Dark Heresy - Wisdom is the beginning of fear.

[Capntastic]

Mik drove onwards, occasionally breaking his silence by complaining that this whole business with the birds made no sense to him. Cryvus's words did evoke some more from him, though.

"Yeah, I'll aim for the eyes alright. Makes sense, as they was goin' for mine."

[Christian]

Mithras began to come down from the Fighter's high as the truck made its way towards Stern Hope once more. He grimaced badly as he inspected the many wounds he had received, and the scratches in his armor. His weapons had come off well, but blood and the remains of crushed birds still covered his armor at some parts. So, for most parts of the journey back, he began to collect himself the only way he knew how, maintenance.

He listened patiently to Cryvus's explanation, frown burrowing creases in his face, and when their wise man had explained what they needed to know he nodded, aiming down his lasgun out in the wild. "Sounds simple enough to me... all I want to know is why these Voicers..." he spat out, "were spared the wrath of the Emperor. An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded."

[Jak Snide]

The drive back to Stern Hope was as peaceful as the acolytes could hope it to be. The knowledge of what awaited them weighed heavily on their minds and Mikolas muttered constantly as he guided their vehicle South, increasingly distracted as the land grew darker with the passing of the day. Still, those few hours gave them a chance to steel themselves and collect their thoughts, energy returning to weary limbs and a grim determination setting in.

(Everyone has had their pool of Fate Points fully restored. Should you wish to use any to recover wounds, representing both simple first aid and grabbing some measure of rest, now is the time. Also, for those inclined, a little mood music.)

When they reached Stern Hope the sky was coloured red by the setting sun, long shadows being cast over the whole settlement. It was immediately apparent that something was amiss, the warning they received via vox only adding to their sense of dread. There were no guards standing watch over the Northern gate, nor were there any along the wall. The town was submersed in darkness, all save for the Cathedral atop the hill which was shrouded in a dim haze of illumination. Mikolas brought the vehicle to a stop just short of the too-small gates, casting a wary glance skywards before muttering something about ribcleaners before disembarking. As their feet touched the ground a figure stepped out behind the gate and into the shadows cast by it. It was clad in a suit of black flak armour, a combat shotgun slung under one arm, face concealed by the helmet's visor. Xerxes, good to his word, had met them North of the Cathedral.

[Christian]

(Mithras spends a fate point to restore some health to his poor bones)

The sense of dread, far from abating, continued to grow like a malicious cancer, and once the troupe had reached the town of Stern Hope only dread for what awaited them filled the heart of the Guardsman.

Jumping off the flatbed, weapons holstered but for his lasgun, which he kept ready, he glanced over towards Xerxes.

"Something's wrong..." he muttered quietly as he raised a hand to their comrade. "Xerxes..." he glanced over at the others, hoping they felt as he did. Madness was a threat he had begun to fear. He had survived Tranch with his sanity intact, but how much more could he take? "Xerxes, take off your helmet."

[Kelne]

Cryvus gave Mithras a withering glance. Of course something was wrong. They were on the very borders of a daemonic manifestation. If anybody had expressed a belief that everything was fine, Cryvus might well have shot them. Still, even given that, there was a rather more immediate wrongness to be addressed.

"A better question," he said, "Is where is Aristachus?"

[Jak Snide]

"Up on the hill."

The man's voice was hoarse and his hands slow as he lifted them to remove his helmet. He tossed it forward weakly, the headpiece rolling to a stop at Mithras' feet. The old puncture from the ruffian's blade was nothing compared to the two holes that had been bored through the centre of the blood spattered visor. Xerxes took a lurching step forward into the light, his entrails dragging behind him.

"You shouldn't have left." he croaked, staring at them with bloody, vacant sockets. "You shouldn't have left me to confront it alone." His torso was a bloody ruin, his stomach torn open and his chest a lacerated, what was left of his flak vest hanging off him in tatters. "Look what it did to me." he growled in an accusing tone.

Crisis:

Spoiler:

"How peculiar." you think. "Not a puppet animated by emotional remnants, but a dead man bound to this world beyond his time." This knowledge, and the question of how you can know such a thing, chill you far more than the fate of your comrade does. You gain 3 insanity points.

Cryvus:

Spoiler:

Xerxes' body reeks of the warp and, to your horror, you realise that it is not a hollow, animated shell. The man's soul, a man who had fought and bled alongside him more than once, is caged within dead flesh, denied passage to the Emperor's side and whatever reward awaited him. He does not fear death, but this, that such a fate should befall a stalwart servant of the Throne chills you to the very bone. You gain 4 insanity points.

Mithras:

Spoiler:

You're not sure what's become of Xerxes. The man is dead, of that there is no doubt, but he is not like the shambling, mindless mockeries of life you encountered aboard the Brazen Sky. You wonders if this is the fate that awaits you within the Cathedral and your mind reels with terror. You gain 4 insanity points.

Mikolas:

Spoiler:

This isn't right. This isn't right at all. Death is a possibility you've come to accept, but the thought that a fate like this awaits you atop the hill terrifies you. You gain 2 insanity points.

[Christian]

No. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't what had happened. Things couldn't have gone so bad, so quickly...

Was this an illusion? Was this real? Was this some foul warp-tainted fiend taking the shape of their comrade? Even if it was Xerxes, in this state...

