The Lowly lasgun

Demon swords and books that scream their hideous contents at the savant are not the only eldritch artifacts of the grim dark future. When enough blood is spilled, even mundane tools may take on a life of their own. The Lowly lasgun is such an artifact.

The legend has it that guardsman Stanislaus Lowly was a member of the XIII. Casbian, a ragged outfit just a step above a penal battalion, a non-descript soldier in an average unit in a standard Guard regiment. The Imperial Guard is said to achieve victory by drowning the enemy in the blood of guardsmen, and the treatment of the XIII. Casbian epitomizes this saying. During a nameless pacification on some nameless backwater world, Lowly's unit was thrown into the meat grinder. He and a hundred other guardsmen were to storm some pillboxes held by renegade elements - over an open field in open sight of the heavy stubbers. Regrettably, foreseeably, the decoys were cut to shreds. Lowly was the only guardsman to survive the ordeal, and was reassigned to a different element of the XIII. Casbian, the dreaded Gruldark Trench Rats, a group of habitual survivors and misfits.
Lowly was with the Trench Rats for a week, before this legendary outfit was caught in an ambush. The Trench Rats, known for their tenacity and their ability to get out of the tightest spots, were wiped out to a man, that man being Lowly. Again, he was sent to a different unit, just in time for the XIII. Casbian's departure for the Mordecai system. 

The fate of the XIII. Casbian during the Mordecai massacres is well-documented as the nigh-perfect mixture of incompetence, hubris and sheer bad luck. While the Imperial Guard  held the strategic high ground after an interminable and very bloody campaign, the tatters of the XIII. Casbian were damaged beyond any hope of restitution. The few surviving veterans were scattered over various colonies. Lowly's name, together with the number of his lasgun, appears on the lists of the survivors - a few dozen out of a couple of hundred thousands - and his trail ends there. He probably died in his bed in some small hamlet.

The war gear of the XIII. Casbian was split up by the Departmento Munitorium. Lowly's gun was appropriated by another regiment and has wandered from hand to hand ever since, from the Imperial Guard to Local Defense Forces to Skitarii to enforcers and mercenaries. It even graced an Inquisitor's cadre for a time. Over the course of a few centuries a disquieting pattern became clear: While the holder of the Lowly lasgun seems to survive any situation, however hairy, all his comrades seem to be ill-fated. They die in droves, they die like flies, while one man drags himself out from under the corpses, holding the Lowly lasgun. But the gun seems only to work for the grey multitudes of humanity - the meek guardsman, the hollow-faced scribe, the technomat who is but a cipher to his superiors. Soon after some radiant champion of humanity picks up the Lowly lasgun, he is struck down by fate and the fickle tides of battle. The gun only has its "benign" influence in the hands of a man belonging to the teeming masses.

The Ordo Calixis has followed the trail of the Lowly lasgun for some decades now and acquired the artifact on the battlefields of Tranch. The gun is said to rest in the depths of the Tricorn palace, but everyone who knows the Ordos well enough would seek the Lowly lasgun somewhere else. It is of great interest to the Istvanian faction, as the gun seems to find those individuals which are fated to survive everything the universe can throw at them. Others see the gun as a means to achieve the hollowest kind of victory: One single man planting the standard on bodies of his comrades.

The Lowly lasgun is said to be a standard pattern lasgun. Its only markings consists of a "13" in low gothic script on the left side of the barrel and a heavy brass key on a short chain hanging from the muzzle. It is beat up and  full of dents and scratches, but is still a reliable weapon.

In game terms, the holder of the Lowly lasgun has an extra fate point, which may only be used for burning and thus surviving certain death. It works only for mediocre characters - anyone with any characteristics score of 35 or more does not profit from the gun. And everyone in the holder's company suffers from strokes of hideous bad luck - how this affects gameplay is decided by the gamemaster.

Servitor Wheelchair

Due to recent developments in my Dark Heresy campaign I humbly present to you the servitor wheelchair.

At times, a servant of the Emperor is grievously wounded while performing his duty. But only in death does duty end, as we all know. And thus, the servant has to struggle on. In Sinophia Magna exists an ancient hospice called the House of Alms. Like the whole hive, this institution is hovering uneasily between decadence and utter dissolution. But when the arbitrators asked for something, anything to keep a crippled dignitary mobile, the house provided.

The wheelchair is made from black, lacquered wood with huge wheels extending nearly to the head of the person placed within. The varnish is scratched, and there are unwholesome spatters on the maroon leather of the seat and the backrest. The chair has a high back, keeping the patient very straight. Leather straps fixate the legs of the patient on a metal rest, while his arms remain free.

Behind the backrest, a servitor is placed. The medicae tell that it was once an infamous strangler terrorizing the docksides of Sinophia Magna in service of the Rag Court. Now it spends eternity serving the frail. Its legs are gone, and its long hands rest on the wheels. There are extensive lobotomy scars on its skull. Its back is studded with brass studs, glass tubes and wires. Its mouth was sewed shut and his ears replaced by brass grilles, but its calm, curiously mild eyes remain. The patient can use common gothic to direct the servitor, which turns the wheels with its long arms, assists with simple tasks and helps the patient to rise from the wheelchair.

The armrests of the machine contain a small dedicated cogitator linked to a drug injector rig. If the patient should suffer any kind of physical crisis, the rig will inject him automatically with a potent mixture to keep him breathing just a little longer.

The huge, black wheelchair with the lank figure of the servitor hovering over its backrest is speedily delivered to the arbitrators' HQ, for there waits a broken servant of the Golden Throne who still needs to go to dark places.

What of Drizz and Yuri?

