ARCANA (40K Perpetual Quest)

[The Bird]

Warning: the following chapter, while not having any particularly egrigious content, features a character being unnessarily cruel in a manner intended to be deeply unpleasant.

[ ] Warbike Repair: Pay would be nice, probably, but the real prize would be the warbike Reva promised you. All you had to do was get the Sisterhoods warbikes in working order. Reward: ??? Thrones, Working Warbike, cultivated Reva contact. Assorted Tech Skill progress.

___________________________________________________________________

Feral cogboy.

That was what Reva called you. You took it as a compliment, to a degree. It wasn't, however, accurate. You were in possession of knowledge gained from a lifetime of emergency repairs, desperate scavenging, and haphazard kludging together. After all, it wasn't like the shanties were possessed of any members of the Red Cult.

When they sinned, after all, they weren't exiled. They were above such things: for ones such as them, absolution existed within their systems and laws.

No, you were merely possessed of hedge-rituals and knowledge: you couldn't speak to machine spirits, not in the way the Magna Mechum, nor could you create shells for them to inhabit. All you could do was diagnose simple problems and create crude solutions, the same as any two bit tech-mat or hedge-mechanic.

Repair Roll: 81+15: 96: Strong Success

However, on some rare occasions? You could almost, almost hear the invisible whisper of the machine. Oh how they sang! Oh how the wires and electricity danced, a performance at which you stood as the conductor even as they composed the dance of metal and machine, a symphony, an electronic jig. It was in many ways one of the more beautiful things you had ever encountered, along with the clink of coin and that rare moment where your belly was full: one of those handfuls of experiences that should normally be joyous for you in a way that artefact hawking never was...

Jury Rig: 8: Failure

...But then, you reach too far, and the enchantment ends, and bitterness at failed opportunity strikes as you were reminded how unworthy you actually were. Coin is spent or stolen, leaving pockets empty. Hunger returns, worse than before, because before you never knew satiety and now must inevitably compare the emptiness of your stomach to when it was once full. And, inevitably, you overstep your bounds and the machine spirits no longer converse with you, the ephemeral patterns receding as they take offense to your transgression, your presumption, even briefly, of having mastery or even worthiness.

And like that, you are reminded of your remit: as much hedge-mechanics as you knew, you were not of the Order of the Machine, and you commanded no loyalty from those spirits that served the Omnissiah: whatever you received from His plate was mere charity, and you were no more entitled to more than a dog fed scraps was entitled to his masters plate.

You stepped away from the bike, whatever mood of pleasantness gone. Frankly, you just wanted it over with: this was why you never went into technology as a racket. It wasn't that it was hard. It wasn't that it was unprofitable.

It was that every time you were rejected by the machine spirits, you felt a little more hollow.

+1 Trauma

"It's done," You mutter, just loud enough for Reva to hear. In that smokey, grime filled place, she labored as well. Though you had saved her work on the bikes, she had opted to not take a break, instead deciding to work on another order for the Sisterhood, one far more within her capabilities: weapons, it appeared, mostlyheavy stub-pistols and stub-cannons.

That was good: if you weren't moving, you weren't surviving. Rest was a luxury reserved for those with more establishment behind them, after all. You marginally raised your estimation of how fast she would die or go mad.

"You really need to stop muttering," Reva said, voice flat as she rose from her workbench. "People have told you that, right? You mutter. Pretty loudly. Don't really appreciate you talking about how I'm going to die or go mad, because no offense, I don't plan to do either."

That's what they all say.

"I'm not them," Reva snarled, removing her dark, opaque workmans goggles as she glared at you, eyes full of fire. "I don't know what the hell you did to wind up here. I'm sure you think it was justified or worth it, but unlike you, I didn't have any choice! It was either them or the whole line, and-"

"The action I took that resulted in me inhabiting the Outskirts was being born to Outskirts, but yes, I absolutely had a choice," you reply blandly, not willing to engage her or entertain her absurd self-delusions. You weren't here to debate whatever sin she had committed, after all, though you did take some small pleasure at her face growing red as she spluttered, unable to respond. Still, professionalism. "Anyways, moving past your irrelevant delusions of moral superiority and judgement and unnecessary justifications that are absolutely unimportant, once again: the bikes are finished."

"I don't- You-" She gave a very dry swallow as she exhaled. "I'm not some...some deluded criminal! There wasn't anything else I could do-"

"Save the blubbering and self-righteous justifications for when I'm not here. How you sleep with yourself and the lies you tell to do it are none of my concern," You said flatly, doing your best to hide your growing frustration as you slowly felt your estimation of Reva drop again. "I don't give a shit," You clarified, helpfully. "Nobody gives a shit. You've been here...I'd say a month," You said, going off her clothes, which were still relatively clean, still in relatively good conditions, the color a soft, light grey instead of the dark browns and black of the assorted mold covered rags most had to with and the fabric untorn, undamaged compared to the barely stitched together clothing of most individuals you knew. "You've probably been telling everyone who even edges near the topic about how you didn't deserve this, how you had no choice, how you had actually, SECRETLY done the right thing!"

The venom dripped into your voice slowly as you continued your hateful deconstruction of the armsdealer. "Well, allow me to tell you this, Reva Laran-"

"Larral-"

"I supremely do not care," You replied, staring intently at the woman as her face grew redder and redder and she shrunk back more and more. "Nobody cares, and everyone whose been polite enough to humor you was probably annoyed at having to listen to some ignorant, judgemental city-born go on and on about their vaunted moral superiority and how YOU somehow are the exception to the countless other exiles they've met. You aren't special. You aren't some uniquely privleged individual: nobody you exclaim your innocents towards believes you, and even if they did, somehow, believe that or even were willing to humor it, they don't actually care, because you-"

You poked her in the chest, hard, and she took a step back. Ah yes, good old fashioned city-born cowardice: full of fire and vim and vigor when they felt secure, but the MOMENT that security was stripped away, they rolled on their belly like the spoiled dogs they were. "-Are not unique. I have seen literally hundreds like you, people from the city who fucked up and got exiled and decided THEY and THEY ALONE were the exception to the wretched rules of this universe that everyone else in the Outskirts was squigshit they had tracked in."

You leaned in, getting right into her face, savoring her tears a bit. "Newsflash, Reva! You're squigshit too! We're all Squigshit here, and you might have been a bit lucky getting into this shop and getting a marginally decent racket right out the gate, but I guarantee you luck is the first thing that runs out in this miserable, squalid little hellhole, and when it does run out for you, you'll realize just how little you or your self-proposed innocence matter." You leaned back, turning away.

"And when that happens, the Shanties will chew you up and spit your mangled carcass out for the crows to feed on." You walked to one of the bikes, grabbing them. "I'm done here and I'm taking this," You said, tone final, brooking no argument or tolerance, not that the now trembling, sobbing woman seemed to offer any. "If you actually want to last longer than my very generous projections, do yourself a kindness and grow up."

You pushed the bike out, leaving Reva sobbing at your tirade as you made your way home.

Only later would you feel guilt for your verbal destruction of the woman.

Gained Warbike
Contact: Reva Who-Cares advanced.
10/120 Progress to Repair (Master)
11/30 Progress to Jury-Rig (Journeyman)

Hidden Skill revealed:

Social: Teardown (Master)

 

[The Bird]

"Didn't know you knew how to fix things, Ull," Dragovax teased.

You grumble a bit. So, she had heard about your participation with the bikes, then.

"Oh, I've heard it, alright: we were expecting maybe half of our order to be ready the week AFTER the March. And you, in less than a day, finish the entire order." She clicked her tongue, looking you up and down with a hungry gaze. "'S too bad you're a man, we could use some mechanics like that in the sisterhood. 'Course, maybe we could come to an...arrangement."

You fidgeted uncomfortably. "I'd rather not," You replied, doing your best to keep your voice level. "If you want repairs, I'm willing to work for a...reasonable reduction of my debt, but otherwise..." You trailed off, letting Dragonvax fill in the blanks. Best that way: less chance of setting her off.

She gave you a large, rather uncanny grin. "Shame. You'd be such a...asset." Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it. "So, what do you want? We both know you don't visit except if you need something," She gave a wistful, overexaggerated sigh. "Such a shame, too."

"The...same thing as last time," You muttered blandly. "See what I can do to manage this debt without getting my fingers chopped off."

Her grin only intensified, as if she was laughing at a joke only she was aware of. "Oh, is that so? Weeeellll, there are a few options, assuming you don't kack it at Gorgoroth." Leaning back, she took a hit off her lho-stick. "Obviously, the repair thing could make a pretty penny: jokes at your expense aside, we do actually need people who can fix up shit: not just weapons either. You know how to fix up a tractor? What about irrigation systems?" She asked sharply.

"I, uh..." That was a tough one, actually: most mechanical systems for vehicles weren't THAT dissimilar. You had taken apart and put together enough bikes and trucks in your life that you could likely do the same for a tractor with a bit of practice. Irrigation system would probably be simpler: just a pump and some pipes. "Probably," You say after a moment.

Dragovax nods, removing the lho stick from her mouth and snuffing it out on the brickwork behind her, ashes and glowing embers falling into the dirt. "There's option one: our farms always need shit fixed up. Probably'll pay like shit since the higherups are still pissed at you, but it'll get you a bit of goodwill from Solita." She paused for a moment, before shrugging.

Gained Potential Score: Farm Repair

Risk: Moderate
Reward: Goodwill, maybe.

"Course, you could probably make the same pitch to the Children. Dunno how much they'd pay you, but they aren't pissed at you and you don't owe em."

Gained Potential Score: Farm Repair (Children)

Risk: Unknown but probably low.
Reward: Unknown but probably low.

"...Anything else?" You really didn't like the sounds of either of these: the former brought you in close contact with the Sisterhood for an indeterminate and you doubted they would be gentle, and the Children were a pagan cult you wanted to avoid getting tangled up in: those sorts usually wind up getting purged back into the under-shanty whenever the cities and tribes or other gangs eventually got around to it.

Dragovax shrugged. "Dunno. Not really much I can offer to someone whose got a one in a hundred shot at surviving, even if the higher ups were willing to humor you." She reached into her pocket, pulling out another lho-stick and a lighter and, flicking the ignition, lit up the narcotic cylinder. "Course, the finger thing is still open if you want to avoid Gorgoroth, and then I'd be willing to talk alternate payment methods," She said, raising an eyebrow...

"...No."

"Suit yourself," She said, taking a puff from the lho-stick. "You know where to find me, at least."

Contact cannot advance until after Gorgoroth Martyrs March
7/30 progress to Networking (Journeyman)
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Stained glass windows rose high over the shanties, the rose and emerald colored silica depicting the death of the Hand, smote by the God Emperors Empyreal power, the stonework and masonry elegant, sturdy, with ivory bricks forming a set of stairs leading to the chapel, door flanked on each side by massive columns, thick and imposing pillars etched with multitudes of prayers and benedictions.

