Suffer Not the Witch (Warhammer 40k Psyker Quest)

Malfi is not a world known to be kind to its idealists, for all that it seems to generate them in great quantity. A burning sense of conviction and a dedication to a higher purpose do nothing to protect one from being drawn into the murderous web of the Ebb and Flow, and you've seen all too many high-minded idealists become just another piece on the board to have much regard for standing your ground on principle. Results are what matter, and the likely outcome of defying Ciro's assumed command here is not one you care to court. Even if you successfully pulled it off, you would still need to rely on him to fight past Crane and take the ship. Better by far to conserve your strength and pick your moment with care.

The sentiment seems a common one, for no one else speaks up in your place. Nadia clearly understands the implications, judging by her faint frown, but after a moment's hesitation she opts to merely duck her head in silent consent. Sidhe and Bore, by contrast, could be ignorant or uncaring and you'd have no ready means to tell the difference.

"Ha! Yes, a fine battle waits!" Queen Scarna says joyously, before jabbing her spear at a score of the more heavily armed and battle-scarred members of the Carrion, "You go, you fight. Tear the throat from the Voice!"

The joyous roars and proud boasting of the Carrion covers up the silence with which the others of you prepare, and together you make your way along the corridor and pack yourselves into the claustrophobic space of the lift at the end. The Carrion stand shoulder to shoulder, the scent of sweat and unwashed bodies mingling with the stench of oil and rust from the machinery, and after a period of jostling the winches shriek in agony and the lift begins to rise. You swallow, focusing your will, and flinch only slightly when Ciro lays his heavy gauntlet on your shoulder.

"When the shooting starts, stay in my shadow," he says, leaning down slightly so he can actually murmur into your ear, the furnace heat of his breath against your skin a sweet torture. "Your reforged flesh is impressive, but let us not test how it stands up to concentrated bolt fire."

"Such concern for my welfare," you say, a touch waspishly, "One might almost forget you allowed the daemon to live, to threaten us all."

Your mind catches up with your mouth a moment later, your body locking solid in sudden horror, but it seems Ciro is in a good mood for he simply chuckles quietly to himself.

"And leave your sorcery our only option for navigating the ship?" he says, and his voice is so impossibly deep, you feel like you are teetering on the edge of some vast abyss merely listening to it, "Please, Vincenzo. I understand that Malfi has a reputation for such games, but do try to be at least moderately subtle."

You blink, and swallow the immediate impulse to reveal your confusion. Ciro thinks that you… well, you suppose if he knows psykers capable of doing such things, then the lone psyker in the group arguing for the daemon's destruction might perhaps be seen as an attempt to remove a rival. You can't do that, you didn't even know it was possible, but… if Ciro thinks that you do, then revealing the truth won't do anything save lowering your perceived value in his eyes. That's a dangerous game to play, especially on the eve of battle.

Then the lift reaches its destination, the doors grinding open with a metallic shriek, and there is no more time for contemplation. You get the briefest glimpse of the ship's bridge, an open space that stretches out for some fifty feet from the lift entrance to a raised dais at the end and rows of terraced balconies on every side, and then you are being shoved into Ciro's shadow as the Carrion raise plates of scrap metal into a simple shield wall. A second later and the Inquisition opens fire, lasfire falling like rain from a dozen fortified emplacements all around the bridge to bite through metal and flesh with serpentine hisses.

"Spears!" One of the Carrion shouts, and for a moment the shield wall parts, half a dozen among their number stepping into the gap to lob sharpened stakes of metal up at the enemy in their crude emplacements. The feral warriors have a surprising strength behind their arms, and you think you see some kind of gauntlet-sling in use that allows the projectiles to be thrown further and with greater force, but the angle is poor and the enemy positions too well defended. You see helmeted heads duck into cover for a second or two as the spears thump into the barriers and balconies around them, but then they rise again and the rain of lasfire begins anew.

Something clatters on the ground, a small pitted sphere of metal bouncing into your ranks, but before your mind can stop gibbering in fear Ciro steps forward and snatches the grenade from the air with a single hand. He throws it back, his aim perfect, but the explosive detonates just short of the nearest gun-nest and fills the air with flame instead of consuming them with flame. A moment later the Space Marine lifts his bolter and turns the skull of the man responsible into red mist, and just like that you begin to advance.