Patience, patience. I don't have the time to relate their adventures in the usual ornate style, so a short summary will have to do. They finally reached the isle of fire and the House of Dust and Ash, and even made some "friends" in Deadtown. Before the greater auction even started, they got rid of the bloodsworn (Vymer and Quill). They also got on the bad side of Greel, the Head Mourner, who sent thirty of his fanatics to kill the acolytes at a very lonely spot in the necropolis. Unlike in the adventure, the mourners carried some serious melee weapons. They still got cut to ribbons: As long as the fragmenting ammo in the Irontalons holds out, unarmored targets just get turned into bloody confetti. The heroes returned to the auction hall just as the Gilded Widow made her announcement. In the maelstrom of blades and bullets that followed, they took down Greel and got his amulet. They also destroyed/ pilfered many of the artifacts on sale. With the void shield up round the House of Dust and Ash, they tried  to get every able bodied defender into their group, finally showing their true allegiance to the Holy Ordos. This was also the point where they finally took care of abbot Tamas and his filth-worshipping chaos cultists. I also beefed up these guys a bit, but to no avail.
Finally, the acolytes got behind the secret of Greel's amulet and the tomb of Solomon Haarlock. They turned off the void shield and tried to flee the necropolis. Their egress was seen by Octavia Nile and her little coterie as the last chance to get their hands on the greyskin psalter. Supported by some surviving PDF troopers (and my very bad tactical judgment), the acolytes were able to defeat Octavia and her Ashen Tear assassin and to bring the surviving participants of this ill-fated auction to the waiting airship. As soon as they reached someone via vox, they asked for the wholesale orbital bombardment of the island. They will probably never know if their request was granted. Marr debriefed them thoroughly and took away a part of their new playthings, but left them most of the weapons and gear the had bought during the minor auction.

A few thoughts on the adventure:

- Several of the antagonists appeared to be quite underpowered
- Too many groups from the various conspiracies depicted in the main part of "Disciples of the Dark Gods" turn up. I cut out the Slaught, and still I had the feeling of too many different things going on. I could not make heads or tails of it. Next time, I would just beef up the logicians around Octavia Nile or make it two groups of the Logicians meeting up on the island
- Same with the artifacts: Too much different stuff to care
- The linear plot up to the auction led to some problems, as did the lack of explanations. Be prepared to think on your feet or railroad a bit, or someone might be left out when the void shield goes up
- I liked the setting a lot: A mixture between the cave cities in Turkey and the main cemetery of Vienna, just bigger

All in all, a good adventure, but sketchy in places, with too much going on.

The wreckers

The wrecker airship moves alongside the limping Cygnan Martyr. The stubbers fore and aft open up on the vessel, while wounded sailors are carried into the lounge. The defenders rake the armored cabin of the wrecker ship with lasguns, autopistols and shotguns, but to no effect. At ten yards, the wreckers fire grappling hooks into the observation decks, and a boarding gangway, propelled by small charges, crashes into the upper deck of the Martyr, into the middle of the defenders. Hooks and barbs snap into place, binding the Martyr to her attacker. Yuri, who has put bullet after bullet into the wreckers’ cabin, drops his sniper rifle and draws his two irontalons. The sailors grab heavy spanners and wrenches. A few reddots hover uneasily at the smoking mouth of the cabin. Then a pack of wreckers bursts out of the darkness and runs across the gangway, while others abseil toward the grappling hooks. The attackers are covered with bulky brown chem-overalls, patched with pieces of metal and unwholesome leathers and festooned with rusty tools and oxytanks. Their gasmasks turn their shouting into a dull roar. A few fire their selfmade shotguns at the observation deck, but the bulk charges across the gangway, brandishing boarding axes, cutlasses and knives. The first few are cut down by the defenders’ point-blank fire, but then, they are on the observation deck, and the fight becomes a chaotic melee. In a motion as natural as rainfall, Yuri puts his autopistols away and draws the two short straight blades from his back – blades made with narrow corridors and close work in mind. Drizz stands just behind him – and then he is gone. Was there a flicker, a moan? No matter, there is fighting to be done. There are shouts of surprise out of the wreckers’ ship, and gunfire, and a dull explosion. Nobody on the Martyr notices: The fight is too close and too desperate. The sailors are driven back by the furious assault of the wreckers; the decks get slippery with blood. Men drop over the railing and tumble screaming towards the acid sea. The stubbers fall silent, as wreckers storm the positions and the gun crews have to fight for their lives. All over the observation deck, small, vicious fights break out, while smoke from the wreckers’ ship and the burning thruster starts to obscure everything. Close to the gangway, Yuri and Octavia’s bodyguards form the only organized line of defense. No wrecker tangling with Yuri lives longer than a few heartbeats, his blades weaving fast red patterns, while the bodyguards cover his back and put down one attacker after another with their autopistols. While he dispatches another shape in a grublike suit, Yuri notices that the stream of attackers has stopped, as have the screams from the cabin on the other ship. Then, the wrecker ship suddenly drops ten feet, as half of its thrusters cut out. The shock hits the Cygnan Martyr, and nearly everyone is thrown on the deck, while a few unlucky souls are catapulted over the railing into the void. The Martyr starts to list; people slide over the decks towards the deep. The female bodyguard screams as she is flung overboard. Yuri sees her hanging at the railing with one hand, while both airships start to circle and sink. He flicks one blade into the floor to pull her into safety, and a steel club crashes into the deck next to his foot. He twists, whips his remaining blade around, cuts off the hands holding the club and kicks the squirming, spurting shape off the deck. He helps the armored woman to her feet. A grateful nod, then the bodyguard pulls a heavy pistol and starts to fire at the wreckers at the stubbers.
The Cygnan Martyr groans, its thrusters working to keep two ships level in the air, while the wrecker ship tears at the lines. But the presence of Yuri and the Octavia's bodyguards is telling: The fight has turned, the wreckers’ numbers have dwindled and the defenders dispatch the remaining boarders in short order. Then, the gangway buckles, bolts pop and holding lines snap. The gangway tears out of the observation deck, ripping the deck apart. Yuri thinks “Where is Drizz?” A silver-armored shape runs out of the wrecker cabin onto the tilting gangway, which now sinks fast, away from the Martyr. Drizz sprints toward the end and jumps. For a second he hangs in the air, a thousand feet over the Balemire Sea, while the gangway crumbles behind him and the wrecker ship howls into a vertical dive. Then, his armored fingers dig into the wreckage of the observation deck, and helpful hands draw him to safety. The Martyr, lightened, shoots up into the sky, while her attacker plunges into the black, roiling seas below. Yuri looks at the armored Tallarn “Where have you been?” Drizz smiles “Isn’t that obvious? I was on the other side. I found their wheelhouse. I pulled a few levers. The story’s instructive ending.” “Better be careful. It was quite chaotic over here; I don’t think anybody noticed, apart from the dead. My take: You could have killed us all with that stunt. Flashy will be the end of you.” “Don’t be stupid.” Yuri is probably talking about shooting up the wreckers’ cockpit while the Martyr was still festooned with their grappling hooks, but his reproach could also point out something infinitely more dangerous. A psyker does not have to move his legs, one tired step after another, to get to a different place. He travels with his mind, and then the body appears where the mind is, at the other side of a wall, behind the backs of his enemies. But the warp is fickle and vicious, and an airship is one of the worst places to risk its wrath.