Trudging up those polished granite escaliers, you passed the ornate ebony doors, carved from wood and held together tightly by metal bands: usually, they were locked shut, preventing the chapel from being accessed. However, by their own codes, Elocutors were obligated to leave the halls of worship open to the public at least two days a week, much as the Elocutors of the Shanties would love to fasten shut their tabernacles and bar the scum of the outskirts from defiling those glorious houses of god with their presence.

Inside, every surface was immaculately clean, the work of the chapel attendants, assigned alongside the Elocutor-Praesus and any Elocutor-Adjutors by the Santica Celeste to minister to the Outskirts. The floors, polished, gilded tile that gleamed in the light of the torches ensconced in the vast, looming arches of the chapel, with the nave filled by row after row of pew, each of them cushioned with red pillows.

Arranged on the pulpit was a massive auto-hymnal blaring liturgies at such a fundamental volume that it set your teeth on edge, the deep bass observances of the massive metal device causing the very bricks under you to vibrate.

"Ah, a visitor!"

Turning, you spotted one of the Elocutors, a man, head completely shaven, frame heavy boned, almost chubby, clad in the black, woolen frock of a Elocutor-Adjutor. "Welcome, welcome! Apologies for the-" He gestured at the auto-hymnal. "Father Barchus feels that it would be impious to not run the thing at all hours of the day. Personally, I think we might benefit from a little quiet for self-contemplation." The mans overscarred face was split into a massive grin, revealing a row of large, tombstone like teeth below his rather beady eyes. He reached out his hand to you in an unfamiliar gesture, holding it in the air.

"Father Eli, my son, pleasure to meet you."

You blinked, unsure how to respond, and the Elocutors smile dropped a bit. "It's a handshake, son. It won't bite," He said, gently. Handshake? Did that mean...

You reached out, grasping his hand, and gave it a single shake, up and down, before removing your palm from his own. "My name is Ulysses. I came by to see if there was any work I could do," You rasped, nervous. You held the machine god in more reverence, for one thing. For another, the blaring of the auto-hymnal made it difficult to hear, to say nothing of the vibrations setting your teeth on edge.

The man drooped a little, his smile fading a bit. "Ah, not a pilgrim looking to re-affirm their faith in the Emperor. I see." He immediately brightened up. "Still, I understand: can't properly serve the god-emperor on an empty stomach!" He turned, gesturing art you to follow him. "Come, come! I'm not allowed to just give you some busy-work in order to justify paying you, but nowhere in His scriptures does it not say we can't feed you!"

_____________________________________________

You sat, bewildered, an array of different foods laid before you, as Father Eli sat across from you, babbling on. "And so, I said that he should focus on his own foibles before trying to shame someone else!" He gave a deep, deep belly laugh, and you noted you hadn't actually listened to the rest of his story.

What was going on? There had to be a catch hidden somewhere: people didn't just...give food away. Especially not the Elocutors. Your mind was running at a hundred miles an hour as you tried to figure out where the scheme lay. Was he looking for cheap labour? No, if that was the case he'd have likely had you work on the chapel somehow in exchange for food, and certainly not this MUCH.

"Son, are you alright? You look a bit lost inside your own brain," Eli said, taking a bite of (was that actual cheese? you knew the elocutors were rich but you didn't realize they were able to afford actual cheese rich). "Also, you haven't eaten yet," He said, placing the cheese back down on his own plate.

You hesitated. "I, ah, I-"

"You're worried that this is a scam," Eli said, frowning, an unknown look on his face: the best you could compare it to was melancholy, but it wasn't quite that. Worry, maybe? No, not that either. "You think that I'm attempting to deceive you or otherwise manipulate you." He let out a slow, slow breath from his nostrils. "Ulysses, I swear on the God-Emperors very Throne, there is no trick here: should you eat from what I've set out, there will be no consequences other than you getting a meal." He reached out and poked you in the ribs. "And a good thing that, as well: being so skinny can't be good for the body or soul."

You paused, taking it in. You didn't necessarily believe him, but...

Well, you were hungry, and you had never had cheese before. Reaching out, you grasped yourself a single, small piece of it, and, bringing it to your mouth, began consuming it.

...It was delicious.

-1 Trauma.
Gain: Well-Fed: Training rolls gain an additional +1. (Lasts 1 week).

Afterwards, after consuming a rather unsightly amount of cheese and other rarities like bread, olives, and even milk, you were shuffled out of the church. "Please, feel free to come back! My door is always-" Father Eli paused, coughing. "Well, it's not, actually, scratch that: Father Barchus was rather clear on that: something about not letting the riff-raff defile the place." He gave a rather contemptuous snort. "Well, at the very least, feel free to visit whenever the doors open: though be warned, next time you'll have to sit through one of my sermons," Father Eli said, giving a conspiratorial wink.

Nodding, you politely thanked him, and began trudging away, still more than a bit confused, but rather happy you had gotten to eat such a sumptuous feast.

Gained Contact: Father Eli, Elocutor.
Throne Cost refunded.

 

[The Bird]

Networking Roll: 33

The Sisterhoods bar was brightly lit, clean. It was a place of open power, unhidden, illuminated by blazing torches.

Sharky's was the opposite in many ways: a low hanging ceiling, dimly lit by electric lights, heavy smoke in the air. As you walked forward, nervous, you did your best to ignore the bars inhabitants: from seedy barflies drinking away their meager income on mushroom wine, to bored card sharps plying their trade. The walls, a dark yellow color not from paint or enamel, but from decades of smoke staining the cinderblock brickwork, seemed to almost stifle, not helped by the numerous posters they proudly displayed, depicting everything from scenes from old holo-vids, to crude, off color jokes, to even a few glyphs you recognized as Orkish.

The rough carpeting, an ugly, puke brown (near black, even) color, did little to help the initial impression of the bar as a complete and utter dive. However, when you looked closer...

The bar was stocked not by cheap local swill, but rather quality City-Born drinks. The card sharps played not with the overused, worn out cards most dealt with, but brand new, shiny cards of origin unknown. Even the carpeting was, on closer inspection, far higher quality than one might think, the fibers finer and more expensive than their colors would imply.

And, on the hip of every patron was a Laspistol. Good ones, too.

Sharky's might seem like a dive, at first, but then one realized that the name was frighteningly literal: it was a dark, dangerous grotto, and the patrons who made it their nest were all sharks at rest: say the wrong word, do the wrong thing, and the feeding frenzy would begin.

You made your way to the back, stopping in front of a door: in front of it, a bouncer non-pareil, as exotic as they were heretical. "Oi, who're you, den?" Said the grinning, massive ork acting as Sharky's bodyguard.

You did your best to not tremble. Goliath. The most infamous inhabitant of the Shanties, and the most dangerous of them. Sharky's top enforcer, the massive and brutish creature was renouned for its obscene capacity for violence as well as the skill with which it carried out said carnage. No one was sure why (or how) the beast was ignored by the Cities and the Tribes, but for some Omnissiah cursed reason, they saw fit to leave the xeno alone.

Briefly, you recalled the time, ten years ago by your counting, the rest of the gangs HAD tried to get rid of the Ork Bouncer.

The largest of the alliance, the Bloody Knives, the largest of the gangs and most powerful of them, had been utterly butchered to the last, and the Sisterhoods matriarch had been slain, her skull taken by Goliath as a trophy.

...Perhaps that was why the City saw fit to pretend the large, heavily tattood ork didn't exist.

You had heard indeed much about Goliath, but seeing him in person was...

For one thing, he was taller than most of his kin, much taller, his skin a deeper and darker green. Further, every inch of its body was covered in tattoos: whorls and names and glyphs, with very little of his body unmarked. Even the Xenos face wasn't entirely exempt from this, with a large brand across Goliath's right eye, in the shape of an I, with, below it, in high gothic, a single word. "Sanctioned".

"Oi, asked you a question, pipsqueak," He said, poking you in the chest with a massive finger, staggering you. "Don't make me ask again, or we'z gonna have problems. And not the fun kind." The grin he gave was as reassuring as his words were: not at all, and you could tell from the look in his eye that the ork would LOVE to have problems with you.

"M-M-M-" You stuttered, doing your best to stay composed...

Goliath let out a massive roar in your face, staggering you once again.

"Mynameisulyssesiaccidentallysoldyourbossaforgeryandiwantedtoappologize PLEASE don't take my fingers!" You babbled out, the sheer terror of an enraged ork warrior managing to give you enough composure to spit out what you needed to spit out. For a few moments, the bar was silent as Goliath stared at you, grin not dropping...

Before he let out a loud belly laugh. "Herr herr herr herr," He vocalized, his chuckles low and bassy like a machine. "Dat was a gud 'un! You shoulda seen th' look on yer face! You look like you need a new pair 'o trousers!" He continued laughing for a bit, before it tapered off and he leaned forward, getting right up into your face. "Ulysses, huh? Yeah, I know who you are. Yer the git wot almost got the boss scammed. Too bad for you, he don't wanna see you."

Your heard dropped. Oh no. "But I-"

"Ain't worth his time or energy," Goliath said, sneering. "You fink da boss is going to see every pissant that walks through dat door? You think he has time to told to every git what's pissed 'im off?"

...Oh. Oh you were fucked. "I...would you at least convey my sincerest appologies?"

"Hmm," The ork said, deliberately looking pensive. "I'unno. Y' say you're sorry, but from where I'z standing, you've decided to AVOID da boss, 'spite knowing he 'ad cause to be annoyed, riiiiight up until right before a gitz march that'll get you killed, and thus beyond the Boss's reach. I dunno about you, but that kinda makes me suspekt you aren't QUITE sincere."

...You gave a dry swallow. "W-would you believe I was busy trying to make sure I survived the march?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know you, kid, and I trust you about as far as I can throw you." He leaned back, and let out another chuckle. "Buuuuuut, at the same time, I 'spose I could throw you pretty far. Tell you what: I hear 'da Sisters want to chop off yer fingers fer screwin' em. You let us do the same, we'll cancel the debt, fair n square. Heck, I'm feelin' generous, so I'll even let you pick which finger!"

He tilted his head even as you felt your stomach curdle. "Y'all right mate? Yer lookin a bit green, and not in the good way."

"I, um. Is there any alternative?" You asked, lamely.

The Ork shrugged. "Well, you could always do a few jobz. Figure the boss probably has something fer you. But, welll..." He snickered. "Let's just say that you'll probably get some of the dirty jobs."

Gained Contact: Goliath, Ork Enforcer.

[ ] Agree to lose a finger. Reward: Immediate cancelation of debt and forgiveness of Sharky. Cost: Varies by finger.
-[ ] Select one non-thumb finger.

[ ] Agree to do some jobs. Reward: No finger loss. Cost: Working for Sharky.

 

[The Bird]

"I'll, uh. I'll take the jobs," You muttered small.

The Ork chuffed, apparently satisfied with the decision, if not exactly approving of it. "Roight, figured: gotta say, shame you didn't pick the finger: nobody ever picks the ginger. Anyways, come get me when y'get back from Gorgoroth." He leaned forward, looming over you. "Don't make me come fer you," He growled. Nervously, you nodded, recognizing that if the Ork had to track you down, he would likely feed you your own teeth before beating you to death with your own arms.