His grip tightened around his lasgun, knuckles white under his thick gloves, and through clench teeth he spoke. Sweat trickled down his face, underneath his clothes, and he shivered as he took aim with his weapon.

"The Emperor have mercy on your soul, Xerxes!" he yelled as he fired at the horribly maimed body of the Arbiter, letting loose a whole burst of deadly las-shots. This was not how his life should have ended, and if this whole thing turned out to be a fake, a hoax... even that would be preferrable to the alternative, because if it was all an illusion, he would be trying to kill their comrade.

[Jak Snide]

Xerxes was knocked off his feet by the first shot that struck him, the other two taking him in the chest and pitching him backwards, his exposed innards igniting. He lay there, burning from within, and offered one last, tortured groan before falling silent and still.

A chill wind blew through Stern Hope, fanning the flames that grew to consume the body. Xerxes was dead.

[Christian]

Lowering his weapon with shaking hands, the guardsman swayed slightly, mumbling quietly for himself. "His hill shall run with blood..."

[Kelne]

Cryvus wanted nothing more in that moment of his life than to run. To flee this accursed place and save his very soul from eternal damnation or worse. But there would be no salvation in such an act. Only a short life spent forever running, followed by the Emperor's judgement in death. Better a death with meaning than a lifetime of cowardice.

"Lord Emperor, receive the soul of your servant Xerxes," he said, bowing his head, "Judge him for his deeds, in a life dedicated to Your service, and deliver him from torment. Your Will be done." It was a short eulogy, but all they had time for.

He raised his head, "In my judgement as Psykana Imperialis, bound and sanctioned," he intoned formally, "I hereby declare Aristachus the Seer beyond the Emperor's Light. His authority is to be considered null and void, and you may execute him upon your own judgement. Any consequences arising from his death shall fall upon me." He looked at each in turn to be sure they understood this.

"If we are lucky, he is already dead. If not, there are few things in this world more dangerous than a psyker possessed. With that in mind, you also have my permission - my instruction, in fact - to execute me if you believe I have been turned." Now was not the time for deceits of any kind, even those of omission.

Having said all he needed to, and not daring to delay any longer, Cryvus led the way up the hill towards the cathedral, checking his weapons as he went. The enemy stood revealed, and they would either triumph or die.

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis gripped his head as his mind practically revolted against itself. How did he know this...how did he KNOW what the hell happened to Xerxes...was it in the scream? From touching that book? Or all the way back on the Brazen Sky? He had no idea how he somehow intuitively knew that...

...what his mind didn't revolt against...was that whatever Xerxes had a run-in with was not to be trifled with. Screw the armor, range and cover are better defenses than any armor imaginable. Even the feral's thick skull. And marching in the front door...always the last option. Especially the last option here, if what happened to Xerxes was any indicator. Noting an alternate entrance, he swapped his autopistol out for a grapnel, and readied his rifle. Being seen was anything but in his interest--not now, not ever, as he began, not toward the front gate...but a shattered window.

Along the way, he questioned in his mind--why did Xerxes blame them when he originally volunteered to stay behind to begin with?

[Christian]

Still shaking violently Mithras tried to gather his wits, listening to Cryvus with a mixture of fear and disgust painted across his face. Why the Emperor allowed psykers to live, he did not now, but the fact that Aristarchus may be behind the death of Xerxes, willing or not, was not something he enjoyed hearing. And now Cryvus said that he himself may become possessed...

"Whatever the Emperor asks of me, I will do. whatever he asks." it was a reassuring thought, that he was doing the Emperor's will, but Mithras was still a mess. Still, he had work to do, and this was why Skane, Inquisitor Skane, had selected him. This was why he'd been sent to this backwater planet, this was why he hadn't been executed...

Shouldering his lasgun he followed after Cryvus, trying to mentally picture the inside of the Cathedral once more. Surely any light that had remained in it would now be all but snuffed out by whatever foul sorcery Aristarchus had wrought upon it... "And they smote the enemies of the Emperor with a righteous fury, for they knew they were doing His work..."

[Jak Snide]

Mikolas watched Xerxes corpse burn and muttered what passed for goodbye to dead comrades in his own inimitable fashion. Cryvus paused at the body as he passed by, kneeling briefly to take one of Xerxes' weapons into his own hands. The four of them walked into town and towards the hill upon which the Cathedral stood. There was not a soul to be found as they made their way towards those imposing double doors. The air was heavy and the darkness seemed to push against their feeble sources of illumination. Crisis slipped off to the North, his hand drawing a pistol-shaped device from the mass of webbing he wore. As the other three reached the doors the pale light from within chilled their very souls as a murderous whisper of chanting voices issued forth from within. There was the faint whip-hiss of a grapnel being fired and then Cryvus flung the doors open.

Aristarchus stood transfixed atop the alter at the Cathedral's centre, the cards of his Emperor's Tarot orbiting in the air around him, each one burning ghost white, almost too brightly to look at. In the harsh, flickering light they saw that the pews are filled with the people of Stern Hope; men, women and children frozen, standing as if to attention, eyes wide in terror, tears streaming down their cheeks and their mouths whispering words that were not their own. The domed space of the high ceiling above them, once depicting the glory of Drusus' conquest of the darkness, was now a tangled and seething mass of darkness. The warp was bleeding through.

