A school for the cursed: A Psyker Quest. Warhammer 40k quest.

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"Call them what you will—Krell, Psyrens or Enslavers. Just one witch, unsanctioned, caused the destruction of Hive Skorpios when one of those things used her brain as a gateway to this world. Within three days the entire hive's population was reduced to drooling mindslaves. Within three weeks an entire continent was at war. And all because the governor thought his family should be exempt from the Psyker cull and refused to give his daughter to the Black Ships."

— Inquisitor Mallen, Ordo Xenos
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Introduction
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    • Mayto

    Mayto

    Location
    Netherlands
    ​
    A disclaimer.

    You will be playing as a citizen of a semi-fascist authoritarian hyper-militaristic brutally repressive theocratic space oligarchical hegemony.

    The Imperium is the only government humanity could ever have. Anything else is nothing but recidivists or humans that have not been incorporated yet.

    The Xenos are monsters to be destroyed. Nobody will second guess xenocide as being a moral virtue.

    The Mutants are a threat to the purity of humanity, and therefore do not have rights and are only suffered to live at the whims of their rightful rulers.

    Psykers are cursed beings and can only be granted the right to live by a most Holy and merciful Imperial Sanction.

    These are not views held by the author.

    There will be no treason against the Imperium in this thread!

    Expect the quest to embrace Warhammer 40k and revel in both the grimdark and the absurdity of it without disrespecting the source material.


    Ave Imperator! ​




    Since the founding of the Glorious Imperium of Man by the most blessed God Emperor of Mankind during the Great Crusade, the fate of Psykers has been one of the hardest questions humanity had to handle for Psykers are men and women, tainted from birth with the 'gift' of being able to channel the raw power of the warp.

    In the days when the Nine Primarchs walked the galaxy, Psykers were only trained as Astropaths beneath the Emperor's benevolent eyes. But after the Nine Devils of darkness waged the Horus Heresy upon mankind, a new purpose was found for these most loathsome of 'humans'

    The Astra Telepathica is just one Adeptus of the Imperium's many august bodies. In it, the League of Black Ships ensure that the planets of the Imperium are safely culled of unsanctioned Psykers, while the Scholastica Psykana ensures that these Psykers are found suitable service within the Imperium, should they be found deserving of the gift of life.

    Those too unstable to control their power, are brought to Terra to have their souls bonded with the Golden Throne, so our Glorious God Emperor of Mankind may benevolently rule us eternally. May their sacrifice be honoured.

    Those too weak to serve on their own are inducted into the choir of the great psychic beacon of the Astronomicon, where with prayers on their lips, their souls burn brightly enough to create the guiding light in the Immaterium that our Navigators use to safely travel through its treacherous currents.

    You are one of these cursed individuals. A Beta-Class Psyker discovered by the Psykana shortly after their power awakened. A precious gem plucked from an ocean of underhive trash and elevated to greatness.


    Hello!

    Time to do this quest without the baggage of a failed system and with changes now I have a better understanding of Quests.

    Link to the old version.
     
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    • Character Creation
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    • You are

    [] Write in a name.

    You were born on an irrelevant hive world somewhere in the Imperium, one of many. Your world, like many others, has fallen greatly from the glory of the Golden Age of Technology. It has declined alongside the Imperium from a thriving urban world with a mostly functional government and a measure of democracy, into a rotting decrepit state where the people live in poverty and toil in the name of the God Emperor of mankind.

    Not that you understand such concepts, or anyone you know for that matter. You are just another

    [] Boy
    [] Girl

    on this world, destined for a life of labour. You were born in an industrial scale maternity ward where a dozen babies were born each minute, an old servitor made from a man convicted of stealing from an ecclesiarchy collection plate.

    As you cried your first breath, you were doused in antiseptic and inspected for physical mutations and abnormalities. Deeming you of stable human stock, the Servitor did not insert you into its internally mounted incinerator and handed you back to your parents.

    You have grown up in the underhive, scratching out an existence from the day you could walk. From the age of six, you have gone to work in a textile mill. Working is hard, and you have seen children your age dragged into the machinery and torn to shreds. The days you're not working, you are either running with the gangs, or sitting in lectures at the church with all your siblings.

    Your life consists of your hab block, the metal ceiling, the factory, and the occasional visit to the market with your ma.

    When the factory shutters due to events on a distant world you can scarcely fathom, it lays off many of the child labourers. So you and your siblings go into crime. You're good at it. Crawling into machines to fix them has made you good at sneaking around and stealing.

    By the time you're ten, you know how to use a knife, a popgun, and strip a body of valuables before you can be driven off. Your brothers and sisters are good at it as well. Good enough that life improves somewhat, especially when you begin running around with a small band.

    You're set to be the leader of a juve gang, and you find that you have a knock for it. You are good at:
    (Choose one)
    [] Convincing lots of kids to join your gang:

    [] Making the ones in your gang do better:




    The tarp covers you from the noxious liquid dripping from the metal ceiling. You and the gang are gathered there, your little hiding place. The gang is going well. You've got creds in your pocket and even more at hand.

    The depths of the old factory district is a good place to hide. Lots of places you can easily crawl into and hide your goods. Your head hurts. A pressure behind your eyes that you just can't get rid of. It makes you angry. It is getting in the way of running with the other kids.

    The catch today is good. A fat purse you took from some clerk who'd taken a wrong turn. The rest of your little band gathers around, gawking at the script you pull out. You grin nastily as you begin handing out shares. Each of you takes part of the loot and goes home along a different path to throw off pursuit. You wait for them to leave, preparing to take your own path home.
    (choose one)
    [] A complex plan that worked just right:

    Rickey distracted the clerk. You snatched the purse. Jenny closed the one-way door you dived in to escape. Jix and Jex set off another distraction as well.

    [] The direct approach.

    You and your gang ran up, took everything the clerk had, then ran off, the enforcer on station too taken aback by such a blunt approach.

    "Shrimp!" A large boisterous voice yells out. It is Jexx, one of the older kids, the ones too old to run with the pickpockets and thieves, is making his way over to you. He must have followed you. Shit. You're alone against him.

    He is sporting a tattoo on his bicep that marks him as having joined his dad, or what he thinks is his father in the gang life. "What's that you got there?"

    Your nasty ten year old mind thinks of the best response. You are angry at your headache and you really want to spend your catch. But you aren't able to say anything before he rushes over and looms over you.

    He looks at the purse. "Oh naff. Pip got himself a score." His idiot brain works as he considers what to do. Then his hand shoots out and pulls the purse from your grasp.

    "Naff!" You spit at him, pulling out your shiv. "Give that back, or I'll gut you so bad, your momma will sell you to the Mechanicus for parts." You're proud of the length and complexity of the insult.

    You're stunned as you are sent sprawling, the side of your face bruised from a hit. Nine Primarchs, he is faster than you remember. Must have stimmed up. Shithead really is like his dad. "I was just going to take the purse. But now? I'm going to beat you."

    Anger rages through you. You want that damn purse. It was hard to get! You can pawn it, get some new boots and a cut of grox from the creds inside.

    As he gives you that shit-eating grin that he always does after taking something from you, you feel your headache getting worse. He grabs you by the throat and lifts you up, punching you in the stomach.

    Something inside of you snaps.

    Then something swells up from deep within you.

    You reach out for the hand holding you, trying to pry the fingers from around your neck.
    You:
    (choose one)
    [] Crush his wrist with your bare hands:

    You have an affinity for using biomancy, the manipulation and enhancement of the human body with psychic power.

    [] Force him to drop you with a glare:

    You have an affinity for telepathy, the manipulating and controlling of minds using psychic power.

    [] Deliver a perfect kick at just the right spot to make him drop you:

    You have an affinity for divination, seeing that which others can not.

    [] Suddenly become hot to the touch:

    You have an affinity for pyromancy, calling forth purifying fire to burn away your enemies.

    There is a snap and a great shockwave of air from around you, the floor beneath you cracking, the walls tearing, and the ceiling cracking. The world around you seeming to shake for just a moment as power surges within your soul. Whatever you did before, what comes next feels natural.

    You:
    (Choose one)
    [] Crush him:

    Your telekinesis manifests as crushing invisible force. You are not very good at holding something without breaking it, let alone holding multiple things at the same time. But you have power.

    [] Hit him with a massive rock:

    Your telekinesis manifests as the ability to move great objects with limited precision. You can move tanks and armoured vehicles.

    [] Shred him with a spray of metal fragments:

    Your telekinesis manifests as a great many smaller objectives manipulated with precision. You can operate firearms purely with the power of your mind, not touching them with your hands.

    As you stand horrified over his broken corpse, your thoughts race in horror at what you have done. You just killed someone. With your mind. You're a Witch, just like the ones the priests preach against. You breath heavily as you try to think of what to do. You look around you at the crumbling building and the damage you've done.

    You resolve to:
    [] Make an effort to try to hide your ability:
    You tried your best to hide your ability.
    [] Use it discretely to get ahead in life:
    You tried to use it secretly, when nobody could see you.
    [] Make the most of it before you're caught:
    Go on a petty crime spree and settle some scores with people you dislike.
    [] Give yourself up:
    Walk to the local church and surrender yourself.


    Name change because I realized the person who submitted the previous one had actually made it a reference to Cal Kestis from Star Wars.

    Telekinesis will remain the starting ability because I feel it unfair to change after we already picked that last time.

    10 Hour Moratorium because crimbas

    Plan voting. Feel free to suggest plans.
     
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    • Just another day for the Telepathica.
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    • "What brings you here, Inquisitor?" Lord Prefector Aldin Arat asked the Inquisitor as they made their way down the unadorned stone halls of the Astra Telepathica Keep. The Keep was Aldin's pride and joy, a project he had spent a century of his considerable lifespan working on. And it felt like he was finally truly getting the recognition he deserved. From needing to hide his works from Inquisitors, now he had them visiting just to acquire new Sages or potential Interrogators.

    The Keep was built in the middle of the Hive City, back when it had been the surface. Attempts to elevate it to keep up with the growing spires had been foiled by the planet's aristocracy, but he personally found that its location at the heart of the Hive was quite useful. It was hard to reach without knowing which of the old passages and disabled elevators and maglev tracks led there, and that meant his Keep had privacy.

    They moved past the scrutinizing eyes of Black Sentinels. Aldin Arat had worked hard to get his position as Lord Prefect of his Scholam Psykana, and this had given him the confidence to talk to the Inquisitor as an equal, or at the very least without fear.

    The Inquisitor's eyes moved through the hallway, scanning them intently. "I am in need of expanding my retinue." He says with something that a sentimentalist might recognize as begrudging acknowledgement. "And I wished to see how this operation works. I was surprised to learn of Wyrdvanes being taught off of the hallowed soil of the Homeworld."

    Aldin tasted the soft undertone of sarcasm in the words, a bouquet of disappointment at the state of the Throneworld's masses, woven through with apathy and resignation.