It's madness, a whirling maelstrom of light and sound and the scent of burning flesh, but you have Ciro at your side like a great unyielding pillar and the ranks of the Carrion all around you. You even catch a glimpse of Nadia once or twice, seamlessly adapting to the fighting style of the tribesmen with her borrowed lasgun in place of their spears, and together you force a path onwards. That is when Interrogator Crane makes his appearance, stepping out from behind a crude barricade on the upper level, his long grey coat flapping dramatically in the draft from the faltering air exchangers.

"In the Emperor's Name," he roars, the air shaking and the deck shivering with the subsonic force of his voice, "Kneel!"

It's not a choice. Your legs give out as your heart lurches in your chest, and before you can properly understand what is happening you are on your knees, sword scraping against the deck at your side. Even the Carrion are affected, dropping their shields with mournful wails as the feared Voice drives them from their feet, the lasfire from on high scything through their ranks with merciless brutality. Ciro alone remains on his feet, a lone titan unbowed by the roar, and even he is staggering as virtually every spare weapon above focuses its fire on him all at once.


Salvation comes in the form of Hephastus Bore, emerging from a ceiling hatch like a spider from some poor child's nightmare. The Magos' red robes ripple like water as he skitters across the metal roof, a dozen sinuous tendrils emerging to stroke the air around him, and at the tip of each can be seen a whirring drill or automated bone saw shrieking with promised violence. The nearest of the Inquisition's soldiers round on him immediately, but it does little good - they are already within reach of those questing limbs, and the liquid screams of their deaths will haunt your dreams for years to come.

Move, Vincenzo. Move or die!

With a roar that mingles rage and fear into a single toxic blend, you leap to your feet and beat your wings, throwing yourself through the air in a ballistic course directly towards Interrogator Crane. He sees you coming and steps back out of your path, drawing his weapons as you land awkwardly on the gantry next to him, but that's fine. You're doing your part, and while he is preoccupied with you he cannot rally his soldiers or keep the advance team suppressed.

"Who…" Crane says with a frown, staring at your altered flesh in confusion, bright blue eyes tracing the contours of your marbled flesh and feathered wings in consternation. Enlightenment comes to him a second later, and he scowls. "Prisoner Zero Four Two Five, I see. Not content with cowardice, you compound your sin with heresy and rebellion."

You lift your sword into a two-handed grip, the hilt just above your head, the point reaching for the enemy's throat. A classic guard, and one that does little to hide how the sword shivers with your murderous intent, how the air grows cold as you draw on your power.

"My name," you say, in a voice of ice, "is Vincenzo Leonardo Borgia. You have insulted me for the last time, Crane, and I will make you pay for it."

"That was your name, prisoner. You surrendered the right to such a thing when you transgressed the laws of our beloved God-Emperor," Crane growls, hefting a whirring chainsword in one hand and gesturing to two of the nearby soldiers with the bolt pistol in his spare, "But I waste my time. Kill it."

The soldiers raise their weapons, Crane levels his bolt pistol, you force the gate in your mind to open wide. The warp sings in your veins, and after a single frozen moment of perfection the world begins to slowly decay. Furious roars become drawn-out moans, desperate swipes of spear and sword become elegant movements of a dance, and all around you the rain of lasfire becomes a constellation of ruby flowing gradually through the crystalline air.

Your body burns with icy flame as you step forwards, lasfire whipping past your face or glancing harmlessly from your marble flesh, and in the granite lines of Crane's face you can see the first tectonic shifts of alarm. His bolt pistol blossoms with flame, a single round racing towards your heart on a column of shimmering gas, and you brush it aside with the tip of a single wing. There is a flickering starburst of pain as the round detonates and turns the tip of your fifth limb to gore and offal, but you are above such things now, beyond them. Your sword shines in your hands, and with a silent smile you cross the distance between you and your foes to fulfil the promise you made.