I figure emerged from behind Aristarchus. Majestic. That was the only word to describe it, the aura transfixing them momentarily as they slowly began to notice other details. The shadow it cast was too long and, while their eyes watered as they beheld it, they saw that its movements were wrong, as if the simple task of walking was unfamiliar to it. The tattered garments of an abbot of the Ecclesiarchy swayed around it, the sole distinct feature.

"I'm glad you could make it, my friends." It spoke with the voice of Skae, accented in some indiscernible way and pleasing to the ear. "Behold! A miracle of the faith! Behold! Saint Drusus is reborn to us!" It barked a guttural laugh, standing in stark contrast to its enchanting voice. "Soon I shall be free, oh not in this petty fragment of meat, but in a form imperishable! And all thanks to these witless fools and their faith! The came scrabbling in the dirt for a saint and found instead a god! Fools they were, easily blinded, one by ambition and one by pride. Your petty resolve could do nothing to avert this day,"it crooned, "and as you stand against me you shall fully understand the futility of frail, mortal existence."

It paused, and they could feel its gaze pass over each of them as their spines tingled and they yearned to hear more of its rapturous voice. "Though such understanding need not stem from death. Come forth and receive my blessing should you wish salvation."

(Check your PMs. Now, here is the layout of the Cathedral's interior, and here is a larger map to show where each of you are position. Crisis currently perches on the ledge of a shattered stained glass window, additional details being conveyed via PM. The pews are packed with the people of Stern Hope and, unless one of you has a lifetime of hive living, the masses will prove to be a nigh-impassible obstacle. The area is illuminated by the burning witch fires of the tarot cards and as a result the pillars cast long, dark shadows.

Edit: I neglected to mention that Mikolas has spent a fate point to regain 3 wounds, as has Mithras. Furthermore, a belated second dose of mood music.)

[Kelne]

"Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" Cryvus shouted, raising his las-carbine to snap off a single shot at the head of the man who had once been their superior and was now a mere pawn of chaos. There would be no salvation for Aristachus; his soul was already lost to the daemon. By his weakness, he might yet have damned them all.

But not yet. Not while Cryvus still breathed, not while a single person stood to carry out the Emperor's will. Xerxes' shock-maul hung at his belt, a reminder of another good man who had stood his ground against the encroaching night, though he had died for it. Could any of them do less?

[Christian]

Mithras shook in horror at the sight of the thing, but... but he took a step towards it, looking as if it took every ounce of his concentration to do it... And then he gave a sudden scream, as if wounded and tears began to stream down his eyes. Mouthing mute words his grip around his weapon tightened and he raised his lasgun, taking little time to aim as he fired a salvo of three shots towards that... that thing that had once been the abbot. He aimed no more than to direct his weapon against it, but sometimes that would be enough.

"Never!" he shrieked as the las-shots went off, face ash-white and lips pulled back in a horrified grin.

[NamagomiMk0]

Others would have possible burst out in laughter in Crisis' place. The mute assassin, on the other hand, was nonplussed at the erroneous images entering his mind. Aristarchus was easily visible in the center, clearly fallen judging from the sound of his speech. Yet there was something -else- there. He could barely spot it behind the manipulated Seer, but there was a more...ominous presence. It was barely visible, behind Aristarchus and the ghost lights of his hovering tarot...but it was there.

'there are few things in this world more dangerous than a psyker possessed' ...The possessing entity would clearly be one such thing. And that entity was a prime suspect.

He watched as his cellmates charged through the front door, unloading hell at first sight. He resisted the urge to sneer at the tactical folly that they may clearly have been making...were it not for the fact that he was too busy frustrating with drawing a clear bead on the being clearly present, but obscured, by Aristarchus...and he proceeded to take his time. While the others were being clear distractions, he had no other option. Hopefully, the seer would at least be forced out of the way, so he'd have a clearer shot...

[Jak Snide]

Crisis had barely begun to lift the scope to eye level when the thing disappeared. No, he saw it for a moment, moving impossibly fast towards the Cathedral doors. Mikolas stumbled forward, the shotgun dropping from his hands as his eyes glazed over. Mithras' fire raked through the air and found nothing, his target no longer where he had been aiming. Cryvus' carefully placed lance of las-fire winked out of existence inches from Aristarchus' face, the corrupted power of the tarot cards protecting him. His eyes snapped open and he shouted a tirade of torturous speech, the words archaic and unknown to any of the acolytes.

The thing clad in the vestments of Abbot Skae let out a familiar, mocking chuckle from somewhere beyond their sight.

(Map updated.)

[NamagomiMk0]

...Damnable...

Whatever that thing was...was fast. Very fast. Crisis suspected that Xerxes' existence was twisted in a similar manner...and now there was only one target. One that was...notably...armored. Somehow. Those cards formed some sort of barrier--and it'd take something a bit better than typical las-fire to defuse it.

...but that wasn't the problem. The other thing failed to be distracted by the other three at all. And went straight for the door...noting that it moved right when he sighted in on the bastard...and that he was affected by whatever visions the entity intended for him, that meant only one thing.

...it was going to move to his position, and attack him first.

...and so, Crisis turned, keeping an eye out for when the secondary target would appear, cursing his squadmates' inability to keep the thing pinned down.

