The festival is simply too much. Too vibrant, too chaotic, the contrast with the blood and grime beneath your feet too stark. You freeze in place, feeling for the first time a twinge of fear. There are so many other Adepts here, so many sects and houses represented in the vivid iconography and heraldry all around, and you are the Young Mistress of the prominent Omnissiah Igvita. An errant word here could tarnish your name and that of your Sect in the eye of thousands, but you don't know what that errant word might be. You don't know how this place works, what this is, what you should do. You need… you need information. Yes, that is it. You need a groundwork, something to put all of this into context, a map to show you the path forward.
"We need to find anyone in authority," you say to the waiting menials, disguising your doubts beneath a confident mask, "scholars, legalists, officials of any kind. Spread out and see if you can get some directions or advice, then meet up back here."
Most of the menials nod obediently, but one of them frowns at your words - a younger woman with half her hair shaved down to the scalp, the tips of the rest dyed a vibrant orange.
"I… not t' be rude, Mistress, but," she says, working her jaw, "I don't think t' authorities going to help folk like us. Not here."
Not anywhere, her expression implies. Well, you're not so foolish as to start guessing what her life has been like to make such an assumption. The world is imperfect, often deliberately so, but the truth of power is how often those flaws work in your favour.
"They will assist
me," you say, and only when you see the satisfied gleam in the woman's eye do you realise how that might have sounded. Well, you suppose that is acceptable. It is not as though you
won't thrash any fool who disrespects those in your service, after all. There are standards to maintain.
The menials disperse, seeking out information from any they can convince to speak with them, and you take the opportunity to fade into the background for a few moments. The fact that you can actually do that is rather novel, and you suspect that even now your efforts to look casual as you browse the pavilions and muse on the performances are not as successful as they feel, but you need time to process this. To wring some sense out of this place and everything you know about it.
It should not be possible. There is enough wealth and power on display all around you to buy a solar system or ten, intertwined with the kind of decadent excess and revelry you had thought utterly alien to the halls of power, and yet there are no adepts. Or rather, there are no
adeptus. The population is in the thousands and boasts representatives from at least a score of noble houses, yet there are no Arbites to keep them all in line and mediate disputes. The great sealed dome overhead speaks of advanced technology, yet there are no scions of the Mechanicus to keep it in good order. The state of the architecture suggests it has been in operation for centuries, yet there are no priests of the Ecclesiarchy to shepherd the souls of the faithful. You might expect such anarchy on some barren frontier or long-abandoned ruin, but this world is far too well developed for such a description to be fitting. Or… is it?
Taking a risk, you abandon your skulking and leap into the air, conjuring the feathers of the Incandescent Phoenix at your wrists and ankles to guide you to a perch high atop a convenient colonnade. As you rather expected, the display earns you nothing more than a few mildly interested glances, and nobody sees fit to interrupt or disturb you. From your new perch you can look out over the whole of the city, seeing from one edge of the great crystal dome to the other, and what you glimpse in even the first few moments serves to confirm your suspicions. This is not a city in any kind of conventional sense; there are only more mansions, more gardens, more public spaces no matter how far you travel, an endless parade of luxury free of the supporting context that such districts would have on any truly civilised world. There is no industry, no infrastructure, no slums or mass housing units, and while some could likely be concealed beneath the ground the state of the labyrinth you passed through to get here suggests what subterranean layers do exist are not in frequent use.
Tilting your head back, you spot a cluster of formal looking buildings hanging from the underside of the dome's apex, an unsightly blister high above this jewelled paradise. Vox-traffic and data flows trace sparkling lines from that central hub to a dozen or more conduits on the ground, but even that is far quieter than something of this size would normally require. This isn't a civilised world at all, only a playpen for the rich and powerful, the sort of thing that exists in stately hibernation punctuated by short bursts of frantic activity as its esteemed visitors come to take up residence for a time. You expect there is some legal trickery at play to keep the Imperium out, and perhaps something similar to ensure fair play and free association between the visiting nobility. There are myriad Paths beyond those laid down by the Golden Emperor in the Adeptus, but you're aware that many of the ones favoured by noble houses rely on fealty and the dominion of land in one form or another. To create a space where two nobles may meet without either placing herself in the other's power… yes, you can see how such a thing might come to be valued.
(Naturally, you assume that there are at least two factions trying to game the system to exert power over their peers and rivals in this theoretically neutral space, but the precise logistics of the matter escape you).
Satisfied, you descend from your perch to join the returning menials. A quick head-count assures you that none of them have gotten lost or eaten in the few minutes spent away from your care, so before you move on you take the time to single out the half-shaven woman from earlier.
"It appears you may be right," you tell her, for an accurate assessment of the situation is always to be acknowledged, "what authorities exist here may be unable to truly assist us, even if willing. Even so, we need information. What do the rest of you have to report?"