The pilgrims

During the small-talk, Yuri takes a look at his dataslate, to see if any of the persons present appears on his list of minor offenders. He soon identifies one of pilgrims travelling the abott as Drok, a wanted criminal who is suspected to dabble in the dark arts. The acolytes decide to take a closer look at the priest’s quarters. During dinner, Drizz rises and saunters away and up the quarters of the priest’s followers. After he passes the sailors standing guard, he pops a vox-bead into his ear and creeps up to the door leading to the cabin of abbot Tamas’ unwholesome retinue. Behind the door he hears something like prayer. Getting closer to the door he makes out a low, repetitive chant “My blood – for you! My pain – for you! Blood! Pain! Blood! Pain!” together with scraping noises, like metal on metal. Something clearly is amiss.
Drizz knocks on the door. As it swings open, he mutters a phrase under his breath and extends his mind into the Sea of Souls. Drok, a twitchy man in his twenties, looks out on the corridor. Although he glances right at Drizz, his mind, clouded by the psyker, is unable to see the man standing in plain sight. As Drok moves out on the corridor to look for his visitor, Drizz steps into his cabin. Drok shrugs, and returns to his little ritual. He closes the door, takes off his shirt and proceeds to castigate himself with a ball of iron nails, which he rolls on his chest and back, softly chanting all the while. His blood runs freely. Drizz just stands in the corner, unsuspected and invisible. After some time, the flagellant cleans himself up, puts on his clothes and leaves the cabin, firmly locking the door. Drizz is finally alone, and quickly starts to rifle through Drok’s footlocker. Under a few scraps of threadbare clothing, he finds the bloody instrument of castigation, and a knife made from a single shard of rusty steel, with a few unwholesome symbols welded on the blade. Its hilt seems to be wound with human hair. The whole thing has the stench of the archenemy upon it. The second footlocker in the cabin reveals similar instruments. Drizz is not able to make head or tails of those things, but he knows that the good abbot seems to travel with a retinue of chaos cultists! He alarms Yuri via voxbead. The voidborn leaves the lounge and frees Drizz from the locked cabin. The two acolytes discuss the recent developments and agree to stay observers, for now, although Drizz would like to flash their inquisitorial badges, shoot the abbot and his henchmen and be done with it. But the priest seems to be small fry – not important enough to reveal themselves as agents of the Golden Throne.

The night passes without incident. The next day, the Cygnan Martyr has moved far beyond the normal shipping lanes. To the stern of the ship, a large, flickering storm front has appeared during the night, but the Cygnan Martyr makes good headway. At midday, the sailors mount two water-cooled heavy stubbers on the observation decks. The weapons sport gun shields and appear ancient, but well cared-for. When Yuri asks about this, a sailor says “We’re quite on our own out here, and at times, there’ll be wreckers about. They go for lone vessels, but mostly they turn tail when they see some guns on a ship. But I’d wager that, even if there are wreckers about, they’ll stay wherever they hole up, with the storm rolling in and all. No need to worry, good sirs.” The Cygnan Martyr stays on her southward course for the next hours, while the storm approaches.

The sailor’s optimism seems to be ill-founded. Soon, as the airship passes the Southern Shard, with its spires of an abandoned hive rising from the acid sea, a small fleck comes unstuck from one of the rusting towers and starts to intercept the Cygnan Martyr. The alarm is sounded, and the captain orders this men to stand to and repel boarders. Wreckers are on the Cygnan Martyr's trail. An airship nearly twice as large accelerates out of the red tangle. It seems to be fit for scrap, a mess decaying machinery and rotten armor plating, festooned with grisly trophies and ancient replacement parts, but it rapidly gains on the acolytes’ ship, its thrusters howling under the strain. The men and women on the Cygnan prepare for conflict. The sailors grimly arm themselves with lasguns and hefty tools, Vymer and Quill check their shotguns, while Octavia Nile and her adept vanish into their cabin. Her bodyguards stay behind, all cool and professional. Nahun Grist moves up and down the deck, exhorting the men to stay steadfast. The abbot and his pilgrims seem to have locked themselves into their rooms to pray for our defense against those that would harm the pious servants of the Emperor. Drizz and Yuri prepare for battle, but keep an eye on the others – for battle is an excellent time for all kinds of underhanded play.

The wreckers’ ship is only a hundred meters away when a volley of rockets erupts from the armored compartment under its gas balloon. Someone screams “Incoming!”, and the defenders on the Martyr’s observation deck scramble for cover, as the missiles go in. One white trail passes the Martyr above, then another. The third goes under the observation deck, the fourth missile hits it squarely. Drizz and Yuri are thrown on the plating, while Vymer is smashed through the windows of the lounge by the impact. The explosion showers the stern with shrapnel, and shouts and screams fill the air. The whole airship shakes. While the fireball blows out, a fifth rocket smashes into a thruster. The thruster whines for a second and cuts out. Trailing black smoke, the Cygnan Martyr turns to meet her attacker.

