Suffer Not the Witch (Warhammer 40k Psyker Quest)

You consider the possibilities for a moment, then force yourself to relax. Nadia may not be entirely worthy of unquestioned trust - who in this galaxy is? - but she has given you no cause to doubt her, and even less to make an enemy of her by such a public act of subversive theft. Besides, you are a champion and a duelist, not a war leader - your place is at the side of someone who needs your talents, not taking command for your own.

Your place is burning on a pyre.

Grimacing, you thrust such thoughts out of mind and turn your attention back to the ongoing negotiations. Nadia, it is plain to see, is clearly in her element here, dangling bait in the form of worlds unseen and the prosperity of a brighter tomorrow in front of the Carrion Queen's face, playing as much to the assembled court of warriors and wisefolk as to the monarch herself. If this was your homeland you would expect a flow and counter of wits and repartee, but as it is your companion's words fall uncontested like fresh rain on parched soil, and soon enough it seems she has the whole tribe a shade away from dancing to her tune.

"Many fine words you speak, walker of worlds, yet many foes stand between you and the threshold," Scarna says at last, settling back into her throne with a calculating look in her blood red eyes, "Seek to make common cause with the Carrion, yet you speak little of the Doom and how it may be bested."

"We have with us a mighty warrior," Nadia says with a smile, and on cue Ciro chuckles and bows politely with a faint whine of armour, "With such a champion at our side, even the Doom might be overcome."

"'Tis a big man, this is clear, yet the Carrion have fought the Doom before, and many of our finest have died in the attempt," Scarna says with a frown, "It has power of storm and silence, torn from the world beyond the world. No strong arm will help there."

Well, that sounds rather like your cue, and with a wry smile you step forwards in your turn. "A thing of the outside world? Such is why I am here."

Scarna frowns at you, even as Nadia nods and yields the floor with a shallow step, supporting your bold claim without a word. The Queen seems dubious, and you suppose you cannot blame her, ignorant as she must be. "You? What can you do, small man?"

You smile, and if the expression is a brittle one by the standards of your home, none here are so practiced at seeing it. You smile, and you let the power come, and the heat drains from the world around you. Ice spreads across the metal in a shimmering blanket, static gathers around your hands, and distantly the faintest echo of scratching can be heard. You hate doing this, hate exposing who and what you are, but that you hate something is no reason to refrain in times of need.

"I can best your Doom," you say, calm and steady, and as the tribesmen mutter uneasily and your companions exchange glances you reign the power back in and allow heat to return to the world, "Trust in that, if not the strength of Ciro's arm."

"Hmph," Scarna scoffs loudly from her throne of scraps, but you can see the wariness in her eyes, the faint trembling that she quells with an iron grip on the throne. A Queen cannot be seen to know fear, after all, and so you do not begrudge her the skepticism. "Tricks of light and heat, to fool children and steal fools."

You nod, and with a single smooth motion draw your sword, ignoring the startled oaths of the Carrion as they brandish weapons in response. "A fair point, Majesty. Name a champion, then, and I will demonstrate my 'tricks'."

The Carrion Queen stares down at you for a long moment, strange thoughts dancing in her scarlet eyes, then turns to one of the young warriors lurking by her throne. "Go. Bring the hunter."

The other Carrion barks an acknowledgement and scurries off, while the others begin grinning and spreading out around the room, forming a crude arena with their bodies. You've seen this sort of thing happen more than once, whenever some insult or challenge demanded immediate response rather than even the small delay of moving to a proper arena, so you nod calmly and move to the centre of the throne room.

"Dead hunters yet hunger," Scarna says with a laugh, lifting one sinewy arm and twisting to display the ragged scars that run from her wrist to elbow, "Give scars to even the mighty. Carrion must fight them, kill them, to stand near the throne. Must do so alone to be Queen."

Well, it seems you were right about the martial traditions of these people at least, though you have to wonder what kind of foe is still out there to be slain in ritual challenge after two hundred years adrift. A few moments later the young Carrion returns, having apparently corralled a few of his peers into assisting with your opponent, and you have your answer - a corpse.

Granted, few corpses are quite so lively as this one, snapping with stained teeth at its captors and glaring at all present with hollow eye sockets, long claws of gleaming steel protruding from withered hands and flexing with the movement of stick-like limbs. Pins of tarnished bronze protrude from beneath the leathery skin in a dozen locations, and fibre cables twitch and glow beneath an obscuring layer of fossilised meat. A servitor of some kind, you can only assume, made for combat and patrol duties - a way for the Inquisition to keep its captives under guard without the worries of a mortal and corruptible crew? Either way, you can see why the Carrion value those capable of beating one.