What factoids and nuggets of information the menials provide serve only to confirm your theory, though you would be a fool to dismiss its value. This is the city of Xicarph (or perhaps the planet, though the locals who were asked seemed not to care about the difference) and as you supposed it lies fallow and abandoned for long stretches of time. The current frenzy is an anomaly, the result of the irregular "Festival of Tattered Fates" that apparently coincides with some irregular conjunction of the system's celestial bodies. There is apparently some significance to the conjunction that draws noble Adepts from far and wide, beyond the excuse to indulge in debauchery, but none of your retinue were so foolish as to press one of the enlightened for answers so you can only speculate as to the details. Or consult one of the inhabitants of the area known as the Refutation, who are supposedly reputed to be learned sorts. Lacking any other useful leads, you agree.
Laying eyes upon the district is enough to tell you that the name is a jest, or perhaps a gesture of poetic contempt. Alone of all of Xicarph, the Refutation boasts the expected plethora of icons and symbols relevant to imperial rule, with great twin-headed eagles emblazoned on walls and prayers to the Emperor inscribed on every paving stone, but the area has been neglected and deliberately abandoned. Pomp and pageantry of the empire, reduced to dusty relics in a forgotten niche, abandoned by those who have no more use for them. Oh yes, you understand the meaning of the gesture quite clearly. So too do the officials and scholars who reside here, for they take one look at your ragged attire and the scent of power that hangs around you and scatter like so many roaches, each desperately hoping that the powers that be have not chosen
them to be the target of what must seem an impromptu death squad.
Fortunately, you do not need the aid of the locals to find your way to the region's heart, only the shimmering flow of power revealed by your Apollyon Eyes. It leads you to one of the few remaining institutes of archival study still in workable operation among the dusty and abandoned ruins, a building that proclaims itself the Chancel Athenaeum, and within you swiftly track down the man you seek. There are only so many scholars garbed all in white, much less those who eye you suspiciously when you approach instead of fleeing for some convenient antechamber or residence.
"Are you lost, ma'am?" the old man says, half-moon spectacles reflecting the light as he clutches a heavy tome close to his chest. You can feel… what might be power, or perhaps the merest echo of it left by another. It is hard to say for sure whether this is a mortal or an adept hiding his strength.
"Perhaps," you say, stepping close enough that you can speak quietly and still be heard, "I was told to ask you what lies within the ninth stack of Prol."
You have no idea what 'Prol' is, or perhaps even who, but it seems the scholar does because he betrays himself with a faint flinch before steeling himself once more.
"Only emptiness," he replies, completing the code phrase that Inquisitor Karkalla gave you, "If I may, what became of Nazuath?"
"Dead," you say flatly, and though the old man looks pained he does not seem surprised. "He charged me with carrying on his work. Is there somewhere private we could speak?"
-/-
The Chancel has all the antechambers and reading rooms one would expect of an academic building of any age, and one of the latter serves as a passable lair for you and the Inquisitorial operative to share notes and get onto the same page about what is happening. Most of what the scholar - Septimus, as he introduces himself - has to tell you is kin to the last words of Inquisitor Karkalla, but there is much to be said for the virtues of a proper conversation in place of a few dying gasps of agony.
"We were unprepared, and walked straight into the ambush," he says, bleak duty warring with primal fear as his mind replays the memory. "The Beasts are barely a sect at all, just dabblers and mercenaries picking at what scraps of knowledge they find between the mercenary pursuit of coin, but the Pilgrims… they are worse by far. A true Demonic Sect."
"What does that mean?" You ask, and frown when Septimus looks at you with clear suspicion in his eyes. "I know the stories, everyone does, but if I am to pursue the Heron then I need more than children's tales to work from."
The scholar drums his fingers on the desk for a few moments, clearly deep in thought. You wait patiently, content in the knowledge that your menial retinue will carefully deflect anyone who might think to interrupt. That warriors of the Imperium might be called upon to fight other Adepts is a well known fact, both alien and demonic, but the Inquisition has always zealously guarded the full details of what a demon is and how one who refines their imperium in such a way differs from the more common and permitted Paths. In truth you're almost grateful for the opportunity to learn, for the suppression of knowledge is the suppression of enlightenment, and your people have ever chafed against such restrictions.
"This galaxy belongs to the Sects and their adepts, everyone knows that," the White Scholar admits after a moment, eying you with some distaste. "What most do not realise, or choose not to think about, is that those who walk such a Path eventually and inevitably leave their humanity behind. To refine one's soul is to cut it apart, piece by bloody piece, and leave the offal behind to rot and fester."
You scowl, one hand balling into a fist. "Careful, Septimus. You are a man of learning and I respect that, but you tread dangerously close to insult."
"Think, child," the scholar growls, his eyes blazing, "What becomes of that offal? That cast-off refuse of mankind's base nature, of his mortality? Where does it go? What does it
become?"
