied bodies, leaving tacky footprints as I flung open the door. Inside I found the gilt instalations which I knew from the schematic at the console held the magnetic couplers. I lit the sword again and thrust it into the housing. Sparks and smoke exploded like a roaring dragon and there was a loud KUCHUNK. The deck launched beneath me as the Montello car began to slide backwards.

It was an unfortunate design feature of the cars that the generators which ran their couplers were located at the back of the cars. I had just decoupled myself from Hadrian's section of the train. I turned and ran, tripping over the bodies in the connector. Aranson foresaw this and caught me around the waist. I struggled free and then sliced the ragged connector away entirely. Arctic wind hammered in but I stepped out and swung myself around to catch the exterior ladder which allowed access to the roof. Cold metal burned my feet but my stolen gloves let me grip the rungs. I pulled myself up and onto the roof of the train, which was now sliding backwards at an imperciptible rate. A great cloud of black smoke billowed back from the engine which was also begining to move with equal inexorable slowness. They had manual brakes on, but without full powerplants it wasn’t enough to stop the train from beginning to slide.

"Run!" I shouted to the general and suited my actions to words, sprinting along the top of the train at full speed. I saw the lights of landspeeders, partially obscured by blowing snow. I would make a magnificent target up here, but there was no help for it now. If I stayed with the Montelo Car and the rest of the train, I was every bit as dead as I would be if the heavy bolters blasted me to gobbets of flesh. A light caught me and I heard engines howl as one of the aircraft spun to follow me, making a wide banking turn out over some firs, downdraft blasting the snow covering away to reveal the blue green needles beneath. The distance was opening fast and as I reached the edge I flung myself across it. Time seemed to slow and then I hit the other side, rolling and rubbing desperately for a handhold. My corset snagged on one of the cargo attachment points and tore, snugging me up as the silk of my gown took the strain. The general landed beside me, rolled to his feet, and scooped me up. My blood was thundering so loud in my ears I couldn't hear what he was saying and the cold bit at me like acid. Sparks exploded around us as the banking landspeeder came side on, it’s door gunner getting the angle. I saw great starburst of flame leaping from the barrel out of the corner of my eye as I was born along. I fumbled vainly for my pistol but it was lost when the corset ripped. I tried to reach the sword to cut our way in but I couldn't make my hands work. I could feel the roof flexing under the hammering impacts like the skin of a drum. Fragments of casings danced around us like fireflies, each one razor sharp and deadly. Aranson carried me five feet to an armor crys skylight. It exploded into shards and we tumbled through, plummeting back into the train.

I was screaming when I hit the water water with a splash that knocked the wind out of me and slapped my face and front hard. Kicking out in blind panic, I broached and then submerged completely, scrambing to get my feet under me. The water was still warm, a better heat sink than the air, and carried the faint scent of cloroclean. After a second I managed to put my feet down the water just under shoulder height. I was in the pool car, a place I had seen but not used thus far on the journey. I waded to the shore, incase they landspeeder was good enough to hover over the shattered skylight, and pulled myself up onto the faux sand shore. Tropical plants waved crazily around me in the inrushing draft and colorful cloth umbrellas stretched and bobbed. I forced myself to the rear window and looked out. The tail end of the train was moving down the hill faster than a man could run, and gaining momentum by the second. I watched for long moments until the car vanished into the swirling snow. With a triumphant snort I turned and too my horror saw General Aranson laying face down in the artificially clear blue water, a great cloud of blood spreading out from around him.

"No, no!" I shouted and staggered across to him, dragging him to the shore. I don't know what I expected to do for him but I need not have bothered. His back and spine were a ruin, his rib cage broken open by the heavy bolter rounds that had killed him as he shielded me from the barrage. His right leg was gone at the knee, nowhere to be seen. The patched woolen sock I had seen earlier was still on his left foot, looking lonely and unbearably sad. The old man's face held no life, and no peace, merely the rictus of pain and effort he had been wearing when the bolts killed him. I swallowed a lump in my throat. He was an old soldier trying to enjoy a few years of peace but, like so many, he had learned that in this age of darkness there was only war. I closed his eyes as a sob wracked my chest.

"Freeze," a voice from behind me called, the tell tale distortion of the troopers face gear echoing in the empty room.

"Do exactly as I say and you will live," he commanded and I felt the barrel of a las gun against my back. I was angry, and scared, my mouth tasted like bile and my stomach churned with fear and hate. I felt the universe roar all around me, the pounding in my ears so loud I couldn't understand why it didn't shake the train to pieces.

"Have it your way bi..."

"Stop." The word wasn't loud, but when it left my throat it had an absolute finality that made the rest of the chaotic setting seem like a dream. I closed the general's eyes and stood up, wiping the blood onto my ruined dress. The 'sand' slid off my body after a few moments, proof that it was much higher tech than the simple bodies of deceased diatoms. I turned to face the soldier who still had his gun leveled at me. His eyes were wild and a rhyme of cold frost was spreading across the plasteel housing of the weapon.

"Drop the weapon," I instructed him, and his hands flexed spasmodically. The las gun fell to the sand, landing barrel first and standing upright for a second before gravity bore it down. I could see the veins in the soldier's neck throbbing like an opera conductor's baton. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. I regarded him levely and his hands lifted to either side of his head. The anger in his eyes a moment before had been replaced by pure terror. Spittle hung from his lip but it was already beginning to freeze from the hoar frost spreading over his face. The muscles in his arms bunched. The Montelo Car had slid far enough down the track that I was out of range of the psy baffle. My mind was free again.

"Do it," I commanded and his arms wrenched violently sideways. The sharp crack as he broke his own neck echoed around the now silent room.

Lieutenant General Julius Paleologus Aranson led the defense of Zoja at the Heraclean Gate after the collapse at Rafel. Outnumbered and outgunned, his forces held their position for two hundred and seventy two days and is credited with saving Imperial forces in that sector from encirclement and complete destruction. When the relief force from Battlefleet Amorgos arrived, less than one defender in ten was still alive and none were unwounded. May the God Emperor welcome him to his table, if the God Emperor does indeed do such things.