Fellow travellers

The acolytes step on the gangway and board the Cygnan Martyr. Barely minutes after their arrival, the sailors move the last crates onto the airship, fuel hawsers are removed and the Martyr pulls away with a dull hum of its thrusters. The other guests have gone inside.

Drizz and Yuri are shown a tiny, austere cabin with bunk beds, a small table and a metal chair bolted to the floor. The only decoration is a mass-produced devotional picture showing the Emperor on the Golden Throne. As soon as they are alone, they sweep the place for listening devices and install their own surveillance gear. They do this automatically, barely talking about a procedure that has become as habitual as a short prayer. After that, the Acolytes step into the lounge of the airship to meet their fellow travelers.

The Cygnan Martyr cannot be called luxurious, but the lounge is clean and spacious. Its large windows afford a great view on the Balemire Sea, and its ceiling is painted with scenes from the Angevin Crusade. Groups of low tables and armchairs, as well as a simple bar at the back of the lounge complete this area. Here the passengers will spend most of the time, unless they prefer to retreat to their own small cabins or move around on the observation deck.

Apart from the ever-present sailors – two of which are standing guard in the lounge with stubby shotguns – the acolytes soon make out four groups of travelers and learn their names from the ever-helpful Nahun Grist, the ship’s steward and cargo master, who also manages the bar if time allows. Nahun seems to be a close friend of the captain, and also tells of the close connection of the men serving on this airship to their master - “them being in the same rotten guard regiment as me and captain Shadrack for half-score years, and to hell and back, and knee-deep in greenskin guts.” Maybe it would be unwise to underestimated the guards in their bulky chemsuits. Nahun points out a spindly guilder named Lanus Cisten, who sits at a table with two middle-aged, non-descript men wearing rugged, well-worn clothing and bearing large sidearms. Lanus Cisten seems to do all the gesturing and most of the talking, while his neighbours at the table just nod or grunt. At first glance, they seem to be his bodyguards, but Nahun tells the acolytes that these men have their own passage to the House of Dust and Ash – they are independent operators, using the names Vymer and Quill. A table further along, two men and a woman in grey-blue flak armour surround an attractive young lady in strict, black business attire. A hooded and robed adept is working on a data slate, while the lady dictates something in a low voice. The armed trio seems to fill all kinds of functions, apart from being obvious bodyguards – they have the bearing of experienced servants, able to melt away and to become one with the background of any social activity. The adept seems to be a personal assistant: It is not unusual for prosperous guilds and trading houses to provide their agents with helpers which keep the numbers ready, while the negotiators do the talking. The lady goes by the name of Octavia Nile; that is all Nahum Grist can tell, although the acolytes notice that notice that Nahum - and some of the other men in the lounge - steal a glance or two at the pretty agent. Finally, at the part of the lounge farthest away from the bar, at the prow of the ship, a corpulent, bald priest of the ecclesiarchy holds court. He is surrounded by a gaggle of malnourished, ragged men. Ostensibly, he and his followers belong to one of the many sects which preach poverty and neglect of the body as the true paths to the Emperor’s blessing. The priest’s high voice cuts through the hum of the engines and the small-talk going on at the bar and the tables. “Abbot Tamas of Shale, on a pilgrimage with a few favored believers, but he’ll tell you so himself soon enough. Preaching without pause since he put his feet on the Martyr. I wonder why he is so fat, while his men are so thin.” Nahum Grist wipes down another glass.

The acolytes thank Grist for his time and start to make the acquaintance of the others. Lanus Cisten is only too willing to talk to them. A dilettante historian and would-be collector of artifacts from Solomon’s past, he seems to be close to his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase some “real” relics of history. He seems to know a lot about Solomon and seems to be smart enough, but as Yuri will put it later, “does not know when to stop the yapping.” Vymer and Quill, on the other hand, do not talk at all, neither about their reasons for being here nor about themselves. When asked directly, Vymer basically tells Drizz to mind his own business. Octavia Nile, on the other hand, is more open. While she, too, talks of a business partner who wants to stay unknown, she freely shares her impressions of the other travelers, while subtly gauging the acolytes. In her eyes, the priest is a holy fool, Cisten on an expensive pilgrimage of his own, while Vymer and Quill seem to work for another business concern. When she asks the acolytes about their intentions concerning the auction, Drizz tells a finely woven net of lies. He is a “far going trader” who is on the lookout for interesting gadgets or information left by the extinct Haarlock dynasty, but he also hints a shady patrons. Octavia’s face stays bland, but she seems to accept the story at face value. Apart from the priest and the dilettante, everyone aboard the Cygnan Martyr seems to work for powerful, secretive people who sent minions to do the bidding. “We will have to learn the hidden allegiances of each of them” Drizz thinks, “and Emperor help us if they work out who our master is.”

