Suffer Not the Witch (Warhammer 40k Psyker Quest)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
Well, "Hey, psyker, let's you and I go smash straight into the problem head on, simple and direct", that's not really an Alpha Legion kind of plan, presumably there are some of them who do favor a direct approach but in general the Alphas seem to be almost addicted to intricate multistep plans that rely on misdirection.
It's almost their Legion flaw, like the Night Lords proclivity for sadism and tactical cowardice or the World Eaters mindless savagery.
lancelot
Completely worth it
I assume then we need to drop some XP into knowledge skills like medical and biology to know what and how to change? That way we can be superhuman without looking like a freak show, that we'll also be an amazing healer is a bonus.
Also with inquisitors never seeming to tell each other nevermind any other group what is going on shouldn't there be no chance for anyone in the imperium to know we're a psyker, or that we had anything to do with a chaos cult knowing or not?
- Location
- London, England
In this system, you'd want to boost the skills "Scholar" and "Medicine" specifically, which Vincenzo currently has at 1.
As for the other point, how much information a given Inquisitor shares with another varies enormously, though you're right there isn't any kind of central database to check. That said Vincenzo's records on Malfi itself would have been blacklisted and sealed, necessitating at least some kind of false identity before you go anywhere near something an Inquisitor might take an interest in.
Imrix
Periodically Malevolent QM
Yeah, it's notable that the Alpha Legion are not, if you go back to their old lore before Legion introduced six different twists apparently for the sake of it, the legion of stealth and subtlety for its own sake - they're the legion of stealth and subtlety to prove how big their tacticool dick is. Alpharius was the last Primarch to be found, the youngest of them all, so he always had a massive chip on his shoulder about speedrunning the process of proving himself equal/superior to his older brothers. It's not enough to succeed, it has to be done through an intricate master plan that only he and his could have pulled off, because the point isn't to win, winning is just a means to an end, the point is to Show Them, Show Them All.
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IV - Out of the Fire, into the Labyrinth
- Location
- London, England
"I would try forcing the corridor," you say with as much confidence as you can muster, "the further from that cell and the faster we move, the happier I shall feel."
It is not your true reason, of course, and from his momentary start you suspect that Ciro knows it, but your home and its ways stay with you even here. To admit your true motive is to give your enemies an insight into what you value and a lever with which to move you, and those who survive to adulthood on Malfi know better than to be so trusting.
"Good man," the Angel says, clapping you on the shoulder once more, and while the others seem vaguely dissatisfied, none appear willing to try insisting on their preferred course. "Magos, I should have your input - a sheet of deck plating, or other metal of at least my size, if you would. As for you, free man, a word in private."
There isn't much privacy to be had, stuck together on this tiny little balcony suspended above the cavernous expanse of the main cell block, but Ciro takes you as far aside as he can before speaking. He kneels that you do not have to crane your head to look up at him, and when he speaks it is with a voice both soft and unyielding as the tide.
"What is your name, free man?" He asks, and there is something about his face that snags at your attention, something about the artificial perfection of his cheeks and brow that insistently reminds you that this is a man made not born.
"Vincenzo," you say, a trifle awkwardly, "Vincenzo Leonardo Borgia, of Malfi. Uh. My lord?"
"Hah. None of that, Vincenzo," the Astartes chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations of his humour through the hand that yet rests against your shoulder, a seismic motion of mirth constrained, "I am no one's lord, not yet. But allow me a speculation - you bear no brands or marks of rank, and yet hold a force blade and were imprisoned by our side. You are a rogue, then? Unsanctioned, to use the Inquisition's terminology."
"I, uh, rather suspect their terminology is not quite so polite as that," you say dryly, fighting the urge to swallow, "But yes. What training I have came from… fellow travellers, so to speak."
"I thought as much," Ciro nods thoughtfully, "Then you have spent your life since awakening to your gifts in hiding, fearing the consequences of any accident, the doom of the slightest slip. You fled the Inquisition's hounds because you feared what they would do if you were discovered, correct?"
You nod once, a jerky motion that does little to hide your shame or regret. All those plans, all that guile, and still you were caught out in the end, those you thought your allies revealed as monsters of the most malignant sort.
"Then know this - you have no cause for shame," the Angel says firmly, taking his hand from your shoulder so that you may stand unsupported and look him in the eye, "You have done what you needed to do to survive, and no matter what the priests or their inquisitive hounds might say, this is no sin or disgrace. Now, however, you need to stop hiding, and bring your power to bear against that which stands in our way. Will you do this for me?"
You swallow thickly, your throat suddenly tight, and nod. "I will try."
"Ha! No, Vincenzo, do not simply try," Ciro smiles with a killer's confidence, the kind you have seen all too often in your past, and on his face it looks strangely appealing. This is a face of one born for war - of course the promise of violence and glory fits it so smoothly. "Those who talk in terms of tries and effort, those who concede that failure is possible or even likely, they are the ones who fall short in times of trial. You must simply act, and let the world respond."