Well, there's no point engaging in the normal preliminaries, the boasting and taunting and recitation of your patron's lineage, not against a man-made beast without ears to hear or tongue to speak. Nor is there much point in wearing your long coat of flak armour, those claws are clearly sharp enough to tear right through and you think you can smell the ozone stench that tells of power blades held currently inactive. Instead you make a show of shrugging off the coat and loosening the collar of your shirt, before stepping forwards and touching your brow to the hilt of your sword in respect.

Scarna calls a command, the Carrion release the chains, and with a rasping howl the murder-servitor leaps for you. It is aggressive and fearless, augmented beyond human norms and equipped with gleaming claws that can rend through plate without slowing, but it is also functionally mindless and thus easy to predict.

Your lunge pierces it in the sternum, the blade empowered by your will until even metal plates and ancient bones part like paper before its edge, and with a twist you pull the blade up and through its rib cage even as you step past. Had it been human the spray of gore would have fallen all across the metal floor, but as it turns out a servitor has reservoirs and internal systems quite out of sync with the being from which it was made, and as the construct falls into pieces it contrives to coat you from head to foot in a stagnant spray of oil and reeking ichor.

It is disgusting, but you are quite practiced at holding your nerve through such things, and so you resist the urge to gag as your opponent falls to the floor in a broken heap.


There is stunned silence in the throne room, and in that gap before sense returns you wipe the oil and lubricant from around your eyes at least and give the court your finest bow.

"Hah!" roars the Queen, hammering a fist against the arm of her throne as she laughs, "Well fought! Proof of your valour is enough - together, even the Doom shall know fear!"

"You are too kind, mighty majesty," you say smoothly, trying not to gag on the taste of rotten oil against your lips, "I regret only that I could not see your own triumph, for surely it was a fight worth knowing."

"Hrm. Pretty words, the small man has," Queen Scarna says with a smile, her pointed teeth shining in the flickering light as she looks you up and down, "Pretty face as well. My bed is cold and lonely…"

"Alas, I am filthy and tired," you say, a smile quirking at your lips as you deflect the proposition. Ah, it's just like being back home - something about watching a man kill something stirs passion in the hearts and loins, and rarely do your admirers wait for the blood to be cleaned away before making their interest known.

"Then a room for rest and cloth for cleansing, shall you have!" The Queen proclaims, rising to her feet and lifting her hands to the vaulted roof, "Time will be taken for word to spread and Carrion to muster, for scouts and hunters to bring word of the path - use it well, for when we march, it is to strangle Doom and silence Voice!"

The room erupts in cheers, warriors young and old raising their voices in exultant roaring, and you take the opportunity to slip back to rejoin your small group of comrades.

"Nice work, handsome," Nadia says with a laugh, clapping you briefly on the shoulder, and this time you do not flinch away, "You know, when we're out of here, I could use a champion to help reclaim my birthright…"

"Might I suggest we focus on escaping first?" You say mildly, because you know better than most the risks of signing yourself unthinking to the first cause to come your way, "There are yet challenges in our path that I feel unwise to disregard."

"Hah! So melancholic. We'll find something you enjoy eventually, I wager," Nadia chuckles, leaving you where you stand and heading back to rejoin the carrion and her court, to build on the foundations she has already laid. You watch her go with a bemused smile, then pause to sniff yourself and wrinkle your nose.

Damn it all, you liked this shirt.

Article:

There is a chance to rest here, while waiting for the Carrion to muster and the reports of the scouts to come in, and you spend at least part of it getting to know one of your companions a little better. Who do you speak to, and of what?

[ ] Ciro, about Singing. It's amazing the kind of notes one can hit when blessed with a body so much larger than the average man and three lungs to work with.

[ ] Hephastus, about Sport. An enthusiasm for pursuit of perfection-in-flesh leads to some odd pursuits, and some strong opinions on rules meant to mandate 'fair play'.

[ ] Nadia, about Fashion. Is it heretical to wear clothing without at least one aquila or skull on it, or merely universally unfashionable?

[ ] Sidhe, about Art. Is there any common ground to be found in the aesthetic senses of Man and Aeldari, or are you doomed to forever be snippy about the other's lack of taste?