The Cygnan Martyr

Marr pauses and looks at his two servants. “If push comes to shove, I will intervene with all the powers at my disposal. But it will not come to this. You will observe; you will listen. You will stay incognito. You will make up a convenient cover story, and I will give you the means to make it believable.” With a wave of his hand, Marr orders the menial to bring forth a large metal box. Inside, Drizz and Yuri find chem-cloaks, respirators, a medkit, a purse filled with 1000 throne-coins, and four sets of clothing cut to the latest fashion in Hive Gloriana. The menial hands them an invitation to the auction, a large sheet of vellum filled with spidery scrawls and embossed with the seals of the administratum and the sorrowful guild, a data-slate containing the names and profiles of about a hundred lesser criminals and a credit block over one million thrones – a fortune in the shape of a small brass automatism. Marr smiles “Don’t think about running to the bazaar and gorging yourself. You need a banking matriculator to extract these funds and relay them to the Chancellery Court. The provost will have such an item. Use the money to bid on artifacts you want to keep out of the hands of the other visitors or to bolster you cover story. Or bribe the right people with it. You are used to make decisions on your own, and I trust you will use these funds wisely. Do you have any further questions?” Drizz and Yuri look at each other. Both are very eager to discuss their strategy – but not in front of Marr. They shake their heads. “Then it is time to for me to bid farewell and wish you the best of luck. The airship Cygnan Martyr has been chartered to ferry the participants to the House of Dust and Ash. You will travel to the Telfer Port District; a speeder will get you there in less than an hour." After that last exchange, inquisitor Marr bids the two acolytes goodbye.
After retrieving their weapons they are brought to a speeder, an arrow shaped antigrav jumper, its hull covered with hammered silver and reliefs showing the triumphs of imperial man, the pilot an integrated servitor. As the vehicle ferries them to the outskirts of Hive Gloriana, the two talk about their new assignment. The stummer provided by their mistress hums along, as the acolytes talk strategy. Yuri snorts “Observe! Listen! Bullshit! Something big is going on, but this Marr-fellow would not tell us even if his rancid comfy-chair was on fire. We are played as pawns, and I don’t like it one bit.” “I concur, but we do not know nearly enough now to act on our own. Also, we have no backup at all, apart from what he promised. We should go with his assignment, for now. As soon as we find out what kind of game Marr plays, we consider our options.” “Void’s teeth, it’s like that rotten time on the His Omniscience again.” Drizz grins “As they said at home: If you do not like catching snakes, beware of becoming too good at it, or you will do it the rest of your life. Concerning our cover story: I will pose as the trader in obscure goods and antiques who wheedled an invitation at the last moment and came from far away to take part. Asked about the How, I shall hint at blackmail or worse. You are my bodyguard. I will talk to the other buyers, you will mingle with their servants and hired guns.” Yuri just nods. The rest of the flight they concoct cover names and arrange gestures, expressions and stances for their cipher code language: Even a well-practiced team like these two needs to update their ciphers in while.
After an hour of fast flight, the speeder sets down in the dock area of the Telfer Port District. The hive ends in a steep cliff, about 200 feet above the churning, acidic waters of the Balemire Sea. Towards the horizon, the ruins of chemical works and hive structures jut out of the waves. Gantries, pipes and gangways reach out from the cliffs to a dense mass of airships. The area is covered with a dense, orange haze – each breath scours the throat. The acolytes don their respirators and shove through a mass of dockside workers and travelers, most of them clothed in heavy chem-resistant gear, towards the docks. A very long time ago, normal ships plied the routes on Solomon’s oceans, but now the waters are so corrosive and the chemical fog so heavy that airships have to be used. Between two heavy gas tankers, Yuri makes out a fish-shaped airship about 40 meters long and 14 meters wide with a fine painting of an imperial saint pierced by a multitude of arrows – the Cygnan Martyr. The ship looks tarnished, but well cared-for. A house-sized cabin with two observation decks is slung beneath the armored gas balloon. A row of long lighting rods runs down the airship’s spine, and at its stern steering fins cluster around heavy directional thrusters. At the front, a iris-like observation dome surrounded by searchlights houses the cockpit. Fuel lines and steel cables tie the airship to the docks. A dozen men in gas-masks and heavy working gear make some last preparations for the voyage or carry crates with supplies into the belly of the ship. At the lower balcony, close to the gangway, some human shapes in heavy cloaks with faces hidden by ornate respirators watch the bustle. Drizz whispers “Our competitors. Let’s try to make a fitting first impression.”