[Delay action, firing on anything grotesque, barely human, vaguely Skae-like, and stupidly fast that comes up]

[Christian]

The thing was moving incredibly fast... or most likely, some vile, twisted warp sorcery. The less he knew of this... this fiend, the better. His eyes refused to stop leaking as he swivelled around quickly to see where the thing could have gone, his heart quaking in uncertainty and barely restrained despair. Xerxes had stood against this... and he had fallen. What chance did they have? Cryvus perhaps could inflict some damage on this warp-beast, if he did not find himself possessed first...

In sheer desperation he raised his lasgun-sight to his eye, took aim at the Seer and clicked the fire-rate switch, letting a single shot go.

Emperor save their souls, at least he wasn't using the townspeople as puppets...

[aiming at Aristarchus, firing]

[Jak Snide]

Crisis tracked the movement with his rifle and fired. The bullet embedded itself in the polished tile floor as the assassin silently cursed his target. The others felt its approach before they saw it, its very presence casting a shadow of their souls. It stood before Mikolas and placed hand on one shoulder. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He looked into its face and saw-

Mikolas:

Spoiler:

You have seen the true face of the daemon, and no words can describe it. A human head plays host to an array of shifting, utterly alien features. Its body is torn and broken, limbs bent at impossible angles, flesh rent and pulped yet still holding together, still moving somehow. The vestments it wears are ragged and blood-spattered, the right sleeve gone and its torso riddled with buckshot. As it raises one arm to strike your eyes from your head you gaze into its own; one is a pitch-black orb which glows with white witch-fire. The other is gone, the flesh around it lacerated and unshifting, oozing a purple-black liquid.

The man screamed and flung himself away as a distended, clawed hand slashed at his face. His helmet did nothing, separating as wet paper would as the right side of his head exploded with pain. Cryvus turned and fired, tracing two red lines through the air. The daemon paid no heed to them, the attacks striking its torso to no discernible effect. Mithras somehow kept his discipline and took his shot, but the attack failed to breach the barrier projected by the tarot cards just as Cryvus' had. The seer's eyes swivelled in their sockets and, upon sighting the acolytes, he continued to yell.

"The saint shall be reborn!" he proclaimed. "Why do you stand against him?!" He sounded shocked, wild eyed and enraged that loyal servants of the Emperor could oppose such a miracle.

(Mikolas, having been witness to something terrible, has snapped out of his trance and narrowly avoided receiving the "blessing" of the Crow Father. He has taken 5 damage to the head and, while shaken, is not suffering from any additional mental trauma. His vision has pierced the veil of majesty and it now parts before him readily, exposing the horrific details beneath. The same cannot be said for the other acolytes. Map updated.)

[Christian]

"Mikolas!" Mithras let out a shout as the brute of a man was sent screeching to the floor, clutching his head.

No, no no no no! This was not how it was supposed to end! This was not why they were here, why they had braved the holds of the ship that carried them here, purged the undead filth, braved the deserts, the flocks of birds... This was not how it was supposed to end! Quivering with barely suppressed rage and desperation Mithras dashed toward the apparation, unslinging his shotgun with one hand and hefting his lasgun on his shoulder with the other. He was going to die, of this he was certain. Moments of his life flashed by, of Tranch, of the crash, of the wittling down of his friends. Men he had laughed with, shared his meals with. The Inquisitor, the hearing-room, the Commissar who had wanted him dead... and then the Acolytes, and Xerxes... poor Xerxes...

Running against the thing made his entire body scream in protest, as if his instincts knew what fate awaited him. But he was man, and through the superiority of Man he had transcended his instincts, the chill in his guts and the fire in his heart keeping it at bay.

As he reached the divine-looking apparation he didn't even look up at it, but fastened his eyes in its chest, mumbling under his breath as he raised the barrel of the shotgun squarely at the fiendish warp-beast, almost poking it with the muzzle. "God-Emperor, forgive Your servant his sins, and remember I am just a man..." With that he pulled the trigger to the weapon, letting out a roar in defiance against this mockery of life, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

[Mithras runs up right in front of the daemon, spends a fate-point to add an extra degree of success, getting a +30 to his BS roll for shooting at Point-blank. It is in His hands now]

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis cursed his enemy in his mind. It was fast, though thankfully not completely untrackable...

...and felt a mix of frustration and relief. Frustration as he had overestimated the...thing's...tactical ability. Relief as he wasn't once again thrust into a close-range encounter. So far.

...but that voice in his mind, and the accompanying laughter was driving him mad with fury. That HAD to be it. Either that thing or the fallen Seer. He wanted to be rid of it. He was tired of the constant temptations. Tired of the laughter. Tired of the mockery...

...No. Not tired. He had had enough. Live or die, he WOULD be free of that damnable entity's mockery one way or another!


The God-Emperor aided those who aided themselves in the fight against adversaries of the Imperium...and with such belief, he let his hands guide the rifle toward the abomination that had nearly sliced Mik's head open.

...at least if that bastard dies, it'll be against something that warranted it, in this case.

[Aim->fire at Skae-thing. +20% BS from aim/close range. As is usual, reserving a FP in case of a jam]

[Kelne]

Faith. Faith was the strongest weapon in their arsenal. If they could but use it to shake their fellow citizens from their daze, surely the enemy's purpose would be greatly hindered.

"CITIZENS OF THE IMPERIUM!" he roared, "YOU STAND UPON THE BRINK OF THE ABYSS! TEAR THE VEIL OF LIES FROM YOUR EYES AND STEP BACK!"