You nod again, with more conviction this time, and Ciro regards you fondly for a moment before rising to his feet and returning to the doorway. Bore seems to have taken his instruction quite literally, for as you arrive the Magos is busy prying a large section of metal plating from the nearest wall, the edges glowing faintly from whatever tool he employed to cut it out. Ciro nods, then bends to collect a loose scrap of cast-off metal, tossing it with a simple underhanded throw down the corridor.
With a sattaco rattle of metal and bone, the sides of the corridor unfold and disgorge monsters to bar your path. Corpses crucified on metal spurs rasp in binary jitters as they pivot to face the crude projectile, long barreled rifles emerging from between withered ribs and age-browned jawbones with a hissing buzz of gathering power. The weapons discharge at once with a flash like the setting sun, lances of ruby light piercing the debris in a dozen places and scattering it in white-hot giblets across the deck, and your small team can only dive out of view as the gun-servitors turn to fire on you next.
"Motion-based targeting," Ciro notes thoughtfully, his back to the wall as the open ground before the corridor is scorched black with rampant discharge of las-fire, "And no signs of advanced cognition. Perfect."
"Fool of a mon-keigh," Sidhe growls at you from the far side of the platform, her long hair twitching in evident agitation, her liquid eyes almost aglow with rage. You notice Nadia is sprawled on her back at the Aeldari's feet, having evidently been yanked bodily out of the way. "Would you kill us all for lack of proper warning?"
Ciro ignores her, save for a considering glance at both alien and the woman she saved, turning to Bore instead. "Magos. You recognise the make?"
"Indeed," Bore makes a derisive sound, somewhere between a wet cough and the grinding of poorly oiled gears, "Meant for suppressing unarmoured prisoners, the machine spirits never trained for opposition or granted proper maintenance rites."
"I thought as much," Ciro says with a nod, picking up the heavy bulkhead plate and bracing it before him with a two-handed grip, "Ready, Vincenzo?"
You swallow, then let out a slow and shaky breath. Without thinking you reach for the source of your power, the burning coal in your chest and the serpent coiled around your heart. It was never an external thing to you, never some gift from beyond or trade learned at another's hand, only ever part of you on the most fundamental level. The power comes quickly, crawling easily to your will, and all around you the air grows suddenly thick and greasy.
"Ready."
Ciro nods and steps out into the corridor, holding the metal sheet up in front of him, and you walk in his shadow. The power gathers where you will, and as the turrets begin to whine back into life, you lift your hands and unleash it.
Vincenzo rolls Psychic Mastery (Willpower), DN1 - 2; 6; 4; 6; 5; 6; 3; 3
Success with Eight Icons, Eight turrets destroyed!
The lightning that pours from your hands is no natural thing, as different from the burning flashes of the arid wastes as night is from day. It does not splash against metal or burn through flesh, instead piercing all in its path with a thousand radiant bolts, leaving naught but glowing holes where matter itself has simply ceased to be. The turrets are armoured and set in shadowed alcoves and behind simple barricades, and this avails them nothing before your power, one and then another exploding in sparks as you pour the unfettered power of your soul into their fragile innards.
Mortal soldiers would break and flee before the onslaught, you've seen it happen before, but the gun-servitors have no hearts to quail or minds to know fear. They open fire in response, testing your light with brilliant bolts of ruby, and Ciro grunts as the deck plating in his hands shudders and begins to buckle beneath the onslaught. A single shot penetrates, robbed of force by the metal until it merely staggers you like a strike from a hammer, and you bark a curse as the sudden pain breaks your concentration and the flow of power both.
You are still reeling, still hastily cutting the flow of power through your outstretched hand for fear of losing control, when Ciro acts. He hurls himself forwards, metal bulwark rattling beneath the deadly rain of the remaining turrets, and with an explosive grunt slams the crude barricade into the first he reaches with meteoric force. The turret crumples like discarded parchment, and a moment later Ciro is before the next one, one hand tearing critical wires free while the other hurls the scrapped metal at the third. You watch, stunned into silence, as the Astartes dismantles the remaining weapons in the time it takes you to draw a breath.
"Ow!"
"Good job, handsome," Nadia says with a sing-song laugh, moving past you and down the corridor to rejoin Ciro. You blink stupidly after her, one hand briefly rubbing your backside, and then flush briefly as the Aeldari simply walks past you without a word. Did she just… Well, deal with that later.
"You are injured," Hephastius Bore says, coming to a momentary halt at your side, "Do you require medical attention?"
"...no," you say, because the thought of giving this man access to your internals or even your bare skin is deeply disquieting, "It was but a glancing blow. Let us proceed."