    "That is the intention. A moment, we will be passing through into the processing sanctum." Aldin said, telepathically reaching out for the hidden servitors and commanding them to open a door. He then telekinetically adjusted a series of hidden levers behind a wall panel to disable the integrated defenses, an application of pyromancy disabled the pilot light for a hidden flamer. The two Black Sentinels on the other side raised scanning instruments. Vitae samplers and gene-pattern recognizers. "Not all Psykers require the Throneworld to be trained and sanctioned full. It reduces the pressure on the Black Ships."

    Inquisitor Kelmar Eustace Johan Alexis nodded sternly, his patchwork scarred face twisting into a kind smile. "I support your efforts, naturally. I have found Psykers to be very useful."

    Aldin led him into a large hollow space, a massive spherical void within the Keep with psi-dampenings plating covering the inside of the sphere. They crossed a gangway to a round room elevated on a platform inside the shielded room. Aldin put his hand on the scanner and felt a prick as his blood was sampled to open the door.

    The walls were made of concentric silver rings like a ball carved from a treestump, each of a different mineral composition to improve their dampening effects. In the room was an elevated marble block atop with an instructor sat in meditation. Around the instructor were the students, each located on a metal plate, leaning against a brace they were strapped into. Each student had a cable connected to the plug at the back of their skull, and an IV drip from a stand connected to their right wrist

    Aldin knew the Inquisitor could not see it, but he nevertheless described what was occurring. "Each student is drawing on their psychic power, performing rudimentary exercises to get a grip for handling their power. The instructor there is meanwhile sending out telepathic probes to try and disrupt their concentration." Aldin motioned for one of the students. "The plugs are so bursts of psychic energy can be grounded, while the IV drugs them into a deep meditation. You could fire your pistol in the room and they wouldn't even hear it."

    "I am not familiar with this method of training." Kelmar admitted. The words from his lips had a thread of suspicion woven through them, with a smaller ribbon of interest and a sprinkle of fascination.

    "This Keep has historically served primarily for training Psykers for secondment to the Inquisition, which means that the Psykers we pick from the Black Ships are the most stable ones they have. We train not for grand displays of power, but for subtle manipulation. You will not find a better tarot-reader in this Sector than our Prefect."

    Aldin had given the same tour before, to Militarum Generals, Inquisitors, Rogue Traders, and masters of the Administratum. The words flowed naturally from him.

    "Ah. Then there has been no need for minnowing the acolytes." Kelmar said. "I visited the City of Sight. The training there was... more gruelling." His words were laced with and smelled of disapo--, no of different expectations. But there was no dissapointment.

    The usual remark. Typical. Aldin thought. "No. Those whose ability to reliable -manifest- their ability have already been picked out by us."

    A teenage acolytes suddenly went into a spasm, letting out a pained scream, hoarfrost spreading out from the Psyker. Aldin tensed up. That did not sound like the usual shout of pain from a developing Psyker.

    Kelmar reflexively took out his bolt pistol and aimed it at the Psyker, but Aldin stopped him with a raised hand. "Don't. He's a Gamma." He stared at the Gamma, demanding him he control himself, not daring to reach into a mind currently breaking apart.

    The plug in the back of the acolyte's neck caught fire as parts of his brain transmuted into living psychic fire. Something pushed against the Keep's wards, drawn by the phenomena.

    Aldin cursed, he reached out telepathically to the mind of the Servitor that was in charge of the room's countermeasures. It had already awakened and was counting down to the automatic deployment of the room's sterilization protocol. He commanded it with a mental shout.

    +Circle twelve. Administer mercy protocol.+

    There was a pneumatic hiss as a monomolecular spike shot up from beneath the floor, shooting up through the Psyker's tail bone, burrowing through the spine between the vertebrae , and unfolding in the brain in a shredding expanse of monofillaments, channels along its length releasing psi-dampening chemicals and neurotoxins, instantly killing the acolyte and removing the threat of psi-active brain tissues contineuing the manifestation. The spike retracted, allowing the body to slump.

    The Inquisitor grit his teeth at the sight. Aldin could smell the questions the man had yet to ask in his words and feel the absence of any other emotion. It was a confused disgust, a lack of understanding at just what had happened. "A bad way to die. What was that spike?"

    Aldin took a moment to calm himself, allowing his Psykana conditioning to kick in. Was the Inquisitor knowledgeable enough to suspect its origins? Would he care? "Part of the Keep's automated systems." He said.

    Kelmar took the hint and did not inquire further. The universal agreement of Inquisitor and Telepathica to not pry in the other's affairs. At least, not too deeply.

    Servitors with flamers and sanitation equipment appeared from sliding wall apertures, two of them carrying a large stretcher between them. One placed the dead body upon the stretcher while the other began to clean the circle. Then they lifted up the stretcher and departed the room.

    "Manifesting power is different from an ability to control the power that comes forth." Aldin muttered, not at the Inquisitor but at the whims of fate. He looked with dissapointment at the spike as it was being cleaned with a flamer. That particular Psyker had been doing well until this moment. Gamma grade. Excellent performance in all fields. Strong of mind and body. He had thought the boy would become an Interrogator for sure.

    Aldin had been on the hook with the Sector Astra Telepathica for the low throughput of Gamma-Grade Psykers. The Emperor had not blessed his students with luck. Training Gamma's was a painful thing. Each was a precious gem of great potential, but also increasingly unlikely to survive training.


    The Inquisitor received his sages in the end, a trio of Diviners skilled at reading the Tarot, and departed. The Telepathica Keep returned to its usual functioning. New Psykers arrived from the Hive City's Enforcers, with some being chosen to learn locally, and others being sedated in preparation for transfer to Terra for Soul-Binding. It was a good haul, none seemed destined for the Golden Throne.

    Aldin took a moment to examine the administration of his Keep. His commitments were stable. The planet's tolerance of the fortress was merely disdainful instead of outright hateful, and his connections with the Inquisition were stronger. It was just another day, except for the regrettable loss of the Gamma.

    He felt a ripple in the Empyrean slamming against the wards of the Keep. A psionic siren went out from the Astropathic Choir at its heart, as the choirmaster began sending out a warning to everyone within the keep.

    +Beta-grade psychic manifestation detected within the Hive. Probability of Beta-Grade Awakening is high. All defenders to their stations.+

    Aldin's heart nearly skipped a beat before Psykana conditioning kicked in. Coordinate disaster response, prepare for emergencies.

    A Beta awakening? We can handle one. But we need to be quick.     He extended his mind beyond the walls, searching through the hive for devastation. He was preparing to see a firestorm, a floor collapsing, or a tide of eldritch horrors emerging from a newly awakened mind. He sought out with his mind, examining the wards for damage.

    A Beta Psyker was not the instant planet-devastating destruction of an Alpha, but the Telepathica took no chances. Beta Psykers had become gateways for Neverborn incursions in the past, especially upon awakening.

    With his mind reaching out, he sensed how the Black Sentinels were already guiding the acolytes back to their dormitories, while weapons were prepared in the event the manifestation was the prelude to a demonic event. Silver autogun rounds were being fed into rifles as the wall-mounted flamers near the keep's solitary entrance performed a test-firing sequence.

    He felt other minds joining him, the other Prefectors of the Keep, one for each of the five Psychic Disciplines.

    But there was no followup. No waves of psychic energy crashing against the wards, no amplified screaming or great firestorms, no hive-quake, waves of biomantic energy.

    That was unusual… and very promising. He reached for his vox link to the captain of his Black Sentinels, the man's armour blocking out any telepathy. "Prepare an extraction team and a stasis casket."


    The previous vote is not over, fyi
     
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    • A rescue operation.
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    • Your head hurts so damn much.

    The world blurs around you, the edges of your vision distorted and fuzzy as the throbbing in your head intensifies. When you don't focus intently, you begin to feel the world spinning, as colours you've never seen before attempt to appear in your vision. Is this what the priests said was the corruption of the soul?

    You push yourself to breathe slowly, feeling for that weird power with senses you did not even know you had. It feels natural to do so. But should it? You need to do what you've been told.

    Go to the priests, give yourself up, and you won't be treated like a rogue witch. They won't kill you, surely?

    The abandoned factory distract shakes as you stumble through it. Metal sheets tremble in place. The ground cracks, walls tear, and bricks begin tumbling down. The pain in your head continued to throb. It wants out. It wants to be released. To get out.

    You. Can't. Let. It. Out.

    Can you control your power?

    Rolled 47

    The spikes of agony continue to pulse through your mind, each one more intense than the last. By the time you reach the outskirts of the factory district, you're stumbling forward. In the distance there is the Hab section. Where everyone lives. And at the center, the shrine.

    You clutch your head, trying to block out the pain as you remain focused upon the thought of the priests. Surely they can help you. If anyone can, it has to be them.

    That's what they told you as a child. Witches need to go to the Ecclesiarchy.

    Just a few more steps. The door is getting closer. A faint smile appears. You are doing well.

    The abandoned manufactorum is a scene of destruction and chaos.

    The distraction makes you lose control for a moment. Across the abandoned Manufactorum, metal twists and bends, glass windows explode, and rockcrete crumbles away to fine powder.

    You remind yourself. A breath to center yourself. A moment of calm.

    As you try to catch your breath and calm your pounding heart, a voice calls out from behind you.

    "Are you alright?"

    You turn and see an old man standing a few feet away. The man is wearing fine black robes woven through with silver threads. Odd symbols that make your sight focus as they gaze upon them cover the long staff he is holding. There are augs in his head. Cables running from the side of his skull to the upper back. The man looks posh and powerful.

    You try to get the words out, but nothing comes out. The pain is all-consuming.

    "What's wrong?" he asks, stepping closer. You see the necklace he wears, the Imperial Adept's symbol of his office. It is an I with an eye on it. You don't know what he's from, but if he is an Adept, he has to know things. Has the Emperor sent him to help you?

    You hesitate, unsure whether or not to trust him. But the pain in your head continues to flare up and you know that every second counts. Imperial Adepts don't usually help street trash.

    [] Good kids obey!:
    You have been taught to obey the Adepts and immediately move to obey the adult like a good imperial citizen.

    [] "I...I need help":
    Swallow your stupid boyish pride and ask for help from an up-hiver.

    [] "It hurts."
    You don't respond, instead saying something to measure the man's empathy.

    The man seems to appreciate the answer. He nods. "Imagine a wall." The voice says. "A wall in your mind. Imagine it. Build on it. Brick by brick. Grow it as best you can.
    You try what the man said, building a wall, and as you do, you feel the pressure lessening slightly.

    You hear the sound every child in the Hive learns to fear. The charging of an enforcer's prod, followed by the scent of ozone. "Oy! What's the meaning of this?!"

    A squad of Enforcers are coming out of the hab district, advancing around a big armoured vehicle with a mean-looking turret atop. The leader of them, face plate up, is glaring at you like you're a turd on a freshly cleaned floor. They are all in heavy gear, real primo stuff. Thick black suits with yellow stripes. Ten of them. They're carrying shields and stun prods, with holstered guns.