You hesitate. That is… no, that cannot be the case. You are familiar with what he speaks of, naturally, the byproducts of self-improvements. It is a near-universal element to all forms of cultivation you have heard of, the reason why serpents who shed their skin are taken by so many cultures to be symbols of divinity. The greatest quantity is produced when one ascends to the next Realm, of course, but all forms of transformational Art produce at least some when studied for the first time. Among the Igvita, such refuse is gathered up and burned in the plasma furnaces, but if what Septimus is saying is true…
"Daemons?" You whisper the word, mind reeling with the implications, "We… create daemons?"
"Just so," Septimus says, an ugly smile on his wrinkled face, "You would need to speak to one of the Malleus to get the full story, unlike this poor student of the Xenos, but the essentials are known to all the Ordos. Daemonic Sects, then, are those which embrace the power and tainted wisdom of beings born from all of humanity's weakest and most contemptible impulses, its flawed and imperfect nature."
No wonder the knowledge is suppressed. The very idea… you accept it as true, for until you can perform independent research and confirm this through experiments there seems little wisdom in rejecting it, but internalising it means accepting on some level that every daemon, every monster in the dark and whisper in the ear, is mankind's self-inflicted suffering. That to be human is to have within oneself the darkest and most vile of sin.
"The implication," you say, keeping your voice steady through an act of will, "is that a Demonic Adept would be… concerned with the visceral, rather than the ideal. That they would draw strength from base urges and mortal nature, and learn to manipulate it in themselves and others."
"Just so," Septimus says again, an edge of surprise and grudging respect in his voice, as though he expected you to somehow stumble or fail to comprehend what he was saying. "The Pilgrims of Hayte, as they know themselves, seek to embody and master the crudest and most instinctual forms of hatred. Their arts are those of bile and spite, and…"
He is interrupted by the muffled sounds of shouting and heavy impacts from just outside. Violence. You rise to your feet without thought, pivoting to put yourself between Septimus and whichever threat has found you, and throw open the door. Sure enough, three men and a woman in colourful festival attire stand about halfway down the passage outside, pulling aside fantastical masks to reveal scarred and broken flesh hidden beneath.
The body of the half-shaven menial woman, the one who questioned you in the plaza, lies broken at their feet.
"Forgive our master's jest," the first one says, baring stained teeth as he smiles at you through a mouth made wider by the slash of some serrated blade, "but the time has come for the pawns to play their parts. Give us the old man."
The other menials are moving into cover, levelling autoguns and las weapons from behind bookshelves and marble statues at the small band of intruders, but the cultists - the Pilgrims, to use their own term - pay them no mind. You can feel the akasha roiling around them, but it feels wrong, tainted and maddened by some impossible curse. You think they are weaker than you, individually, but you cannot say for sure, and there are four of them besides.
"No," you say flatly, because numbers or not there is no choice in this matter. You'll not hand over an ally, even one as poorly mannered as Septimus, to madmen such as these.
"Oh good," says the woman, drawing a rusted scythe from seemingly nowhere at all and hefting it in her hands. She leers at you, and along the edge of her blade sharpened metal teeth begin to churn and roar. "I was so hoping you would say that!"
You think of Nazuath Karkalla, and the sort of death these people plan for you and those under your care. Then you attack.
You are facing four Demonic Adepts of unknown strength and Realm, armed with chain weapons and apparently specialising in "bile and spite". On your side are potentially the ten surviving menials from the Red Cages, but do you wish to expose them to a battle between Adepts?
[ ] Fight Alone. You will win the fight, but will be badly injured in the process, compelling you to seek medical aid and likely weakening you for future confrontations.
[ ] Fight as One. You will win the fight, but several of the menials who follow you will die in pain and fear, as is inevitable when mortals stand against Adepts.
--/--
Additionally, xp earned from fanworks has been used to improve both Sun-Tempered Temple Body and Incandescent Wings of the Phoenix. Choose one perk for each.
[ ] [Phoenix] Effortlessly Dancing Flame. By rapidly adjusting the angle and force of your plasma flares, you can perfectly balance on any surface no matter how thin or unstable.
[ ] [Phoenix] Royal Perch Method. Compensating for the pull of gravity with equal and opposite thrust, you may run on walls or stand on ceilings with equal ease.
[ ] [Phoenix] Surging Tempest Acceleration. Combining multiple plasma-flares into a single volcanic eruption of plasma, you may attain vastly greater acceleration and speed at the cost of manoeuvrability.
-/-
[ ] [Temple] Skyfire Banquet. Natural sunlight and other forms of solar energy are food and water to you, strengthening your body and empowering your soul. The greater the exposure, the greater the benefit.
[ ] [Temple] Adamant Skin. Tempering your body in the heat of your soul, you harden your skin like ceramite, trading flexibility for massively improved resilience.
[ ] [Temple] Untouchable Glory. Attacks which you could otherwise endure are reflected back at the attacker. Naturally, sun-aspected attacks such as light, heat and radiation are much easier to reflect than kinetic force.
