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A school for the cursed: A Psyker Quest. Warhammer 40k quest.
- Thread starter Mayto
- Start date
- Mature Sci-Fi
Meeting a general and deciding what we want to train.
- Location
- Netherlands
[X] An Imperial Guard troop ship:
The Torvum Triarii are one of the elite Imperial Guard regiments of the Torvum Sector. And one of them is returning home after a long campaign near the Cadian Gate. The surviving members of the regiment, as befits the sons and daughters of the military aristocracy, are being transported aboard a troopship back towards their home sector, where they will become leading officials of planetary defense forces across the sector.
Meet an ambitious Lord General of the Imperial Guard, and great-granddaughter of Lord Ozmandus.
Despite popular belief, baseline human Psykers can navigate through the realm of the immatereum without the use of specialized 'transit cages'. However, most still choose to use them for safety and preparation as the ship transitions between realspace and the warp. While inside the warp, a Psyker might occasionally feel an attempt to intrude upon them if they lack control. This can be trained against, which you are. But even the mightiest Primaris Psykers still experience great discomfort when a ship jumps.
Your is a simple standing cage with a built-in chair for you to inhabit during transitions, constructed of bars of sanctified silver that serve as a faraday cage against the effects of the warp. As the alarm chimes to announce a successful jump into the warp, you step out of the warp-transfer cage and close the sliding door behind you. You appreciate the sight of your suite.
And what a suite it is. The room is one designed for transporting the most ascended Psykers of the Imperium, built along Astra Telepathica designs laid down in time immemorial. The walls are covered in a mesh of warding symbols carved onto psychically inert stone bricks. Woven into the stone is a fine mesh of psi-absorbing crystalline threads, made from carefully harvested crystals from the surface of Gorek Primaris. The furniture is carefully arranged and bolted to the deck so as to optimally distribute excess psychic energies, and is made of finely polished and lacquered Nalwood.
You are still getting used to the sensation of such luxury. In the Scholastica Psykana, you lived a truly spartan existence, with flavourless food and a lack of mental stimulation not related to training or prayer. Even your first journey to a warfront had seen you eating regular shipboard rations. But with a campaign under your belt, and the positive attention of your masters, you have finally been allowed to indulge.
A golden bowl is placed upon one of the small tables, and you take one of the real grapes, feeling it in your hands. You pop it in your mouth and try not to moan at the divine taste. The urge to shove the rest of the grapes in your mouth is hard to resist, but you manage it. Being a 'Lord Psyker', a titles Adept of the Astra Telepathica with all the rights and privileges that entails, has a great many advantages. You are now a true citizen of the Imperium, not just an inhabitant.
It almost makes up for the torturous existence of being a Primaris Psyker. The nightmares. The prodding at your mind. The knowledge of what could happen if you lost control. You'd probably be dead if you were still a Blunter, though. Dead of one of the myriad cancers that plagued the labourers of … you realize you can't even remember the name of your homeworld.
You close your eyes and manifest your memory palace, navigating its halls and searching for the location of the memories of your childhood. An Scholastica Psykana telepathic block is placed over the doorway, one which carries your own handiwork. You do not remember placing it, but if you did it, then you would have had a good reason to do so.
The heavy wooden door creaks open, revealing a finely dressed servant standing in the doorway. He bows deeply and you smile and nod in return. There are no servitor servants in this part of the transport. Only expertly trained and educated servants from the prominent families of the Torvum Sector, equal parts Imperial Guardsmen logistical support personnel, and servants for the Torvum Triarii.
"Lord Psyker, your presence is requested at the feast. Lord-General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anniette Ozmandus wishes to invite you to join her for dinner." the servant says in a respectful tone, bowing so mechanically you scan his mind for signs he might actually be an incredibly high-grade Servitor. Only to be proven negative.
Pushing yourself up from the plush cushions of your seat, you smooth down the sleek black fabric of your Adept's robes. The silver mesh glints in the dim light, and you can feel its protective strength surrounding you. Your body fits snugly into the custom-made bullet-resistant material, allowing for ease of movement. The cloth is a fine luscious black, and it is made of the finest high-quality synthetic fabrics that can be acquired.
"What is your name, servant?"
The man blinks at the question, then nods impeccably. "I am Corvon Alexius, of the Alexius line. Honoured servants to House Ozmandus."
"A noble?" You ask.
He bows. "Only by blood, Lord Psyker. My lineage have been bonded servants to House Ozmandus for three thousand years. Trusted advisors, assistants, and servants."
You read the man's surface thoughts. He is tired of the long shift. But he does seem to appreciate the degree of respect that comes from being a servant of his pedigree. You smell hints of plots, tasks done that no other could perform. It appears the Torvum Sector prefers human servants over Servitors. A curious choice. But you have an open mind for such things. You are certain that the Torvii uphold the Imperial Creed as hard as any other you have met.
Travelling the halls of the troop transport, you find yourself impressed by just how ornate and well constructed this area of the ship is. Each individual in a Torvum Triarii dress uniform you pass is an excellent example of the Imperial ideal. Perhaps a bit too much.
You smell the air.
A passive biomantic analysis is a challenging psychic feat. (+0)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 50
Occam rolled 83.
3 degrees of Failure.
You can detect nothing off about them biologically. But you are still slightly suspicious about how these soldiers all look so good.
They are thinking rather loudly, so you decide to listen in on their thoughts.
Reading surface thoughts is routine for you. (+20)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 70
Occam rolled 32
4 degrees of success.
These soldiers are like an open book to you. Their thoughts are surprisingly simple. Most thinking about comrades, food, fellow soldiers they wish to spend the night with. But among these thoughts, there are some things that draw your attention. Stray musings which reveal information through deduction. Two of the Triarii are thinking about how much better the food at the feast is than the usual 'Maintenance Broth', which comes with brief flashes of images associated with surgery and augmentation. One soldier is trying to ignore an itch around his… face? The soldier misses his old appearance.
It appears to you that Torvum practices a great deal of cosmetic surgery and augmentations, especially the Triarii. You pocket those thoughts away for the time being.
Like all Imperial society, the troop ship is firmly delineated based upon class and standing, and you remain in the part of the ship reserved for the aristocracy. Nearly the entire Torvum Triarii are located on these decks, greatly outnumbering the other Astra Militarum that only have their officers here.
As you enter the grand dining hall, constructed of stone and fitted with a grand fireplace, your heightened senses are overwhelmed by the tantalizing aroma of roasted meats and savory spices. Your stomach grumbles in hunger as you take in the lavish display of food and drinks fit for royalty. Golden platters overflowing with succulent meats, colorful fruits, and decadent pastries line the long tables that stretch across the room. Towering silver pitchers filled with various wines and spirits stand at regular intervals.
You can hear the lively chatter of officers as they raise their glasses in toast, filling the room with warmth and camaraderie. You observe that there is a clear divide between the Imperial Guard officers being transported, and the Naval officers of the ship itself, but everyone seems to be enjoying themselves nonetheless. This is a high class meeting indeed, as even the servants are of upstanding families with high pedigrees. The regiments represented appear to be a mixture, with at least a dozen types of dress uniform you can note. Nearly half of them are of the Torvum Triarii, however.
As you make your way through the bustling crowd, a servant approaches you with a tray of drinks and finger food, quietly offering you a selection. The servant's thoughts reveal nothing interesting or useful - just thoughts about his duties and general observations about those around him. He is revolted by your presence, and briefly wished someone would put a bolt round into you.
You grab a few of the meatiest morsels and eat them quickly. They alone would have cost more than you'd have earned in a month as a labourer, then give him a knowing look that sends him scurrying off.
One officer catches your eye - a tall woman with sharply defined features and a stern expression on his face, clad in an ornate dress uniform. She is surrounded by other high-ranking officers, but they all seem to defer to her presence. Lord General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anette Ozmandus strikes a formiddable figure. A true thoroughbred Astra Militarum officer, wearing a fine dress uniform that seems to also function as a trenchcoat. You sense that her eyes have been replaced with cybernetics but this has been disguised through the application of cloned skin. Her black hair is interspersed with neural plugs that lead into her trenchcoat. "Our fellow passenger has arrived. Sit with me, Lord Psyker."
Her statement causes a hush to fall over part of the room as people's attention turns towards you. Some officers try to move away from you without being noticed, while others do so openly and without hesitation. Only the Navy officers and Torvii are not immediately repulsed as you are given a seat not in the same row as the Lord General, but one of the tables along the length of the room. Your seat, however, is close to the edge. A woman you sit next to, wearing a uniform that marks her as Vostroyan, makes a warding symbol with her hands and relocates.
"People, people." General Antara chides as music starts playing and the servants resume plying the attendants. "This is no Wyrdvane. This is Lord-Psyker Occam, recipient of the Star of Torvum for his actions against the…" She turns to an aide. "What did they fight?"
"A minor xenos infestation, ma'am." The aide adds. "I do not know the name."
"The Tau." You add. "They are called the Tau."
"Never bloody heard of 'em." The Lord General says. "But when I heard someone with such an accolade was aboard this ship, I just knew it was worth inviting you." This seems to warm the Torvii up to you, while the Armada Imperialis officers whom are already used to Psykers, seem to appreciate you slightly more. "The Lord Captain of the ship gives his regards, for what its worth. But I believe he is busy with different matters."
Another Lord-General, of a regiment you do not recognize, adorned in his crisp uniform and carrying an air of authority, approaches your table with a stern expression. You find yourself tensing up as you realize you are the subject of his attention. He is followed by a pair of Militarum Colonels, one of the Torvum Tribunes, and one that you recognize as being Vostroyan. Their gazes are cold and unwelcoming, their disdain for you palpable since your entry into the festivities. Although the feast has picked up in merriment since your arrival, this impending confrontation draws attention from those around you.
"Lord-General," the General begins, his tone laced with disapproval, storming towards Antara. "I must insist that this… witch be removed. Posthaste."
Antara, sitting confidently at the head of the table, does not falter under the scrutiny. "Which Astra Militarum Code or regulation does my invitation of Lord Psyker Occam to a feast I am hosting with permission from this ship's Lord Captain, breach?" she asks without hesitation.
The man straightens his posture, clearly incensed by the boldness. "The Ecclesiarchy's warnings on the dangers of consorting with Psykers, even sanctio-"
"Please refrain from lecturing me on etiquette or theology, General," Antara says coolly, inclining her head in a polite gesture. "Unless you would like to be removed from this dinner."
The tension in the air is thick as all eyes turn to the exchange between these two powerful figures. But Antara Ozmandus remains composed and unwavering, her confidence evident as she stands up for herself and her beliefs. You look at the General. He is wearing a fine dress uniform with signs of metal plate that hints at a Feudal World origin. As you look at him, he catches the lack of fear in your eyes and is incensed by it.
The General scowls. "Don't look at me, Witch!" He reaches for his sword.
You glare at the scabbard and send it skidding across the floor away from him. "I am a Lord Psyker of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. A full Adept of the Adeptus Terra. I am a full -Citizen- Of the Imperium of Man, afforded the rights and duties of the Lex Imperialis. My powers belong to the Imperium, and I will protect them from those who'd vandalize them."
That shuts the man up. If he strikes you, he'd be in deep trouble with the Astra Telepathica. He glares and departs the dining hall alongside many other officers, while an aide picks up the dropped sword. You sit back down and continue your conversation with the Lord General. It is much quieter now. You prefer it that way.
And by the thoughts you're picking up, the remaining officers appreciated seeing that man humbled.
General Antara smiles at you. It is somewhat forced, as if she is trying to suppress another gesture. "So about these 'Tau', did you get rid of all of them?"
"I believe not. They had taken over an Imperial World. We do not know where they came from. It was a routine Tithe enforcement campaign." You shrug dispassionately. "Nothing like what I am sure you faced on Cadia, Lord General."
She sighs dramatically, eyes briefly flashing over. The memories that you can read in her forethoughts show signs of being wiped. "Agreed. Give me Xenos over the Ruinous Powers any day." You narrow your eyes at her words. To some, those could be interpreted as recidivist or heretical, by implying one threat is greater than the others. Or that one did not find joy in their assigned duties.
If that someone wasn't actually important, that is. Comparing foes is something people of your station can do without qualms.
"What brings you to the Sector of my birth? You were rushed aboard this ship when I last examined it."
"I am to assist in raising a Wyrdvane choir." You say, not adding any details.
"Ah. Surprising. Old man Ozmandus has always been dubiously trusting towards Psyker. But your feats must have impressed him enough if he gave you the Star of Torvum."
"A flippant term for a Sector Governor." You remark.
"Perhaps. Personally, I am quite happy to receive sanctioned support, even from Wyrdvanes. Why, I treat them better than I do the abhumans. The Torvum sector needs more of their ilk, a lot more. And I believe that I can convince the Sector Governor of this."
You nod in approval. More Psykers finding gainful service among the regiments of the Torvii would be an improvement. From what you have gathered, they get along better with Psykers than the average Imperial.
You raise a glass in a toast. "Ave Imperator." You toast.
You have found a somewhat erratic friend in Lord General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anette Ozmandus, great-granddaughter of the Sector Governor. Through her, you can develop connections with other influential figures in the Torvum Sector's PDF.
As the feasting comes to an end, the Lord General stands and calls for the Master of Service to present the chef who prepared the delicious meal. The other officers and generals express their admiration for the high quality of food.
You lean into your chair. That was the finest meal you have ever eaten. It was so good, that you find yourself still mentally processing the experience as the Master of Service, the member of the ship crew in charge of catering to the officers aboard, approaches the Lord General.
"You're a young man to be a Master of Service," the Lord General comments. "But this is a fantastic meal. Your captain must be proud of your ability to manage your staff."
The young man bows respectfully. "It's an honor to serve such esteemed individuals. As requested, I have brought the chef." He motions behind him.
A small Ratling in a kitchen uniform appears from a service entrance, bowing respectfully. You nod your head in acknowledgement.
"Why is there a Ratling here?" asks a man with a Colonel's insignia on his shoulder.
The Master of Service blinks. "She is the chef."
Pandemonium erupts.
There are shouts of disbelief, fury. Screaming and pointing fingers. One general rushes off with an aide to cleanse himself in the hygiene chamber. The amount of internal and external screaming briefly overwhelms you.
"You allowed a mutant to serve us," An officer in a Cadian dress uniform shouts, his face red with anger.
"Mutant!?" One of the navy officers yells. "She is a sanctioned abhuman. Emperor knows why she's here, but don't you accuse us of-"
"Sanctioned, my ass. That is a mutant!" Someone yells. The drama has briefly overwhelmed your senses and words do not come to you.
"The Ratlings are a registered strain of Abhuman." You say, trying to calm the crowd, but nobody is listening.
The Lord General sits calmly amidst the chaos, deep in thought, staring at the Master of Service who is shrinking in the face of what is thrown against him. "Do you realize your mistake, young man?"
"I… I- I was to prepare the finest meal we could. She is the best chef aboard the ship. You said you enjoyed it, Lord General."
Lord General Antara calmly nods. Then takes out her ornate laspistol, and shoots the Master of Service in the head.
The deed is done before you even register the intent. She holsters the laspistol. "Please return the abhuman back to her own kind. Inform the captain of the insult given to us, and the punishment I have exacted."
"It is most merciful to spare the Abhuman." The aide remarks as the officers begin to file out.
You are the last to leave the room. Whatever the Gilded lords of the Imperium had been like in your mind, it was not this.
The ship captain is crying bloody murder at a member of his crew being shot for a perceived insult. The formerly jovial mood aboard the troopship has faded away. You'll stay in your room and have dinner brought to you for the rest of the journey.
Returning to your cabin, you lock the door and sit down. The events you've witnessed are repeating in your head. The delicious meal. The fine conversation. Then the shouting. The shooting.
What a meaningless death.
The food was the best you ever tasted in your life. You wish you hadn't seen such a thing. Briefly, you had enjoyed the power and luxury that came with being one of the Imperium's elite without seeing the darker sides of moving in such circles.
The thoughts you flirt with border on recidivism, nevertheless, you indulge slightly, not digging deep.
As a Lord Psyker, you have a scrap of authority and the ability to speak when others need to remain silent. Can you do something with that? You are just a single Psyker, a cursed and hated individual. But you can can try to do right by your people. Other Psykers.
And if you find people that you care for, you know you can do right by them.
During the rest of the journey to the Torvum Sector, you will have a great deal of free time. An unusual thing for an imperial citizen. You focus upon your labours, and the task awaiting you.
Wyrdvane creation:
A Wyrdvane is a term used to describe a group of Imperial Psykers that have the capacity for greatness, but haven't proven themselves capable of operating independently. Instead these Psykers on the verge of greatness, are bonded as Wyrdvane 'Choirs', each a squad of telepathically linked Psykers that share the burden of their power. They are often supervised or led initially by a Primaris Psyker.
Once a Wyrdvane has prove they are worthy of being inducted into the deeper mysteries of the psychic arts, it is usually disbanded with the Psykers having proven that they are capable of operating independently and reliably. If they have also proven they possess a high grade of psychic ability, they will ascend to become full Primaris Psykers
As part of your assignment, you will be expected to help the Scholam train Wyrdvanes. This will be done by guiding Psykers through training, possibly leading them into battles, and setting them up for independent operations. Those who survive, will be expected to pass on their training to their own Wyrdvanes.
For your Wyrdvane, you want:
Choose your specialization.
[] Psychic shock troops:
Your Wyrdvane will need to be strong. Healthy. Able to follow you into combat and lay waste to the enemy. Your Wyrdvane Squad will be trained to get close to the enemy and unleash their power upon the enemy.
-Highly prestigious.
-An excellent way to earn renown.
-High physical requirements reduces recruitment pool and availability of Psykers above Zeta levels.
-High risks of deaths in combat.
[] Psychic artillery:
Your Wyrdvanes will be kept away from the fight and serve to destroy the enemies from afar. They shall combine their powers and work together, raining psychic fire from the sky, bringing down buildings, sending forth lightning, and sending the enemy mad.
-Somewhat prestigious.
-A decent way to earn renown.
-Very low physical requirements ensure access to stronger Psykers from the recruiting pool.
-Low risks of death in combat.
[] Psychic support:
The Astra Militarum has artillery and it has shock troops. Instead of doing what they already have, you will form a supporting force to aid your allies. When the Imperial Guard advances, let then do so with Wyrdvanes among them. You'll train your Wyrdvane to use biomancy to mend allies, pyromancy to burn strongpoints, telepathy to relay communications, kine-shiekds to protect advancing troops. It is an uncommon deployment, but very effective when done right.
-Not very prestigious.
-Unlikely to make you renowned.
-Your psykers will interact with blunts and your efforts will be seen and felt by many.
-Lower physical requirements ensure access to stronger Psykers from the recruiting pool.
-Low risks of death in combat.
The Emperor's Mercy:
All Wyrdvanes are watched by the Commissars and their fellow soldiers. But if they need to intervene, then something will have failed. Matters of possession are best handled internally if possible.
In the event a member of the Wyrdvane succumbs to daemonic possession, they will be given The Emperor's Peace. The method used for this should be thorough and instant.
Choose 2
[] Bomb collars:
Each member of your Wyrdvane will wear a collar that can be detonated from a command cogitator you'll wear around your wrist.