"Y-yes sir. I'll, uh. I'll make sure of it. Th-thank you for your patience."

Well. At least you hadn't lost a finger.



_______________________________________________________

Well. It was the week. The week you either died or got a headstart on your debt.

You had some time, of course, before it was time to head out. Last minute preparation, meetings, etc. Then...

Well, then you marched into the green bowels of hell.

You have 2 AP. All actions unless stated otherwise cost 1 AP.
You have 380 Thrones. Must have at least 750 Thrones in two turns.
Gorgoroths Martyrs March will occur after this turn is finished.

[ ] Rumor Mongering: There was always something going on in the Shanties. Maybe if you actually tried listening to the rumors, you could find a potential good score. However, it would cost at least some Thrones to loosen lips... Cost: 25 Thrones. Reward: Gain access to this turns Rumor Mill. Potential leads to a Big Score. Gain Streetwise skill progress.

[ ] Do Some Digging (Still not that kind): Hieram had, whether he realized it or not, gave you a lead on a potential big score, huge even. If there was a new Orkium where people died mysteriously, you might be able to find out where its located if you grease the right palms. Cost: 50 Thrones. Reward: New Big Score. SPECIAL: Chance of success increases for every Contact you have and how developed that contact is.

[ ] Network: You were going to need...'friends', if you want to make a big score. You loathed to do it, but you'd need to start playing nice with people... Cost: 25 Thrones. Reward: Select one group below. Gain information, potential contacts, potential jobs related to the selection. Gain Networking skill progress.
-[ ] Sharkyz Boys: One of the gangs of the shanty, and the only gang strong enough to directly rival the Sisterhood, the enigmatic Sharky was never, ever seen in person...but his people liked to congregate at specific bars, and Sharky himself was well known for his love of Orkish artefacts (indeed, some people had accused Sharky of being a closet Digga...and the gang boss had responded by feeding the offenders to a starved ork the gang boss had captured to use as a pit fighter). Their chief enforcer has agreed to waive your debt in exchange for doing some jobs.
-[ ] Sisterhood: The other major gang of the shanties, the Sisterhood was infamous for their brutality towards those who had displeased them. That said, they weren't without their virtues: they made sure their people were well fed, operating one of the only functional farms in the Shanty. They were currently pissed as hell at you. However, Dragovax at least seems willing to tolerate you.
-[ ] Elocutors: The local hand of the faith, they largely didn't care about the Outskirts. You knew of exactly one chapel in the shanty, though from what you heard elsewhere they had more presence in the other, slightly less terrible shanties. Father Eli had shown a degree of friendliness you might be able to utilize.
-[ ] Rats: Not everyone could join a gang or find a racket. Even among the poor, there were those who were even poorer. Mutants, madmen, the diseased, habitual cannibals. The Rats came in all shapes, sizes, and sins, and there was very much something to be said for courting them: after all, one rarely paid attention to a passing mouse...
-[ ] Artefact Hawkers: Your, ugh...'peers'. You didn't get along with them and the feeling was mutual. Still, if you wanted to find a big score, this was the obvious solution. You'd have to swallow your distaste, however, and pray they were willing to tolerate you for longer than ten minutes. Hieram in particular loathed you, and the feeling was mutual, but who knows, he might be willing to cut you some slack...for the right amount of Thrones.
-[ ] Arms Dealers: You might need weapons for some of these Big Scores. Good ones. Luckily, the Shanties had a vibrant and diverse weapons market: it was a good way to make money if you could get a foot in the door, after all, transporting and selling guns, most of which were produced either in the city as surplus or shipped in from off-world. Mostly, you felt the need to check in on Reva, who you had brutally verbally tore down the other day.

[ ] Forge (Lesser) Artefact: A reliable source of income, forging some lesser artefacts could bring in a small but assured amount of Thrones. You just had to make sure it wasn't sold to Sharky. Reward: Minimum 25 Thrones. Forgery Progress.

[ ] Forge (Major) Artefact: A more dicey gamble, you could attempt to forge a higher quality, rarer artefact. The market was smaller, but those who were interested in such things were willing to pay much more, though one should be careful that they don't spot the forgery... Reward: 50% chance of 50 Thrones Forgery Progress. Cost: 50% chance of zero thrones.

[ ] Forge (Greater) Artefact: You could always go for broke. It was a gamble, but it might pay off. Reward: 25% chance of 100 Thrones, Forgery Progress. Cost: 75% chance of zero thrones. SPECIAL: Can spend two actions to raise odds of success by 25%.

[ ] Farm Repair: You knew enough hedgemechanics to do admirable work repairing farm equipment. The payout would probably be low, but you'd build goodwill, at least, and the pay wasn't NOTHINH. Reward: Varies by faction. Cost: Varies by faction
-[ ] Sisterhood: The sisterhood held the monopoly in grain products as well as squig meat. While pissed at you, working for them could at least buy you a little forgiveness. However, you'd likely have to endure a fair bit of abuse.
-[ ] Children: The Children of Y'drg were a small but growing cult whose farm, producing a variety of starch products, was largely used to feed the indigent of the Shanties. The pay was...probably not terrible.

[ ] Iron Mongers Mine: Paid like shit, but the money wasn't really the point, the point was to see what inroads you could make with the Iron Mongers, a minor gang who nonetheless had at least a degree of pull in the Shanties due to owning the only significant factory. Even if they lost their turf war, the Iron Mongers were the shanties primary purveyor of ores and...MOST metal tools that weren't produced by the Cities. Reward: Between 1-10 Thrones, Iron Monger Contacts, ??? and Networking progress.

[ ] Go A-Hunting: It was a desperate idea, but you could make some money by hunting Orks. There was always a bounty for the damn things, and it paid fairly well...were it not for the inherent danger of it. Cost: High chance of injury, almost certain chance of stress gain. Reward: Minimum 25 Thrones, random combat skill increase.

[ ] Scout Out Orkium: Even worse, and unlikely to provide dividends, you could visit one of the closer Orkiums. They're mostly tapped out, but you could get lucky and find something worth a few Thrones. Cost: Guaranteed injury and stress gain. Reward: Small amount of Survey progress, small amount of Aptitude progress, random but small amount of Thrones, very small potential chance for rare salvage.

____________________________________________

Pick one interlude. These exist to help flesh out the planet and delve into its backstory.

[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: Digganob Phenomenon.
[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: Orkoid Adaptations and long term Infestation effects.
[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: History, Myths, and Legends, Pt 1.
[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: Cultural Attache.

 

[The Bird]

Trigger Warning: the following chapter contains some visceral elements. The intent was for a rather horror-y vibe in order to highlight the death-world nature of Tarrghus (among other things), and as such it gets pretty violent, ESPECIALLY towards the end, but the middle part also features some suicidal tendencies.

__________________________________________________________________
++Thought of the Day: Better a million innocent perish than a single guilty go free++
​

Tarrghus is certainly an interesting specimen. Once, it was, according to official histories, a garden world of incomparable splendor and majesty. So far, I have found no evidence to contradict this. However, its status as a Garden World has long since passed, the result of a decades long occupation by the Hand of the Beast, a greenskin general and servant of the Beast Set Loose.

Of course, I'm not here to discuss history: there is an entirely separate dossier for that. What I am here to discuss is the environment and how it has adapted to its severe infestation...and how the orks have adapted back.

Many presume the greenskin menace to be a monolith. Much like the teeming, glorious masses of humanity, this is not true: greenskins are divided both by klan, which determines their overall culture and philosophy, and waaaagh, which acts as a source of policy for the foul barbarians. No two waaaaghs are the exact same. However, in my studies, I have noticed that even by a planet by planet basis, Ork biology itself is not consistent: for example, on the poison world of Laernaea (an, admittedly, extreme example), the feral ork population have evolved a secondary detoxification organ.

For the most part these modifications, the result of natural selection over generations, aren't notable: the vast majority of the time they give marginal at best advantages to the greenskin race. However, the Orkoids of Tarrghus are more extreme in their mutation.

The most...alarming deviations are largely behavioral (see Dossier: Diggaboyz for the most worrisome element: for brevity, I won't cover the contents here). For instance, the Klans of Tarrghus (not to be confused with the major orkoid philosophical groupings) are statistically 237% more likely compared to the average Ork to develop their own sub-cults venerating non-typical deities.

An unpleasant example is the klan (now exterminated) known as the Shovelboyz, who, while still venerating Gork and Mork, also seem to deify some totemic spirit of the under-earth.

____________________________________________________________________________

Down below, in the depth, the greenskins toiled, digging their shovel into the dirt. "Oi, work harder, gitz!" Bellowed the overseer, a feral ork clad in crude iron armor. "Da Boss wants more shiny bitz!"

The giant mine chamber was filled with shovelboyz, all of whom either had failed to impress the boss or slaves taken from rival klans, digging into the walls. On occasion, some grots would wander by, holding a bucket: grots weren't allowed to dig because they were too scrawny to use a shovel good, but they could help in other ways. In the center, a trio of idols, crudely hewn things studded with gems and metal, the largest of which depicted Gork (or was it Mork?), and the smallest, Mork (or perhaps Gork?). The middle one, however, was different, depicting the patron of the Shovelboyz tribe, Da Dark 'n Dank One, an orkoidish figure with long, flat hands, perfect for tunnelling through the dirt, and large, flat teeth, perfect for crushing rocks between.

As the bucket went along, each shovelboy would stop and take a sip of water from it. Dehydration was, next to being eaten, one of the few things the shovelboyz feared, and a very true and real threat it was. To see it, you just had to look down the line. After all, a bucket only held so much water, meaning that the further down you looked, the more shriveled, small, and wilted the shovelboys looked, with those worst off not even being green so much as an unpleasant, unorky brown, the color of a dying plant, their skinny arms stretched out, skin dry and wrinkly.

They didn't die, of course. They just got skinnier and skinnier and drier and drier until they stopped moving, which was worse because they were still aware, still cognizant, but still and unable to dig or fight or win for however long it would take for them to get any more moisture. Those who survived such an experience were inevitably driven mad, stark raving even by greenskin standards, their time as immobile husks having left permanent physical and mental scars on them.

Sure, they could be rehydrated later, but they said the thirst never went away. That the darkness (as such dryboyz were inevitably disposed of by being dumped down a hole) never went away. So each of them toiled, toiled away, never to see the light of the sun again, hoping to secure a good haul so that they weren't put at the end of the line.

After all, sitting in a hole, unable to move at all as your mind rotted inside your skull, it was no life for an ork. It wasn't a life for anyone.

________________________________________________________

Of course, the xeno veneration of their false, barbarian gods is of little concern. More alarming is the predilection of Tarrghus greenskins to go mad. Sanity, of course, is relative to these creatures, but even by their esoteric and crude standards, the orks of Tarrghus have a tendency towards mental derangement. The cause of this is unknown: perhaps the result of accumulating in their bodies the various toxins the enviroment produces to inhibit their growth affects the brain, or some genetic quirk unknown to the greater orkish community.

This madness is, however, uniform in one respect: the afflicted uniformly make reference to whispers....