Rejoining the others, you find that past the exit corridor from the prison decks the route ahead branches wildly, multiple potential paths criss-crossed by thrumming power conduits and gurgling vents all stamped with the regal aquila. The lighting is poor here, a bare few dim lumen strips striving against the gloom, but already Nadia is pulling chemical torches from her stolen webbing and passing them to you and… well actually just you, it appears everyone else finds the dark no obstacle at all.
"Where do we go now?" You say, and only realise a moment after the words are spoken that you addressed them to Ciro, that the Astartes has all but fallen into the position of leader by default.
"The bridge," Ciro replies, studying the paths available to you before nodding firmly to himself, "There we shall inform ourselves of the full scope of the situation, and our options for escape."
There is little objection, the others having already lost out in the contest of ideas to the Marine once and seeing no reason to try again. You shake your head in resignation, and together the five of you set forth.
Of course, as with virtually everything in your life to date, it seems easier to state a path of progress than follow it to its conclusion. The lower decks were decaying and abandoned, but as you rise through the main body of the ship - you really must learn its name, this has been nagging at you - you begin to come across more and more signs of the fighting that wracked the vessel in its final hours and the damage dealt by long centuries of abandonment since. There are decks that have collapsed and walls that have caved in, whole compartments which are flooded by oily-black water or scorched bare by a ruptured plasma conduit. You find yourself having to scramble and climb, backtrack and reroute, and soon enough even the light fails you and you are left picking your way awkwardly through a maze of debris with only the light from the chemical tube in your hand for company.
In truth such tight confines are no great trouble for you, similar to your home hive as they feel, but it is that very familiarity that leads you astray. A void ship is not a hive, and by the time you realise your mistake and look back you have somehow parted ways with the rest of your companions, lost in a tangled maze of collapsed corridors and passageways wracked by subsidence.
"Damnation," you mutter, the word echoing back to you from a hundred tiny nooks and crannies all around. A moment later something else repeats a rough mockery of the word, and when you wheel to face the sound it is to the sight of a pale limb vanishing around the corner of the nearest pile of wreckage. You stand there for a moment, then draw your sword and wait to see if your stalker will emerge.
Something growls in the darkness, and you swallow.
"Prisoner Zero Four Two Five."
You yelp, spinning and dropping the chemical lamp at your feet, one hand scrabbling at your belt for the pistol holstered there… and then you spot the speaker, and your fear turns to bafflement. It's a servo-skull, the polished and etched remains of some faithful imperial servant turned into a useful drone, and where its lower jaw once would have hung now sprouts a compact vox-speaker like some strange metallic cancer.
"Interrogator Crane," you say, when you can trust your voice again, because there's no way you wouldn't recognise those cold and focused tones, "you survived. A pity."
"The God-Emperor demands my survival for His divine plan," the servo-skull replies, faithfully conveying the words of the far-distant monster, and in the cramped confines you slowly turn until your back is to a solid wall. You'll not get caught out so easily, if this is meant as some distraction. "Your life too has been spared, it seems. You should rejoice."
"Oh? And what should I be celebrating?" You say sharply, glancing left and right and then checking the ceiling above you on reflex. No killers looming from the shadows or strange monsters falling from above, good. "A chance to yet be dragged to Scintilla, my mind scoured away and a stranger granted control of my body?"
"Perhaps not," Crane says, and you note that the skull has a small waylight in one empty eye socket. Does it have a camera as well? Is the Interrogator even now staring at you from some distant chamber, hatred in his flinty eyes? "That was my master's plan, and he is not here. He may be dead, given the passage of years. So it falls to me to devise an alternative path."
He must think you are simple, if he expects you to fall for such a basic rhetorical trick. It might have been his master Tahr that proposed the mind-wipe, who treated you as nothing more than an errant component to be polished and replaced, but your treatment at Crane's hand was scarcely any kinder. Does he imagine you have forgotten the beatings, the torture, the cold contempt in his eyes?
"What do you mean?" You say cautiously, for you will not betray yourself with a hateful word, not so easily.
"You can still redeem yourself, Zero Four Two Five," Crane says, and it is an effort not to snarl at the number, he can't even be bothered to use your name while he bargains with you, "An Imperial ship is en route, our distress call answered. When it arrives, everyone aboard will be taken into custody. It will go better for you, if you are found assisting the Emperor's servants in restoring order, rather than a renegade seeking some hidden sanctuary like a rat."
An imperial ship… is he lying? You can't tell, the servo-skull gives you nothing to judge by, and the transmission is too scratchy to betray the subtle parts of the speaker's tone. You need to draw him out a bit more. "You expect me to believe that, what, I'll go free?"
"No," the servo-skull flutters briefly in the air, a dead man speaking with a monster's borrowed voice, "Your old life is lost, but you may yet build another. As an Acolyte of the Ordos you may yet reach heights your former self could never have dreamed of, and make the galaxy a brighter place in the doing."
You laugh. You can't help it, no matter how much your training and upbringing says you should not betray yourself like that, the notion is just so… so utterly ludicrous, you cannot help yourself.