Guarantees decapitation and the destruction of the head.
[] Implanted micro-explosives:
The Wyrdvanes will not know it. But they will have micro-explosives implanted into their necks that can be detonated upon command. Half the explosive force of a bomb collar, none of the insecurity.
Guarantees decapitation, not the destruction of the head.
[] Telekinetically induced brain-death:
If it has to be done, then you'll do it yourself. You will use your connection with the Wyrdvane, and if necessary, use your telekinesis to quickly kill them through destroying their spinal cords.
Personally taxing. Instant death. Can fail if you are absent.
[] Sanctified stakes:
Each Wyrdvane carries with them a stake carved from trees grown on Cemetery Worlds. Each stake is fitted with a silvered tip and engraved with symbols of banishment. In the event of possession, the other Wyrdvanes will use these stakes against their fallen comrade, staking the body to deny it as a vessel to the ruinous power.
Requires a Wyrdvanes to perform the deed. Denies vessels for Daemonhosts.
[]Write in an act or a piece of equipment that can either be used by the Wyrdvanes, their leader, or a guardsmen overseeing them, in the event of a daemonic possession. The method must be cheap, readily apparent, and not heretical.
A contact high in the sector who will be very much interested in Psykers. And your decision on just what kind of Wyrdvane you want to train.
12 hour Moratorium.
The Torvum Triarii are one of the elite Imperial Guard regiments of the Torvum Sector. And one of them is returning home after a long campaign near the Cadian Gate. The surviving members of the regiment, as befits the sons and daughters of the military aristocracy, are being transported aboard a troopship back towards their home sector, where they will become leading officials of planetary defense forces across the sector.
Meet an ambitious Lord General of the Imperial Guard, and great-granddaughter of Lord Ozmandus.
Despite popular belief, baseline human Psykers can navigate through the realm of the immatereum without the use of specialized 'transit cages'. However, most still choose to use them for safety and preparation as the ship transitions between realspace and the warp. While inside the warp, a Psyker might occasionally feel an attempt to intrude upon them if they lack control. This can be trained against, which you are. But even the mightiest Primaris Psykers still experience great discomfort when a ship jumps.
Your is a simple standing cage with a built-in chair for you to inhabit during transitions, constructed of bars of sanctified silver that serve as a faraday cage against the effects of the warp. As the alarm chimes to announce a successful jump into the warp, you step out of the warp-transfer cage and close the sliding door behind you. You appreciate the sight of your suite.
And what a suite it is. The room is one designed for transporting the most ascended Psykers of the Imperium, built along Astra Telepathica designs laid down in time immemorial. The walls are covered in a mesh of warding symbols carved onto psychically inert stone bricks. Woven into the stone is a fine mesh of psi-absorbing crystalline threads, made from carefully harvested crystals from the surface of Gorek Primaris. The furniture is carefully arranged and bolted to the deck so as to optimally distribute excess psychic energies, and is made of finely polished and lacquered Nalwood.
You are still getting used to the sensation of such luxury. In the Scholastica Psykana, you lived a truly spartan existence, with flavourless food and a lack of mental stimulation not related to training or prayer. Even your first journey to a warfront had seen you eating regular shipboard rations. But with a campaign under your belt, and the positive attention of your masters, you have finally been allowed to indulge.
A golden bowl is placed upon one of the small tables, and you take one of the real grapes, feeling it in your hands. You pop it in your mouth and try not to moan at the divine taste. The urge to shove the rest of the grapes in your mouth is hard to resist, but you manage it. Being a 'Lord Psyker', a titles Adept of the Astra Telepathica with all the rights and privileges that entails, has a great many advantages. You are now a true citizen of the Imperium, not just an inhabitant.
It almost makes up for the torturous existence of being a Primaris Psyker. The nightmares. The prodding at your mind. The knowledge of what could happen if you lost control. You'd probably be dead if you were still a Blunter, though. Dead of one of the myriad cancers that plagued the labourers of … you realize you can't even remember the name of your homeworld.
You close your eyes and manifest your memory palace, navigating its halls and searching for the location of the memories of your childhood. An Scholastica Psykana telepathic block is placed over the doorway, one which carries your own handiwork. You do not remember placing it, but if you did it, then you would have had a good reason to do so.
The heavy wooden door creaks open, revealing a finely dressed servant standing in the doorway. He bows deeply and you smile and nod in return. There are no servitor servants in this part of the transport. Only expertly trained and educated servants from the prominent families of the Torvum Sector, equal parts Imperial Guardsmen logistical support personnel, and servants for the Torvum Triarii.
"Lord Psyker, your presence is requested at the feast. Lord-General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anniette Ozmandus wishes to invite you to join her for dinner." the servant says in a respectful tone, bowing so mechanically you scan his mind for signs he might actually be an incredibly high-grade Servitor. Only to be proven negative.
Pushing yourself up from the plush cushions of your seat, you smooth down the sleek black fabric of your Adept's robes. The silver mesh glints in the dim light, and you can feel its protective strength surrounding you. Your body fits snugly into the custom-made bullet-resistant material, allowing for ease of movement. The cloth is a fine luscious black, and it is made of the finest high-quality synthetic fabrics that can be acquired.
"What is your name, servant?"
The man blinks at the question, then nods impeccably. "I am Corvon Alexius, of the Alexius line. Honoured servants to House Ozmandus."
"A noble?" You ask.
He bows. "Only by blood, Lord Psyker. My lineage have been bonded servants to House Ozmandus for three thousand years. Trusted advisors, assistants, and servants."
You read the man's surface thoughts. He is tired of the long shift. But he does seem to appreciate the degree of respect that comes from being a servant of his pedigree. You smell hints of plots, tasks done that no other could perform. It appears the Torvum Sector prefers human servants over Servitors. A curious choice. But you have an open mind for such things. You are certain that the Torvii uphold the Imperial Creed as hard as any other you have met.
Travelling the halls of the troop transport, you find yourself impressed by just how ornate and well constructed this area of the ship is. Each individual in a Torvum Triarii dress uniform you pass is an excellent example of the Imperial ideal. Perhaps a bit too much.
You smell the air.
A passive biomantic analysis is a challenging psychic feat. (+0)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 50
Occam rolled 83.
3 degrees of Failure.
You can detect nothing off about them biologically. But you are still slightly suspicious about how these soldiers all look so good.
They are thinking rather loudly, so you decide to listen in on their thoughts.
Reading surface thoughts is routine for you. (+20)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 70
Occam rolled 32
4 degrees of success.
These soldiers are like an open book to you. Their thoughts are surprisingly simple. Most thinking about comrades, food, fellow soldiers they wish to spend the night with. But among these thoughts, there are some things that draw your attention. Stray musings which reveal information through deduction. Two of the Triarii are thinking about how much better the food at the feast is than the usual 'Maintenance Broth', which comes with brief flashes of images associated with surgery and augmentation. One soldier is trying to ignore an itch around his… face? The soldier misses his old appearance.
It appears to you that Torvum practices a great deal of cosmetic surgery and augmentations, especially the Triarii. You pocket those thoughts away for the time being.
Like all Imperial society, the troop ship is firmly delineated based upon class and standing, and you remain in the part of the ship reserved for the aristocracy. Nearly the entire Torvum Triarii are located on these decks, greatly outnumbering the other Astra Militarum that only have their officers here.
As you enter the grand dining hall, constructed of stone and fitted with a grand fireplace, your heightened senses are overwhelmed by the tantalizing aroma of roasted meats and savory spices. Your stomach grumbles in hunger as you take in the lavish display of food and drinks fit for royalty. Golden platters overflowing with succulent meats, colorful fruits, and decadent pastries line the long tables that stretch across the room. Towering silver pitchers filled with various wines and spirits stand at regular intervals.
You can hear the lively chatter of officers as they raise their glasses in toast, filling the room with warmth and camaraderie. You observe that there is a clear divide between the Imperial Guard officers being transported, and the Naval officers of the ship itself, but everyone seems to be enjoying themselves nonetheless. This is a high class meeting indeed, as even the servants are of upstanding families with high pedigrees. The regiments represented appear to be a mixture, with at least a dozen types of dress uniform you can note. Nearly half of them are of the Torvum Triarii, however.
As you make your way through the bustling crowd, a servant approaches you with a tray of drinks and finger food, quietly offering you a selection. The servant's thoughts reveal nothing interesting or useful - just thoughts about his duties and general observations about those around him. He is revolted by your presence, and briefly wished someone would put a bolt round into you.
You grab a few of the meatiest morsels and eat them quickly. They alone would have cost more than you'd have earned in a month as a labourer, then give him a knowing look that sends him scurrying off.
One officer catches your eye - a tall woman with sharply defined features and a stern expression on his face, clad in an ornate dress uniform. She is surrounded by other high-ranking officers, but they all seem to defer to her presence. Lord General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anette Ozmandus strikes a formiddable figure. A true thoroughbred Astra Militarum officer, wearing a fine dress uniform that seems to also function as a trenchcoat. You sense that her eyes have been replaced with cybernetics but this has been disguised through the application of cloned skin. Her black hair is interspersed with neural plugs that lead into her trenchcoat. "Our fellow passenger has arrived. Sit with me, Lord Psyker."
Her statement causes a hush to fall over part of the room as people's attention turns towards you. Some officers try to move away from you without being noticed, while others do so openly and without hesitation. Only the Navy officers and Torvii are not immediately repulsed as you are given a seat not in the same row as the Lord General, but one of the tables along the length of the room. Your seat, however, is close to the edge. A woman you sit next to, wearing a uniform that marks her as Vostroyan, makes a warding symbol with her hands and relocates.
"People, people." General Antara chides as music starts playing and the servants resume plying the attendants. "This is no Wyrdvane. This is Lord-Psyker Occam, recipient of the Star of Torvum for his actions against the…" She turns to an aide. "What did they fight?"
"A minor xenos infestation, ma'am." The aide adds. "I do not know the name."
"The Tau." You add. "They are called the Tau."
"Never bloody heard of 'em." The Lord General says. "But when I heard someone with such an accolade was aboard this ship, I just knew it was worth inviting you." This seems to warm the Torvii up to you, while the Armada Imperialis officers whom are already used to Psykers, seem to appreciate you slightly more. "The Lord Captain of the ship gives his regards, for what its worth. But I believe he is busy with different matters."
Another Lord-General, of a regiment you do not recognize, adorned in his crisp uniform and carrying an air of authority, approaches your table with a stern expression. You find yourself tensing up as you realize you are the subject of his attention. He is followed by a pair of Militarum Colonels, one of the Torvum Tribunes, and one that you recognize as being Vostroyan. Their gazes are cold and unwelcoming, their disdain for you palpable since your entry into the festivities. Although the feast has picked up in merriment since your arrival, this impending confrontation draws attention from those around you.
"Lord-General," the General begins, his tone laced with disapproval, storming towards Antara. "I must insist that this… witch be removed. Posthaste."
Antara, sitting confidently at the head of the table, does not falter under the scrutiny. "Which Astra Militarum Code or regulation does my invitation of Lord Psyker Occam to a feast I am hosting with permission from this ship's Lord Captain, breach?" she asks without hesitation.
The man straightens his posture, clearly incensed by the boldness. "The Ecclesiarchy's warnings on the dangers of consorting with Psykers, even sanctio-"
"Please refrain from lecturing me on etiquette or theology, General," Antara says coolly, inclining her head in a polite gesture. "Unless you would like to be removed from this dinner."
The tension in the air is thick as all eyes turn to the exchange between these two powerful figures. But Antara Ozmandus remains composed and unwavering, her confidence evident as she stands up for herself and her beliefs. You look at the General. He is wearing a fine dress uniform with signs of metal plate that hints at a Feudal World origin. As you look at him, he catches the lack of fear in your eyes and is incensed by it.
The General scowls. "Don't look at me, Witch!" He reaches for his sword.
You glare at the scabbard and send it skidding across the floor away from him. "I am a Lord Psyker of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. A full Adept of the Adeptus Terra. I am a full -Citizen- Of the Imperium of Man, afforded the rights and duties of the Lex Imperialis. My powers belong to the Imperium, and I will protect them from those who'd vandalize them."
That shuts the man up. If he strikes you, he'd be in deep trouble with the Astra Telepathica. He glares and departs the dining hall alongside many other officers, while an aide picks up the dropped sword. You sit back down and continue your conversation with the Lord General. It is much quieter now. You prefer it that way.
And by the thoughts you're picking up, the remaining officers appreciated seeing that man humbled.
General Antara smiles at you. It is somewhat forced, as if she is trying to suppress another gesture. "So about these 'Tau', did you get rid of all of them?"
"I believe not. They had taken over an Imperial World. We do not know where they came from. It was a routine Tithe enforcement campaign." You shrug dispassionately. "Nothing like what I am sure you faced on Cadia, Lord General."
She sighs dramatically, eyes briefly flashing over. The memories that you can read in her forethoughts show signs of being wiped. "Agreed. Give me Xenos over the Ruinous Powers any day." You narrow your eyes at her words. To some, those could be interpreted as recidivist or heretical, by implying one threat is greater than the others. Or that one did not find joy in their assigned duties.
If that someone wasn't actually important, that is. Comparing foes is something people of your station can do without qualms.
"What brings you to the Sector of my birth? You were rushed aboard this ship when I last examined it."
"I am to assist in raising a Wyrdvane choir." You say, not adding any details.
"Ah. Surprising. Old man Ozmandus has always been dubiously trusting towards Psyker. But your feats must have impressed him enough if he gave you the Star of Torvum."
"A flippant term for a Sector Governor." You remark.
"Perhaps. Personally, I am quite happy to receive sanctioned support, even from Wyrdvanes. Why, I treat them better than I do the abhumans. The Torvum sector needs more of their ilk, a lot more. And I believe that I can convince the Sector Governor of this."
You nod in approval. More Psykers finding gainful service among the regiments of the Torvii would be an improvement. From what you have gathered, they get along better with Psykers than the average Imperial.
You raise a glass in a toast. "Ave Imperator." You toast.
You have found a somewhat erratic friend in Lord General Antara Travinton Reltar Emmanuelle Anette Ozmandus, great-granddaughter of the Sector Governor. Through her, you can develop connections with other influential figures in the Torvum Sector's PDF.
As the feasting comes to an end, the Lord General stands and calls for the Master of Service to present the chef who prepared the delicious meal. The other officers and generals express their admiration for the high quality of food.
You lean into your chair. That was the finest meal you have ever eaten. It was so good, that you find yourself still mentally processing the experience as the Master of Service, the member of the ship crew in charge of catering to the officers aboard, approaches the Lord General.
"You're a young man to be a Master of Service," the Lord General comments. "But this is a fantastic meal. Your captain must be proud of your ability to manage your staff."
The young man bows respectfully. "It's an honor to serve such esteemed individuals. As requested, I have brought the chef." He motions behind him.
A small Ratling in a kitchen uniform appears from a service entrance, bowing respectfully. You nod your head in acknowledgement.
"Why is there a Ratling here?" asks a man with a Colonel's insignia on his shoulder.
The Master of Service blinks. "She is the chef."
Pandemonium erupts.
There are shouts of disbelief, fury. Screaming and pointing fingers. One general rushes off with an aide to cleanse himself in the hygiene chamber. The amount of internal and external screaming briefly overwhelms you.
"You allowed a mutant to serve us," An officer in a Cadian dress uniform shouts, his face red with anger.
"Mutant!?" One of the navy officers yells. "She is a sanctioned abhuman. Emperor knows why she's here, but don't you accuse us of-"
"Sanctioned, my ass. That is a mutant!" Someone yells. The drama has briefly overwhelmed your senses and words do not come to you.
"The Ratlings are a registered strain of Abhuman." You say, trying to calm the crowd, but nobody is listening.
The Lord General sits calmly amidst the chaos, deep in thought, staring at the Master of Service who is shrinking in the face of what is thrown against him. "Do you realize your mistake, young man?"
"I… I- I was to prepare the finest meal we could. She is the best chef aboard the ship. You said you enjoyed it, Lord General."
Lord General Antara calmly nods. Then takes out her ornate laspistol, and shoots the Master of Service in the head.
The deed is done before you even register the intent. She holsters the laspistol. "Please return the abhuman back to her own kind. Inform the captain of the insult given to us, and the punishment I have exacted."
"It is most merciful to spare the Abhuman." The aide remarks as the officers begin to file out.
You are the last to leave the room. Whatever the Gilded lords of the Imperium had been like in your mind, it was not this.
The ship captain is crying bloody murder at a member of his crew being shot for a perceived insult. The formerly jovial mood aboard the troopship has faded away. You'll stay in your room and have dinner brought to you for the rest of the journey.
Returning to your cabin, you lock the door and sit down. The events you've witnessed are repeating in your head. The delicious meal. The fine conversation. Then the shouting. The shooting.
What a meaningless death.
The food was the best you ever tasted in your life. You wish you hadn't seen such a thing. Briefly, you had enjoyed the power and luxury that came with being one of the Imperium's elite without seeing the darker sides of moving in such circles.
The thoughts you flirt with border on recidivism, nevertheless, you indulge slightly, not digging deep.
As a Lord Psyker, you have a scrap of authority and the ability to speak when others need to remain silent. Can you do something with that? You are just a single Psyker, a cursed and hated individual. But you can can try to do right by your people. Other Psykers.
And if you find people that you care for, you know you can do right by them.
During the rest of the journey to the Torvum Sector, you will have a great deal of free time. An unusual thing for an imperial citizen. You focus upon your labours, and the task awaiting you.
Wyrdvane creation:
A Wyrdvane is a term used to describe a group of Imperial Psykers that have the capacity for greatness, but haven't proven themselves capable of operating independently. Instead these Psykers on the verge of greatness, are bonded as Wyrdvane 'Choirs', each a squad of telepathically linked Psykers that share the burden of their power. They are often supervised or led initially by a Primaris Psyker.
Once a Wyrdvane has prove they are worthy of being inducted into the deeper mysteries of the psychic arts, it is usually disbanded with the Psykers having proven that they are capable of operating independently and reliably. If they have also proven they possess a high grade of psychic ability, they will ascend to become full Primaris Psykers
As part of your assignment, you will be expected to help the Scholam train Wyrdvanes. This will be done by guiding Psykers through training, possibly leading them into battles, and setting them up for independent operations. Those who survive, will be expected to pass on their training to their own Wyrdvanes.
For your Wyrdvane, you want:
Choose your specialization.
[] Psychic shock troops:
Your Wyrdvane will need to be strong. Healthy. Able to follow you into combat and lay waste to the enemy. Your Wyrdvane Squad will be trained to get close to the enemy and unleash their power upon the enemy.
-Highly prestigious.
-An excellent way to earn renown.
-High physical requirements reduces recruitment pool and availability of Psykers above Zeta levels.
-High risks of deaths in combat.
[] Psychic artillery:
Your Wyrdvanes will be kept away from the fight and serve to destroy the enemies from afar. They shall combine their powers and work together, raining psychic fire from the sky, bringing down buildings, sending forth lightning, and sending the enemy mad.
-Somewhat prestigious.
-A decent way to earn renown.
-Very low physical requirements ensure access to stronger Psykers from the recruiting pool.
-Low risks of death in combat.