    "Naff's a brat like you doing here?" He taps his prod in his upturned palm. "Go on, git!" He aims it towards the District he came from. "Don't got time to teach you not to be he-" The enforcer's smile fades as he looks in your eyes and sees the power emerging there. He raises his prod and swings it at your head in a flash.

    "Witch!" he yells, almost incoherent.

    You damn grox-loving… You land hard. The adept who helped you before is gone now. The wall is crumbling.

    Suddenly:

    (Choose one)
    []You -feel- their hate and fear:

    Your latent telepathy is attuned to feeling emotions. If developed, you will be able to sense the emotions of people in a radius around you, particularly if they have ill intent.

    [] You -see- what they're planning:

    Your latent telepathy is attuned to reading plans. If developed, you will be able to unobtrusively and covertly read surface-level thoughts from a single person at a time.

    [] You -hear- their surface thoughts:

    Your latent telepathy is attuned to hearing surface thoughts. If developed, you will passively hear the surface thoughts of those around you. All of them.

    [] You -taste- their instincts:

    Your latent telepathy is attuned to instincts. If developed, you will taste what training and/or instinct is going to make someone do, on your tongue, before they do it.

    [] You -smell- their wants:

    Your latent telepathy is attuned to desires. If developed, you will smell what people want upon their body odour.

    Controlling yourself under pressure.
    Rolled 17

    "Leave me alone!"

    You scream! The spark of power in your soul answers your anger. A wave of force shoots out with your voice. Raw unfocused power flowing freely, manifesting in different ways. The leading Enforcer is squeezed out of his armour's open visor like the contents of a nutrient paste tube, two more are sent flying into a wall so hard they explode into bloody chunks.

    The Taurox crumbles and rips into two parts, each spinning around at high speed and crushing more of them. Men are torn to pieces by raw psychic fury,

    The ground around you breaks and tears, throwing up rockcrete dust and sending out rebar like thrown spears. The abandoned Manufactorum crumbles and collapses. Glass shatters or even explodes up to a kilometer away from you.

    You taste blood. Everything goes dark.


    Aldin could feel the power radiating from the child. He cursed the idiotic Blunts for attacking him. He'd only just gotten the Psyker to begin constructing mental defenses. And now they'd been torn apart.

    He counted every second as the Valkyrie approached. For fifteen minutes he had been watching the asset, noting in growing horror the bells of the distant temple ringing. He thanked the Emperor that the Psyker had only harmed planetary Enforcers. If they had been Imperial Adepts, then the child would have committed an actual crime in the eyes of the Lex Imperialis.

    He could salvage this. But he'd need to be careful. He looked at the other men aboard his dropship.

    The Black Sentinels were the dread of the acolytes of the Astra Telepathica, each allowed to execute a Psyker on sight, and ready to do so on a moment's notice. But they were also well trained, fanatically loyal, and not overtaken by hatred. Most of the time they just beat up an offending acolyte, and only brought out their soul-obliterating lances if it was truly necessary.

    They were both the executioners of Psykers, but also their protectors against unsanctioned violence. Aldin knew they were just as ready to gun him down and burn his body, as they were to die in his defense.

    The Sentinels aboard the Valkyrie checked their weapons. They were kitted out for an extraction. That meant hellguns for scything down mobs of fanatics, and shotguns slung on their lower backs loaded with blessed silver for taking out the one they had set out to protect if necessary.

    "I saw him." Aldin said into the vox on the collar of his robes. "A small child. Afraid. Definitely a Beta level. The emotional outbursts and awakening are pushing him to near-Alpha."

    The Captain of the Sentinels paused to look at the stasis casket strapped to the floor of the dropship. The man's mind turning as he considered the situation. Aldin knew he had to be considering the tactical situation on his helmet's internal display. "There is a mob emerging from the district. Looks like a lynch mob." He undid his restraints and got to his feet.

    Aldin considered the sight. A squad of enforcers slain by a psyker, glass exploding, shaking buildings, destruction. Buildings had collapsed, and the hive floor had been cracked. The only reason nobody had approached the child yet was their fear of not doing so as part of a large mob.

    He extended his thoughts to the young Psyker and felt for corruption. He was clean. Angry. Confused. His mind flowing with the after-effects of the power that had coursed through him. But his anger at the Enforcers had seen him exhaust himself.

    And what a mind. It was strong, undamaged, positively vibrant. Pristine, even. Aldin could feel himself growing excited and he needed to call on his conditioning to keep his thoughts focused.

    The Gamma that had died the day before had still had faults and fractures in his psyche. Nearly all Psykers did. It was the task of the Telepathica to shore these up. Finds like these were rare. He'd only ever found Deltas and an occasional Gamma with this level of stability. He -needed- to get this child into custody. The Telepathica would reward him well for such a recovery. "Do not let them harm the asset." Aldin commanded.

    The captain listened to the vox. "Nowhere to land. The landscape is torn up." He motioned for the child. "We can't pull him up. Not if he has brain damage. We'll need the casket."

    Another Sentinel, raised a gauntlet. "There are two Sororitas heading this way from the Temple."

    "The shrine guards!?" Aldin asked, incredulous. "Who ordered them-"

    The Captain turned his helmet to look at him with an incredulous tilt, for the implication that someone needed to order Sororitas to kill a Witch.

    "...Good point." Aldin extended his consciousness and saw that there were indeed power-armored figured. "The Emperor sees fit to test us this day." Aldin said. He tried to think of what to do. They needed to land and get the asset onboard.

    He then realized there was a place to land.

    (Choose one)

    [] Land as close as possible:

    The Black Sentinels will repel from lines and form a perimeter, driving the crowd away enough in the confusion to secure Occam. But they will not be able to extract immediately. They'll hit the crowd with tear gas, and only fire intermittent volleys to keep them at bay
    There will be a standoff with the Sororitas.

    [] Land on the crowd:

    The Valkyrie will strafe the road filled with hundreds of people just doing what they're told. Then they'll storm down the ramp, rolling the grav casket with them to Occam, put him inside, then leave, before any other Imperial institution can arrive and demand the young Psyker's death.
    Enough people for it to be a noteworthy event in a Hive city will die.
    Depending on how 'humanitarian' these Sororitas are. They might take offense at this.

    He could stop the crowd. He knew numerous psychic incantations to do this. But it would be very noticeable… and it could incense the crowd. And the Sororitas might shoot him on principle for it.

    (Choose one)
    [] Aldin Uses his Psychic powers to stop the crowd:

    Using his psychic powers will slow the crowd down enough to allow for 'Land as close as possible' to get Occam into a casket and aboard the Valkyrie before the mob can get to him. The two Sororitas -will- shoot at Psyker trying to slow their charge against a Witch. The Valkyrie can handle their bolter fire, however.

    [] Aldin stuck to his hellpistol:

    Aldin joins the rescue, using his hellpistol to aid the Black Sentinels.
    No risks are taken in regards to using Psychic power.

    There is also an option that could be taken, regardless.
    (Decide wether or not to add this to your plan)

    [] "The asset is worth more than that entire mob. Open fire.":
    Order the Valkyrie to fire at the crowd and keep firing until they've gotten the point.
    Will guarantee a safe extraction for Occam and a political shitstorm for Aldin.



    Plan voting. 10 hour Moratorium.
     
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    • A standoff.
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    • You hear screaming. Yelling. High pitched and frantic. The sound of glass shattering. Hands on your body. Gloved strong fingers lifting you up and putting you down. You see the bright red flashes of lasfire even behind your closed eyelids. There is a curious mechanical noise, almost like a turbine, although you're not sure.

    There is a faint scent of teargas in the air. Like the aftermath of a riot, when you and the other kids went to loot the bodies shot to bits. The smell wakes you up immediately. You try to get up, but a firm hand holds you down. You see a circle of black figures in heavy suits of armour standing around you, each hefting a big rifle.

    The black armoured figures have formed a firing line facing the oncoming mob, bulky backpack fed rifles aimed outwards. One of the figures has gone down on a knee and taken out a small kit. You're propped up against something, but you're not sure what it is. A fancy and very expensive looking tool is lifted up and held in front of your face.

    The robed man from before is looking down at you, carrying an ornate silver staff with one hand and a pistol with the other. Tendrils of power are flowing from him to you, and you feel the wall in your mind restructuring.

    A bottle flies through the air, which the man nimbly dodges even though it came from behind him. He immediately turns to face the direction it came from. With one fluid motion, he slaps aside another object hurtling towards him, this time a brick. He then fires his pistol towards the source of the projectiles.

    You watch in awe as the heavy laspistol fires off multiple bright red bolts of energy, taking down several figures in the mob with each shot. The black armoured figures continue to hold their firing line. There is the bark of a shotgun.

    The air is thick with the smell of burning flesh and smoke from the lasfire. You notice that some of the mob are armed as well, wielding crude weapons, knives, clubs, tools. Were they going to lynch you like they did the mutants discovered last year? You remember that event. The screams of the thing had almost been human.

    The robed man turns back to you, his attention no longer on defending himself. He continues to pour power into your mind, repairing and strengthening your mental walls. As you start to feel more lucid and aware of your surroundings, you realize that you are propped up against a jagged spike of rock that has erupted from the ground. And you realize just who is standing before you.

    One of the Witchkeep. That story that people liked to tell, about the horrible place at the heart of the hive where the Witches were said to come from, where spirits and other monsters lurked in the dark. You thought it had been a myth. But the story of the black robe and silver staff was quite clear when you heard it last.

    You look around. The soldier tending to you catches your eye, because you can't see his mind. His thoughts do not appear around him like they did the enforcers before. None of the black figures have their thoughts visible. But the voices and thoughts of everyone around you continue flooding in. The headache begins to return and the sounds around you fade away to be replaced by the aggressive thumping.

    You are about to say something, when you feel a prick in your neck. A fancy-looking pop-gun or something like it has been pressed against your neck. A soothing feeling spreads out over your body. The headache fades slightly and you feel yourself calming down.

    "You tread the path of heresy, Mutant!" A gruff feminine voice calls out. You see one of the blessed Sororitas moving through the crowd, holding a holy bolter. She is one of the shrine guard, you're sure of it. The sheer hatefulness in the look she spares you before turning to the robed man is impressive. "Suffer not the Witch to live." She states confidently. The crowd growls agreement.

    The robed man steps forward, his silver staff shining in the heavy sky lumens. The crowd seems to hesitate, unsure of what will happen, but still as angry as before. The Sororitas raises her bolter, but the robed man's voice echoes through the area.

    "In the name of the Astra Telepathica, Adeptus of the holy Adeptus Terra, I, Aldin Arat, Lord Prefector, have taken this Psyker into custody. Any attempt to impede our efforts, is an attempt to impede the functioning of the Imperium, and therefore heresy." he declares confidently, tapping the base of the staff on the ground with a resounding thud.

    "You detestable wretch." The Sororitas growls, almost frothing at the mouth. You have never seen someone so angry and hateful before. All her previous beauty and elegance has disappeared completely. "The warp must have poisoned your mind if you think that -thing- can be sanctioned. Look around you!"