"An acolyte? One of your servants, then?" You say, and your voice is half a hair from a snarl, "After all you have done to me, you expect me to… what? Kneel at your feet, polish your branding irons, suck your cock upon command? You tortured me, Crane, you tried to break me in every way that matters, and you think I will offer you my allegiance?"
"There are worse things in this galaxy than the Imperial Inquisition, Vincenzo," the skull says in a flat monotone, "Some of them aboard this ship. Our methods are harsh, but no more so than this galaxy demands. Set aside the squalling child, and consider your path with care."
You stare at the servo-skull for a long moment. Then you raise your pistol and pull the trigger, a sharp crack of lasfire splitting the grisly relic into a dozen broken shards that clatter against the ground like rain.
"Bastard," you mutter, bending over to pick the chemical lamp back up even as you return your blade to your belt, "As if you can just…"
Ciro is there when you rise, filling the darkness with his mountainous bulk, looking down at you with eyes that betray nothing at all of the thoughts that drive him.
"An interesting decision, free man," he says in a calm, level voice, and your instincts shriek at you that you are in danger, that if you say or do anything he does not like he could crush your head like a grape with one hand. "Why did you make it?"
It is not your true reason, of course, and from his momentary start you suspect that Ciro knows it, but your home and its ways stay with you even here. To admit your true motive is to give your enemies an insight into what you value and a lever with which to move you, and those who survive to adulthood on Malfi know better than to be so trusting.
"Good man," the Angel says, clapping you on the shoulder once more, and while the others seem vaguely dissatisfied, none appear willing to try insisting on their preferred course. "Magos, I should have your input - a sheet of deck plating, or other metal of at least my size, if you would. As for you, free man, a word in private."
There isn't much privacy to be had, stuck together on this tiny little balcony suspended above the cavernous expanse of the main cell block, but Ciro takes you as far aside as he can before speaking. He kneels that you do not have to crane your head to look up at him, and when he speaks it is with a voice both soft and unyielding as the tide.
"What is your name, free man?" He asks, and there is something about his face that snags at your attention, something about the artificial perfection of his cheeks and brow that insistently reminds you that this is a man made not born.
"Vincenzo," you say, a trifle awkwardly, "Vincenzo Leonardo Borgia, of Malfi. Uh. My lord?"
"Hah. None of that, Vincenzo," the Astartes chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations of his humour through the hand that yet rests against your shoulder, a seismic motion of mirth constrained, "I am no one's lord, not yet. But allow me a speculation - you bear no brands or marks of rank, and yet hold a force blade and were imprisoned by our side. You are a rogue, then? Unsanctioned, to use the Inquisition's terminology."
"I, uh, rather suspect their terminology is not quite so polite as that," you say dryly, fighting the urge to swallow, "But yes. What training I have came from… fellow travellers, so to speak."
"I thought as much," Ciro nods thoughtfully, "Then you have spent your life since awakening to your gifts in hiding, fearing the consequences of any accident, the doom of the slightest slip. You fled the Inquisition's hounds because you feared what they would do if you were discovered, correct?"
You nod once, a jerky motion that does little to hide your shame or regret. All those plans, all that guile, and still you were caught out in the end, those you thought your allies revealed as monsters of the most malignant sort.
"Then know this - you have no cause for shame," the Angel says firmly, taking his hand from your shoulder so that you may stand unsupported and look him in the eye, "You have done what you needed to do to survive, and no matter what the priests or their inquisitive hounds might say, this is no sin or disgrace. Now, however, you need to stop hiding, and bring your power to bear against that which stands in our way. Will you do this for me?"
You swallow thickly, your throat suddenly tight, and nod. "I will try."
"Ha! No, Vincenzo, do not simply try," Ciro smiles with a killer's confidence, the kind you have seen all too often in your past, and on his face it looks strangely appealing. This is a face of one born for war - of course the promise of violence and glory fits it so smoothly. "Those who talk in terms of tries and effort, those who concede that failure is possible or even likely, they are the ones who fall short in times of trial. You must simply act, and let the world respond."
You nod again, with more conviction this time, and Ciro regards you fondly for a moment before rising to his feet and returning to the doorway. Bore seems to have taken his instruction quite literally, for as you arrive the Magos is busy prying a large section of metal plating from the nearest wall, the edges glowing faintly from whatever tool he employed to cut it out. Ciro nods, then bends to collect a loose scrap of cast-off metal, tossing it with a simple underhanded throw down the corridor.
With a sattaco rattle of metal and bone, the sides of the corridor unfold and disgorge monsters to bar your path. Corpses crucified on metal spurs rasp in binary jitters as they pivot to face the crude projectile, long barreled rifles emerging from between withered ribs and age-browned jawbones with a hissing buzz of gathering power. The weapons discharge at once with a flash like the setting sun, lances of ruby light piercing the debris in a dozen places and scattering it in white-hot giblets across the deck, and your small team can only dive out of view as the gun-servitors turn to fire on you next.