[] Psychic support:
The Astra Militarum has artillery and it has shock troops. Instead of doing what they already have, you will form a supporting force to aid your allies. When the Imperial Guard advances, let then do so with Wyrdvanes among them. You'll train your Wyrdvane to use biomancy to mend allies, pyromancy to burn strongpoints, telepathy to relay communications, kine-shiekds to protect advancing troops. It is an uncommon deployment, but very effective when done right.
-Not very prestigious.
-Unlikely to make you renowned.
-Your psykers will interact with blunts and your efforts will be seen and felt by many.
-Lower physical requirements ensure access to stronger Psykers from the recruiting pool.
-Low risks of death in combat.
The Emperor's Mercy:
All Wyrdvanes are watched by the Commissars and their fellow soldiers. But if they need to intervene, then something will have failed. Matters of possession are best handled internally if possible.
In the event a member of the Wyrdvane succumbs to daemonic possession, they will be given The Emperor's Peace. The method used for this should be thorough and instant.
Choose 2
[] Bomb collars:
Each member of your Wyrdvane will wear a collar that can be detonated from a command cogitator you'll wear around your wrist.
Guarantees decapitation and the destruction of the head.
[] Implanted micro-explosives:
The Wyrdvanes will not know it. But they will have micro-explosives implanted into their necks that can be detonated upon command. Half the explosive force of a bomb collar, none of the insecurity.
Guarantees decapitation, not the destruction of the head.
[] Telekinetically induced brain-death:
If it has to be done, then you'll do it yourself. You will use your connection with the Wyrdvane, and if necessary, use your telekinesis to quickly kill them through destroying their spinal cords.
Personally taxing. Instant death. Can fail if you are absent.
[] Sanctified stakes:
Each Wyrdvane carries with them a stake carved from trees grown on Cemetery Worlds. Each stake is fitted with a silvered tip and engraved with symbols of banishment. In the event of possession, the other Wyrdvanes will use these stakes against their fallen comrade, staking the body to deny it as a vessel to the ruinous power.
Requires a Wyrdvanes to perform the deed. Denies vessels for Daemonhosts.
[]Write in an act or a piece of equipment that can either be used by the Wyrdvanes, their leader, or a guardsmen overseeing them, in the event of a daemonic possession. The method must be cheap, readily apparent, and not heretical.
A contact high in the sector who will be very much interested in Psykers. And your decision on just what kind of Wyrdvane you want to train.
12 hour Moratorium.
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Vote closed
Interpretation and musings on the Imperium.
- Location
- Netherlands
Mayto's Musings on Warhammer.
Warhammer 40k is a huge setting, and so there's a lot of different interpretations of what the Imperium is like. I find that SV often leans heavily on the most pitch black interpretation. To the point that I sometimes get the impression that people feel guilty about liking Warhammer or the Imperium.
I felt that I should make a post to explain the mindset I am working from, so people can tune their mindsets right. First off. I work from the point of view of the Warhammer Crimes books and the writings of Dan Abnett and the Ciaphas Cain books.
Secondly, that means I ,like to show off what life is like on the Imperial worlds or habitats that do have a concept of things like'
"Recreation time", "Jobs", and something called "money" which isn't just company script or a daily plate of nutrient gruel. It is much more interesting in my opinion, to show how families, leisure, and the like do still exist to some form in much of the Imperium. That the Imperium does have good people living in it that are just trying to play the hand life dealt them, even while the Imperium itself is a rotting carcass of an Empire.
I find that more interesting than just "everyone does nothing but work 20 hour shifts and pray." And most Black Library writers do as well. With worlds outside of this template being used as examples of just how damn shitty life can get.
Doesn't mean I'm gonna hold back and not show its brutal excesses, ofc. Just read the previous chapter. The war crimes and atrocities have barely gotten started.
But if you read my quest and don't occasionally go.
"Oh damn, I'm cheering for them.", "Oh yeah, I forgot these people are horrible", or an occasional "For the Imperium!"
Then I'll have failed as a writer. I want you to feel all those complex little emotions that come from reading your favorite charismatic hero off-handedly mention horrific things. Like the ever-lovable Ciaphas Cain mentioning using convicts for target practice.
We're adults here after all. (I hope.). So let's just embrace 40k warts and all and have fun with it.
TLDR:
in this quest we agree that the Imperium is an insane clusterfuck that loses whole worlds by bureaucratic mistakes, and that's just the way we like it.
I'd like to hear people's opinions about this take. Next update is coming along nicely. I think it's gonna be a fun one.
Warhammer 40k is a huge setting, and so there's a lot of different interpretations of what the Imperium is like. I find that SV often leans heavily on the most pitch black interpretation. To the point that I sometimes get the impression that people feel guilty about liking Warhammer or the Imperium.
I felt that I should make a post to explain the mindset I am working from, so people can tune their mindsets right. First off. I work from the point of view of the Warhammer Crimes books and the writings of Dan Abnett and the Ciaphas Cain books.
Secondly, that means I ,like to show off what life is like on the Imperial worlds or habitats that do have a concept of things like'
"Recreation time", "Jobs", and something called "money" which isn't just company script or a daily plate of nutrient gruel. It is much more interesting in my opinion, to show how families, leisure, and the like do still exist to some form in much of the Imperium. That the Imperium does have good people living in it that are just trying to play the hand life dealt them, even while the Imperium itself is a rotting carcass of an Empire.
I find that more interesting than just "everyone does nothing but work 20 hour shifts and pray." And most Black Library writers do as well. With worlds outside of this template being used as examples of just how damn shitty life can get.
Doesn't mean I'm gonna hold back and not show its brutal excesses, ofc. Just read the previous chapter. The war crimes and atrocities have barely gotten started.
But if you read my quest and don't occasionally go.
"Oh damn, I'm cheering for them.", "Oh yeah, I forgot these people are horrible", or an occasional "For the Imperium!"
Then I'll have failed as a writer. I want you to feel all those complex little emotions that come from reading your favorite charismatic hero off-handedly mention horrific things. Like the ever-lovable Ciaphas Cain mentioning using convicts for target practice.
We're adults here after all. (I hope.). So let's just embrace 40k warts and all and have fun with it.
TLDR:
in this quest we agree that the Imperium is an insane clusterfuck that loses whole worlds by bureaucratic mistakes, and that's just the way we like it.
I'd like to hear people's opinions about this take. Next update is coming along nicely. I think it's gonna be a fun one.
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Arrival in the Torvum Sector
- Location
- Netherlands
[X] Leading from the Front
-[X] Psychic shock troops:
-[X] Sanctified stakes:
-[X] Implanted micro-explosives:
You stuff your meager belongings into an old duffel bag, the same one you've had since arriving on Terra. In it you keep the sparse belongings that aren't replaced or provided to you for your deployments. The things that are genuinely yours. keepsakes, rudimentary in design yet invaluable in honing your Psyker abilities, or just keepsakes with a measure of symbolic value to you. The memory blocks from your training do not allow you to feel the emotions you felt at the time, but the events do return to your forethought.
In the bag you have:
Esoterica and minor arcana:
All humans are connected to the Immatereum, and the Immatereum suffused all reality. The idea that the warp is something that can be avoided is a foolish one, as our every act changes the world around us. You have a handful of small items in your possesion that have been imbued with power and meaning to you, and could be used for creating psychic items.
These esoterica can be used in the creation of items and equipment, with what they embody determining the capabilities of the item you are creating. The following types of items are known to you already.
-Psi Focus
-Trinkets
-Psi-Hood or crown.
-Force weapon.
-Force shield.
Known groups with the ability to forge Psi or Force weapons and armour are:
The Psi-Smiths of the Astra Telepathica. Generational artisans from terra who descend from ancient pre-Mechanicus Terran smiths and artisans.
Magos Psykana of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Tech Priests with the knowledge to create items able to channel Psychic power.
The League of Votann. Their descent from humanity makes their technology not classify as xenotech, and it can be passed off as Imperial creations.
Choose two Esoterica in your possession.
[ESOTERICA] A broken mercy-blade:
A sheath containing your first mercy-blade, a fine monomolecular blade you carried as a young teenager. You remember your first kill with it. An infractionist from a Terran hive gang that preyed upon pilgrims and had grown large enough to quality as an illegal organization to be rounded up. You were taught to kill but find no joy or apathy in it.
Gain: Blade shards.
A fine mono-molecular blade for ending your life in the event of possession. Has a very strong psychic connection to you. Symbolizes both your readiness to kill, but also to not find joy in it.
This esoteric item embodies:
The power to take lives.
Self control.
Your advancement as a Psyker.
[ESOTERICA] Pilgrim's Dentures:
While mastering the art of Biomancy, you numbed your senses to pain and extracted a tooth, nurturing it back to health before reinserting it. In a bizarre twist, all your teeth detached and tried to make their escape from your mouth. You were given a new set of replacement teeth, originally belonging to a deceased pilgrim. Sometimes, you forget they are not your own.
Gain: Bottle of Teeth
Suspended mid-animation as if frozen in time when the animating force ran out, they serve as an odd memento.
This esoteric item embodies:
Biomantic training.
Refusal to give up.
Moving on from wounds.
[ESOTERICA] Old canteen:
Your pyromancy training was intense, and during it, you constantly had to drink water to not collapse. You were given a canteen that you still keep with you. It is worn and you feel naked without it on your person.
Gain: An old STC patterned Canteen.
A sturdy canteen, its metal surface worn away by age. Your pyromancy training dried you out, and so you were provided this canteen and ordered to stay hydrated at all times.
This esoteric item embodies:
Pyromancy training.
Finding calm amidst turmoil.
Restoring lost energies.
[ESOTERICA] Underhive Blade:
Crafted from a jagged spike of metal, this crude weapon served you well during your stint in Terra's underhive hunting gangers. Using Pyromancy, you molded it into a vicious short blade.
Gain: Psi-forged shank:
This weapon is attuned to you, bearing great symbolic and narrative weight due to it being your first weapon. You kept it so it might one day be reforged.
This esoteric item embodies:
Pyromancy
Fighting.
Will to survive.
[ESOTERICA] A worn copy of Eluclidea's Geometrics:
This damn book is what you used to learn shapes and dimensions as part of your telekinetic training. And ever since you read it, you've found yourself unable to not manifest psychic barriers in abstract shapes.
Gain: A worn textbook:
This textbook is important to your telekinetic understanding, being the basis from which you learned how to calculate geometry and visualize the forms you use to create kinetic shields.
This esoteric item embodies:
Your rigid mind.
Knowledge.
Understanding.
[ESOTERICA] An old Aquilla:
A simple mass-produced Aquilla necklace that you were given upon arrival at Terra. The small gold symbol is the one you clutched in your hands while trying to sleep.
Gain: Childhood pendant:
A golden Aquilla made on Terra for Astra Telepathica acolytes. It symbolizes your belief in the Emperor's protection of mankind, and the power to banish the daemonic and ruinous powers.
This esoteric item embodies:
Protection.
Purification.
Defense.
Torvum Sector
Katapheuksis Sub-Sector:
Matalis system, sector capital system.
Orbital City Amber reach, geostationary orbit over Menagerie's Primary Hive.
The shuttle's sets down in one of the large landing bays of the fortress, one of those reserved for official Imperial Adepta. The Star Fortress looms before you, a behemoth of steel and weaponry hanging in the void of space. A city in its own right. As you step onto the docking platform, the recycled air of the fortress hits you like a wall of rockcrete. You must strike an imposing figure, wearing an Adeptus Astra Telepathica robe, a laspistol holstered on your hip, and a force staff in your hand.
As you disembark, an official with a pale terrified expression approaches you, trembling hands clutching a data slate. Just the usual Administratum clerk registering movements and ensuring nobody is smuggling anything. "Lord Psyker Occam?" He asks, terror woven through his words like the silver threads in your robe. He swipes a finger over the smudged slate multiple times as it refuses to register his touch. "A gravcar is waiting for you at the base of the docking spire. It will take you to…" he stumbles, losing his words.
You roll your eyes and read his thoughts, drawing out what he wished to say but couldn't. You finish the words. "Docking Spire Gamma-2 Dock Alpha-Theta-Seven." He goes still as you politely incline your head. "This is my baggage. But I believe that your systems will note that you are not allowed to examine my possessions without either a mark on my record, or an authorization clearance beyond yours. You are growing increasingly worried. No, I am not -in- your mind, you are just thinking incredibly loudly. May the Emperor be with you."
You walk past him, making sure to tap your staff with each step. The crowds pass around you, unsure at the sight of a Psyker without a minder to accompany them. You are certain that there's eyes on you from the crowd, gauging how you react to needing to pass through part of a populated area without supervision.
This part of the orbital city is reserved for the acolytes, adepts, and accompanying servants of the Adeptus Terra. Unlike the lower levels of the Orbital City, the lights are all fully active, the Sanctioners carry around shock-prods and pistols instead of shotguns and don't administer random beatings, only the occasional low-power prod to get them to move on. The minds of the Sanctioners show them to be bored, most thinking of what they'll do after their shift. At the base of the docking spire are the teeming masses of the orbital city.
After a brief fifty floor elevator ride to bypass congestion, you find yourself taking a detour as indicated by signage, through the edge of the regular docking platforms for the non-adepta. A commotion near one of the cargo docks catches your attention. Spikes of anger and a scent of fury. A pair of grizzled angry-looking haulers with the neck tattoos of a Stevedore Guild have opened a crate of luggage and are going through it, while another is holding a familiar ratling.
"Oi! What's the big idea?" the ratling squeaks, her tiny legs kicking uselessly as she dangles from a guard's grasp. It is the chef from aboard the troopship.
"Searching for contraband, runt. Your type always has some."
You pause, weighing your options. The ratling's presence is unexpected, a wrinkle in an otherwise routine transfer. Part of you wants to keep walking, to avoid any complications on your journey to Odium. But something about the scene tugs at you, reminding you of your own days as a hive trash youth. You consider the implications of the ratling's presence. If she was not a bonded labourer, she is attempting to get off the ship and find a new place to work. If she is bonded, she has stowed away on a shuttle and tried to get away.
"What is this commotion?" you ask, your voice carrying the edge of authority you've learned to wield like a weapon. The bruisers turn, their expressions a mix of surprise and annoyance until you tap your staff on the floor.
Those within the cargo bay who notice the exchange turn to look, while most continue with their labours as before.
"Just business, Psyker," one guard, the smartest looking of the lot, says. He slips something he took from the crate back inside. "Contraband examination of a mutant."
You feel your power surge, a response to the guard's tone, but you clamp down on it, focus it like a scalpel and through into his mind.
A routine psychic feat. (+20)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 70
Occam rolled 40.
3 degrees of success.
You lay his mind bare, reading it like it was an open book.
The men are workers for a Stevedore guild bonded to the Alkana Merchant Consortium, which leases these docks. They earn a reasonable wage, with most living in the worker dormitories so they can spare the cost of their own habs. Their surface memories are of cheap licensed amasec, smoking around card tables, and a mixture of sanctioned and unsanctioned recreational gambling.
They supplement their income with bribes, black market dealings, and extortion. But they have to be cautious, as the Sanctioners have been cracking down on their activity after another gang accidentally skimmed from a tithe shipment. They had thought a Ratling disembarking from a vessel would be an easy target, scare her a bit, get a bribe, and if they were lucky, confiscate some contraband.
You glare at the man, imparting into that look a hint of your Will to make it clear you're not taking any of his shit. The lights in the room flicker. "That is -not- a mutant." You say, your voice sounding through the room. "That is a Homo sapiens minimus, a recognized Abhuman strain sanctioned in the time He walked among us. Refuse to recognize this, and..-" Psykana Conditioning unseals a room in your memory palace and brings forth the required legal knowledge. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull for a moment as the information is processed. "I will report you for a violation of Lex Imperialis regulations regarding a refusal to acknowledge Adeptus Terra decision making by non-Adept inhabitants of the Imperium."
Now the men are terrified. This is many times beyond what they were expecting. The one leading the group looks at you, his thoughts dominated by a primal fear that he is managing through an impressive force of will, to not show upon his face. In his mind you see no skin-trading, or unsanctioned gambling. Just rounds at a bar with friends and colleagues of a rough sort. His thoughts go to a partner, a son that unlike his tattooed father is clean. He wears the robes of a boarding Scholam. A young face without scars holding up a page containing excellent grades.
The man ruffles his son's hair. "See. Told you you'd become a priest one day!" He feels guilty that he paid for the boy's robes by taking a bribe to not stop a shipment of Obscura cut with a Grox sedative.
The man pushed the Ratling forward now she's been let go, wiping some dust from her. "No contraband. All clean. Go on, lass."
Your anger passes. Life is hard for men like him. Your own father was less caring than he did. And would you have been angry if your father had taken some bribes so he could get you into a Scholam? If you were not a Psyker, would you feel kinship with the Abhuman?
You dismiss the power you have gathered. "Return to your labours. I will take over the ratling. Your commitment to duty is noted."
The commotion ends, and you move to help the Ratling. You raise the base of your staff, motioning towards the scattered luggage. Telekinetic force begins picking up the pieces and putting them back in storage. It is an indulgence, but also a statement to onlookers.
"Trouble seems intent to find you, does it not, Miss Ratling?"
She nods frantically. The ratling might be pretty by the standards of her people, and while her face appears dim, her eyes have a sparkle of intelligence. "Martha. I mean. That's my name. Lord Psykers." She hesitates. Her face looks young, but stretched over a larger skull than a child. She's short, but also somewhat lean. Her hair is greasy but combed. "And… aye. Had to get out after Aluis…" She stops speaking, on the verge of tears. "Well… I… I did not want to stay there."
You finish repacking her possessions and motion for her to come with you. "Perhaps you'd like to come with me, Martha? I feel less ruffians will bother you if you are in my presence."
Martha nods, not finding the words. She rights her luggage and begins pulling it along on its tiny wheels. You give the Stevedores one last glance that sends them running.
After a thirty minute elevator ride during which nobody chose to get onto the same car as you and the Ratling, you emerge at the base of the docking spire. Making your way through the checkpoint at the spire's entrance, which quickly waves you through upon seeing your garb of office, you step out onto the streets. This level of the orbital habitat is tall, tall enough that an internal climate has developed. Were it not for the metal roof, you could have thought you were on a planet.
The crowds moving through the city are sombre and focused, but the signs of malnutrition or disease you've come to expect from their lot is much lesser. Then again, many wear identification robes and symbols of merchant consortiums and conglomerates. There are robed Administratum scribes with cranial plugs making their way back from their shifts, a flock of servo skulls moving with them, scanning each member of the crowd.
It is the brutallist architecture of the Imperium you have come to expect, but with a slight local variation in the height of the structures. Buildings are somewhat thinner than you expected. Great guild halls and merchant spires are built with shapes that you instantly recognize as impossible without some form of grav-manipulation or materials beyond regular rockcrete and plasteel.
The level of technology in the Torvum sector is impressive. Above the Imperial average to be certain. It implies either a more active Adeptus Mechanicus, ensuring the sector's infrastructure and technology are kept functional. Or an inactive one that's not stopped Consortiums, Guilds, and non-Adeptus manufacturers from maintaining their technological base.
Anti-Grav transports and bulk haulers move through the air in strictly organized lanes. There are hovering signs, some kept aloft by balloons fitted with propellers, others hovering on cushions of anti-grav.