    "That is -NOT- Your decision to make, Blunt." The man says.

    There is grumbling and complaining as four of the black armored soldiers approach with some kind of casket. There is a lasrifle shot and a scream as someone gets too close. You're too drugged and soothed to cry at the hate you're receiving, but are still able to feel a sense of enjoyment at what feels like people getting what they deserve. Some kind of pod is being rolled your way. There is a hiss as it opens up. There is a silence that threatens to break at any moment. The soldier tending to you picks you up and moves to carry you inside.

    "The Inquisition will hear of this." You hear the Sororitas demand as the smell of ozone fills the pod an-


    Aldin stared at the Sorotias and the crowd, backpedalling towards the Valkyrie alongside the stasis casket. The shooting had stopped, but the crowd was still tense and anxious, driven to religious frenzy and hatred. The Black Sentinels kept their guns aimed at the mob, protecting their charge.

    He'd worked with more reasonable Commissars during his time as a Psyker for the Astra Militarum. He very much wanted to turn the woman inside out for getting in the way of his work, but restrained himself.

    The planet was becoming increasingly inhospitable for the Adeptus, and he began to wonder if this event could be what sent tensions to a boil.

    He put a comforting hand on the casket and felt the hum of its stasis mechanism. He had plans to make. He needed to decide where he would be sending the Psyker.

    Occam has been secured by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. A stable Beta-Grade Psyker is a formidable asset.


    You wake up in the cleanest room you've ever been in.

    Sodium tubes in the ceiling, clean tubes at that, light up a large room that reminds you of the chop-shop you visited once alongside your father to drop off a body for a payment. But the slabs are all clean, the bedding is white, and the walls are made of black stone, decorated with silver symbols. Images of saints and Imperial heroes are carved into the walls, interspersed with what looks like vox and cogitator systems.

    Your neck itches. You try to scratch it, only for your fingers to brush against something metallic at the base of your skull. You pull your hand back, turning your wrist to reveal that there's another socket in each of your wrists. You're also not wearing your regular clothes. Instead it is… a dress? It feels like a dress, or a bit like one of those aprons the cooks sometimes wear.

    "Naff is this?" You mumble, still feeling a little groggy, as you trace your head for other changes. There's a plug on your right temple, and behind each ear, at the parts that swelled really badly when you had that flu last year. There's things plugged into them, and you want to yank one out. When a sudden compulsion to -not- do so fills you.

    "Calm down, child." You turn to a figure you hadn't noticed before. No, he had not been sitting there moments before. You only just registered him. "Those are Psi-Dampers to restrain your power. Do not touch them. They are what keep your headaches in check."

    The man is right. The headache is gone. You don't feel the pain from before. And you aren't reading his surface thoughts. At least, you think it is because of the 'Psi-dampers'. Maybe he can hide them. "Are you a witch too?"

    He grimaces. "We do not say 'Witch' here. This is a safe space for your kind." He pauses. He looks like he thinks you're an idiot. "Do you know what the Adeptus Astra Telepathica is?"

    You frown. "Is that like the Administratum?"

    He sighs deeply. "I see we'll be filling in the gaps of your education." He stands up. "My name is Aldin Arat, Lord Prefector of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. You have been inducted into our ranks as an acolyte. This is not optional. You are a Psyker, and that means you are cursed with a power that you can scarcely comprehend."

    "I know what a Wit– A Psyker is. I was going to turn myself in." You say petulantly, not liking the denigrating voice. "Then the headaches got really bad." You pause. "What about my family? They'll be worry-"

    Aldin holds up a hand to silence you. "For the sake of yourself and your loved ones, you will remain here." He reaches for a tray holding a small carb-loaf and a bowl of sucrose-flavoured nutri-mash.

    [][FAMILY] You've already gotten over it:
    You've grown up on the streets of a hive city. Death is part of daily life for you. You're not bothered by losing your family and friends.
    Occam does not easily make social and emotional connections due to fear of loss.

    [][FAMILY] Profound sadness:
    You do not cry. That would be showing weakness. Weakness gets someone killed in the Hive. But you are sad about your family.
    Occam does have a desire for fellowship and company. For better and worse.
    You dive at the food, grubby hands grabbing the loaf and the bowl, devouring it while you consider what he said. Grief swells up within you, but your hunger overpowers it. Food always comes first. You're not sure someone else might or might not show up to try and take it.

    "You will be taken care of here, until you have recovered. Whereupon a series of trials shall begin."

    You listen intently, or at least successfully make it appear that way.

    Already you have measured the value of every object in the room, thinking of whom you could pawn them off to. Even if what the Psyker said is true, it is good to know how valuable those things are.

    "What about the Black Ships?" You ask. "The priest said witches got put on the Black Ships. Are we aboard one now?"

    The man's smile fades immediately. "No. When the next ship arrives, you will be placed aboard it. Perhaps a year from now, maybe two.."

    You narrow your eyes at the man as he leaves the room, leaving you all alone in the medical room. He is far too friendly and forthcoming. He is giving you all these things without any sort of demand? No threats? Is he fattening you up to eat? Does he intend to sell you to a pleasure den?

    You continue gnawing at the carb loaf. At least the headache is gone. You thank the Emperor for the kindness he has shown you.

    After you finish your meal, a servitor rolls into the room and takes your plate from you. You're hesitant to hand it over, but eventually you do. After doing so, you notice that there's a plastek plate hanging from the front of your bed. You pull it up and examine it.

    You squint and try to read it. It appears to be a report of your health?

    Due to his upbringing in a Hive City, alongside serious malnutrition Occam has developed several conditions.
    They will be fully cured and treated by the Telepathica, but what are they?
    (The three most voted conditions will be chosen. Cancer counts as two conditions. You can overshoot.)

    [][MEDICAE] Skin Cancer:
    Perhaps those chemicals used to treat the textiles weren't that safe.

    [][MEDICAE] Lungrot:
    Coughing up blood occasionally is normal, isn't it?

    [][MEDICAE] Rickets:
    You're exceptionally fast for your age compared to the rest of your hab block.

    [][MEDICAE] Infectious blood cancer:
    You received an infectious form of skin cancer from selling blood so you could get Obscura.

    [][MEDICAE] New teeth:
    All your teeth need to be replaced due to your dad selling your mature ones for drinking money.

    [][MEDICAE] Unhealthy palour:
    The excess of heavy metals has given you a very unhealthy skin colour.

    You give up trying to read it and put the plastek back in its place.


    Your initiation into the Astra Telepathica has begun. For now, you are being handled carefully, and much gentler than you are used to. The lack of threats of physical violence and visible electro-prods is quite noticeable and very disturbing.

    You will be put through a refresher on the makeup and functioning of the Adeptus Terra, re-indoctrinated into the Imperial Cult, and receive medical treatments.

    You develop a quirk.

    [][QUIRK] Writing is actually kinda neat!
    You put some extra effort into developing a proper handwriting style. You greatly prefer physical to digital storage, if only so you can appreciate your writing.
    You will be unwilling to trust anyone else with writing for you.

    [][QUIRK] There's a shower!:
    Given the first possibility of proper cleaning and hygiene in your life, you quickly take to it. You develop an obsession with wanting to be personally sure that -your- space is clean, if you have the means.
    You will be unwilling to trust anyone else with cleaning your room.

    [][QUIRK] Saving for an acid-rainy day:
    You are used to hunger, and now you can avoid it, you will. You obsessively ensure you have caches of food and water hidden nearby.
    You will be unwilling to trust anyone else with knowing of your caches.

    [][QUIRK] They have Labels!:
    When you were given your new clothes, they took everything out of dedicated storage areas, they didn't even have to look for the right size. Everything is so well organized. You will obsess over keeping your items in their place when not in use. Everything tagged and organized.
    You will be unwilling to trust anyone else with this.


    Aldin has sent out feelers for tutors and examiners for the potential prize. Before your departure aboard the black ships, several individuals with their eyes on potential Psykers will be told about you.

    One of these will be a source of 'problems' for you.

    Choose one:

    [][PROBLEM] A Rogue Trader.
    [][PROBLEM] A disappointed Apothecary.
    [][PROBLEM] An Adeptus Mechanicus Genetor
    [][PROBLEM] An Inquisitor


    4 hour Moratorium. Please vote seperately for each subject. No need for plans!

    It will be task-voting, that means voting like this

    [x][MEDICAE] Skin Cancer:

    [x][MEDICAE] New teeth:

    [x][QUIRK] They have Labels!:
     
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    • Astra Telepathica Induction.
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    • The following days are a blur of confusion for you. You are kept in the same sterile black room, occasionally plugged into machines that buzz and tick and give off a faint ozone smell. Constantly monitored by curious devices, you feel like someone's pet canid. Strange tools are waved in front of your face, and attached to your body through the implanted sockets in your wrists.

    A large servitor in red robes, its face hidden beneath a hood and visible only through the many spider-like cybernetic eyes sweeps into the room, robes dragging along the floor. A swarm of mechadendrites like piranha eels swarms over your body, poking, prodding, and injecting you at places across your body.

    The servitor examines your hands, eyes extending as he examines your nails. "They are filthy. Unacceptable. You shall be groomed." There is a whir as some sort of evil-looking cylinder emerges from the priest's robes and slides over your fingertips. Before you can complain, it retreats, revealing trimmed and cleaned nails.

    You frown at just how clean your hands look. Nails perfectly trimmed, cleaned, even of the grime deep between the knuckles. "I look like you want to run my skin." You grumble.

    The servitor stops. "Querry: I am unfamiliar with that term. Elaborate."

    "You're no Servitor?" You ask it. "Or is the operator spreaking through the vox?"

    It shows no sign of emotion. "Negative: I am a Genetor of the Adeptus Mechanicus, specialized in the maintenace and upkeep of high value Psykers, seconded to the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. "

    That's a lot of titles. You hold up your hands defensively "Never seen your like before, bud. First cog-lord I've seen. Honour to meet you. Name's Occam."

    The cybernetic eyes blink at you. He blurts out something in binary so vile that you can see hints of it in the front of his mind. "Demand: Continue clarification of terminology."

    The innocence of the Tech Priest surprises you. Were the priests right when they said the spire-dwellers had better 'moral virtues' than the hive dwellers? you shrug and try to explain. "Skin-trading is people giving the—" You make a very rude gesture involving a pumping balled fist and your open mouth. "behind the revel den."

    The Tech Priest just glares at you. You try to justify your assumption. It was a normal one. "You're the one that said you were grooming me, milord." You say innocently.

    The red eyes turn off as the Tech-Priest's social processes crash for long enough that you feel you should call someone. He shakes his head "Negative: You are not being sold into the sex trade." He prods you with a metal finger in the chest. "You are a Beta-Grade Psyker. An asset for the Omnissiah. That requires maintenance." He pauses. "Do you possess knowledge on using a hygiene cubicle?"

    You nod. Finally something you do understand. "Sure. Back when I worked the factory, once a month we had to get sprayed with the hoses."