__________________________________________________________

All around him were corpses.

From the soil, their faces stared up at him: ork. humie. Something else. Something else. And in every shadow, they lurked. Whispering. Begging. Roaring. The Ork stood at the table, bringing his kleaver down, chopping the meat. Hungry. They were also hungry. So hungry. If he fed them, they would stop. They had to stop: he couldn't take it no more. They had to be fed. Or they wouldn't stop whispering.

All around him were corpses. Corpses on the soil. Corpses in the soil. Faces staring up, eyes empty. Groaning below, their visages in the soil showing like death masks as they whispered, as they screamed. The others hadn't understood: they didn't hear the whispers. They had tried to stop him.

The ork giggled, a deranged, strangely high pitched for an ork noise as it chopped more meat, the massive and brutal choppa seperating green flesh from green carcass as its weilder sectioned and divided the corpse of its former Klan Chief into bits, quite literally butchering the former warleader with the skill and grace one would find from a master of the craft even as blood flowed from the remains onto the table and dripped, dripped onto the floor even as what didn't dried into an ugly, brown-black stain on the wood as it became stale in the hot, dry air. And then, once the madboy had butchered his leader, it would move on to the rest of the klan, the rest of its kinfolk who had foolishly tried to prevent the whisperboy from doing its grim quest. Too bad: some of em had been real good mates to go scrap with. But they had tried to stop him. So he made them meat, the entire klan.

Some, he would eat. After all, it wouldn't do to starve before the great work. But the rest would go: otherwise he would have no peace, no sanity until it had been sacrificed up at the cthonic, crude hewn altar it would have to construct, the design filling his mind with the same clarity that a choppa or a shoota would appear unbidden in the mind of a mek looking to make a weapon, with the same fundamental urge of destructive creation accompanying the design.

All around him, the huts burned, the thatch and wood crackling and blackening, smoke, acrid and heavy and meaty trailing into the air and filling the lungs, but the whisperboy didn't care: the soil was hungry. He would appease it, give to it what it asked for, what it needed. And if it didn't please, it would give and give and give.

And if finally nothing else pleased it, it would give it himself. The boy even had a rope, just for the occasion, in his hut. It just had to find a tall enough tree that it would snap his neck and spine and sever his head from his body in a single go.

After all, it didn't want to climb the Mork damned thing twice to kill himself: too much effort, really.

_______________________________________________________________

Of course, this deviation isn't limited to the psychological, but also biological. One quirk of the Tarrghus orkoid infestation is that, despite having been under the sway of Orks for an entire century and severely over-ran for even longer, it hasn't completely overwhelmed the native biosphere. While to some extent this can be attributed to the ceaseless work of the inhabitants of the world, were this a standard infestation the ecosystem of the garden world would have been overran long ago.

I am myself unsure of the precise cause of this. Part of it may be attributed to the growth inhibitors the vast majority of plant life and some animal life excrete slowing and sabotaging the development of orks. Another factor is that, on average, compared to their kin, the spores produced by orks as part of their natural reproductive cycle have a statistically lower odds of being viable.

However, even taken all together, if one takes the data altogether, this still isn't enough explanation: even if 99% of the spores were non-viable, that still leaves hundreds if not thousands of potential orks. SOMETHING is inhibiting their growth. Should this effect cease, it is likely that Tarrghus will face complete ecological collapse inside a century without extreme measures.

Of course, this goes both ways. Even as the enviroment has altered orks, so have orks altered the enviroment.

________________________________________________________________

The ork ran, a sheen of sweat on its heavy brow as it trampled the underbrush trying to get away. Furtively, it looked behind it, only to regret the action as it saw, in the darkness of the forest, eyes following it, swift and silent, yellow beads of terror shadowing the ork hungrily, letting it try to tire itself out.

It didn't understand what was going on: every instinct told the ork it should be doing the opposite, but at the same time, this warrior instinct, so deeply engrained into its conscious, was warring with another, equally as primal phobia, the only true terror instinct possessed by the orkish psyche, existing bone and blood deep as any of the many other tendencies that formed the bedrock of its personality.

Something that, on other worlds, was rarely activated, but on the brutal, hungry world of Tarrghus, had been honed to a fine razors edge. The only thing an ork truely feared.

Being devoured. Something the Ork had already seen occur, five times in a row, merely minutes before. It had been a small huntin' party. Out to smash some humies that had been in the area, steal their gubbinz and maybe cook em up in a soup. Then Snotgrimz had been ripped apart by a Bhikku Dragon that had dropped on him from up above, its left-middle claw disemboweling Snotz, leaving his steaming, bloody organs on the forest floor before anyone could react, its teeth biting down on the screaming orks head, both row of teeth bleeding the orks skull as the beasts jaws began to deform the orks slowly cracking skull, bits of brain dripping. The others had gone to pull the dragon off, not having yet had their morale broken, only to be snared by yateveo snap-vines wrapping around their body, slamming them to the ground (in the worst case) and merely trapping them (in the best case) even as the razor sharp thorns (really organic hypodermic needles) bit into their flesh, beginning to drain their blood, causing the now shriveling orks to scream a desperate, horrified death-scream, even as, above them, the plants flower bloomed, releasing the smell of death and decay from its massive, hanging blossom.

Then the rest of the Bhikku Dragons descended.

The now running Ork had only barely freed himself. Now, it desperately tried to avoid becoming another creatures lunch.

As it continued forward, all around it the undergrowth faded away, the bark on the trees changed from a full brown to a darker, yet dark black, the foliage giving away to reveal the pale grey-white light of the sun, as the Orks feet began to crush not leaf and flower and weed, but twig and branch and occasional spiderweb.

Looking back once more, it saw the yellow eyes of the Bhikku Dragons fall back. Grinning, the Ork let out a triumphant whoop as it continued to run. "Ol Zogwort ain't et yet!" He cried, an invisible almost-skip being added into the greenskins step as it felt the adrenalin and terror fade even as the webbing all around him grew more and more dense and the brittle, frail tree limbs snapped when he barged past them.

He never even saw the massive, chitinous leg swing towards his head. It had looked too much like a tree branch at one moment, and the next, Zogwort was unconscious.

_____________________________________________________

The Ork opened its eyes, bleary, looking around. Struggling, it tried to free itself, only to find its limbs refusing to move. A shot of adrenaline coursed through its body once more, and the ork came to alertness.

Perhaps it would have been merciful had it never woken up, because to the orks dismay, it found itself in a web. Struggling, it tried to free itself from the voluminous white fibers that wrapped around his limb, the silk as hard as steel and even harder to rip. As the orks eyes adjusted to the gloom, it felt itself struggle harder as terror once more filled its veins like the most foul of narcotics.

All around him were bodies. Humie. Ork. Even in one case some sort of strange giant, the remains of its blue and gold trimmed armor some sort of ceramic material. Of the giant, only the torso and head was available, limbs ripped off and discarded likely to make it easier to restrain, the latter covered in a strange, grilled, beak-like helmet, while its torso consisted mostly of a gaping hole of meat, a small few organs remaining even as the ribs and armor had burst outward, revealing the innards of that strange, otherworldy giant.

The other bodies weren't in better condition. Worse, perhaps, because for many of these bodies, it looked like they had dissolved, green and pale skin sloughing off their bodies as the fluidic remains (that weren't slurped up by the webs maker) dripped to the floor, the mixture of blood and digestive juice filling the air with a pulpy, sickly sweet scent even as the dripping skeletons slowly fell to mush. The remainder looked like meaty chunks, ripped to shreds, only scraps of flesh and viscera remaining on the carcasses which looked less like former people and more like a butcher shop experiment gone horrifically, mind blastingly awry, even as the culprit behind their destruction swarmed across them, large fist sized beetles with foot long probiscuses and hard, spiky carapaces that dripped with the blood of their incubators and first meals.

Indeed, thousands of these horrific creatures swarmed across the massive, chamber sized webbing, some of them even attacking and tearing into their kin with their secondary method of consumption, massive bladed mandibles, each with a variable number of teeth-spikes for ripping flesh and crunching bone and breaking chitin.

And above them all stood the mother, the matriarch, the queen of the chamber, not through divine blood or instinct but through size and strength and instinct, a massive web-beetle, with eleven black, heavily scarred legs, the front ones crude and heavy and blunt and perfect for breaking ork skulls. With its bulbous, glittering multi-faceted dichoptic black eyes, four in numbers, it surveiled its domain, before spotting the struggling ork.

Descending down its web, the beetles probiscus dripped with digestive fluid even as the ork screamed. It was time to feed.

__________________________________________________________

After all, Tarrghus is the only world I've encountered in which Orkeovores is a valid ecological niche.

 

[The Bird]

[ ] Elocutors

As you trudged up the stairs, you felt your gut curdle in anxiety and fear. God, why had you agreed to this stupid, nigh suicidal plan? Less than one in a hundred who ventured to Gorgoroth returned! It was an Omnissiah damned Dark Orkium, one of the most dangerous, brutal places on the planet! And yet, and YET, for some insane, short sighted reason you had decided that losing a finger was worse than marching into a green hell!

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe Dragovax would still let you take her up on her offer. You'd have to work but you'd be able to, theoretically, make the payment next month! Hell, you had ensured the Sisterhood had an entire fleet of Warbikes! That had to earn you a little credit.

...No. No that wouldn't work. You knew how Dragovax and the Sisterhood operated. You had already shown considerable weakness, weakness they WOULD take advantage of. If you showed any more, they would eat you alive: even if you survived this they would still seek to abuse and use you.

You had to do this. You had no choice, if you ever wanted to be free and alive. You sighed as you entered into the chapels chamber. You didn't know any priests of the machine god to confide in, but Eli would be, hopefully, a decent substitute. Today, the auto-hymnal was quiet, the mechanical gears and reels and wires not moving, its speakers emitting no noise. Normally, you'd consider that a good thing, but you winced as it allowed you to hear the argument.

"We can't keep doing this, Father! The Book of the Emperor says-"

"Eli, Son, do not lecture me about the word of the divine. If the Emperor wanted to lift these people up, he would-"

"We have a spiritual duty-"

"Our only spiritual duty is to the faithful-"

Father Eli was arguing with another man, a skinny, frail looking man, with sharp, severe features and a scowl, clad white garb in comparison to the black frock of Father Eli, with a sharp, upturned collar that reached to the mans ears, his chest emblazoned with a two headed eagle stitched into the cloth. The pair of them weren't shouting: no, they were perfectly quiet, their whispers only audible due to the strange, sanctic acoustics of the chapel chamber. But an argument didn't have to be loud to be terrible, something you knew very well. Some of the most bitter arguments were also the most quiet, the most venom coming from the softest of sources.

Awkwardly, you waited, doing your best to not eavesdrop.

Eventually, the older, more withered man snarled, and stomped away into the back of the chapel, raising his hands in frustration even as he passed beyond the threshold of the area beyond the chapel foyer, voice hard and dry and cracked even as he sneered out the rest of his twin rebuke and permission. "Fine, but I refuse to endorse your insane antics, and neither will I permit Santica resources be wasted on it: a diamond is no fit meal for an empty pit!"