There are the usual Administratum and Ministorum propaganda signs, but also advertising and commercial signs.
An Eclessiarchy prayer sermon ends over a vox speaker and you catch the tail end of it.
"-If you too find yourself tired after your shift, but wish to be energetic in your off-duty hours, then try Aldanis Sisterhood."
The great flickering propaganda board showed a disappointed man sitting on the edge of a moderately sized bed, head cupped in his hands, evidently distraught. When he is handed a pack of Lho-Sticks. He lights one up and climbs back into bed.
"Aldanis, ensuring the fruitful propagation of mankind for three millenia."
You blink. An advertisement after a Ministorum broadcast? On Terra just suggesting that would get a man servitorized. The sector has a very mercantile streak, implying that the planets are prosperous enough that they have a great deal of wealth left over after paying their tithes.
That could be explained by the commercial anti-grav technology. From what you understand of the Imperial Tithe, the value of goods as part of the tithes is determined according to the average availability of the technology. If the Torvum sector has monopolized some exports with a high tithe value, they could pay it more easily.
Cybernetics, many of them hereditary, are relatively common among the populace. Electoos with medical information seem common enough, as are integrated vox beads or iris augmentations. Your cybernetic eye, while lacking modified magnification and zoom functionalities, nevertheless gives you an overlay marking each cybernetic that it picks up. Most are marked as older. Hereditary cybernetics passed on and accrued through the generations.
It is a setting you'd never bothered to turn off, due to the relative lack of cybernetics among the crowds you interact with. You'd tuned it out, even using it to orient yourself and find people.
But now the little list in the top left marking nearby cybernetics is overloading with the amount of electoo signatures it is picking up. You blink-click the setting to high priority mode.
A long sleek black gravcar waits for you. The Astra Telepathica driver waiting at the door raises an eyebrow at the Ratling walking in your shadow. With him is a large man that is obviously carrying concealed firearms.
The driver's soul-fire is dim, even more so than the Tau. His presence is on the verge of being a blank, but not quite there yet. He is dressed in a well-tailored suit of synthetic fibres, with a skull-plug in his left temple connected to an augmetic eye. The man has an electoo just left of his Adam's apple that your augmetic eye automatically scans and designates him as a hereditary minor adept of the Scholastica Psykana. A trusted servant from one of the carefully managed near-blank bloodlines that the Non-Psykers of the Astra Telepathica are recruited from.
"I was not told you had a servant, Lord Psyker." The driver says, white gloved hands opening the door of the gravcar. The second man steps aside to allow you in. His electoo marks him as an inductee who joined the Telepathica. As he moves, you see the large cybernetic implant that covers the right of his neck with an elegant flex-metal layer, atop which the symbol of the Astra Telepathica can be seen. You recognize the distinctive silhouette of a gene-samplar in the eye of the logo. A Pariah-Inhibitor. A rare piece of technology which can moderate the null-aura of a Pariah. You note that the soul-fire you glimpsed before had seemed slightly off.
The bodyguard then, is some measure of a psychic blank, either with just enough of a soul the state could be artificially induced with an implant, or with an implant that could inhibit the effect.
"Thanks for the assistance, Lord Psyker." Martha says.
"Martha, where do you intend to go now?"
She hesitates. "There's a Ratling district two levels down. I have some distant family there. I thought to start again.." She smiles sheepishly. Her confidence is a false one. She does not know what she'll do. Perhaps try to find a job as a cook again?
You consider your options.
[RATLING]Offer her a position in the Astra Telepathica as a cook:
Life in the Telepathica can be hard, and she is likely to come face to face with many gruesome things. If she joins, she'll never be able to leave without a thorough mind-wipe.
But you like her. And you feel a sense of guilt, because her life went to hell in your presence, and you have the capacity to help her.
You take Martha with you to join the Astra Telepathica.
(Unlocked by Saving for an Acid Rainy Day)
[RATLING]Give her your laspistol and some of your Thrones:
You've always kept currency at hand, even though you rarely need to use any. Most accumulated from Guardsmen, mostly officers and the like you secretly used Biomancy upon to cure awkward to explain diseases, fix scars, and the like.
You reach into your robes and take out a satchel containing an eclectic mix of currencies. Astra Militarum credit tokens. A few Ultima Segmentum Thrones. Wrapped up currency bonds from various systems. You pick out that which she can use and give it to her alongside your laspistol.
You set the ratling up to a prosperous new life but keep her at a safe distance.
4 hour Moratorium. Task voting.
-[X] Psychic shock troops:
-[X] Sanctified stakes:
-[X] Implanted micro-explosives:
You stuff your meager belongings into an old duffel bag, the same one you've had since arriving on Terra. In it you keep the sparse belongings that aren't replaced or provided to you for your deployments. The things that are genuinely yours. keepsakes, rudimentary in design yet invaluable in honing your Psyker abilities, or just keepsakes with a measure of symbolic value to you. The memory blocks from your training do not allow you to feel the emotions you felt at the time, but the events do return to your forethought.
In the bag you have:
Esoterica and minor arcana:
All humans are connected to the Immatereum, and the Immatereum suffused all reality. The idea that the warp is something that can be avoided is a foolish one, as our every act changes the world around us. You have a handful of small items in your possesion that have been imbued with power and meaning to you, and could be used for creating psychic items.
These esoterica can be used in the creation of items and equipment, with what they embody determining the capabilities of the item you are creating. The following types of items are known to you already.
-Psi Focus
-Trinkets
-Psi-Hood or crown.
-Force weapon.
-Force shield.
Known groups with the ability to forge Psi or Force weapons and armour are:
The Psi-Smiths of the Astra Telepathica. Generational artisans from terra who descend from ancient pre-Mechanicus Terran smiths and artisans.
Magos Psykana of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Tech Priests with the knowledge to create items able to channel Psychic power.
The League of Votann. Their descent from humanity makes their technology not classify as xenotech, and it can be passed off as Imperial creations.
Choose two Esoterica in your possession.
[ESOTERICA] A broken mercy-blade:
A sheath containing your first mercy-blade, a fine monomolecular blade you carried as a young teenager. You remember your first kill with it. An infractionist from a Terran hive gang that preyed upon pilgrims and had grown large enough to quality as an illegal organization to be rounded up. You were taught to kill but find no joy or apathy in it.
Gain: Blade shards.
A fine mono-molecular blade for ending your life in the event of possession. Has a very strong psychic connection to you. Symbolizes both your readiness to kill, but also to not find joy in it.
This esoteric item embodies:
The power to take lives.
Self control.
Your advancement as a Psyker.
[ESOTERICA] Pilgrim's Dentures:
While mastering the art of Biomancy, you numbed your senses to pain and extracted a tooth, nurturing it back to health before reinserting it. In a bizarre twist, all your teeth detached and tried to make their escape from your mouth. You were given a new set of replacement teeth, originally belonging to a deceased pilgrim. Sometimes, you forget they are not your own.
Gain: Bottle of Teeth
Suspended mid-animation as if frozen in time when the animating force ran out, they serve as an odd memento.
This esoteric item embodies:
Biomantic training.
Refusal to give up.
Moving on from wounds.
[ESOTERICA] Old canteen:
Your pyromancy training was intense, and during it, you constantly had to drink water to not collapse. You were given a canteen that you still keep with you. It is worn and you feel naked without it on your person.
Gain: An old STC patterned Canteen.
A sturdy canteen, its metal surface worn away by age. Your pyromancy training dried you out, and so you were provided this canteen and ordered to stay hydrated at all times.
This esoteric item embodies:
Pyromancy training.
Finding calm amidst turmoil.
Restoring lost energies.
[ESOTERICA] Underhive Blade:
Crafted from a jagged spike of metal, this crude weapon served you well during your stint in Terra's underhive hunting gangers. Using Pyromancy, you molded it into a vicious short blade.
Gain: Psi-forged shank:
This weapon is attuned to you, bearing great symbolic and narrative weight due to it being your first weapon. You kept it so it might one day be reforged.
This esoteric item embodies:
Pyromancy
Fighting.
Will to survive.
[ESOTERICA] A worn copy of Eluclidea's Geometrics:
This damn book is what you used to learn shapes and dimensions as part of your telekinetic training. And ever since you read it, you've found yourself unable to not manifest psychic barriers in abstract shapes.
Gain: A worn textbook:
This textbook is important to your telekinetic understanding, being the basis from which you learned how to calculate geometry and visualize the forms you use to create kinetic shields.
This esoteric item embodies:
Your rigid mind.
Knowledge.
Understanding.
[ESOTERICA] An old Aquilla:
A simple mass-produced Aquilla necklace that you were given upon arrival at Terra. The small gold symbol is the one you clutched in your hands while trying to sleep.
Gain: Childhood pendant:
A golden Aquilla made on Terra for Astra Telepathica acolytes. It symbolizes your belief in the Emperor's protection of mankind, and the power to banish the daemonic and ruinous powers.
This esoteric item embodies:
Protection.
Purification.
Defense.
Torvum Sector
Katapheuksis Sub-Sector:
Matalis system, sector capital system.
Orbital City Amber reach, geostationary orbit over Menagerie's Primary Hive.
The shuttle's sets down in one of the large landing bays of the fortress, one of those reserved for official Imperial Adepta. The Star Fortress looms before you, a behemoth of steel and weaponry hanging in the void of space. A city in its own right. As you step onto the docking platform, the recycled air of the fortress hits you like a wall of rockcrete. You must strike an imposing figure, wearing an Adeptus Astra Telepathica robe, a laspistol holstered on your hip, and a force staff in your hand.
As you disembark, an official with a pale terrified expression approaches you, trembling hands clutching a data slate. Just the usual Administratum clerk registering movements and ensuring nobody is smuggling anything. "Lord Psyker Occam?" He asks, terror woven through his words like the silver threads in your robe. He swipes a finger over the smudged slate multiple times as it refuses to register his touch. "A gravcar is waiting for you at the base of the docking spire. It will take you to…" he stumbles, losing his words.
You roll your eyes and read his thoughts, drawing out what he wished to say but couldn't. You finish the words. "Docking Spire Gamma-2 Dock Alpha-Theta-Seven." He goes still as you politely incline your head. "This is my baggage. But I believe that your systems will note that you are not allowed to examine my possessions without either a mark on my record, or an authorization clearance beyond yours. You are growing increasingly worried. No, I am not -in- your mind, you are just thinking incredibly loudly. May the Emperor be with you."
You walk past him, making sure to tap your staff with each step. The crowds pass around you, unsure at the sight of a Psyker without a minder to accompany them. You are certain that there's eyes on you from the crowd, gauging how you react to needing to pass through part of a populated area without supervision.
This part of the orbital city is reserved for the acolytes, adepts, and accompanying servants of the Adeptus Terra. Unlike the lower levels of the Orbital City, the lights are all fully active, the Sanctioners carry around shock-prods and pistols instead of shotguns and don't administer random beatings, only the occasional low-power prod to get them to move on. The minds of the Sanctioners show them to be bored, most thinking of what they'll do after their shift. At the base of the docking spire are the teeming masses of the orbital city.
After a brief fifty floor elevator ride to bypass congestion, you find yourself taking a detour as indicated by signage, through the edge of the regular docking platforms for the non-adepta. A commotion near one of the cargo docks catches your attention. Spikes of anger and a scent of fury. A pair of grizzled angry-looking haulers with the neck tattoos of a Stevedore Guild have opened a crate of luggage and are going through it, while another is holding a familiar ratling.
"Oi! What's the big idea?" the ratling squeaks, her tiny legs kicking uselessly as she dangles from a guard's grasp. It is the chef from aboard the troopship.
"Searching for contraband, runt. Your type always has some."
You pause, weighing your options. The ratling's presence is unexpected, a wrinkle in an otherwise routine transfer. Part of you wants to keep walking, to avoid any complications on your journey to Odium. But something about the scene tugs at you, reminding you of your own days as a hive trash youth. You consider the implications of the ratling's presence. If she was not a bonded labourer, she is attempting to get off the ship and find a new place to work. If she is bonded, she has stowed away on a shuttle and tried to get away.
"What is this commotion?" you ask, your voice carrying the edge of authority you've learned to wield like a weapon. The bruisers turn, their expressions a mix of surprise and annoyance until you tap your staff on the floor.
Those within the cargo bay who notice the exchange turn to look, while most continue with their labours as before.
"Just business, Psyker," one guard, the smartest looking of the lot, says. He slips something he took from the crate back inside. "Contraband examination of a mutant."
You feel your power surge, a response to the guard's tone, but you clamp down on it, focus it like a scalpel and through into his mind.
A routine psychic feat. (+20)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 70
Occam rolled 40.
3 degrees of success.
You lay his mind bare, reading it like it was an open book.
The men are workers for a Stevedore guild bonded to the Alkana Merchant Consortium, which leases these docks. They earn a reasonable wage, with most living in the worker dormitories so they can spare the cost of their own habs. Their surface memories are of cheap licensed amasec, smoking around card tables, and a mixture of sanctioned and unsanctioned recreational gambling.
They supplement their income with bribes, black market dealings, and extortion. But they have to be cautious, as the Sanctioners have been cracking down on their activity after another gang accidentally skimmed from a tithe shipment. They had thought a Ratling disembarking from a vessel would be an easy target, scare her a bit, get a bribe, and if they were lucky, confiscate some contraband.
You glare at the man, imparting into that look a hint of your Will to make it clear you're not taking any of his shit. The lights in the room flicker. "That is -not- a mutant." You say, your voice sounding through the room. "That is a Homo sapiens minimus, a recognized Abhuman strain sanctioned in the time He walked among us. Refuse to recognize this, and..-" Psykana Conditioning unseals a room in your memory palace and brings forth the required legal knowledge. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull for a moment as the information is processed. "I will report you for a violation of Lex Imperialis regulations regarding a refusal to acknowledge Adeptus Terra decision making by non-Adept inhabitants of the Imperium."
Now the men are terrified. This is many times beyond what they were expecting. The one leading the group looks at you, his thoughts dominated by a primal fear that he is managing through an impressive force of will, to not show upon his face. In his mind you see no skin-trading, or unsanctioned gambling. Just rounds at a bar with friends and colleagues of a rough sort. His thoughts go to a partner, a son that unlike his tattooed father is clean. He wears the robes of a boarding Scholam. A young face without scars holding up a page containing excellent grades.
The man ruffles his son's hair. "See. Told you you'd become a priest one day!" He feels guilty that he paid for the boy's robes by taking a bribe to not stop a shipment of Obscura cut with a Grox sedative.
The man pushed the Ratling forward now she's been let go, wiping some dust from her. "No contraband. All clean. Go on, lass."
Your anger passes. Life is hard for men like him. Your own father was less caring than he did. And would you have been angry if your father had taken some bribes so he could get you into a Scholam? If you were not a Psyker, would you feel kinship with the Abhuman?
You dismiss the power you have gathered. "Return to your labours. I will take over the ratling. Your commitment to duty is noted."
The commotion ends, and you move to help the Ratling. You raise the base of your staff, motioning towards the scattered luggage. Telekinetic force begins picking up the pieces and putting them back in storage. It is an indulgence, but also a statement to onlookers.
"Trouble seems intent to find you, does it not, Miss Ratling?"
She nods frantically. The ratling might be pretty by the standards of her people, and while her face appears dim, her eyes have a sparkle of intelligence. "Martha. I mean. That's my name. Lord Psykers." She hesitates. Her face looks young, but stretched over a larger skull than a child. She's short, but also somewhat lean. Her hair is greasy but combed. "And… aye. Had to get out after Aluis…" She stops speaking, on the verge of tears. "Well… I… I did not want to stay there."
You finish repacking her possessions and motion for her to come with you. "Perhaps you'd like to come with me, Martha? I feel less ruffians will bother you if you are in my presence."
Martha nods, not finding the words. She rights her luggage and begins pulling it along on its tiny wheels. You give the Stevedores one last glance that sends them running.
After a thirty minute elevator ride during which nobody chose to get onto the same car as you and the Ratling, you emerge at the base of the docking spire. Making your way through the checkpoint at the spire's entrance, which quickly waves you through upon seeing your garb of office, you step out onto the streets. This level of the orbital habitat is tall, tall enough that an internal climate has developed. Were it not for the metal roof, you could have thought you were on a planet.
The crowds moving through the city are sombre and focused, but the signs of malnutrition or disease you've come to expect from their lot is much lesser. Then again, many wear identification robes and symbols of merchant consortiums and conglomerates. There are robed Administratum scribes with cranial plugs making their way back from their shifts, a flock of servo skulls moving with them, scanning each member of the crowd.
It is the brutallist architecture of the Imperium you have come to expect, but with a slight local variation in the height of the structures. Buildings are somewhat thinner than you expected. Great guild halls and merchant spires are built with shapes that you instantly recognize as impossible without some form of grav-manipulation or materials beyond regular rockcrete and plasteel.
The level of technology in the Torvum sector is impressive. Above the Imperial average to be certain. It implies either a more active Adeptus Mechanicus, ensuring the sector's infrastructure and technology are kept functional. Or an inactive one that's not stopped Consortiums, Guilds, and non-Adeptus manufacturers from maintaining their technological base.
Anti-Grav transports and bulk haulers move through the air in strictly organized lanes. There are hovering signs, some kept aloft by balloons fitted with propellers, others hovering on cushions of anti-grav.
There are the usual Administratum and Ministorum propaganda signs, but also advertising and commercial signs.
An Eclessiarchy prayer sermon ends over a vox speaker and you catch the tail end of it.
"-If you too find yourself tired after your shift, but wish to be energetic in your off-duty hours, then try Aldanis Sisterhood."
The great flickering propaganda board showed a disappointed man sitting on the edge of a moderately sized bed, head cupped in his hands, evidently distraught. When he is handed a pack of Lho-Sticks. He lights one up and climbs back into bed.
"Aldanis, ensuring the fruitful propagation of mankind for three millenia."
You blink. An advertisement after a Ministorum broadcast? On Terra just suggesting that would get a man servitorized. The sector has a very mercantile streak, implying that the planets are prosperous enough that they have a great deal of wealth left over after paying their tithes.
That could be explained by the commercial anti-grav technology. From what you understand of the Imperial Tithe, the value of goods as part of the tithes is determined according to the average availability of the technology. If the Torvum sector has monopolized some exports with a high tithe value, they could pay it more easily.
Cybernetics, many of them hereditary, are relatively common among the populace. Electoos with medical information seem common enough, as are integrated vox beads or iris augmentations. Your cybernetic eye, while lacking modified magnification and zoom functionalities, nevertheless gives you an overlay marking each cybernetic that it picks up. Most are marked as older. Hereditary cybernetics passed on and accrued through the generations.
It is a setting you'd never bothered to turn off, due to the relative lack of cybernetics among the crowds you interact with. You'd tuned it out, even using it to orient yourself and find people.
But now the little list in the top left marking nearby cybernetics is overloading with the amount of electoo signatures it is picking up. You blink-click the setting to high priority mode.
A long sleek black gravcar waits for you. The Astra Telepathica driver waiting at the door raises an eyebrow at the Ratling walking in your shadow. With him is a large man that is obviously carrying concealed firearms.