    The Tech Priest very slowly explains the concept of showering using the hose in the Hygiene Chamber, and the cleaning unguents provided. And that you should try to do it every day. It sounds ridiculous.

    After the shower, you're sprayed down with chemicals, and the Genetor shaves you bald using some form of a laser scalpel. It leaves your head bare but devoid of the itch that usually comes with shaving. But instead of your hair being used for practical purposes like being stuffed into pillows or woven into rope, one of the servitors shovels it into a chest-mounted incinerator.

    What a waste of good thread.

    "Naff." You mutter. "What about my hair?"

    "The Oncocidal treatment you will receive will cause hair-loss. This is pre-emptive."

    "What's an onco?" You ask.

    The Tech Priest does not answer and just leaves.

    Several days pass, marked by constant injections and medical examinations. Different coloured liquids are placed in the IV bag and you begin feeling slightly queasy from them. But you do not complain. It is very comfortable sleeping in a luxurious bed like this.

    The servitors, their faces devoid of emotion, appear at set times three times a day to bring you trays of food and a plastek cup containing what they called "pills". You took them readily, eager for a high or a buzz, but found that nothing happened, much to your disappointment.




    On your sixth day, you do not wake up, instead falling into a deep dreamless slumber as the IV-drip is replaced as you sleep. Opioid slumber takes you, leaving you in an almost meditative state where hours pass in what feels like barely enough time to blink. The days pass quickly, marked by the sound of medical machinery, soft beeping, and the shuffling of Servitors.

    When you finally wake, you feel awkward. Your skin feels tingly… different. You don't understand it fully. It looks different. Maybe due to all the showering. The clean medical room has been replaced by a small unadorned cell with a small bed, a hygiene stall, and a shrine to the God-Emperor. You spent several weeks there, recovering from whatever the Genetor has done to you. Time becomes hard to track.

    The halls of the Keep are made of the same black marble that the walls of the medical room were, with occasional silver warding symbols carved into them. The scale is impressive, almost like the Temple to the God Emperor, but without the same lighting. You occasionally catch glimpses of other people when being marched from your room to the Medicae, where the Genetor continues his work.

    Aldin is the only one to meet with you occasionally, speaking with you about the Adeptus Terra, the makeup of the Imperium, instructing you on the use of numbers and letters for the first month of your stay. You have been givena robe like him, only it is unadorned. The black cloth is somewhat coarse, but fits well. Better than anything you have worn.

    He explains just what a Psyker is, how you aren't a 'Witch', but are instead a human born with a natural ability to reach into The Warp for energy. Although what that truly means, he neglects to explain. Food continues to be brought, and every week you go back to get treatments. There's even small pieces of cloned meat.

    Aldin is patient, kind at times, as he explains the subjects in detail. You find yourself looking forward to his visits, to the occasional kindnesses he shows you. But he keeps you at a distance, refusing to chit-chat or getting too close. He is very reserved and seems dead-set on cramming information into you. In the end, you are told the mechanics of what being a Psyker involves, the grading system.

    After a month, you are led past lines of trudging teenage acolytes that are bald and fitted with the same augmetics that you are. Some of them have visible wounds and replacement limbs. They look worse than you, wearing even simpler synth-cotton robes, and many being marked with tattoos and glyphs. A few give you quizzical looks. They follow lockstep behind instructors, with two Black Sentinels in front of the line and two in the back. Each of them carries a long lance with a tip that hurts your eyes to look at.

    This is not the usual area of the Keep that he takes you.

    As you see other people, the plugs in your neck and behind your ears begin to heat up. The feeling coincides with the sensation you have already come to associate with your mind-reading.

    Aldin's voice echoes in your mind, it is harsh and serious. ++You can feel their minds.++

    You answer verbally. Your dampeners continue to inhibit you. "It comes naturally, master. Their minds reach for me."

    There is a pause before he answers. ++You subconsciously draw them in. Focus. Will yourself to stop drawing them in.++

    When you will yourself to not listen, even though you do not feel like you are listening, the sensation stops.

    At a silvered door marked with curious angular symbols, Aldin performs a series of small rituals to the Machine Spirit to open the doorway, leading you to a small room lit by a single sodium tube in the ceiling. There is a silver circular platform in the center with a large chair covered with symbols, and several machines standing around it. Two figures are standing next to the chair, older men, one with a cybernetic lower jaw, the other with mechanical eyes.

    Aldin begins to speak, standing before you as you are strapped in. The plugs on your wrists and in your neck are removed and connected to the chair. As they are removed, you feel the power that you felt the day you Awakened. It is within reach, close enough to touch. But the depths of power from before are gone. Limited.

    "Your flesh has been healed of harm and imperfections. Now your sanctioning can begin. Do you know what that means?"

    "I will learn to control my powers, and wield them safely. I will be an asset to the Imperium."

    Aldin gives you a pained look, one shared by the two other robed figures in the room. "Before you are Adept Edamantu, Epsilon-Grade Telepath, and Adept Adamak, Epsilon-Grade Biomancer. They will aid me in putting you to the test. We will prove wether or not you can be safely put aboard a Black Ship."

    You blink. "The Sanctioning has not begun yet?" You begin to worry slightly. Your heart starts beating in your chest.

    None of the Psykers laugh. Aldin shakes his head. "No. You have been prepared for them to begin. May the Emperor be with you, Acolyte Occam."

    You immediately try to get out of the chair but the chair's straps tighten. You clutch the armrests tight. You feel -something- changing about your plugs. The other Psykers move on either side of you. Cold metal diodes are placed on your shaven head. Your power awakens and flows from you. The devices around the chair begin to hiss and spark.

    The the two adepts each aims a hand at you.

    You begin to scream.


    Adeptus Astra Telepathica Induction Report
    Acolyte Designation: 12162525-B1
    Name: Occam Parsimon
    Background:

    Child of textile workers.
    No signs of eugenics or genetic manipulation.
    No markers of known Psychic bloodlines.
    Genetic samples sent to known Astartes Chapters for genetic comparison.

    Willingly tried to submit for sanctioning, but was stopped by an angry mob. See attached incident report.

    Psychic Aptitude Grading:
    Upon induction, acolyte achieved the following grades of psychic potential.
    Telepathy: Iota
    Divination: Kappa
    Telekinesis: Beta
    Pyromancy: Kappa
    Biomancy: Eta

    Psychic Abilities:
    The following abilities have been observed.
    -Biomantic empowerment:
    Acolyte can strengthen his body through biomancy, increasing combat prowess and endurance.

    -Telekinetic Slam:
    Acolyte has shown a telekinetic affinity for moving large objects and using them as weapon.

    -Telekinetic Shearing:
    Acolyte can cause destruction of objects and people within visual range through applying telekinetic pressure.

    -Telekinetic manipulation:
    Acolyte shows little capability for fine manipulation using telekinetic ability.

    - Surface level telepathic scanning:
    Acolyte has the ability to read unguarded thoughts from any person they look in the eye.
    Transfer destination: Holy Terra:
    Estimated chance of survival: 28.3%

    AVE IMPERATOR.


    ​
     
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    • First taste of war.
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    • Rastor was a pitiful city, even by the standards of the Imperium. It had been the capital of a 'Civilized world' the Administratum census, although the locals had since moved their capital to a city in the southern hemisphere.. A world that had lost contact with the Imperium and sought to make a fight of it upon being rediscovered.

    It was a foul place, where, bereft of the guiding light of Terra, humans and Xenos had mingled, unsanctioned techno-heresies were wrought, and even the glorious Hive Spire had been partially torn down and spread out. Temples of industry dismantled and replaced with Xenotech mockeries. It was a world heading towards damnation, until the Imperium brought cleansing fire and restored the world to its proper place.

    Colonel Adrian Gerstanus of the 124th Torvum Tribunes cursed what had seen his people dragged here. The locals were well trained and equipped, with many of them wielding Xenos weaponry. While their alien masters struck from the shadows without warning, unleashing foul techno-sorcerous weapons. His guardsmen, with high-grade lasguns and full body flak armour, had been equipped to deal with a local insurrection, not a conflict like this.

    The southern continent had been taken early in the fighting, but the northern one where the bulk of the alien settlers were, proved much harder to root out. Regular strikes from alien strikecraft operating from disguised airfields was making the navy refuse to move in for orbital fire support, while the enemy army remained in the field.

    Outside of Rastor, the continent was held by the Xenophiles, and they were putting up a stronger fight than Adrian Gestanus had been briefed on. He examined the map laid out before him, moving markers and repositioning his forces for the entrance to the city his men were supposed to hold. The shooting down of the General staff sent to command the forces in Rastor had been just another of the dastardly enemy schemes.

    A Munitorum adept carrying a message from planetary command had just arrived, fresh off the Valkyrie and insisting he couldn't wait. He wished the enemy had shot that Valkyrie down instead of the one carrying lasguns. He clutched a dataslate and offered it to the Corporal. He looked uneasy at delivering the news, which did put Adrian ill at ease. "You are being allocated sanctioned support. Please sign here." He slid the slate forward and tapped it.

    There was loud cursing from across the regimental headquarters and their allied forces. Nobody liked being aided with Psykers.

    "What?! I asked for a siege regiment -and- sanctioned support. I need more tha-." Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Morale is bad enough without some gibbering Wyrdvanes causing trouble. "

    The Munitorum Adept looked like a nobleman who'd just smelt something fouling up their estate. "No Wyrdvanes. You have been allocated a Primaris Psyker." A cold hand ran across Adrian's spine at those words. One Psyker being sent was either a mistake, or it spoke volumes of just what kind of Psyker was being sent. "Your commissar should be ready to receive him at the landing pad."

    "Ah. Another bolt magnet sent to learn under grandpa's care." Adrian deadpanned. His Commissar was better than most, as he actually knew when to use the fructose bar instead of the electro-lash. But he also kept getting new Psykers assigned to the regiment due to a reputation of being good at handling their ilk. He turned to his adjutant. "Get the Commissar. He should be done by now."

    The adjutant blanched. Commissar Johan Everette was in a fouler mood than usual lately. Overworked with the dual tasks of reconstructing the disciplinary structure of both the 124th and the allied regiments following several enemy ambushes, and the persecution of the planet's restoration.

    In between shuffling cadet Commissars around, deputizing lesser officers, and ensuring the firing squads kept busy, across multiple regiments, his mood had become increasingly sour.

    Adrian examined the dataslate, bringing up a pict of the Psyker, he sucked in breath. He looked like a piece of work. He examined the file.



    You have 5 Points to spend.

    Physical stature:
    (You must pick one of the following three choices.)
    []Withered and pale:

    Occam's body is withered and thin, no matter the rich rations and diet supplements he receives. He is stickly and weak.
    Gain 2 points
    Or
    []Looks normal:

    Occam looks alright for a Psyker. Which means he looks lanky, if fit.
    Costs 0 points.
    Or
    [] Looks healthy:

    Occam looks healthy, about the average for an Imperial soldier.
    Costs 2 points.