Weapons had proven of little use thus far, but there was a weakness and Cryvus was bound to find it. First however, Mikolas required aid. Stretching out his hand towards the battered warrior, he channeled the energies of the warp into knitting his flesh back together.

(Using the Healer power, single die. Yes, at last the horrible truth is revealed. You know, in case anybody had the slightest doubt at this point.)

[Jak Snide]

Mikolas stumbled up and away, drawing his crude weapon, bristling with razor wire, and swung it about to ward off any blows he could not see. A gentle warmth washed over him, the pain in his face dulling and the bleeding halting. Cryvus' hand, still wrapped with bandages, was extended towards him, the faint white glow that surrounded it receding as be bellowed to the congregation. The Skae-Thing paused, standing upright suddenly and then turned. Crisis' shot, destined for greatness, embedded itself in the floor. Mithras stepped forward and used this distraction to plant his weapon in the monster's back and fire.

The veil of majesty dropped and they could all see their foe for what it was. Clad in the blood-spattered and ruined robes of the abbot, it was a thing once human, but no more. Limbs bent at unnatural angles, broken bones jutting outwards and flesh lacerated, scorched by las-fire and riddled with buckshot. Mithras' own shot had blown a chunk the size of a scrumball out of its stomach, exposing the spine. It didn't fall. It didn't scream. Some unholy will drove this shattered, ruined body well beyond its mortal limits. It spun around, a head that played host to a shifting, utterly alien face glaring at the ex-guardsman with the only unchanging, vaguely human feature amidst the chaos of its visage; a pitch-black orb, glowing with white witch-fire. The other eye was gone, the flesh around it lacerated and unshifting, oozing a purple-black liquid.

There was a flash of motion. Mithras managed to cry out briefly, the scream cut short as the daemon tore into him. He fell, weapon slipping from his grasp and lay still, his lifeblood beginning to pool around him. It turned to the others and spoke to them in a thousand, impossibly beautiful voices. "Such is the fate of those would would stand against my resurrection."

(Map updated. Check your PMs.)

[Kelne]

Experiencing the briefest flicker of hope, Cryvus took a step forward, sending a las-bolt searing at the shell of Skae's eye. The veil had been torn aside, and a weakness laid bare.

All the while, he kept his voice raised, in the hope it might accomplish something more, "HIS IS THE GLORY! HIS THE RIGHTFUL ADULATION! HIS THE RULE! WE FORGET THAT AT OUR PERIL!"

(Advancing to point-blank range and aiming for the eye. Fate point to be spent to ensure a hit or inflict more damage as appropriate.)

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis' eyes went wide as memories came flooding back. That ship...this cathedral...

...this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral this cathedral...

...shaking off the madness from his past, he aimed another shot at the enemy. Which refused to die. And yet used such simplistic tactics as resorting to melee...

[Aim->fire, FP to be spent to ensure a hit or enhance damage if possible]

[Jak Snide]

Crisis' finally hit his mark, boring a hole through the daemon. It shuddered from the impact. Cryvus stepped forward, raised his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Sparks flew from the power-pack and the machine spirit of the weapon whined in displeasure. The Crow Father let loose with another guttural laugh, stepped forward and seized the psyker by his leg. With a mere flick of its arm the old man was sent hurtling through the air, impacting hard with the ground and skidding along the aisle towards the alter. Mikolas scrambled over to his shotgun and took the mighty weapon in hand as the monster turned its attention to him.

(Map[ updated. Cryvus, after spending a fate point to reroll a miss, rolled a 99 then a 9. Against all odds his lascarbine "jammed" and lost all of its ammo. He was then thrown and skidded 20m in total, taking 5 damage from the impact. On the plus side he then rolled another 9 and retained his fate point.)

[Kelne]

The daemon was but one threat, terrible as it might be. With his path cleared, however painfully, Cryvus could approach Aristachus. Letting his treacherous lascarbine fall, he pulled himself upright and began marching down the aisle, hand stealing into his sleeve as he did so to close upon a small and sharp knife.

"You were warned, Aristachus!" he shouted, putting as much volume behind it as his battered body would permit, "An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded!"

(Spending a fate point on healing, and moving at top speed towards the altar.)

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis knew the enemy couldn't dodge his shots forever. The enemy may be fast, but it isn't impossible to hit...

He lined up his shot, aiming for the creature's head--most vital point that wasn't quite covered...and pulled the trigger a fourth time...

[Aim->Fire, headshot. Penalties and bonuses should cancel out. Keeping FP in case of miss or jam...]

[Jak Snide]

A rifle round tore the back of the daemon's head away. Mikolas turned his weapon on it, bellowed and held down the trigger. The first shot tore away it's right arm. It stepped forward. The second removed most of the meat from its left leg. It took another step forward. The third took it dead in the chest and rocked it on its feet. He'd done it, Mikolas thought. It was barely able to stand, let alone-

It took a third step forward and slashed through his kneecap. The man tumbled to the floor, pain threatening to overwhelm him. It loomed over him, glaring down upon him with its sole eye as it raised a hand to finish him.

Cryvus, dragging himself to his feet and advancing towards the man he'd once called master, spoke in a shaky voice. The seer watched him approach, floating a few inches above the alter now, the orbit of the tarrot cards faster now. The familiar, mocking laughter of the Dancer on the Threshold rang out from behind him.