Father Eli sagged a bit at that, sighing as he wiped the sweat from his brow, an exhausted, tired look in his face. Right, probably the right moment to announce your presence. You cleared your throat, and the priest nearly jumped out of his skin, leaping almost a foot off the ground even as he went ramrod straight. "Starchosens Tit!" He shouted in surprise, only somewhat calming when he sees it's you. "Ulysses my son, don't do that! I'm not as young as I look!"

"Appologies, Father, my intent was not to scare you," You say, somewhat formally. "I am here seeking counsel."

Father Eli immediately stops, his face taking on a grim expression, likely seeing your inner turmoil. "Very well, Child," He said, softly, "Tell me what ails you."

_________________________________________________

The telling, in its entirety, takes ten minutes, after the pair of you shuffled off to a small study, far in the back of the chapel, the walls filled with books and tomes, a massive desk in the center. Every so often during your telling, you are interrupted by Eli, who asks questions. 'Why did you carve a fake idol?' 'Why are people buying fake idols?' 'Who are the Sisters' 'Whose Sharky?'

Eventually, you finish explaining what was happening, and for a moment, silence reigned. "I...I am not going to lie, Father, I am afraid," You admit, doing your best to maintain level breathing even as your hands tremored, your heart skipping the odd beat out of a terrified sort of arrhythmia, even as you felt the black scrawl of anxiety creep its way up your spine, an infernal tingle in the back of your skull born out of the sort of terrifying fantasies that occupied your mind. "I am deeply, deeply afraid."

The priest, silently turning, walked over to the desk, stride firm and resolute, pulling it open one of its myriad chambers and reaching in to retrieve some item, and pulling out...

Was that a laspistol? It certainly looked like one, but you had never seen one of that particular make before, slim and elegant with a long, stout barrel, gilt in gold and silver, liturgies carved across its surface in reverence: a sleek yet powerful looking thing, something that at first seemed like an assassins weapon more than anything you would encounter in the Outskirts. "Normally, I'd offer to pray with you," He said, a grim, resolute look on his face, but at the same time soft and full of...that one emotion, the one you weren't entirely sure of its significance: the best you could describe it as was worry, but not for his own sake. "However, there are times for prayer and times for action. This is a Hotshot Lasgun: Karnos pattern, artisinally crafted by the Arch-Magos of that forgeworld centuries ago, and was gifted to me..." His eyes misted up a bit as he trailed off, before he took a deep breath and continued, voice heavy with remembrance. "...By a very good friend, many, many decades ago, very, very far from here, because they thought it would help me, at the time a virtual stranger to them in mortal peril, survive. And now, I'm giving it to you."

What.

That was...if it was true, it was absurdly generous, an act of magnanimity you could not comprehend: what did he gain from this? How could giving this to you benefit him? It made no sense, you could see no sane reason he would make this offer to you of all people. "You...Father, that is a genuine relic," You say slowly, trying and failing to figure out the racket here, because one certainly existed, it had to. "You can't just...just give it away!"

Father Eli shrugged, heedless, no sign of deception on his face, even though such a thing made no sense. "Says who? The God-Emperor has no rules against such, and neither does the machine cult. It might be the most valuable thing I own, true," He said, with a slight, acknowledging nod of the head. "But, well, it does no good for it to be gathering dust in a drawer."

"I...genuinely, in good conscience cannot accept," You say, mildly, it dawning on you that, perhaps, there WAS no racket here. No logical, sane reason for him to be doing this. He was, genuinely, entirely out of charity and generosity, giving you something...something incredible, something worth more perhaps than the entire fucking Shanty. "This is...Father, I'm desperate, but this item is..."

Not fit for your hands, you almost say, unable to unglue your eyes from the laspistol. This...you weren't exaggerating when you said it was a genuine relic. An actual piece of mechanica, not the mere hedgemechanics you dabbled in or tech-mat auto-building, but a piece of holy craft by an Arch-Priest of the Machine God. You were just an Outskirts, hands not fit to sully such a precious thing.

However, even if you were reverent of it, you felt the other half of your being, the less reverent and more self serving part of your being war with you, tempting you by how useful it would be, trying to convince you of the utility of such an item. Wouldn't it make our survival assured, it whispered darkly. Even in the hands of a dog, surely such a divine artefact would protect us. Take it: we'll make it up to the Omnissiah later.

"Son, I'm not going to force you to take it, but you should at least consider it," Father Eli said, softly, telling easily how torn you were by the sight of your half outstretched hand, your eyes betraying the inner war you were fighting.

[ ] Pragmatism- You take the gun. Survival at all costs. Survival at all costs. (Gain Karnos Pattern Hellpistol, a hybrid Marksmanship/Gunslinger weapon that provides +10 to all skill rolls, ???.)

[ ] Devotion- No. You weren't worthy to wield such a fabled item. It deserved better than an outskirts con-man. (???, +3 Fate)

[ ] Survival: Sell it to the Sisters. Clear out your debt all at once: the gun would be worth more in better markets, but getting more for it would take time. No. This was a holy relic. Survival be damned, you would die twice over before you'd let this blessed item be handled by the Sisters, nor would you simply sell it to someone who would neither care about its significance or treat it with the deference such an artifact would deserve.

 

[The Bird]

[ ] Devotion

...After an indeterminable amount of time, you retract your hand. "No," You say, reticent, some part of you unwilling to let go, an ugly, covetous part of you screaming of your mistake. Still, you had to move on: you had made your choice, time to live with it. "I can't. I..."

What was the word? The...gratitude one, the one you said when thanking others. It was on the tip of your tongue...

...Appreciate. That was the word. The fact that it took you a moment to remember it was, honestly, a bit depressing. "..Appreciate it," You muttered, head hung low, brim of your hood covering your tilted eyes, which closed, for a moment as you breathed in and out, continuing your show of acknowledgement. "I appreciate it. But I can't accept with good conscience."

The implied reason for this lingered in the air for a moment, before Father Eli placed the Laspistol back on the desk, sighing. "Alright. I cannot force you to take it, and if it bothers your soul so much I won't press the issue. However-" He said, frowning. "That doesn't mean I can help in other ways. I'll have to make some last minute calls."

"I...thank you. Really," You say, the words unfamiliar and halting to you. Omnissiah, how did you respond to this? Academically, you had an understanding that probably you didn't NEED to reciprocate since you were turning down the laspistol, but you still felt the need to do...something. Say something, at least, to honor or at barest minimum recognize how significant his offer was and how it had affected your esteem of the man, but the words refused to come: every time you tried to think of one a blinding blankness seized your mind.

Father Eli gave a soft smile, placing a hand on your shoulder, causing you to flush a bit. "Son, you can thank me when you get back from that place alive."

14/30 progress to Networking (Journeyman)

+3 Fate. 4/5 Fate until ???

In the future, a choice has opened up, and another has closed off.

_____________________________________________________________________

[ ] Arms Dealers

The next place you go, your thoughts are all in a jumble, grappling with your decision. Omnissiah, you didn't understand Eli. What kind of person just offered something as...as holy as a relic laspistol to...

To, well, a nobody. You were literally just trash. It just...

You needed a inebriant. Quite sorely, honestly. But for now, you had to remain sober: maybe once you got back from the Orkium you would go on a bender. Frankly, you would have earned it, considering the Orkium in question. However, until then, you had to remain sharp, sharp as a flint: no engaging in your standard vices.

You licked your lips. Omnissiah, would you love a drink right now. Still. Had to stay strong: couldn't drink away your troubles if you were dead, after all.

You pushed open the door to the arms workshop. Business was slower, now: without the massive demand for gear necessitated by a Martyrs March, it was a great deal more sedate, with only the regular stream of laspistol purchases, warbike repair, etc. Frowning, you stepped into the
back, looking for Reva.

However, it was fruitless. After a few moments, you come to the conclusion that she isn't here: maybe she's running errands, maybe she was enjoying the rare day off (a generally foolish thing City-Borne who had recently become Outskirts liked to engage in: natives generally understood that stillness, as they said, was death. You debate leaving her be- after all, you didn't actually need her any more. Beyond which, she was probably not long for this world in general.

...However, every time you considered the idea, a pit opened up within you: after all, even if she was doomed, you had done the equivalent of shoving her closer to the edge. That wasn't something you particularly wished on your conscience, regardless of who it was.

You approached a man working on a war-truck. An expensive looking one: little rust or rents in the thick, solid armor, the frame heavy and rectangular, with a complete, equally armored canopy, windows made out of tough, durable glass-crete, the latter marking it as a City vehicle: the plasma-kilns required in its constructions too advanced for even the richest of gangs. It wasn't unusual: Suppression Squads operated at the edge of civilization not unfrequently, and some times it was more convenient to get light repairs done at the Shanties: best to return to the reaping fields faster and all that.

The man in question working on it, toiling beneath the hood to work on the guts of the behemoth, was possessed of a great deal of prominence, much like Father Eli, and going by his weight, proud and heavy, was likely the owner of the shop, or at least its foreman of sorts, position ensuring their plate amply filled. Covered in assorted mechanical viscera, sparks were illuminated in the dark as the mans lascutter worked to disgorged whatever piece of the truck was non-functional.

...A quick glance indicated it was the battery core. The man was currently ripping out the nav module.

Well. Going to stay silent on that for a bit. Clearing your throat, you did your best to catch the Foreman's attention. Grunting, the man turned, raising his goggles up to reveal reddish, strained eyes, no doubt irritated from staring at a lascutter blade without proper protection. "Whuddya want?" His eyes finally focused, and his frown widened in recogniztion. "Oh, yer the new girls hireling. Ain't in today. Lipped off to a customer." He snorted, lowering his goggles again, sparking up his lascutter. "Probably decided to lick her wounds wh'ever she holes up at," He grunted, continuing his job, conversation clearly done. The man very obviously didn't care to talk to you.

Well. You would have to find her at her place of residence then: she was...probably dead, or soon to be.

...Once you figured out where she lived.

__________________________________________________________

Mobile Park: a collection of mechanized housing, many of which were equipped with assorted weaponry. It was the general principle of the Shanties that no wheel and engine should go uncomplemented by a gun, so sayeth the Anointed St. Alatiwara, Patron of Vehicles and Bloody Mechanism. You whistled as you looked at the House-Tank Reva lived in. Swanky, almost Deluxe in its splendor: two whole stories, no visible rents or holes in the gunmetal grey, windowless armor, the treads were in excellent condition, and the turret was niiiice and long. Compared to an actual tank or dedicated heavy war-truck it wouldn't last a minute, but you knew from experience these motorized buildings were great for long term forays outside the Shanties: enough firepower to scare off most nasty critters, enough armor to dissuade the average hungry hunter to buzz off, and all the luxuries one desired in a home: running water, electric stove, a stand-up pantry.

You had always wanted to buy one. As you looked the majestic behemoth over, you briefly wondered whether you had pursued the wrong profession: if Reva could afford this...

You shook your head. No, no, you had good...GOOD reasons for not going into mechanics as your racket. You weren't worthy.

