Four enemies. Four pieces of vermin, here to scavenge and murder and take that which you have sworn to protect. Four adepts, weaker than you but with the advantage of mystery and numbers, not a threat to be discarded out of hand. Your mind flickers, fast as lightning, the thought-canticles of your sect studying and assessing the danger, the four who are about to die by your hands. Four of them, three men and one woman. Costumes of rags and coloured fabric, carnival masks discarded, flesh scarred with runes that burn gently in the library's dim light. They're smiling, cruel amusement in their eyes, though whether that is confidence or ignorance you cannot tell. None of them have relics or sacred artefacts to hand, though, just crudely snarling chain weapons that splatter the ground with strange oil as they grumble into life. Axe, sword and claws in the hands of the men, while the woman wields a scythe, adapted from farming equipment unless you miss your guess. Acceptable odds.
"Fire."
You almost don't hear yourself say the word, drowned out a moment later by the roar of gunfire and the sharp crack of las weaponry unleashed with enthusiasm. The menials have none of the training or accuracy of true soldiers, but numbers alone will tell, and as plaster busts shatter and walls shed their crumbling facade the Pilgrims dive into cover. First or Second Realm, then, weaker than you for sure, still contending with enough mortal frailty that small arms fire is a threat to life and limb. Good.
To wade through that onslaught would be painful for you, potentially injurious, but you have other means at your disposal. The feathers of the incandescent phoenix form around your arms and shoulders as you leap and twist in the air, burning bright to hold you in place against the will of gravity, and with light steps you sprint down the corridor as though ceiling was no different from floor. The sun's corona gathers in your fist as you move, and barely a heartbeat later you are directly over the cultists and their improvised cover, reversing the direction of the feathers to descend upon them like a meteor.
There is nothing subtle about your art, and so it is no surprise that the Pilgrim you choose for your first target sees you coming. He grins, baring rotten teeth behind pox-broken lips as he lifts his head to stare you down, and as you descend he takes his snarling chain-axe in a two handed grip and swings. You could dodge the blow but it is faster to accept it, compensating for the imparted momentum with a feather of equal and opposite force, and tempered in the light of the sun your skin is harder than treated steel. There are sparks as the teeth grind against your arm, pain as your skin is torn and abraded, but that is all. An acceptable price for a perfect blow, as your burning fist punches straight through the cultist's head and leaves his torso a smoking crater.
You land in a crouch, the ruin of your first opponent toppling behind you, and are immediately set upon by the second. Howling in rage and ecstasy, a man with loose skin and a malnourished frame lunges at you, hands covered in strange gauntlets tipped with hissing claws. There's no elegance to his movements, no skill to prevent you from stepping back out of his reach, only a mad animal fury that drives him on and forces you back once more. He is a pitiful thing, worthy only of contempt, but you can see the rancid light of akasha around the tips of those claws, and when you slap one aside with a bare hand your skin burns with its acidic touch. Troublesome.
The floor goes black, consumed by oily shadows, and on instinct you leap back and find a narrow reading table creaking dangerously under your weight. Your opponent lets you go, retreating to the perch offered by a half-ruined statue, and in the moment of freedom so afforded you seek the source of the strange technique. There, the woman with the scythe, kneeling with her palm pressed flat against the ground, her shadow twisted and monstrous as it spreads to consume everything it can reach.
"Ahaha, yes! Yes, sister!" The man with the tiger claws calls out in exultation, "Show them the might of the Ever Hungry…"
A las-bolt hits him in the eye, boiling his brain and cracking the skull from overpressure, but the menial who made the shot pays for their heroism. You don't look, but you hear the screams as the hungry shadow reaches them, smell the acrid stench of dissolving flesh. You have to save them.
The Incandescent Phoenix bears you through the air in rough imitation of flight, an avenging angel on wings of fire, and the Pilgrim breaks off her technique with a curse and lifts her scythe in defence. Were it a relic weapon of the Sects, a true power scythe designed to channel the akasha of an adept wielder, then perhaps this would work. Instead your burning fist shears through the metal haft like a torch, and though the Pilgrim darts back through a cloud of conjured toxins you will not let her get away. Your skin burns and your eyes sting as you plunge headfirst through the danger, but this too is a price you willingly pay, and before the heretic can escape you open your hand and put the full force of the Coronal Blow through her blackened heart.