Talking to Marr

The black door opens without a sound. Behind it is a large, silent room. After the door closes, the roar of the Chancellery Court is completely muffled, and the only sound is the ticking of a clock, somewhere in the dark niches. Pale light filters from windows set in the ceiling, and the walls are covered with the black spines of large books. An empty-eyed menial appears and offers refreshments. Glasses in hand, the acolytes scan the bookcases. The silvery letters on the covers tell of pending cases which are all older than a century. Right now, there might be a lesser heir waiting on the steps, wasting his last thrones and hoping for a word from the Chancellery Court, while Drizz idly leaves through his case, being the only one in a generation to even touch the paper listing the proceedings.
As Drizz replaces the book, two walls glide away and a strange procession enters the room. Two hulking servitors carry a sedan-chair with a tattered silk roof. The chair is occupied by an old man with long, stringy hair, completely covered in grey robes and soiled shawls. His hands are resting in his lap, two gnarled, bony hands gripping some small object. His face is deeply lined, with blade-thin nose and a sharp chin. The body of the man is a wreck, dissolving in a last bout with disease, age or something worse, but his yellow eyes shine with sharp intelligence and inhuman will. Next to him stands a young woman with a shaved head and a weary face. She is wearing a bone corset too big for her lanky figure and a crown of strange scars around her skull. The man rights himself and speaks: “I am Inquisitor Marr, and it seems that you are…mine.” He coughs, and the young woman bends down to dab his lips. When she removes the handkerchief, the acolytes spot blood. “I heard of your exploits and it seems you are tireless and subtle investigators who are not afraid to act if the situation demands it. You have done good work in the past and you will to continue to do so, I believe, in the future. Regrettably, all my own servants are tied up in other places, in schemes I can ill afford to toss aside at the moment, so I went to the length of asking your kind mistress for a favor.” The acolytes nod, not asking the obvious questions – why us? why you? – there would not be an honest answer anyway. Marr continues “You shall be my spies. You shall observe a singular event in the history of this world, maybe even this sector, and you shall be my eyes and ears, taking the measure of the men and women participating in this event. You might know that Erasmus Haarlock, the last heir to the great rogue trader dynasty of Haarlock, was declared dead not long ago, lost in the Halo Stars. With him, this great house has finally been extinguished.” Everyone in the room knows the house of Haarlock, and the stories entwined with the fate of this family. Yuri knows more than most, as the voidfarers and rogue traders tell many things about Solomon Haarlock and his progeny, things not shared with dirtsiders: tales of a willful house, tremendously wealthy, steeped in hubris, quick to anger and terrible in its revenge, a house that trod forbidden paths and skirted open heresy. Solomon Haarlock traveled the stars of the Calyx Expanse long before Saint Drusus unified these stars under the banner of the Imperium and forged the Calixis Sector into being, and he did many great and secret things that shape the sector to this day. As they say: Saint Drusus threw a shining light on the Expanse, but it was Solomon Haarlock who traveled all its shadows. Yes, Yuri knows of the house of Haarlock, and he likes this assignment less with every passing moment. “As is right and proper, the estate of a house without an heir will be auctioned off under the aegis of the administratum. This auction is going to take place in two days time, at an ancient place called the House of Dust and Ashes, situated on a volcanic island in the Southern Ocean. The Haarlocks traveled far from the light of the Emperor and stirred up old shadows in their unrelenting quest for power and knowledge. They grew rich on their conquest and collected many strange things as well, and now their spoils are there for the taking, for mere money. To go there, and pay for the wonders of the Halo Stars with coin - the thought of it. All kinds of heretics, conspirators and criminals will try getting their hands on this treasure. And you will be there, finding out who shows his face, who is interested in which kinds of relics and heirlooms, who is dealing with whom, and why. From this knowledge, I will be able to work against those who might want to harm the Empire and also recognize those who are mere dabblers. This knowledge will provide the threads to weave a strong net. You will bring me those threads. Observe, listen, learn everything you can - this is your duty.” Drizz says, “My lord, why not just raid the place? If there is so much evil convening on this island, it might be easier to move in with inquisitorial storm troopers and be done with it.” Marr smiles. “The direct approach, often the right way to deal with such vermin, and I applaud the thinking behind it. But attacking the House of Dust and Ash would probably just hit the emissaries and brokers of those who want to stay hidden – and it is those in the shadow which I want, not their hirelings. My only way of identifying them is putting you amongst these emissaries, watching their every move and finding out whom they serve. Furthermore, The House of Dust and Ash is a holy place, where the great families of Solomon have buried their dead for centuries, and where they convene for all kinds of clandestine business – one of the few places here which are recognized to be truly neutral ground. An assault on this sanctuary would be ill received.” “But what if we come across something that could destabilize Solomon itself, if this auction is but the last step in some grand design to attack the rule of the Empire?” “You shall be able to contact me. I have an intermediary called Locutor Merryweather on the island. He is schooled in universal inquisitorial gesture language, bands one and three. He will not only fill you in on other visitors and recent developments on the island, but also takes care of the administratum’s long range vox. If you identify an existential threat in the House of Dust and Ash that you cannot tackle alone, you will vox me, and I will take all steps necessary.” Marr does not elaborate, but this hints at a cruiser in orbit, its lances trained on the island, or a company of elite troops ready to take apart the House of Dust and Ash, stone by stone if necessary. Drizz swallows when he looks at Marr’s eyes, and hides his awe behind the next question. “Lord, who is managing the island? The administratum? Are there parliamentary guards which we could use for our cause?” “The House is managed by the Sorrowful Guild, a local cult of mourners designated as eccentric, but still within the pale of the Ecclesiarchy. They take care of the buildings, are the hosts to the visitors of the House and they perform all the rites of mourning and remembrance. There are hints that they already existed when Drusus was but a child and the seas of Solomon were still blue. The presence of the administratum is rather light. A provost named Hiram Bland is in command, and there would be about twenty troops. Not that I think that security detail is necessary – as I said before, this is a sanctuary, and nobody would think of attacking it.”

To Solomon

The short farewell is followed by hectic activity. The acolytes are sent to a waiting speeder, and just before the vehicle rises into the polluted skies over Hive Sibellus, a menial hands in a portable stummer – a final gift. A few hours later, the acolytes are on board of the Hand of Finn, cobra-class destroyer and part of the Saint Urthur squadron, unexpectedly and hurriedly commanded by Battlefleet Calixis to reinforce orbital defences in the Solomon system.

Mercifully, the voyage through the warp is without incident this time. The two guests are shunned by the ratings and ignored by the officers: strange cargo to be delivered safely and without fuss. They spent the time training in a disused cargo hold and familiarizing themselves with the destination of their voyage: Solomon, classified as hive world, population 13 billion, seat of the Chancellery Court. Tithe exactus maxima. Although the air on the surface is scrubbed by block sized atmosphere cleaners spread all over this dying world, visitors are advised to keep respirators and chem coats close to them at all times. Sometimes, the acolytes see signs of other passengers, locked away in the belly of the ship: forced immigrants and indentures bound for a world so polluted and used up that it is no longer able to sustain its population level, and adepts and scribblers sent to do the Emperor’s work in the Chancellery Court. Solomon is an ancient, played-out world, and the passengers on the Finn mirror its terminal tiredness.

After a few weeks in the warp, the Saint Urthur squadron drops out of the Empyrean over Solomon. The world shows the ravages of nearly a millennium of unmitigated industrial use. Its landmasses are colored red and orange, with the large hive structures and massive blast railways and pipelines clearly visible from orbit. Its seas are black and covered by roiling storm clouds. Near the hives, the seas shimmer as megatons of chemical effluvia are streaming into the poisoned waters. No polar ice caps remain. Hundreds of craft litter the skies above the planet, transports, freighters, warships of all sizes.

Drizz and Yuri are bundled into an aquila-lander bound for the Chancellery Court and have to share the craft with a dozen ashen faced subaltern scriveners, fingering their lucky charms and black books. After a drop of twenty minutes, the lander comes to rest on the huge airfield of the Chancellery Court. It disgorges the acolytes and the whimpering scriveners and howls back into the skies. To the left and right of our heroes, scores of landers drop in and blast off – Drizz cannot help but think of an orbital invasion, but instead of warriors here are brigades of sullen adepts, grimly weaving their scrolls, dataslates and records, stumbling out of the landing craft, with waves of defeated men streaming from the monumental building before the acolytes. It is this dark giant that houses the final arbiter of all questions judiciary in the Calixis Sector, a power even sector governor Hax on Scintilla has to obey – in theory. Large green stablights fail to illuminate the façade of the black behemoth, the dreaded Chancellery Court, where a legion of judges, adepts, ministerials, scriveners and data-helots weigh, compare and deliberate, often for decades, where the fates of whole worlds are decided with the flick of a quill. A whole galaxy of advisors, fix-makers, intercessors and flunkies mills before this mountain of black stone, its only ornament a huge clock face, showing the thirteen hours of Solomon’s day cycle. A flight of steps large enough to accommodate a dozen regiments of the imperial guard leads to the massive gates of the Court. On the stairs, supplicants, heirs of lesser consequence and utter beggars, to weak for the trek up ´to the gate, wait for word from the halls of the court. Some of them have been living in their makeshift tents for years, cared for by water merchants and the so-called good friars-on-the-steps, waiting for a verdict.