...Still, you wouldn't deny your obvious envy. Walking to the door, you knocked once, twice, each rap of your knuckles echoing with a sharp clang as you waited for a response.

...Nothing. Hesitant, you twisted the handle on the hatch, a round, circular thing small enough that you had to crawl through it, causing it to slide open. Not locked.

Worrisome. Heistantly, you crawled up the small portal, delving into the darkness. Blinking, you felt the wall, slowly rising to a standing position in the House-Tank as your eyes slowly adjusted to the near dark, a single bulb on the ceiling on and working. "Reva?" You called out, hesistant, before repeating yourself. "Reva?"

...Silence. Giving a dry swallow, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on, illuminating the small home with its narrow beam.

...Was that wallpaper?

You shook your head. Focus. Reva now, aesthetics later. You began to explore, trudging forward and opening each and every door in the building, your light revealing their contents as you went room by room. As you worked, two thoughts converged within you. The first, and more immediate one, was "I really hope I don't find a corpse". For one thing, you'd feel more than a bit guilty at never having made amends. For another, you didn't really want to dispose of a body.

The other, less prominent one was "If she's dead, I'm stealing her house."

What? You weren't going to lie and pretend you were above it: a vehicle like this, it could go for several hundred, IF you decided to sell it. You were equally considering keeping it, and using it to move to another Shanty, beyond the Sisterhoods reach. That or lying low in the wilderness for awhile, wait for the Sisterhood to forgive and forget (or at least forget): tough living, sure, but you had survived on Squig in the past, greasy and slightly rancid tasting as it might have been.

Eventually, you came upon the final room in the building. Taking a deep breath, you gathered your courage, pushing open the door even as you braced yourself for the sour, milky, almost fruity or floral smell of rotted, maggoty flesh.

When you didn't smell such a thing, you felt an odd mix, one part a boon of relief, on the other, a pang of regret: you would have really enjoyed having a house-tank. For one thing, you didn't have to worry about leaky roofs with them. On the bed, you noted, was Reva, laying still, face and body covered in bruises and cuts, the former a litany of yellow and brown and purple, the latter varying shades of red.

You couldn't see their chest rise and fall, so you noted they might indeed still have been dead. It wasn't unusual: people whose injuries seemed light felled by a clot of the brain or shake of the head gone wrong, hours or days after the injury which might seem unlethal. Your own caretaker, you recalled, had died like that: the old monster had accidentally hit his head on the frame of a door, gaining a minor bump. A day later, they were gone, reaped from the coil.

...Good riddance.

Still, you knew enough to check whether Reva was in fact deceased.

Approaching, you placed a finger on where her pulse would be located.

Diagnose: 87-5 (Untrained): 82: Solid Success

Bump. Bump. Bump. You let out a breath. She was alive, then: just unconscious. Probably should get her a water or pillow or something, make sure she doesn't dehydrate-

Reva's eyes opened, blinking, bleary, before settling on you. "Ulysses? Why are you holding my wrist?"

Of all times for someone to regain consciousness.

______________________________________________

A few minutes, some explanation, and some working with a recaff machine later, you were leaning on the wall, drinking from that foul, obsidian brew. Across the room, Reva sipped from her metal thermos, still on her bed but slightly risen, doing her best to not shift her bones: apparently she had broken a number of them.

"...So, your first thought on seeing me was that I was probably dead?" She asked, staring at you from the corner of her eyes, never meeting your gaze directly, her voice low and scratchy.

"...Yeah."

"Well. Thanks for checking, at least," She said, a heaviness in her tone, a weariness that you recognized. The weariness and melancholy that afflicted all new to the shanties upon getting their first taste of reality. "Most probably would have stabbed me just to make sure."

...Probably yeah. You didn't vocalize the thought, but frankly she already knew such was true and you weren't going to lie to her about it. After all, for the briefest moment even you had considered a quick severance and the seizing of property.

"...What if I WAS dead, Ulysses?" She asked, finally meeting your gaze even as her head remained facing her slowly cooling cup, steam rising off the pitch dark surface. "What would you have done then?"

...

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?" You reply, honestly. Because you knew the awnser: it wasn't even a question, not really. You would have tossed her corpse in a ditch regardless of any guilt you might have, and then stolen every single thing in the House-Tank after first finding and retrieving the keys, and then taken the tank as your own.

It wasn't an answer you liked, but you were honest with yourself, at least. To an Outskirts, empathy was mere petty sentiment, and for the dead moreso. But you weren't sure that the City-Born could deal with the truth, not in as such an emotionally fragile state as they clearly were.

Reva nodded. You opened your mouth...

Select a Skill!

[ ] Logos: Absolute Truth. You would have taken everything she had, and you would feel exceedingly little guilt about it, because that was the kind of mindset that kept you alive.

[ ] Pathos: Lie. Lie like hell. You would have seen that she got at least some kind of burial, and would have gotten Father Eli to pray for her.

[ ] Ethos: Doesn't really matter: she would have been dead and beyond caring.

[ ] Write In Appropriate Skill

__________________________________________________________

AN: So, social challenges, arguments, etc, unlike more morality and ethics adjacent choices, you don't have a few pre-set options. Instead you select from your relevant skills to construct your argument. These do not have to be social skills, mind: if you were trying to negotiate a treaty, for instance, involving the movement of troops in a region, you could sub in tactics, or if you were trying to convince someone it would be a good idea to invest in a company you owned, you could use the appropriate trade skill.

Obviously, using different skills engenders different results. To use the Treaty example, Tactics would likely end with a treaty more favorable to you due to negotiating yourself into a position where you could benefit from assorted tactical loopholes in the treaty, wheras Logos would likely result in a more broadly fair, and thus better received, treaty, wheras Leadership would probably net you a treaty with enthusiastic support but more holes. Further, different skills obviously have different DC's. As such, don't make your choice based solely on what social skill you have grinded the highest, but what one you think will end in better results.

Later on, you'll encounter social challenges that let you select multiple skills, but we'll cover those when we get to them.

(Also, because I don't think I ever explained it, the Kairos skill represents the Appeal to Opportunity branch of rhetorical appeals. In many ways it functions as a sort of broader haggle skill.)

 

[The Bird]

"I would have dumped your body in a ditch and then taken everything you own, pawning anything of a sentimental nature."

The room is silent for a moment before you continue, ignoring Reva's dumbfounded, horrified look. "And, cruel as it'd be, it wouldn't be done out of malice: however, there comes a point where survival trumps sentiment, and that point lie about fifteen minutes after someone else kacked it."

...

Reva laughed, a dry, bone dry even cackle, voice dumbfounded as the tears emerged, bid on by a clear bout of despair on her face. "What's the point then?" She asked, still weeping, still laughing, with the occasional frenzied sob. "Is that all there is now? A rat race where I have to look over my shoulders the rest of my life?"

"Yes," You say, setting your cup of recaff on the counter, expression passive: best she gets told the truth. Reality was cold and hard and full of teeth, and it did no one any favors to attempt to hide that. "If it makes you feel better, I would have at least felt guilty afterwards," You admit. After all, even if the world could be cruel, that didn't mean you needed to be.

Reva wiped the tears from her face, even as they continued to fall, her body wracked with shudders as she grappled with the emotional breakdown she was clearly deeply, deeply due for. "I doubt that," She said, sighing, despondent. "I really fucking doubt that."

You shrug, not engaging with her flagrant show of self-pity. "Believe what you want, but contrary to what you might think, I never set out to damage you. Last week was..." You paused for a moment, sighing: right, time to get the ugly part out of the way. "An unfortunate lapse in judgement driven by the accidental activation of my own neuroses. For that, I offer sincere apology: while I stand by my general assessment of your odds, I don't actually want to push you closer to the edge."

Logos: 79: Solid Success

Reva looked at you oddly, a puzzled, perplexed look on her face, the tears ceasing to flow. Well. At least you had gotten her to stop crying. "I...What?"

"Contrary to what you might believe, we in the Outskirts aren't all heartless monsters," You said, steepling your fingers as you layed out your non-reassurances. "I might be dedicated to looking out for myself, but that doesn't mean I'm itching to stab anyone in the back if I don't have to."

Reva was silent for a long time, the flow of tears remaining stoppered as she struggled with her inner daemons. "What..."

"What do you deal with it? The feelings of...of..."

Worthlessness. It was a question every Outskirts had to answer at some point, especially those who were born with some degree of worth, Tribal and City Exiles: those born in the Shanties at least had the comfort of never having known any other way of existing. Meanwhile, the former category had to transition from being told that if they behaved, one day they would be accepted into the Emperors golden arms, to being told that if the Emperor was merciful, when they died he would allow them to sleep outside the gates of his paradise instead of leaving them ENTIRELY within the darkness.

The worst sort of Damnation was knowing that once, you could have achieved salvation.

"There is...a rather extreme degree in variance in how most exiles handle it, once it finally sets in," You say, slowly, composed, discussing your experience with such a phenomena with a near clinical air: after all, you had seen this series of events play out every year, because without exception there always existed a steady stream from the cities and tribes of those less than faithful to the scriptures of emperor or edicts of man. "Those who are weaker, more fragile, usually kill themselves: can't particularly say I don't understand the impulse, I must admit. The handful who get past that point without dying in some stupid way usually commit to their own survival: the animal instinct in their brain pushing them forward. Beyond that-"

"No," Reva says, cutting through your exposition as she did her best (which is to say, poorly) to stare you in the eyes despite her deteriorated mood and helpless shudders. "How do YOU deal with it? Not...not others like me, not other outsiders. How do you cope with knowing that you're less than..." She gave a brief, sad sob.

"...Largely, I try not to think about it," You admit. Truthfully, it was an admission you generally didn't want to make, even if based on all empirical data and observed scripture it was true. "After awhile you get used to not thinking about it. My advice? Find something else to focus on: Hieram for instance, a..."

Right, what was a good, neutral way to describe the special relation held between you two... "An individual I know in my profession-"

"I'm fairly certain the word for that is peer-"

"An individual I know in my profession," You carefully enunciate, "Was born among the Tribes. He copes with his exile by, I'm told, running card games. Find yourself something similair, a hobby or past-time or goal or some such to occupy your mind."

"..."

You felt a pang of annoyance. Really, you weren't without sympathy, you weren't, but one could only deal with someone wallowing in their own misery for so long. "If being an Outskirts is so crushing, there's always the Martyrs March," You said, breathing sharply out of your nose.

Reva blinked, confused. "The...thing the Sisters are doing?" She asked, quizzically, in turn confusing you. Wait, did she...did she not know?

Lore (Tarrghus) Activates: Two Automatic Successes

"There are, in fact, ways to get back inside the good graces of the Emperor: it is said that to those who Martyr themselves in the attempt of the destruction of his enemies, his salvation is unconditional. Really, this shouldn't be news," You comment, frowning a bit. "It was how St. Croix found himself redeemed: during his Martyrs March, he slew a Warlord who had been accruing power, preventing the Greenskins from uniting under one banner."

Her confused look didn't falter. "Ulysses," she said slowly. "I have never heard about any of this: who in the Emperors name is St. Croix?"