The driver's soul-fire is dim, even more so than the Tau. His presence is on the verge of being a blank, but not quite there yet. He is dressed in a well-tailored suit of synthetic fibres, with a skull-plug in his left temple connected to an augmetic eye. The man has an electoo just left of his Adam's apple that your augmetic eye automatically scans and designates him as a hereditary minor adept of the Scholastica Psykana. A trusted servant from one of the carefully managed near-blank bloodlines that the Non-Psykers of the Astra Telepathica are recruited from.
"I was not told you had a servant, Lord Psyker." The driver says, white gloved hands opening the door of the gravcar. The second man steps aside to allow you in. His electoo marks him as an inductee who joined the Telepathica. As he moves, you see the large cybernetic implant that covers the right of his neck with an elegant flex-metal layer, atop which the symbol of the Astra Telepathica can be seen. You recognize the distinctive silhouette of a gene-samplar in the eye of the logo. A Pariah-Inhibitor. A rare piece of technology which can moderate the null-aura of a Pariah. You note that the soul-fire you glimpsed before had seemed slightly off.
The bodyguard then, is some measure of a psychic blank, either with just enough of a soul the state could be artificially induced with an implant, or with an implant that could inhibit the effect.
"Thanks for the assistance, Lord Psyker." Martha says.
"Martha, where do you intend to go now?"
She hesitates. "There's a Ratling district two levels down. I have some distant family there. I thought to start again.." She smiles sheepishly. Her confidence is a false one. She does not know what she'll do. Perhaps try to find a job as a cook again?
You consider your options.
[RATLING]Offer her a position in the Astra Telepathica as a cook:
Life in the Telepathica can be hard, and she is likely to come face to face with many gruesome things. If she joins, she'll never be able to leave without a thorough mind-wipe.
But you like her. And you feel a sense of guilt, because her life went to hell in your presence, and you have the capacity to help her.
You take Martha with you to join the Astra Telepathica.
(Unlocked by Saving for an Acid Rainy Day)
[RATLING]Give her your laspistol and some of your Thrones:
You've always kept currency at hand, even though you rarely need to use any. Most accumulated from Guardsmen, mostly officers and the like you secretly used Biomancy upon to cure awkward to explain diseases, fix scars, and the like.
You reach into your robes and take out a satchel containing an eclectic mix of currencies. Astra Militarum credit tokens. A few Ultima Segmentum Thrones. Wrapped up currency bonds from various systems. You pick out that which she can use and give it to her alongside your laspistol.
You set the ratling up to a prosperous new life but keep her at a safe distance.
4 hour Moratorium. Task voting.
Last edited:
"De Bonum Maximum Universum." - a Heretical text.
[X][ESOTERICA] An old Aquilla:
[X][ESOTERICA] A worn copy of Eluclidea's Geometrics:
Ok, so these are my choices. I thought we could use both of these items to make like a imperially sanctioned spell book.
Then I thought how such a book could look like.
Then I thought of what type of things would be in there, because how would you combine religion and geometry.
Then I though, hey, isn't there this Plato guy that you read a lot in college right now, that did that, maybe one could make do a 40k equivalent of that.
Maybe I could make that, actually.
…
And then I didn't really think, because my muse kind of took over from there
So without further ado, enjoy the first Omake I wrote in, idk, a few years.
Before the Beginning of time, there was the One True Universal Creator, who was Good.
And because He was a universal craftsman, He set about crafting a Universe.
And because He was Good, He set about creating the One True Universe, which was to be the best possible Universe.
The Creator knew that the most perfect thing would be a thing that was in permanent and perfect order. Understanding the nature of order, as He understands all things, He knew that a man who remained upright while running was more ordered than one who remained upright while standing, and that they were both more ordered than the man who remained upright because he lacked the life necessary for movement.
Because of that, He knew the most perfect Universe had to be in constant movement.
For this, it had to be created in the image of a living being.
But to create a Perfect Universe, He had to find the perfect form on which to base His creation.
So He ordered His nine sons—beings that also existed before time, who, each being made of the same divine essence as He was, were both persons in their own right and continuations of Himself, divided from Him by the love He felt for them—to go and try to create a perfect being.
For this, He gave them unlimited access to all the forms that did not yet, but would later, exist.
They each went out to try to please their Father, creating as many forms as they could, thinking that one had to be perfect.
When they returned, the number of forms they had created was 111, and when all the combinations of these forms were considered, they numbered 999 in total.
Being a loving Father, the Creator tried to use all 999 forms, but each and every Universe that was created was a mutated and alien place, in which madness triumphed over logic.
Disappointed, He sat down all of His sons and told them to start working together.
And together they toiled for 999 plus 1 times as long as they had on their previous work, combining their efforts to create a perfect form. For a muse, they used the most perfect being they knew, which was the One True Creator, their Father.
In the end, they were left with a form represented by a simple triangle, whose angles were precisely two of 45 degrees and one of 90 degrees.
They then took this new form and used it as the basis of a new Universe.
The Universe, in response, took the shape of a perfect sphere, the most flawless of forms.
And all the things in that most perfect Universe separated themselves into five elements, each according to a sacred geometrical shape.
These five elements were, from the heaviest to the lightest:
- Earth represented by the form of the cube, a body made up of six squares, each of which was in turn made of two triangles.
- Water, represented by the form of the Icosahedron, made up of 20 triangles.
- Air, represented by the form of the Octahedron, made up of 8 triangles.
- Fire, represented by the form of the Tetrahedron, made up of 4 triangles.
- Aether, represented by the form of the Dodecahedron, made up of 12 pentagons, each pentagon in turn made of 5 triangles.
And of all the most perfect elements, all the things in the Universe started to partake in the forms, each partaking in each element and its different forms to varying degrees.
And so all things in all the corners of the Universe were born.
And just as the Creator had known, on the most perfect planet in the entire Universe, partaking only in the form of perfect order, a group of beings formed.
The Creator beheld His creation and knew that it was Good.
He beheld them, the name before only used by Him and His sons.
He beheld them and called them Men.
To describe every detail of their perfection would take 12 times longer than it took to create them.
An example of this beauty was their skull, which could have been thicker to provide more protection or thinner to allow more intelligence, but instead was of the perfect thickness to provide the best possible balance of both.
Knowing these creations to be the best possible ones He could have made, He only wanted the best possible things for them.
Therefore, instead of allowing them to rot in their pathetic imitation of existence, He took all 999 lesser possible Universes and merged them with this One Perfect Universe.
The inadequate forms could not touch the perfection of the Universe based on the form of Men. Instead, they formed an illogical realm known as the Immaterium.
All the forms infinitely lesser than the form of Men then went on to form the numerous species of Xenos found in all the lesser places of the Universe.
Knowing that while Men were greater than all of them combined but still less numerous, He decided that their existence would serve as the perfect school to teach His children to mature and grow into the destiny of divinity with which He christened them at their formation.
For, on that day when the Universe is scrubbed clean of every Alien, and the last influence of the Immaterium is eradicated, and Men exist only in their purest form, it will be the day when Men are mature enough to take their rightful place at the right hand of the Creator.
But the Creator, in His infinite wisdom, knew that Men were not yet ready to shoulder their destiny.
So, in a reversal of the last day, when Men will ascend to become Gods, the ascent of Men will begin with Gods becoming Men.
For the Universal Creator to lead His children in the most perfect way, He joined them inside the Universe, embodying the form of Perfection, also called the form of Men, to the highest degree.
He was followed, in their love of their Father, by His nine sons.
The Creator turned Mortal, for He is our guide and our light, and is called the Emperor of Man, who is beloved by all. His sons, in their mortal forms, are most commonly referred to as the Nine Primarchs of Man.
This is the Truth given form as Word so that it can be understood by those who are not yet divine.
This is the Word given form as Text so that its joyous message can be shared with all.
- An excerpt of "De Bonum Maximum Universum", a semi-heretical Text fragment that is said to have been very influential to the Cosmology and Religious doctrine of the late imperial golden age of the greater sol system and early religious thought in the Imperium as a whole.
The identity of its original author remains a mystery, though many suspect the Primarch Roboute Guilliman.
[X][ESOTERICA] A worn copy of Eluclidea's Geometrics:
Ok, so these are my choices. I thought we could use both of these items to make like a imperially sanctioned spell book.
Then I thought how such a book could look like.
Then I thought of what type of things would be in there, because how would you combine religion and geometry.
Then I though, hey, isn't there this Plato guy that you read a lot in college right now, that did that, maybe one could make do a 40k equivalent of that.
Maybe I could make that, actually.
…
And then I didn't really think, because my muse kind of took over from there
So without further ado, enjoy the first Omake I wrote in, idk, a few years.
Before the Beginning of time, there was the One True Universal Creator, who was Good.
And because He was a universal craftsman, He set about crafting a Universe.
And because He was Good, He set about creating the One True Universe, which was to be the best possible Universe.
The Creator knew that the most perfect thing would be a thing that was in permanent and perfect order. Understanding the nature of order, as He understands all things, He knew that a man who remained upright while running was more ordered than one who remained upright while standing, and that they were both more ordered than the man who remained upright because he lacked the life necessary for movement.
Because of that, He knew the most perfect Universe had to be in constant movement.
For this, it had to be created in the image of a living being.
But to create a Perfect Universe, He had to find the perfect form on which to base His creation.
So He ordered His nine sons—beings that also existed before time, who, each being made of the same divine essence as He was, were both persons in their own right and continuations of Himself, divided from Him by the love He felt for them—to go and try to create a perfect being.
For this, He gave them unlimited access to all the forms that did not yet, but would later, exist.
They each went out to try to please their Father, creating as many forms as they could, thinking that one had to be perfect.
When they returned, the number of forms they had created was 111, and when all the combinations of these forms were considered, they numbered 999 in total.
Being a loving Father, the Creator tried to use all 999 forms, but each and every Universe that was created was a mutated and alien place, in which madness triumphed over logic.
Disappointed, He sat down all of His sons and told them to start working together.
And together they toiled for 999 plus 1 times as long as they had on their previous work, combining their efforts to create a perfect form. For a muse, they used the most perfect being they knew, which was the One True Creator, their Father.
In the end, they were left with a form represented by a simple triangle, whose angles were precisely two of 45 degrees and one of 90 degrees.
They then took this new form and used it as the basis of a new Universe.
The Universe, in response, took the shape of a perfect sphere, the most flawless of forms.
And all the things in that most perfect Universe separated themselves into five elements, each according to a sacred geometrical shape.
These five elements were, from the heaviest to the lightest:
- Earth represented by the form of the cube, a body made up of six squares, each of which was in turn made of two triangles.
- Water, represented by the form of the Icosahedron, made up of 20 triangles.
- Air, represented by the form of the Octahedron, made up of 8 triangles.
- Fire, represented by the form of the Tetrahedron, made up of 4 triangles.
- Aether, represented by the form of the Dodecahedron, made up of 12 pentagons, each pentagon in turn made of 5 triangles.
And of all the most perfect elements, all the things in the Universe started to partake in the forms, each partaking in each element and its different forms to varying degrees.
And so all things in all the corners of the Universe were born.
And just as the Creator had known, on the most perfect planet in the entire Universe, partaking only in the form of perfect order, a group of beings formed.
The Creator beheld His creation and knew that it was Good.
He beheld them, the name before only used by Him and His sons.
He beheld them and called them Men.
To describe every detail of their perfection would take 12 times longer than it took to create them.
An example of this beauty was their skull, which could have been thicker to provide more protection or thinner to allow more intelligence, but instead was of the perfect thickness to provide the best possible balance of both.
Knowing these creations to be the best possible ones He could have made, He only wanted the best possible things for them.
Therefore, instead of allowing them to rot in their pathetic imitation of existence, He took all 999 lesser possible Universes and merged them with this One Perfect Universe.
The inadequate forms could not touch the perfection of the Universe based on the form of Men. Instead, they formed an illogical realm known as the Immaterium.
All the forms infinitely lesser than the form of Men then went on to form the numerous species of Xenos found in all the lesser places of the Universe.
Knowing that while Men were greater than all of them combined but still less numerous, He decided that their existence would serve as the perfect school to teach His children to mature and grow into the destiny of divinity with which He christened them at their formation.
For, on that day when the Universe is scrubbed clean of every Alien, and the last influence of the Immaterium is eradicated, and Men exist only in their purest form, it will be the day when Men are mature enough to take their rightful place at the right hand of the Creator.
But the Creator, in His infinite wisdom, knew that Men were not yet ready to shoulder their destiny.
So, in a reversal of the last day, when Men will ascend to become Gods, the ascent of Men will begin with Gods becoming Men.
For the Universal Creator to lead His children in the most perfect way, He joined them inside the Universe, embodying the form of Perfection, also called the form of Men, to the highest degree.
He was followed, in their love of their Father, by His nine sons.
The Creator turned Mortal, for He is our guide and our light, and is called the Emperor of Man, who is beloved by all. His sons, in their mortal forms, are most commonly referred to as the Nine Primarchs of Man.
This is the Truth given form as Word so that it can be understood by those who are not yet divine.
This is the Word given form as Text so that its joyous message can be shared with all.
- An excerpt of "De Bonum Maximum Universum", a semi-heretical Text fragment that is said to have been very influential to the Cosmology and Religious doctrine of the late imperial golden age of the greater sol system and early religious thought in the Imperium as a whole.
The identity of its original author remains a mystery, though many suspect the Primarch Roboute Guilliman.
Omake: Odium Biomancy
Omake: Odium Biomancy
Upon the ocean world of Odium within its lightless depths there dwell countless species known and known who will never know the feeling of the light of a sun shining down on them, and after untold generations the human population of Nautilus has come to share this trait. So was it any wonder that eventually the psykers of this world would begin to learn from these great leviathans of the depth.
It is said that life is shaped by it environment no matter where it is found in the galaxy. Even humans as blessed as they are by the God Emperor's grace are not immune to this law as one needs not look further than to the countless abhuman strains of humanity, or to the subtle genetic quirks developed by a population to its native home. But for the biomancers of Odium this takes on a new definition as they reshape themselves to survive and thrive upon their homeworld.
The first and most common ability learned by the biomancers of the abyss is the enhancing of their unique electro sensory abilities as light itself is considered a luxury on this world. As this sense sharpens under their guidance some biomancers might come to rely on it entirely as opposed to their natural vision. With some even suffering an antrophying of their own eyes as they redirect the body's nutrients to other more important functions.
Next comes the ability to breath underwater as is to be naturally expected with many rogue and trained psykers using this ability to delve into flooded sections of the city and recover valuable salvage either for their own gain or that of a wider organization. This ability to breath underwater without the need of a bulky depth suit makes the biomancer uniquely suited to gaining access to tight confined sections that others would be unable to access. As the psyker further refines their abilities they eventually learn how to withstand greater and greater pressures of the deep allowing them to swim deeper and deeper. Other less notable abilities learned by the biomancer during this time frame include the generation of fins, webbed hands or other new limbs to allow the easier transversing of their aquatic environments.
But as their abilities grow so to their do their ambitions with many seeking to prove themselves by entering the open ocean of Odium. Once out there the psyker must like all things adapt or die, preferably quickly, as the open ocean is a much greater beast than the flooded corridors of the city. If the biomancer survives in this hostile realm then they can truly consider themselves a master of biomancy.
Subject to a higher amount of radiation then they are used to a strong enough biomancer can force their bodies to begin metabolizing the energy using it to keep themselves alive or alternatively using it to fuel an extremely powerful variant of bio-lightning. This ability for whatever reason also causes the formation of bioluminescence organs which glow at varying levels of intensity depending on how much energy is stored in the psyker. Such a universal effect among psykers has unfortunately caused many Inquisitors and members of the Adeptus Telepathica to look into it for signs of corruption. Though at this point no such corruption has been founded with many attributing the side effects to a cultural resonance in the Warp becoming self propagating.
Other enterprising psykers in the abyss will take the chance at capturing one of the predatory beasts within the ocean and using their abilities to adapt its body to amphibious living. These psykers also tend to have some skill in telepathy in addition to their skills as a biomancer as they will take control of these creatures to use them as familiars or attack animals within the city or beyond. Do to the effectiveness of such beasts there is an underground market for such tamed and untamed variants for the use of other organizations. So popular is it that some local Genetors have gotten requests from official organizations for the development of similar creatures be they as exotic pets or service animals.
However there is one ability among the abyssal biomancers that stands above the rest, the Shape of the Abyss. This is an ability only obtained by the most powerful, or the most deranged, of Odium's biomancers for it requires them to be within the presence of one of the great leviathans on the deep and to learn from their natural biomancy. If the psyker is not devoured by these colossal creatures they can begin the development of their own Abyssal Shape. This psychic ability is the transformation of the biomancer into a collosal warform perfectly adapted to both the ocean's depth and survival outside it. No two forms are the same as each one is unique to the psyker with some being coated in crustacean like armor and claws, and others being an amalgam of traits from predatory sea life in a humanoid shape. But one thing remains consistent amongst them the raw physical power granted by these transformations as the psyker swells in size to become a giant capable shrugging off injuries that would kill lesser men and gain the strength to tear entire gangs apart with their bare hands or other apendages. Luckily for those who may face such psykers to maintain such a transformation is incredibly taxing for the biomancer forcing them to use it sparingly and to return to their human shape as soon as possible less they suffer total organ failure or worse due to the strain placed upon them by the transformation. The psyker will also be vulnerable for some time after the transformation needing time to rest and recuperate after such a taxing experience which has led many to suffer an unfortunate fate at the hands of any survivors they may have left.
Through it all the art of biomancy as practiced by the people of Odium reminds humanity of the wisdom of their ancestors about what unknown horrors lurk within the depths of the abyss.
A.N: I did a thing.
Upon the ocean world of Odium within its lightless depths there dwell countless species known and known who will never know the feeling of the light of a sun shining down on them, and after untold generations the human population of Nautilus has come to share this trait. So was it any wonder that eventually the psykers of this world would begin to learn from these great leviathans of the depth.
It is said that life is shaped by it environment no matter where it is found in the galaxy. Even humans as blessed as they are by the God Emperor's grace are not immune to this law as one needs not look further than to the countless abhuman strains of humanity, or to the subtle genetic quirks developed by a population to its native home. But for the biomancers of Odium this takes on a new definition as they reshape themselves to survive and thrive upon their homeworld.
The first and most common ability learned by the biomancers of the abyss is the enhancing of their unique electro sensory abilities as light itself is considered a luxury on this world. As this sense sharpens under their guidance some biomancers might come to rely on it entirely as opposed to their natural vision. With some even suffering an antrophying of their own eyes as they redirect the body's nutrients to other more important functions.
Next comes the ability to breath underwater as is to be naturally expected with many rogue and trained psykers using this ability to delve into flooded sections of the city and recover valuable salvage either for their own gain or that of a wider organization. This ability to breath underwater without the need of a bulky depth suit makes the biomancer uniquely suited to gaining access to tight confined sections that others would be unable to access. As the psyker further refines their abilities they eventually learn how to withstand greater and greater pressures of the deep allowing them to swim deeper and deeper. Other less notable abilities learned by the biomancer during this time frame include the generation of fins, webbed hands or other new limbs to allow the easier transversing of their aquatic environments.