The acolytes hurry along, pausing only to hand over their weapons to one of the innumerable guard posts, receiving a paper slip with an astronomically high number on it in return. Then they enter the great halls of the Chancellery Court. They register the rows upon rows of typing menials, the clouds of servoskulls carrying missives, scrolls and parchments, the little clots and groups of high and low officials, filling the halls with a never-ending murmur, and their hearts sink. Finding Marr is going to be a nightmare. But the Inquisition brooks no delay. A heavily augmented adept in a slate-colored robe accosts them. After making sure of their identity, the insufferable official leads them to a rickety elevator. He answers the acolytes’ questions with barely hidden arrogance and irritating curtness - every word is a reprimand for their tardiness and ignorance, a lament for those being kept from their real tasks and duties in order to guide around boorish visitors. The acolytes learn next to nothing from him. With the briefest of farewells, the adept leaves the duo in front of room 13 on floor 39, a dusty, small balcony high over the milling, viscous chaos of the Court. Behind this little, black door under the unadorned brass marker, Marr awaits.

The other master

The inquisitor beckons her two servants from the cage. She wastes no time with small talk. After a short greeting, she uncovers the reason for the hasty summons, a three-word code telling Yuri and Drizz to appear with all haste and to bring all the equipment they need in the service of the Golden Throne. “Someone used his political clout to force a carta mutuum dedit. A rarely employed tool within the Holy Ordos. It pleads for the temporary use of a member’s private resources, like a warp-capable ship or a personal library, without stating the purpose of that use, citing utter secrecy and urgency. To use it on someone’s personal retainers is nearly unheard off, but certainly possible.” She coughs. “Inquisitor Marr of Solomon is in urgent need of your assistance, and he resorted to the carta to take you from me, if only for a time. It is most peculiar. The destroyer Hand of Finn is bound to the Solomon system and only waits for your arrival to leave dock. As soon as you reach Solomon, seek out Marr in the Chancellery Court. He will brief you on your duties personally. Obey him as you would obey me.”

The acolytes are shocked, although they are wise enough to hide their surprise. Drizz is the first to recover: “M’lady, two questions, if I may.” Inquisitor von Shech nods. “Who is this Inquisitor Marr, that he may command your resources in this way? What does he want of us, of all people? How does he even know that we serve you?” After a short pause, the inquisitor answers: “He is an old and powerful member of the Ordos Calixis, and as connected as one can be, although he is far away from the politics of the Tricorn Palace. Even hidden away on Solomon, he is lord of a vast network of spies and informants. Whatever his reasons to ask for you specifically: They will be well-founded on knowledge. He extended himself when he wrote this carta, and do not doubt that I will exact my price for this. The carta itself stays vague on the nature of your employ; it only states the temporary nature of it. If you survive.”

“What if he wants to employ us in some heretical scheme? He might use us instead of his personal acolytes to pull off an unsavory gambit. We would be deniable assets to him. Maybe he wants to use us to blacken your name. What should we do in this case?”

“You serve the Emperor first. I trust you to act appropriately if Marr has strayed from the path of the righteous. You will bring no shame upon me: You’ve proven to be excellent independent agents on the His Omniscience, when she traveled far from the Emperor’s light. I have no reason to suspect that your abilities decreased in the mean time. On the other hand: The carta is officially presented to the Conclave, even if only a very small number of inquisitors know of it now. If Marr uses you for heretical or radicalist aims, his responsibility would become common knowledge among his peers in short time. Finally: Marr would know of easier ways to recruit cat’s paws than to use the carta and ship you across the sector.” She smiles again, but privately, her acolytes are not persuaded of Marr’s good intentions. Drizz speaks up: “One last request, if I may: As our report clearly states, our success on the His Omniscience rested firmly on our ability to keep our communication secret even in a environment as treacherous as a Adeptus Mechanicus explorator vessel. Delian Cassano employed a powerful stummer for this purpose. At the moment, we do not have such a device at our disposal. Would our kind mistress deign to help us in this regard? I plead not for our personal safety, but only to be able to serve you in the future as a faithful servant.” The inquisitor smiles: Maybe it is Drizz’ readiness to suspect Marr of foul play, or maybe his new-found verbosity. He seems to take to the role of a minor noble with gusto, even though he stems from a rough tent on a windswept desert. “I will see to it that such a device will find its way to you. But time is of the essence. Leave now for Solomon.” With that, she points to the elevator. With a short bow, the two men leave the cold sanctum of their mistress. Behind them, in the darkness, the robotic manipulator lifts another skull from the endless pile, scans it, measures it, and takes it away.