You sighed. "I...look, he's an official saint: the Santica Celeste declared him such for establishing the first Martyrs March, which remains one of the few things that can buy salvation."

"I...if its that easy, why doesn't-"

"Because you only get Salvation if you die," You stress, giving particular emphasis to the last word. "Sure, in theory you could return with the head of a warlord- or even a great klan chief-, but in practice, both are rare, hard to obtain without dying, and only one such head can go around: I can count on my hand the number of individuals who redeemed themselves in this manner that didn't require symbolic reburrying in the Cimiterum Eternum."

There were other ways, of course: Green Autumn, where those who killed sufficient Orks in a single season were recruited into the Tribes, or the Rite of Hallowed Penance where if you survived you were recruited to the Elocutors to serve the priest-hood, or even a governatorial pardon, but unlike the Martyrs March, these were all situational, or even more impossible and deadly. It was said that only one in a hundred survived the March, but for the Rite of Hallowed Penance, its rate of survival was one in a thousand.

Even the Red Cult had a method to filter in potential recruits, but the odds of returning from any Orkium with one of the machine cults hallowed, lost artefacts was low indeed.

Still, the March was deadly enough. Despite this, a spark of hope entered Reva's eyes. "I...I can redeem myself?" She whispered, and you felt a horrible knot form in your stomach. A mistake had been made.

"...Yes, but its...its unlikely you'll come out the other end," You say, understating a bit. "Reva, you're missing my point-"

"Where do I go to join the March?" Reva said, steel in her voice, and you slumped a bit. There was no mistaking that tone: it was the absolute certainty of someone whose course was set and unlikely to be swerved.

Well. Good news was, she was out of her depressive funk. Bad news was, she had apparently decided killing herself was better than being an outskirts.

Reward: Avoided permanent loss of a contact.
Reva will be joining the Martyrs March
22/30 to Networking (Journeyman)
8/30 to Logos (Journeyman)
+1 Fate for preventing ???.

5/5 Fate Acquired.

Fate store unlocked. Please stand by.

 

[The Bird]

So, you've hit enough Fate that you can actually use it! Normally, you can only do so at the end of an arc, but an exception is being made for the sake of Tutorial. Now, how do you use Fate, you might ask?

Among other things, Fate works like XP. You use it to buy skills, traits, and techniques: later on you can use it to manipulate events and for unlocking opportunities and increasing your skills, but you lack the fate currently to make such options feasible. Currently, you have FIVE fate.

_______________________________________________

Skills

Buying new skills costs variable amounts of fate depending on what you want to buy. Most common skills cost 1, wheras more exotic or rare skills cost 2, and there are several skills, like Machine Rites, that cost 3+. For...hopefully obvious reasons, there are skills that you can't buy at the moment. For instance, Lore (Warp) is barred since your character has had zero logical justification narratively for it.

Below is a sample list of skills and their costs, but please be advised that nothing is stopping you from going outside this list. If theres a skill you think would be handy, feel free to try and suggest it and, so long as it has my approval, I'll slap a price tag on it. Also, for the record, how much a skill costs and where it falls price wise is affected by your own potential assets and situation. Should you move to a Forge-City, for instance, Tech-Skills will likely grow cheaper, while social skills could jump in price.

Common Skills: 1 Point

Streetwise: The ability to keep tabs on the pulse of the street and its events. Typically the realm of low-level knowledge brokers, Streetwise is an invaluable skill for sniffing out potential opportunities.

Investigate: Sometimes, one had to do more than just passively collect rumors. Sometimes one had to apply their own drive to ferret out secrets.

Technomat: A minor branch of Hedgemechanics specializing in the creation and maintenance of items through rote memorization of processes.

Theology (Mechanicum): Something anyone who sought to join the Red Cult ought to know, the assorted and esoteric lore of the Omnissiah.

Theology (Pagan): There were many smaller faiths across the Imperium, and on Tarrghus especially, typically the offspring of the Word of the Emperor and whatever pagan faiths existed there in the first place.

Theology (Digga): The heretical, ork worshipping damned of Tarrghus, Digga Kultz for all their veneration of Da Orkz have a complex pantheon ensconcing many myriad gods. Some of the most twisted and damned of the lot are even said to worship a twisted mockery of the Emperor, placing him in peer to Gork and Mork

Diagnose: The ability to, at a glance, understand what is wrong with someone. Good for avoiding plague.

Drive (Ground): The ability to operate most civilian ground vehicles beyond their intended performance.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Advanced Skills: 2 Pt

Parkour: The art of getting to places very fast.

Toxicology: The art of brewing potent poisons...and also most narcotics.

First Aid: The ability of using basic rites and rituals in order to reduce the impact of injury. No substitute for a chiurgeon's loving care, but it could make the difference between life and death in the field.

Trade (Botany): Caring for life was a rare skill indeed in the Shanties.

Cant Mechanica: The secret, hidden language of the Mechanicus. Or at least the closest analogue achievable by an augmented human.

High Gothic: The official language of the Imperium, used in its militaries and by its nobility.

Smithing: The art of sculpting metal in order to create weapons, tools, and other items. WARNING: Craft skills do not come with accompanying schematics. Schematics must be developed or discovered.

Bushcraft: The province of Tribe Braves, Bushcraft masters could survive in the wilderness, assuming no injury, months before requiring re-supply.

Gunslinging: The ability to effectively utilize pistols and other light weapons, especially when utilizing quick-draw ambushes.

Orkplomacy: It was considered extremely, grotesquely heretical to consort with Orks: those that did usually wound up on the Pyre. But that didn't mean it didn't happen, or that knowing how to negotiate with didn't have its uses.

_________________________________________

Exotic Skills: 3 Pts

Lore (Biology): The basic, academic understanding of how living beings functioned.

Lastech: The ability to construct, maintain, and repair Lasweapons. WARNING: Craft skills do not come with accompanying schematics. Schematics must be developed or discovered.

Machine Rites: The secret arts of the Mechanicum, rituals and practices designed to coax performance from machine spirits. Warning: you are not technically a member of the Cult Mechanicus. The Cult Mechanicus will be deeply angered if they discover you have this skill while existing outside their cult.

Surgery: The deeper mysteries of the body and how to repair it.

_________________________________________________________________

Traits, Techniques

Traits and techniques, obviously, are aspects of your character that can't be boiled down to raw skill. The former, traits, are usually determined by your decisions and accomplishments: for example, to earn a trait that, for instance, gives you access to psyker powers, you'll need to have been exposed to powerful warp phenominon. Meanwhile, Techniques are special methods of applying your skills, giving you new ways to utilize them or enhancing them in a way beyond the basics. For instance, there are...a NUMBER of Lore(Warp) techniques that raise your sorcery rating.

Each time the Fate Shop opens, what Traits and Techniques are available will change, usually, barring specific Arcana related traits: for instance, if you unlock a Tower trait or a Hierophant trait, those will always be available.

OVERCLOCK [Jury-Rig Technique] (3 Pt): Forbidden hedgemechanic rites that strengthen a devices machine spirit. However, such power comes with a price, as it places immense strain into the technology. Can apply Overclock status to any piece of technology with a machine spirit via Overclock roll and at least fifteen minutes to an hour. This massively increases the performance of the item, but the next time maintenance on the item is conducted, -20 to any rolls involved.

Jack of All Trades I [Magician Trait] (3 Pt): Specialization was for insects. Gain additional Occupation slot with its own Aptitude score.

___________________________________________________

Aptitude

The final thing you can purchase whenever you visit the fate shop is Aptitude. While you can raise Aptitude by plying your trade, this is a fairly slow process. However, you can also spend Fate to increase Aptitude, at a rate of one point of fate for one point of Aptitude, up to a total of ten.

Buying Aptitude does NOT make it harder to raise it naturally.

______________________________________________________________

Right, there's more to the Fate Shop, but at the moment none of it is relevant to you. Please vote in plan format for what purchases you want to make.

Also, another interlude vote:

[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: Digganob Phenomenon.
[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: History, Myths, and Legends, Pt 1.
[ ] Tarrghus Inquisitorial Report: Cultural Attache.

 

[The Bird]

Content Warning: Violence. Also, Inquisitorial Xenophobia and, especially towards the end, fascist nutbaggery.

_________________________________________________________________
++THOUGHT OF THE DAY: DIPLOMACY IS THE PROVINCE OF THE WEAK++


If you are reading this document and do not have Authorization Level Black, please cease your activities, burn this document, then report to the nearest Arbites or agent of the Imperium and submit yourself to termination for the most grievous crimes of heresy, treason, and dangerous curiosity.

Continued perusal of this document will be met with a memetic kill agent and damnation of your immortal soul, and, as the information within is classified as Hereticus Majoris level threat to the stability of the Imperium and the trillions upon trillions of souls it protects, you will be classified as an enemy of mankind.

If you have Authorization Level Black (and proper memetic inoculation), please proceed with caution, as extensive testing has shown that this information has a deleterious effect on the human psyche and morale and can cause in weaker, less resolved minds heretical thoughts.
​

Digganobz.


So, so many have considered them ludicrous jokes, and not the existential threat to the Imperium they are. And for a time, I agreed, believing that these crude, barbaric ork worshipping humans were little strategic threat to the wellbeing of the Imperium. After all, for all that they worshipped Orks, Digganobz would inevitably be crushed by the barbaric greenskins whenever they stopped serving any use: any true cooperation between humans and Orks, barring the latter enslaving the former to serve under them, is impossible.

Then I came to Tarrghus.

_______________________________________________________________________

The Emerald Order congregated in the stone chamber, illuminated by mushroom torches, over a hundred members in residence. Below them was a vast yet shallow pit, one hundred and eighty feet across, nothing less than an Arena. Clad in their bright green robes and featureless, slighly curved ivory masks, each engraved with the symbol of their order, derived from orkoid glyphs discovered and translated by their ancient founder, the cult filled the chamber with their chanting.

WAR

WAR

WAR

WAR

WAR

On one side of the Arena below them, a gate rose, a heavy thing of metal, brutally constructed not by human hands, and from the shadows emerged into the pitted arena the Champion of the Order, a colossal and hulking brute, not human, but something violent and alien, its tusked face split into a huge grin that belied its intense ferocity, body covered in hard leather armor and bits of scrap plating over green skin, and on its head rested a crown of gold and iron forged by one of its many, many admirers.

Their champion was an Ork. Raising his arms, the greenskin exulted in his adulation by his adoring following, his grateful, loving bandful of fanatics, raising his own voice as he hoot and hollered alongside the Order, which in turn invigorated the humans, who chanted higher and higher and louder and louder, less precision in their words.

Which resulted in the Ork himself increasing his enthusiasm, his cheerful roars devolving into a pleased sort of bellowing. It almost seemed like each group were competing, in their own way, to show their enthusiasm: when one grew louder, so did the other to match it, until the chamber was near deafening, a feedback cycle of bloodthirsty fervor.

A bell was rung, and the chamber fell silent.