But as their abilities grow so to their do their ambitions with many seeking to prove themselves by entering the open ocean of Odium. Once out there the psyker must like all things adapt or die, preferably quickly, as the open ocean is a much greater beast than the flooded corridors of the city. If the biomancer survives in this hostile realm then they can truly consider themselves a master of biomancy.
Subject to a higher amount of radiation then they are used to a strong enough biomancer can force their bodies to begin metabolizing the energy using it to keep themselves alive or alternatively using it to fuel an extremely powerful variant of bio-lightning. This ability for whatever reason also causes the formation of bioluminescence organs which glow at varying levels of intensity depending on how much energy is stored in the psyker. Such a universal effect among psykers has unfortunately caused many Inquisitors and members of the Adeptus Telepathica to look into it for signs of corruption. Though at this point no such corruption has been founded with many attributing the side effects to a cultural resonance in the Warp becoming self propagating.
Other enterprising psykers in the abyss will take the chance at capturing one of the predatory beasts within the ocean and using their abilities to adapt its body to amphibious living. These psykers also tend to have some skill in telepathy in addition to their skills as a biomancer as they will take control of these creatures to use them as familiars or attack animals within the city or beyond. Do to the effectiveness of such beasts there is an underground market for such tamed and untamed variants for the use of other organizations. So popular is it that some local Genetors have gotten requests from official organizations for the development of similar creatures be they as exotic pets or service animals.
However there is one ability among the abyssal biomancers that stands above the rest, the Shape of the Abyss. This is an ability only obtained by the most powerful, or the most deranged, of Odium's biomancers for it requires them to be within the presence of one of the great leviathans on the deep and to learn from their natural biomancy. If the psyker is not devoured by these colossal creatures they can begin the development of their own Abyssal Shape. This psychic ability is the transformation of the biomancer into a collosal warform perfectly adapted to both the ocean's depth and survival outside it. No two forms are the same as each one is unique to the psyker with some being coated in crustacean like armor and claws, and others being an amalgam of traits from predatory sea life in a humanoid shape. But one thing remains consistent amongst them the raw physical power granted by these transformations as the psyker swells in size to become a giant capable shrugging off injuries that would kill lesser men and gain the strength to tear entire gangs apart with their bare hands or other apendages. Luckily for those who may face such psykers to maintain such a transformation is incredibly taxing for the biomancer forcing them to use it sparingly and to return to their human shape as soon as possible less they suffer total organ failure or worse due to the strain placed upon them by the transformation. The psyker will also be vulnerable for some time after the transformation needing time to rest and recuperate after such a taxing experience which has led many to suffer an unfortunate fate at the hands of any survivors they may have left.
Through it all the art of biomancy as practiced by the people of Odium reminds humanity of the wisdom of their ancestors about what unknown horrors lurk within the depths of the abyss.
A.N: I did a thing.
Vote closed
Meeting your fellow freaks.
- Location
- Netherlands
[X][ESOTERICA] A broken mercy-blade:
[X][ESOTERICA] An old Aquilla:
[X][RATLING]Offer her a position in the Astra Telepathica as a cook:
Martha, as Ratling, had spent most of her life learning to avoid the scrutinizing glares and the hateful curses from the higher ranking members of the Imperium. She knew when to appear like a 'dumb little ratling' to avoid their wrath, when to avoid their gaze, when to schmooze and flatter. Life had been hard, especially for a ratling born to two Auxilia troopers in the bowels of a troop ship.
As a chef, she'd always been 'the assistant' to whatever human cook she found herself working alongside. Even if she was the one whom made the finest meals, she needed someone to take the credit. Her shift aboard the Imperial Guard troop ship had been a dream come true. But that idiotic Master of Service had, in a whim of well-intended foolishness, broken the cardinal rule of Ratling Cooks.
Never admit the Ratling prepared the food. Even if the Ratling chefs outmatched any humans, and were able to turn even the simplest ingredients into truly outstanding meals.
Occam, the Psyker, was standing at the entrance to the Grav-Car, waiting. It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting for her to get in first.
She blinked. The courtesy was unexpected.
Taking her pause as a sign of not knowing what to do, one of the two Bodyguards, the large one with the neck implant, took hold of her with fine silk gloves and lifted her up and into the vehicle. She clung to her possessions, the only things that made her feel truly safe in this uncertain world. An undignified squeek escaped her lips as she was placed in a seat and had the seatbelt tightened across her chest. Entering the grav-car was like entering a luxurious sanctuary. The plush seats, both firm and comfortable, were arranged in two benches facing each other. Every inch of the interior was adorned with symbols of the Astra Telepathica, gleaming in silver against the dark walls. The metal panelling had been set with stone slabs that showed hints of sparkling mineral seams flowing through them.
Martha had been taught to fear Psykers from a young age, both at home among the Ratling communities in the bowels of Imperial starships, and among The Commissars who kept order among the Ratling auxilia and the priests who preached to them instilled this fear in her. Her whole life, as she'd been moved around alongside her kin as the Imperium saw fit, that distrust of Psykers had been universal.
But now, the first person with power and status to show her kindness was a Psyker. This was something she could never have imagined.
She'd been aboard ships that had transported regiments with Psykers, but had never even seen one up close. Wyrdvanes were always kept isolated, under strict guard. While the Sanctioned and Primaris Psykers were too closely associated with officers who did not even want to see her.
Despite her hardened exterior, Martha couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude at the unexpected kindness she was receiving.
Her upbringing told her: "I am abhorred. I am unclean. And yet I am forgiven." Those were the words the Commissars had her people recite whenever they found pride or joy in what they did. These words echoed in her mind as she managed to hold back tears of gratitude.
"Why are you showing me such kindness, Lord Psyker?" Martha finally managed to ask, her voice filled with genuine curiosity and confusion.
Occam took a moment to ponder the question, and in that moment, Martha caught a glimpse of the man's youthful features. His cybernetic eye, bald head, and cables at the base of his skull made it difficult to determine his true age. But for a brief instant, she saw through all of it. "People like us," he began, gesturing towards himself and then at the driver and bodyguard in their separate compartment. "We have to stick together and look out for each other. No one else will." He blushed slightly before continuing, "And your cooking was exquisite."
Martha laughed. It was a wholesome laugh.
You have gained a faculty member.
Martha Sternback, Ratling:
A diminutive ratling woman whose dream job became a nightmare after a friendly Master of Service had her prepare meals for Imperial Guard officers kept as guests aboard her ship, the Sword of Integrity, instead of just the Junior officers. After deserting from the ship, you found her and offered her a better life. Due to the genuine kindness that you have shown her, you have her undying loyalty and friendship.
While a curious sight among the largely terran-norm members of the Astra Telepathica, few who actually speak with Martha find it easy to not be charmed by her smile, manners, and jovial attitude. Of those unable to get over their disdain for 'abbies' or 'gene filth', none dare to be rude to her, lest they face your considerable wrath.
Martha as a Ratling chef is a master of understanding the ability of food to motivate, encourage, punish, or break down an individual. She also has learned to work in the underbelly of society to survive, and finds it easy to make black market connections with the ubiquitous ratling communities across the Imperium.
-Gives a +20 to any rolls involving nutrition as a factor in Psyker education.
-Allows you to develop black market contacts.
Upon arriving at the docking spire for the Astra Telepathica, it becomes immediately apparent that it is not designed for regular humans. No windows can be seen anywhere on the structure, and its exterior is lined with defensive weapons facing outwards to protect against potential threats. Just to approach the marble steps heading up to the entrance, your vehicle needs to pass multiple checkpoints manned by armed guards. The structure reaches all the way to the 'roof' of the level you're on, and is bristling with defensive emplacements. There are omni-directional laser turrets that can both be aimed outwards and stop the inhabitants of the tower from breaking out.
The entrance to the Astra Telepathica station is small, just enough for a cargo-8 freight vehicle. If it is a standard design, then the station will have a docking spire, a serf clan dedicated to maintenance, a small Adeptus Mechanicus enclave, and a choir of ten Secondary Astropath with one Primary to lead them.
"Why didn't your shuttle just dock here?" Martha asks, sticking close to you.
The hallways of the fortress are nearly completely devoid of light, with the Astropaths that inhabit it having no need of it. While most of the spire is inhabited by serf clans and labourers that ensure its smooth functioning, the core is nearly entirely made up of Astropaths and Sanctioned Psykers.
"A test." You say without hesitation. "The Astra Telepathica wished to see if I'd take the opportunity to make a run for it, if presented with one.".
None stop you as you make your way to the spire. You catch sight of a Secondary Astropath being wheeled around by a servitor. The man's forearms and legs below the knees have been plugged into his station and he is babbling manically. The poor bastard must have only just made it through his Soul-Binding. The Secondary Astropaths have always unnerved you. Psykers with minds burned out so completely by Soul-Binding that they're barely more than servitors. They are living components managed by the Primary Astropath, and will inevitably burn out.
If you hadn't been blessed with the strength and stability you possess over your Psychic ability, you'd have most likely suffered the same fate as them.
With Martha's hand tightly clasped in yours, you navigate through the dark halls of the Telepathia Station. Unlike your previous transit, which had confined you to the lower holds, this time you are destined for a spacious transport compartment.
After what feels like an eternity of walking and multiple dizzying elevator rides, you finally reach the docking spire. As the metal doors slide open, the chaotic scene before you comes into view. Dock workers scurry back and forth, shouting orders and loading cargo onto various ships. The air is thick with the smell of oil and machinery, and the constant hum of engines fills your ears.
Despite the chaos surrounding you, your gaze remains fixed on the imposing Black Ship that will take you away from this place. You feel a mix of anticipation and trepidation as you step forward. It is carrying the vast cargo of psi-tech and esoteric lore needed to start up a new Scholam Psykana in earnest. After all, what else can be trusted with such a valuable cargo?
You immediately recognize the distinct signature of four Primaris Psykers waiting for the doors of the ship to open, several with clustered groups of Wyrdvanes accompanying them. There is a large group of Tech Priests with them, their servitors carrying large palettes of cargo. Some of these Wyrdvanes hack and cough, clumps of ectoplasm hitting the deck before evaporating without leaving a trace.
"The last of our number has arrived." One of the Primaris says. A middle-aged woman with black hair, blue eyes, and an eerily symetrical face says. She holds a force staff that marks her out as a Biomancer as she approaches. "Lord Psyker Occam, I presume." She says, extending a hand. "Lord Psyker Astrid. Universal epsilon-Grade" She motions for a wyrdvane that is kneading a large sphere of ectoplasm that he drooled. "The Wyrdvane candidates I dragged along."
You shake her hand firmly. "Lord Psyker Occam. Beta-Grade Telekine" There's some worried glances your direction as you state this. "And yes. I have completed my first tour of duty and was recalled for training purposes."
Astrid nods, then glances at the Ratling cowering next to your leg. "She is no Psyker. A servant?" She squats, examining the ratling, sniffing the air several times. "Not a local specimen. Very afraid. Curious geneti-" She turned around and moves to stop one of her Wyrdvanes from chewing at his own forearm, cursing up a storm.
"A curious example of our kind, yes?" A dark-skinned Primaris Psyker with a face hidden among a nest of cybernetic plugs that cover most of his head, all surrounded by a psychic hood. "I am Lord Psyker Hans, Gamma-Grade Pyromancer." You shake his hand and immediately note the high body temperature. "Alas, my students detonated during my last battlefield deployments, and I have no Wyrdvanes of my own." He grins. "We'll be competing for students, I believe? I am a telekine as well."
He is very jovial for a Psyker and you smile at the words. "Competing is a strong way to put it. I intend to select for physical ability over raw psychic power. Will our students be travelling with us?"
"Patience, my friend." He raises an eyebrow at you. "First time managing a Wyrdvane?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You look interested in it, my friend. You'll regret that soon enough." He adds. "This is my first time teaching elsewhere than Terra. I believe it will be an interesting experience."
+Oh, do give our colleague some space.+ A powerful telepathic voice echoes through your head. An old bald woman with a blindfold across burned sockets approaches, making the sign of the Aquilla across her chest. She is the image of serenity. As she walks, she is followed by a group of ten Wyrdvanes, each with their eyes and mouths sewn shut. They mumble a hymn in unison.
You recognize her as an Astropath Transcendant, both a Primaris Psyker and a fully trained Astropath.
+I am Lord Psyker Silvia, Astropath Transcendant, Delta-Grade Telepath.+ Your fellow Psyker's voice echoes with power. +I will both teach the new Scholam's telepaths, and function as a direct line of communication to the Throneworld+
Silvia speaks with the authority and status of a noble, even though her robes are simple Astropath garments. Her raw power is lesser than yours, but the way she wields it is impressive. It is a finely honed weapon in her hand.
"All we are missing is a Diviner, and we'll have a master of each of the five schools of Psykana." You observe, looking through the crowd for who you sought.
A man you originally mistook for a Wyrdvane with an augmetic left arm is smiling at you. A pale-skinned man with a head of black hair is leaning against a large crate, one foot pressed against the crate. His hair is pulled back, shaped over the cybernetic in the back of his head. Around his left forearm he has a bracer connected to a silver pane marked with six small rectangles. He reaches for the bracer and pulls out two gold-sleeved cards he places upon the surface in a single fluid movement. Tarot Cards, you realize as you sense the psycho-active material the cards are composed of.
"The Lost Child and the Astartes. Oh, what you could have been were it not for a quirk of genetics, Occam." The man says, taking the two cards and retrieving his whole deck from the bracer, beginning to shuffle them. The deck sparks as he does this. "I am Lord Psyker Alfonse. Delta-Grade Diviner, and combat Cartomancer." The Diviner slides the deck into a slot in the side of the bracer. He bows respectfully to you.
You have never liked Theomancers, Cartomancers, or seers of any sort. Even if much of your dislike comes from your utter inability to read tarot cards worth a damn. "Then we are to be the first teachers." You state, less a question and more an observation.
A claxon goes off to signal that the Black Ship is ready to take on passengers. You really wish you'd been given another form of transportation.
On the final leg of your journey to Odium, you enjoy regular meals prepared by Martha, even in the quiet terrifying majesty of a Black Ship. The Ratling stays close to you, only leaving to get ingredients that she prepares in the kitchen included in your transit suite. You take the time to read a series of survey reports made about the sector and the planet that you have been assigned to.
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758222
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758786
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758888
After which you examine a report of the Scholam
Nautilus Scholam Psykana:
Built as an expansion of the Astro-Telepathica fortress named 'The Sapphire Keep' which was established in Nautilus six millenia, on the edge of what is currently called 'The Pit'. The Scholam Psykana is intented as a processing centre for Psykers not worthy of transport to Terra, but stable enough that they can be trained, are offloaded for training. Each new Psyker is stored in a mass-transport stasis pod aboard the orbital tether, before being conveyed down and loaded onto a transport submarine by servitor crews.
The Scholam Psykana is intended to grow into a massive operation, but as of now, has no students.
The Scholam Psykana has the following amenities and sub-components:
Scholam Psykana Faculty Quarter
No school is functional without the teachers, and the Scholam Psykana is no exception. It is from the faculty quarter where the Lord Prefect and his five Prefects manage the day to day running of the Scholam Psykana.
For the day to day running of the Scholam, there is a staff of twenty Epsilon-grade Psykers that serve as the backbone of the Scholam, primarily concerned with ensuring that the students learn mastery over their powers.
Black Sentinels:
Created during the Great Crusade at the Council of Nikea, the Black Sentinels are the personal guards of the Astra Telepathica, clad in suits of psychically shielded armour and using lances with psi-suppressing crystal tips. They also carry special null-rods which weaken ambient psychic phenomena and will send a Psyker unconscious from sheer pain when used to strike them.
The Scholam currently fields twenty Black Sentinels.
Their attitude is Calm and Professional:
The Black Sentinels are confident about the state of the fortress and are therefore less prone to stab first and ask questions later regarding the Psykers of the fortress.
Chapel to the God Emperor of Mankind:
"Our thoughts light the darkness that others may cross space. We are one with the Emperor, our souls are joined in his will. Praise the Emperor whose sacrifice is life as ours is death. Hail his name the Master of Humanity."
-The Creed of the Astronomicon
Even among those not assigned to the Astronomicon, this prayer and creed is popular among the sanctioned Psykers.
Provides for the spiritual needs of the Scholam.
Administratum Enclave:
As with all parts of the Adeptus Terra, the Telepathica has close connections to the Administratum, whom are responsible for the administration involved in the running of a Scholam. Their task is primarily to facilitate connections through the proper channels with other Imperial Adepta.
Adeptus Mechanicus Shrine:
A single Magos and a dozen Tech Priests live within the Scholam, ensuring that the technical needs of the Scholastica Psykana are met. It is a small shrine, seen as little more than a backwater assignment for the unlucky Magos.
During the Journey to Odium, you managed to befriend one of the future prefects of the Scholam, while finding yourself completely at odds with another. This schism will not be easily resolved and is likely to result in attempted sabotage of each other's projects.
Write in a plan with one Psyker that you befriend, one one who will be your rival. They will try to take rescources from your projects and turn other prefects against you. Choose carefully who you want as an enemy.
The vote will be a plan, with one of the options marked as
[X]Plan: Example
-[X]Biomancer Astrid - Ally:
-[X]Biomancer Astrid - Enemy:
Fully defeating a rival will deprive your future Scholam of their Wyrdvane.
[]Biomancer Astrid:
Universal Epsilon Grade Psyker - Astrid appears to be a middle-aged woman with black hair, blue eyes, and an eerily symetrical face. She routinely uses her biomancy to change or optimize her appearance how she sees fit. She has few visible implants.
Wyrdvanes:
Astrid's Wyrdvances are taught to be nurses as well as biomancers. While lacking the control for fine surgery, when they put their powers together, Astrid's Wyrdvanes are able to perform miraculous feats of healing and regeneration.
[] Astropath Transcendant Silvia:
Delta-Grade Telepath.
An old bald woman with a blindfold across burned eyesockets. Wears simple astropath robes and walks with a cane. Has excellent control over her psychic powers, wielding it with incredible skill.
Wyrdvanes:
Silvia's Wyrdvanes are trained to function as living relays for communications, providing a safe and instantaneous form of communication across a battlefield between each member of a Wyrdvane.
[] Pyromancer Hans:
Gamma-Grade Pyromancer, Epsilon-Grade Telekine,
A dark-skinned Psyker with a face hidden in what looks like a nest of cybernetic plugs that cover most of his head and connect it to a large psychic hood. Is routinely overheating. A middle aged Psyker with significant combat prowess, able to weave pyromantic and telekinetic attacks together to devastating effects.
Wyrdvanes:
Hans's Wyrdvanes are taught to be Psychic artillery. They are to rain down hellfire and telekinetic strikes from a distance, destroying everything in their path.
[] Diviner Alfonse:
Delta-Grade Diviner, Combat Cartomancer,
A pale-skinned man with dark black hair shaped over the cybernetics in the back of his head. Routinely seen wearing a bracer connected to a silver pane marked with six small rectangles. Trained to read the Imperial Tarot and use divination to guide Imperial troops to victory.
Wyrdvanes:
Alfonse's Wyrdvanes are taught to read the Emperor's Tarot as well as divine the course of events. They are a support force meant to provide Imperial Commanders with knowledge of future events, or the likeliness of enemy actions.