Albirte von Shech VII

The two men stride through the mass of mourners. As they approach the ziggurat, one of the black priests holds them up and leads them to a rickety brass elevator set into a deep niche of the shadowy building. The priest’s fingers flick across a tarnished keypad and the cage opens for the acolytes. An interminable, slow descent begins. As always, the acolytes wonder why their master has ordered them to appear. A new mission? A reprimand, perhaps? Drizz thinks uneasily about the dozen red books hidden in a disused power substation, volumes detailing the life cycles, technology and tactics of various xenos races, among them the abominable Hrud. It is, of course, proscribed knowledge. Has he been found out? He knows that her eyes are everywhere.
The brass cage passes empty storage corridors, morgues and tombs. Not a single living thing inhabits these cold and silent halls. Soon, the chants and cries of the mourners and the rattling and hissing of the crematoria fade away, and only the tink-tink-tink of the descending cage can be heard. Finally, the elevator shudders to a halt in the deepest level of mortuarium VII, an ancient dissection theatre, now the lair of the acolytes’ mistress. The elevator opens into a circular room ten paces across. It is a dark and painfully cold place, its iron walls partly frosted over. Most of the ghostly blue light comes from a large observation window facing the elevator, looking out into a monumental hall, its floor covered with the skulls of the imperial dead. Now and then, a robotic manipulator lowers itself from the vaulted ceiling of the hall and picks up a single skull, studies and measures it, and takes it away. In front of this window stands a massive dissection table made from black marble, resting on two bowed, blindfolded caryatids. On its slightly indented surface lie a profusion of musty books bound in unwholesome leathers, strange and sharp instruments from silver and brass, parchments and dataslates.
A willowy figure rests her hands on the black table. She seems at the edge of forty, although the marble-like quality of her skin shows the traces of many rejuvenat treatments. One familiar with the elite of the Imperium would put her age close to a hundred. She wears a black, armored corset and piles her black hair high: a mourning garb passed out of fashion some twenty years on Hive Sibellus. Massive silver rings cover her long fingers, and long needles fasten her hair. Even a fool would notice that these rings and needles are weapons, most likely of xenos manufacture and thus a sign of incomparable wealth and influence. As the doors of the elevator finally open, the woman moves away from the table, getting into full view of the acolytes. Even if this not their first meeting by a long shot, the men shudder when they see the legs of their mistress: Just below the knees, the limbs part into four articulated silver stalks, like the legs of a spider. With low clicking and whirring sounds, they carry the woman across the room, giving her movement an unnatural elegance. She seems to glide like a dancer on ice, a beautiful and effortless motion, as long as you are able to take your eyes from her many silver legs. With a low chuckle, the woman welcomes the acolytes. She is Inquisitor Albirte von Shech VII, of the Ordo Hereticus, scion of an old and noble house and the undisputed master of mortuarium VII.

Acolytes!

In these posts I will depict what happens in our Dark Heresy: Tattered Fates campaign. Thus, there will be plenty of spoilers for people who want to play this set of adventures. You have been warned. I shall also refrain from explaining the background of Dark Heresy. I assume that you know about the Empire of Man, Him on Terra, the Warp, and the agents of the Golden Throne. The group consists of only two characters, who are at about 3500pts at this point. Their adversaries have been adjusted to this level. We started off with “The House of Dust and Ash”, a preliminary adventure to the campaign, contained in the fine sourcebook “Disciples of the Dark Gods”.

Mortuarium VII is a hallowed place, where thousands of dead are burned every day. Resting a mile beneath the surface of Hive Sibellus on Scintilla, Mortuarium VII is a tomb, a sanctum, a factory, and a laboratory. It is a hollow cylinder two hundred paces across, its walls honeycombed with tombs and coffin-holes and blackened by the soot and dust of centuries of use, its vaulted ceiling lost high in the darkness. In the middle of this dark and echoing space stands a ziggurat, crowned by huge statue of a black angel wielding scythe and hourglass. The face of the angel is hidden by a heavy cowl, but its gaze seems to fix on the visitor as he enters the mortuarium. Large iron smokestacks snake between the folded wings of the angel, blowing the ash of the burned dead up through the layers of the hive and into the atmosphere of Scintilla. The angel towers like a giant over the dead and the living. Solemn priests with long, black staves and greenish lanterns guide the mourners with their oblong bundles, wrapped into shrouds, carried on biers and in lacquered sedan-chairs, through fields of votive tablets and grave markers towards the maw of the ziggurat, where skull-faced servitors take over the mourners’ burden and the flames finally claim the dead.

Two men stand out in the mass milling in the large entrance to the Mortuarium. It is less their clothing or their weapons – nobles will take their bodyguards wherever they go – but rather the routine they exhibit while moving through the grieving masses. It seems like these two are not here to fulfill some solemn duty or to visit the dear departed, but on an errand, which, while pressing, is essentially mundane. They move in the shadow of the black angel like merchants on a busy trading floor or travelers on a well-known train station. The larger of the men is a dusky fellow with a proud face and long, black, straight hair. A short but dense beard covers his chin. On first sight one could take him for a noble from Malfi, but his skin is too dark for a son of that world. Getting closer, you would see the spider’s web of scars covering his face – even his eyelids are covered by the old traces of short, but deep cuts. And you would notice his eyes and the strange fire within them.
A dark blue cloak barely covers his silvery armor, a carapace worthy of a Kasrkin, with scenes of an ancient battle and clashing horsemen etched into the metal breastplate. A large laspistol and a sword of uncommon form and design dangle from the belt on this armor. He carries the helmet of this valuable suit under his arm: It is fully enclosed with a void seal and crowned with golden laurels.

His companion is far less conspicuous in his dark grey trousers and vest, and the leather hat drawn deep into his face. But some mourners close to him gasp and avert their gaze: His lank figure, white-grey skin and his colorless hair mark him as a voidborn, a member of those unhallowed tribes sailing the empty abyss between the worlds of the Imperium, with the poison of void and warp seeping into their genes. The voidborn is armed to the teeth, with two straight blades strapped across his back, a heavy handgun holstered at his belt and two weighty Irontalon pistols under his armpits, rapid firing sidearms usually restricted to officers of the Imperial Navy, with long barrels and weighty grips, sturdy enough to serve as clubs if their ammo runs out. His baggy, utilitarian clothes hide an armored mesh body glove – and many other items which a man of his trade might find useful. Among all this lethal hardware, the leather whip wound at his thigh seems more like a badge of office than a weapon. These two men are Drizz Al’Rahman, imperial psyker from far Tallarn, and Yuri Orlov, voidborn assassin and formerly the whip and spymaster of captain Leif Morgenstern of the Ribald Pilgrim. They are agents of the Golden Throne, acolytes of the Holy Ordos – the Inquisition, the shadowy and much-feared organization known as the left hand of the Emperor.