"Motion-based targeting," Ciro notes thoughtfully, his back to the wall as the open ground before the corridor is scorched black with rampant discharge of las-fire, "And no signs of advanced cognition. Perfect."
"Fool of a mon-keigh," Sidhe growls at you from the far side of the platform, her long hair twitching in evident agitation, her liquid eyes almost aglow with rage. You notice Nadia is sprawled on her back at the Aeldari's feet, having evidently been yanked bodily out of the way. "Would you kill us all for lack of proper warning?"
Ciro ignores her, save for a considering glance at both alien and the woman she saved, turning to Bore instead. "Magos. You recognise the make?"
"Indeed," Bore makes a derisive sound, somewhere between a wet cough and the grinding of poorly oiled gears, "Meant for suppressing unarmoured prisoners, the machine spirits never trained for opposition or granted proper maintenance rites."
Wrath and Glory divides enemies into one of three tiers - a Troop, an Elite, or an Adversary/Monster. Which tier a given enemy falls into depends on who they are facing - A squad of Imperial Guardsman might pose an extremely dangerous threat to a band of Inquisitorial acolytes, but is little more than chaff before the advance of a Primaris Space Marine.
These gun-servitors, being meant for unarmoured prisoners and run down after centuries of neglect, are treated as troops.
- Troops use a simplified stat block, possessing one wound (or hit point) - any hit that penetrates their armour will put them down - and cannot generally score critical hits or take advanced combat actions.
- Large numbers of troops are combined into mobs for ease of book-keeping, but they are essentially there to be mowed down in dramatic fashion.
- Elites use the stat blocks as presented, and most of the same rules as the protagonist.
- Adversaries get bolstered stats and a wider array of GM-side options and tools, the better to reflect their status as the centrepiece of a given fight.
These gun-servitors, being meant for unarmoured prisoners and run down after centuries of neglect, are treated as troops.
"I thought as much," Ciro says with a nod, picking up the heavy bulkhead plate and bracing it before him with a two-handed grip, "Ready, Vincenzo?"
You swallow, then let out a slow and shaky breath. Without thinking you reach for the source of your power, the burning coal in your chest and the serpent coiled around your heart. It was never an external thing to you, never some gift from beyond or trade learned at another's hand, only ever part of you on the most fundamental level. The power comes quickly, crawling easily to your will, and all around you the air grows suddenly thick and greasy.
"Ready."
Ciro nods and steps out into the corridor, holding the metal sheet up in front of him, and you walk in his shadow. The power gathers where you will, and as the turrets begin to whine back into life, you lift your hands and unleash it.
Vincenzo rolls Psychic Mastery (Willpower), DN1 - 2; 6; 4; 6; 5; 6; 3; 3
Success with Eight Icons, Eight turrets destroyed!
The lightning that pours from your hands is no natural thing, as different from the burning flashes of the arid wastes as night is from day. It does not splash against metal or burn through flesh, instead piercing all in its path with a thousand radiant bolts, leaving naught but glowing holes where matter itself has simply ceased to be. The turrets are armoured and set in shadowed alcoves and behind simple barricades, and this avails them nothing before your power, one and then another exploding in sparks as you pour the unfettered power of your soul into their fragile innards.
Mortal soldiers would break and flee before the onslaught, you've seen it happen before, but the gun-servitors have no hearts to quail or minds to know fear. They open fire in response, testing your light with brilliant bolts of ruby, and Ciro grunts as the deck plating in his hands shudders and begins to buckle beneath the onslaught. A single shot penetrates, robbed of force by the metal until it merely staggers you like a strike from a hammer, and you bark a curse as the sudden pain breaks your concentration and the flow of power both.
You are still reeling, still hastily cutting the flow of power through your outstretched hand for fear of losing control, when Ciro acts. He hurls himself forwards, metal bulwark rattling beneath the deadly rain of the remaining turrets, and with an explosive grunt slams the crude barricade into the first he reaches with meteoric force. The turret crumples like discarded parchment, and a moment later Ciro is before the next one, one hand tearing critical wires free while the other hurls the scrapped metal at the third. You watch, stunned into silence, as the Astartes dismantles the remaining weapons in the time it takes you to draw a breath.
Friendly Turn
The twelve turrets in this corridor are represented as a mob of size twelve. They have a defence of 1, being stationary emplacements, and as a mob each additional icon over the defence generates another hit. Thus, eight turrets are hit.
Normally, the turrets would benefit from a very high resilience value, allowing them to soak damage. However, Smite inflicts d3 mortal wounds, which means the damage it deals bypasses all resilience and cannot be soaked. This is the use power of Smite - it deals significantly less damage than most attack powers, but it bypasses virtually all protection.