    Sanctioning and Psykana Conditioning.
    Modifications have been made to Occam's thought processes as part of his training, deeply engraining several forms of conditioning to become as natural to the psyker as breathing is to a Blunt.

    You start with these two Conditionings.

    Conditioning of martyrdom:
    Upon losing control of his powers and feeling the Warp beginning to twist his body and/or mind, Occam will immediately attempt to commit suicide with his mercy-blade.

    Conditioning of acceptance:
    Occam does not feel offended or hurt if he is insulted or cursed for being a Psyker. The ability to be genuinely hurt or offended has been conditioned out of him.



    [] Conditioning of control:

    Occam subconsciously prays to the God Emperor whenever his thoughts are not occupied. The thirty-three prayers of mental fortitude strengthen his thoughts against subversion.
    Costs 1 point

    [] Conditioning of endurance:

    Occam can push himself beyond physical endurance and consciously exceed the natural limits of the human body. He can continue performing his psychic powers even should he be, for instance, set on fire, or suffering grievous bodily harm.
    Costs 1 point

    [] Conditioning of hate:

    Hate for the Xenos, the Mutant, and the Heretic has been firmly conditioned into Occam. Just seeing one of the three is enough to drive him into a fit of rage.
    Gain 1 point

    [] Conditioning of focused thought:

    Occam can only get bored if he wants to be. Otherwise his conditioning kicks in and he tends to his memory palace, examining memories of past events and written knowledge.
    Costs 1 point



    Cybernetic augmentation and psionic implants:

    Psychic training is dangerous and it is not unknown for one to lose body parts during their training. You received replacements for several of these. You also received several augmentations to improve your psychic ability.
    Note: Losing biological limbs reduces psychic potential.

    [] Cybernetic eye - Rudimentary:

    Occam has lost his left eye. It has been replaced with a bulky cybernetic one.
    Gain 1 point
    or
    [] Cybernetic eye - Functional:

    Occam has lost his left eye. It has been replaced with a cybernetic one with a heads up display. It doesn't even appear cybernetic from a distance.
    Costs 1 point.
    or
    [] Cybernetic eyes - Data buffer:

    On losing his left eye, it was decided to replace the other as well. These implants allow him to record and playback everything he has seen.
    Costs 2 points.

    [] Cybernetic leg:

    Occam's right leg has been replaced with a cybernetic one. It itches constantly and never works quite right. No matter which implant is slotted int the ports.
    Gain 1 point

    [] Silver Tongue:

    The surface of Occam's tongue has been layered with a hexagrammic mesh of blessed silver. He can more easily recite words of a psychically resonant nature, be they xenos or chaotic.
    Costs 1 point
    Or
    [] Ward of Chastisement:

    The surface of Occam's tongue and the inside of his mouth have been tattooed with Hexagrammic sigils. Speaking the Dark Tongue of Chaos will cause him great physical pain,
    Gain 1 point

    [] Hexagrammic tattoos:

    Your right arm has been tattooed with esoteric symbols using psi-conducting ink that aid in the conducting of raw warp attacks like lightning, fire, and telekinetic blasts.
    Costs 1 point

    [] Digit augmentations:

    Your hands have been optimized for working your psychic craft. The tendons and muscles have been replaced with synthetics that do not degrade, while the joints have been cybernetically reconstructed to allow for micro-scale movement. This allows you to better perform small scale psychic actions
    Costs 1 point

    [] Blood of the devout:

    A psionic, biological augmentation. The Astra Telepathica has modified your bone marrow to produce blood cells in which additional strands of DNA are produced which read out prayers to the God Emperor in Ternary code. This display of devotion reduces the oxygen capacity of the blood.
    Gain 1 point

    [] Bones of the devout:

    Many of your bones have been replaced with suitable replacements harvested from the most pious of Terra's pilgrims, those who died upon seeing the Eternity Gate.
    Costs 1 points

    [] Reinforced skull:

    Occam's skull split like an egg during his sanctioning. The back of his head has been replaced with metal. The attachment points itch, and people will see you, will be worried it means you often lose control of your power.
    Gain 1 point

    [] Heat vents:

    To manage the buildup of regular heat from psychic casting, a cooling mechanism has been integrated into his skull. A specially engineering cooling liquid flows through implanted tubing along the spine and the base of the brain, before flowing past the heat vents to radiate excess heat, back down the neck into a vessel below the left shoulder.
    Costs 1 point
    Or
    [] Heat vents - Emergency coolant shunts:

    The heat management system is expanded by including an additional reservoir. During times of extreme exertion, the liquid can be vented instead of being allowed to cool, then drawing more from the reservoir.
    Costs 2 points

    [] Psi-Dischargers:

    A ponytail of thin rigid carbon-fibre strands emerges from the back of your head. They function to relieve psychic pressure upon your brain by giving a relief valve for the energies. Also automatically flushes the brain of excess psychic energies caused by a buildup related to ambient energies pooling in the body.
    Costs 1 point

    [] Psychokinetic buffer:

    Deeply integrated into brain tissue, this tiny piece of techno-arcana processes the Psyker's actions involving the drawing on and manipulating of Psychic power. It ensures that, should its host be incapacitated while in the process of performing their craft, an automatic incantation of nullification will be performed by the box, to safely disperse the energies the Psyker has called upon.
    Costs 1 points


    It has been a long and painful road to get to where you are now. You survived the Black Ship, endured your sanctioning on Terra and faced horrors that would break lesser minds, you learned the names of dark gods whose existence would condemn any other to death, fought against the whispers of daemons, and endured the countless trials of purity and purgation that your existence demands.

    Your body is scarred and bears the marks of your ordeals. Thinking back to Terra makes you shudder. The memories have been put behind a partial telepathic block, so you can draw upon them for knowledge, but will not find the trauma overcome you at an inopportune time. Even so, at night you sometimes smell the incense of the trial chambers.

    You are now a Primaris Psyker, Beta-Grade Telekine. A precious asset of the Imperium, now finally deployed on your own. If you survive, then greatness awaits you. Four other Beta-Grade Psykers ascended the ranks alongside you this solar year. More than the Imperium has inducted in centuries. The psychic awakening of mankind continues apace, and you are proof of it.

    You've gone through the reports, read them from start to finish time and again. You frown. You'd hoped for a more glorious assignment.

    This world is a wreck. You remark as you look out the Valkyrie's viewing port. A city of heretics and Xenos, nearly completely razed except for its oldest buildings. You can see remnants of the disturbing round structures. The briefings paint a dim picture. A frontier world abandoned for two centuries due to a failure of administration that accepted an alien yoke.

    It had been deemed as good a location as any to test out your Psychic abilities in a warzone. A purgation operation against mostly defeated foes according to what the Astra Telepathica received of the most recent reports.

    It turns out that the frontline commanders have been overstating their victories, and the enemy is far from destroyed. Instead of prosperous cities of hard-working labourers, the planet of Kleist lay in ruins, with the population herded into processing centres as the wheels of Imperial Justice sorted out those who had been tainted, and whom were innocent. Those who had polluted their hands by trading with the enemies of Mankind were finally being punished.

    A psychic residue of death still lingers over the city, much of it fresh. The Munitorum is working hard to process the continuous flow of supplies and reinforcements from orbit, constructing landing zones and organizing labour details. You close your eyes and extend your thoughts, feeling the soulfires of the people in the city below. Most of it is still concentrated into processing areas managed by the Arbites, while Militarum regiments positioned around the city's edge are holding strategic points. The city's interior still flashes with lasfire and explosives, especially the buildings that show xenos contamination.

    You note a landed ship that a great many soulfires are going into, but what emerges are barely sparks. You open your eyes and look out the viewport and note that its a landed Admech ship. That explains it. Many of those deemed not tainted enough to warrant immediate execution, are being sentenced to Servitude Imperpetuis, destined to labour as Servitors to clean their souls of the sin of contact with the alien. The Admech are labouring furiously to turn those of the populace deemed tainted by the Xenos into productive labourers. You nod approvingly. That will speed up reconstruction.

    When the ramp drops, you look out, finding the regimental Commissar and their cadet waiting for you. The Commissar has a face of scar tissue with half his face made of reconstructive metal cybernetics. The older Commissar is experienced in supervising new Psykers from what the briefings have told you. He gives you an appropriate level of glowering.

    The Cadet is younger, barely an adult with a bare beardless face staring at you. He looks equal parts terrified and hateful. His presence was not in the reports. Although going by the tattered state of his uniform, perhaps his assignment to Johan was a recent change. An orphaned Cadet perhaps?

    As you step off the shuttle, Servitors whose faces still show the blue line tattoos of the local xenophiles begin attaching fuel lines and perform an inspection before the craft can take off again. The overseers and technical crews managing this operation see you, and you can immediately feel a wave of anger and disgust manifest and wash over you.

    On Terra, you met a few 'Blunts', humans without psychic potential, that were not serfs of the Astra Telepathica, and those you met had treated you with a kind of fearful respect.
    Saluting the Corporal. "Primaris Psyker Occam. Here to serve the 124th Torvum Tribunes"

    "Psyker." The Corporal acknowledges you. "At ease. I was not expecting to receive sanctioned support. I read your dossier, but I would like to hear in your own words what you can bring to my forces."

    "I am a Beta-Grade Telekine, Sir. I am here to break the ene-" You catch a glimpse of dark intentions in the crowd, an internal scream of someone trying to encourage themselves. You hold up a finger for silence and concentrate. "A moment, Sir." You extend your mind outwards, feeling the soulfire of the humans around you. They are weak and they flicker in comparison to the raging inferno that is you. You look into the crowd, glancing for the source.

    Although you can't manipulate objects with precision, you can still touch and feel the objects around you. You search for anything out of the ordinary. Precious metal rings on fingers. Clothes of synthetic fibre. Boots of real leather. Squishy flesh. You recognize each of the materials, and the metals that they touch. It is tempting to begin to grasp for and manipulate the objects around you. Everyone and everything around you is just something that you can manipulate at will.

    "Control yourself!" The Cadet commissar yells, pulling you from your focus. He has pulled out his las pistol and aimed it at you, gesturing for the hoarfrost gathering around your feet. You stare incredulously at him. Surfaces around an active Psyker freezing is normal, just how new is this cadet?

    In an instant, the elderly commissar disarms the cadet in a single fluid motion and slaps him to the floor. "It is a miracle your last tutor didn't shoot you, you fool. If you shoot each Psyker that makes reality take a recaff break, we'd burn through them like a Cadian brothel goes throu-"

    You nod in approval at the display of discipline and blush at the creativity of the analogy. You refocus your efforts in the direction the thought came from, you keep your hand ready. You prepare telekinetic energy, sending it flowing into your staff.

    "Down with tyranny!" A woman yells, throwing open her jacket and revealing the rows of xenos explosives strapped to her. She throws herself under a fuel tank as you're still gathering your power.

    You jump forward, raising your force staff and slamming it into the ground, throwing up a Kine Shield to protect yourself, the Colonel, and the Commissars.