The Inquisition's soldiers are clad in void-black carapace, their faces hidden behind reflective visors and their bodies already twisting in hopes of a dodge, but such protection is meant for lasfire and shrapnel, not the razor edge of a force blade in the hands of a duelist like yourself. It is the simplest thing in the world to jab the point of your blade an inch into the throat of the first, scarcely any effort to flap your wings and use the brief hopping leap to stab your blade into the second's shoulder and down into his heart. They fall like drowning men, the air cradling them as they descend, and you turn towards Crane with a bloody sword in hand.

You had planned on a clean death, a single strike of perfect skill in the tradition of your school, but when you look upon him all the memories come back at once. The beatings, the torture, the cruel comments and the contemptuous glee… it overwhelms you, and what was meant to be a swift stab to the heart becomes a ragged cut across his chest. You follow it up with a slash down the gut, a slice to the forearm, a spearing thrust that pierces one eye. Your sword becomes a shimmering web of steel and eldritch power, and the merely human Crane cannot hope to move fast enough to counter it.

He looks like shredded meat when you are done, flensed and broken and soaked in blood, but incredibly he still stands. He staggers, falling backwards, but even then his remaining eye burns his hate and his arm brings the chainsword up and around in a shrieking arc. It would be admirable persistence in a man worth anything, but instead it is merely frustrating, and after parrying the blade in a shower of sparks you seize Crane by the wrist and twist until he cannot help but drop the weapon at your feet. Mutilated, disarmed and vulnerable, there is nothing he can do to save himself.

Your sword pierces Interrogator Crane through the heart, and with the weight of your body you force him to his knees, the power leaving you in a rush of dull pain and patterns of ice across your veins. The world comes back into focus, the din of battle and the screams of the wounded no longer constrained by the speed of your perception, but you have eyes only for the man dying at your feet.

Somehow, incredibly, Crane still endeavours to defy you. His dimming eye stares at you hatefully, his mouth works soundlessly with bubbling curses, and one trembling arm starts to raise the bolt pistol yet again. You snarl, frustration bubbling over, and yank your blade free before drawing it back across his throat.

Interrogator Crane falls, his headless body slumping brokenly to the ground, and with that the battle is all but won. The last few acolytes hold out as best they can, but between the Carrion and the Astartes they cannot hope to prevail, and with their leader dead they cannot even make it a fight worth having. They are overrun and butchered, and you… you are victorious.

Revenge is a sharp and bitter thing indeed.

-/-


-/-

In the aftermath you regroup, your wounds bandaged and the worst of the gore cleaned off, the post-battle rush allowed to fade away and fatigue creeping in to take its place. All around you the Carrion are busy dragging away corpses and bickering over spoils, but you have the only trophy you care to claim. Crane's bolt pistol is a fine piece of work, and while it lacks any official ornamentation you think it will always hold a certain sentimental value to you.

"Magos Bore," Ciro says in a firm voice, as though you cannot see the gently smoking holes in his armour or the odd crusted wounds on his skin, "a report on the ship's condition, if you would."

"The Chains of Damnation is too badly damaged to fight, and would require at least some measure of repair and reinforcement before risking any manner of warp jump," Bore reports, the strange and horrifying limbs stowed safely away beneath his robes once more. The name is new to you, but you suppose it is fitting for an Inquisitorial prison barge. "More pertinently, the Interrogator was not lying - a distress signal has been broadcast from the ship every day for two hundred years. Some months ago it was answered by transmissions from the nearest stellar body. The Imperium is coming for us."

"Fortunately, we have some time yet," Nadia speaks up at this point, her borrowed lasgun slung easily over one shoulder and a few strands of curly black hair poking out from under an improvised bandana, "I checked the astrologian logs and the star charts. We're in the deep void on the fringes of Calixis, in the spinward region of the Drusus Marches. It's possible to find a ship out here, but with only mechanical signals to go on, actually reaching it is near impossible. The Imperium has been triangulating the signal, but they're not here yet, and I think we have at least a week or two before they narrow it down to operational range."

"I see," Ciro nods seriously, "Very well. Magos, begin such repairs as you can, with the Carrion's aid. We need the ship to hold together for a single, short-ranged jump."

There is silence at that, a kind of awkward hesitation among the group. Sidhe is the one to break it, her gloved hands deftly tying a small scrap of metal into place in her hair. "And where will this ark of dead men and the mad be going, mon-keigh?"