4 hour Moratorium.
And if you want to talk. I have a channel in Poptart's discord!
discord.gg
[X][ESOTERICA] An old Aquilla:
[X][RATLING]Offer her a position in the Astra Telepathica as a cook:
Martha, as Ratling, had spent most of her life learning to avoid the scrutinizing glares and the hateful curses from the higher ranking members of the Imperium. She knew when to appear like a 'dumb little ratling' to avoid their wrath, when to avoid their gaze, when to schmooze and flatter. Life had been hard, especially for a ratling born to two Auxilia troopers in the bowels of a troop ship.
As a chef, she'd always been 'the assistant' to whatever human cook she found herself working alongside. Even if she was the one whom made the finest meals, she needed someone to take the credit. Her shift aboard the Imperial Guard troop ship had been a dream come true. But that idiotic Master of Service had, in a whim of well-intended foolishness, broken the cardinal rule of Ratling Cooks.
Never admit the Ratling prepared the food. Even if the Ratling chefs outmatched any humans, and were able to turn even the simplest ingredients into truly outstanding meals.
Occam, the Psyker, was standing at the entrance to the Grav-Car, waiting. It took her a moment to realize that he was waiting for her to get in first.
She blinked. The courtesy was unexpected.
Taking her pause as a sign of not knowing what to do, one of the two Bodyguards, the large one with the neck implant, took hold of her with fine silk gloves and lifted her up and into the vehicle. She clung to her possessions, the only things that made her feel truly safe in this uncertain world. An undignified squeek escaped her lips as she was placed in a seat and had the seatbelt tightened across her chest. Entering the grav-car was like entering a luxurious sanctuary. The plush seats, both firm and comfortable, were arranged in two benches facing each other. Every inch of the interior was adorned with symbols of the Astra Telepathica, gleaming in silver against the dark walls. The metal panelling had been set with stone slabs that showed hints of sparkling mineral seams flowing through them.
Martha had been taught to fear Psykers from a young age, both at home among the Ratling communities in the bowels of Imperial starships, and among The Commissars who kept order among the Ratling auxilia and the priests who preached to them instilled this fear in her. Her whole life, as she'd been moved around alongside her kin as the Imperium saw fit, that distrust of Psykers had been universal.
But now, the first person with power and status to show her kindness was a Psyker. This was something she could never have imagined.
She'd been aboard ships that had transported regiments with Psykers, but had never even seen one up close. Wyrdvanes were always kept isolated, under strict guard. While the Sanctioned and Primaris Psykers were too closely associated with officers who did not even want to see her.
Despite her hardened exterior, Martha couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude at the unexpected kindness she was receiving.
Her upbringing told her: "I am abhorred. I am unclean. And yet I am forgiven." Those were the words the Commissars had her people recite whenever they found pride or joy in what they did. These words echoed in her mind as she managed to hold back tears of gratitude.
"Why are you showing me such kindness, Lord Psyker?" Martha finally managed to ask, her voice filled with genuine curiosity and confusion.
Occam took a moment to ponder the question, and in that moment, Martha caught a glimpse of the man's youthful features. His cybernetic eye, bald head, and cables at the base of his skull made it difficult to determine his true age. But for a brief instant, she saw through all of it. "People like us," he began, gesturing towards himself and then at the driver and bodyguard in their separate compartment. "We have to stick together and look out for each other. No one else will." He blushed slightly before continuing, "And your cooking was exquisite."
Martha laughed. It was a wholesome laugh.
You have gained a faculty member.
Martha Sternback, Ratling:
A diminutive ratling woman whose dream job became a nightmare after a friendly Master of Service had her prepare meals for Imperial Guard officers kept as guests aboard her ship, the Sword of Integrity, instead of just the Junior officers. After deserting from the ship, you found her and offered her a better life. Due to the genuine kindness that you have shown her, you have her undying loyalty and friendship.
While a curious sight among the largely terran-norm members of the Astra Telepathica, few who actually speak with Martha find it easy to not be charmed by her smile, manners, and jovial attitude. Of those unable to get over their disdain for 'abbies' or 'gene filth', none dare to be rude to her, lest they face your considerable wrath.
Martha as a Ratling chef is a master of understanding the ability of food to motivate, encourage, punish, or break down an individual. She also has learned to work in the underbelly of society to survive, and finds it easy to make black market connections with the ubiquitous ratling communities across the Imperium.
-Gives a +20 to any rolls involving nutrition as a factor in Psyker education.
-Allows you to develop black market contacts.
Upon arriving at the docking spire for the Astra Telepathica, it becomes immediately apparent that it is not designed for regular humans. No windows can be seen anywhere on the structure, and its exterior is lined with defensive weapons facing outwards to protect against potential threats. Just to approach the marble steps heading up to the entrance, your vehicle needs to pass multiple checkpoints manned by armed guards. The structure reaches all the way to the 'roof' of the level you're on, and is bristling with defensive emplacements. There are omni-directional laser turrets that can both be aimed outwards and stop the inhabitants of the tower from breaking out.
The entrance to the Astra Telepathica station is small, just enough for a cargo-8 freight vehicle. If it is a standard design, then the station will have a docking spire, a serf clan dedicated to maintenance, a small Adeptus Mechanicus enclave, and a choir of ten Secondary Astropath with one Primary to lead them.
"Why didn't your shuttle just dock here?" Martha asks, sticking close to you.
The hallways of the fortress are nearly completely devoid of light, with the Astropaths that inhabit it having no need of it. While most of the spire is inhabited by serf clans and labourers that ensure its smooth functioning, the core is nearly entirely made up of Astropaths and Sanctioned Psykers.
"A test." You say without hesitation. "The Astra Telepathica wished to see if I'd take the opportunity to make a run for it, if presented with one.".
None stop you as you make your way to the spire. You catch sight of a Secondary Astropath being wheeled around by a servitor. The man's forearms and legs below the knees have been plugged into his station and he is babbling manically. The poor bastard must have only just made it through his Soul-Binding. The Secondary Astropaths have always unnerved you. Psykers with minds burned out so completely by Soul-Binding that they're barely more than servitors. They are living components managed by the Primary Astropath, and will inevitably burn out.
If you hadn't been blessed with the strength and stability you possess over your Psychic ability, you'd have most likely suffered the same fate as them.
With Martha's hand tightly clasped in yours, you navigate through the dark halls of the Telepathia Station. Unlike your previous transit, which had confined you to the lower holds, this time you are destined for a spacious transport compartment.
After what feels like an eternity of walking and multiple dizzying elevator rides, you finally reach the docking spire. As the metal doors slide open, the chaotic scene before you comes into view. Dock workers scurry back and forth, shouting orders and loading cargo onto various ships. The air is thick with the smell of oil and machinery, and the constant hum of engines fills your ears.
Despite the chaos surrounding you, your gaze remains fixed on the imposing Black Ship that will take you away from this place. You feel a mix of anticipation and trepidation as you step forward. It is carrying the vast cargo of psi-tech and esoteric lore needed to start up a new Scholam Psykana in earnest. After all, what else can be trusted with such a valuable cargo?
You immediately recognize the distinct signature of four Primaris Psykers waiting for the doors of the ship to open, several with clustered groups of Wyrdvanes accompanying them. There is a large group of Tech Priests with them, their servitors carrying large palettes of cargo. Some of these Wyrdvanes hack and cough, clumps of ectoplasm hitting the deck before evaporating without leaving a trace.
"The last of our number has arrived." One of the Primaris says. A middle-aged woman with black hair, blue eyes, and an eerily symetrical face says. She holds a force staff that marks her out as a Biomancer as she approaches. "Lord Psyker Occam, I presume." She says, extending a hand. "Lord Psyker Astrid. Universal epsilon-Grade" She motions for a wyrdvane that is kneading a large sphere of ectoplasm that he drooled. "The Wyrdvane candidates I dragged along."
You shake her hand firmly. "Lord Psyker Occam. Beta-Grade Telekine" There's some worried glances your direction as you state this. "And yes. I have completed my first tour of duty and was recalled for training purposes."
Astrid nods, then glances at the Ratling cowering next to your leg. "She is no Psyker. A servant?" She squats, examining the ratling, sniffing the air several times. "Not a local specimen. Very afraid. Curious geneti-" She turned around and moves to stop one of her Wyrdvanes from chewing at his own forearm, cursing up a storm.
"A curious example of our kind, yes?" A dark-skinned Primaris Psyker with a face hidden among a nest of cybernetic plugs that cover most of his head, all surrounded by a psychic hood. "I am Lord Psyker Hans, Gamma-Grade Pyromancer." You shake his hand and immediately note the high body temperature. "Alas, my students detonated during my last battlefield deployments, and I have no Wyrdvanes of my own." He grins. "We'll be competing for students, I believe? I am a telekine as well."
He is very jovial for a Psyker and you smile at the words. "Competing is a strong way to put it. I intend to select for physical ability over raw psychic power. Will our students be travelling with us?"
"Patience, my friend." He raises an eyebrow at you. "First time managing a Wyrdvane?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You look interested in it, my friend. You'll regret that soon enough." He adds. "This is my first time teaching elsewhere than Terra. I believe it will be an interesting experience."
+Oh, do give our colleague some space.+ A powerful telepathic voice echoes through your head. An old bald woman with a blindfold across burned sockets approaches, making the sign of the Aquilla across her chest. She is the image of serenity. As she walks, she is followed by a group of ten Wyrdvanes, each with their eyes and mouths sewn shut. They mumble a hymn in unison.
You recognize her as an Astropath Transcendant, both a Primaris Psyker and a fully trained Astropath.
+I am Lord Psyker Silvia, Astropath Transcendant, Delta-Grade Telepath.+ Your fellow Psyker's voice echoes with power. +I will both teach the new Scholam's telepaths, and function as a direct line of communication to the Throneworld+
Silvia speaks with the authority and status of a noble, even though her robes are simple Astropath garments. Her raw power is lesser than yours, but the way she wields it is impressive. It is a finely honed weapon in her hand.
"All we are missing is a Diviner, and we'll have a master of each of the five schools of Psykana." You observe, looking through the crowd for who you sought.
A man you originally mistook for a Wyrdvane with an augmetic left arm is smiling at you. A pale-skinned man with a head of black hair is leaning against a large crate, one foot pressed against the crate. His hair is pulled back, shaped over the cybernetic in the back of his head. Around his left forearm he has a bracer connected to a silver pane marked with six small rectangles. He reaches for the bracer and pulls out two gold-sleeved cards he places upon the surface in a single fluid movement. Tarot Cards, you realize as you sense the psycho-active material the cards are composed of.
"The Lost Child and the Astartes. Oh, what you could have been were it not for a quirk of genetics, Occam." The man says, taking the two cards and retrieving his whole deck from the bracer, beginning to shuffle them. The deck sparks as he does this. "I am Lord Psyker Alfonse. Delta-Grade Diviner, and combat Cartomancer." The Diviner slides the deck into a slot in the side of the bracer. He bows respectfully to you.
You have never liked Theomancers, Cartomancers, or seers of any sort. Even if much of your dislike comes from your utter inability to read tarot cards worth a damn. "Then we are to be the first teachers." You state, less a question and more an observation.
A claxon goes off to signal that the Black Ship is ready to take on passengers. You really wish you'd been given another form of transportation.
On the final leg of your journey to Odium, you enjoy regular meals prepared by Martha, even in the quiet terrifying majesty of a Black Ship. The Ratling stays close to you, only leaving to get ingredients that she prepares in the kitchen included in your transit suite. You take the time to read a series of survey reports made about the sector and the planet that you have been assigned to.
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758222
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758786
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-school-for-the-cursed-a-psyker-quest-warhammer-40k-quest.138116/#post-33758888
After which you examine a report of the Scholam
Nautilus Scholam Psykana:
Built as an expansion of the Astro-Telepathica fortress named 'The Sapphire Keep' which was established in Nautilus six millenia, on the edge of what is currently called 'The Pit'. The Scholam Psykana is intented as a processing centre for Psykers not worthy of transport to Terra, but stable enough that they can be trained, are offloaded for training. Each new Psyker is stored in a mass-transport stasis pod aboard the orbital tether, before being conveyed down and loaded onto a transport submarine by servitor crews.
The Scholam Psykana is intended to grow into a massive operation, but as of now, has no students.
The Scholam Psykana has the following amenities and sub-components:
Scholam Psykana Faculty Quarter
No school is functional without the teachers, and the Scholam Psykana is no exception. It is from the faculty quarter where the Lord Prefect and his five Prefects manage the day to day running of the Scholam Psykana.
For the day to day running of the Scholam, there is a staff of twenty Epsilon-grade Psykers that serve as the backbone of the Scholam, primarily concerned with ensuring that the students learn mastery over their powers.
Black Sentinels:
Created during the Great Crusade at the Council of Nikea, the Black Sentinels are the personal guards of the Astra Telepathica, clad in suits of psychically shielded armour and using lances with psi-suppressing crystal tips. They also carry special null-rods which weaken ambient psychic phenomena and will send a Psyker unconscious from sheer pain when used to strike them.
The Scholam currently fields twenty Black Sentinels.
Their attitude is Calm and Professional:
The Black Sentinels are confident about the state of the fortress and are therefore less prone to stab first and ask questions later regarding the Psykers of the fortress.
Chapel to the God Emperor of Mankind:
"Our thoughts light the darkness that others may cross space. We are one with the Emperor, our souls are joined in his will. Praise the Emperor whose sacrifice is life as ours is death. Hail his name the Master of Humanity."
-The Creed of the Astronomicon
Even among those not assigned to the Astronomicon, this prayer and creed is popular among the sanctioned Psykers.
Provides for the spiritual needs of the Scholam.
Administratum Enclave:
As with all parts of the Adeptus Terra, the Telepathica has close connections to the Administratum, whom are responsible for the administration involved in the running of a Scholam. Their task is primarily to facilitate connections through the proper channels with other Imperial Adepta.
Adeptus Mechanicus Shrine:
A single Magos and a dozen Tech Priests live within the Scholam, ensuring that the technical needs of the Scholastica Psykana are met. It is a small shrine, seen as little more than a backwater assignment for the unlucky Magos.
During the Journey to Odium, you managed to befriend one of the future prefects of the Scholam, while finding yourself completely at odds with another. This schism will not be easily resolved and is likely to result in attempted sabotage of each other's projects.
Write in a plan with one Psyker that you befriend, one one who will be your rival. They will try to take rescources from your projects and turn other prefects against you. Choose carefully who you want as an enemy.
The vote will be a plan, with one of the options marked as
[X]Plan: Example
-[X]Biomancer Astrid - Ally:
-[X]Biomancer Astrid - Enemy:
Fully defeating a rival will deprive your future Scholam of their Wyrdvane.
[]Biomancer Astrid:
Universal Epsilon Grade Psyker - Astrid appears to be a middle-aged woman with black hair, blue eyes, and an eerily symetrical face. She routinely uses her biomancy to change or optimize her appearance how she sees fit. She has few visible implants.
Wyrdvanes:
Astrid's Wyrdvances are taught to be nurses as well as biomancers. While lacking the control for fine surgery, when they put their powers together, Astrid's Wyrdvanes are able to perform miraculous feats of healing and regeneration.
[] Astropath Transcendant Silvia:
Delta-Grade Telepath.
An old bald woman with a blindfold across burned eyesockets. Wears simple astropath robes and walks with a cane. Has excellent control over her psychic powers, wielding it with incredible skill.
Wyrdvanes:
Silvia's Wyrdvanes are trained to function as living relays for communications, providing a safe and instantaneous form of communication across a battlefield between each member of a Wyrdvane.
[] Pyromancer Hans:
Gamma-Grade Pyromancer, Epsilon-Grade Telekine,
A dark-skinned Psyker with a face hidden in what looks like a nest of cybernetic plugs that cover most of his head and connect it to a large psychic hood. Is routinely overheating. A middle aged Psyker with significant combat prowess, able to weave pyromantic and telekinetic attacks together to devastating effects.
Wyrdvanes:
Hans's Wyrdvanes are taught to be Psychic artillery. They are to rain down hellfire and telekinetic strikes from a distance, destroying everything in their path.
[] Diviner Alfonse:
Delta-Grade Diviner, Combat Cartomancer,
A pale-skinned man with dark black hair shaped over the cybernetics in the back of his head. Routinely seen wearing a bracer connected to a silver pane marked with six small rectangles. Trained to read the Imperial Tarot and use divination to guide Imperial troops to victory.
Wyrdvanes:
Alfonse's Wyrdvanes are taught to read the Emperor's Tarot as well as divine the course of events. They are a support force meant to provide Imperial Commanders with knowledge of future events, or the likeliness of enemy actions.
4 hour Moratorium.
And if you want to talk. I have a channel in Poptart's discord!
Join the PoptartProdigy Discord Discord Server!
Check out the PoptartProdigy Discord community on Discord – hang out with 1053 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
Last edited:
Omake: A beautiful tune.
Sir_Travelsalot
Never wakes up tired.
- Location
- At Home
The autocarriage underneath Hector rumbled and jolted as a wheel clipped the edge of yet another crater pockmarking the road, prompting a grumble as he attempted to find where on the mission dossier he had been reading by the dim glow of a stablight. He had read it during the briefing, he had read it during the flight down from the Hunter In Darkness to Kreyta Prime's surface, he had read it as they descended in the elevator from their chosen and sufficiently bribed auxiliary shuttle bay to the correct sublevel of Hive Brael. And now, he was reading it again, as they neared to the dead zone. Some soldiers fiddled with their weapons, with their armour, with their webbing, prayed or enjoyed a last lho-stick or preserve-stick; his calming ritual was to go over the information on file, and there had been enough times in his career that it had made the difference for even one more soldier coming home with him that he'd gladly cry fie on any who scoffed at it.
Still, the details writ across the pages were grim enough reading; one of the Chromus scions, estimated at seventeenth place in the line of succession for the Warrant, had arranged to support the discreet transit of a Magos of the Silver Rings who had expressed displeasure at the growing surveillance of the Juris over her work. Seemingly unwarranted surveillance at that, given there was supposedly not even a whiff of xenotech nor mechanical innovation to be found (that was noted by the fool's seneschal in her dictated confession; there had been nothing worth pilfering from the effects brought with the machine cultist). Some grandiose gift or favour had been promised in exchange for sanctuary upon Kreyta, and a dynastic safehouse converted into an ad-hoc temple-laboratory for the Magos, going by the name of Vethaline Arkheus. Wasn't there a House Arkheus over in the Steel Line? Something for higher paygrades to ponder, Hector decided. He was just the leader and namesake of kill-team Kynvaniks.
Regardless, an annual celebration in the hab-block surrounding the safehouse had reportedly turned very bloody indeed. The cause remained unknown, save that when the enforcers shut down the power lines to the block as part of their cordon, the music playing over the communal laud-hailers had not ceased. So, while other teams and the local Household Armsmen loaned from the Governor's palace determined whether the scion was still hidden on the surface or had stowed away on one of the outgoing freighters or pilgrim vessels to flee, he and his had the unenviable task to secure the safehouse and erase all traces of the rogue Magos. This clusterfrak would not be allowed to compromise the Chromus dynasty's standing.