    The explosion goes off and fire rushes over you.

    Before the fire has faded, the first of the enemy dreadnoughts begins landing, slamming into the ground.

    The Tau and their Gue'Vesa allies on the surface of Kleist have not been defeated yet. Occam's first deployment begins.


    Happy early New Years Eve to you people (Posting from the Netherlands). This post is my gift to you all.

    It is time to decide just what kind of augmentations you want for Occam to have. No special weapons. You'll earn those. Don't worry about the length of the conflict. This is just a brief intro.

    24 hour Moratorium on voting because of New Years Eve. Have a fun time!
     
    Last edited:
  • View discussion
    • Character Creation Complete: Adept Occam of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica.
  • View content
    • Rolling system
    Rolling system:
    Rolling will be using the 40k RPG standard of needing to roll UNDER the test using a characteristic. The difficulty or ease of the test adds a modified to the test.

    DifficultyModifier
    Very Easy+60Waking up to an
    emergency klaxon,
    jumping a small gap
    Easy+40Fixing a minor jam in
    a familiar weapon
    Routine+20Using a cogitator to
    perform basic research
    Challenging+0Shooting a target in a
    well lit room, climbing
    a stone wall
    Difficult-10Recalling an obscure
    fact about the
    Sector Governor
    Hard-20Swimming upstream
    in a rapidly flowing
    sewer
    Very Hard-30Convincing an Arbites
    to 'let this one slide.'


    For each of the first digit of the roll that is higher or lower than your target, you get a Degree of Success
    I.E
    A Challenging Intelligence test has no bonus, so you need to roll under 35
    If you rolled a 14, you'd do so with two degrees of success.


    You are Primaris Psyker Occam Parsimonn.

    You were born on a meaningless backwater hive world, destined for a life of menial labour, when your psychic powers awakened. You killed people when it happened, and were nearly lynched by a mob, were it not for the Telepathica Prefector whom saved you. He did all he could to prepare you for the Black Ships.

    The trials and rituals you have endured would have broken lesser men, but you have come out stronger for it. A true paragon of human psychic ability.

    For your extreme power, adherence to the Imperial Creed by attempting to give yourself to the Telepathica, and stability, you have been elevated to the ranks of the Primaris Psykers of the Imperium, a noble among commoners and destined for a life of power and privilege as one of the highest elite of the Astra Telepathica.

    Characteristics:
    These are used for rolling non-psychic actions.

    Weapon Skill:
    Using melee weapons.
    30 + 10 = 40
    Ballistic Skill
    Using ranged weapons.
    30 + 10 = 40
    Fitness:
    Performing physical feats. Primarily in regards to physical toughness and strength.
    30 + 10 + 10 = 50
    Intelligence:
    Knowledge, management, and trivia.
    30 + 5 + 10 = 45
    Willpower:
    The ability to resist the touch or allure of the warp.
    30 + 5 + 5 + 10 = 50
    Fellowship:
    The ability to inspire and lead others.
    30 + 5 + 5 + 5 = 45


    Psy-Rating:

    Your capacity to draw upon and use your psychic powers in combat without needing to draw deeply upon your powers. Failing a psychic roll will require you to draw deeper from the warp, which is both painful and dangerous.

    This does not represent raw power, instead it represents the ability to draw upon your power. Actual raw psychic power is too abstract to be easily defined.
    You start with a Psy-Rating of 5. You must roll under 50 to perform psi-craft without building up Warp Charge

    Warp Charge:

    Your body can handle a certain amount of warp charge before you lose control over your powers. This charge is dispersed between combat, and decreased during it by training and augmentations. For every Degree of Success failed when using psychic powers, you build up charge.
    When you max out your warp charge, you roll for perils of the warp.
    You can contain 10 Warp Charge


    Characteristic improvements:
    Several events from your childhood give a good view of just what kind of a person Occam is.

    -"Making the ones in your gang do better":
    Occam has an excellent eye for talent. Seeks to uplift and improve those he has to work with.
    +5 Intelligence +5 Fellowship

    -"The direct approach":
    Occam has always favoured a direct approach to problems. Especially when being blunt surprises the enemy and opens them up for an attack.
    +10 Fitness

    - "I...I need help":
    Occam is prideful and stubborn, but ready and able to swallow this for the sake of calling for the aid of others.
    +5 Fellowship +5 Willpower

    -"Give yourself up":
    Sought to surrender himself to Telepathica custody upon Psychic Awakening. Was blocked by Blunt mob. But nevertheless sought to do the right thing
    +5 Willpower + 5 Fellowship
    This will be remembered by the Telepathica.


    Appearance:

    Occam is an average-looking imperial with a bald head, brown eyes, and a strong if normal soldier's physique. He is of average height, size, and build, and would easily fit in among any Cadian-pattern Imperial Guard regiment were it not for his augmentations.


    Equipment:

    Mars-Pattern Laspistol:     A fine laspistol. Only a century old.
    Force Staff - Telekine Configuration: A simple unadorned force-staff made for your personal use. Made of sanctified silver around a core of psi-reactive lumber.
    Mercy-Blade: A monomolecular blade for committing suicide.


    Cybernetics:

    Cybernetic plugs have been implanted into your wrists and your temples, allowing you to plug into medicae equipment and Astra Telepathica training and scanning equipment.

    A 'Psi-Bridle' covers your neck along the length and width of the spine. A simple but high quality cybernetic interface covering the back of the neck and plugged into the spinal cord and brainstem through implanted sockets of replacement vertebrae. This device is the basis through which any further augmentations will be implanted, serving to both generate power from your bodily processes, and to regulate and moderate their functioning.

    Above the bridle, the back of your skull has been removed and replaced with a Psi-Discharger. This augmentation looks like a short ponytail of thin rigid carbon-fibre strands aimed directly away from your head. These psi-dischargers disperse psychic energy from your brain to reduce the pressure on the body. The Discharger is connected to the Psi-Bridle through a single large cable emerging from the hollow at the back of your skull.

    Your left eye, part of the upper cheek, and the surrounding skin has been replaced with a large cybernetic eye with a single red lens. This cybernetic is attached to the optic nerve but has not been attached into the brain.


    Cosmetic Cybernetic:

    Cybernetic eye - Rudimentary:
    Occam has lost his left eye. It has been replaced with a bulky cybernetic one.


    Psy-Cybernetics:
    Silent City Psi-Bridle:
    A reliable design made by the psi-artisans of the Silent City for the Psykers of the Imperium. This design is only for those Psykers that have a fundamental control over their power, due to the cost of production.
    Your warp charge capacity is 10

    Silent City Beta-Grade Psi-Dischargers:
    A design dating back to the first of the Primaris Psykers assigned to the Imperial Guard. This implant is a simple but reliable method for reducing the psychic pressure known to plague Gamma-Plus Psykers. Each one is a handmade masterpiece.

    This augmentation looks like a short ponytail of thin rigid carbon-fibre strands attached to a plasteel plate on the back of the skull. These psi-dischargers disperse psychic energy from your brain. Also automatically flushes the brain of excess psychic energies between combat.
    Reduces all warp charge buildup by one.
    After half an hour without conflict, your brain will be cleared of all buildup.


    Psykana Conditioning:

    The Scholastica Psykana has implanted the following thought patterns and subconscious compulsions into Occam to improve his psychic potential and protect him from the perils of the Immatereum.
    Conditioning of martyrdom:
    Upon losing control of his powers and feeling the Warp beginning to twist his body and/or mind, Occam will immediately attempt to commit suicide with his mercy-blade.

    Conditioning of acceptance:
    Occam does not feel offended or hurt if he is insulted or cursed for being a Psyker. The ability to be genuinely hurt or offended has been conditioned out of him.

    Conditioning of control:
    Occam subconsciously prays to the God Emperor whenever his thoughts are not occupied. The thirty-three prayers of mental fortitude strengthen his thoughts against subversion.
    +10 Willpower

    Conditioning of endurance:
    Occam can push himself beyond physical endurance and consciously exceed the natural limits of the human body. He can continue performing his psychic powers even should he be, for instance, set on fire, or suffering grievous bodily harm.
    +5 Fitness
    Pain will not make rolls more difficult for you.

    Conditioning of focused thought:
    Occam can only get bored if he wants to be. Otherwise his conditioning kicks in and he tends to his memory palace, examining memories of past events and written knowledge.
    +10 Intelligence


    Psychic Aptitude Grading:
    Upon induction, acolyte achieved the following grades of psychic potential.
    Telepathy: Theta (8)
    Divination: Kappa (6)
    Telekinesis: Beta (14)
    Pyromancy: Theta (8)
    Biomancy: Zeta (10)


    Psychic Abilities:
    Training has resulted in the following abilities being readily available to Adept Occam.

    Theta-Grade Telepathy:
    Adept Occam possessed some telepathic ability upon induction. Due to his inability to filter out incoming telepathic communications, he underwent Conditioning of Control, ensuring he is subconsciously performing prayers of purification and therefore can't hear what those around him are thinking.
    Adept Occam can if he consciously chooses to:
    -Hear "internal screaming" from those looking at him within thirty meters. Ability to receive depends on the volume of the interal voice, and mental shielding.
    -Read surface thoughts of those he is looking at.


    -Kappa-Grade Divination:
    Adept Occam possessed no aptitude or affinity with Divination upon induction into the Astra Telepathica. His training in this school has focused on subconscious precognition.

    This manifests as:
    -Fast reaction times.
    -Heightened senses.
    -A mathematically improbable rate of successfully predicting an opponent's actions.
    +10 Weapon Skill
    +10 Ballistic Skill

    Note: This same ability being seen among ostensible non-psychic Imperial soldiery is not a coincidence. Divination regularly manifests among weak latent psykers as 'Luck' or 'Instincts'. Current estimates put a quarter of Cadian Kasrkin and Tempestus Scions as latent divinatory Psykers.


    Beta-Grade Telekinetics:
    Adept Occam is capable of Beta-Grade telekinetic attacks, this allows him to without tapping into dangerous amounts of psychic power:

    -Throw armoured vehicles, rip the turrets off tanks, and bring down buildings through telekinetically gripping structures and pulling at them. He is limited only by line of sight and the amount of power he is willing to channel.

    -Grip objects and people and apply mechanical forces. This means pulling, shearing, twisting, applying pressure to crush, and equivalent actions. His telekinetic grip does not intrinsically destroy what is held.

    -Despite attempts to improve, Adept Occam's telekinetic manifestations are strictly Eluclidian. His kine-shields manifest as mathematically perfect hexagrams, squares, rectangles, triangles, and circles. Even three-dimensional shapes are composed of a minimal amount of two-dimensional planes.

    -The adept can lift and move up to three objects telekinetically, one with each arm and one with his gaze. But he has trouble performing fine manipulation reliably or at speed. It requires his full concentration if he seeks to push buttons or perform other actions using small objects he holds telekinetically.

    Example: Adept Occam can not reliably use telekinesis to lift a lit candle and use it to light another. He can lift the hab block the candle is in and flip it onto its back.