Again you land just beyond the smoking body of your victim, coughing as you expel the poison from your lungs, flushed and sweating as you burn it from your blood. In a battle between Adepts, toxins are used to grant an edge over a well matched opponent, or to drag down a superior one over time, but that only helps if you can survive long enough to see them brought low. It is for this reason that the Omnissiah Igvita teaches one should burn out such a foe as quickly and thoroughly as possible, even if it means accepting a hit or two in exchange. Now, that is three dead, by your hand or well aimed shot, so where is the fourth one?
You spin at the sound of rending flesh to find your answer. The last of the Pilgrims of Hayte has disregarded you entirely, using some manner of movement art to pass through the killing zone in the corridor, and now he is among your menials. His sword is clogged with gore, his laughter drowned out by the visceral sound of tearing meat, and already he closes on the cowering form of Septimus at the rear.
No!
You light the Phoenix Feathers, forcing as much power into them as you can, tearing your way back down the hall with the speed and reckless fury of a bullet, but you are too slow. The Pilgrims lifts his sword in an executioner's stance, the White Scholar throws up his arms in despair and desperation, and another menial throws himself in the way. The stocky man who piloted the Sentinel loader in the vaults beneath the city, the one who spoke to you so fearlessly, screams in agony as the chainsword bites deep into his flesh. The Pilgrim curses, trying to draw the weapon back, but for one precious moment it remains stuck and clogged with the visceral detritus of sacrifice. He cannot draw the weapon free before you arrive, and in wasting his effort trying has nothing left to deflect your fist of burning sunlight. Another falls, the last of the four, and though you push him aside and grip the stained hilt of the sword the stocky menial cannot be saved. He tries for a smile, but it is a broken and wretched thing, and moments later loss of blood and shock turn his eyes to glass and steal the final breath from his sundered lungs.
You stare at the body. Another corpse, another failure, another mortal in your care lost to violence and death. There are only four of them left now. Four of the twelve you started with, two dead for every one you saved, and you don't even…
"What was his name?"
The nearest of the menials looks at her surviving companions, but shakes her head. She's an older woman, with ragged hair that is clearly missing the care and attention it is used to. "I… don't know, my lady. We didn't… I think he was close to the young man over there, but…"
You don't have to look to know that the man in question is a corpse, or that such a word is generous for the remains of a mortal struck by the poisonous technique of a demonic adept. Another failure.
"I see," you say, keeping your expression controlled, "Then… What is your name? All of you. I should have asked, I just…"
You stop. What justification can you even offer? You were too distracted, too arrogant, and then time had passed and it became too awkward. It still feels awkward now, to admit that you did not listen when they introduced themselves to one another, that you might have cared but chose not to do so. But this man died defending an ally of yours, he fought by your side and paid the final price for it, and what is your ego, your reputation, compared to that?
"Greta, lady," the older woman says, an oddly compassionate look in her eyes, before indicating a younger woman next to her. "This is Meena, my daughter. She doesn't talk much."
The daughter nods to you, smiling tremulously, and you nod back. Her throat is deformed, scarred by surgery and some strange remnants of old growth that the procedure largely removed, which you expect contributes to her silence. If she were a menial of the Omnissiah Igvita she would have been purged and her bloodline forsaken for such an imperfection, but she carries her stolen rifle with confident ease and has wielded it with dedication, so perhaps it was better that she was born far from Ryza.
"I'm Bors," chimes in the third survivor, a young man who appears to have forsaken all possibility of plundered clothing save for a furry loincloth. You're not sure why, his physique is nothing impressive and the small puncture marks running up his bare arms are something most would rather hide, but you nod all the same. "We… we did it, didn't we? We killed some fucking adepts."
"Quiet down, boy," says the last of them, a man in his middle years with an impressive beard that spills down to just above his navel. The whole thing is matted with oil and viscera by this point, and you wince at the thought of how difficult it will be to clean, but the man seems sanguine enough. "Don't go boasting of killing adepts
to an adept, especially the one who took three of them down herself. Sergeant Sulz, Third Gallowglass, ma'am."