"How can you oppose this!?" the diviner demanded, his voice wrought with frustration and confusion. "Why, why do you seek to prevent the return of Drusus?"

(Map Updated. The combined fire of Crisis and Mikolas has almost torn the possessed body of the Abbot Skae apart. Mikolas, however, has taken 5 damage, 1 level of fatigue and is now prone.)

[Kelne]

"Drusus lived but one life," Cryvus responded, continuing to close the distance, "He will not return, least of all through the foul blandishments of chaos. From the beginning, you have refused to see, blinded by your hopes and ambitions. Drusus would weep to see what your folly has loosed upon the world."

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis mentally cursed once again as his target moved fully out of visual. Given that compromising his position would be suicide with the creature's speed and close-combat capabilities, the Skae-thing was now Mikolas' problem, only leaving one target--the fallen Seer--as he quickly trained his rifle on the figure surrounded by whirling tarot cards and ghost light...

'Seer Aristarchus. Your actions have shown you guilty of High Treason against the Imperium of Man. I hereby pass judgment.'

...right before he let loose a shot, and then engaged the clip release, stowing his old clip for a new one...

[Firing a shot at Aristarchus, using the other half of my action to start a reload, FP reserved in case of jam, as usual]

[Jak Snide]

Cryvus half ran, half staggered up to the alter, a silenced round zipping through the air around the seer and into the pews, a sickening crack indicating that the shot had found both flesh and bone. He heard a bellow and the din of gunfire from behind him. Once again the cries of a comrade were abruptly cut short. Both the void born heard a wet popping sound followed by an exclamation of exhilaration from the daemon. Aristarchus glared at Cryvus as he chastised the seer, but his expression was one of anguish and shame. He had no words for his fellow psyker now, but still he hovered atop the alter, still unwilling to admit his own damnable failings to himself.

(Map updated. Neither Crisis or Cryvus have seen the fate that has befallen Mikolas.)

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis glared. Something was preventing attacks from reaching the Seer...and it seemed like Cryvus had him occupied anyway. The sounds from the entryway, however, were much less encouraging. To him, it sounded as if his last valuable distraction was down for the count.

...if only that idiot didn't place himself in the middle of a crossfire.

As he finished loading the fresh clip, he reslung the rifle, and drew the autocarbine, letting it sit in one hand. There was less stopping power, but with the way that thing moves, the extra firepower might prove more beneficial...

[Kelne]

"Will you see these innocents damned for your mistakes?" Cryvus demanded, "There is but one way remaining for you to atone." His hand emerged from his sleeve holding a small but wickedly sharp blade covered in protective runes. It would be useless in combat, the edge ruined far too swiftly. But for its chosen purpose, it was ideal.

Cryvus extended the psykana mercy blade to Aristachus hilt first. As psykers, they would both have had the same training drilled into them - to slice open their own veins rather than allow themselves to become the instruments of damnation.

[Jak Snide]

The seer looked down on Cryvus and, with a mixture of resignation and determination, reached forward for the blade.

Crisis saw a flash of movement, too quick for him to bring a weapon to bear. Something slammed into the back of Cryvus, pitching him over and slamming him face first into the pulpit, the blade flying from his grasp. A blinding pain coursed through his head, his vision streaked with lines of white light. Something grasped him by the neck and hauled him to its face.

It had two eyes now. The ruined one was gone, the replacement distinctly human, its green iris a pin-prick amidst the darkness that surrounded it. It rocked its head back and roared with laughter before it spoke to the psyker in the voice of a friend long dead.

"Do you understand now, insect? Every act of your wretched, miserable existence has been one of futility. Humanity can not stop the coming darkness, just as you have failed to stop the likes of-"

Crisis had heard the thing's voice echoing through the Cathedral, but he had not seen it. What he did observe was Aristarchus kneel down atop the alter to grasp the runed blade that had sailed effortlessly through the barrier.

"NO!"

Cryvus felt the full weight of the daemon's will focus itself on the seer, but it was too late. Whether it was the psycho-indoctrination that all sanctioned psykers received or the last scrap of willpower within a damned man that did it he did not know. Aristarchus brought the blade up to his own throat and ended his life.

A white light flared at the centre of the broken ritual, immolating the man in an instant. The cards shattered, flinging liquid crystal shrapnel and tendrils of psychic flames outwards. Cryvus' world exploded into pain as shards embedded themselves in his back, his armour saving him from the worst of it. The Crow Father had no such defence, the psychically charged explosion tearing its stolen body apart as the immaterial being within howled in rage. For Crisis time seemed to slow for a moment as he watched a single, unbroken card careen towards him. His limbs were too slow but his armour was solid, the card embedding itself in the front of his cloak instead of his flesh. The impact pitched him off his feet, out of the window and eight meters to the ground. He felt the wind punched from his lungs and he lay there, unable do anything more than take rasping breathers as he watched the mass of darkness that had been the Cathedral dome explode upwards into nothingness.

Cryvus fell to the ground and, as the sweet mercy of unconsciousness rose up to claim him once more, he looked up at the night sky of Iocanthos. His eyes closed as the screaming of hundreds began.

(To be continued.)