Enemy Turn
On the enemy turn (combat in wrath and glory alternates turns between friendly and enemy combatants, there is no initiative roll) the turrets return fire. Normally they have a pool of five dice to shoot things - as a mob, they add dice equal to half their remaining strength (+2) and since the range is short another +1. Thus they roll eight dice.
3; 4; 4; 3; 6; 6; 2; 4 = 7 icons
Vincenzo has a defence of 3. However he is also behind full cover, thanks to Ciro, so his effective defense is 5. Thus the turrets hit him, and have an exalted icon spare (since they can drop one of those 6s without failing the test), which they shift for extra damage.
The base damage of the weapons being used here is 10 +1ED - that is a flat value of 10, and one extra dice. Since they shifted for damage, this becomes 10 +2ED. Rolling the dice, I get 2;4, for +1 icon, for a total damage of 11.
Vincenzo has a resilience of 7, due to his toughness and armour. He takes 11-7=4 wounds. He then rolls his Determination pool of 4 dice, getting 3; 4; 6; 3 for a total of three icons. Three of those wounds are converted to shock, while one remains as a wound - he is hit, but it is more of a painful glancing blow than anything more serious.
Friendly Turn
Ciro goes next. To conserve ammunition, he elects not to use his bolter, instead charging into melee. He has a pool of nine dice to stab things, with a +1 bonus for charging, and rolls 6; 5; 1; 3; 6; 5; 5; 1; 5 for a total of eight icons. This means he hits every remaining turret (he also scored a critical hit, since his first dice was a 6, but this is not immediately relevant)
What counts as a high resilience in most cases helps little when an Angel of Death decides to bludgeon you into the ground with a piece of hull plating. Ciro's minimum damage is higher than the resilience of the turrets, and thus each hit kills one turret, finishing the fight.
The twelve turrets in this corridor are represented as a mob of size twelve. They have a defence of 1, being stationary emplacements, and as a mob each additional icon over the defence generates another hit. Thus, eight turrets are hit.
Normally, the turrets would benefit from a very high resilience value, allowing them to soak damage. However, Smite inflicts d3 mortal wounds, which means the damage it deals bypasses all resilience and cannot be soaked. This is the use power of Smite - it deals significantly less damage than most attack powers, but it bypasses virtually all protection.
Enemy Turn
On the enemy turn (combat in wrath and glory alternates turns between friendly and enemy combatants, there is no initiative roll) the turrets return fire. Normally they have a pool of five dice to shoot things - as a mob, they add dice equal to half their remaining strength (+2) and since the range is short another +1. Thus they roll eight dice.
3; 4; 4; 3; 6; 6; 2; 4 = 7 icons
Vincenzo has a defence of 3. However he is also behind full cover, thanks to Ciro, so his effective defense is 5. Thus the turrets hit him, and have an exalted icon spare (since they can drop one of those 6s without failing the test), which they shift for extra damage.
The base damage of the weapons being used here is 10 +1ED - that is a flat value of 10, and one extra dice. Since they shifted for damage, this becomes 10 +2ED. Rolling the dice, I get 2;4, for +1 icon, for a total damage of 11.
Vincenzo has a resilience of 7, due to his toughness and armour. He takes 11-7=4 wounds. He then rolls his Determination pool of 4 dice, getting 3; 4; 6; 3 for a total of three icons. Three of those wounds are converted to shock, while one remains as a wound - he is hit, but it is more of a painful glancing blow than anything more serious.
Friendly Turn
Ciro goes next. To conserve ammunition, he elects not to use his bolter, instead charging into melee. He has a pool of nine dice to stab things, with a +1 bonus for charging, and rolls 6; 5; 1; 3; 6; 5; 5; 1; 5 for a total of eight icons. This means he hits every remaining turret (he also scored a critical hit, since his first dice was a 6, but this is not immediately relevant)
What counts as a high resilience in most cases helps little when an Angel of Death decides to bludgeon you into the ground with a piece of hull plating. Ciro's minimum damage is higher than the resilience of the turrets, and thus each hit kills one turret, finishing the fight.
"Ow!"
"Good job, handsome," Nadia says with a sing-song laugh, moving past you and down the corridor to rejoin Ciro. You blink stupidly after her, one hand briefly rubbing your backside, and then flush briefly as the Aeldari simply walks past you without a word. Did she just… Well, deal with that later.
"You are injured," Hephastius Bore says, coming to a momentary halt at your side, "Do you require medical attention?"
"...no," you say, because the thought of giving this man access to your internals or even your bare skin is deeply disquieting, "It was but a glancing blow. Let us proceed."
Rejoining the others, you find that past the exit corridor from the prison decks the route ahead branches wildly, multiple potential paths criss-crossed by thrumming power conduits and gurgling vents all stamped with the regal aquila. The lighting is poor here, a bare few dim lumen strips striving against the gloom, but already Nadia is pulling chemical torches from her stolen webbing and passing them to you and… well actually just you, it appears everyone else finds the dark no obstacle at all.