You think the lasgun in his hands might have been the one to put down the pilgrim with the tiger-claws, but you have no way of knowing and it seems pointless to ask. At least you know their names now. Greta, Meena, Bors and Sulz. They may yet die, but you will at least remember them as more than faces and vague impressions. You owe them that much.
"Gather the bodies," you say, gesturing to the shattered remnants of the battlefield, "but try not to touch the heretics with bare skin. I will give them a proper pyre."
The menials nod and begin their work, all save Sulz needing to choke down bile and brace themselves before touching the more ruined remnants left strewn across the hallway. Septimus takes the opportunity to approach you with some discretion, his frail hands brushing futilely at his stained and ruined robes.
"Is this wise, Lady Miraxa?" He says, nodding to the work, "There may be more Pilgrims on the way, or other scavengers drawn to the sound of conflict. We should leave while we still can."
"I have seen what they do to bodies in this place," you say flatly, shaking your head, "and I will not permit it here. What manner of mind conceives of such horror, and then paints it over with scenes of revelry and wealth?"
"The Haarlock clan were always prone to such cruel jests," Septimus sighs, shaking his head. He catches your inquisitive look and frowns. "You have not heard the name? I suppose they would not be of interest to the Mechanicus. An old family, passing leadership of the Hollow Sun Sect down from father to son over generations. Long extinct now, thanks to infighting and hubris, but their works endure. Xicarph was one of them, a place of truce and relaxation they could place at the disposal of their allies, the Widower bound to keep the peace."
"I see," you nod, filing the information away for future reference. The name of the sect nags at your mind, but you cannot recall hearing of it before. Some significance or relevance that might make itself known in time, perhaps. "In any case, I will need further information about this place, allies and resources to take the fight to Heron and his patsies. Where might I find them?"
"Ideally, I would be able to contact the Ordos for further assistance," Septimus sighs, turning frustrated eyes towards the heavens, "Alas, no ships are arriving or leaving while the Festival proper is underway, and the only astropaths are those in service to one of the attendant guests. You must look to more local sources of aid, it seems…"
Septimus can direct you to one of the following sources of aid, where you might obtain information and material support to aid in tracking down the Heron Mask and averting whatever scheme he has planned.
[ ] Papa Grist. An emissary of the Frozen Hearth Sect, smugglers and facilitators who work throughout the criminal underworld across the Segmentum, here to conduct business. Eager to help such a distinguished client, rich and well supplied, but the Frozen Hearth will remember the debt and will not willingly see you slip the chains of obligation.
[ ] The Spider Bride. Once a servant of the now-vanished Haarlocks, the Spider Bride has founded her own Sect on Xicarph, playing host and mediator and spreading her web across the planet and beyond. Has greater local influence and information than anyone, but will almost certainly demand aid with her own local issues as well.
[ ] The Widower. An ancient and dubiously malevolent spirit bound in service by fallen masters. Has immediate interests in stopping the Heron and is powerful beyond measure, but if the Heron is to be believed would like nothing more than to see the world 'drown in black hells uncounted'. Tread carefully.
-/-
In pursuing this lead, you also have the opportunity to make an alliance with others who seek to oppose the Heron for their own reasons. Who do you encounter, who sees fit to make common cause with the Young Mistress? All of the following are Adepts with notable combat capabilities.
[ ] Lady Du'landra Melua. A noblewoman and guest of sorts in Xicarph, but not one who has any interest in the festivities. She seeks her brother, taken by the Beast House much as you were, and will not rest until he is returned and his kidnappers have tasted steel for the insult.
[ ] Obadiah Psalter. An agitator, rabble-rouser and devout puritan who formed a small congregation to oppose the sinful debauchery of Xicarph. He lost his flock to Heron's poisoned words, and now seeks aid in attaining vengeance and the smiting of the unholy.
[ ] Markus Vulpa. The Jackal Mask, slaver and murderer, lord of beasts and spurned dupe of the Heron's baleful schemes. Vulpa seeks vengeance, but more than anything he wants a way out of the consequences that this scheme seems inclined to bring down on his head.