[Jak Snide]

Aftermath

Crisis was the only one conscious when the rioting broke out. Hundreds of dutiful servants of the Emperor, their faith betrayed, subjected to an unholy ritual and then released from the thrall of a daemonic entity reacted about as well as could be expected. In the minutes it took him to recover he listened to the many facets of it; cries of terror, violence breaking out as neighbours accused each other of being tainted, homes being put to the torch and the crying of those whose minds had shattered. By the time he was able to walk the settlement was lit by the light of a dozen burning tents. The Crying Clotta had not escaped, its ground floor aflame by the time he located his grapnel and painfully reeled himself up to the ledge he'd occupied before.

The Cathedral had almost entirely emptied, the people of Stern Hope fleeing the damned building as fast as they could. Those that remained were either dead, injured or insane, the latter huddling in corners and weeping softly, tearing at their hair or deathly quiet. The exception was a small group of people gathered East of the alter. He could see his fallen comrades among them, a few frightened yet resolute looking men standing guard over them. A girl tended to the acolytes, Crisis recognising her as the that fool Cryvus had rescued during the raid that morning. He made his way down carefully, body still aching from the fall, and made his way over to them. One of the men proved to be at least somewhat literate and appraised him of the situation. Against all the odds all three of the acolytes lived, though they were in a bad way. Mithras' chest had nearly been torn open, Cryvus suffered from a dozen injuries and Mikolas' knee had been ruined. His left eye had been plucked out as well and for some reason this detail stuck in his mind. All the same, he watched over his companions until the rioting ceased.

---

The others regained consciousness over the next few days, though the injuries would require more than the attention of an unskilled girl. Mikolas wouldn't be walking any time soon, nor would Cryvus. The old man's body, knowing that it had done its duty for now, rested. Mithras was having trouble breathing and his misery was only added to once news reached them of the fate of the clergy: dead to a man. The man who told them would not say what had come of Brother Lamark, simply passing over a silver aquila necklace to the fallen priest's former subordinate. There was little talk of what occurred in Stern Hope outside of the tent that had been made their home, though Crisis looked for himself. It was a shadow of its former self, half the population either dead or having fled into the wilderness. Those that remained were listless, consumed by despair. The daemon was vanquished, but it had done its damage. Stern Hope was ruined, the Cathedral sundered and its people broken in spirit. This changed when the Inquisition arrived.

They rode into town five days in Rhino transports. People emerged from their homes to watch them, a few even managing to cheer the arrival of their salvation. Then the shooting began. Grey-armoured stormtroopers, masked and silent, encircled the town and began to cut down the inhabitants with precise las-fire. What little resistance that was mounted was swiftly put down, those trying to escape blown apart by high powered hellguns. No mercy was shown, not even for those who simply submitted. When they reached the acolyte's tent the girl who had watched over them tried to talk sense into them. Cryvus realised he had never asked her name as a lance of energy burned through her. One of kill-team remarked "They're the ones!" before they moved in with manacles and shock mauls. Crisis reached for something to prove who they were and was quick enough to do so before being blown apart. His display earned him a command for submission. He complied and was chained with only the most minor of beatings. The others were to weak to resist, though Cryvus found himself coursing with electricity all the same. Those who voiced any protests received the same treatment. They were dragged outside and thrown before ornately armoured man, his face concealed by an angelic mask. He inspected them for a moment, ignoring whatever they had to say, before nodding to a red-robed man with hands that bristled with needles. The tech-priest advanced and their world went dark once more.

---

When consciousness next returns you are alone. Bound in a darkened room, the dimensions stretching beyond sight, seemingly without doors. You try to gather your thoughts. Snatched memories of being transported down to the plains, a dropship roaring into orbit with you and your fellow acolytes aboard, then this. The room vibrates gently and there is the distant thrum of some machine, the sensation disorientating you as your mind swims in a sea of drugs. Nobody comes for you. All that you can do is contemplate your fate.

(Check your PMs, gentlemen.)

[Jak Snide]

Execution

It is impossible to know how long you have dwelt in the darkness. The visits have ceased, you know that much, all aside from those by the man in red, the needle-man whose eyes glimmer in the dark. He is the only constant, emerging whenever you start to gather your thoughts and banishing such things with a careful jab of his hand.

A portal of light appears in front of you, the room around you illuminated for the first time. You're seized before you can take in any details, swiftly beaten to ensure compliance and dragged away.

You snatch experiences as you are dragged through halls of dark metal lined with piping and inscription. A great machine heart beats somewhere nearby, the floor vibrating to its rythm. Far away you hear a klaxon wailing. You're not sure when you arrived, but you find yourself kneeling in a modest chapel. Your faculties are returning to you now. The man in the angelic mask is there, armoured as he was before, purity seals adorning ornate ceramite. He inspects and loads a gilded bolt pistol. Hands restrain you from behind and, as you try to look around, you realise you are not alone. Your fellow acolytes are present, unwashed, unkempt and as disorientated as you are. As your gaze wonders upwards you set your eyes upon the Imperial Aquila, engraved in the ceiling and inlaid with precious metals. Your attention is brought back to ground level as the masked man begins to speak.

---

"Acolytes, you have failed in your duties, and in doing so have failed in the service of the God-Emperor of Mankind. Throu-"

The acolytes heard the sound of a distant explosion, the sound muffled by walls and closed portals. The masked man's head spun around to regard the chapel's own doors before returning his attention to you, his speech more rapid now.

"Through weakness in mind, body and soul you allowed the great enemy to taint a hallowed ceremony, damning both yourselves and all around you."