At the edge of the pit, inches away from the edge, a stone podium rose, and before it stepped the cults human leader, clad in the same green robes as the rest of his kin, the only outward sign of his authority being his mask, dyed a bright green color, and his scepter, three feet long and constructed out of a black, metalic substance, and studded with a giant, fist sized emerald at the end.

"Friends. Compatriots. Associates. Lerwinger," He said, nodding in the direction of a particular cultist who gave a small wave. "Were I a member of the Ecclesiarchy," He said, contempt dripping from his voice on the last word. "I would start with a boring, not particularly relevant sermon. Were I the of Ecclesiarchy, I would likely pontificate on the value of virtue, and of the nature of damnation."

He leaned forward, spreading his arms out. "But none of us, including our generous champion for this week," He said, giving another nod, this time aimed at the Champion, who gave a gracious nod in turn, waiting patiently. "Want that. I know what you want. I know what you need," He said, raising his voice.

"You need to see some CARNAGE!" The Priest continued, voice loud and bombastic, pressing a button on the podium, causing the other gate in the arena to open. "In this corner, weighing in at five hundred pounds, our defending champion, GROLGOL SPLEENHAMMER!"

Once again the crowd cheered, exulting the Ork Gladiator, a few cultists even tossing below gifts: choppas and cuttas and jewelry and some even throwing solar thrones, useless to the flexing champion, currently showing off his muscles in a ritual the Ork had learned was sure to get the crowd exited, but appreciated none the less by the Ork, if only as a sign of his fans appreciation.

"And in the other corner..."

Out of the Gate of the Challenger was shoved, roughly, a woman, around seventy years of age, with white hair, clad in rags, face gaunt and sallow, but muscles still in excellent condition (after all, it wouldn't be a fair fight if they simply starved their contenders), snarling at the crowd and the champion, eyes crazed and feral. "Eleanyra Julyra, Sister of the Adeptas Sororitas, Order of the Bloody Shawl. Prioris of the Bloody Shawl even!" The priest said, raising his hands. "Confirmed kills of three hundred and forty of our green brethren!"

Boos echoed throughout the assembled cultist, and now items of a very different sort flew into the arena: largely random detritus, garbage, and, thankully, it was all dry: not a rotten frui-

Ah. Never mind. Eleandra wiped off the remains of the red, mushy thing that had landed on her, grimacing. "Now, in the sake of fairness," The priest above her boasted, "We will allow our challenger access to a weapon of their choice-"

"My power sword, you ACCURSED little-"

"A weapon of their choice we have access to," The priest corrected, hands on the podium. "Sadly, while most of your affects survived, your weapon did not."

"Sword," She demanded, and, almost instantly, a sword landed in the sand. "

"On my count, 3..."

Elandra grabbed the sword, her weapon.

"2..."

She got into a fighting stance.

"1...."

Brace.

"Let's get ready to RUMBLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!"

The two gladiators, the green, alien face, and the human, devout heel, charged each other. One way or the other, only one of them would walk away from this fight.

________________________________________________________

Digga Kultz on Tarrghus show a high degree of social development, having LONG since evolved from the brutal, crude imitators that the term comes from. They are no less insidious and brutal as any chaos cult. Worse, perhaps, because unlike other, more conventional heresies, there is little chance of physical signs of their corruption, and the most insidious of the Kults have mastered the ability to appear as normal, god-fearing Imperials right up until they reveal their true colors and rampage, sending out their Kult Berzekers and Champions out to butcher the innocent.

The only group as insidious in my experience, are Genestealer Cults, but even those can be rooted out before they reach the critical point should one know the signs and watch for their movements.

Indeed, the Digga Kultz, should they get off-world, could prove to be worse.

______________________________________________________________

Maek Stavros was in hell.

The Brave of Clan Sprigga fired his laslock at the intruders, who streamed out of their greater war-truck, swinging choppas and firing shootas as they streamed out of their behemoth vehicle, a massive engine and cab attached to a rectangular container with wheels bolted on, the impressive machine like a mobile battering ram.

Indeed, when the heavy and massive leviathan had slammed into the wooden barrier the Clan had erected, it had come undone like so much splinters, even managing to smash apart one of the tribe huts, reducing several in its path to red, bloody chunks on its hood and smeared like meaty jam beneath its myriad wheels.

At first, when it had finally pulled to a stop, the village had been silent, shocked at the carnage and destruction that had been wrought in less than a few seconds. Then, out of the truck, they had came, with their crude but effective weapons, hand-forged out of scrap, primitive melee weaponry that not even the tribe still used, and solid shot weapons that were as brutal as the invaders, clad in leather and scrap and even wood.

"WAAAAAAAGH!" The leader of the group said, roaring into the sky as, eschewing a weapon, it charged a brave unlucky enough to be holding their gun, slamming their skull into one of the metal posts that were erected throughout the village to use as torch-holders, causing the mans skull to cave, brain and bone spilling out and crunching onto the village ground. "KILL EM ALL!" They roared, grabbing a fleeing civilian and roughly ripping out their jaw.

The barbarians cheered, surging forward, a brutal, bloody tide, and Maek felt a dark fear in his heart.

Because while their accent was crude and familiar and orkish, these weren't orks. They had come under attack from the most brutal of brigands, the worst sort of heretics on the entire planet, ones who rejected the god emperor in His entirety. A Digga Waaghband.

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Their insane fanaticism doesn't merely make death in battle preferable, but MANDATORY. Inevitably, regardless of how well hidden they might be, eventually they will attempt to kill as many enemies in battle as possible, with no care towards their wellbeing. Some few will survive long enough to transform from mere kult to something altogether more terrifying, engines of carnage that rampage against the Imperium.

Waaghbands, they call themselves. An inspid name, but it belies the terror these beings invoke: they will not compromise. They will not negotiate. They will not falter, their faith in their xenos gods pushing them ever forward to enact the absurd parody of justice they mistakenly believe in, tearing apart all who oppose them.

And that is long before they ally themselves with any actual orks.

That is, I think, the most terrifying part. The most horrific, terrible aspect of these maddening, monstrous heretics is that they've done something no Digga klan in recorded history has managed to do, something that if it gets off-world could spell the doom of the Imperium and ultimate perversion of humanity.

The Digga Kultz have managed to learn how to coexist with the orks.

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"Oi, Boltzman!"

The workshop, hidden deep in the jungle, was abuzz. Only a dozen workers toiled: there were more back at their secret hideaway, but the owners of the workshop had long since come to the conclusion that their odds of survival were increased if they decentralized themselves. The handful of workers, all humans in an assortment of protective gear, toiled, with wrenches and laser-sodders and auto-drills.

In the entrance was a greenskin, clad in heavy armor, not the mere ramshackle thing used by their kin, but precision crafted by hands that had stolen the knowledge of metallurgy and armorsmithing from the cult in red, taking the knowledge in the same way their grim patrons took what THEY wanted: through cunning brutality, and brutal cunning.

This armory served orks.

One of the workers stood up, waving, and the greenskin approached the table where the humie was working. "'Eard you got something flash," The greenskin growled, looking at the table. On it sat a gun, heavy and large.

"Yes, just finished it," The humies said, setting their laser sodder down, grinning a manic grin. "That convoy you raided had some interesting parts within: we might be able to fashion a plasma fence soon, keep the pests out. But of course, you don't care about that, you care about guns, and the haul was fantastic there!"

He picked up the hefty shoota, resembling a carbine of sorts, with a thick and solid metal stock, a large, brick-like butt, and short but powerful looking barrel, all constructed out of a gunmetal material. The Ork took the gun, and, turning it in his hands, looked it over, appreciating the craftsmanship. "Oh yeah, 'Dis, I like dis," He said, grinning. "Feels like...steel? Nah, too 'eavy. Definitely not scrap either," He said, rapping his knuckles on the side and listening to the satisfying clang.

"Adamantium, actually!" The cultist said, removing their goggles. "That last shipment your boys provided had a whole order of it: most of it went to making choppas," They admitted, shrugging, "But I managed to convince the 'Ead Mek," He said, borrowing the orkish term to refer to the workshops chief engineer, "To let me use some to make a shoota: I haven't tested it out yet, of course, but while it's a great deal more hefty than most shootas, it should be far, far more reliable and sturdy." He paused, musing. "You could probably just use it as a club, actually."

The ork let out a chuckle. "Oiz al'ready usin' my shoota as a klub!" The cultist laughed alongside the Ork, before the Ork slung the weapon alongside his back. "But I getz what ya mean: this, this is some flash loot." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Y'know, y'said you haven't tested it yet? Boss says there've been some weird stompy critterz around the camp, said 'ez gonna send some boyz out later to take it down, but I gotz a better idea!"

He leaned forward, his grin returning, wider than before. "So, 'eres what I'm thinkin': you go grab yer shootas, and me and you, we'z gonna go critter huntin': test dis thing out roight proppa! 'Ell, bring a kooler with some snaks, we'll make a day of it!"

"My friend, you had me at critter hunting!"

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It's mindboggling, and had I not seen it occur with my own eyes, I would have thought such a thing impossible: orks and humans acting not as enemies, not as master and slave, but as PEERS. Such revolting behavior nearly drove me to void my stomach, and even thinking about it makes my skin crawl, but for the sake of ensuring that the direness of the situation is made clear, I must continue my report.

The cause for this phenomenon is...unknown. My current theory is that such a perversion of the natural order, humans inflicting holy genocide on the disgusting xeno abominations, is because of some malignancy in the brain, invisible to the naked eye like a traditional mutation would be, but still as severe and deranging. Perhaps caused by some unknown contaigion: while orkish diseases jumping to humanity is rare, it could be a viable cause. Whatever the origin, however, I theorize that this mutation somehow enables the afflicted to tap into the psychic gestalt of the greenskin menace, promoting them from "potential slaves" or "potential fights" in the greenskins eyes to something more.

I have attempted to perform dissections on the afflicted to find the cause, however, so far no real changes to the biology has been observed.

Those who read this, I know that perhaps you think that this isn't quite severe as it sounds: after all, it isn't as obvious or immediately grotesque as the malignancies inflicted by chaos. However, keep in mind that one of our greatest weapons against the xeno is its brutality and incapability to co-exist with mankind. If that rule is somehow removed, if all obstacles to peace are eradicated, what is to stop humanity from foolishly deciding to tolerate or ally with the xeno? What prevents those of weaker moral caliber from deciding that they don't need to genocide orks, but that they can join them?

It could spell doom for the entire Imperium: we've seen this with the Tau, when the possibility for cooperation arises those without sufficient moral character have, time and time again, decided to forsake the hatred of the alien. And if this happens with orks, far and by large the most common species of xeno in the galaxy, it would mean the end of the human order.

I have already decided to take action: a copy of this report will be sent to the Ordo Xenos, alongside a request for exterminatus of Tarrghus. God-Emperor willing, I will see that world burn and its heresies strangled in the cradle before it even has the potential to damage humanities unwavering hatred of the xeno.

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AN: Digganobz!

This was a fun one to write, because it allows me to explore one of the weirder parts of Tarrghus, that being its one of the few planets in the Imperium where the primary subversive cult is neither chaos or genestealers, but ork worshippers.