"Where do we go now?" You say, and only realise a moment after the words are spoken that you addressed them to Ciro, that the Astartes has all but fallen into the position of leader by default.
"The bridge," Ciro replies, studying the paths available to you before nodding firmly to himself, "There we shall inform ourselves of the full scope of the situation, and our options for escape."
There is little objection, the others having already lost out in the contest of ideas to the Marine once and seeing no reason to try again. You shake your head in resignation, and together the five of you set forth.
Of course, as with virtually everything in your life to date, it seems easier to state a path of progress than follow it to its conclusion. The lower decks were decaying and abandoned, but as you rise through the main body of the ship - you really must learn its name, this has been nagging at you - you begin to come across more and more signs of the fighting that wracked the vessel in its final hours and the damage dealt by long centuries of abandonment since. There are decks that have collapsed and walls that have caved in, whole compartments which are flooded by oily-black water or scorched bare by a ruptured plasma conduit. You find yourself having to scramble and climb, backtrack and reroute, and soon enough even the light fails you and you are left picking your way awkwardly through a maze of debris with only the light from the chemical tube in your hand for company.
In truth such tight confines are no great trouble for you, similar to your home hive as they feel, but it is that very familiarity that leads you astray. A void ship is not a hive, and by the time you realise your mistake and look back you have somehow parted ways with the rest of your companions, lost in a tangled maze of collapsed corridors and passageways wracked by subsidence.
"Damnation," you mutter, the word echoing back to you from a hundred tiny nooks and crannies all around. A moment later something else repeats a rough mockery of the word, and when you wheel to face the sound it is to the sight of a pale limb vanishing around the corner of the nearest pile of wreckage. You stand there for a moment, then draw your sword and wait to see if your stalker will emerge.
Something growls in the darkness, and you swallow.
"Prisoner Zero Four Two Five."
You yelp, spinning and dropping the chemical lamp at your feet, one hand scrabbling at your belt for the pistol holstered there… and then you spot the speaker, and your fear turns to bafflement. It's a servo-skull, the polished and etched remains of some faithful imperial servant turned into a useful drone, and where its lower jaw once would have hung now sprouts a compact vox-speaker like some strange metallic cancer.
"Interrogator Crane," you say, when you can trust your voice again, because there's no way you wouldn't recognise those cold and focused tones, "you survived. A pity."
"The God-Emperor demands my survival for His divine plan," the servo-skull replies, faithfully conveying the words of the far-distant monster, and in the cramped confines you slowly turn until your back is to a solid wall. You'll not get caught out so easily, if this is meant as some distraction. "Your life too has been spared, it seems. You should rejoice."
"Oh? And what should I be celebrating?" You say sharply, glancing left and right and then checking the ceiling above you on reflex. No killers looming from the shadows or strange monsters falling from above, good. "A chance to yet be dragged to Scintilla, my mind scoured away and a stranger granted control of my body?"
"Perhaps not," Crane says, and you note that the skull has a small waylight in one empty eye socket. Does it have a camera as well? Is the Interrogator even now staring at you from some distant chamber, hatred in his flinty eyes? "That was my master's plan, and he is not here. He may be dead, given the passage of years. So it falls to me to devise an alternative path."
He must think you are simple, if he expects you to fall for such a basic rhetorical trick. It might have been his master Tahr that proposed the mind-wipe, who treated you as nothing more than an errant component to be polished and replaced, but your treatment at Crane's hand was scarcely any kinder. Does he imagine you have forgotten the beatings, the torture, the cold contempt in his eyes?
"What do you mean?" You say cautiously, for you will not betray yourself with a hateful word, not so easily.
"You can still redeem yourself, Zero Four Two Five," Crane says, and it is an effort not to snarl at the number, he can't even be bothered to use your name while he bargains with you, "An Imperial ship is en route, our distress call answered. When it arrives, everyone aboard will be taken into custody. It will go better for you, if you are found assisting the Emperor's servants in restoring order, rather than a renegade seeking some hidden sanctuary like a rat."
An imperial ship… is he lying? You can't tell, the servo-skull gives you nothing to judge by, and the transmission is too scratchy to betray the subtle parts of the speaker's tone. You need to draw him out a bit more. "You expect me to believe that, what, I'll go free?"
"No," the servo-skull flutters briefly in the air, a dead man speaking with a monster's borrowed voice, "Your old life is lost, but you may yet build another. As an Acolyte of the Ordos you may yet reach heights your former self could never have dreamed of, and make the galaxy a brighter place in the doing."
You laugh. You can't help it, no matter how much your training and upbringing says you should not betray yourself like that, the notion is just so… so utterly ludicrous, you cannot help yourself.
"An acolyte? One of your servants, then?" You say, and your voice is half a hair from a snarl, "After all you have done to me, you expect me to… what? Kneel at your feet, polish your branding irons, suck your cock upon command? You tortured me, Crane, you tried to break me in every way that matters, and you think I will offer you my allegiance?"