Another explosion, closer now. The sharp crack of las-fire and the din of battle was audible now.

"In the name of the Inquisition and Him On Terra I find you guilty of the treason of negligence. The sentence is death. May the Emperor forgive you, for I cannot."

The doors to the chapel flew inwards with a roar, blown of their hinges. There was the pounding of boots as black armoured storm troopers charged into the room and brought weapons to bear. The masked man spun about and raised his bolt pistol in response. Neither side had a chance to fire a shot before a voice rang out.

"Interrogator Eicher! Lay down your weapon and submit!"

"You dare!" the angelic man spat in response, all composure gone. "I act with the authority of Inquisi-"

There was the roar of gunfire and the Interrogator was pitched off his feet with explosive force. His now pitted armour had saved him and he scrambled to his feet. The shooter closed the distance between them slammed a maul into the side of his head. He dropped, quivering from the electric discharge.

"I act with my own authority. Forward your complaints to your master and we can discuss the technicalities of jurisdiction later. For now I'm the one with a rosette and you're the one trying to execute my men before I can talk to them. I think I know which way the conclave will vote on this."

She looked down at the acolytes through a visored helm. "Get them out of here." she commanded, and it was so. The authority of an Inquisitor could not be denied.

---

It was hours later when they next saw Inquisitor Skane, the after effects of the repeated druggings having mostly faded. They'd been hauled out of the chapel, the men restraining them suddenly compliant once their own master had gone down, back through the inscribed passages and across a storming-lock that joined the vessel they'd been help captive on to the dromon they now resided in. They'd been rushed to a medicae bay and treated, the team that tended to them working in a silent frenzy until they were satisfied that there was no immediate threat to their continued existence. They received only one visitor between this and the dignity of a shower and a clean change of clothes; a middle-aged man in flowing purple robes, his eyes replaced by brass augmetics. He watched them for several minutes and left without a word between them.

Skane visited them as they rested in the small ward adjacent to where they'd received treatment, still clad in simple black armour entirely free of decoration save for the =I= shaped rosette pinned to the chest piece and encased in a small armourglass box. She was as each of them remembered her from their infrequent meetings; a striking woman with a stern, strong face, hair worn regulation short. She took a moment to appraise them before asking her question.

"What in damnation happened? The short of it for now."

[Christian]

Mithras had no will in him to resist. He had survived the battle-field, his faith had remained strong, but against this, against the Inquisition, he had no ambition to survive. They were condemned heretics and so they would be judged, the truth apparantly of less importance than the stability of the Empire of Man. He could understand that. He'd seen enough... done enough to those who had turned from the light of His glory to embrace false ideals and heretical thoughts to know that there was no room for doubt. In another time, another world, perhaps, but when beset from every direction, Man could not afford the luxury of doubt.

So it was then, with sunk head and hollow eyes, that Mithras was led up to the Angelic-masked man, whispering his last prayers to the Emperor. At least, in death his soul would be judged once more, and he may yet find salvation in His light.

Then explosions, chaos. He was still shaking off the effects of the drugs, unable to think clearly, but the sight of Skane... the sight of the Woman, it lit a spark in his eyes. To him, she was an angel, a seraphim warrior sent by the Emperor himself to save them, to tell them that their service was not over, that the Emperor of Man demanded more sacrifice until their souls could rest.

He would be found willing.

---

When once more he laid eyes upon her, the healing given to him by the medicae had cleared his vision, relieving her of her gloria of power, yet still her imposing figure stoked the fires of veneration in his heart. He bowed his head in respect, forming the aquila over his newly bandaged chest, his clean-shaven face making him look ten years younger... but perhaps that was due to other reasons.

He opened his mouth to speak, but looked to his comrades, doubtful he'd be able to retell the event. Memories of the room with the angelic-faced man and his... needle-servant...

[NamagomiMk0]

Crisis looked about, still mildly disoriented from the varied beatings and druggings he had endured under Interrogator Eicher...he wished not to visit anything upon his highest superior, who had incidentally saved them from execution. Looking around, he reached for a mistakenly-left-behind sheet and writing tool, he began a "compact" 'report' of the last...however so long he had been isolated.

'Mission was a complete failure. A warp-spawned entity had influenced Aristarchus, turned Skae into...something...against us, then through his body, killed Xerxes, and killed the clergy. We engaged it in combat, and though we fought our hardest, it nearly killed Mikolas and Mithras before setting its sights on Cryvus. Cryvus somehow convinced Aristarchus to end his life, and in doing so, ended up destroying what was left of Skae. The people went into riot, then despair, then were gunned down to the man by heavily armored troopers under this 'Interrogator Eicher', providing my credentials and surrendering so that we would not be killed on the spot for being mistaken for traitors. We would have left to Port Suffering to report the mission a failure, but I was the only one mobile, and lacked vehicle training. In capture, I, and presumably the rest of us, was drugged, bound, and interrogated personally by this man, before eventually being dragged out to execution. We had tried our hardest to complete the mission, but if there was any crime I could pin on myself, it would be that of ineptitude. I hereby beg your understanding and mercy, Inquisitor.'

This, he showed to his absolute superior, hoping it would be satisfactory, having a look of shame on his--well 'its'--bowed face all the while. The pain of failure far outweighed that of his experiences with the Interrogator...