"The Gloaming Worlds," Ciro says, apparently choosing to ignore the insulting descriptor, "A stretch of territory beyond the reach of the Imperium, with such facilities and populace necessary to support our onward journey."

You blink, a little surprised. You can't claim to have ever been a particular student of astronomy or warp travel, but as you understand it a short warp voyage means that Ciro means to stay within or very near Calixis, and you cannot imagine there are many places in that region that could hope to remain free of Imperial control for long. Which means…

"You're mad," Nadia gasps, her pretty face twisted and slack with shock as she stares at the Astartes. Everyone looks at her, and you see the moment of panic as she realises that she spoke aloud, followed a heartbeat later by the decision to press onwards regardless. "I've heard of the Gloaming Worlds. They're… such is the name given for the outer shell of systems within the Screaming Vortex. You would take us into a thrice-damned warp storm!"

"I would," Ciro responds, as though this is a perfectly sane and reasonable course of action and not the act of an utter madman. "It is a perilous trip, but we have few options. This vessel bears the symbol of the Inquisition on its flank, and there is nowhere we might take it within Imperial space with any safety, nor can it hope to run the Maw in such a condition to reach the Koronus Expanse. The Gloaming Worlds are but lightly touched by the warp, quite safe if one stays there but a short time before returning to truespace. More importantly, they are free of imperial authority and home to many smugglers, reavers and independent vessels that might be convinced to carry us onwards."

He speaks of them with personal familiarity, you realise with a slowly dawning sense of awestruck horror. Who is this man that walks from the very maelstrom itself without concern and returns to tell the tale?

"I am no stranger to poor decisions worth taking by contrast, but even so," Nadia protests, "Surely there must be some other way? We might waylay another ship, or impersonate crew rather than prisoners when the Imperium arrives…"

"Lady Black," Ciro says gently, smiling warmly at her in a way that manages to be far more disquieting than any number of screaming threats, "This is not a matter of debate."

Nadia swallows and steps back, reading the command and implied warning all too clearly. You don't know quite what you feel, but neither do you want to be the one to speak up next, and it seems that nobody else feels overly keen on the idea either. In fact Sidhe has already vanished, slipping away at some point that you did not even manage to notice, while Bore is already tapping away on a data-slate as he puts together a repair plan.

"Excellent. Well, with the upper levels secured, I expect we have access to the personal supplies and comfortable quarters of the ship's elite," Ciro says with a genial smile, "Let us rest for a time, and enjoy them. And then… get to work."

Article:

For successfully taking your prison ship back from the grasp of the Inquisition and taking his first steps on the road to independence, Vincenzo has earned 12xp. Please vote on how to spend it in plan format - the cost of various upgrades can be seen on the character sheet. Should a psychic power or talent be unlocked, now or in the future, there will be a secondary vote on which one it should be.

Spend 12 experience points:
[ ] Write in (Plan format)

Additionally, it will take at least some time for the ship to be repaired enough to permit even the most basic of warp jumps. Who do you choose to spend time with, or what do you otherwise seek to accomplish during that enforced downtime?

Choose TWO.

[ ] Bore. The tech-priest is an enigma, but his skills will make him valuable to both you and prospective future patrons. You need to know what makes him tick, how to read and predict him, else he will always be a dangerous unknown.

[ ] Ciro. You can't keep leaving this ambiguous, you need to know who he is and what he intends. He thinks you have accepted his authority, surely he will be willing to reveal something you can work with?

[ ] Nadia. As a seasoned voidfarer and former Rogue Trader, Nadia is the one best positioned to break away and strike out on her own, and her behaviour so far suggests she will at first opportunity. You need to work on convincing her to take you with her when she goes.

[ ] Sidhe. The Aeldari are infamous for their duplicity and slippery nature, and if Sidhe hasn't already worked out a way to escape or turn this to her advantage you'd be very surprised. Build on your rapport, and get her on your side.

[ ] Write in. This option can be used to cover virtually anything, from swaying the Carrion to seeing if that warp navigation thing Ciro mentioned is possible, or even killing Karnak Zul if you're feeling bold.