"There are worse things in this galaxy than the Imperial Inquisition, Vincenzo," the skull says in a flat monotone, "Some of them aboard this ship. Our methods are harsh, but no more so than this galaxy demands. Set aside the squalling child, and consider your path with care."
You stare at the servo-skull for a long moment. Then you raise your pistol and pull the trigger, a sharp crack of lasfire splitting the grisly relic into a dozen broken shards that clatter against the ground like rain.
"Bastard," you mutter, bending over to pick the chemical lamp back up even as you return your blade to your belt, "As if you can just…"
Ciro is there when you rise, filling the darkness with his mountainous bulk, looking down at you with eyes that betray nothing at all of the thoughts that drive him.
"An interesting decision, free man," he says in a calm, level voice, and your instincts shriek at you that you are in danger, that if you say or do anything he does not like he could crush your head like a grape with one hand. "Why did you make it?"
Article: Why did you do it?
[ ] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
[ ] Hatred. After all Crane and his master have done to you, you would sooner spit on his corpse than accept even the sweetest of deals.
[ ] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
[ ] Write in (QM reserves veto)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
- Location
- London, England
Someone pinched Vincenzo's rear. It was meant to be clearly Nadia but re-reading I see how the text is ambiguous.
Since that is hilarious, I shall avoid spoiling it with an edit.
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize
This, but unironically.
This, but unironically.
[X] Hatred. After all Crane and his master have done to you, you would sooner spit on his corpse than accept even the sweetest of deals.
BIG YODA!
Aside from the obvious history, it had the gall to insult us! A good attempt for advertising a product. But not us.
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
After much thought, we really can't give our loyalty in so much as a few hours worth of interaction. Also really sketchy given our background and circumstance.
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- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
[X] Write in (QM reserves veto) Disgust: I will not not work for any who would do to people what he and his ilk did to me.
Ciro looks to be the boss man, provisionally. I would much prefer to set boundaries now than try to set them later.
Loyalty is a contemptuous motivation, especially loyalty borne from a few hours positive regard. Have some fucking self respect.
Ciro looks to be the boss man, provisionally. I would much prefer to set boundaries now than try to set them later.
Loyalty is a contemptuous motivation, especially loyalty borne from a few hours positive regard. Have some fucking self respect.
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bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] Loyalty. Ciro has been kinder to you than any since your powers manifested, and you would not spit on that bond for such a paltry prize.
we must place Ciro on our highest pedestal, make Vince start to hesitantly open up a bit and begin to doubt the validity of the conniving Malfi paranoia, so that the posthuman's sudden but inevitable betrayal burns all the sweeter.
we must place Ciro on our highest pedestal, make Vince start to hesitantly open up a bit and begin to doubt the validity of the conniving Malfi paranoia, so that the posthuman's sudden but inevitable betrayal burns all the sweeter.
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Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
- Location
- A place
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
- Location
- being near locations is my passion.
Oh yeah. 'Clearly'. Like how that crime boss was 'clearly' a vampire.
Dude. You're a fantastic qm and amazing storyteller. And please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm feeling a bit perplexed about the fact that you keep on picking a random factoid to go on about in random thread posts that is in clear conflict with the text. Perplexed I say! It was the Aldari who did the butt-pinch. There's no doubt about it!
...and on that note, other players go along with this nonsense when you choose to engage in it. what is this!? why is this!?
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- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
*edit*
Because I don't believe he Vince chose out of loyalty to Cirno, a man he's known for less than a few hours at most, demi-god status aside.
So, it comes down to Hate or Distrust. And between the two I prefer Distrust. I believe there are deals Vince would accept from Crane, with the corollary that Vince would never trust a deal good enough to accept. Also, not that his problem with working for Crane isn't doing work for the Inquisition, it's the assumption he'd just be Crane's slave to abuse.
*edit*
Because I don't believe he Vince chose out of loyalty to Cirno, a man he's known for less than a few hours at most, demi-god status aside.
So, it comes down to Hate or Distrust. And between the two I prefer Distrust. I believe there are deals Vince would accept from Crane, with the corollary that Vince would never trust a deal good enough to accept. Also, not that his problem with working for Crane isn't doing work for the Inquisition, it's the assumption he'd just be Crane's slave to abuse.
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[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
hapcelion
The Abyss gazed back
- Location
- n/a
[x] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
I'm not sure I'd want to get too attached to that space marine out of loyalty. He seems a bit too chummy.
I'm not sure I'd want to get too attached to that space marine out of loyalty. He seems a bit too chummy.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Distrust. Crane hates you and all your kind, you learned that much. You do not trust him to set that hatred aside and give you any reward he promises.
I don't like hate and loyalty seems the wrong. I'd accept disgust.
I don't like hate and loyalty seems the wrong. I'd accept disgust.