Finally, their ride came to a halt, and the rumble of boots sounded out into the echoing halls as his kill-team disembarked from their convoy. Hector hefted his Munitions Launcher, inspected the chamber, and took his place in formation.
The M33 Bakka-Rogelin-pattern Munitions Launcher was once a prized weapon for Imperial Navy breacher teams. Resembling an oversized box magazine-fed bullpup shotgun by silhouette, its integral multi-spectral optic and rangefinder allowed it to fire programmable smart munitions to just past an open bulkhead or over a barricade used as cover by enemy combatants. And when those would be inappropriate to the situation or simply too costly, it was still capable of firing immense flechette clusters or depleted atomic slugs capable of coring the side armour of a Chimera. A pity the manufactorum complexes creating the smart munitions were lost in the fighting that ensued from the Plague of Unbelief. Bakka had been a major enough shipyard for the Imperium that vast stocks remained in circulation, but the Munitorum policy has always been to field only that which can be replaced, and so it had faded from common use.
It, and the bolt pistol sitting in its holster by his side, had seen him victorious through two hundred and seventy-three firefights and counting. The compact power axe hanging from a loop on his belt had barely seen use, save for hacking through bulkheads and doors, since he'd been granted the weapon from the Dynasty's armouries.
He could already hear the music, beautiful in its intonation, flawless in cadence. Reportedly, the enforcers had had to put down some of their own and withdraw the cordon to a greater distance from the dead zone when they had broken into hysterical laughter and begun to dance with single-minded vigor, lashing out at anyone who attempted to interrupt and deaf to all orders. With a gesture of his hand, the kill-team switched on their dead-space earpieces. Microbeads would ordinarily accompany such, but with the target being a Magos, electronic interference was practically a guarantee. Compromised comms served no one but the enemy. Thankfully, his munitions launcher operated on an air-gapped system, and would still serve.
It did not take long to find the remains of the revelers. So many bodies, savaged with nails and fists, torn into with teeth, yet others bearing the signs of dehydration and starvation in place of open wounds. Each one marked by a rictus grin upon their lifeless faces. Some looked to have bitten their own tongues out amidst their laughter. Hector could only wonder if that had been by accident, or if some had retained some fraction of higher thought and wished for death to claim them more swiftly. And still, the music was playing, the sound waves registering on auspex displays even as they carried on through the charnel house this hab-block had become.
And then, they began to hear the music again. Dead-space earpieces were capable of reducing an Earthshaker barrage landing just shy of shrapnel range to a dull roar, they were capable of shielding from sonic weaponry and the music was sounding through them.
There was no choice now but to carry on in haste. The effects were not immediate, the reports had said as much. The mission could not be allowed to fail, not by something like this. Finding no trace of resistance, they ran towards the objective with all haste that tactical drilling could yet allow for.
Neranx was the first to falter, three streets away from the safehouse, his body quaking with silenced laughter as he made to begin the gyrations of some demented dance. Hector's bolt pistol granted him the Emperor's Peace. Kharkolme stumbled not long after, falling to hands and knees as he tore at his webbing, cackling as he lunged at Telanx. Hector's aim was unerring, carapace plating cracking against the impact of the boltshell which carried through to his shoulderblade before detonating. The kill-team recovered the meltabomb he had been carrying, and kept running forward. Telanx himself, followed by Syarbad and Fiora, fell to the auditory onslaught and were disposed of in turn by the time they had reached the outermost door. The lock gave way in short order before his power axe, and the door itself to Cik's kick. Another two troopers, Gunda and Eniam (the Arnheim twins), were lost as they cleared room after room with ordinance and shrapnel.
Hector lamented losing them all, each and every one, but he did not despair; he still had enough men to see the mission through. There were always enough men to see the mission through, just never enough men of quality to lead them to success.
Finally, they stacked up to the door of the last room, the strongroom. The obvious choice to shelter in against an assault, yet also foolish, for sealing oneself in there ceded initiative to the attacker. The priority had been to ensure the target could not escape, for the strongroom would have made the ideal opening for such or an ambush, being the obvious target for the breach. Hector would not say that they had overestimated the Magos, but her sense of tactics seemed lacking with this move.
Aida Erax, his second, took up the meltabomb and placed it against the armoured door. Hector slotted in the magazine of tempest grenades he had been issued for just this purpose. First, disable the tech-priest's augmetics and whatever broadcasting equipment was producing the music with a merciless barrage the instant the door is breached. Secondly, move in and secure the room before eliminating Vethaline. Disposal procedures would then occur in whatever order was deemed best.
Aida, like his ever-present shadow, sidled up next to him, bracing her hotshot volley gun to lay down a withering hail of suppressing fire.
The meltabomb detonates, showering the other side of the door with a deluge of bubbling slag. Aida's lasbolts fly in through the breach, followed in mere milliseconds by the first of the grenade barrage. As jets of flash-boiled coolant rush out of the vents of the volley gun and his launcher clicks empty, the rest of the kill-team pile in through the melted doorframe, letting loose all their accumulated fury and hate for the losses the rogue Magos has inflicted on them.
Not even ten seconds have passed, and the room is secure. Every portion of the breach has gone precisely as intended, exactly as he has drilled the team to do countless times. Every occupant of the room is unmistakably dead.
Except the music has not stopped playing.
With the tones now so loud they feel as though they are drowning out his own thoughts, Hector tears away the dead-space earpieces from his helmet; locating the target is now the priority, or they are all lost. And then he spots it, his ears lending direction to the sound.
What appears to be a scratch-built vox-phonograph, embedded into a hole cut into the ceiling. Hovering by it, a solitary servo-skull, glimmering with the light of a refractor field and with the transmitter for a vox-caster wired into what was likely once a laud-hailer for Ecclesiarchal sermons.
Who knows how many power cells are scattered all around the hab-block, feeding power into the broadcasting systems despite the blackout?
...None of the bodies present bear the reported appearance of the Magos.
He can't help it, he starts to snicker.
How had it all gone so wrong?
His hand snatches up his bolt pistol as his head swims, and aims to do at least one thing right in this operation. I'm sorry, Aida-
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vethaline observes diligently as the strike team finish succumbing to the music, letting their whims guide them as they begin their dance, as guns meant to turn upon themselves or each other fall from slackened fingers. A stir beside her draws her attention as she cuts the noospheric connection to the strongroom's internal vid-relays. "Ah, you have awoken. I do hope you are not still in excessive pain, yes? I do apologize for that; I have done my best but there is only so much refinement that can be done upon a base so barbarous as the Sicarian's audiostrobers. Only so much that can be improved upon for an experience fundamentally intended to hurt and muddle."
"H-heretic... you will not escape... the Emperor's justice-" The Interrogator's words aspire to such strength, yet fall short by their speaker's poor condition. Vethaline can only suppose she is to blame for that. Not merely for the disorientation; her tutors had impressed upon her the effect proper posture had on the quality of a voice as a child, and she supposed maintaining such a thing with a disconnected spinal cord would be rather beyond most endoskeletal organic life.
"It seems to me as though I already have, Miss Deltomes. That is how you introduced yourself, yes? Interrogator Marika Deltomes, of the God-Emperor's Holy Inquisition. Who bears the Emperor's justice, if not you?"
"If not I, then- then whoever strikes you down... in the Emperor's name!"
"Why should that be the case? The Emperor sought the unity of humanity, did he not? I only seek to further this glorious vision of oneness. I expected this manner of small-mindedness from my former peers, but from you? All I had experienced and learned in life had made me expect that one so strongly tied to the Imperial Cult would rejoice at the scope of my ambitions. So many hymnals, so many wondrous compositions and songs, how could you not see what it is I hope to accomplish?"
"Tarnish not... the Master of Mankind's name... by uttering it with your vile tongue, heretic."
Vethaline's vox-grille made an intonation approximating a hum at that, her servo-arm clasping the slumbering backpack reactor of the poor confused soul's power armour, lifting up the dead weight as she began to walk towards the door. "...Yes, I suppose I am being premature. All success and progress is marked by suffering, in one form or another. I must not permit my enthusiasm for this project to become impatience. Have no fear, my dear; I have the utmost confidence you will come to understand, in due time, and feel just as much passion for this great working as I do. In the meantime..."
Pausing by the auto-gurney, Vethaline turns her head towards the shrieking, gagged wretch restrained atop it, running a single bionic digit across an exposed electoo. "Yes, yes, I know these accommodations are not to your usual standards, 'your Excellency', but you too have fallen rather short on the resources you promised would be at my disposal in your service. I am not terribly incensed by this, since I rather estimated your reach exceeded your grasp by several orders of magnitude, but that does not absolve you from doing all that you are physically able to match your side of the bargain. Have no fear; I am certain you will manage some success under my... exacting... guidance. There is much work to be done, after all; many opportunities for you to demonstrate some personal growth."
"But at the end of this long road, you shall doubtless have been key players in this grand composition, my masterwork, my magnum opus."
"And then, when all can hear the Golden Tune, all shall be one. All shall be truthful. All shall be calm, and all shall rejoice. For music transcends all data..."
Still, the details writ across the pages were grim enough reading; one of the Chromus scions, estimated at seventeenth place in the line of succession for the Warrant, had arranged to support the discreet transit of a Magos of the Silver Rings who had expressed displeasure at the growing surveillance of the Juris over her work. Seemingly unwarranted surveillance at that, given there was supposedly not even a whiff of xenotech nor mechanical innovation to be found (that was noted by the fool's seneschal in her dictated confession; there had been nothing worth pilfering from the effects brought with the machine cultist). Some grandiose gift or favour had been promised in exchange for sanctuary upon Kreyta, and a dynastic safehouse converted into an ad-hoc temple-laboratory for the Magos, going by the name of Vethaline Arkheus. Wasn't there a House Arkheus over in the Steel Line? Something for higher paygrades to ponder, Hector decided. He was just the leader and namesake of kill-team Kynvaniks.
Regardless, an annual celebration in the hab-block surrounding the safehouse had reportedly turned very bloody indeed. The cause remained unknown, save that when the enforcers shut down the power lines to the block as part of their cordon, the music playing over the communal laud-hailers had not ceased. So, while other teams and the local Household Armsmen loaned from the Governor's palace determined whether the scion was still hidden on the surface or had stowed away on one of the outgoing freighters or pilgrim vessels to flee, he and his had the unenviable task to secure the safehouse and erase all traces of the rogue Magos. This clusterfrak would not be allowed to compromise the Chromus dynasty's standing.
Finally, their ride came to a halt, and the rumble of boots sounded out into the echoing halls as his kill-team disembarked from their convoy. Hector hefted his Munitions Launcher, inspected the chamber, and took his place in formation.
The M33 Bakka-Rogelin-pattern Munitions Launcher was once a prized weapon for Imperial Navy breacher teams. Resembling an oversized box magazine-fed bullpup shotgun by silhouette, its integral multi-spectral optic and rangefinder allowed it to fire programmable smart munitions to just past an open bulkhead or over a barricade used as cover by enemy combatants. And when those would be inappropriate to the situation or simply too costly, it was still capable of firing immense flechette clusters or depleted atomic slugs capable of coring the side armour of a Chimera. A pity the manufactorum complexes creating the smart munitions were lost in the fighting that ensued from the Plague of Unbelief. Bakka had been a major enough shipyard for the Imperium that vast stocks remained in circulation, but the Munitorum policy has always been to field only that which can be replaced, and so it had faded from common use.
It, and the bolt pistol sitting in its holster by his side, had seen him victorious through two hundred and seventy-three firefights and counting. The compact power axe hanging from a loop on his belt had barely seen use, save for hacking through bulkheads and doors, since he'd been granted the weapon from the Dynasty's armouries.
He could already hear the music, beautiful in its intonation, flawless in cadence. Reportedly, the enforcers had had to put down some of their own and withdraw the cordon to a greater distance from the dead zone when they had broken into hysterical laughter and begun to dance with single-minded vigor, lashing out at anyone who attempted to interrupt and deaf to all orders. With a gesture of his hand, the kill-team switched on their dead-space earpieces. Microbeads would ordinarily accompany such, but with the target being a Magos, electronic interference was practically a guarantee. Compromised comms served no one but the enemy. Thankfully, his munitions launcher operated on an air-gapped system, and would still serve.
It did not take long to find the remains of the revelers. So many bodies, savaged with nails and fists, torn into with teeth, yet others bearing the signs of dehydration and starvation in place of open wounds. Each one marked by a rictus grin upon their lifeless faces. Some looked to have bitten their own tongues out amidst their laughter. Hector could only wonder if that had been by accident, or if some had retained some fraction of higher thought and wished for death to claim them more swiftly. And still, the music was playing, the sound waves registering on auspex displays even as they carried on through the charnel house this hab-block had become.
And then, they began to hear the music again. Dead-space earpieces were capable of reducing an Earthshaker barrage landing just shy of shrapnel range to a dull roar, they were capable of shielding from sonic weaponry and the music was sounding through them.
There was no choice now but to carry on in haste. The effects were not immediate, the reports had said as much. The mission could not be allowed to fail, not by something like this. Finding no trace of resistance, they ran towards the objective with all haste that tactical drilling could yet allow for.
Neranx was the first to falter, three streets away from the safehouse, his body quaking with silenced laughter as he made to begin the gyrations of some demented dance. Hector's bolt pistol granted him the Emperor's Peace. Kharkolme stumbled not long after, falling to hands and knees as he tore at his webbing, cackling as he lunged at Telanx. Hector's aim was unerring, carapace plating cracking against the impact of the boltshell which carried through to his shoulderblade before detonating. The kill-team recovered the meltabomb he had been carrying, and kept running forward. Telanx himself, followed by Syarbad and Fiora, fell to the auditory onslaught and were disposed of in turn by the time they had reached the outermost door. The lock gave way in short order before his power axe, and the door itself to Cik's kick. Another two troopers, Gunda and Eniam (the Arnheim twins), were lost as they cleared room after room with ordinance and shrapnel.
Hector lamented losing them all, each and every one, but he did not despair; he still had enough men to see the mission through. There were always enough men to see the mission through, just never enough men of quality to lead them to success.
Finally, they stacked up to the door of the last room, the strongroom. The obvious choice to shelter in against an assault, yet also foolish, for sealing oneself in there ceded initiative to the attacker. The priority had been to ensure the target could not escape, for the strongroom would have made the ideal opening for such or an ambush, being the obvious target for the breach. Hector would not say that they had overestimated the Magos, but her sense of tactics seemed lacking with this move.
Aida Erax, his second, took up the meltabomb and placed it against the armoured door. Hector slotted in the magazine of tempest grenades he had been issued for just this purpose. First, disable the tech-priest's augmetics and whatever broadcasting equipment was producing the music with a merciless barrage the instant the door is breached. Secondly, move in and secure the room before eliminating Vethaline. Disposal procedures would then occur in whatever order was deemed best.
Aida, like his ever-present shadow, sidled up next to him, bracing her hotshot volley gun to lay down a withering hail of suppressing fire.
The meltabomb detonates, showering the other side of the door with a deluge of bubbling slag. Aida's lasbolts fly in through the breach, followed in mere milliseconds by the first of the grenade barrage. As jets of flash-boiled coolant rush out of the vents of the volley gun and his launcher clicks empty, the rest of the kill-team pile in through the melted doorframe, letting loose all their accumulated fury and hate for the losses the rogue Magos has inflicted on them.
Not even ten seconds have passed, and the room is secure. Every portion of the breach has gone precisely as intended, exactly as he has drilled the team to do countless times. Every occupant of the room is unmistakably dead.
Except the music has not stopped playing.
With the tones now so loud they feel as though they are drowning out his own thoughts, Hector tears away the dead-space earpieces from his helmet; locating the target is now the priority, or they are all lost. And then he spots it, his ears lending direction to the sound.
What appears to be a scratch-built vox-phonograph, embedded into a hole cut into the ceiling. Hovering by it, a solitary servo-skull, glimmering with the light of a refractor field and with the transmitter for a vox-caster wired into what was likely once a laud-hailer for Ecclesiarchal sermons.
Who knows how many power cells are scattered all around the hab-block, feeding power into the broadcasting systems despite the blackout?
...None of the bodies present bear the reported appearance of the Magos.
He can't help it, he starts to snicker.
How had it all gone so wrong?
His hand snatches up his bolt pistol as his head swims, and aims to do at least one thing right in this operation. I'm sorry, Aida-
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vethaline observes diligently as the strike team finish succumbing to the music, letting their whims guide them as they begin their dance, as guns meant to turn upon themselves or each other fall from slackened fingers. A stir beside her draws her attention as she cuts the noospheric connection to the strongroom's internal vid-relays. "Ah, you have awoken. I do hope you are not still in excessive pain, yes? I do apologize for that; I have done my best but there is only so much refinement that can be done upon a base so barbarous as the Sicarian's audiostrobers. Only so much that can be improved upon for an experience fundamentally intended to hurt and muddle."
"H-heretic... you will not escape... the Emperor's justice-" The Interrogator's words aspire to such strength, yet fall short by their speaker's poor condition. Vethaline can only suppose she is to blame for that. Not merely for the disorientation; her tutors had impressed upon her the effect proper posture had on the quality of a voice as a child, and she supposed maintaining such a thing with a disconnected spinal cord would be rather beyond most endoskeletal organic life.
"It seems to me as though I already have, Miss Deltomes. That is how you introduced yourself, yes? Interrogator Marika Deltomes, of the God-Emperor's Holy Inquisition. Who bears the Emperor's justice, if not you?"
"If not I, then- then whoever strikes you down... in the Emperor's name!"
"Why should that be the case? The Emperor sought the unity of humanity, did he not? I only seek to further this glorious vision of oneness. I expected this manner of small-mindedness from my former peers, but from you? All I had experienced and learned in life had made me expect that one so strongly tied to the Imperial Cult would rejoice at the scope of my ambitions. So many hymnals, so many wondrous compositions and songs, how could you not see what it is I hope to accomplish?"
"Tarnish not... the Master of Mankind's name... by uttering it with your vile tongue, heretic."
Vethaline's vox-grille made an intonation approximating a hum at that, her servo-arm clasping the slumbering backpack reactor of the poor confused soul's power armour, lifting up the dead weight as she began to walk towards the door. "...Yes, I suppose I am being premature. All success and progress is marked by suffering, in one form or another. I must not permit my enthusiasm for this project to become impatience. Have no fear, my dear; I have the utmost confidence you will come to understand, in due time, and feel just as much passion for this great working as I do. In the meantime..."
Pausing by the auto-gurney, Vethaline turns her head towards the shrieking, gagged wretch restrained atop it, running a single bionic digit across an exposed electoo. "Yes, yes, I know these accommodations are not to your usual standards, 'your Excellency', but you too have fallen rather short on the resources you promised would be at my disposal in your service. I am not terribly incensed by this, since I rather estimated your reach exceeded your grasp by several orders of magnitude, but that does not absolve you from doing all that you are physically able to match your side of the bargain. Have no fear; I am certain you will manage some success under my... exacting... guidance. There is much work to be done, after all; many opportunities for you to demonstrate some personal growth."
"But at the end of this long road, you shall doubtless have been key players in this grand composition, my masterwork, my magnum opus."
"And then, when all can hear the Golden Tune, all shall be one. All shall be truthful. All shall be calm, and all shall rejoice. For music transcends all data..."