    Theta-Grade Pyromancy:
    Adept Occam can manifest true fire with a thought. But this takes more effort than any of his telekinetic attacks. Nevertheless, he is capable of it.


    Zeta-Grade Biomancy:
    Adept Occam has a firm understanding of passive and subconscious biomancy. As his Telekinesis is already a superior combat Psykana, his Biomantic training has been focused upon strengthening the body and healing.

    Adept Occam can:
    -Increase the caloric content and nutritional value of food he consumes.
    -Perform full body muscle exercises through biomantic meditation and the focused regrowth of muscle tissue.
    -Strengthen his body and empower himself.
    -Heal wounds ranging from flesh wounds to organ damage. Can not grow new organs, but can regenerate damaged ones.
    +10 Fitness



    Occam is ready to kick ass.
     
    Last edited:
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    • The might of a Telekine.
  • View content
    • [X] Plan: Fit For Fighting
    -[X] Looks healthy
    -[X] Conditioning of control
    -[X] Conditioning of endurance:
    -[X] Conditioning of focused thought
    -[X] Cybernetic eye - Rudimentary:
    -[X] Psi-Dischargers:


    The three triangular panes comprising the kine barrier you manifested dissipate with a wave of your hand.
    One of the pseudo-dreadnoughts of the Xenos has landed in front of you, aiming some sort of rifle at you. Its boxy head tracks you, before noting the staff. It shifts aim away from you, deeming you a non-threat. It is about to leave, when it aims an arm towards the Cadet aiming a defiant laspistol at the Xenos.

    As you draw on your power, you immediately taste blood in your mouth. The warp is in turmoil around the city, and the energies of the warp do not wish to be used.

    The power to mould reality like clay flows into your radiant soul, answering your call. Your Psi-Dischargers begin to sway slightly, the dozens of small cables puttering out small sparks.

    You punch the air two times in rapid succession to limber up.

    The first hit of telekinetic force crumples the battlesuit's chest armour like a blow from a thunder hammer, the second punches through and out the back, dragging the pulped pilot out with it.

    "I can hold this position." You focus intently on your body. Biomancy suffuses your muscles, while invisible psychic energy begins enveloping your limbs. Your eyes begin to glow with inner blue light.

    "Commissar, the Psyker is yours to deploy!" Colonel Adrian commands, his voice more than a little afraid. "Do whatever you can."

    With a soul ablaze with power and purpose, you take hold of the fundamental forces of gravity and electromagnetism and bend them to your will. Then you reach out with your mind and look at just what you're dealing with.

    You are in the burning ruins of the fuel depot. Behind you is the street and the barracks and encampments of the Torvum 124th, who are even now rallying to repel the surprise attack.
    In front of you, coming from the hinterlands beyond the city, are the Tau 'Battlesuits' and their infantry support.

    With a dismissive wave of your hand, you douse the remaining flames in the fuel depot, saving the undamaged supplies of Prometheum. The 124th need little motivation to rush into action, preparing their Chimera transports.
    There are many wounded among the remnants of the fuel depot. A dozen of them are horrifically burned. But they could become a fighting force.

    The energy of the Immatereum flows into you, where you turn it into the stuff of life itself. Tendrils of clean green energy seek out the wounded, jabbing into them and triggering bodily regeneration. Soldiers burned half to death get to their feet, wounds fading before their eyes.

    They take out weapons, pistols and rifles, and begin forming into ad-hoc formations. What hasn't been destroyed by the explosives has to be defended. Combat servitors are powered up, while locals used for menial labour are pre-emptively shot for security.

    The Colonel has already taken command of the situation, shouting orders into his Vox, and preparing a counterattack as he legs it back towards his command post.

    You have pushed as far as you dare without getting permission to break out the truly destructive powers.

    You turn around, glancing for the Commissar. Johan is observing at a distance, bolt pistol at the ready. Behind him, the Cadet looking at you in unrestrained horror. The Commissar gives you a glare. "Need me to change your nappies? Go on. Show them the God Emperor's wrath, Psyker!"

    You catch his surface thoughts. I hope this one has some self-confidence. Last Psyker wouldn't even heal with Biomancy without asking permission. Followed by mental images of some very colourful analogies.

    Your professional relationship established, you nod respectfully. The Commissar returns the nod and gets about his duty. He shoots a man running from the motor pool and begins organizing a defense.


    Quickly a defense is organized, and the first squads of Torvum Tribunes in their heavy armour appear, taking up firing positions in the rubble and aiming down the street that the Tau are coming from.

    124th Chimeras are aggressively pushing out, heavy bolters blazing at the enemy battlesuits that are approaching over the rooftops. The Tau are firing their weapons from extreme range, the massive kinetic weapons their suits use each coring a chimera in a single shot.

    A pair of grenades are thrown towards you. They are detonating before you can grab them.

    You focus your power upon them, containing the expanding energy of the explosion with two telekinetic grips. Sweat beads your forehead as you begin moving them away from you. As you're trying to move it away from you, both hands focused, you begin taking shots to your kine shield. Bolts of dissipating blue energy caught in the invisible dome you project around yourself.

    The Tau who threw the grenade open fire from cover, their shot bouncing off your kine shields as they fire on fully automatic. His squad are with him, their camouflaged suits emerging from the rubble around the motor pool as they exchange fire with the defenders. Battlesuits on a rooftop are firing down into the motor pool.

    They are concentrating fire upon you, and you taste blood and the colour green as you focus upon your defence.

    Your snap your gaze at the Tau. You concentrate your power with just your mind, no hand gestures, no physical motions. Just raw power focused upon him. The Tau lets out a brief scream as he is crushed flat by the weight of your thoughts pressing down upon him.

    You throw the grenades back at the squad, then pull the facade of the hab block they're firing from down around them. You feel a sting of a distant headache as you try to find the source of the projectiles raining down upon the Chimera.

    You feel a projectile passing through one of your Kine Shields, slamming into the engine compartment of the Chimera. You immediately focus your attention upon the origin but it is too far away.

    Soon another shot rings out, coring another Chimera. You quickly formulate a plan.

    You prepare panes of telekinetic force over the engine housing of the two remaining active Chimera.

    A sensation like a punch to the gut races through your mind as a railgun slug slams into the pane of kinetic force. It takes nearly all your focus to hold the projectile in place. Your Psi-Dischargers are now vomiting forth tendrils of raw energy. One Torvum Tribune gets too close, and he explodes in a shower of gore.

    The Commissar, screaming and firing his bolt pistol at enemies firing from a nearby building, glances towards you.

    "Clear Backblast!" The Commissar yells at the top of his lungs, then returns to firing down the street.

    The railgun round hovers close to the engine, nearly entirely through the barrier, still moving, just very slowly.

    You reach through the sympathetic connection between the projectile and the weapon that had fired it, extending your psychic will through the round and into the weapon that fired it. Pressure begins to grow behind his eyes. A few drops of blood flow from your eyes.

    It is like reaching through a flame as you stretch out your psychic awareness to a battlesuit nearly a kilometer away. The threads of sympathy between the slug and its shooter are fraying, and as they do, it feels like parts of you are snapping.

    You slowly raise a finger. It is like you are trying to push through someone. You twirl it around then close a fist.

    The slug flips around and you release it, still holding onto the battlesuit to stop it from moving.

    The railgun shot, held in place, shoots off too fast to follow, tearing the battlesuit that fired it apart.

    Your senses slam back into your body. You fall onto your rear, looking up at the high rise as its front facade collapses from the detonation of the Battlesuit's reactor. Your head hurts, but the taste of blood is gone. You get to your feet, crack your wrists, spit out some blood, and throw yourself against the Tau once more.


    In the months to come, you become a living terror for the Tau forces upon the planet. You tear apart Battlesuits, protect whole companies of troops with kine shields to support their advance, and throw Tau tanks around.

    The sight of you, charging into battle trailing lightning and holding your force staff is a sight that spurs equal parts fear and respect.

    Most of the Imperial Guard stationed upon the planet fear and recoil at the sight of you. Clutching holy symbols and glaring at you. Their Commissars give you the evil eye and complain to the Torvum 124th about you being kept outside of a containment cage between battles.

    The Torvum Tribunes, while wary at first, find themselves respecting and appreciating your power and assistance. They follow you into battle, and your feats are even occasionally cheered for. They ignore any such demands, and defending you becomes something that results in more than a few punch-ups. And these warriors, their officers being connected to the military families of the Torvum Sector, sent word back home about your feats.

    When the last Tau is finally dragged out of hiding and thrown still-struggling onto the funeral pyre, there is little doubt that your powers were invaluable for the retaking of the planet, and you, by recommendation of Colonel Adrian, receive the Torvum Star, the highest award that said Sector can give out.

    Shortly after word of this was sent back to Holy Terra, you were reassigned into a teaching role. You have been ordered to take up a supporting teaching role in the Scholastica Psykana, and are to help train a Wyrdvane Choir.

    It is early, but not unknown for a gifted Psyker to quickly be withdrawn for training purposes.

    For the journey, transportation was arranged in a hurry, and you were transported aboard:

    [] A Battleship of Battlefleet Torvum:
    Kar Duniash, Segmentum Fortress of the Ultima Segmentum, has recently finished the construction of a new battleship for the Torvum Sector fleet. For the final leg of the journey you travelled in luxury aboard the battleship.
    Meet an admiral of Battlefleet Torvum, a nephew of Sector Lord Ozmandus

    [] A House Chromus Cruiser:

    The Chromus Protectorate is the name for a sub-sector of the Torvum Sector ruled as a fief of House Chromus on behalf of the Imperium. The Chromus Protectorate is an isolated part of the sector, located entirely upon The Leaves of the sector's warp lanes. You have been granted passage upon a Lunar-Class Cruiser of the Protectorate for transportation to Menagerie, the Torvum Sector's Capital.
    Meet one of the prospective heirs of Rogue Trader Lord Chromus CLVII

    [] A chartered luxury transport:

    The League of Chartist Captains within the Torvum Sector chafes at the omnipresence of the Voidborn, denying the League monopolies and exclusivities that they have in other sectors. Nevertheless, the League of Chartist Captains controls trade leaving the Torvum Sector, and therefore has connections throughout the sector.
    Meet an intelligent Chartist Captain with connections to some of the largest economic blocs of the Torvum Sector.

    [] 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.

    [] An Explorator Ark Mechanicus:

    The Silver Rings are the worlds of a system entirely devoted to the Omnissiah on behalf of the Torvum Sector Adeptus Mechanicus. The Silver Rings are three orbital rings which are each composed of ten segments, each segment ruled by an Archmagos of the Mechanicum. They produce the bulk of the military equipment that the sector requires.

    You find yourself in a luxury suite aboard an Ark Mechanicus returning to the Silver Rings after a two-century journey into the intergalactic void.
    Meet a introspective Arch-Magos of the Silver Rings returning home.


    4 Hour Moratorium
     
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    • Meeting a general and deciding what we want to train.
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    • [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.
     
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